A Modern Fable on Criticism – Part 1

I thoroughly enjoyed Aesop’s Fable ‘The Man, the Boy, and the Donkey’. I liked it so much that I decided to have some fun with it. So here’s my modern take on this beloved classic.

“Grandmama, I can see the Harbour Bridge and the Opera house from here,” Bethany cried—her sticky fingers leaving smudges against the window pane.

“Well, you can watch the boats sailing on the harbour all summer long, dear,” Edith said, before planting a kiss on the top of her head. Having Bethany around was like breathing in her favourite perfume. She was the only girl in a pack of otherwise rambunctious and testosterone fuelled grandkids.

Boys that grunted. Boys that dragged their knuckles on the ground. Boys that left trails of dirt and sand in every room of the house. Boys that swung their fists just for the sake of it.

Their inherent wildness left her questioning whether they were truly part of the family.

Sometimes she entertained the thought of conducting secret DNA tests on them. Their hair samples were easy enough to find on her cushions, blankets and the shower drain.

Edith breathed a sigh of relief that her three grandsons were holidaying in Vanuatu.

Edith’s eyes swept beyond the eight-year-old dreamer to a familiar scene. The boats looked like toys gently bobbing up and down on a shimmering blanket of blue.

“Oh, Grandmama, I wish I could stay with you on every school holiday.” Bethany wrapped her arms around Edith’s waist. Her petite hands not quite able to touch each other. Since going through menopause, Edith only had to look at a piece of bread to explode in weight around her middle.

“Let’s walk to the shops and pick up some groceries,” Edith suggested. Any walking was better than no walking. She needed to get in her 10,000 steps a day. Most of the time it was well under the target.

“Yaaaay,” Bethany screamed. “Choc chip pancakes here we come!”

Edith stared her up and down. She would ply her granddaughter with any food her skinny little heart desired.

The shopping cart was overflowing. Edith’s knuckles went white as she steadied her grip. The walk up the steep hill back to the house felt both longer and shorter. Bethany ambled by her side on the footpath, jumping over each crack. Some cracks were so worn that tufts of grass were pushing through.

The weight of the cart was pushing hard against Edith’s ample frame, making the trip feel like everything was being filmed in slow motion. Yet, the happy chirping of her granddaughter made the walk seem quicker.

They passed a couple of mums pushing strollers and heard, “Look at that awful lady—letting that poor child walk up this steep hill.”

***

On the following week, Edith and Bethany completed yet another grocery shop.

Wearing a new pair of sneakers gave Edith a positive boost. She hoisted Beth into the trolley amongst all the groceries instead of the child seat. Edith would suffer for that in her lower back later.

Beth sat with her knees pointed up to the sky like McDonald’s golden arches.

Bethany beamed. “Mum never lets me ride in the trolley anymore. She says I’m too big.”

“Mind you don’t squash the eggs, Luv,” Edith said, as she mustered all her strength into pushing the trolley up the hill. “We need them for Humming bird cake.”

She could feel a surge of heat radiating from the top of her head to her toes. All her pores seemed to open with excitement releasing her own brand of grandma sweat. Edith couldn’t tell if it was her menopause or all the extra physical exertion.

With all this resistance training, Edith wondered if she could star in her own show, “Grandma Ninja Warrior”.

A couple of hipsters walked passed with their tight cardigans, and even tighter vintage jeans. Both sported manicured beards and what Edith presumed to be glasses with no prescription lenses in them.

How pretentious. The suburb was changing, and not in a good way.

“Look at that poor old lady. Why’s she got such an awfully big kid in the trolley?” said a voice.

Bethany stared at her grandma with a knowing look. Edith nodded. She steered the trolley by a tree to anchor it, so Bethany could climb out. Edith took in a few deep breaths. Her heart was pumping furiously. It was nice to take a breather.

The child seemed pleased to take a turn at pushing the shopping cart up the hill while making up silly songs and laughing. Edith kept the pace beside her in her new shoes.

Soon they heard another criticism from a passer-by, “How dreadful, why that child is practically a slave. It’s child abuse.”

***

Another week passed and the pantry needed replenishing once again. Edith and Bethany thought about their situation.

George, Edith’s local green grocer always let her borrow a shopping trolley and return it the next time she shopped. He let all the old locals do it.

“Hey, Edith. No trolley for you today, eh?” George asked in a thick Greek accent.

“Not today, we need to work on our arms.” Edith said, lamenting that she’d forgotten to bring her stack of reusable cloth shopping bags.

George shrugged. “Here a toffee apple for the girl.” He tossed it in one of their plastic bags.

From George’s shop, Edith could see her house on top of the hill. She fixed her eyes on the prize.

“You sure you’re alright, dear?” Edith asked her granddaughter.

“Of course I am, Gran. You can give me another bag if you like.”

Both of them hauled a couple of bags of groceries on each arm and made their way up the steep hill. Edith’s arms burned with pain as she strained muscles she didn’t know existed. Plod, plod, plod like she was walking in quick sand.

Edith recognized the old Wattle tree with its shock of yellow blooms. It was a physical landmark that meant that they were half way home. Bees were furiously zinging over the flowers, paying no mind to Edith or Beth.

The straps of the bags were cutting into her fingers now. Nasty slices. She felt a line of sweat run down the left side of her face.

Bethany skipped on ahead. Edith had made sure that the child was carrying only the lightest of bags containing bread and paper serviettes.

Suddenly, she felt a strange lightening sensation on her right side. She almost lost her balance. She rocked on the balls of her feet.

To her horror the thin plastic bag loaded with fruit had split wide open.

Behind her now was a procession of oranges and kiwifruit rolling and bouncing down the hill.

“Beth,” she hollered.

The girl turned and dropped her bags. Edith let go of her bags too.

With singular focus both she and Beth—grandma and grandchild—chased     after their fruit rolling down the footpath.

Moral of the story—You can’t please everyone.

Join me for part 2 on the topic of criticism.