When the spring weather began to grow warmer, with the faint light of summer slowly approaching, Mum and I would take Grandad outdoors. I would push him over each bump in the ground and watch as the indistinct breeze would try with all its might to push Grandad’s thick, sleeked hair out of place- to no avail. Grandad had always retained his thick mop of hair which was eloquently smoothed to one side every morning by his request. Even into his old age, Grandad carried his pride around, keeping up appearances.
“Slow down Lia, you’re going too fast! Feels like I’m on a blasted rollercoaster”, Grandad taunted one particular outing, as I pushed him through the lush greenery at our nearby woodlands.
Mum chuckled to herself, “The adrenaline rush will do you some good, Dad.”
Grandad mumbled and huffed to himself, a cheeky gleam in his eye as he enjoyed the time spent with his two girls.
Grandad rested the foraging basket on his lap as we ventured deeper into the woodlands. I knew these woodlands like the back of my hand. From times spent with Grandad as a young girl up until my adult years, to my most recent solo missions- collecting nature’s goodies for Grandad’s health. Every time I would venture in here would be because of Grandad, and in some ways, it felt like the woodlands belonged to him and I.
“What are we collecting today, Grandad?” I asked him as we passed by a squirrel scurrying up a large tree.
“I know what we’re not,” scoffed Grandad.
Mum and I smiled at each other, enjoying the ray of sunshine that had found its way through the opening of the trees enveloping us.
“There,” pointed Grandad to a large rock. “I want you to get that one for me Lia.”
Grandad winked at me with that devilish twinkle in his eye, that to this day, has never gone out. I left Grandad’s side and marched over to the large rock. “Sure, not a problem, where do you want it?” I stated defiantly.
“Right here in this basket would be fine, thanks love. Just rest it on top of me old knees. You know they are built like an ox.”
I humoured Grandad, as I tried my might to budge the beast of a rock, thinking if I can manage to move it just shy of an inch, that would do. The rock was even bigger than the one I found when I was five. I observed the sheer glee on Grandad’s face, watching me push and struggle, as he finally got his payback 23 years later.
“Just one bit more,” Grandad teased. “Go on, get your mother in there!”
Next minute, Mum, who usually takes after my Granny in preferring to watch from a distance, was right next to me offering her assistance- both of us providing Grandad with his morning entertainment. All three of us were laughing entirely at how silly Mum and I both looked. I think I could almost hear the laughter from every single living creature in the woodlands, surrounding us completely.
By the time our morning was over, Grandad’s basket was full of all his favourites- hawthorn flowers, mallow leaves, wild garlic, and nettle. We ventured back to Mum’s place to prepare our findings for our traditional herbal tea and story time, which unbeknownst to us, would be the last good day we had with Grandad.
***
Over the next few weeks, Grandad’s health rapidly declined. We had doctors and nurses come to check on Grandad and offer him what they could, but a dignified ending was what Grandad wanted. He did not want to be hooked up to any machines, or have blasted tubes sticking out of him (in his own words). Our afternoon tea time became a time where we would sit beside Grandad, holding his hand, Mum and I telling him stories of our favourite times together. When Grandad listened to our memories of him, I could see the faint flicker of that distinguished sparkle in his eye, waning, but never lost. That twinkle is how I would always remember Grandad, along with his kind heart, his cheeky grin, his stories, and his love for nature.
Grandad passed away in the early hours of a summer’s June morning, only days away from his 99th birthday. My Mum was with him, sitting by his bedside, resting her hand on his. She said it was peaceful, and Grandad had a small smile on his face when he passed.
They say that grief changes in shape, but never truly ends. The weeks following felt like there was a permanent piece missing that could not be found. Summer was now at its peak, the sun illuminating through Mum’s large windows in her living area where we both sat, yet the room felt cold and empty since Grandad had passed. We sat there on the sofa, drinking our English Breakfast, heaped full of sugar, staring at the empty chair across from us. There had been no stories shared in this room since Grandad, and Mum and I didn’t even know where to start.
***
The end of summer was nearing, and I could feel the fresh autumn breeze biting the back of my neck. I pulled the collar up from my jacket as a shield, walking around the woodlands, basket in hand, eyes peeled to my surroundings. I took a deep breath and breathed in the fresh woody air, and took a seat on the infamous rock that Grandad had once asked me to overturn. I smiled as the memories of that day flooded back to me. Grandad’s smile and devilish twinkle, fresh in my mind. I then looked down into my basket which lay empty in my lap, the space around me completely silent, apart from the faraway singsong from a brambling hidden somewhere in the woodlands. My empty basket reminded me of the story Grandad had told me of my first solo foraging adventure with him. I summoned the feelings of how 5-year-old me would have felt in that moment looking into her empty basket- feeling defeated and disheartened. But then I remembered the ending of that story, the pure joy of finding what I had come for all along, the beginning of my foraging journey. This prompted me to stand up and search for the piece that was missing.
The lifetime of memories I have of Grandad swirled around my head as I walked through our woodlands, together. This was my first time back since Grandad, and it gave me an overwhelming feeling of peace. It felt like he was there, beside me, guiding the way. Over the years, the rewards from our foraging would be used in soups, stews, and salads. Yet in recent times, the warmest memories I have of Grandad and foraging was when I would brew my foraged goods for our afternoon tea and story sharing.
I packed my basket full of all the ingredients I would use to make Grandad’s herbal tea, adding the one missing ingredient at the end- a handful of birch tree leaves. I took them home to Mum’s house, went straight into her kitchen, and began brewing. I saw Mum’s head poke around the corner, that familiar smell of fresh flowers, leaves, and roots wafting through the air, lured her there. She came and stood beside me, silently grabbing the tea pot and cups, and placed them onto the carrying tray. I strained my herbal tea into the tea pot, and walked with Mum into the living area. She placed the tray down on the table and went to sit in her antique chair, placed next to Grandad’s overly cushioned rocking chair. I sat in my usual place, on Mum’s idyllic sofa, reached over, and poured us both a cup of herbal tea.
“You know, your Grandad was right about those birch tree leaves,” Mum mused as she took a sip of tea. “They’re horrible tasting aren’t they. Really ruin a good tea.”
We both laughed, looking down at the contents inside our tea cup, then looking back up to Grandad’s chair.
“I suppose if I really think about it, they do have quite an astringent taste,” I began, chuckling softly. “But drinking tea wouldn’t be the same without them, you know, somehow, they make me feel close to him.”
“But so does English Breakfast with spoonsful of sugar,” grinned Mum.
“I think Grandad is not the only one who likes to grumble,” I laughed.
An honest smile appeared across Mum’s lips as she slowly nodded her head, “Now, do I have a story to tell about your Grandad…”
