Sunday, May 30, 2010

The Shed

Dear Diary, Not only is my nose red, but also my arms. I should have taken notice of what my Mother always said, "Cover up! Do not let the sun's rays on your skin in the middle of the day!" [Yes Mother.] And that Dear Diary was a million years before slip slop slap became a mantra.

We decided to have a quiet day, what with the exertion of the long walk yesterday, and our increasing maturity. Both Anne and I admitted, rather ruefully, that neither are as fit as we once were. Not having any particular activity in mind I thought I would take a look in the shed near the rear wall of the garden. Anne keeps an old fashioned garden; roses grow prolifically, though heaven only knows how many hours she puts into their keep. There is a rather wonderful vegetable garden, which explains the abundance of fresh vegetables on the table, and a herb garden in the shape of a wagon wheel. Anne is a gardener. I am not envious. I love looking at gardens, but ... Dear Diary, I am not keen on the hard physical labour.

The shed is rather ancient, oiled wood and extremely rickety, cobwebs covered the exterior giving it a rather spooky appearance. The window appeared to be from an old bathroom and thus gave me no view into the interior. There was nothing for it ... I would walk around the side for the door, which was always closed. I did wonder why, but not being nosy never inquired. Anne had hinted old things were kept there, but what constituted old things in her vocabulary? Ah well, Dear Diary, if I don't look I will never know.

The door was heavy and slid sideways, much to my surprise, as I spent at least five minutes trying to find a door knob. A small block of wood acted as a sort of handle. I grabbed it, pushed with all my might; the door remained static. More strength is required. Squaring my shoulders I pulled on the handle, and suddenly the door moved to the left. A proverbial Pandora's Box came into view. Boxes of books, some had evidence of being a mouse home at one stage. Dear Diary I do hope there are no rats here! I do not like rats!

Not that far inside the door stood a battered tin chest; the type that hold pride of place in a small town Museum that has a section devoted to early settlers. These tin chests provided safe and dry storage for blankets and household essentials when ancestors left the 'old country' for a new life across the ocean. Just as well the door was difficult to open. If word had got out the treasure trove in this old shed I feel that Anne's relatively quiet existence might be tarnished with visitations of burglars.

While I didn't see anything else that attracted my attention; an old rusty push-lawnmower, lengths of green binder twine that may be used in the garden but which originally wrapped hay bales, tools that I am positive had been willed to Anne, otherwise why would she own them, the tin chest had me extremely curious. Cautiously I pulled on the lid, and to my utmost amazement it swung open without the smallest squeak. Dear Diary, it was full of crafts in various stages of completion.

An old shoe box held plaster of Paris moulds and half a dozen unpainted ladies in crinoline dresses. They must be at least 50 years old! The surprising fact was that the red rubber moulds hadn't perished. An old flour bag, and I haven't seen them since last century, held a huge number of crochet squares, some of which were crocheted together, and none of which had that ungainly threads sewn it. How could Anne leave a task uncompleted Dear Diary! I abhor slackness! Not bothering to look any further, I hauled the flour bag out, shut the lid down, closed the door, and marched towards the house. We have a project for the rest of the day ... Anne and I will sit and crochet those squares together, add a border, and sew in those confounded tails.

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