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A post about my grandmother, both of them late. *wry smile*
It's been a slightly hectic week in personal stuff, not so much at the new work.
As you know, my gran died last Sunday night, Dad arrived on Tuesday, the funeral and family things were on Wednesday, and cleaning, sorting, and all that jazz took up all of Thursday. We saw Dad on Friday night and Sunday night, and the rest of the weekend was filled up with regular weekend things. (Quilting and hockey.) So, yes, busy.
All week, people have been saying, "I'm so sorry." Lovely as these sentiments are, it's sometimes difficult to respond to them: partly because, while we are sad for ourselves and the loss of mama, we're not sorry that she's gone home to be with her personal Lord and Saviour, Jesus, or that she's no longer cold, or old, or in pain. It wasn't sudden or unexpected like my grandfather; from what I understand it wasn't painful. Death is sad, yes, and it's confronting in terms of considering my own mortality, but it's not the end.
And so I'm sad and I'll miss her; but I'm not sorry that she's dead.
Most importantly, at least for me, I'll remember her fondly.
I'll remember her telling me which flowers to pick, and roaming through the garden with her. I'll remember her showing me how to paint with ‘eckeric' paints, which my father then told me was her mispronounciation of ‘acrylic' paint. I'll remember the way she always had chocolate or sweets somewhere around – I remember this block of chocolate we found that had a use-by date of 1983. It was at least 1992 when we found it. I'll remember her picking azaleas in the front yard, and her careless shrug when we discovered it was her 50th Wedding anniversary and everyone else was very impressed but she didn't think anything of it. I'll remember her telling me stories of her youth and how she had four marriage proposals before she accepted my grandfather and how she only married him because he was going to bring her family out to Australia. I'll remember her horrific stories about the peccadilloes of other people – the kind that you don't want to hear because you have to look the person in the eye later – and the way she laughed – more of a cackling hoot, really, but full of her personality and verve.
I think that if not-marrying could have been an option for her in her time, as the oldest of eleven children, she would have taken it. There was too much life to live, too many things to see, too many pictures to paint, places to go. Still, if she was angry or bitter, I never saw it or heard of her being so. She loved her kids and her grandkids, took her children on trips around Sydney when my gramps didn't want to go out. She went on cruises all over the world in her 50s and 60s, was still swimming in the sea in her 80s, and still living comfortably alone in her house when she turned 90. It was only after she kept on falling and breaking things that she had to be taken to a nursing home where she faded down to a shadow of her former self.
I'll remember her as a character, though - always a character.
--
Cleaning out gran's house was a challenge. For starters, one cousin had moved into the house while my gran was living in the nursing home, while another has left his stuff there while he and his wife are over in Perth working for the mining industry for a few years during the boom.
Gran was hoarder. Not as bad as the people you see on TV, but still pretty bad. She kept things she probably should have thrown out years ago, either because she didn't want to be bothered sorting through it, or because she thought it would become useful someday.
Rather than subjecting you to the long and painstaking description of the long and painstaking sort through all the crap that was in the house (to say nothing of the dust – oh my gosh, the DUST) I'll just stick to the highlights.
A typewriter in a case. It probably hadn't been used since my grandfather's death (1996) but it still worked! I kidnapped it. Actually, I typed a letter out with it just to test the ribbon and the mechanisms, then kidnapped it!
Sixty China silk sample swatches – cut a little larger than a charm square – maybe 5" by 8"?
An iron that is probably some thirty years old. No steam, no auto-off, although it did have settings for the different fabrics. And the ironing surface? Perfect. Not a pit, not a scratch, not a stain. Amazing.
A jewellery box with a lid of Chinese silk embroidery. The box itself was somewhat broken – the seams had split – and the lid needs some very careful cleaning, but it was still beautiful. And I found a pic of my gran, gramps, and my Uncle H in it – at their first house in Killara. That pic must be some seventy years old, because Uncle H is pushing 70, easily.
My gran's travelogues from when she used to go on cruises by herself (because my gramps wouldn't go with her), along with photos and pictures of people she met.
And, the big one: a Hordernia sewing machine. It's so old that it's a treadle machine – no electricity at all! Just the pedal and the wheel and the runner band connecting the two!
The lowlights of the cleaning sort include things that belonged to my grandfather, who died in 1995, and some tins so old that the contents had fermented, bellying out their ends like some new alien life-form. But we won't go there. :)
Otherwise the house is in major shambles. Dad threw out a bunch of old furniture, cleaned up what junk he could, corralled the cousins' stuff (with the cousins' permission), and got an agent in to look at the place. My uncle H – the oldest son and executor of gran's will – doesn't want to sell the house, but Aunty H – the youngest child – needs money. Dad doesn't seem to mind either way. So the house is being sold. I'd buy it if I won the lottery, but there's no way any of us children or grandchildren can afford it otherwise.
A pity. It's a grand old house and would be beautiful if done up properly. But the doing up would be very costly – it hasn't been cared for in years. Mama didn't have the time or energy or knowhow, or even the knowhow of how to look for someone with knowhow. She had a lot of personality, but she wasn't big on practicality.
Goodbye, mama. I'll miss the woman you were, and look forward to seeing you again someday.
--
And, nearly a month later, the junk room has been cleared out, most of the old furniture removed, there's a painter in to give the place a lick of paint, and it looks like it could be almost halfway decent...with a lot of work.
*sigh* I hope whoever gets it doesn't just bash the house down for something new and ugly, but I have scant hope of that.
It's been a slightly hectic week in personal stuff, not so much at the new work.
As you know, my gran died last Sunday night, Dad arrived on Tuesday, the funeral and family things were on Wednesday, and cleaning, sorting, and all that jazz took up all of Thursday. We saw Dad on Friday night and Sunday night, and the rest of the weekend was filled up with regular weekend things. (Quilting and hockey.) So, yes, busy.
All week, people have been saying, "I'm so sorry." Lovely as these sentiments are, it's sometimes difficult to respond to them: partly because, while we are sad for ourselves and the loss of mama, we're not sorry that she's gone home to be with her personal Lord and Saviour, Jesus, or that she's no longer cold, or old, or in pain. It wasn't sudden or unexpected like my grandfather; from what I understand it wasn't painful. Death is sad, yes, and it's confronting in terms of considering my own mortality, but it's not the end.
And so I'm sad and I'll miss her; but I'm not sorry that she's dead.
Most importantly, at least for me, I'll remember her fondly.
I'll remember her telling me which flowers to pick, and roaming through the garden with her. I'll remember her showing me how to paint with ‘eckeric' paints, which my father then told me was her mispronounciation of ‘acrylic' paint. I'll remember the way she always had chocolate or sweets somewhere around – I remember this block of chocolate we found that had a use-by date of 1983. It was at least 1992 when we found it. I'll remember her picking azaleas in the front yard, and her careless shrug when we discovered it was her 50th Wedding anniversary and everyone else was very impressed but she didn't think anything of it. I'll remember her telling me stories of her youth and how she had four marriage proposals before she accepted my grandfather and how she only married him because he was going to bring her family out to Australia. I'll remember her horrific stories about the peccadilloes of other people – the kind that you don't want to hear because you have to look the person in the eye later – and the way she laughed – more of a cackling hoot, really, but full of her personality and verve.
I think that if not-marrying could have been an option for her in her time, as the oldest of eleven children, she would have taken it. There was too much life to live, too many things to see, too many pictures to paint, places to go. Still, if she was angry or bitter, I never saw it or heard of her being so. She loved her kids and her grandkids, took her children on trips around Sydney when my gramps didn't want to go out. She went on cruises all over the world in her 50s and 60s, was still swimming in the sea in her 80s, and still living comfortably alone in her house when she turned 90. It was only after she kept on falling and breaking things that she had to be taken to a nursing home where she faded down to a shadow of her former self.
I'll remember her as a character, though - always a character.
--
Cleaning out gran's house was a challenge. For starters, one cousin had moved into the house while my gran was living in the nursing home, while another has left his stuff there while he and his wife are over in Perth working for the mining industry for a few years during the boom.
Gran was hoarder. Not as bad as the people you see on TV, but still pretty bad. She kept things she probably should have thrown out years ago, either because she didn't want to be bothered sorting through it, or because she thought it would become useful someday.
Rather than subjecting you to the long and painstaking description of the long and painstaking sort through all the crap that was in the house (to say nothing of the dust – oh my gosh, the DUST) I'll just stick to the highlights.
A typewriter in a case. It probably hadn't been used since my grandfather's death (1996) but it still worked! I kidnapped it. Actually, I typed a letter out with it just to test the ribbon and the mechanisms, then kidnapped it!
Sixty China silk sample swatches – cut a little larger than a charm square – maybe 5" by 8"?
An iron that is probably some thirty years old. No steam, no auto-off, although it did have settings for the different fabrics. And the ironing surface? Perfect. Not a pit, not a scratch, not a stain. Amazing.
A jewellery box with a lid of Chinese silk embroidery. The box itself was somewhat broken – the seams had split – and the lid needs some very careful cleaning, but it was still beautiful. And I found a pic of my gran, gramps, and my Uncle H in it – at their first house in Killara. That pic must be some seventy years old, because Uncle H is pushing 70, easily.
My gran's travelogues from when she used to go on cruises by herself (because my gramps wouldn't go with her), along with photos and pictures of people she met.
And, the big one: a Hordernia sewing machine. It's so old that it's a treadle machine – no electricity at all! Just the pedal and the wheel and the runner band connecting the two!
The lowlights of the cleaning sort include things that belonged to my grandfather, who died in 1995, and some tins so old that the contents had fermented, bellying out their ends like some new alien life-form. But we won't go there. :)
Otherwise the house is in major shambles. Dad threw out a bunch of old furniture, cleaned up what junk he could, corralled the cousins' stuff (with the cousins' permission), and got an agent in to look at the place. My uncle H – the oldest son and executor of gran's will – doesn't want to sell the house, but Aunty H – the youngest child – needs money. Dad doesn't seem to mind either way. So the house is being sold. I'd buy it if I won the lottery, but there's no way any of us children or grandchildren can afford it otherwise.
A pity. It's a grand old house and would be beautiful if done up properly. But the doing up would be very costly – it hasn't been cared for in years. Mama didn't have the time or energy or knowhow, or even the knowhow of how to look for someone with knowhow. She had a lot of personality, but she wasn't big on practicality.
Goodbye, mama. I'll miss the woman you were, and look forward to seeing you again someday.
--
And, nearly a month later, the junk room has been cleared out, most of the old furniture removed, there's a painter in to give the place a lick of paint, and it looks like it could be almost halfway decent...with a lot of work.
*sigh* I hope whoever gets it doesn't just bash the house down for something new and ugly, but I have scant hope of that.
no subject
I think it's hard to remember, under the press of grief, that when we all say "We're so sorry!" we are not saying that for the dead. The dead are dead, and that cannot be changed. They have gone where we all will go, and only the story of their life and the memories of them remain (and as you have pointed out, sometimes a great deal of stuff!). No, we say "We're so sorry!" because we know that the people who loved the deceased, even though they may be relieved or glad that their loved one has shucked off a world of pain and dwindling, are in a world of loss and pain themselves. We all deserve to have that pain acknowledged and appreciated, because we miss people in proportion to how important a role they played in our life, regardless of what we know to have been the best thing for themselves.
no subject