A day in my Favorite place

 
Written by Marsha webb |
Published on:

A Day in my favourite place.

I run down the gentle slope and pull open the heavy blue door. “Bampy, Bampy, I’m here!” I shout at the top of my voice. Running into the kitchen I smell the familiar smell of Bampy cooking my favourite food and the warmth of the cosy, familiar kitchen hits me. My grandfather is stood in front of the stove with a spatula in one hand and his other hand open to pull me towards him into a bear hug. The sound of the batter splatters in the hot oil. “It’s nearly ready, hope your hungry”. I am always hungry.

I walk through into the living room, the coal fire burns brightly in the hearth and my Nan is sitting by the side of it sewing. “Hello darling, come here.” My Nan put down her sewing to listen to my latest story.  I sink into the sofa while I wait for my lunch. The welsh dresser is full of small ornaments collected from all the trips, days out and places my grandparents have visited over the years. “Tell me about this one Nan.” I hold up an ornament of a small girl holding a watering can, I have heard the stories many, many times before but I love the comfort and familiarity of hearing them again and again.

Lunch is ready and soon eaten. “Can I have ….?” It doesn’t matter what I ask for the answer is always “Yes”. Usually there is so much choice that I find it difficult to narrow it down. My favourite ever reply when I told my Nan I couldn’t choose between all the lovely desserts she had on offer was “Have a bit of everything love.”

“Let’s go into the “Best” room Nan”. I say eagerly. Shoes are removed and I sink into the huge white fluffy rug in the centre of the immaculate room. I sit by the piano in the corner and randomly press the keys. My Nan sits beside me smiling widely and encouraging me.

My grandfather comes in to call me, “Are you coming to help me in the garden?” I rush out into the beautifully kept garden. My first job is to hold the hose pipe and water the plants. I am soaked through and so is poor Bampy. We sit by the wishing well, quietly so we can watch the birds land on the wall. Bampy has fed the birds in the garden for so many years now that they are relatively tame and come down to eat the treats as soon as he puts them out.  I take a deep smell of the fresh mint he is growing in an old white sink. “We will make some mint sauce together later.” Bampy tells me as I rub the leaf in my fingers to gain the maximum smell. We walk down the path to the greenhouse and I pick my own tomatoes and cucumber to take home to my mother.

Before going back in I show Bampy my handstands and cartwheels on his lush, green lawn. We put the tools back together in his “Outhouse”. His work bench is covered in holes where he allowed me to “practice” drilling. All too soon it’s time to leave, but not without my arms full of goodies and my heart full of love.

Unfortunately my grandparents have both passed away now and there are new people in the house, the heavy blue door is now painted red. But, I can still go back to my favourite place, I just sit down somewhere quiet, close my eyes and I am there again.

Copyright © SodaCoffee.com

Author: Marsha webb
I have just started writing and have had two short stories published in seasonal anthologies. I am a full time teacher and I am looking to make more of a career in writing.

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