The Walking Stick

 

                                                                The Walking Stick
 
 
My grandmother's walking stick, inherited by me, came into my possession at a time when it was fearful to behold. Fashioned from a gnarled, bent driftwood prize, stormcast on the Horowhena coast. Scraped, polished and lovingly presented to my increasingly crippled grandmother by her long lamented husband; even to grasp it reassuringly, while at rest, go for confidence and authority.


I remember her saying how a rap of her stick emphasised her demands of casual shopkeepers or taxidrivers deemed to show excessive nonchalance and inattention. Walking sticks have many uses for which they were never designed, even felling a truant sheep on my farmlet, on odd occasions, or hooking down fruit or nuts, or berries just beyond reach.

Now that arthritis has slowed my own progress and daily routine, the links with my own past family, and my trusty old walking stick, give a feeling of acceptance and the strength to look ahead.

 

NB - the above is a direct copy of the original text, with spelling and punctuation as written.

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