My dear grandmother passed away during the early hours of 2nd March.
I called my maternal grandmother Mother – because my mother is my Mam and my great-grandmother was Mother Baxter (no, nothing to do with My Jolly – that’s pure coincidence) – while my paternal grandmother is Nan, not Nana, or Nanny – simply Nan. Confused? You will be!.
I’d made the trip to see Mother a couple of weeks prior to that and am so glad I trekked half way around the world.
We didn’t tell her I was going and the surprise was evident as a startled old woman glowed from her hospital bed and grasped my hand so tight I thought I’d never get it back. “I’m so glad you came”, she said. “I’m so glad to be here”, I returned. I did have to let go as my cousins arrived and we had to scramble for chairs to accommodate us all. I wish I held her hand just a little longer – but then we all wish we’d done things sooner, for longer, in more depth – but often it’s to have done it at all that counts. When I left three days later, I hugged her hard, felt her warmth and knew deep down it was my last moment with her. I still feel her warmth now as I type – at 38 000 feet heading home to Maryport for her funeral.
Right to the end, she kept her wicked dry sense of humour.
In the hospital she would terrorise her fellow patients who were being noisy, disoriented or just different. “She’s from Norway”, she barked on one occasion, as if to suggest that was a worse place than Nebraska to hail from. The Filipina nurse was kindly given the moniker “Tokyo Lill”. And when a very disoriented gentleman from the adjacent ward wandered through asking for his wife and if anyone knew where she was: “She’s run off with another fella”, came Mother’s rebuke. We, around the bed, laughed and told her to hush: embarrassed, not too much not to see the funny side.
One time, Mother was lying with her eyes closed, resting, perhaps asleep. My Mam (remember this is my mother…following still?), told me that she and her brother were discussing the terrible new trend of mixing weed-killer with BabyBio (the plant fertiliser) to create a high-inducing concoction. Unflinchingly, Mother peeled her eyes open, turned her head slightly to my Mam and Uncle and whispered: “Don’t tell anyone I’ve got weed-killer in the larder at home! They’ll be around looking for it!”
Lucid to the end was a real blessing for my Mam and her siblings – even though the end came quickly, we don’t think Mother suffered too much pain, and the last day my Mam spent hours with her, mother and daughter were conscious of each other’s presence. That’s important.
But, what did Mother mean to me?
One of my first memories I have is of Mother and Mam taking me to a wildlife park in Lowther in northern Cumbria. We saw peacocks, owls, deer and cattle. It was quite amazing to see such “exotic” creatures. I believe this help kindle an interest in me for nature – and interest that has blossomed into fascination with African beasts and a love of safari.
Some of the most beautiful things were the most mundane and routine: like going down town shopping with Mam and Mother every Saturday morning. We had a very distinct plan of action: pies from Crellin’s, groceries from Litpon’s, a salad sandwich or perhaps ham from the Townhouse café and then a treat of a cake or two from Fulton’s. Those were the days when small shops dominated the scene and one wandered from place to place making singular purchases for each item. Mother would usually give me 20p to play on the slot-machine – this could have been my road to gambling ruin, but thankfully I never got the bug. 20p was enough and two spins of the barrels sated me.
Other wondrous routines included: Boxing Day tea with cousins, uncles and aunts – 15 or more of us crammed around a table normally used to seating 8; ham, chicken, ox tongue, picked beetroot and onions, coleslaw, trifle and Christmas cake. Mother’s recipe for Christmas cake is now in the safe hands of my Mam (please see other entry on the blog for the tale of this along with the recipe).
Wednesdays, way back, saw Mam & I head to Mother’s for a cheese on toasted teacake while we watched Benny Hill. [Teacakes in Cumbria are not fancies, they’re actually balm cakes, which to all non-Notherners are flat bread rolls and if you don’t know who Benny Hill is, then be happy.]
Mother was peculiar in the sense she never left the UK – I’m not even sure she left England. I don’t even think in her 87 years she saw London. No ferries, no long motorway car journeys and no airplanes. No inoculations and no passport – how different her grandson (me) was to turn out. Since my granddad passed back in 2003 she’d never set foot over the threshold except to put the rubbish out. Yet, she “travelled the world without leaving the house”; everywhere I travelled I brought back a fridge magnet and Mother dutifully stuck it to the kitchen fridge; vicariously she’s been to Bali, New York, Tokyo, Singapore, Cape Town, Tasmania, Paris & New Orleans.
I will miss going up to Broughton Moor, the village where she lived, and seeing her each time I return home to Maryport. Her warm “Hello Son!” won’t greet me anymore, but the memories will stay with me forever.
I have been blessed to have lived with two grandmothers until almost 40 years of age: I have more memories than most of them; my Nan is battling on at 88!
I ended each phone call with my Mother with the words “I love you” and she returned the same; I’m so thankful we said it. Say it to someone today and make their reason for living just that little bit more special and may we all continue to harvest wondrous memories of those we love.
