Unconditional Love: Lessons from the Grandmothers of Pinewood
As the years drift by like leaves tumbling down Pinewood’s quiet lanes, my perspective shifts. I often think of my grandmothers—their fussing, which once felt smothering, and their gifts, which only ever seemed to annoy me. Only now, as autumn touches my own heart, do I realize: it was the purest kind of love. Love that asked for nothing in return, love in spite of everything. This is the story of how late I came to understand their warmth.
Not long ago, I sat sipping tea in the cosy kitchen of an old friend in Pinewood. On the table stood a cardboard juice box with its corners neatly snipped—just like we did as kids to make drinking easier. I smiled at the sight and asked, “Feeling nostalgic, Michael?” He sighed, his eyes softening. “It’s Gran, you see? Her doing.” And suddenly, memories washed over me like a sudden rain shower, tightening my chest.
I remembered coming home from school to our tiny flat in Pinewood, where Granny Mabel would beam with joy and hand me a dress. Simple cotton, sprinkled with tiny flowers—utterly hideous to my teenage eyes. I stared, baffled, while she glowed as though she’d handed me a treasure. Back then, I couldn’t fathom her delight. Now, the memory leaves me blinking back tears. It was her way of saying, “I love you.”
Granny Mabel lived on a modest pension, yet never missed a holiday. Everyone got a gift, however small. I recall her giving me nail clippers—year after year, as if they were the grandest present. Back then, I groaned finding them under the tree yet again. Now? I’d give anything for one more clumsy hug and those clippers in their shiny little box.
My other gran, Edith, adored books. Every night, she’d read to me before bed—sometimes even midday. At eight, I’d rather have been outside playing, and her stories seemed dull. But she read with such fervour: crying over sad bits, giggling at the silly ones, even if it was the same old fable. Her laughter was like a child’s—bright and clear. Later, I learned why: the war had stolen her childhood. Now, I pick up her books, breathing in the vanilla scent of yellowed pages, trying to feel her near. But I realized their worth too late.
Mum once told me how she teased her own gran, calling her face “a chicken’s backside.” They’d laugh, Gran pretending to chase her, never cross. It was a game spun from love. I picture their joy, their lightness, and my heart aches with longing.
Every morning, Gran’s house smelled of fresh baking. Her hands, knotted with age, ached from work, yet she’d rise at dawn to make scones or flapjacks. That scent—the very essence of happiness—no money could buy. I understood it too late, when she was already gone.
Mum once said, “You raise your daughter—I’ll just love her.” And that, in essence, was the grandmothers of Pinewood. They loved without conditions, without expectations. Their love was like an autumn wood: quiet, deep, and endless. And only now do I see how much I miss their warmth.
Unconditional Love: Lessons from the Grandmothers of Pinewood
Anecdotes
Written by Eleanor Whitmore
Reading time: 3 minutes
Views: 94
Published: 17 November 2021
As the years drift by like leaves tumbling down Pinewood’s quiet lanes, my perspective shifts. I often think of my grandmothers—their fussing, which once felt smothering, and their gifts, which only ever seemed to annoy me. Only now, as autumn touches my own heart, do I realize: it was the purest kind of love. Love that asked for nothing in return, love in spite of everything.
