As the decking was the family area, the large, highly polished, table was over crowded with as many chairs as possible. There were often family meals and special occasions, such a wedding anniversaries, birthdays and Easter Sunday lunch, on and around the decking.
During the day, the lawn was beaten and stamped, by children’s rushing feet. During the night, the grass was tickled by fox paws, and laced with diamond dewdrops the next morning.
The other area, my favourite, was my Grandpa’s. He would sit for hours with a book in one hand, a cigar in the other and a small glass of Scotch whisky resting on the weathered arm of the bench. The black chimniere bellowed hot smoke, which together with the smell of tobacco made it an eerie but peaceful, and relaxing place.
During the summer, my Grandparent’s garden was beautiful. Winter on the other hand was depressing and haunted.
The once blooming flowers were dead and tainted. Bare branches sagged in sorrow. Empty clothes hangers of summer’s fancy dress.
The once alive patio lay cold and blank. The furniture sat alone, exposed to the cold. Despite Grandpa’s attempts to protect the table and chairs from the cold bite, the furniture soon gleamed chillingly with frost. Each day frosty chairs called out for the warmth of a body and each day was left rejected.
The lawn lay peacefully, snug under a thick white duvet, drawing the garden together.
The only place that remained friendly, warm, and welcoming all year round was Grandpa’s bench. Even on the bitterly cold night’s, when you could sit and watch your breath float around before your face, you could always find him with a book in one hand, a cigar in the other and a small glass of Scotch whisky resting on the weathered arm of the bench. Only this time, the bench was pulled closer to the glowing chimniere and Grandpa was wrapped cosily inside a thick winter fleece.
