The spring air was still crisp thanks to the lingering winter that would almost always make its presence known for longer than I would have liked. I fumbled with my keys whilst holding a basket full of fresh goods that I had foraged earlier.
“C’mon, c’mon, go in,” I mumbled with anticipation.
The key kept missing the keyhole, my hands growing cold from the cool wind. I had spent the entire morning out in the nearby woodlands collecting a variety of flowers, leaves, and roots to boil into some herbal tea. I was eager to venture indoors to get started on brewing, but would be lying if I was not currently more eager to escape this chill. Finally, the key clicked in place and the sound of the lock turning brought out a pleased sigh from between my lips.
“Sweetheart is that you?” That gruff familiar voice that always fills me with warmth carried its way to the front door.
“Yes Grandad, it’s me,” I popped my head into the sitting room to see him rocking back and forth in his chair, sitting atop a right number of cushions.
Grandad liked to be the centre of every room, but since he could no longer stand without a walking aid, propping him up on his throne was our way of making him loom larger than life. I walked over to him and gave him a hug and kiss on the cheek.
“What goodies did you bring back for me today?” Grandad grinned, his false teeth flawlessly straight, had replaced his characterised crooked tooth which I missed.
I would visit Grandad three times a week at my Mums house, always bringing a harvest of wild ingredients from the nearby woodlands, that I would then brew into tea to help with his condition. It was the same woodlands Grandad would take me when I was a little girl. He would teach me all about the types of plants, herbs, fungi, and trees, alongside the many species of fauna that would roam the woods. Grandad had worked for the National Trust as a park ranger for over 50 years in Gloucestershire, where he has lived his entire life. He is no stranger to identifying all sorts of flora and I do not think he has ever failed to identify any. The locals in our village would call him Ranger Roy, I assume because Grandad was a ranger, and his name is Roy. The name is still rife with the locals, even to this day. But he will always be Grandad to me.
“I got you some burdock root, nettle, rose buds, and where is it, ah yes, some birch tree leaves,” I said to Grandad as I rummaged in my basket holding up each one to him.
Grandad was 98 years old, but he still had a keen eye. I watched him look over each one and groan when I said birch tree leaves.
“You know I despise those, Lia! If you’re trying to put me in the ground faster, you’re going ‘bout it the right way love. Horrible taste in your mouth innit Jane,” Grandad shouted out to Mum and looked at me like a toddler who was on the verge of a temper tantrum.
I grinned as I received the same routine every single time I mentioned the birch tree leaf. Of course, I thought of smuggling it past him, but once I brew it in the tea, Grandad could always taste its bitter existence. Without a doubt too, he would chew my ear off until the bitter end about it!
“Oh, shut your gob will ya Dad,” Mum entered the room and kissed me on the cheek. “Hiya sweetheart, just ignore your Grandad, he doesn’t even have taste buds at his age.”
“You don’t know what I can and cannot taste,” Grandad pouted.
That was my cue to slip off into the kitchen to begin brewing. Tea has always been a tradition in my family. Every afternoon we would come together to sit around the table with a cuppa and a plate of biscuits in front of us. Our choice of tea was always English Breakfast, filled to the top with milk and heaped teaspoons of sugar thrown in. If the colour of the tea was not almost white, then you hadn’t enough milk. Mum would always be refilling the sugar jar that would have a permanent reserved spot on the table.
These days though, the English Breakfast has now been replaced with herbal teas from my forest foraging. We would still enjoy them as a family and sit together sharing stories with one another. The only visible distinction would be the lack of milk and sugar in our cups. Every now and again, we would slip Grandad a sugar filled English Breakfast, although I am still undecided if it is for his benefit or our own.
Two years ago, Grandad started having problems with his respiratory system and during that time, his other organs have slowly started to fade. He is in more pain than he lets on and is too damn stubborn to take pain relievers, hence the only thing we can get down him is tea. The doctors say there is nothing they can do to help his condition other than to keep him comfortable and happy, and to relieve him of the pain when needed. This is why Grandad lives with Mum who cares for him full time, as being home with his family is what makes him most happy. We have nurses who come out to visit him a couple times a week to check in on him and to have their ear chewed off by Grandad’s stories.
I just finished chopping some ginger that I took from Mums kitchen and added it into my bubbling pot. The time of year determines what is in season to forage, and what I can choose from. Unfortunately for Grandad, the birch trees are in season all year round. I insist to him they are a good anti-inflammatory for his pain, and remind him that he is the one who taught me all my foraging knowledge. Once the earthy aroma from the pot filled the kitchen, I gathered up our teacups, filled the teapot with our tea, and made my way into the living area. Grandad was propped up ready for our afternoon tradition, with Mum sitting to his right on her antique padded chair. I set the tray carrying the teapot and cups down on the glass table, and sat on the idyllic sofa opposite Grandad as I poured us each a cup.
We all sat sipping our tea, enjoying the rare burst of sunshine that filtered its way through the large glass windows. Grandad puckered his lips ready to share what was on his mind. He looked at me with a glint in his eye and said, “Lia, do I have a story to tell you.”
