I still didn't have the answer

I still didn't have the answer as to why the letters I'd written to my Nana Nesbitt hadn't been posted.There was a lot of catching up to be done!

I hurried down the street; where one day I dreamt would be only a memory. Bill's fruit and veg shop; fruit and veg tiered and sloping away from the glass plated window. He was a man who cared how everything looked. The child in him evident each Christmad when festive scene's adorned his window and lights created a magical time for those who hurried to or from work. It was the sort of store and in a time where the bravest felt free to return a rotten apple for a replacement. A replacement was duly given; always in a good humoured way.

My Nana Ashby would pop on her tight fitting hat(with enough room for a hat pin to go through it, grab her faithful shopping bag, then walk along to his store and return with a more satisfactory apple or pear.

I can't recall having long conversations with my Nan and so hadn't any idea about her dreams or plans but knew that there were two sad occassions which would shape all our lives.

As I rushed past my Nan's house, curtains now opened, I knew that my grand-father was heading for his farm in Higham Ferrers.

The co-op milkman shouted "Look-out missy, do you really need a wooden overcoat just yet; I'd been engrossed in my plans that I had forgotten to look and just missed being hit by a horse and cart.

It had been decades since my mum had found her way along the road where I was now walking. She would count her footsteps to nearer shops or to ride her trike in the street with her sighted friends. Her child-hood came to a abrupt end when she was sent to a boarding school for blind and partially sighted children in Birmingham. Oh how she must have anticipated the end of each term or dread the new term to come. She felt lonely in the dormitory. She dreamt of home and cried into the coat of her Persian cat; tears not just for him but also for all the things she would miss. Her mum sent regular food parcels whilst a much loved aunt sent long typed letters. Her husband owned a cycle shop at the other end of town. He supplemented his income by selling logs that he delivered in sacks round the town in a lorry. He'd visit his sister, my Nana Ashby. He'd stay for a cup of tea whilst sitting in the scullery; chewing of the happenings of our town. He wore something like a leather tabbard. He smoked a pipe. He'd acknowledge me with a smile and a hello before continuing with his conversation of the day.

On Monday the boiler would be on; dripping washing carried to the huge mangle with big rollers. There was a story that a lady down the road had trapped her breast in the mangle; I don't know if this was true or not....let's hope not! There was a lingering smell of saop flakes that lingered right through to Tuesday. There would be remnants of the Sunday Roast but yorkshire pudding would be eaten first with gravy.

Everyone has a special story to tell. Everyone in my street, as I grew up as a scruffy kid, seemed ordinary. However, the truth is, that no-one is ordinary and that everyone has a story to tell. The high points were generally known but perhaps not the low points.
Most people worked either in shoe factories or on the land as I grew up.

I still think that it is sad when people look down on others. After all we will all stay down in the end. No matter how high we build our houses or make our mark in the career we chose we will all end up in a more permanent place.