How I Met My Mother

November 17th was the anniversary of my mother's death. I spent the afternoon with my daughter, son, and four grandlings having afternoon tea and cake belatedly celebrating my 68th birthday. My mother died when she was 68 years old, three days after my 30^th birthday.

My mother was a formidable woman. In today's lingo she would be described as awesome. She didn't suffer fools gladly and brooked no nonsense from her four children. Smart without being a know-it-all and accomplished in many skills: knitting, crochet, sewing, gardening (vegetables and flowers), baking, cooking and reading. Oh, how she loved to read. I have inherited her need to read and, like her, voraciously devour all things written. Someone at uni once called me an epistemophiliac and I, thinking it was a put-down, rushed to the library to find a dictionary. I thought of my mother and laughed out loud when I discovered the meaning. It means a lover of knowledge. We need to know and need to know now.

I’ll give you an example of just how formidable my mother was. I was thirteen and, with two friends, had taken to a life of crime. The three of us would go into the city after school about once a week for a shoplifting spree. Inevitably we were caught and handed over to the police who charged us with theft then ran us home in police cars. I’ll never forget the look of mortification on my mother’s face after I had been marched up to the door with two cops on either side of me (I wonder if they thought I was going to try and escape). Never missing a beat my mother invited the cops in, offered them a cup of tea and listened carefully to their tale about her miscreant daughter. She never looked at me or spoke to me and I just remained standing behind the sofa feeling as though I would die.

After the cops had gone I expected her to give me such a terrible a tongue lashing but she ignored me completely. I was in a state of terror and remained so until we had to go to the juvenile court. In all that time my mother never spoke to me, acknowledged or looked at me. She did a thorough job of ‘sending me to Coventry’. My brothers were sympathetic but would not dare to bring mother’s wrath down on their heads when we ate together or did anything as a family. My sister was away so missed the quiet but deathly drama.

It was when she and I went to court that I began to see her as a woman instead of just my mother. We had arrived early as instructed but were still waiting at noon. The other girls and their parents were sitting with us but my mother never spoke to them or me. At exactly 12pm my mother rose from her seat, approached the court usher and told him to give a message to the magistrate. She explained that, as she had done nothing wrong and had arrived at court at the correct time, she did not see why she should be punished by having to sit on a hard bench outside the court. So, she informed him in a loud and proud voice, she was going home. At this point she turned on her heel and, with a great deal of dignity, walked out.

I was beside myself, believing I would be sent to Borstal (a juvenile prison) and that I would never see my mother again because she was so ashamed of me. The other girl’s parents just sat looking at the exit with their mouths open and the usher was dashing here and there trying to decide what to do. He eventually disappeared into the court room.

I learnt later that the usher had informed the magistrate of my mother’s leave-taking upon which the magistrate had sent a police car to pick her up and bring her back to court. I was bewildered when she arrived back just before we were ushered into the court room. Feeling absolutely certain that the magistrate would definitely send me to Borstal after such a show of defiance from my mother, I didn’t know whether to be glad or sorry she had returned, especially as she still refused to acknowledge my existence.

What happened next was simply unbelievable. The magistrate heard the evidence from the shop detective and the police, accepted our guilty pleas and assurances that we would never break the law again. Then he said he wanted to address my mother before telling us our fate. At that point I knew I was in serious trouble and hung my head. He looked directly at my mother and asked her to accept the apologies of the court for keeping her waiting! He then said a whole lot more about the court system and how they tried to keep the waiting to a minimum but it wasn’t always possible. My mother graciously accepted the court’s apology and our sentences were given.

I was stunned when he fined me, the ringleader of our lawless gang, 10 shillings but fined the other two girls 10 pounds. Their parents were not amused and threw dark glances at my mother as though she had cast a spell on the magistrate into doing such an unfair thing. I and the magistrate, on the other hand, were in total awe of my mother’s grace, dignity and self assurance. I kept sneaking looks at her because she seemed to be a totally different person; not only had she stood up for herself but had also saved me from being sent to juvenile prison at worst and got me a fine of only 10 shillings at best. I was so proud of her.

My mother eventually forgave me, explaining her abhorrence of police, courts and jails as a result of my father’s experience with the law (another story, for another time). We became friends afterwards as two women as well as mother and daughter. I came to know a lot more about her, discovering qualities that had been hidden from me by my child’s eyes and I will be forever grateful for an experience, however painful for us both that allowed me to know, understand and love my mother in much deeper ways.

I also learnt things about myself too. For instance, I vowed I would never treat my children the way my mother treated me and I never did. The agony of being shunned ignored and humiliated every day bordered on extreme harshness and left me in a state of terror that was very traumatic. I understand perfectly why my mother did it and don’t blame her. She did the best thing she knew how at a time when children were treated far worse than she had treated me (one of the girls from our little gang had been beaten very badly by her father). On balance, I gained far more from the experience than I lost and for that I will always be grateful to a wonderful, strong, and redoubtable woman who I was lucky to have as a mother.

RIP mum, you were the best.

Ten Pearls of Wisdom

There is an unwritten rule that says now I'm in my 'advanced' years I can share pearls of wisdom with others. The rule doesn't make clear whether others listen. However, it is of no consequence to me if they do or don't. In other words, I don't give a shit! All I know is that the following things, in no particular order of importance, are certain and true.

Pearl 1: Cosmetics will not make anyone beautiful, overnight or otherwise and, when we all come to our senses, the cosmetic industry will be put on trial for crimes against humanity and nature (and false advertising). 

Pearl 2: You will get laid regardless of what you look like because sex has nothing to do with looks, everything to do with your brain. Good sex starts in the brain and is intelligent. Good sex is fucking fantastic!

Pearl 3: You can never have enough teaspoons and tea towels.  Believe me.

Pearl 4: Reality TV is the same as the freak shows that used to be attached to a circus and just as obscenely horrible.

Pearl 5: The only way to know if you are a successful parent is if your offspring don't grow up to be axe-murderers, drug dealers, obscenely wealthy, human traffickers or recidivists. These people and people like them are NOT, repeat NOT, fully functioning, authentic human beings.

Pearl 6: Nobody cares what colour your hair is, whether it is long, short, or middling or what style you adopt. Honest, no one gives a rat’s arse.

Pearl 7: The sky will not fall in if you wear the same clothes twice in the same week. Honest! Most people won't even notice and those that do notice are the fashion police and they are to be ignored at all costs. 

Pearl 8: The only real best friend you will EVER have is a dog!

Pearl 9:  Shaving your legs, or any other part of your body, is a complete and utter waste of time.  

Pearl 10: 60% of what you learn will be of no use to you in everyday life. But, learning stuff is such kick-arse fun!

There you have it, just some of the things I've learnt in almost three score years and ten. Now, go live your life in the way you want. Wisdom is highly overrated.

A Day in the Garden

My wonderful son and grandson came for a visit last Tuesday and ended up completely transforming my back garden. Well Ric did the transforming by weeding, pruning and putting in stakes to support my falling plants.

Daniel rode the bike; 

put pieces of a concrete slab in and out of the wagon. He told me he was a big boy now he was three and a half;

brushed his teeth 3 times until they sparkled. He is such a delight;

helped me 'ferdilise' the plants. I told him he could fertilise the plants much better than me and he told me, "Gwanma, I'll help you because I 'ferdilise the plants better than you" (didn't get a picture of this because we were too busy 'ferdilising');

painted a picture;

and kept me entertained all afternoon.

Great work boys (and thank you)!

Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Naught. Nil. Zero. Except a laugh!

I have no words. They have all dried up (or maybe that's me).

Instead, here is a funny email I received. It shows the perils of translation. I suspect Chinese people are far too smart for the following to be true but hope you have a chuckle or two.

A  woman went to Beijing recently and was given this brochure by the hotel. It  is precious. She is keeping it and reading it whenever she feels depressed.  Obviously, it has been translated directly, word for word from Mandarin to English………. 
            

Getting  There:Our  representative will make you wait at the airport. The bus to the hotel runs  along the lake shore. Soon you will feel pleasure in passing water. You will  know that you are getting near the hotel, because you will go round the bend.  The manager will await you in the entrance hall. He always tries to have intercourse with all new guests.

The  hotel:This  is a family hotel, so children are very welcome. We of course are always pleased to accept adultery. Highly skilled nurses are available in the  evenings to put down your children. Guests are invited to conjugate in the bar and expose themselves to others. But please note that ladies are not allowed to have babies in the bar. We organize social games, so no guest is ever left  alone to play with them self.

The  Restaurant:Our menus have been carefully chosen to be ordinary and unexciting. At dinner, our quartet will circulate from table to table and fiddle with  you.

Your  Room:Every room has excellent facilities for your private parts. In winter, every room is on heat. Each room has a balcony offering views of outstanding obscenity!   You will not be disturbed by traffic noise since the road between the hotel and the lake is used only by pederasts.

BedYour  bed has been made in accordance with local tradition. If you have any other ideas please ring for the chambermaid. Please take advantage of her. She will  be very pleased to squash your shirts, blouses and underwear. If asked, she  will also squeeze your trousers.

Above  all:When  you leave us at the end of your holiday, you will have no hope. You will  struggle to forget it.

Life gets serious, don't it?

It wasn't my intention to leave such a long gap between posts.

Life has a habit of getting in the way of our good intentions. Life, in the form of chronic illness, hospital admissions, and a death in the extended family, has played havoc with my intention to write a post every fortnight. 

The hospital admission was mine. I was rushed to the ER by ambulance with a suspected bleed in the brain (in other words a stroke); a frightening experience, more so for my children than for me. However, after what seemed like thousands of medical tests included a lot of bloodletting and big pieces of machinery run by sophisticated technology, it was decided my problems were caused by a viral infection of the brain. Whew! What a relief. 

I'm still fighting the virus. It's a very possessive one; it wants all my attention and because it affects my brain it has that attention in spades. It fights with the chronic illnesses causing them to have temper tantrums that are as disruptive and painful as any 3 year old meltdown. I sleep a lot. When awake I drink at least 4 litres of water a day to prevent a return of dehydration. (The toilet and I are now in a very close relationship. Thank god for the proximity of the bathroom to my bedroom!) 

Still my medical issues are minor compared to my daughter-in-laws recent news. Her sister died of an aneurysm in the brain and she was only 43 years old with a 13 year old son. It has devastated her family. I've spent long hours with my 3 year old grandson to take the pressure off my DinL so she can get on with the business of grieving. It is so sad. Her sister died so suddenly that everyone has been bowled over by her death. My DinL is a wonderful, intelligent and wise woman who is a fabulous mum to my grandson and great life partner to my son. All I can do is hug her when she cries, listen when she wants to talk about her beloved sister and keep my GS as occupied as possible. It seems so little in the face of such a catastrophe but my sweet DinL says it's enough.

I'm very lucky to live in a country with excellent, universal health care and where there are support systems in place for the bereaved, all at no cost to me and low cost to my DinL and son. I am so grateful for my family who love and support each other and are there for each other in times of need. Most of all, I'm very grateful to be alive. Every day is a bonus to be lived to the fullest with a grateful heart.

Round and Round the Mulberry Bush

Warning! Warning! This post wanders all over the place and is far too long but, huh, it’s the best I can do. With luck and a fair wind I'll get better at this blogging thingy. In the meantime, make yourself comfy and settle down to a nice long read . . .  or not.

At the end of my second post I mentioned that I would be posting my thoughts about charities. Then I promptly forgot. Now I can't remember what I wanted to say about charities. That's the frustration of old age; the memory goes on walkabout leaving us with empty spaces and blank expressions.  It is also the beauty of old age; memory is the gift that keeps on giving because when the memory returns we get the pleasure of remembering all over again. However, I recently learned that memory loss has little to do with age, but rather with the lack of routine and a busy schedule. In other words, the old have the leisure to meander through time, to trip down memory lane when and if they feel like it, and, if all older people are like me; they just can’t be bothered remembering stuff.

It used to upset me tremendously when I couldn't remember events or forget an appointment, or forget to do a regular task, like flea treating the dog. I used to have a very good memory and could recall exact, pertinent details of practically everything and got distressed when I lost the ability. Now I couldn't care less if I forget stuff because I realised it doesn't matter not one jot if I remember or not. The sky doesn't fall in if I can’t remember what I did last week or two years ago, the bureaucratic system doesn't grind to a halt if a bill is seriously late, my friends don’t care if I forget their birthday and there is no one around to challenge my recollections of my distant past and, anyway, they are my memories not theirs.

This brings me to the subject of this post. My eldest grandchild keeps asking me to tell her stories of about my childhood. So, before I lose or muddle all my memories altogether, I have decided to use this blog as a way to record stories of my life so my grandchildren will have a record of what it was like to grow up and live through some of the most fantastic times, with the greatest inventions and social changes that have occurred in the modern world. Having never met my own grandparents, I think it would be nice for my grandchildren to know who I was, what I believed in, what I did and why I made the decisions I made about my life.  

First, it’s important to know that I was born in the November of the year that the Second World War ended. There was a time in my early teens that I thought of myself as a victory baby; that my parents celebrated the end of the way by conceiving me, as a kind of passionate hope for the future. But, that was pure fiction on my part because the war in Europe didn't end until May and, as I was a full-term baby, weighing in at 7lbs and some ounces, the dates just didn't add up. Perhaps now would be a good time to mention that I've always had a vivid imagination and a strong desire to be seen as special. This desire was earlier fuelled, if not caused, by the birth of Prince Charles, the heir to the throne of England, on the SAME day as my birthday. For years I thought there was a special bond between the bonnie prince and me because we shared a birthday.

By the time I was ten years old I had figured out that there were millions and millions of people who shared the same birth date of Prince Charles, thus ending my claim of 'specialness'. By the time I was eighteen I was a fervent, if closet, anti-royalist; I would not have dared tell my mother that I despised the whole idea of royalty. She would have had a fit! She identified strongly with the queen who, like her, had four children and behaved at all times like a gracious lady, something my mother strived to be at all times too. Even when I became an active and out anti-royalist I never told my mother. I don’t really know why I didn't tell her. It wasn't to save her feelings because we argued about so many fundamental things, like our differing philosophical, political and religious perspectives. I suspect I never told her because I believe she modelled herself on the Queen and what being a gracious lady meant to the extent that she would have thought I was saying I didn't like her. Whereas, when we argued about other issues it was always based on differing ideas and concepts rather than personalities.

The reason my birth at the end of the war was important was that the Labour party was elected into government and they introduced the welfare state. Without it my childhood would have been so much bleaker. Without this political change my childhood would have been one of hunger, crippling deformities and equally crippling ignorance. To be housed, fed, schooled and given free access to specialist orthopaedic surgeons provided me a healthy life with a mother and a home. If the Labour party had not introduced free welfare for all after the Second World War and because my father died, my siblings and I would probably have lived our lives in abject poverty or in an orphanage and/or been sent to the colonies as child migrants. 

In fact, we only escaped being sent to Australia as child migrants because of the strength of our mother. In 1954 mum was taken to hospital very ill and had to have a hysterectomy. We four children were farmed out to two families in the catholic parish; two boys together and two girls together. Eventually we children had to move to another county and go stay with unknown aunties and uncles and we didn't see mum for three months. Many years later I asked why she had been away so long and she told me that during the operation she lost a lot of blood and had to have a transfusion but was given the wrong blood type and almost died. While she was convalescing, a social worker (they called them Almoners in those days) came to visit with forms to be signed. These forms gave permission for us children to be sent on a boat to Australia with hundreds of other children. This is what had been decided would happen to us if mum had died. Fortunately for us, mum refused to sign the forms, although she said she thought about for a little while. Knowing now the harrowing stories of the children who did not escape this fate I am forever in my mother's debt.

What made it possible for my mother to make such a choice was a change of political will and raising the consciousness of the whole country to the moral, political and financial necessity of having universal access to basic standards of living, education and health care.  Having access to a widow's pension provided by the state, a pension that did not depend upon having rich parents, an annuity or a trust account meant my mother could keep her four children at home and feed, clothe and educate them. Don't get me wrong, it was NOT easy. The pension was meagre and without my mother's resourcefulness we would not have thrived as well as we did. But thrive we did and luckily remained a family in our little council house on the outskirts of Leeds, Yorkshire, in a post war Britain that enjoyed universal state benefits. It wasn't paradise but better than anything a pre-war Britain could have offered. And for that, I am eternally grateful.

Do you have a good memory?

In what kind of political and economic system did you spend your formative years?

Did you feel special because of something or someone that had nothing to do with you?

What secrets did you never divulge to your mother and/or father?

In praise of Elan Morgan: brilliant blogger

Well, blow me down with a feather! I never would have thought it but my previous post was chosen to go on Elan Morgan’s, Schmutzie & You Five Star Friday. Elan is an amazing blogger and interesting writer; profoundly intelligent, wise and friendly. She is also a very creative photographer, poet, designer and public speaker. If you haven't seen Elan’s blog do check it out. You will be pleasantly surprised. You'll find her at:

http://www.schmutzie.com   

The fact that Elan put my post on her Five Star Friday has left me a bit speechless and blushing with pleasure. As a newbie blogger who almost gave up blogging after a couple of disastrous attempts on other blogging platforms, this inclusion has sent my confidence soaring. So to you, Elan, I send a huge thank you. Your work always inspires and feeds my soul.

Even though this is a short post, I do have a piece of writing in my draft file waiting to be finished and I will get it finished soon. Now I'm old, various medical issues pop up that take my attention away from the pleasures (and anxieties) of writing.  

As Arnie said, “I'll be back”.  Soon.