Will a Cricket Bat Under the Bed Become the New Weapon of Choice (against marauders)?

The day before my mother's funeral, we cleaned her brasses. An eclectic collection of pots and plates. Her brasses were always kept gleaming. She would say that nobody else noticed, but that did not deter her. I find myself now carrying on the job. No one will notice, but I will.

This time I have cleaned a few more. I have cleaned the fire-irons that were made by a great, maybe great great grandfather who was a brass founder. They are whoppers. Not those mincy little jobs that sit apologetically in the hearth (or used to, in the days of open fires) but a strenuously crafted poker and shovel that requires manly effort to prod dying embers or scoop up coal ( from the coal house, of course). They used to reside in Heol Elli, by the side of Grandma Leyshon's open fire. After she died, they were given to me, as I had always loved them, and we, at that time, had an open fire with a brick fireplace.There, they gave us pleasure for twenty five years or more.
But for the past ten years, since we plastered the fireplace and installed a mantlepiece, they have resided under our bed. I could say gathering dust, but then, you know, my house is immaculate.




So today, I have resurrected them, brushed off the imaginary dust and tried to bring back that almost silver gleam of brass that has just been cleaned. No. Not quite as golden as I remember, but good enough. Because I am passing them on to a younger cousin who remembers them in Grandma's kitchen; he has an open fire, where they will now reside. Connecting his young family with their history and creating new memories.