Grandmotherly Advice

My grandmother was full of strange advice. Things she picked up from folk tales and such. Traditions passed on from her mother, and her mother's mother, and so on. Thngs she tried to pass on to me. 

"Do not open the door to a man with green eyes, you must never let him sneak up on you."

"Always add your milk before you pour your tea."

"Keep it safe, it is the most precious thing you have."

This last one is in regard to the thimble she passed on to me, the star speckled little curiousity she keeps in a custom made velvet lined box. It is plain metal, tarnished and filthy with time and numerous handlings. The way my grandmother spoke of it, as though it were more than an implement to prevent unfortunate finger-and-thumb-stabbings, was part of what my mother called her "eccentric nature". 

One day death stood at the cradle. My brother, sick with fever, cheeks flushed, at only two years old, flickering like a candle flame. Grandmother arrived as quickly as she could, though with her cane and the snow delaying taxis she ended up arriving almost last out of the family. 

She hobbled to the craddle and looked at my brother, shooing away my white knuckled mother as she placed an old freckled hand on his brow. On her ring was the thimble. Then she nodded and hobbled to the corner, propped herself in the arm chair, and fell asleep. 

An hour later the shadows of death receeded. My brother's fever had broken. He slept soundly in his cradle, no unusual heat or sickly red cheeks.

Grandmother did not stay for dinner, only patted my brother's head, "Foor good measur," she said, and called a taxi and vanished again into the snow.

I do not accredit the thimble. Not at all. I would be silly to do so. 

But nevertheless, I always make certain to add my milk before I pour my tea.

Text by Lucie MacAulay