The Ashplant (short story)

   “Made of Ash tree”. The voice of my creator was soft, more like a whisper. His beautiful Irish accent  mentioning my name – Ashplant - almost stroke me like his hands did. I knew already that I was going to miss his company.

I was the very first stick he made with a curved handle and therefore carefully selected from the many roots of the Ash trees. Usually roots grow with a natural handle but the customer was a little more demanding.

Maybe it was because of this that my creator and I got attached to each other; he found it very difficult to let me go although he received a generous sum of money.

   Reluctantly he handed me to my new owner. For a few seconds I floated between my creator and the former headmaster of the local school; these few seconds I belonged to no one, just my own little space.

Then the headmaster touched me and I was surprised to learn that hands differ in feel.

I left the hand with the hard skin and the smell of wood. I entered a soft hand with the smell of paper and ink. The difference could not have been bigger.

   My new owner looked at me and smelled, then he nodded in agreement and gave the money to my creator who left the house but not before he looked at me for one more time. At that moment I knew I would always be his one and only stick with a curved handle.

   The soft hand weighed me and waved me a few times before the owner walked a few steps with my iron base pointed downwards. I wasn’t purchased to support him during walking; my owner was still fit. I reminded him of the days he was a headmaster using the Ashplant to point to the blackboard or to point to a child.

I heard of Ashplants used to punish children, leaving read swellings at their hands. I hoped I was treated nicely and not for hitting disobedient family members! Though I soon learned that the man  was nice and that he lived on his own; an elderly lady from the village was his housekeeper.

   I was his nostalgia, the memory to the old school days. The feel and the colour attracted him but than designed to walk. I gave him some sort of status when he walked through the village; a straight posture and his fore-arm and hand elegantly folded against his back, only removed to raise his hat greeting the ladies of the village.

   He must have been a good headmaster; people bowed with respect. He must have taught many generations and he knew almost everybody by name.

It did not take long for me to recognize the red haired boy that delivered the bread covered by a white linen cloth in a large wicker basket. Or the butcher with his pale complexion and fingers with short nails permantly covered in blood, waving with the sharp axe with the short handle when we walked by.

Who I liked most was the lovely lady from the haberdashery shop. Her soft and round cheeks always coloured to a dark pink as soon as she noticed my owner. I understood she liked him very, very much but unfortunately the headmaster, although friendly and always polite, did not return her feelings.

I wondered if she was still a spinster because of this.

   Still an Ash root, I lived underground and only knew about the seasons when the temperatures changed or when it rained. We grew during Summer and slept during Winter.

But as an Ashplant I could see and smell the seasons.

Resting against the bench on the village green I enjoyed the sunshine and looked at the patterns designed by the sunbeams filtered by the leaves of trees.

During Autumn I kicked the beautiful red and golden rustling leaves which became soundless and viscid when it rained. I loved the smell of the wet leaves and the fungi.

I loved the sight of the snow that covered the village in a white blanket. It muffled the sound of footsteps; the cold air changed the smoke that came from the chimneys into straight thin clouds.

But most of all I loved Spring when the tender soft green leaves sprung from the branches and flowers coloured the gardens of the white cottages with the roofs decorated with reed that turned into a golden brown. It reminded me of the time I was ready to grow further until found by the woodworker who transformed me into an Ashplant.

But at home I rested next to his chair, my owner never let me out of sight as if he knew that one day, he also needed me indoors. I rested while he read books or wrote letters. He was not the man to sit still.

   They day that he needed my support arrived sooner than expected. A very bad cold had a devastating effect on his physical condition; he never recovered despite the caring efforts of the housekeeper and even the lady of the haberdashery shop. They spoiled him with healthy food, drinks and attention.

   It worried me tremendously that he became a very old and tired man. His energy left him day by day, I compared it with the halt to my growth during the Winter months.

I supported him where ever I could, he needed me every step in the house; very seldom he went outdoors.

   When he also stopped reading and writing, the lady from the shop and the housekeeper arranged to take him to a care home where he would be well looked after all day long.

My owner was too tired to object. Resting on his bed, he closed his eyes and I could hear him pray to the Cross at the wall behind him, as if he asked to be taken Home before being moved.

His lips moved constantly; noticed by me at the end of his bed close to his feet but not by the housekeeper who packed his suitcases and shoes which she placed under the bed until the ambulance would take my owner away.

As soon as she walked downstairs, the lips of my owner were still. His hand moved as if he wanted to hold me but he never reached me.

Photo: @alexandre.katuszynski

   Seasons went by; the room as cold as ice during the Winters that kept people indoors, damp and smelly during the rainy seasons that fed the soft green pastures and hills of Ireland. Dust dancing in the sunbeams during Spring and Summer.

Over the years the silence in the house got deeper and deeper. No voices, no scratching pens. Even the smell of paper and ink disappeared.

   I still rest against the bed, left alone with my memories.




Word of thanks: the photo of @alexandre.katuszynski (Instagram) inspired me to write this story and I was given persmission to use the photo as an illustration for which I am very gratefull. Thank you Alexandre!

Link: please visit the beautifull acounts of Alexandre on Instagram and Flickr


Note: the story is pure fiction! A figment of my imagination!


Helen

The End (short story)

   "Ah bellisisma mio... when you are young you don't think about the end!
Life is endless, the end is for Vecchi, old people. The people of whom you think are antiquato, not living in the reality of today. Who are of no use to the world, who cost a lot of money because they do not work anymore. Useless Vecchi, uh?
But you are so wrong, you make an errore!! Did you ever think we were young too? Can you immiginare that we were bambini? With little hands and feet, large brown eyes and theehtless little mouths, depending on the amara and care of our parents? Bambini that were taught to eat and walk?
   For you it is not so long ago bellissima. You only think it is a long time ago because you have been living your life in a very fast ritmo, as if your life would be over soon. So typical for the young people. You are rushing through life and act at the age of fifteen if you have seen the whole world. If you know it all, if there are no sorprese left for you anymore. You are telling us that we need to shut up!
Do you know the espressione inglese "The youth is waisted on the young"?

   Mie scuse bellissima, I know I am a bit harsh on you and I should not because I have been young too. And I too thought that I was wiser than my parents, let alone my grandparents! In fact my grandparents were wiser than my parents! And of course my parents were wiser than I was but I did not understand.
  It is good that you do not think about tomorrow or next year. You need to be young and energico. Your youth is one big rehearsal for your adult life. Aaaahhh.... discovering the little secrets of amare: to kiss and make love. Yes, I am smiling when I think of that time. There were so many hidden corners in the barns of the vineyards that surrounded the little villagio! Noi Italiani have warm blood uh? And the sole is always shining!
And the girls were so very bella! When we were picking the grapes under the warm sole we could not always resist kissing one of the beautiful girls and we promised to see each other again where the adults could not see us. We did not think of our parents as people who did the same when they were young and who knew all the nooks and crannies! You will be surprised to hear that I was caught with Fabia, but too late! She was pregnant already as we found out not long after.
   Are you shocked bellissima? Did you not know that in my villagio half the population was fathered this way? Well, here you are bellissima, you think you know it all but this is still a sorpresa!!

   Today in this modern world it is not a shame anymore, you do not even marry. But I had to marry Fabia and it turned out to be a very good marriage. We got 9 children, il pastore told us that we need to have as many as possible children as good catolici. And we obeyed but also often prayed for money to raise all these children. That is why our youngest Leopoldo moved away from the villagio. He did not understand the rules of the church.

   Aaahh bellissima..... Leopoldo..... he was quite a character! He did it all his own way. He walked days and days to start a new life in a city! But he too grew wiser and one day he returned to start his own business in the villagio in these beautiful hills of Tuscany. It sounds if the villagio was large enough for a new business but that was not the fact. He came back just after Severino, the owner of the Funeral Services, died. Yes, he was not immortal either!
   Leopoldo did not talk about his life in the city, we always thought he must have left a big segreto behind. But he must have had a good income because he paid the widow of Severino a good sum of money.
But the poor donna who was as old and lifeless as the customers of her late husband, did not know what to do with so much money. We still don't know who inherited it or where she spent it on. One of the segreti of the villagio. Maybe you will find it one day??

   Leopoldo was a gentile undertaker who never married. Angry tongues said he was still married but left his wife in the city. Others said he murdered his wife and was now an undertaker to punish himself for what he had done. But the truth was never revealed.

   Leopoldo was not the only one that left the villagio, many others left too but never returned to live here again. The villagers grew too old to work in the vineyards and there was no one to buy the yards from them.
Our villagio became a forgotten corner where Vecchi looked after each other.
And all these Vecchi, once young and beautiful, returned to their babyhood: they were teethless again, walking was very difficult and tripping over was normal, like being toddlers. Some lost their speech and muttered and drooled like bambini. Again they lost control over their muscles and needed large nappies.
   You see bellissima, slow down your pace, you will be back where you started even before you realise you lived a life.

   It was after the last but one old villager died, that Leopoldo left the villagio again. Indeed was Leopoldo the last survivor of generations of persone, he left without a trace. And I could not follow him because I was bound to the cemetery together with everybody else that was buried here.

   We watched him parking his beautiful old coaches which served us all followed by famiglia and amici.
Once we walked behind them ourselves and all were carried here in the same black coaches with the carved ornaments on top, the pillars with the gold painted crowns, the large wheels that rolled through the dust, the coachman sitting at his high place, guiding the black cavalli to the church for the last farewell.

Photo: @glory.of.disrepair (Instagram)

   Leopoldo did not look back. He crossed the cemetery, stood still for a moment as if he wanted to say addio to us. We saw his lips moving but did not hear words. Then he walked away, we could not stop him and returned to our graves after he was only a tiny black spot, disappearing behind a long forgotten vineyard.

   It is here where my story for you ends, bellissima. "



Word of thanks: the photo of @glory.of.disrepair (Instagram) inspired me to write this story and I was given permission to use the photo as an illustration for which I am very grateful. Thank you Mathias!

Link: please visit the beautiful Instagram account of @glory.of.disrepair

Note: the story is pure fiction! A figment of my imagination!

Helen