MUNDANE MUSINGS

Sun (Auckland), Volume 1, Issue 40, 10 May 1927, Page 4

MUNDANE MUSINGS

“THE DEAR DEPARTED” LITTLE FRIENDS OF THE KITCHEN (Written for THE SUJV.) This is not about the old man whom everyone thought to be dead and who really was not —it is about little pots and kettles. The other day when I was stuffing a piece of rag into the latest hole that had appeared in my favourite kettle, a silly, awfully sentimental idea struck me. It was so silly that I wanted to laugh, but so sad that I wanted to *cry—Would I ever again see all the little pots and kettles that have passed through my hands during the time I have handled such things? They are gone—goodness only knows where —but will they ever reappear? Perhaps when I die, and some angel person asks me for a cup of tea, I shall find my dear little 'grey enamel pot boiling on a stove. I shall be so delighted if he is there. It will be twenty years next June since I saw him last. I left him in a little house in Queen ,Street, Wellington, and he was | then on his last legs, after many years of faithful service. He was all bunged up with little bits of rag (which always got terribly in the way when he was being washed), and the enamel had chipped so badly that I was afraid to use him any longer. So I left him there. But I would like to see him again!

Then before I had the little grey, there was a little pale blue pot. He had a spout, so that things could be poured out of him without going all over everything. He was a dear. I used to boil him on a little spirit-lamp in the middle of the night, to heat the baby food for my littlest baby girl. Now my littlest baby-girl keeps the baby-food for her littlest baby-boy in a thermos flask, and my little pale blue pot is gone.

I had a little brass kettle about this time that made strangely wonderful cups of tea. I don’t know why they were so lovely, but I think the little brass kettle knew. Then, after many years, he wore out, my lovely cups of tea were not quite so lovely. I think that they have never really been so lovely, again. But then it may not have been the little kettle after all —it may just have been that in some parts of one’s life, everything is lovely. Or it may have been the little kettle . . . Oh, I wanted to see them all again, when I stopped to think about them. I felt that perhaps I might not have been as kind to them as I should have been. Perhaps I carelessly let them boil dry, and burn, and so shortened their lives by many moons. Once I did go to sleep again and burn the little pale blhe pot and the baby food. I can remember distinctly, because I had to get up and make some more food. And I believe I once went shopping and left some carrots cooking for tea in the little grey pot. . . . They were little black sticks when I found them. Why do carrots nearly always burn when one goes shopping? Yes, I want some more cups of tea out of my brass kettle. And I want the-'old friends who used to drink them with me to come back and drink with me again. I would be very nice to

them, and never get angry with them, and always remember who took sugar and who didn’t. Can I remember now? I believe I can. The spell of the little kettle is upon me as I think. Airs. Alorton took milk, but no sugar. It was strange not tc take sugar in those days. Nearly everyone took sugar in tea, and nearly everyone was sweeter in those days, too . . . Airs. Carr did not take milk. We thought she must be a freak (although of course we were too polite to say so—we might say so now—)and really pitied her. Then Airs. Matthews and Airs. Thomson and Airs. Jack Simonds and Mrs. ever so many more of the friends of those dear days come back to me with my little brass kettle. I wish they would come really . . . Well perhaps I shall find them all. But if I cannot have' the people 1 have known, I do want the little pots and kettles. I want to thank them for their service, and their selfless devotion to me. I want to line them all up and say, “Thank you, dears, for being so good to me. Thank you for boiling at any hour of the day or night, on any day—wet, cold or sultry ■ —and always being ready to come into action at a moment’s notice. You were really too good to me, and I am sure I did not appreciate you. But I appreciate you know. I want to shake hands —no,' handles— nt% it will have to be hands—with you, and look again into your bright little faces. Thank you. Thank you again and again, you dear, uncomplaining, patient little things.” If I find them waiting for me in tlv land of the angels, I shall put on clean robe when I go to meet them And as I pass each one I shall sav a the things that I did not say when possessed him on earth. The egg beaters, the tin-openers, the cups am saucers and the plates; the knives forks, spoons and the salt-cellars, a. will have a share in my welcome, am will hear nice things, said to their faces and be happy that they have worker for me. Or perhaps if they are not alloweu to come to the mortal’s heaven to see me I shall be allowed to go, for just one hour, to see them in the heaven for little pots and kettles. Because i really should thank them. It is not fair not to. K. KNIGHT.