1912. Woodland ghost

Whenever Russell went to stay with his grandmother she would tell him stories. Grandmother never read from a book; her stories were real. They were about things that happened in the old days, like when the river flooded and washed away their woodshed, or how the cat got stuck up a tree and the fire brigade came with a big ladder and rescued the cat.

This time Grandmother told Russell something true but a little scary. It was how a ghost appeared one night to her uncle. Her uncle was now dead, but when he was young he was walking home one evening and suddenly a ghost appeared from behind a tree in the woods. Her uncle got a huge fright, but then he calmed down a bit.

The ghost told him that he was enchained in the afterlife unless he could help a person on earth for a whole year. This was because when on earth the ghost had been mean and selfish, so he had to earn his eternal happiness another way.

Russell’s grandmother’s uncle said he was happy for the ghost to help him for a whole year. So the uncle invited the ghost to stay in his home.

The thing was, the ghost was not a nice ghost. It was a trick he was playing on the uncle, and within a month the uncle had completely disappeared. Just like that. It was suspected that he was murdered by the ghost and then the ghost inhabited the uncle’s body. “My uncle began to act very strange,” Grandmother told Russell. “We knew it wasn’t really him.”

Russell told Grandmother that he didn’t believe in ghosts. “The story can’t be true,” he said. “You made it all up.”

Grandmother assured Russell that it was true and he must be careful when he walks through the woods in the evening.

“Pooh!” said Russell. “It’s nonsense.”

Goodness! It was already evening. Russell would be late for dinner. He took the shortcut home through the woods.

“I like it when history repeats,” smiled Grandmother.

1873. A sympathetic response

Hi Doozy Suzie. I really love your blog. What I especially like was the photo you put in your header of your dog. I have a dog and it is very special. Every day we go for a walk and he greets everyone he meets. He would be useless as a guard dog because he wouldn’t bark but run up to the thief for a pat!!!

He is a Xoloitzcuintle, also known as a Mexican Hairless Dog, and his name is Buffy. He got that name because when he was born he didn’t have any fur and my grandmother said “He’s in the buff” so after that he was called Buffy.

I don’t know how you think of things to put on your blog every day. Your posting today was really interesting – all about your mother dying yesterday. The blow by blow account of her last hours I couldn’t stop reading. I don’t know, as I say, how you manage to think of something different every day to blog about.

Your posting last week of how your baby sister died of the flu was quite exciting, although I don’t really understand what that has got to do with your header of a dog. Was your baby sister and the dog good friends? Or was it something else?

I showed the picture of your dog to my grandmother – not the one who named Buffy but the other one – and she read what you wrote and said from what you say your mother would have been “a mean old hag”. (These were her words, not mine). My grandmother said the world is better off when people like that are not stealing the air we breathe.

Anyway, I just wanted to say that I like the picture of your dog. You never said what its name was. If we get a cat my grandmother said we should call it Fluffy – to go with Buffy. I suppose your grandmother hasn’t suggested you get a cat because she’s dead.

1865. Early shopping

(Dear Faithful and truly-tried Readers – sometimes it’s rainy and dull outside (it is winter here) and blogging takes on the flavour of the weather. So since I’m twiddling my thumbs I thought I’d go silly for a time – which is why my nomenclature on this blog is now Cloven Ruminant. (You can still call me Bruce – and anyway, Cloven Ruminant is better than Split-hoofed Cud-chewer). Quite a number of excellent bloggers are configured in a pseudonym so I thought I’d do the same and free myself from the shackles of expectation. Those shackles of expectation can at times be nullifying to ones creativity, so I’m breaking free! One never knows what riff-raff the cat might drag in when using another name. Incidentally, the goat gravatar is not a selfie but a picture of Billy my Goat. I’m younger and more beautiful. Anyway, here’s today’s story. Thanks – Cloven Ruminant).

Goodness! It was only July and already Malvina had finished her Christmas shopping. She had six children, five in-laws, and seventeen grandchildren. It was so much cheaper to buy suitable gifts throughout the year. Not only might they not be available closer to Christmas, but sometimes during the year things were on sale. Given the large number she had to buy for, every little saving was a great relief for Malvina.

As each gift was purchased, Malvina would wrap it carefully in Christmas paper and pencil the name of the person-to-receive. One year she had attached little cards to the gifts with the person’s name, but by the time Christmas arrived some of the cards had fallen off and she had to open the gifts to see who should get what. These days, as it neared Christmas, she would attach name cards.

And so it was! Here it was in July and already the Christmas shopping was done, the gifts were wrapped and well-hidden in a suitcase at the back of her bedroom closet. She had to hide things particularly well because all seventeen grandchildren were budding sleuths. So far, thankfully, they had never ventured into her bedroom closet.

Goodness! It was only September and already Malvina had finished her Christmas shopping. She had six children, five in-laws, and seventeen grandchildren. It was so much cheaper to buy suitable gifts throughout the year. Not only might they not be available closer to Christmas, but sometimes during the year things were on sale. Given the large number she had to buy for, every little saving was a great relief for Malvina.

Goodness! It was nearly Christmas and Malvina hadn’t even started her Christmas shopping. Usually she shopped for gifts throughout the year, but this year the time had flown. “I don’t know where the time goes to,” she said. She thought she had bought some gifts earlier, but she couldn’t find them. Usually she hid the gifts in a box in the cupboard in her garage but there was nothing there. How the years melded into one another. She must have shopped for the previous year!

1745. Just like Granny used to make

There they were! Sitting on the supermarket shelf like they were a common everyday thing! And so cheap! Fergus couldn’t believe his eyes. He hadn’t seen gooseberries since his grandmother passed away about forty years earlier. Gooseberries! Memories of granny and gooseberry pie flooded back. Fergus grabbed the sole remaining package of the gooseberries and purchased them.

“I haven’t seen these in over forty years,” exclaimed Fergus to the checkout lady. “My granny used to make gooseberry pie, and since she died I’ve not tasted a crumb of gooseberry pie. I’m going straight home and going to look up on the internet how to bake a real homemade gooseberry pie just like granny used to make. This is a dream come true.”

“Plastic or paper?” asked the checkout lady.

“A paper bag please,” said Fergus. “I don’t want the gooseberries sweating and going flat-out mouldy in a plastic bag. I live a good hour and a half away and by the time I get home in this hot weather the gooseberries could be cooked. Have you ever eaten gooseberry pie?”

“I can’t say I have,” said the checkout lady.

“You haven’t lived until you have,” said Fergus. “My grandmother used to…”

“That’ll be a grand total of forty-eight dollars and twenty-seven cents for all your groceries,” said the checkout lady. “You paying with cash or…?”

“And worth every penny,” said Fergus. “My granny used to make a gooseberry pie – only when they were in season you understand. Back in those days people never had a freezer. Or at least most people didn’t have a freezer. Only the rich had freezers and they were hardly the type of people that would spend time out in the garden growing their own gooseberries.”

“Enjoy the rest of your day,” said the checkout lady.

“The gooseberry plants are very prickly I seem to remember. Granny used to send me out to the garden to…”

“Excuse me,” said the lady in the long line waiting behind Fergus, “but would you mind shutting up and getting a move on. You’re holding up the works.”

“Oh I’m sorry,” said Fergus picking up his several bags of groceries and making a hasty exit.

When he got home he discovered that in his haste he had left the gooseberries on the supermarket counter.

1507: Granny Suzanne

Over the years Granny Suzanne had skein after half-used skein of left-over wool. In her younger days she had been a prolific knitter. These days, with rheumatism and fading eyesight, her knitting output wasn’t quite so productive.

Winter was setting in. She knew that her three grandchildren living with their mother “just down the road” would be feeling the cold. She couldn’t afford to pay for their heating, but she could knit, albeit with effort. She would knit warm clothes for her grandchildren and their mother.

Scarves, gloves, socks, and woollen hats were the order of the day! A bit of red, a flash of blue, a stitch or two of green… The job was done, and most of her leftover wool was used.

The grandchildren didn’t tell granny but they hated the items. “It looks like we’re street urchins,” they said to their mother. They threw the woollen items away and went to thank their grandmother. But when they visited their grandmother she was sitting in her armchair, dead.

She had died of the cold.

1124. Something dear

Ann sat in class hidden away like a little snail in a garden of noisy cabbages. Everyone took part in the class discussions, but Ann was too shy. She rarely spoke, and when she did the teacher would always say, “Speak up.”

The class were given a writing assignment: Write about something dear to you.

Ann’s grandmother had just died. Ann had not told a soul at school, but she thought for her assignment she would write about her grandmother.

She did that.

“This” said the teacher “is full of sloppy sentiment. I didn’t believe a word of it. You should’ve written about something dear to you in real life and not pretended to be writing a mawkish load of nonsense for a cheap romance. I’m giving it a FAIL because the person you described comes across as a slushy mushy figure of idiocy.”

Ann smiled and continued to hate school.

(Footnote: I have the flu so will be lying low for the next couple of days. Of course, being male, I feel it so much worse).

1034. Dudley comes to stay

Don’t get me wrong, Granny loved having her grandchildren come to stay. One at a time, you understand. At her age the last thing she wanted was to be worn to a frazzle looking after a large brood of pre-schoolers. She had fourteen grandchildren in all, but not all of them were little.

So little Dudley (“I’m going to be four in two months”) came to stay. Just for a day and a night.

It was ten in the evening. Granny had just gone to bed and turned out the bedside light, when a little voice next to her head said, “Granny can I get into bed with you? I feel sick.”

“Of course you can, dear,” said Granny.

Dudley’s breath was wheezy. He fell asleep cuddled up to Granny. Granny lay awake all night listening. In the morning Dudley was better.

“Thank you, Granny,” said Dudley as he kissed her goodbye.

“I love having you stay with me,” said Granny. But, oh, she was tired, so very tired.