The word “bag” brought childhood memories of my grandmother and her voluminous bag.
My mother and her 2 brothers would tease our grandmother, whom we called Masiba, about her Mary Poppins bag. Everywhere she went, the bag was with her, and we, her 7 grandchildren, loved to see what came out of the bag. To us it seemed the bag was magical and held everything that we could have wished for.
Granted, Masiba’s bag could not produce an umbrella stand, as we saw in the Mary Poppins movie, but when she took us to see the very same film, out came several blow-up cushions from her bag, so we could sit and see the film properly. In the interval, her hand went in her bag, and she produced exactly 7 bags of sweets. What a treat!
Mother and her brothers would call Masiba Mary Poppins or the Pied Piper, for she loved to take the 7 of us out for various outings—from the circus to the zoo and from horse riding to plays and films. Oh, how we all adored her and were always on our best behaviour for her.
The best treat was if one of us was ill or injured, for then the magic bag held something for that child only. We would run up to her with our injuries and grazes, bypassing our mothers, and out of her bag would come cotton wool and Mercurochrome. She would gently clean our wounds, murmuring soft reassurances and dab on the “red magic,” as we liked to call it. The red of the Mercurochrome became a badge of honour, and we all competed as to who had the most grazes.
Illness brought more magic from Masiba. Childhood illness meant that Masiba was called immediately, and just her hand on your forehead made one feel instantly better. Then out of the bag would come a flannel and Eau de Cologne—a few drops of which were added to a bowl of icy water, and the wet flannel was put on the forehead to bring the temperature down. But best of all, her magic bag had a present for the sick child—usually a book or small toy wrapped up in brown paper. Oh, how we all loved being ill and getting Masiba’s undivided attention. I will never forget the time we all got measles. It seemed Masiba had opened a ward in one of the bedrooms and looked after us with so much love and care, telling us bedtime stories and running around with her bag of magic tricks.
Of course, Masiba is no more, and the 7 of us are now grown up and flung in far corners of the world. But on her birthday every year we exchange emails or phone calls, regaling tales of our childhood, which she made so precious, giving us her unconditional love, and in the process, she bound us all together forever.