August at home

August is the teachers' holiday month. It's the opportunity to visit family and friends in other locations. Most years, our feet don't touch the ground in August.

But this year we walked St Cuthbert's way at the end of July and I squeezed in a visit to my ancient dad in Cornwall, then I got grounded. 

A steroid injection into my creaky hip meant I had to take it easy and avoid exercise. 

And what a pleasure it has been. 

I ticked off little domestic tasks from taking up a pair of trousers and mending a bracelet, to making chutney and jam.

There were also treats like Chip's barbecue-cum-solar-eclipse, and like having Rosie round and catching up with Carol and Carole.

And then we were able to be fully present for two major life events: the funeral of our lovely friend, Nick, and the much anticipated wedding of wonderful Steve and Elaine, at both of which Nigel gave a speech and for each of which there was time to prepare and debrief properly. 

Only thing we really missed was our summer visit to Pascoe in Edinburgh, but we'll catch him later.

Maybe I'll need an injection in my hip next August too.

An Oasis inTime

 

My mother’s cremation was at Penmount Crematorium near Truro on Friday 4^th April. 

Beforehand all five of us shared breakfast in the sunny dining room of the hotel where we had stayed the night.

Perran’s plans to move to Brussels had finally crystallised and he would return to London that same night on the sleeper train in order to pursue arrangements. Carenza announced she would move in with Sandy when Perran left, another milestone.  She had to return on the sleeper too – a friend’s hen party the next day.

So Mum’s death was not the only big change taking place, and everybody had suffered the drag of time pressure as they made the long trip to Cornwall for the funeral.

Despite the sunshine and the abundant spring blooms in the hotel garden, we were self-absorbed, hoping we were suitably dressed, running over readings and eulogies.

The funeral went smoothly, orchestrated admirably by Revd. Di Willoughby.  The lunch afterwards was held in the barn at Trelissick, an NT property which Mum had loved. It was good to catch up with friends, relatives and carers, and to remember Mum.

After a couple of hours, guests were leaving, but bizarrely, after all the fuss and flurry, it was now hours until the sleeper train, and we had nothing further scheduled.  Dad didn’t want our company as he needed to rest.  And it was the most beautiful bright spring day. 

The five of us walked on into the fabulous gardens of Trelissick, which were at their peak, with blossoming magnolias, azaleas and camelias.  Incongruous in our smart black gear, we strolled along the paths we had walked so often with Mum, and recalled how her circuit had reduced in circumference as the years progressed.  We talked desultorily of this and that, and there was no rush or urgency.  Perran and Pascoe climbed the tree they had first tackled as infants.  All of us perched in the wooden hut where, when the children were babies, I had once sat to breast-feed them. Blue sky, green grass, bright flowers.

If there is such a thing as an oasis in time, then this was it. 

I know that sometimes I shall feel sad in the months ahead, and I am writing this for my future self, so I can recall once more an unlooked-for perfect afternoon with my husband and children.

A long-awaited funeral

It's my Mother's funeral tomorrow. 

I stepped out of a delightful school trip with my Latin pupils and into the car to travel down with Nigel and Pascoe. The twins will join us there.

For administrative reasons, there's been a long interval between Mum's death and her funeral. 'That must be difficult,' people say. 

 But now as we drive down, the sun is lighting up the white blackthorn blossom all the way along the hedges. Primroses and celandines glimmer on the verge.

The delay has allowed new growth to take place. In our pond appear newts and frogspawn, in our hedge, the birds are in full chorus. 

And in our memories, superceding her last period in hospital and the sadness of Alzheimers and Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease, the Mum of old has had time to return, lively, humorous and full of creative ideas.

Some gladness in the goodbye

As I mentioned last week, Nigel’s sister Sandy died.

She had suffered for many years from anorexia and died well short of the years she might have expected.  Undeniably this has been very sad,

However, this week we have found so much in her life to be grateful for.

The reason has been the funeral.

People get excited about weddings, but to me a funeral is the superior rite of passage:

Paul organised the ceremony around the grave.

Afterwards at the church, Pascoe and Benjy read lessons, Jo and Nigel remembered the amazing things Sandy had achieved in spite of her difficulties.  Perran read praising emails from colleagues in the NHS where Sandra did very effective voluntary work.

Carenza read a letter from a new friend whom Sandra had made in hospital the very day before she died.  Abbi sang a beautiful song anticipating Sandy’s future life in Heaven.

Women from Sandy’s church served the tea afterwards.

Friends and relatives got together and reminisced about Sandy and caught up on family news.

God Himself contributed rainbows throughout the day and especially at the interment.

 

As a churchgoer, I find myself at funerals fairly regularly, especially those of elderly members of the congregation.

It is always a chance to appreciate the life lived, to give thanks and to start the process of healing. 

But the best thing is the intense spirit of goodwill which, for a few hours, glues together a temporary community made of the disparate band of friends and relatives who loved the person who died.

 

 Photo by Andrew Johnson on Unsplash

 

 

ITALY TRIP - Stupid, ignorant tourists

I guess I'm thinking a lot about the nature of tourism.

My friends trot out "Travel broadens the mind."

I think once upon a time, it did.
You had to ask for directions, take help where it was offered.  Accept hospitality from strangers.

But now tourism is a machine which moves the interloper through a series of well-established experiences as if they are gliding on rails.

People go on safari in Africa who have never attended an event at their local wildlife trust.
People stare at frescoes in churches who would never normally darken the doors of an art gallery.

I suppose I'd gotten snobby about all this.

But then I created the biggest tourist gaff of all.

In San Gimignano, we admired the tall towers and the Duomo.  Then we headed for the Convento di Sant' Agostino, looking forward to seeing the fifteenth century frescoes.

As we approached, some Japanese tourists turned back as if they had been refused entry.  Probably because the women were dressed in brief shorts and vest - not approved by the Catholic church.

So, smugly we entered, sat at the back and Nigel began reading from the guidebook.
Then Carenza said, "Why is that man kissing everybody?   He's not going to kiss me is he?  I don't want to kiss him."
I looked up.  A young Italian man was indeed hugging and kissing other people.

It reminded me of something.  Where had I seen behaviour like this recently?

Oh yeah.  My uncle's funeral.

I checked out the front of the church.
A coffin wreathed in flowers.
"Everybody - we're gate-crashing a funeral.  Leg it!"

We never did see the frescoes.
And we proved that, just like everybody else, we are ignorant tourists.

One Funeral and a Road Trip

We went to Wells for my Uncle’s funeral. 

When I first rang to say I would be there, it looked as if it would be a long drive towards sadness.

Then Pascoe agreed to come with me. 

Suddenly it was a road trip that would be companionable instead of lonely.

I had not seen my uncle or his family for a number of years, but wanted to show support.

The funeral was touching and my cousins’ eulogies captured vividly the man I remember.  The excellent final gesture was my Uncle’s coffin being carried out of the church to a spiritual by Elvis – his life-long idol.

At the funeral tea,  I caught up with cousins who for so long had been only "best wishes" in a Christmas card.  Afterwards, Pascoe and I retired to the inn where we were staying.

That evening, we discovered the door of Wells Cathedral still open and we explored the lofty interior where sunset poured in through stained glass.   Wells Cathedral is an epicentre of tourism, but surreally, we were alone in there, drifting about in the airy space between the vast columns.  A once in a lifetime experience.

Next day, we walked Cheddar Gorge together in bright weather.  We saw wild goats and a mass of flowers and birds.  And we caught up with each other’s lives.

It may be that sadly, due to geography, my lovely cousins return to being the senders/recipients of Christmas cards rather than people I am able to see regularly.  But if family was the focus for the trip, then it was a success.  I had time with Pascoe (who currently lives in Edinburgh) to restore the bonds between us.