Dandelion Jam The snowy winter has finally ended. It wasn’t very harsh this year—just mild and filled with flurries—but even so, it’s worn out its welcome, and now everyone longs for green leaves, colourful sights, and the chance to shed their heavy winter coats. Spring arrives in a sleepy English market town. Tasha adores spring, eagerly awaiting the return of nature—and finally, she’s rewarded. Peering from her third-floor flat window, she muses: “With these warm spring days, the whole town seems to have woken from a long, wintry slumber. Even the traffic hums differently now, and the market is alive again. People in bright jackets and coats bustle here and there, and the morning birds are noisier than our alarm clocks. Oh, spring is lovely, but summer… that’s even better!” Tasha has lived in this five-storey block for years. Now, she shares it with her granddaughter, Vera, who’s in Year Four. Vera’s parents—both doctors—moved to Africa for work a year ago, entrusting their daughter to her gran. “Mum, we’re leaving Vera in your care. No dragging her halfway across the world! We know you’ll watch over your favourite granddaughter,” Tasha’s daughter declared. “Oh, of course I will—I’ll be happier with company! Now off you go, Vera and I’ll manage just fine,” Tasha replied. “Yay, Gran! Just you and me—plenty of trips to the park, and more time together. Mum and Dad are always too busy!” Vera cheered. After serving breakfast and sending Vera off to school, Tasha busied herself with housework—time slipped away. “I’ll pop to the shop before Vera gets back—she earned a treat for her top marks,” she thought, pulling on her boots. She left her flat to find two neighbours already perched on the communal bench, cushions beneath them to soften the chill. Mrs Simmons—ageless and living alone, perhaps seventy, perhaps more—keeps her birthday a secret and occupies a ground floor studio. Valerie, a lively 75-year-old, well-read and brimming with tales, is Simmons’s opposite—always laughing and full of life. As soon as the snow melts and the sun warms the ground, this bench is never empty, and Simmons and Valerie are its regulars. They spend all day chatting, with the briefest interlude for lunch at home. They know everything about everyone in the block—not even a fly gets past their watchful eyes. Sometimes Tasha joins them to swap stories—TV shows, books, the latest local news. Mrs Simmons is fond of discussing her blood pressure. “Morning, ladies!” Tasha grinned. “Already on duty?” “Morning, Tosh! Of course—otherwise they’d mark us absent. Off to the shop, are you?” Simmons declared, eyeing Tasha’s shopping bag. “Spot on. Vera’s expecting something sweet for her stellar grades,” Tasha waved, heading off. The day passed in a blur. Tasha picked up Vera from school, fed her supper, then Vera buried herself in homework while Tasha watched a bit of television. “Gran, I’m off to dance!” Vera chirped. Vera’s been in dance class six years now—she loves it, performing at all the local events. And proud Tasha can’t help but glow when speaking of her talented granddaughter. “All right, Vera dear—off you go!” said Gran, sending her to rehearsals. Later, Tasha waits alone on the bench for Vera to return from dance. “Feeling lonely?” Her second-floor neighbour, Mr Gordon, took a seat beside her. “How could I be, on a day like this? It’s spring. Gorgeous weather!” Tasha replied. “Yes, the sun’s warming up, the birds are singing—everywhere’s turning green, and those yellow coltsfoot flowers look just like tiny little suns,” Mr Gordon smiled. At that moment, Vera sneaked up and flung her arms around Gran’s neck. “Woof, woof!” “You little rascal! You nearly scared me to death!” Tasha laughed. “Now, now—bit soon to joke about that!” chuckled Mr Gordon, patting her shoulder. “Come along, mischief. I’ve grated carrots with sugar and fried your favourite meatballs. You must be tired after all that dancing,” Gran coaxed, ushering Vera home. Mr Gordon rose to follow them. “What? You’re heading inside too?” Tasha asked. “You made those meatballs sound so good, I got hungry! Maybe I’ll come back out for a stroll later.” Mr Gordon winked. “I can’t promise—busy day! Maybe though…” Tasha smiled. She did come back out for a bit in the evening, just in case. Mr Gordon was waiting—and for once, the regular bench warmers had gone home. “Mrs Simmons and Valerie just slipped away for dinner,” Mr Gordon said cheerfully. From that night on, Tasha and Mr Gordon often met in the park, reading the paper together, swapping stories, recipes, and laughter beneath the old linden tree. Mr Gordon hadn’t had an easy life. Once, he had a wife, daughter, and grandson—but he was widowed young and raised his daughter, Vera, alone while struggling to make ends meet on double shifts. He rarely saw her, as she was often asleep when he left and again when he returned. Vera eventually grew up, married, moved to another city, and had a son. She visited infrequently, and their meetings lacked warmth. After fifteen years, Vera separated from her husband and raised her boy solo. “Tash, my daughter’s coming to visit in two days. Called this morning. Strange… we’ve not spoken in years,” Mr Gordon confided. “Maybe she’s feeling sentimental; getting older makes you treasure family,” Tasha suggested. “I’m not so sure…” he sighed. Vera arrived—sharp, unsmiling, purposeful. Mr Gordon braced for a serious conversation. “Dad, I’m here for a reason. Let’s sell your flat. Come live with us—with your grandson—won’t that be more fun?” Vera said, clearly having made up her mind. But Mr Gordon felt uneasy, not wanting to uproot to a distant city and become a burden to his frosty daughter. He refused, claiming he liked his independence. Vera persisted. Learning of her dad’s friendship with Tasha, she marched over during tea. Tasha served up biscuits and her homemade jam. “So, Vera—what brings you here?” Tasha greeted gently. “I see you’re quite friendly with my father. Can I ask a favour?” “What is it?” “Convince him to sell his flat. Why should one old man rattle around in a space like that? Can’t you think of others?” Vera said, her tone sharp. Startled by Vera’s bluntness, Tasha declined. Vera lost her cool—face red, voice shrill—accusing Tasha of angling for the flat herself, questioning their park strolls, and even their discussion of dandelion recipes. “You two—just a pair of dandelions! Having your little chats, planning your schemes. Have you registered at the registry office yet? Well, it won’t work. Nothing will work—got it, you old hag!” she spat, slamming the door on her way out. Tasha felt embarrassed, hoping the neighbours hadn’t overheard. Soon, though, Vera was gone and Tasha avoided Mr Gordon, rushing home at the sight of him. But fate has its own plans. One afternoon, returning from the shop, Tasha saw Mr Gordon waiting by the bench—he held a bunch of yellow dandelions, deftly weaving them into a garland. “Tasha, don’t rush off,” he pleaded. “Wait a minute. I’m sorry for my daughter. Really. I know what she said… We’ve had a long talk. My grandson will always have my help. But Vera—she’s gone now. Said she no longer has a father. So—here, take this garland. I made dandelion jam; it’s really tasty, very healthy. You must try some. And they’re good in salads too,” he smiled. After that chat, they made a salad together. Tasha enjoyed tea with dandelion jam—she loved it. That evening, they headed to the park again. “I’ve got the latest issue of our favourite magazine,” Mr Gordon said, settling onto their bench beneath the linden tree. Tasha sat beside him, and conversation sparkled—the world faded away, and all that mattered was two friends, together, sharing spring. Thank you for reading, subscribing, and supporting me. Wishing you all the best in life!

Dandelion Jam

The snowy season finally ended. This year, the frosts werent harsha gentle, snowy winter. Still, it grew tiresome, and now all I wanted were fresh green leaves, vibrant colours, and for the chance to shed my thick winter coat.

Spring arrived in our small English market town. Ive always loved springwaiting for the world to awakenand now, looking out from my third-floor flat, I found myself thinking:

With the warm days, the town has come alive after its long winter slumber. Even the rumble of the lorries sounds different, and the market is buzzing. People in bright jackets and smart coats bustling about, and in the morning, the birds wake us up before the alarm even thinks of ringing. Ah, springs wonderful, though summers even better

Ive lived in this five-storey block for many years. These days, its just me and my granddaughter, Harriet, whos in Year Four. Her parentsboth doctorsmoved to South Africa on a contract last year, leaving Harriet with me.

Mum, my daughter said before leaving, were trusting you to keep Harriet safe. No sense bringing her with us, but we know shell be looked after by her favourite Nan.

Of course, Ill look after her! I replied. Itll be much more lively with her around, and what else is there to do in retirement? You lot goHarriet and I will hold down the fort.

Cheers, Nan! Well have a blast together! Well go to the park all the timeMum and Dad are always too busy, but youll have time for me! Harriet cheered.

After breakfast and sending Harriet off to school, I set about my usual chores, and the morning quickly passed.

Ill nip to the shop before Harriet returns from school, I thought as I grabbed my bag.

Stepping outside the block, I saw two neighbours already settled on the bench, a pair of cushy pillows underneath them (the benches are still chilly this early in the year). Mrs Simmons, a mysterious lady whose age is anyones guessseventy? More? Shes always kept that a secret. Shes on the ground floor in a one-bedroom. Then theres Mrs Parkera widow of seventy-five, bookish and cheerful, always with a witty story, lively laughter, and the very opposite of Mrs Simmons, whos rarely content.

Once the snow melts and the sun warms up, that bench is never empty. Mrs Simmons and Mrs Parker are regulars; they might sit together all day, popping home for lunch, then back on the bench again. They keep watch over everythingthe flies wouldnt dare buzz by unannounced.

I sometimes join them, to catch up on the latestwho read what magazine, what was seen on the telly. Mrs Simmons is never tired of talking about her blood pressure.

Morning, ladies, I smiled, always at your post!

Morning, Grace, replied Mrs Parker, Of course, or wed get marked absent! Off to the shops, arent you? Mrs Simmons added, seeing my bag.

Yes, off to get something sweet for Harrietpromised her a treat for her excellent marks, I replied, not lingering too long.

The day rolled on as alwayscollected Harriet from school, gave her a bite to eat, she sat down for homework, and I managed a bit of telly.

Nan, Im off to dance! she called.

Harriet was already standing by the door, backpack and phone in hand. Six years shes been at dance lessonsshes performed at every local event, and I couldnt be prouder.

All right, darling, off you go, I replied with a smile, seeing her out.

Later, I sat on the bench near our building, waiting for Harriet to return.

Feeling lonesome? came the friendly voice of Mr Arthur Evans from the second floor as he took a seat nearby.

Hardly lonely on a day like thissprings here, the weathers lovely, I replied.

Indeed! The suns out, birds are singing, everythings turning green, and there are dandelions everywhere. They do look like little suns, those flowers, he said with a grin, and I nodded in agreement.

At that moment, Harriet pounced from behind, nearly strangling me in a hug.

Woof, woof! she giggled.

You scamp, you nearly gave me a heart attack! I laughed.

Steady on, not time for that sort of chat, Arthur chuckled, giving my shoulder a gentle pat.

Come on, you rascal, Ive grated some carrots and sprinkled a bit of sugar for youmust be worn out from dance. And I made your favourite meatballs, I said, coaxing Harriet inside.

Arthur got up as well, trailing after us.

Why are you heading in so soon? I asked.

You made those meatballs sound too goodIm craving a bite myself! Maybe Ill pop out later, see you on the bench or maybe a stroll, he answered.

Not promising, plenty on my plate Well see.

I did end up heading out that evening.
After saying goodbye to Arthur, with a secret little smile, Harriet and I went inside, him trailing behind.

Nan, I think Mr Evans is courting you! Harriet giggled as soon as she shut the front door.

Oh, dont be daft, I waved the notion away.

You should see the way he looks at you! Ive noticed it loads. If only Mark from my class looked at me like that, the girls would die of envy, she mused dreamily.

Come on, sit down and eat, you observant thing! Mark might look one day, I smiled back.

That evening, I did go back to the bench, and there was Arthur, waiting. Oddly, the regulars were gone.

Mrs Simmons and Mrs Parker just left for supper, he said cheerily.

From that evening, Arthur and I met often, sometimes heading to the park across the road, reading the papers together, discussing recipes, actors, little stories.

Life hadnt been kind to Arthur. Hed had a wife, a daughter, and a grandson, but was widowed early and raised his daughter alone. Worked two jobs to make sure little Vera had everythingthough, of course, time was always short. Left for work while she still slept, home when she was already in bed.

Vera grew up, married, moved to another city, had a son. She visited a few times, but those trips became rare, and even then, she seemed distant. Split with her husband after fifteen years, raising her boy on her own.

Grace, my daughters coming to visit, due in two days, Arthur told me one afternoonwe were on first-name terms by then, shared everything, knew each others stories.

Perhaps she misses youat our age, you want to be close to family, I suggested.

Im not sure, I dont know

Vera arrived. The sameblunt, unsmiling, always keeping her thoughts to herself. Arthur expected a serious talk, and she got straight to it.

Dad, Ive come with a proposal. Lets sell your flat, you move in with us. Youll be with family, and with your grandsonmuch better, she pressed, clearly having made up her mind.

But Arthur felt uneasy, unwilling to leave his home for another city, under the watchful eye of a rather cold daughter. He refused, insisting he was content living alone.

Vera wouldnt give up. She learned of his friendship with me and turned up at my door. A polite greeting, a stroll to the kitchen, and she settled in as I poured out tea and offered sweets, including my favouritedandelion jam.

Im listening, Vera, I said kindly.

I see youre quite close with my father, she began. Would you help persuade him on something important?

Whats that, then?

Convince him to sell his flat! Why does he need so much space on his owncant he think of others for once? she snapped.

I was taken aback by her bluntness and calculation, so I refused. Vera seemed suddenly transformedher fury boiling over as she hissed,

Oh, I see! You want the flat for yourself! Found a lonely old man and thought youd arrange a dowry for your granddaughter. You two, always chatting on that bench, taking evening strolls, prattling about dandelion remedies. Pair of old dandelions yourselves! Maybe youve already applied for the marriage license? Well, it wont work, mind! Nothings going your way, you old witch! she shrieked, slamming the door.

I felt mortified, hoping the neighbours hadnt overheard. Soon after, though, Vera departed. I started avoiding Arthur, dodging him if I saw him, hurrying home whenever he was nearby.

And yet, I still sipped tea with dandelion jam.
But however much you strain to avoid someone, life has a way of sorting things out. One afternoon, coming back from the shops, I found Arthur sitting by the entrancewaiting, it was clearwith a handful of bright yellow dandelions, which hed begun weaving into a crown.

Grace, please dont hurry off, he pleaded, just sit with me for a moment. Im sorry about Vera. I know she said thingsshe can be harsh. Weve talked seriously, I help my grandson however I can. But as for herwell, it isn’t right, how she’s behaved. Shes gone, said she isnt my daughter anymore And I He trailed off, passing me the unfinished dandelion crown. Take itoh, and Ive made some dandelion jam. Tastes lovely and its good for you. You must try some, and its even nice in salads, he smiled.

After that conversation about dandelions, we made a salad together, and I had my tea with dandelion jam, which I adored. That evening, off we went to the park again.

Ive got the latest issue of our favourite magazine, Arthur said as we reached the bench under our linden tree. Lets have a read.

I sat down next to him and laughedthe talk began flowing, and we forgot the world and all its troubles. Together, it felt just right.

Thank you for reading, for subscribing, for encouraging me. Wishing you every happiness!

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Dandelion Jam The snowy winter has finally ended. It wasn’t very harsh this year—just mild and filled with flurries—but even so, it’s worn out its welcome, and now everyone longs for green leaves, colourful sights, and the chance to shed their heavy winter coats. Spring arrives in a sleepy English market town. Tasha adores spring, eagerly awaiting the return of nature—and finally, she’s rewarded. Peering from her third-floor flat window, she muses: “With these warm spring days, the whole town seems to have woken from a long, wintry slumber. Even the traffic hums differently now, and the market is alive again. People in bright jackets and coats bustle here and there, and the morning birds are noisier than our alarm clocks. Oh, spring is lovely, but summer… that’s even better!” Tasha has lived in this five-storey block for years. Now, she shares it with her granddaughter, Vera, who’s in Year Four. Vera’s parents—both doctors—moved to Africa for work a year ago, entrusting their daughter to her gran. “Mum, we’re leaving Vera in your care. No dragging her halfway across the world! We know you’ll watch over your favourite granddaughter,” Tasha’s daughter declared. “Oh, of course I will—I’ll be happier with company! Now off you go, Vera and I’ll manage just fine,” Tasha replied. “Yay, Gran! Just you and me—plenty of trips to the park, and more time together. Mum and Dad are always too busy!” Vera cheered. After serving breakfast and sending Vera off to school, Tasha busied herself with housework—time slipped away. “I’ll pop to the shop before Vera gets back—she earned a treat for her top marks,” she thought, pulling on her boots. She left her flat to find two neighbours already perched on the communal bench, cushions beneath them to soften the chill. Mrs Simmons—ageless and living alone, perhaps seventy, perhaps more—keeps her birthday a secret and occupies a ground floor studio. Valerie, a lively 75-year-old, well-read and brimming with tales, is Simmons’s opposite—always laughing and full of life. As soon as the snow melts and the sun warms the ground, this bench is never empty, and Simmons and Valerie are its regulars. They spend all day chatting, with the briefest interlude for lunch at home. They know everything about everyone in the block—not even a fly gets past their watchful eyes. Sometimes Tasha joins them to swap stories—TV shows, books, the latest local news. Mrs Simmons is fond of discussing her blood pressure. “Morning, ladies!” Tasha grinned. “Already on duty?” “Morning, Tosh! Of course—otherwise they’d mark us absent. Off to the shop, are you?” Simmons declared, eyeing Tasha’s shopping bag. “Spot on. Vera’s expecting something sweet for her stellar grades,” Tasha waved, heading off. The day passed in a blur. Tasha picked up Vera from school, fed her supper, then Vera buried herself in homework while Tasha watched a bit of television. “Gran, I’m off to dance!” Vera chirped. Vera’s been in dance class six years now—she loves it, performing at all the local events. And proud Tasha can’t help but glow when speaking of her talented granddaughter. “All right, Vera dear—off you go!” said Gran, sending her to rehearsals. Later, Tasha waits alone on the bench for Vera to return from dance. “Feeling lonely?” Her second-floor neighbour, Mr Gordon, took a seat beside her. “How could I be, on a day like this? It’s spring. Gorgeous weather!” Tasha replied. “Yes, the sun’s warming up, the birds are singing—everywhere’s turning green, and those yellow coltsfoot flowers look just like tiny little suns,” Mr Gordon smiled. At that moment, Vera sneaked up and flung her arms around Gran’s neck. “Woof, woof!” “You little rascal! You nearly scared me to death!” Tasha laughed. “Now, now—bit soon to joke about that!” chuckled Mr Gordon, patting her shoulder. “Come along, mischief. I’ve grated carrots with sugar and fried your favourite meatballs. You must be tired after all that dancing,” Gran coaxed, ushering Vera home. Mr Gordon rose to follow them. “What? You’re heading inside too?” Tasha asked. “You made those meatballs sound so good, I got hungry! Maybe I’ll come back out for a stroll later.” Mr Gordon winked. “I can’t promise—busy day! Maybe though…” Tasha smiled. She did come back out for a bit in the evening, just in case. Mr Gordon was waiting—and for once, the regular bench warmers had gone home. “Mrs Simmons and Valerie just slipped away for dinner,” Mr Gordon said cheerfully. From that night on, Tasha and Mr Gordon often met in the park, reading the paper together, swapping stories, recipes, and laughter beneath the old linden tree. Mr Gordon hadn’t had an easy life. Once, he had a wife, daughter, and grandson—but he was widowed young and raised his daughter, Vera, alone while struggling to make ends meet on double shifts. He rarely saw her, as she was often asleep when he left and again when he returned. Vera eventually grew up, married, moved to another city, and had a son. She visited infrequently, and their meetings lacked warmth. After fifteen years, Vera separated from her husband and raised her boy solo. “Tash, my daughter’s coming to visit in two days. Called this morning. Strange… we’ve not spoken in years,” Mr Gordon confided. “Maybe she’s feeling sentimental; getting older makes you treasure family,” Tasha suggested. “I’m not so sure…” he sighed. Vera arrived—sharp, unsmiling, purposeful. Mr Gordon braced for a serious conversation. “Dad, I’m here for a reason. Let’s sell your flat. Come live with us—with your grandson—won’t that be more fun?” Vera said, clearly having made up her mind. But Mr Gordon felt uneasy, not wanting to uproot to a distant city and become a burden to his frosty daughter. He refused, claiming he liked his independence. Vera persisted. Learning of her dad’s friendship with Tasha, she marched over during tea. Tasha served up biscuits and her homemade jam. “So, Vera—what brings you here?” Tasha greeted gently. “I see you’re quite friendly with my father. Can I ask a favour?” “What is it?” “Convince him to sell his flat. Why should one old man rattle around in a space like that? Can’t you think of others?” Vera said, her tone sharp. Startled by Vera’s bluntness, Tasha declined. Vera lost her cool—face red, voice shrill—accusing Tasha of angling for the flat herself, questioning their park strolls, and even their discussion of dandelion recipes. “You two—just a pair of dandelions! Having your little chats, planning your schemes. Have you registered at the registry office yet? Well, it won’t work. Nothing will work—got it, you old hag!” she spat, slamming the door on her way out. Tasha felt embarrassed, hoping the neighbours hadn’t overheard. Soon, though, Vera was gone and Tasha avoided Mr Gordon, rushing home at the sight of him. But fate has its own plans. One afternoon, returning from the shop, Tasha saw Mr Gordon waiting by the bench—he held a bunch of yellow dandelions, deftly weaving them into a garland. “Tasha, don’t rush off,” he pleaded. “Wait a minute. I’m sorry for my daughter. Really. I know what she said… We’ve had a long talk. My grandson will always have my help. But Vera—she’s gone now. Said she no longer has a father. So—here, take this garland. I made dandelion jam; it’s really tasty, very healthy. You must try some. And they’re good in salads too,” he smiled. After that chat, they made a salad together. Tasha enjoyed tea with dandelion jam—she loved it. That evening, they headed to the park again. “I’ve got the latest issue of our favourite magazine,” Mr Gordon said, settling onto their bench beneath the linden tree. Tasha sat beside him, and conversation sparkled—the world faded away, and all that mattered was two friends, together, sharing spring. Thank you for reading, subscribing, and supporting me. Wishing you all the best in life!