WE WILL ALL MEET AGAIN

a random Sunday in Memory Lane to add to my collection

A disgruntled member of my family, who was cross that I arrived late at my grandmother’s funeral, chided me heavily. She believed that I had caused her mother’s death by visiting her unexpectedly the day before she died. Apparently the excitement and effort to get to the front door and open it for me was the last straw after a series of strokes.

I had almost worshipped my grandmother and she had spoiled me above all others simply because I was a total double of her, even down to a birthmark under my hairline at the back of my neck. She lavished attention on me and cared for me while my parents worked during the 1950s. At her knee I learned to read, write, count and read cards. I learned to sew, knit and crochet. I could not master lace-making and she assured me that later, when my brain was big enough, I would do it if I tried. I never did…. I was far too busy as an adult, you know what it is like. I hardly need to tell you!

My grandmother, in her 40s and 50s was gorgeous. She always had perfectly manicured fingernails, which she taught me was an essential part of hygiene. She made most of her clothes, and mine, and gifts for all my cousins too. She dressed in black, white and red almost exclusively and often created flamboyant flamenco style dresses using all three colours. She always had special shoes for dancing and she taught me that dancing was essential to keep fit.

Once, she would not let me go swimming because I had barely been dry for a week when we were on holiday in Jaywick Sands, Essex. In retaliation for thwarting me I threw her dancing shoes over the back fence of our bungalow and into a field full of donkeys! When she freaked out because she could not find them I had to go into the field and retrieve the shoes. I had to confess. She laughed as she took them from me saying, “You are a chip off my block, Frances!” This was something she always said to cement the bond we had. I do miss hearing her say that.

When I was about 5 years old she went to a lot of trouble to have a brown dolly made for me. All dollies were made of soft latex rubber in those days and they had beautiful blue eyes and blonde hair. My dolly had brown glossy hair, brown eyes and light brown skin. My grandmother made several outfits for this doll from scraps of fabric left over from making me dresses, blouses or skirts. I made my first hand sewn matching outfits for myself and my dolly when I was just pre-school. It was a black a-line skirt and a bolero waistcoat in felt. I wore them until they shredded….

My grandmother taught me to cook, clean and heal myself. She insisted I consumed a teaspoon of cod liver oil, castor oil and syrup of figs every day when I was a tot. My mum thought this was OTT but my father said that this regime had not done him any harm, so he encouraged my mother to tolerate my grandmother’s old gypsy ways.

My grandmother and father used to always drink the green water which remained after boiling cabbage. Just the smell of this would send me hurtling for the door and hiding. I still hate cabbage unless it is raw in coleslaw! However, I now understand the nutrients in that water…. hey ho. Missed that trick.

When I became a teenager I ran away from home. I lost touch with everyone except my grandmother. I would always find the money to phone her from a phone box.

She kept my secrets and she never criticised my action. I think she knew I could stand on my own two feet and she trusted that I would keep myself at school, no matter what.

From age 13 I worked part-time in our local Woolworths (just like she did) and I took on the early morning cleaning of the pub where I was lodging. I made clothes for friends and was earning more than enough to keep me at school, including extra curricula dance and swimming club.

When I reached 15 years of age I landed a terrific job working for Fords of Dagenham. Every school holiday saw me covering secretarial staff breaks. I earned a lot of money and learned so much about office work that I was primed and ready to take a full time job as soon as I left school when I was 17. My most useful qualifications were in Shorthand, Typing, Business Administration, French and Spanish, but that reference from Fords was like a ticket to the top.

My first summer as a school leaver was glorious. I begged my father to let me move into his newly acquired holiday home. I was fed up of lodging in a room above the noisy pub doorways. I wanted my own home. My grandmother persuaded him that I was capable of looking after his new bungalow and she kept a close eye on me, but never interfered in what I was up to. By this time she had retired to her own holiday bungalow which was just around the corner and was selling her old London home. She eventually bought a house in Clacton on Sea where she lived until the end of her days.

That day, the one when I was late arriving at her funeral, I was caught in a terrible traffic jam. I was a bus driver at that time and should have been completing a shift with plenty of time to spare for changing into the expected sombre clothes. As it happened, I arrived at the crematorium still in my blue/grey bus drivers’ uniform, just as everyone was filing out full of tears. We all went back to my grandmother’s home for tea and scones. It was strictly family only and it was a very quiet occasion. That was when my tear streaked cousin got cross with me for being so cheerful. She could not understand why I was not dissolving in tears like everyone else.

Looking back, I have never cried at funerals.

Trying to figure out why I don’t feel the anguish of loss like everyone else does, took me some thought and I postponed working it out until the next funeral revealed me, cheerful and dry eyed, yet again.

I was confused until I realised that for me, these people were far from dead. They had transitioned into eternal life and I was so happy for them. They would never cease to exist ‘somewhere’ and I always had my photograph collection and my memories to bring them back to mind, whenever I need to see their sweet faces.

In my bedroom I have what I call my ‘Rogues Gallery’ all along one wall. I have my best family photos blown up and framed. They are all lined up in chronological order (cos that is how my OCD rolls)…. all of them capture the characters when they were young and vibrant. Just as I remember and treasure them all.

So if you are like me, unable to cry at funerals, maybe your soul does not need to grieve? Maybe funerals ought to be a celebration of a life well lived and a joyful send off into the endless eternal future where we will all meet again inevitably.

Take care my lovelies!

❤🧡💛💚💙💜💜💙💚💛🧡❤️