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is by no means fancy or expensive; to anyone it would seem inferior
and simple; just straw and a tattered lilac bow. But to me, it is
invaluable. I climb under the covers with the straw hat in hand,
running my fingers over its intricate weaving. It’s Gran’s straw hat.
The definition of beautiful.
-
The door tinkled as I pushed open the old oak door. I looked over my shoulder with
a grin plastered on my face.
‘Gran, it’s your birthday, I’ll get you whatever you want!’ I exclaimed, excitedly.
Gran had a sparkle in her eye as we stepped into the dimly lit store. This was
Gran’s favourite shop, tucked away in a quiet alley of the bustling city. It had all
sorts of interesting objects and antiques. Elaborate Russian dolls, sets of collector
figurines, porcelain dolls from decades ago, carved carousel music boxes. This
place had a homely vibe about it which is what Gran loved about it. She headed
straight for the shelves in a manner that resembled a frenzied Christmas shopper.
I smiled to myself as I followed in pursuit.
I was examining an exquisite jewel encrusted brooch, thinking that it would
make a lovely present for Gran when I heard her call out in glee, ‘Tilly, come, I’ve
found the perfect thing!’
In her hands, she was clutching a floppy looking straw hat with a limp ribbon
tied around it.
‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ she exclaimed with earnest, her eyes shining.
And that was one of the many things I loved about Gran. She appreciated the
simple things of the world. She gave them value.
-
‘Okay Gran, let’s go! Don’t forget the straw hat!’
‘Of course not!’ said Gran indignantly, grabbing it off the hat rack.
It was a beautiful day, the willows were swaying in the wind to their own
rhythmic beat and the sun was streaming down onto our trademark pale skin. I
swung my picnic basket merrily as Gran and I strolled through the little forest we
had discovered many years ago. It was our special place.
We settled down beside the shimmering lake that was home to a hoard of
ravenous ducks. Gran and I never ceased to forget to pack in a loaf of bread
dedicated to them.
‘Celia looks as if she’s extra hungry today, Tils,’ Gran commented, munching
on her chicken and avocado sandwich contentedly. She fondly tossed a morsel of
bread towards the scruffy duck.
We had given each duck a name over the years, all twenty three of them.
Sitting on the bank and christening them with Gran was my escape from the
Straws of
Memories
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