That Rosebud Moment

Frustrated by trying to decide which story should feature on the Hannah More website, this month, I immersed myself in a spot of cupboard-clearing. This distraction therapy produced a surprising result, when I came across a long-forgotten item, tucked away at the back of the top shelf in the spare bedroom. At first glance, it would appear to be of little importance: a tin box, fashioned to look like a picnic basket, with two bent handles and a rusty, hinged lid. What is most amazing is that it has travelled with me for almost sixty-five years. It has survived student days, house moves, renovations and my own children. How do we decide what to keep, and what to throw away? The box has its own story, which I must write one day, but for now, it is enough for you to know that it was given as a birthday present on my fifth birthday. Now empty, it once contained skeins of stranded silks with names such as Coral Reef, Stormy Blue, Antique Rose and Jonquil; a small pair of embroidery scissors that resembled a stork with its beak reaching skyward, while its feet balanced on the finger rings, and a paper tape measure. I had taken it into school on my birthday, but never got to share it with my classmates, because I was sent home sick at lunchtime. I spent the next two weeks quarantined with chicken pox, during which time I learnt the intricacies of lazy daisy, french knots and satin stitch. At some point, I found it necessary to brand the tin as my own, by scratching my name in capitals on the base. Whether I found the rounded letter ‘R’ too difficult to execute , or whether I was interrupted in my defacement, I have no idea, but the task remains incomplete. I can’t claim that it has the life-changing significance of ‘Rosebud’ in Citizen Kane, but to me it was part of a happy childhood that sowed the seeds of a happy life. It has been returned to its place in the cupboard, but not before it directed me to this month’s short story: ‘Born a Crow’, seems to fit the bill. ‘For in the dew of little things the heart finds its morning and is refreshed.’ Khalil Gibran