My Grandmother is a conversationalist. She has an opinion on every topic under the sun; after all, she is over seventy and has experienced much in life. We spend Wednesday afternoons together, my only free time in the week. I am all of fifteen years, and my name is Flower, and I am a busy bee.  

“Really, why Flower? Fancy calling you Flower when your Mother could have chosen Margaret Rose if she wanted to be reminded of flowers; thank goodness it wasn’t Apple or Cherry Blossom, which would have been infinitely worse than Flower. There are so many beautiful names to choose from, such as Sarah, Patricia, Jane, Elizabeth or Emma, to name a few; and Catherine, I love Catherine; and all those classical names, like Penelope, Helen, and Julia. These days, everyone has to be different; the old names are no good. There’s no respect for the family tradition, either. I mean, look at my name, it’s beautiful, but, no, it won’t do, far too old-fashioned.”

Dear Granny, she can’t understand that we like to be new, fresh, different. Or does she? The next moment she was voicing her opinion that, after all, it is rather refreshing to have the name Flower; quite delicate and pretty; not that I would consider myself either of those; I am certainly not delicate, and as for pretty, well, I’m not ugly, at least I am happy about that. I have a narrow, straight nose, an oval-shaped face and rather nice eyebrows that compliment my eyes in a well-defined arch; well, that’s what my friends say.

My friends, when they think they’re being ever so clever with lateral thinking, call me Blossom, Honey-Bee, Petal, Flour-Power, Honey-Bun and so on; then they giggle non-stop at their humour. I don’t mind, I am good at making up nonsense names for them, so I reciprocate and there’s more laughter, and we go on and on being quite ridiculous.

“Anyway, Flower,” said Granny, interrupting my thoughts, “it does rather suit you, I must say. I suppose we have to move with the times, don’t we? Look how the world has changed since I was your age. Mobile phones, the internet, overnight flights from one end of the world to another. It’s a challenge to the older folk, to keep up with the times.”

Exactly so, I thought, smiling at her; after all, Granny has a Facebook account; she does online banking, and she sends messages on Whatsapp. She is a thoroughly modern grandmother, and I love her to the moon and back.

The story is part of my memoir of childhood in a remote area of Africa; my description is set in a remote, beautiful area, with a unique heritage which not many know about. Visit Lynette on Medium.
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The story is part of my memoir of childhood in a remote area of Africa; my description is set in a remote, beautiful area, with a unique heritage which not many know about. Visit Lynette on Medium.
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