In My Grandmother’s House

In my grandmother’s house there were 4 bedrooms.  The back bedroom had a large double bed with slatted head and footboard, it also had a feather mattress. When I was a little girl many of my holidays before starting school and after were spent at my grandparents.

On several occasions I had my best friend to stay with me at my grandparents and we were put to bed each night in the feather-mattressed bed. We would giggle and chatter and finally fall asleep listening to the sound of rain on the tin roof.  Each morning we would wake unable to see each other as during the nightm, we had sunk into the feather mattress. Not a very healthy option these days but heavenly for a peaceful sleep.

Also in my grandmother’s house there was toast cooked over a trivet on a solid stove element, porridge cooked very slowly until thick and creamy and midday lunch where the smell of roast vegetables wafted through the house.

No TV of an evening just listening to the radio while my grandmother knitted and my grandfather smoked his pipe while reading the evening newspaper.

In my grandmother’s house was a dark hallway part of which was draped with a blood red curtain and hanging from it was a scary ceramic owl.  Going to the loo in the middle of the night in my grandmother’s house was a terrifying experience as the light switches were out of reach for a young child and you didn’t dare wake the grandparents up as loving and forgiving as they were. And you just knew the scary owl was going to get you when you were back in your bed trying to sleep, so you hung on till morning.

Staying in my grandmother’s house was a fascinating experience where love abounded, owls were banished during the daylight hours and feather beds were to die for.

At my other grandmother’s house there was homemade bread and the tallest gum tree in the world and where I went to sleep in my father’s old bedroom.

It was also a place where sea-washed coal and driftwood made open fires that danced with colour.  Where Daphne bushes and Lily of the Valley scented the house, where the garden leading to the outside loo could have graced the cover of any cottage garden book.  In my other grandmother’s house cuddles were often, there were no scary owls and a Morepork way up in the gum tree cooed me to sleep each night.

In both my grandmother’s houses were women who helped to shape my young life, who gave me memories that I have carried with me to this day and who gave me a childhood to be envied.

My grandmothers’ houses were a lot more than feather beds.

With memories
Babs

The roses that Harri gave me

Why thank you Paul

Thunderbolt and Lightning very, very frightening…


‘It’s only God moving the furniture around’, an explanation from my mother to a very timid and frightened 7-year-old little girl during a loud and nasty thunderstorm in Auckland. Having 3 baby brothers had already worried the little girl enough and now she had moved into the realms of nature giving her a bigger fright.

We can’t understand at that age what nature is up to and God moving furniture was scarier than the actual storm. I mean to say what was God doing up there, and how big was the furniture; I was scared enough without worrying about some old dude with a long white beard chucking tables and chairs around and by chance dropping one of them on my head.

My very brave mother stood at the window watching the storm, not once flinching once when the thunder pealed overhead and the lightning lit up the sky. Years later when her and I were watching lightning out at sea off the Gold Coast in Queensland, she admitted to me that she had been terrified of thunder and lightning all her life and had been trying to be brave in front of me.

Now that is something I didn’t do in front of my children, at the first clap of thunder I was either under the bed, trying to get into the wardrobe or in a heap on the floor covered by a blanket. My children grew up with a mother who went into shock every time thunder crashed and lightning flashed. Oddly enough none of them are afraid of storms and they will happily stand at windows for hours watching the skies light up. Good luck to them, I prefer my thunderstorms on the Discovery Channel!

To this day my children text me when there is a thunderstorm due in Wellington, sending me messages full of encouragement like ‘time 2 get under da bed Ma’, charming children they are.

What is it with guys though, they seem to love thunderstorms and revel in all hell breaking loose in the skies. One explanation I have been told is that they find it all so amazing and it’s nature with a capital ‘N’ at work, which is really nice and I am pleased for them, but just let me crawl somewhere safe when all this banging and crashing is going on.

Freddy Mercury got it right in Bohemian Rhapsody ‘Thunderbolt and lightning, very, very frightening’.

Back under the blanket…

Babs

Interesting reads here, Babs. Thanks.