Ribbons From Heaven.

Grandma’s mother was Scottish. Grandma may have dipped out on the accent, but she seemed to have inherited a double portion of the canny Scottish ability to wheel a good deal. She lived out in the countryside, in a place, or rather on a place called Mount Tiger. A little higher up the impressive hill, (it wasn’t really a mountain), lived a placid farmer of few words. How he and my grandmother became friends is one of life's little mysteries.Grandma used to pinch enormous, delicious horse mushrooms out of one of his paddocks. Of course, Grandma had no idea she was stealing mushrooms. The land agent who sold my grandparents their block of land had erroneously informed them that the paddock across the road was also theirs.In addition to helping themselves to buckets of mushrooms, my grandparents ran stock on that piece of land for years.

It was only when Grandma cooked up the bright scheme, (Grandma was always cooking up bright schemes), of subdividing the land across the road and selling it, that the truth was discovered. The city council doesn’t let you subdivide and sell what you don’t own. Grandma promptly rang up the placid farmer with the news.

“I say!” boomed Grandma excitedly down the phone, (Grandma always shouted down the telephone, adjusting her decibels for the distance between herself and the recipient of the call), “you know that piece of land across the road from our house?”

“Yes,” said the farmer slowly.

“It’s not ours! It’s yours! Arthur’s just come back from the council now!”

“Yeah, I know,” agreed the farmer.

“You knew!? The whole time!?”

“Yup.”

“But we’ve been picking mushrooms and grazing cattle on it for years!” gulped Grandma, mortified. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“Too much hassle,” drawled the farmer.

A few years latter, Grandma cooked up another scheme. A better one this time. “I say!” boomed Grandma, down the phone to the farmer. “You get the Northland Advocate, don’t you?”

“Uh huh,” grunted the farmer.

“A year’s subscription is pretty steep, isn’t it?” wheedled Grandma in her most tantalising sales voice.

“Nah, it’s alright,” said the farmer.

“Well, it’d be better if it was half, wouldn’t it?” said Grandma in her most, 'I Will Close This Deal' sort of voice.

“Uh huh.”

“Well, you drive past our gate every day to check on the other end of your farm. Suppose we split the subscription between us and you get the paper first and pop it in our box as you blow past?”

A ruminating silence echoed from the end of the phone. “Such a saving,” coaxed Grandma. Then, quite fiercely, as she remembered his favourite objection to previous schemes, “it won’t be any hassle to you at all!” “Oh alright, Shirley,” mumbled the farmer.

For years and years this arrangement continued. The Northland Advocate would arrive in my grandparent’s letter box, previously read and bound back together with a rubber band. Then one morning Grandma decided to gift wrap a present. Why, and who it was for, does not come into this story. Grandma looked speculatively at her gift-wrapping. It wasn’t an unqualified success. The paper was recycled, (of course), and had that less than pristine appearance that announces the thrifty presentation of a gift.

“Hmm,” said Grandma. “It needs something.” Then she brightened. A bow. Surely a piece of ribbon would elevate this less than salubrious wrapping job. She hunted high and low throughout her house, but not a single piece of ribbon could she find. Mount Tiger is a long way out of town, without even a small dairy store. There was nowhere to get a piece of ribbon by the time she needed it. “God,” said Grandma. “I seem to have run out of ribbon and as you can see, I really need a piece to make a bow for this present. Can you have a ribbon delivered here soon, please? Amen." She glanced at the clock. The farmer would have delivered the daily newspaper by now. She pulled on her gumboots and stomped up the driveway to collect it. She opened the letter box and almost jumped out of her skin. There lay the newspaper, pre-read as ever, but this time, after ten years of rubber bands, the farmer had tied it back together with a pink satin bow.

Writing and art work are the intellectual property of R. M. Hamilton and may not be reproduced without written consent. The photograph used for the thumbnail image is generously provided by Michael Schwarzenberger from Pixabay.