Kevan Smith – Grand

Sitting at the dinner-breakfast table he would cluck and mutter whenever the story of the minute was flying about. Four grandies from 7 to 12 would all chatter at once while the mum fluffed and flittered from the galled kitchen to the table. Her mother always tried to help but was usually bustled out of a kitchen that only help one person at a time. Her grey hair all tightly curled with usually a bobby holding the curliest lock in place. Always smiled, always looked content with her brood around her.

The large table took up most of the space of the room but the Hiawatha and Minnehaha 2 by 1.5 meter oil painting always dominated the room. Why an old couple in Waratah had a (mostly) black and white painting of an American icon on their wall was never really explained, but the little boy stared at it continuously; such a romantic scene.

Grandma always wore dresses twice her size as if she had shrunk in them and never noticed they were too big. Often with a lace piece in the front. As a young woman she was a very large person but the little boy only new her as this sweet wrinkled emaciated, loose-skinned Queen of the family. Never angry, never raised her voice, just sat serenely as she was adored by all. Harold only had five stories to tell and he would get one of them in if there was collective breath. The boy knew them, would hear the over and over, almost reciting them, but would never do so for to listen to the end was to take in all the magic.

The mum would bring food in, dirty places out, hand on grannie’s shoulder if she attempted to rise. ‘One of the girls will help’ was always the response.

If Harold didn’t get a chance to start a story he would either take his teeth out to clean them, usually between the servings. After being mildly rebuked by Gladys, he’d pop them back in again. If that didn’t work he would fidget and rub the back of his hand.  The little boy would rub the back of the gnarled liver spotted fingers and Grandad would sigh and relax. He was being noticed, at last.