Grannymar

I have an acquaintance with a life sentence!

She has received the news none of us want to hear. The illness she has is not curable and the time scale is very short. Three young children wander about the house bewildered because they know something is wrong, yet they do not know what it is. Mum is prone to crying and dad and granny are constantly trying to reassure her.

Mum realises that she will never see her children grow up, not be there for many more birthdays, or family celebrations, or to comfort them in times of need. She worries that they might forget her. Or that they will remember her as the person always lying under a rug on the couch crying.

She has baby name tags, early pictures, bootees, baby toys and locks of hair in a treasure box. I have suggested to her to have three boxes, one for each child with their name on it, in her own handwriting. Then place the items for each child in their special box. Next I suggested that she write letters to each child in turn.

“Start writing now”, I said; “beginning with how you felt when you heard that they were expected, the planning and preparations for their arrival”. I suggested she tell them how special they are and about the little things that made her heart sing. Write about her feelings for them now, and of all the hopes and dreams she carries for them.

Put each letter in an envelope and seal it, Put each child’s name, and the date when you want them to get it, on the front. Think about this date, 18th, 21st birthdays of even on your death.

What better gift can a mother give!

While writing this I received an email from a dear friend. The attachment was a story:

The Mayonnaise Jar and 2 Cups of Coffee

When things in your life seem almost too much to handle, when 24 hours in a day are not enough, remember the mayonnaise jar and the 2 cups of coffee.

A professor stood before his philosophy class and had some items in front of him. When the class began, he wordlessly picked up a very large and empty mayonnaise jar and proceeded to fill it with golf balls. He then asked the students if the jar was full. They agreed that it was.

The professor then picked up a box of pebbles and poured them into the jar. He shook the jar lightly. The pebbles rolled into the open areas between the golf balls. He then asked the students again if the jar was full. They agreed it was.

The professor next picked up a box of sand and poured it into the jar. Of course, the sand filled up everything else. He asked once more if the jar was full. The students responded with a unanimous “yes.”

The professor then produced two cups of coffee from under the table and poured the entire contents into the jar effectively filling the empty space between the sand. The students laughed.

“Now,” said the professor as the laughter subsided, “I want you to recognise that this jar represents your life. The golf balls are the important things…. Your family, your children, your health, your friends and your favourite passions— and if everything else was lost and only they remained, your life would still be full.

The pebbles are the other things that matter like your job, your house and your car.

The sand is everything else— the small stuff. “If you put the sand into the jar first,” he continued, “there is no room for the pebbles or the golf balls. The same goes for life. If you spend all your time and energy on the small stuff you will never have room for the things that are important to you.

“Pay attention to the things that are critical to your happiness. Spend time with your children. Spend time with your parents. Visit with grandparents. Take time to get medical checkups. Take your spouse out to dinner. Play another 18. There will always be time to clean the house and put out the rubbish. Take care of the golf balls first- the things that really matter. Set your priorities. The rest is just sand.”

One of the students raised her hand and inquired what the coffee represented.

The professor smiled and said, “I’m glad you asked.”

The coffee just shows you that no matter how full your life may seem, there’s always room for a couple of cups of coffee with a friend.

One day a little girl was sitting and looking at her mother’s face as she was telling a story.

She noticed that her mother had several strands of white hair sticking out at the top of her head. Looking at her mother she inquisitively asked,

‘Why are some of your hairs white, Mammy?’

Her mother replied, ‘Well, every time that you do something wrong and make me cry or unhappy, one of my hairs turns White.’

The little girl thought about this for a while and then said,

‘Mammy, how come ALL of grandma’s hairs are White?’

My little friend Cameron came to see me with Louise his mammy the other day. He was not in his usual bouncy good form. On asking how he was he told me “I have a headache in my tummy!”

Cameron’s mammy was rather hassled because she had shopping to do and the young man was not up to trekking about with her. I offered to look after him, now please, I like my toyboys older than four years of age! Louise was glad of the opportunity to do the shopping unencumbered with a child that was not feeling well.

Once on our own I made warm drinks for the two of us and Cameron and I sat on the sofa with a throw over our legs and we read stories to each other. By the time Louise returned Cameron was sleeping peacefully. Louise was bubbling about her successful forage in the shops and had achieved so much more than if she had Cameron with her. We had coffee and the little treats that Louise had brought back for me. Just as we finished, Cameron woke and bounced about full of the joys of spring.

At this time of year there are plenty of bugs, colds and Flu about. I cannot promise to cure you as easily as I did Cameron but the following might help:

Gut Soother

2 pears 2 carrots

1/2 pineapple 1/2 inch (1 cm) ginger root

The blend of these three along with the ginger not only make a great taste, but they’re good for the digestive tract too.

Cold Cure

1 large mug 3 spoons of honey

3 thin slices of root ginger 2 lemon slices

1 hefty shot of whiskey 12 cloves

Pinch of Cinnamon

Stud the lemon slices with cloves put in mug with the remaining ingredients. Pour boiling water over the lot.

Drink - enjoy – Sleep like a baby

Donal weighed in at 2lbs which is just short of a Kilo. He was a very premature baby that his mother carried for less than six months. He had no hair, eyelashes, eyebrows or nails and his skin was porous. He was not expected to survive for very long so the Paediatrician suggested taking him home. His actual words were “He might as well die at home as in here!”

Donal’s homecoming was not as easy as it sounds. His father was sent to find a ‘small’ cot/crib which he did, and it was ready and waiting for the new occupant when he arrived with his ill mother and a nurse. The nurse lived with and became part of the family over the next six months, she was called ‘No-No’ by Donal’s two year-old brother, and the name stuck. To this day if you say the name ‘No-No’ to any of the family they know exactly who you mean.

The Paediatrician soon arrived and set to work.

He gave precise instructions about feeding and cleaning the baby. Donal was not to be washed or bathed in water! His skin was to be cleaned with olive oil and cotton wool. Food was to be administered by medicine dropper, every hour on the hour! He rigged up a large light bulb over the cot to provide extra heat for the premature baby and it was to remain on night and day. Being wintertime the temperature was quite low. A fire was lit in the bedroom and kept going day and night.

Each day was a milestone, but there were many when they fought to keep the baby alive. The Paediatrician was a regular caller and was delighted with any little improvement. The danger stage eventually passed and Donal was introduced to bottle feeding and began to put on a little weight. The first size baby clothes fitted and slowly the pleasure of washing and bath-time became part of the daily routine. The light was removed from over the cot, but Donal slept in it for a full year.

With Donal’s move to a normal sized baby cot the little one was cleaned, covered and stored in the loft. It was used again with pride for the arrival of his four younger siblings.

The little cot appeared for the first time 62 years ago. There were no incubators, or ‘Baby Units’ in hospitals like we have today, the only clothes for premature babies were dolls clothes. Houses had no central heating and washing was all done by hand. Nappies were rinsed, then boiled and when washing was complete they were line dried. The feeding bottles were sterilised by boiling. A baby was hard work back then!

The little cot moved through the family for the arrival of each new baby. Cousins, nieces and nephews all started their lives in it. I spent my early months in it as did Elly. For Donal the most precious moment was the day he placed his own daughter in the little cot. Now once again the cot is stored away and who knows, someday Donal might be blessed with a grandchild to sleep in that very special Cot.

Five-year-old Mark couldn’t wait to tell his father about the movie we had watched on television, “20,000 Leagues Under the Sea.” The scenes with the submarine and the giant octopus had kept him wide-eyed.

In the middle of the telling, his father interrupted Mark, “What caused the submarine to sink?”

With a look of incredulity Mark replied, “Dad, it was the 20,000 leaks!”

A three-year-old went with his dad to see a litter of kittens. On returning home, he breathlessly informed his mother there were two boy kittens and two girl kittens.

“How did you know?” his mother asked.

“Daddy picked them up and looked underneath,” he replied.

“I think it’s printed on the bottom.”

Now I know I have just managed to get my one and only off my hands. Elly might be a married lady now, but she is and always will be, no matter where her travels take her, metaphorically attached to her dear old mother. With her I have the added bonus of my new son George.

“Why would you need another daughter?” I hear Elly thinking and mumbling.

I don’t need one. I would like to adopt one.

The young lady I have chosen is known to me for some months now, but we have not had the opportunity of meeting in person. She is very kind and generous to this here old soul. Compliments trip off her tongue, pen keyboard on a regular basis. Do you think she hasn’t enough to do with her time? She certainly has time to entertain, inform and at times jog and shake us out of our comfortable little worlds.

In August she sent me this little treat:

A Schmooze Award

“So who is this little treasure?” I hear you ask.

It is none other than K8 the Gr8, a faithful follower and she has again honoured me with this little number:

“This award casts a spotlight on bloggers who are just beginning to draw lots of attention — the equivalent of a song with a bullet on Billboard’s Top 100 chart. Lots of good posts. Lots of good buzz. These bloggers are going places in a hurry.”

Now instead of memeing the award I will offer the following thought from Marcel Proust:

‘Let us be grateful to people who make us happy;
they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom.’

Thank you K8.

*We must tell our own stories, and we must tell the stories of others. If you don’t tell your own story, who will? Of course you know I advocate writing your story, but if you can’t write it, or won’t, then for sure tell it. Tell it often, so people don’t forget. It could matter.* this is the final line of a blog post by Sharon Lippincott, aka Ritergal.

The time to start telling the story is NOW! By the time most of us think of looking back to discover our history, it is too late. The people who have the information are gone. Gravestones and Registers only give dry facts. People bring those facts to life

My oldest brother was at the graveside of a beloved paternal uncle, when he suddenly realised it was too late to ask questions, and he had not paid enough attention to all the stories my uncle had told over the years. All those stories and facts were gone never to be retold. My brother then set himself a task of tracing and noting his family history and by passing on this information to me it opened a whole new outlet and hobby.

Gingerpixel used a wonderful photograph of work worn hands to tell the story of her Grandfather, when she was Guest Phototrapher/Blogger for Mr Irish Blogosphere himself Damien Mulley.

If you are fortunate enough to have parents and grandparents alive, spend some time with them and ask them to write down their memories. If they are not keen you interview them and write it or make a Podcast of them telling the story. The first stage is the most difficult, but once they make a start the memories come back and the stories start to flow.

Your children and Grandchildren will be pleased. Remember their lives will be as different to yours as mine is in relation to my grandparents.

Where do you write a list?

Is it any wonder young people nowadays are so confused?