by: Munro, Mary
Granny frae Coldstone wid hae bin a bit o a slorach tae onybody nooadays, bit she wis jist my couthie auld granny. A bosy frae her wis like bein drooned in foosty auld claes, nae aften washed bit fine smellin fur aa that. In her saft wallapin breists ye fun the smell o honey dreepin in the ben the hoose room, hens' maet an corn mash, an yirned milk an oatcakes fired in the brander.
Maist o her life she wis booed in half, an waddled like a dyeuk aboot her chores, black like a hoodie craw.... black wivven stockins, button black sheen, black stiff frock wi a black flooery wrap ower apron. Her face wis broon an riven wi wrinkles, bit her een were like the bluest bluebell in a green shady wid.
As a bairn, I thocht her affa bonnie an likit tae stroke yon lang hairs comin ooto a plook on her chin. Granda ye daurna spikk till. He wis near eneuch God an thocht us bairns nae wirth the dirt atween his tae nails. Bit ye could whisper ferlies an secrets tae Granny, bosied up in her warm lap, her braith sweet smellin like the milky smell o kye in the byre. 'Hist ye back' she'd say as ye left...and meant it, nae like some fowk, fa say it hopin ye'll forget far they bide. Ye ken yon fowk that look ower yer shooder at a pairty tae see fit ither body looks o mair interest than yersel....
Granny hid niver been farrer than Tarland bit she wis the maist contentit body I iver kent, happy at the heid o the breem hill wi her chuckens, an her coo, an her grandchildren, in that order.