Tag Archives: old lady

1690. Lovely little old lady

Bernice was a lovely little old lady who drove around in a beat-up old car and lived in a cosy bungalow with a cottage garden and a sausage dog. She was always pleasant – some would say delightful – and hence would be invited to gatherings here and there whenever a celebration was called for. For example, the local school always invited her to their Christmas party (not that they called it a Christmas party) simply because she was delightful company.

Bernice had a saying if anyone asked her age: “Quite frankly, I can’t afford to die.” It was true that the cost of dying had rocketed into the stratosphere in recent years. There was the coffin and the funeral and the hearse and the flowers and the… Would it never end?

Well, afford it or not, Bernice passed away. Her will requested a simple funeral, the sausage dog got looked after, and the school got to build a new gymnasium.

1613. A cat called Mopsie

You see that back door? It’s got a hole in it for a cat door. That was for Old Nanny Higginbotham’s cat. As you can see, she doesn’t live there anymore – Old Nanny Higginbotham – she moved out when the house half burned down and was bulldozed except for the kitchen and backdoor. I have no idea why they didn’t finish the job.

The cat’s dead, one suspects.

No one can remember when and why they started calling her Old Nanny Higginbotham. It began maybe fifty years ago when she was neither old nor a grandmother. She must be well into her eighties now. She called her cat Mopsie.

Mopsie was a tabby cat. It seems like it was always part of Old Nanny Higginbotham’s life although cats don’t live that long; fifteen years or so if you’re lucky. That cat was the only friend the old lady had. She seemed to have no family. Neighbours regarded her as cold and aloof. She wasn’t born for friendship that’s for sure; unless you’re thinking of her Mopsie. Mopsie certainly was her life.

The old lady milked a few goats. That might be why she was called Nanny. Even in her eighties she was out there milking her little herd. The goats were taken away after the fire, and Old Nanny Higginbotham was put into a retirement village. She didn’t want to leave her goats and farm of course, but the government welfare agency insisted. The retirement village wouldn’t let her bring the cat.

One afternoon (it was quite against the retirement village’s rules and regulations) Old Nanny Higginbotham took a taxi to her old bulldozed house. She called over and over: “Here kitty kitty kitty! Here pussy cat! Mopsie! Mopsie!” There was no answer. She put some cat food next to where the cat door had been. “Here kitty kitty kitty! Mopsie! Mopsie!”

Hours later, when it was dark, they found her still sitting on the backdoor step. Crying.

1455. The song of the skylarks

Mrs Drogmire (everyone knew her as Dear Mrs Drogmire for no one knew her first name) lived alone in a cottage somewhere in the country. She had lived there since her husband died almost fifty years ago. For the last twenty years she had retired from her work with the Manufacturing Association where she developed flame resistant fabric for furniture and vehicles.

These days she read, gardened and knitted. Her husband had passed on before they had even thought of starting a family. But who needs grandchildren to fill in a busy day?

The country thing that Dear Mrs Drogmire loved the most was the skylarks. Their singing, high in the sky, brought a great deal of joy to her summers. These days, with her slightly fading eyesight, she could rarely pick them out in the bright sky, but her hearing was still acute, and their singing was as if made for heaven. She would sit in a chair outside with a good book and a cup of tea, and the skylarks turned life to bliss.

And then two youths came by with their slug guns and started firing at the singing skylarks.

“What are you doing?” asked Dear Mrs Drogmire.

“We’re practising,” they said. “These skylarks are good target.”

“Don’t shoot my skylarks,” said Dear Mrs Drogmire.

“Why don’t you go drown yourself, old lady?” said the youths getting in their old truck and driving off.

They came back the following week. Leaving their truck the youths walked up the road and into a field. They started shooting the skylarks again. Suddenly their truck burst into flame. It was a gigantic explosion. Bits of truck flew into the air all over the place.

“What happened? What happened?” exclaimed Dear Mrs Drogmire dashing out of her house. “Thank goodness you weren’t in the vehicle when it overheated.”

“The cause of the explosion is unknown to us,” said the visiting policeman. “Not even the sweet little old lady who lives nearby saw a thing.”

1383. Accident

Yeah, well, all I wanted was a packet of cigarettes. So I had to drive into town, which is about ten minutes away, and when I got there they closed off the main street and everyone had to detour around. There was this old lady run over and killed.

She shouldn’t have been crossing there anyway. There’re places to cross, but she had to cross in the wrong place and got hit by a car and killed. Serves her right, I say. She won’t be doing that again!

The shop I always get my cigarettes from is slightly cheaper than other shops so I always go there. But it’s in the main street. And because of the old lady getting killed I was stuck in the blocked off main street for about three hours, and none of the shops there had opened because they’d blocked off people going in and out. And after all that, I came home and had forgotten to get cigarettes.

That old woman must’ve been half blind. It’s not my fault I ran her over.

1287. Yet another joyful story

Truly wonderful things happen to some people occasionally. Reading the stories on this blog one could get the impression that wonderful things happen all the time, but that is simply not the case. Today, however, something wonderful happens in the story. Perhaps it’s even true.

Sigrid and Ferdinand had been married for five years. They desperately wanted a baby (or two) but it was not something they could afford on their meagre wages. They skimped and saved; they did without. How wonderful it would be down the track if they had some children and owned their own home! They rented an old house. Both were keen gardeners, but there was very little space for a garden.

Every week, on a Friday night, they did the grocery shopping together. They would make a list and spend the entire shopping time discussing (at times even arguing) as to the cheapest and most penny-saving brands.

They were in the vegetable section of the store when they were approached by an elderly lady. She was bright-eyed and alert.

“I couldn’t help but over hear your penny-pinching discussion,” she said. “I have a proposition to make. I’ve always been a keen gardener, and my house is on a large property with an orchard and swimming pool. Sadly, the time has come for me to give it up and go into a retirement home. I have no relatives. No one in the world! I would like to give you my house and land, and even the furniture if you wanted it. I have no need for it, and you could sell it if you wished. If you want it, it’s all yours!”

Sigrid and Ferdinand couldn’t believe it. The elderly lady had already moved out. They could move in when they wanted. And indeed they did! They photographed most of the furniture (some they kept for themselves) and placed advertisements for it on an online trading post.

“We should really get some sparkling wine to celebrate,” said Ferdinand. So off they went to the store.

As they passed through the vegetable section they saw their elderly friend. She had cornered a young couple and was saying, “I couldn’t help but over hear your penny-pinching discussion. I have a proposition to make. I’ve always been a keen gardener…”