Grannymar

I am always amazed how blog posts awaken a memory.

Lottie’s post about being mugged brought back two.

The first happened while I was on holiday in England at the age of twelve. Always underweight and small for my age I would have easily passed as a ten year old. Until now I had forgotten or buried the episode deep down in order not to remember.

While walking along a quiet country road two boys pushed me to the ground with a bicycle. They held me on the ground and although I struggled, they managed to remove my panties.

I won’t go into details but as I think about it today with a shiver, I suppose they were only checking out and testing what they had learned or talked about behind the bike shed at school. Those were days long before sex education was introduced into the school curriculum. It was a terrible experience and one I would not wish happen any girl, young or old. I was in tears when I reached my Aunts house and she called the police. There were endless interviews and questions, in a way I was glad the boys were never found because if they were I would have had to go through it all again in court. After that holiday the topic was never raised. My parents never spoke about it and to this day I have no idea if my aunt ever told them.

The second was when I lived in Germany in the early 1970’s. My apartment had a communal front entrance with a buzzer system of entry. The Penthouse suite contained an apartment and offices for the owner. A gentleman I met through friends became infatuated without reason. Our paths crossed several times at social gatherings, I was courteous but gave no encouragement. Somehow he discovered where I lived and he began to stalk me. One evening the internal doorbell to my apartment rang. Thankfully it had a peephole viewer and when I looked through it I saw it was my ‘stalker’ I didn’t open the door. It was before we had mobile phones and I did not have a land-line phone installed at the time.

Needless to say sleep evaded me that night and indeed for several weeks. He was still sitting there in the carpeted hallway outside my door all warm and cosy when I went to bed. I have no idea how long he stayed as I resisted the urge to get out of my bed to check. Thankfully in the morning he was gone. I knew the time my neighbours left for work, so I made sure I was walking down the hall at the same time. Several nights later the same thing happened. I followed the same procedure and when I returned from work that evening I made it my business to speak to the caretaker. He said he would have the owners send a note to all residents reminding them not to let anyone in as they opened the front door. All visitors were supposed to buzz the person they had come to visit and only gain access on invitation.

Originally I had gone to see about a ground floor apartment and was surprised that the owners would not let me rent it. They explained that they would not rent a ground floor apartment to a lady living on her own and showed me around an empty one on the first floor which I agreed to take. Many times later I was to feel thankful for that decision. It was a lovely compact home for me in a nice area and I walked through the park to work each day. I did not want to move and nobody was going to push me out. After the third visit I reported my uninvited guest, who had a wife, and I then discovered a history of this kind of behaviour. The last I heard he was admitted as a patient to the Psychiatric Ward of the hospital where I worked.

Thankfully that was the only down point of my time in Germany and there were so many happy times to make up for it. Like the first incident above I buried it deep and moved on.

Now that apartment living is so prevalent in Ireland, just stop for a moment and think before you hold open a door for a stranger. If they are a genuine visitor they will understand why you ask them to press the buzzer!

“Did you hear wee Annie got away?” said a woman in the queue waiting to buy a stamp.

“Who was that?” asked her companion.

“Wee Annie Blair. She was Cameron to her own!”

So wee Annie Blair nee Cameron died. Wee Annie was married to Joe Blair for nigh on fifty years, yet she was still known locally as Annie Cameron.

My given name is Marie. Maaaaaare to my family, Mareeee to school pals. My mother and sister were both called Eileen. Visitors to the house or callers on the phone always said “Hello Eileen”, well two thirds of the time they were correct so why bother.

Later I became Darling, Mammy, mum and have now settled comfortably with Grannymar.

How are you known?

Is it by the name you were given at birth, a variation of it or by a name you picked yourself? If you were to change your name by deed poll what would it be?

If you knew

That today was your last

Would you waste it

Worrying about

Tomorrow

I don’t do flowers! The wild stuff in the photo is from my back garden!

On my piece last Friday ‘The light went out…’ there were many comments. One in particular begged an answer.

Jo said

I know that people are meant to go, and have to go but I don’t know how we’re meant to find peace with it. I really don’t.

You are an inspiration, it’s true, your blog speaks of the pain of your loss but also so much of the joy you find in your life.

How do you stop a death like this from tinting every happiness afterwards with a little sadness?

Coming from a large family circle we had plenty of hatching, matching and dispatching. The first death that I actually remember was in 1955; our next door neighbour had a stroke and died a week later. They had no telephone so our number was given at the hospital for emergency contact. It was suggested that May the wife, might telephone every morning for a progress report (back in those days visiting was very restricted and children under 14 were not allowed). May arrived at our house every morning before 8am and we children had to stay in the dining room out of the way for the duration. May wailed like a tragic opera singer and refused to make the phone call, mammy had to make the call and pretend that she was May! My parents were loyal and supportive in every way. May died in 1992. She never stopped wailing and instead of bringing support it had the effect of turning people away. That left a mark on me.

My father was called on at times of family bereavements to make the funeral arrangements and he involved me in the practical arrangements. I learned the importance of making the ‘Lists’ they might take 10 minutes, but it saved time and hassle further down the line. I learned how to deal with, and in which order, the undertakers, the clergy, the press and the florists. Most important of all I learned how to tell people over the phone calmly that someone had died, remembering that I was giving them shocking news. That taught me to harness my emotions.

Over the years I have known and watched many people die, from elderly grandmother, parents, aunts, uncles, cousins to a baby niece who was a victim of sudden death syndrome. I have lost many close friends as well. Not all death effects on you in the same way. Some people leave a special indelible mark on your heart.

When my maternal grandmother died, mammy, daddy and I were with her. Later that evening daddy gathered my siblings and we went en-famille (sp?) to pay our respects. We gathered around the bed where granny was laid out, looking very solemn with her hands joined. We spoke in whispers. Why do we do that? Daddy told us to kneel and led us in prayer. Suddenly from the far side of the bed one of my younger brothers burst out laughing! Daddy frowned and continued with the prayer. Brother No.3 continued laughing and indeed got worse. Daddy stopped and asked for an explanation. “I keep thinking that Granny will open her eyes and say ‘Hah! I fooled you!’ said Brother No.3. That was Granny in a nutshell, and soon we were all laughing. Laughter of love not disrespect.

Jo, my husband was ill for six years. This gave us time to prepare, to say all that had to be said. Those six years were not all suffering and grief. The time was limited so we made the most of it. We had some very precious moments, the memory of which will live on in my soul. Jack was a good teacher of how to live; he had come through some difficult times in his life’s journey, I spoke about them here and here. I might not have felt like living on when he died, but I had Elly to think about and if I was to live as long as my mother and grandmother before me, I had 30 years or more to go and that is a long, long time to stay miserable. Misery breeds bitterness in my book

Those years were not all sunshine and roses either. My mother died eighteen months before Jack and Elly left the nest for University six weeks later. My good neighbour and friend faced surgery and chemotherapy I helped with her day to day care when she was feeling ill or low. I washed and creamed her feet each evening and this gave her great comfort. When we learn to wash each others feet, we peel away barriers and build friendship (I am beginning to sound like a preacher here!).

People suffering from loss or heartbreak find their body and mind reacting strangely even in normal situations. They experience mood swings. They sometimes avoid places and people that bring up nostalgic memories and can make them weep uncontrollably. Even when you can’t have your loved one back, you may still be able to move on with your life and become a stronger human being. The tragedy of life is not that it ends so soon, but that we wait so long to begin it. The best tribute we can pay a loved one is to LIVE!

“Life does not cease to be funny when people die any more than it ceases to be serious when people laugh.” ~ George Bernard Shaw

Suddenly all was quiet. No intake of breath, just stillness and silence. Not moving I let realisation sink in.

Slowly I pushed back my chair and stood up; the man to my right stood and moved to wrap his arms around my shoulders and he wept. He held me close and both our bodies shook with the depth of his sobbing. I was numb, unable to shed tears; it was not the time to give way to my emotions. There would be plenty of time for tears, a whole lifetime; I had work to do first.

Canon J released me from his grip and I realised he looked exhausted, a true friend and caring pastor who despite a busy parish and wider church commitments, found time for almost daily visits in the difficult days, months and years of illness. The door opened and a nurse stepped into the room. She touched my arm and spoke quietly for a few minutes. Her patient of nine weeks suffered no more.

Having almost lived at the Hospice for the nine weeks, the last three spent day and night in the chair beside Jack’s bed, I knew the routine. We moved to the room set aside for patient’s families and tea/coffee was brought to us. The phone was on the table waiting…..

I had to make the most difficult phone call of my lifetime, to tell Elly that her Dad the light of her life had died. Elly was at University in Scotland facing 2^nd year exams. In the previous six months we had several scares that the end was close and she travelled forward and back across the Irish Sea. The last time she came and stayed three weeks but Jack, levelled and lingered. In his lucid moments he kept asking why she was not at school, and this distressed him. It was a very difficult time for her and we talked it through. It could go on for weeks, months even, or it might be a matter of days nobody knew. She wanted to be at home with her dad and me and yet if she missed any more time the year would have to be repeated. Elly made her decision and having said her goodbyes she returned to Scotland and study. We spoke twice a day but she knew I would not ask her to return until the funeral. That time was now.

In the previous weeks I spent long hours alone by the bedside as Jack slept. His only living blood relations apart from Elly were two cousins and their families in Co Durham in England and I had no relations in Northern Ireland, so visitors were few. Knowing I was facing the inevitable, I used my time to make preparations. One day I paid a visit to the undertaker and made all the arrangements for the funeral, leaving me with just a phone call to set things in motion when the time came.

I made lists.

I wrote down the name and telephone number of everyone that needed to be contacted. I sub-divided these and arranged with my siblings who they would contact for me.

I wrote a potted history of Jack’s life.

I wrote details for the funeral service, hymns and prayers and suggestions of who to ask to do the readings.

I wrote a non urgent list of people to be notified e.g. the GP, district nurse, the bank, pension providers, utility suppliers, and noted things to be cancelled like passport, driving licence etc.

I decided what clothes I would need for the funeral, polished my shoes and left them all ready in my wardrobe. I made up beds for whoever might be staying over and washed all the extra china in readiness for a houseful of callers.

Once the lists were completed the notebook was put away in the bedside locker and not touched again until needed.

Early that morning it was obvious I would not be staying in this room much longer, so I packed our few belongings into the fold up travel bag that I kept in the locker. The idea of walking out of the building with a plastic carrier marked Patients Belongings in bold print gave me the creeps.

The phone calls were made; I said my final farewell to Jack and had a quiet word of thanks to the staff, then out into cold sunshine to find my car at the door warmed up with the engine running. Working on automatic pilot not knowing how the remainder of the day would go I remembered thinking it was days since I had a proper meal, it was now lunchtime so I called at a restaurant on my way home and had a solid meal. That gave me the energy to keep going and deal with what ever the day threw at me.

When I pulled up in my drive the undertaker was waiting for me. He had all the details that I had given him. In Northern Ireland, unlike the South of Ireland, a death must be registered before a grave can be opened or a cremation booked. Since this was a Saturday we could only provisionally book the church etc. The Registrars office would not open until Monday morning and as next-of-kin, that visit was down to me.

Elly phoned with arrangements of her arrival and two of my brothers came to be here for her when she reached these shores.

The next couple of days were a blur of constant visitors. Someone did my food shopping for me and my good friend & neighbour Liz who, at that time was in remission from cancer, appeared in my kitchen a couple of minutes after any visitor crossed my threshold she made tea & coffee and cleared up after it, before disappearing the way she came. The funeral & cremation went as planned and everyone returned to get on with their lives.

Elly went back to face her exams and we continued to talk every day.

I had to learn to eat, sleep, grieve, talk and interact normally with people again. It was a slow process. Three weeks and the general phone calls stopped. It was not that people stopped caring, oh no, they were over the shock and getting on with their lives. My journey was only beginning….

I realised at noon one day that I was sitting tearful still in my Pj’s, I gave myself a severe lecture, weeping was doing me no good, it was wallowing and I was insulting Jack’s memory. Behaviour like this was not his way. No matter what life threw at him, he picked himself up, dusted himself down, and got on with life! I would learn to do the same. I had a shower, did the hair and put on a face. I set a goal to walk up the town and back. Alas, the first person I met was a vestry member of the church! “Look at you all dressed up!” she said. She made me feel like a painted Tart! Inside I was screaming – ‘Jack died not me’ – I ended the conversation as quickly and politely as I could and moved on.

You think that was bad! Within the first five weeks of widowhood I was asked or told:

“I suppose you will be going home now”? Yes in these parts that is a question! The questioner was not referring to the home I lived in with Jack for all our married life, No the ‘home’ referred to was DUBLIN!

“Will you get married again”? Come on! Jack’s ashes were hardly cooled.

You will need to go out to work now? I did go back to work, but that was for my sanity, to fill in hours and to have the opportunity to interact with people.

“I know exactly how you feel!” This came from a lady who while standing in front of me had her arm linked through her husbands!!!

“I know exactly how you feel, my dog died last week!” OK I understand that people become attached to their pets, but Jack was no dog, he was a wonderful caring and loving soul mate!

I slowly picked up the pieces and went back to work. Over time I became a charity volunteer, joined a rambling club, travelled and made new friends. I went to the theatre and Concerts I entertained and went out for meals, it was not the life I chose but I always wore a smile. Going home to an empty house is difficult, no welcoming voice or smile and no hug of welcome. I find it most difficult when I have happy news to share and nobody to share it with.

Alas the hand of fate struck once more, and my health problems prevent me from working. I am out of the flow so can easily be bypassed. My friends do still fit me in every couple of months, pity they all want to do something in the same week! I make the best of my lot because all around me are people with a bigger cross to bear.

Today on the tenth anniversary of Jacks death, I will raise a glass to his memory and count all the blessings that knowing and loving him brought to my life.

Do you have children about to start or attending Primary School?

What do you know about the school they attend? Are you interested or aware of any problems?

Does your responsibility end when you open the door of the SUV to drop the darlings off with their satchel up market school bag, lunch money or tuck box, leaving you several hours to get on with your own life before charging up once more to stop - bang in front of the gateway - never mind the lay-by that seems to be compulsory for Health & Safety regulations. Is that it?

Who decides on the text books your child uses or how the subject is taught? I am sure you think it is that distracted school Principal losing his ability to smile. Before you criticize, walk a mile in his shoes!

How does he spend his evenings?

For ‘homework’ I have: * 6 policies to proof read and correct * 3 others to continue and * 1 to start.

Does he have help?

…..It is just not physically possible to teach and administer at the same time. All my waking hours are consumed by school … school and more school.

Only last week did I stay in school until 6.00 p.m. cutting the grass and tidying up. It’s a case of DIY or it remains undone. I have been patching holes on the roof, brushing the yard, painting classrooms, etc. …. you name it I’ve probably done it!

Our school accounts are in the black ‘cos we’re careful (not mean) with the spend.

I’m overwhelmed at times …. free education is a laugh …. someone is usually paying for it …. and it’s usually me with my time!

…..I have asked the parents in my school to get involved in policy development and/or help out around the school …. (I ask regularly) …. how many volunteers did I get? …. NONE! … yet they have no problem complaining if a decision/procedure/policy has been implemented without their input. Even when they get the policies to read … they don’t!

Nobody survives in a vacuum. An exhausted Teacher cannot give of his or her best to the children in their charge – YOUR CHILDREN.

Education is the right of all children, but that does not give parents the right to abdicate responsibility for it at the school gate. If your child showed potential in Bunge-jumping and ‘Gold at the 2012 Olympics’ was mooted, I’m sure you would travel the length and breadth of the land so they had every chance to gain experience. Would that enormous effort on your part, be for the child, or for the reflected glory that you would gain?

Gold loses its shine in time and the Bunge-jumping may not put food on the table for long, but an energetic enthusiastic unencumbered teacher can set alight the fire of learning within a young mind setting them on the road to being the next Brahms, Brontë or Brunel. So give that hour or odd Saturday, you might even surprise yourself and enjoy it. There is the chance to get to know the teachers as ‘real’ people and also earn kudos big time with the offspring.

But you do..

• How tiny the fingers and toes are on a new born baby.
• The feather like touch of a toddler’s fingers as they explore your face.
• The skip in your heart when you see the first Snowdrop emerge from Winter slumber.
• The smell of newly cut grass.
• The freshness after a summer shower of rain.
• The sight of a young couple in love, almost before they realise it themselves.

Rick O’Shea of RTE-2FM fame, always one for mischief, is encouraging us to ask someone out on a date this week.

So, on Thursday we’re asking you to finally ask out that person you’ve been dying to go out with for ages. Maybe it’s someone you work with, a friend or just someone you see on the bus every day.

It made me think.

How many people out there pine after, or quietly fantasise over someone without finding the courage to ask them out on a date. If you are in a relationship, how did you come to be on your first date? Did it take forever to get around to it? You all know my story, because I made a Podcast about it.

Modern media give us stereotypes of what we should look for in an ideal soul mate.

What is ideal? Do you have fixed ideas? Did you sit down and write out a list?

Is the ideal woman

• a size zero, six foot tall, high-earning career woman who can whip up the perfect soufflé in a matter of minutes?
• a pretty 5ft 8in blue-eyed blonde - who is good in bed and doesn’t earn too much.
• a busty beauty who will be a physically fit size 12, weigh a trim nine-and-a-half stones, live on her own and occasionally wear glasses.

Is the ideal Man

• a high earning ‘suit’ who drives a Mercedes and lives in a £1,000,000 property.
• intelligent with a wacky, entertaining personality and an optimistic outlook on life.
• a sporty outdoor guy with well toned muscles

Have you a list with check boxes?

Looks
personality
Eye colour
Long or short hair
Does/not wear glasses
Height – tall, medium or petite
Slim or curvy
Fitness
Outlook optimistic
Good in bed
Property – owns, rents or at home
Outlook optimistic
Own transport
Career
Drinks occasionally
Non-smoker
Loves clubbing
Into Sports
Children yes/no
Animal lover/not

Does anyone make that list or are we all ruled by the chemical spark, jumping blindly in without thinking?

We don’t ask to be born and have no choice of the lifestyle we are born into. Some of us are fortunate to be the result of a loving, caring relationship, while others are not so lucky. For some of us the start is easy with plenty of food, water and all the creature comforts we need. While there are other children born to poverty that quickly learn to beg or steal in order to live. Then there are children born as the result of greed, lust or rape.

I worked with a lovely well mannered young girl years ago from the North Coast of Ireland. Alice (not her real name) moved south for the job and was enjoying her new life in Dublin, away from home for the first time and sharing a flat with a couple of pals. One weekend the girls were invited to a party. Alice did go, but alas she didn’t remember any details about it the next day or even later the next week. Drink had been consumed, something she was not used to before hitting the Big Smoke. She accepted the teasing for a week or two, but it had well faded by the time Alice discovered she was pregnant following that one drunken night. She had no recollection of the man involved. She did tell her parents and although they were shocked and upset for her, they provided the necessary support.

Alice continued to work for as long as she could. Being young and healthy she coped well. About 7 months into the pregnancy there was a shock! The baby was not alone! Alice was expecting triplets! With this news she returned home to her parents and I later heard the babies were all delivered safely. News filtered through for a few months but like so many instances in life, I was engrossed in my own family and lost all touch. I often thought of Alice over the years and wonder how she coped. The children would be in their late twenties now.

So if you think you are the best thing since sliced pan, and that nothing can go wrong, step back, take a breather and think! To find a fault is easy; to do better may be difficult.

Que Sera, Sera,
Whatever will be, will be
The future’s not ours, to see
Que Sera, Sera

So goes the song, and it is fast becoming my daily mantra.

On Friday I was looking forward to some great big hugs! Elly & George were coming North to do an enormous number a few calls and ‘the mammy’ was about fourth on the list. It was to be a short well timed visit. Leave some stuff for me to deal with, sort something for my computer (well there is no point in having two experts in the family if you cannot make use of them!), have something to eat and collect a bag full of items waiting here for them. I will have the opportunity to pester see them in a couple of weeks time when I go south for the Irish Blog Awards.

I like to be prepared when they come, so I spent Thursday hiding the evidence of Toyboys deleting any incriminating evidence from my files tidying up the place. Now tell me can you overwork the internet? I ask because my Internet connection died! Zilch! No Firefox, no Internet Explorer, no emails, No RSS!!! What was I going to do? How would I keep tabs on my Toyboys?

Feeling a little cross about this I closed down and went to bed.

Bright and early on Friday I opened up the computer and the Internet was still on holidays, so I phoned BT my provider. I had to phone as there was no way of reporting it on-line without the internet! Now I looked at the last bill and it gave only one number for reporting faults. I phoned and you know the procedure, 57 varieties of options and finally what I was looking for: If you are reporting a fault with Broadband please phone 0845 XXX XX XXX! WHY, oh why, was that number not printed on the bill? It makes sense surely.

I spoke to a very nice young man who asked about 7000 questions, but forgot to ask what I had for breakfast! Do you think they have deleted that one? I did ask him to suggest to his manager to arrange putting the phone number for Broadband faults on the bill. It might mean his callers being a little less frustrated!

So I had to unplug this, and plug in that, etc, you know the form. Not very successful, he would have to pass it on to the Diagnostic team. “Did I have another number so they could contact me?” the young man asked casually. “Do you mean have I a mobile number?” I said. “Why do you need a mobile number? Please don’t tell me you are going to cut off my land-line! I need it to be able to contact the Toyboys ‘Nee Naws’ Emergency services!

The young man promised they would not cut the phone line but that it might be 12-24 hours before the internet was up and running. Now that was serious! I was out of control! Well there were Steph, Hails and K8 all with the perfect chance to steal MY Toyboys! I needed the spray and I needed distraction.

I went to the kitchen and set about making soup and a dinner for my travellers. I had my soup for lunch and cleared up all the dishes. I returned to the living room about an hour later and the modem was flashing away to itself. I had email! I had Firefox! We were back in action. Ten minutes later the nice young man phoned to tell all was working again. Their was a fault their end - yes he said that! So I thanked him and let him go to the next person in distress.

Now why did I use that word (distress)? I sat down to rest and check on the toyboys read the blogs. Suddenly my body went into shock and I was frozen, it felt like someone had put me in a walk-in freezer! Having no pain I was not worried. I put on the electric blanket and went to bed for an hour or so. I warmed up and the feeling passed. The dinner was sitting in the oven ready to be switched on and Elly could serve it up. No worries, I was fine!

They came, we hugged, we talked and they did the swapping about and we eat. It was wonderful to have them here even for a short visit. Everything was cleared away before they left and I had a call to let me know they were home safely.

So Que Sera, Sera, the moral of the story is live for the moment and let the hours take care of themselves

Toyboys, I’m back, but we will take it slowly.