Annie

“On the day that you were born the angels got together and decided to create a dream come true, so they sprinkled moon dust in your hair and golden starlight in your eyes of blue.” ~ Song, “Close to You”, lyrics by Burt Bacharach and Hal David.

When I was a child I positively adored my mother.

It wasn’t that I stopped adoring her as I grew older, although I did begin to see her in a totally different light. The angel who had been placed upon this earth to guide me through my life could do no wrong in my eyes, then at some stage she transformed herself into a real human being, one who wasn’t perfect, made mistakes and was very, very vulnerable.

Perhaps I should re-word that last sentence. My mother didn’t transform herself, it was my perception of her that changed.

As a child, I wanted to be just like her. I would barely utter a word without first checking that she approved of the words I wished to say. She was everything to me and in my childish ignorance I believed that the only way in which I could ever be a worthy human being on this earth (yes, I was the human; mum was the angel) was to be the absolute image of my mother.

I can’t actually pin-point the time in my life when I finally matured, opened my eyes, realised that my mother was really just as human as the rest of us and hence, began to see her failings.  I noticed a few earthly qualities in her at around the age of thirteen, although I think it may have been when I was sixteen and she disapproved of my choice of colour combination in one of my favourite outfits. Isn’t it incredible, the meagre moments that can open your eyes?

The pale blue skirt and pastel patterned green top that I bought, all alone, without mum’s approval, “felt” right to me. It gave me confidence. I thought I looked good in the outfit and cared little to not at all of what anyone else thought. But my mum didn’t like that outfit, and boy-oh-boy, did she ever let me know about it! She even banned me from leaving home whilst wearing it!

It wasn’t the actual outfit she disapproved of, it was simply the colour combination. I was outraged! My mother had chosen the colours of green and red for our bathroom, her bedroom was purple and gold, she liked my bright orange bedroom (don’t be shocked, it was the ’70′s!) so I failed to see the problem with my outfit. The skirt was mid-calf length and looked (and felt) fantastic when worn with my white platform shoes.

The reality of the matter took a long time to finally dawn on me. I wasn’t anything like my mother at all and I had to stop allowing her to have complete control over me! For all of the years that I had wanted to portray myself as a junior version of her image and being, in every single way, during my teenage years reality finally hit me. We didn’t look alike, think alike, act alike, we chose different colours, different furnishing, different everything.

And when I finally lifted that self-imposed burden from my own shoulders I began to get to know my mother, my real mother, not the angel that I had always believed her to be, but the human being that she actually was.

Progressively, our relationship changed. And over a period of time, my mum actually began to realise that she wasn’t loosing her daughter by her daughter developing a mind of her own, with differing opinions than those she wanted me to have, she was actually forming a friendship with me.

And that is what we became, close, non-judgemental, real friends.

We argued a lot back then, and the arguments always ending with mum saying, “Oh you’ll never see any sense. I’ll make us a cup of tea”. A cup of tea fixes everything, don’t you know? 

My three older sisters were stunned when they heard about some of mum’s and my arguments. They would never have said some of the things to mum that I did to her and they never quite understood how we could be so close, yet argue so much.

When I became a mother myself, I finally understood the depth of feeling that my mother had always felt for me, and I told her so. Time brought us even closer together. We appreciated the differences in each other. Our relationship was based on trust and honesty. And most of all, love.

The day I lost my mother was the day I felt grief and pain like no other day I had been on this earth. I was the last one to see my mother alive, she became a real angel just after I left her alone in her hospital room. After I had told her I loved her. After I had said goodbye.

Yesterday was the day my mother was born, the day the angels got together and created an angel on earth, complete with human failings.

My mother was Annie, the angel, the human being, the strong one, the insecure one, the one with the wisdom of the gods and the vulnerability of a person.

May you always dwell in your rainbow of colours, my dearest Mum. xxxxxx

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Some things never change ~ enjoying a taste of freedom.

My mother had positively hated that house. I’m sure there wasn’t one single happy memory for her there and when we moved, knowing the whole building was soon to be demolished, she couldn’t have cared less.

She had let me have posters on my bedroom wall in this home; she hadn’t allowed this before and I couldn’t have posters on the wall in my new bedroom. Here, she simply hadn’t cared.

The building was old and we had a shop downstairs, where she was forced to work seven days a week. She detested anything old, and hadn’t wanted to buy this business at all.

My mother’s disinterest in the condition of my bedroom walls, however, allowed me the freedom to be me, to add my own personal touches to my bedroom.

As I came into my teenage years, living in a new town, starting a new school and making new friends, a whole new world was offered to me on a silver platter. With my mother otherwise occupied by the loathed business, her attention had been diverted to something else, other than me. For the first time in my very young life, I began to enjoy my first taste of freedom.

My one and only rather small bedroom window looked out across the river. I would sit beside my bedroom window, watching the world go by, sketching what I saw, breathing in the warm country air.

The school bus stop was right at the front door of our shop and during the three years we lived there, I remember catching the bus only once, under protest, when a friend tried to convince me that the bus ride would be a preferred alternative to walking home from school. If I didn’t ever take the bus, how did I know I didn’t like it, was her argument. So I took the bus, just once. Once was enough.

Every morning I looked forward to my walk across the bridge, taking me to the other side of the river, where, after a few shortcuts here and there, I would be at school in fifteen minutes. At the end of the school day, I would do it all again, and I enjoyed every step of the way.

During the three years that we lived there, I discovered nail polish and grew my nails. And I grew my hair long for the first time in my life. When I could look after my own hair, mum would let me grow it long, and multiple arguments later and a lifetime of years, I finally convinced her that I did know how to wash my own hair, and yes, I did know how to drag a brush through my unruly mass of thick waves and curls!

Summer days after school, and all of the weekends were spent at the swimming pool in town. My friends taught me how to swim, assuring me I wouldn’t drown if I let go of the side of the pool! Mum would have died a million deaths, had she seen me jumping off the diving board, known as “The Tower”, into water that was perhaps fifteen feet deep, once I had gained my confidence in the water!

For a person who loved to take photos throughout every moment in time, mum took very few photos of this old building that we lived in. Obviously she didn’t wish to etch these walls into her memory. So tonight, as I looked through my old childhood photo album, I came across just one photo of my bedroom.

My hair had started to get some length in it and mum had said she wanted me to stand in front of my dressing table so that the back of my hair would be reflected in the mirror. She wanted to send photos of me to my sisters, still living on The Blue Mountains, to show them how much my hair had grown since we had moved away.

All the photo shows is just one corner of my room. What I was hoping to see was the huge poster on my wall, just above my bed, of Marc Bolan from the band T Rex. If mum had stood slightly to her right when she took this photo, the reflection of Marc Bolan would have been showing in the mirror.

What the photo does show is my very 70′s yellow transistor radio, sitting on top of my dressing table, the stool with the fluffy seat that was really soft to sit on and the picture that a friend had painted for me as a going away present when I had left my last school the year before.

These days, I’m the person taking the photos of every moment in time, knowing how fleeting those moments are, and realising that there are some days when you just feel like reminiscing and remembering what once was. You don’t necessarily wish to return to that place and time, but the jig-saw puzzle of your life can be helped along the way by the reminders of where we have come from, where we are now and where we are heading to.

As I reflect back on those days, when I enjoyed my first taste of freedom, there are some things that are very clear to me ~ I still love my freedom, I can still gaze for hours at a river, I would walk in the fresh country air rather than catch a bus any day, I still have long hair and I still love the feel of soft, fluffy fabric.

And I still get shivers down my spine when I hear the songs of Marc Bolan and T Rex.

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She Makes My Day

It was twenty-four years ago today, in the early hours of a cold and raining winter’s morning in Sydney, that I sat beside my sleeping three year old son, and wept. Our lives together would never be the same again, no longer would it be just the two of us. By the end of this day, my son would have become a “big brother”.

How could that be? How could my tiny angelic boy change his status, within  just a few small hours? He was still a baby himself! My baby ~  but not for much longer. Soon, he would be my eldest.

By ten o’clock that same morning, even though the rain continued falling outside of the hospital window, the sun shone brilliantly into my day, as I nursed my baby daughter for the first time.

Where did those twenty-four years go? How did they pass by so quickly? How can this beautiful, mature woman be that same tiny little baby, who I cradled in my arms that morning in Sydney, so many years ago, the one who filled my heart with so much joy that I felt sure it would burst from happiness?

As my baby grew, she melted the hearts of everyone she met, bringing sunshine into the days of those she loves, her smile melting away the trivial worries of day to day living, just as her smile continues to melt my heart, even to this day.

She has always brought meaning into my world. She makes my day.

It was during 1988, the year my baby girl arrived in my world, that Robert Palmer released the love song “She Makes My Day”. I could have written the words myself, as I gazed into the beautiful blue eyes of my daughter ~

“I’ll never be lonely now I know her,

She fills my heart with joy, She makes my day.

She just has to smile to blow my cares away,

She just has to touch my hand to make me stay”.

Just yesterday, as I chose a birthday card to mark this special day for her as I have done twenty-three times before at this same time of year, listening to the music pouring through the loud speakers in the shop I was in, Robert Palmer again crooned his song….

That day, twenty-four years ago, the day I first held my newborn daughter in my arms; it now seems as if it happened a lifetime ago. But wait a minute, wasn’t it only yesterday? Surely the years haven’t passed by that quickly?

Happy birthday, my precious baby, my girl with the blond curls, my teenager finding her way into adulthood, the beautiful woman I see today, the one who has always had the magical smile and the sunshine in her eyes.

You will always hold my heart in the palm of your hands ~ you will always make my day. xxxxxx

Robert Palmer ~ “She Makes My Day”.

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One Day in Twelve Years

We hugged like we might never let go, and stared into each others faces with tears in our eyes.

The last twelve years melted away instantly. It could have been only yesterday since we had last seen each other, spoken to each other in person, shared a meal, and chatted and laughed whilst sharing a cup of tea.

She hadn’t changed one little bit over the years. Sure, she had aged slightly in appearance; so had I. But it wasn’t the physical appearance that mattered, but the essence of the people we are, our personalities, our souls.

Where we came from. The 50% DNA we share and the fact that we are 99.95% biochemically identical, although it isn’t the scientific statistics that I feel. It’s more, much more.

We are sisters. We share a history.

And a wonderful history it is too!

We laughed and reminisced, as we leafed through old photos, remembering holidays we had taken, and visits to our grandma’s home. We talked about the love we felt for some favourite uncles, and the lack of understanding toward our elder relatives that we had as young people, yet the understanding and acceptance becoming crystal clear when we reached adulthood.

Being thirteen years older than I am, she recalls another life, many years before my birth, of living in another country. She spoke of the home she had lived in back then, playing with our sisters in the garden, the park across the road, her first school, the furniture in the home and how beautifully our mother kept that home.

She spoke of the wild flowers growing in the fields, in the country of her birth; she remembered visiting the grave of our grandfather and the beautiful park-like setting which surrounded his last resting place.

We spoke of our eldest sister, now lost to us, and the demons that she couldn’t shake out of her life, and the bitterness she carried with her to her last days, developed over incidences out of her control, out of anyone’s control. She could never let go of her pain, her resentment. And yet we both loved her so dearly.

My youngest son, who had no recollection of his auntie, asked me to show him a photo of her before she arrived. He didn’t know her, he didn’t want to be shocked by not recognising her. I told him not to feel concerned, he’d know her when he saw her.

Within minutes of them meeting, as she laughed and talked and waved her arms around her in an animated manner, my son’s head turned suddenly towards me. He looked straight at me and then at my sister, with recognition in his eyes.

He knew her. We were the same. He felt the familiarity of her soul.

One day in twelve years is not enough, yet it is plenty. It was all we needed.

And then she was gone again, yet she remains with me, always in my heart.

My heart is enriched. She’s always there.

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Restoring a Photograph Album to its Former Glory

One of my parents valued possessions was an old photograph album, containing photos and memories of their journey from England to Australia, in 1951, on the “SS New Australia”.

They enjoyed reminiscing occasionally, as they looked through the album and remembered the six-week long voyage with their three little girls. For my family, it had been a major life change for them all, as they said goodbye to their friends and family in the country of the birth, to begin a brand new life on the other side of the world.

There came a time in our lives when my sisters and I were obliged to remove all of our parents belongings from their home. Remembering back to the time, I recall the anguish we felt, knowing our parents would no longer have a need for any of the possessions they had left behind here on earth. Yet the time is also tinged with happiness, for it was a few days in time when my sisters and I reminisced together, of the days we remembered which would never be again. We girls were in this together, and we felt a sense of unity in our task.

With me being the sister with the interest in family history, my sisters felt that I should keep our parents photo albums, all bar one ~ the album from the “New Australia”. My eldest sister had been old enough to remember their days spent on the journey to this country and it would only be fitting that she kept this album. Besides which, I wasn’t born when the journey had been made.

Some pages are untouched...

Four years ago, however, my eldest sister departed from this world herself. The album no longer belonged in our family. After a divorce from her first husband, she had remarried, to a man who had not the slightest inclination to become a part of his new wife’s family.

Unfortunately he kept all of my sister’s possessions. He felt that not even my nephew and niece were entitled to their mothers belongings, giving them a few odds and ends of his choice, which, as my niece told me, mostly should have been discarded.

Even though I had remembered my parents old photo album I had not been on speaking terms with my sisters second husband for some years, finding him unpleasant and rude towards myself and most members of my family. One of my older sisters, however, who had been on the ship from England, had no qualms in asking for the album to be returned to its rightful owners.

Surprisingly, he returned the album. Unfortunately, it had been damaged.

one missing...

My sister asked me to take the album, even though it had been returned to her on the condition that I did not get it. Who was he to say who the album went to? It wasn’t his in the first place! My sister and I were horrified, although not surprised, by this statement.

Many of the old, irreplaceable photos have been randomly ripped from the pages of the album; some still remain.

Pages totally destroyed...

Going through all of the other photos from the same era, which I had been given many years ago, I think that I have managed to find enough replacement photos, to cover the destroyed pages. I have even found a couple of photos of the ship itself on the internet, which I will have printed, to add to the album.

A part of the history of the old album has been lost, but it will soon be as good as new again. It is far too precious, in terms of our family memorabilia, to remain disfigured.

This album will be returned to its former glory!

...soon to be repaired.

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A Sea Change…(AKA – An Adventure with my Reckless Parents!)

On our way north, with our lives packed into a caravan...

In 1971 my parents decided to make a “sea change”, selling our house, all of our furniture, discarding or giving away personal belongings which they believed we no longer needed, packed a few “must keep” items into boxes which were sent away to be stored, bought a caravan, and off we went.

Even writing that first line here gives me a feeling of panic; I personally would never dream of doing such a thing! Yet my parents found the whole idea so easy, almost as if it were a natural thing to do.

Sell your home; sure. Pack in your high paid job; no problem. Take your youngest child out of high school when she has only just started at her new school; she’ll cope!

Well, I did cope. I had no other choice, did I? What else could I do, other than tag along with these reckless parents of mine?

But here’s the thing; they had done it all twenty years before. When they had three young daughters, aged nine, six and four years of age, they packed a few beloved items into two large trunks, hopped on board the ship, “SS New Australia” and floated away into the sunset, in search of a new life on the opposite side of the world.

I must admit, buying the caravan was pretty great. And the idea of hooking the van up to the back of Dad’s station wagon in the middle of the night and beginning the drive north was very romantic.

And I knew I would be safe with my parents. Dad would fight off any monsters that threatened to harm me, whilst Mum held me safe within her protective arms, so really, I had nothing to worry about….did I?

How did a home-body like me happen to be born into a family where the father is absolutely fearless and the mother constantly has “itchy feet” and wants to spend her life in search of adventure?

Well, if it was adventure and change they were after, they succeeded, but that didn’t come as any surprise. My parents were both very feline like; they were a pair of cats with nine lives and always landed on their feet!

Dad out the front of the shop, with that dreaded bread window at the right side of the photo!

After four months of living in caravan parks (and using public facilities for our bathroom!) they finally decided to buy a shop in the very pretty town of Murwillumbah, New South Wales, slightly inland from the coast and just south of the Queensland and New South Wales state border.

To say “they” decided is not completely accurate; Dad had his heart set on buying the shop and Mum, true to her sense of adventure simply went along for the ride. Mum thought the buildings were shabby and old; well, looking at the old photos, she was right! But oh, that old shabby building was full of character and there was never a dull moment in the shop.

Poor Mum, she didn’t want to be tied to working in a shop, seven days a week, from 6am to 9pm! And when they went to view the business with a view to purchase, she remembered we had stopped at the shop on one of our previous trips north to buy a drink, but she had refused to buy anything. When she had looked in the fresh bread window there was a fly buzzing around the loaves of bread!

“Well, we’ll just make sure we don’t keep any flies with the bread then!”, Dad had argued, and he won the battle, although Mum was not satisfied until Dad renovated the shop, removing the dreaded bread window!

Our home was directly above the shop and apart from the white-ants in the wall in the hallway, the clanking blinds on the veranda that kept you awake at night (there was no glass in the windows on the veranda) and the toilet room was as big as a ballroom, it was a pretty comfortable home to live in! The old building had charm.

Dad inside the shop with staff, and friends, May & Betty.

Dad had convinced Mum that the business would be a little gold mine and he was right. It was situated right across the road from the ralway station, right where the railway line terminated, so when every train arrived, the shop became flooded with customers, plus there was a bus stop right at our front door. We were also right on the Pacific Highway and the last main town before reaching Tweed Heads and Coolangatta on the state border, so our shop was a huge draw-card to holiday makers. (Remember the fly in the bread window? We were on holidays at the time and stopped at the shop ourselves!)

We sold take-away food, groceries, bread (ha, ha!), dairy products, chemist items, we were a sub-newsagency and green grocers…you name it – we sold it!

Back view of the shop, showing the old shed and the bakery.

Apart from first thing in the morning and later at night we had two to three ladies working for us and I made friends with them all. I loved to help the ladies when I could; restacking the shelves or buttering bread for the sandwiches during the lunchtime rush, if I wasn’t at school, that is!

Out the back of the shop were some old sheds, which I couldn’t wait to explore. One building turned out to be a disused bakery (there’s that bread reference again!) that looked as if someone had just walked out one day, leaving everything in its place, never to return. The other

Looking towards the river, across the flood waters, from upstairs.

building, a shed actually, contained a neatly made bed (complete with folded up pyjamas under the pillow) and various other household items, including a bottle of metholated spirits. Urgh! After asking around, we found out that an old tramp had once lived there, and unfortunately the metho had been his “cheap alcohol”.

Around the back of the shop and across the road we had the Tweed River, so when it rained heavily for days, and flood warnings were issued, it was a matter of “all hands on deck” as we rushed around the shop, lifting everything in sight, before the river broke its banks. The flood waters ran straight through the shop, while we were safely tucked away upstairs, with Mum taking photos of the flood waters!

My parents had wanted a new adventure in their lives and for the three years we lived and worked in Murwillumbah it was a fun time, with so many memories, even more than I have recorded here.

It was a time when I thought my parents had totally lost their marbles and were in need of a “sanity check”, but being the felines that they were,  they landed, unharmed, right on their feet.

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Remembering The Log Cabin

A section of the Log Cabin Motel

Bricks and mortar are the stuff that buildings are made out of. Throw in a few sticks of wood, some glass for the windows and there you have it; a shelter of sorts. Everyone know that’s what a building is, right?

I believe the above description is missing something, and that is the soul of the building.

To me, all buildings have a soul, which is developed over time and becomes a part of the building through the love and memories shared within the walls. Perhaps that is the reason why I have been drawn to old buildings for as long as I can remember. The older the building, the longer the memories have had the opportunity to embed themselves within every pore of the bricks and mortar with which the buildings have been erected, thus creating the soul of the building.

A touch of the personality of each individual who spends regular time within a building radiates through the walls, creating a melting-pot of humanity, enriching the structure with a character all of its own.

Back in the days of my childhood, growing up in the beautiful Blue Mountains of New South Wales, our closest large town was Penrith. In those days, with only one main road existing by which to enter or leave the mountains, we travelled to, and through, Penrith regularly.

My favourite part of the trip, every time we travelled that road, was crossing over the river. I would peer out of the old station-wagon window as we drove across Victoria Bridge, crossing the Nepean River, enjoying the glistening sun shining across the water and looking down at the wonderful old building just beyond the bridge, sitting beside the banks of the river.

Victoria Bridge, Penrith.

As a child, I had no idea what the building was, just that the building looked old and inviting and that’s all I cared about. The name of the building appealed to me as well ~ “The Log Cabin”.

When I was twelve years of age, my cousin was married at an old church in Emu Plains (the first town in the Blue Mountains) at an old stone church which was built by convicts, (another building of character). Her wedding reception would be held at The Log Cabin.

To this day I can still remember clearly the details of the day of my cousins wedding; the brand new “grown up” outfit Mum had bought for me to wear, the pea and ham soup we ate for lunch and how my hair (as usual) had a mind of its own, with my unruly curls flying hither and yon, when all I wanted them to do was to sit flat!

Mum complained of a bad headache at the church and decided against going to the reception at The Log Cabin.

Poor Mum. At the reception I thanked the God of all Almost Teenagers for giving her the headache that day, as ultimately it allowed me to enjoy my first “teenager’s night out” with my thirteen year old cousin!

Early on in the night Dad became happily ensconced in enjoying a pint or two and catching up with old friends and family.

With a hefty supply of twenty-cent coins in our hands, gratefully donated by my darling Dad and uncle (as it kept me and my cousin out of their hair for a few hours!) and music blaring in the background, we headed off to play on the row of pin-ball machines, lined up in the far corner, against the wall.

Whatever would Mum think???

Here I was, twelve years of age, with money, playing pin-ball machines, unsupervised ~ and loving every minute of it! Mum would have been horrified!

I always knew there was a reason why I liked the Log Cabin!

Although many moons passed and there were plenty more opportunities along the way for independence, the Log Cabin has always held treasured memories of my first taste of freedom.

Looking up towards the back of the Log Cabin from the river walk.

In April last year, when I returned to Penrith for the first time in around fifteen years, I spent a night at the Log Cabin Motel, giving me the opportunity to see the building of my childhood memories through the eyes of an adult.

Late in the afternoon I took a walk along the pathway beside the river. Rather than the bridge taking me across the river, for the first time in my life I walked under Victoria Bridge, alongside the Nepean River.

The pounding and roar of traffic travelling across the bridge, as I stood directly beneath the roadway, looking up at the underside of the bridge, could have been unsettling.

It wasn’t.

Standing below, with the roaring thunder of traffic overhead, I felt protected and cocooned by the spirits of my father and uncle, and all of the other family members with whom I had shared that night with, so long ago, who are no longer with us.

Directly under the bridge. Road to the left; railway line to the right.

Post Script ~ Last weekend, much to the dismay of me and hundreds of Penrith locals, a fire destroyed much of the beautiful Log Cabin buildings. Originally built in 1837, over the years the Log Cabin has undergone many extensions and name changes. Starting its life as an inn, the Log Cabin progressed in 1939, after further extensions, to becoming the Log Cabin Hotel, when a licence to sell alcohol was first issued.

I look forward to the day when The Log Cabin begins its next entity, when the restoration of the remaining buildings are completed, or when the Log Cabin II is built.

Surrounded by the love of my family. I'm the one with the unruly hair...but where's my camera-shy cousin?

This is the only photo I can find of the two of us, taken when I was three. Yes, I'm the one with the crazy hair!

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Heather

I spent most of the day yesterday thinking about friends.

And friendships.

And how important it is to have people, namely friends, in our lives.

One friend in particular has been on my mind constantly for a number of weeks now, as she has nursed her husband of over thirty years through the last days and weeks of his life.

When Heather and I first met, about three years ago now, I felt immediately that she was a woman of strength and wisdom, honesty and courage.

And love. Heather has a heart full to brimming over with love, love for her family, her friends and neighbours. She epitomises the word love, so it came as no surprise at all to watch Heather’s friends rally to her side in her time of need.

When Heather faltered in her faith and strength, her friends were there to give her the courage she needed to make it through the day.

Prayers and good wishes were sent across the entire world, from people who wished to be her strength at times when Heather didn’t feel she had the will to go on.

I, too, sent Heather words of encouragement, prayers and love, along with everyone else who is proud to call her their friend, many of whom, like myself, have never met Heather.

As the days progressed and the health of Heather’s husband deteriorated, she continued to open up her heart, along with their lives, and share the journey that the family was taking; the joyous, priceless moments, of which there were many, along with the pain and the tears, as they all witnessed the husband and father who they all loved so dearly, slipping away from them.

Where did Heather find the strength to share, on a daily basis, the incidence of her life? Many days I would read her words and marvel at this woman of courage and faith.

And as Heather continued to record her feelings and bare her soul to her friends, more and more friends appeared to offer her support, to help carry her through this journey on the days when she felt she could walk no further, to be a crutch to her when she just needed a little encouragement to carry on.

Heather recorded her weak and faltering husband, as he had requested a moment himself in which to personally send thanks to those who offered their family words of encouragement and love.

I am totally in awe of this family! What a privilege it is to call Heather my friend! Never before in my life have I witnessed such an out-pouring of love, appreciation, strength, belief, courage, wisdom, faith and honesty, and all from a family who were living through one of the most tragic times in their lives!

Heather’s husband took his final journey just a few hours ago, and I would like to share the words which Heather wrote after she had rested. I wish to remember these words forever ~

“Heather woke up HAPPY and PEACEFUL and filled with JOY. I cannot explain it, but I have so much to share with you all over the coming days. The smile on my beloved’s face after he passed…the cessation of suffering and the radiation of peace is forever emblazoned on my eyes, mind and heart. I just want to SING GOD BE PRAISED!!!!!!!!! I was right there, in his face as he took his flight. I was laughing and smiling and glorifying God and his eyes were bright and you could feel the energy as he left. It was so amazing. Farewell, my one true love. I will miss you, but oh the memory of your passing is so incredibly beautiful. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

Only a heart of stone could not be moved by Heather’s words.

As I write, I struggle to see through the tears in my eyes; tears of sadness over the loss which Heather’s family must endure, tears of joy as I recall the happiness they have found during the darkest of days and also tears of pride as my heart is bursting, as I marvel at the strength of my friend.

Through Heather’s eyes, I have seen the pure love throughout the world, love which makes no demands and no promises, has no expectations and is totally, completely and absolutely unconditional.

And friendship. I will never underestimate the power of friendship, of opening your heart and your arms, and welcoming people into your life.

Thank you Heather. Thank you for being my friend, for opening your heart, for your honesty, your wisdom and your belief.

Photo credit – Barbaraellen Koch (Photo taken the night Heather’s husband made his final journey.)

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“It took me a long time not to judge myself…..”

For many years when my children were younger and demands on my time were greater, I didn’t write, other than when sending letters to friends or family, or writing out my Christmas cards.

There was, however, one day when I made an exception and wrote briefly, on Thursday, 28^th January, 1999.

This was an exceptional day from beginning to end. It was a day that marked the end of an era which had its beginning in 1920, when my father was born.

The part I played in the events of this era began the day that I had been born. But for my three sisters and me, this day marked the end of the life we had always known, for it was the day we signed the final papers to wind up our parent’s estate.

All personal belongings, including furniture, had been distributed among family members. The house had been sold; the car was gone.

Our family home was no more.

It had been a surreal day from beginning to end. I remember having trouble writing, but write I knew I must, for this day was indeed a day to remember.

As “Memoirs of my Life” is where I record such memories, it is time for me to add my thoughts of this memorable day here. It was a once-in-a-lifetime day, the likes of which can never be repeated.

Thursday, 28^th January, 1999.

“Today I have signed my name many times. At 9:30 am, I went to our solicitor’s office to sign the final papers for probate on Dad’s estate.

After collecting my seventeen month old baby from his father, we went to order my new car, one big enough to accommodate our family of six, a Toyota Land Cruiser, in “Scorched Earth Red”. Once again, many papers to sign.

My son and I had lunch together in a favourite cafe in town.

After we returned home, all of my four children and I went to the local shopping centre, where we found a large carpet for the family room. I bought the carpet with some of my Dad’s money. On Sunday I bought new pink light shades for all of the hall lights, also with Dad’s money.

These are some of my last gifts from my father. Thank you Daddy.

My three older children started the new school year today, with my eldest son starting year eight. He has been graded into all ‘A’ classes for this year. We also called in at ballet and enrolled the girls in their ballet classes again for the year.

Such an eventful day; a nice day with my children.”

Even now, as I type these words, written over thirteen years ago, I have the same hollow feelings as I felt on that day. I hadn’t wanted to sign those probate papers. I wanted my father back. I didn’t want to be an orphan. But that was what I was now.

My three sisters had all wanted to sell our parents home; I didn’t. They wanted to get it over with; I wasn’t ready, but being one out of four I had no other choice, or so I believed at the time. I was out-numbered and vulnerable.

What I should have done was buy out my three sister’s shares in the house. Why didn’t I think of that back then? Grief has a way of muddling your brain no end. I could have rented out the house. When the time came, one or more of my children could have lived there when they were ready to leave home.

The old ‘me’ allowed people to rail-road me into doing what they told me was the best thing to do. Foolishly I listened. I gave away my power to those whom I thought had more knowledge and I let them have more power over me than I had myself.

That isn’t happening any more. If only I had known back then that the only reason they had any power over me was because I allowed them to.

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Anne ~ Revisited

“Character cannot be developed in ease and quiet. Only through experience of trial and suffering can the soul be strengthened, ambition inspired, and success achieved.” ~ Helen Keller

I’m a strong believer that all of life’s experiences are offered to us to teach us something. In a fairytale life, we may imagine skipping through fields of flowers, hand in hand with our loved ones, with never a quarrel and not a care in the world. As idealistic as this may seem, how would we develop strength of character, and wisdom, if we were all living in a perfect world?

My family is very dear to me. Every member of my family holds a special place in my heart, always. I was blessed with parents and sisters who always promoted honesty and respect, between ourselves first and foremost, but equally towards friends and strangers. I have promoted these same traits to my own children.

By and large, these teachings of respect and honesty have carried me steadfastly through my entire life to date. I am able to speak freely and honestly with both of my two elder sisters, just as they can with me. It’s an unspoken agreement that we have. And I value my honest relationships with my sisters more than any words can say.

This time last year I began a series of stories here about my eldest sister, Anne. The relationship that I shared with Anne could at times be rather tumultuous, to say the least. She could also be my closest confidant, my dearest friend and the first person I would turn to when I needed a mother figure.

Overall, Anne and I shared an honest relationship, although at times, Anne’s honesty could be just a tad overdue, with proclamations of honesty being put forward sometimes years after the original event!

Perhaps this paragraph, written by me on March 12, 2011, explains more clearly what I mean ~

“Most of my discrepancies with Anne were due to her taking something I had said in total innocence, totally out of context. And the worst of it was that she wouldn’t bring up the matter which had ruffled her feathers until long after the incident was over and long forgotten.”

Whilst I didn’t particuarly appreciate this characteristic in Anne, I tolerated it, just as all members of our family did. We all loved Anne, and in loving her, we all, at times, experienced what could easily be called “character building moments”.  She taught us all a lot, especially patience, and how to bite our tongues and be respectful towards her, when she was trying us to the limit!

Anne has been gone for over four years now, and the series of stories I wrote last year about my relationship with her were prompted by the turmoil I felt about my relationship with my sister. It is difficult when unresolved feelings keep on biting at you, when the one person with whom you can talk to about these feelings is no longer living.  You have to figure out a way to finally accept the relationship you had with them for what it was, without harbouring any grudges or ill-feelings. In short, you have to learn to forgive.

With Anne, I could do that, although some days I would think of her and the urge to go to the phone and call her up for a chat have been strong and the reminder to myself that I no longer have the luxury of phoning her has instantly made my heart plummet.

It was a personal achievement when I realised that I could finally lay my mixed feeling and emotions about Anne to rest. Unfortunately, though, some of these feelings raised their ugly heads again recently, in the form of Anne’s daughter.

During a series of emails, my niece accused me of being cruel and judgemental towards her. And here’s the punchline – it was all regarding a comment I had apparently made to her, perhaps seven years ago!

It was “Anne – Revisited”!

When I say it was a comment that I “apparently” made, this is because the comment was not something I would have ever have said to anyone. At first, when the accusations were made, I was angry. I felt like I had felt about Anne. My niece had taken something I had said years ago out of context.

Minutes after the anger, though, I felt strength in my soul, all due to the trials I had experienced with Anne, when she was still here.

When I told my niece that her mother did what she was now doing, which was not addressing a subject which had apparently bothered her enough to resurrect the topic again after so many years, rather than being honest at the time of the conversation, I was told, “well at least now I know how you feel about my family”.

Anger again raised its ugly head. Her family? Anne was my family too! My niece did not have exclusive rights to a relationship with my sister, which I pointed out to her, immediately. To my niece’s credit, she replied by saying “point taken”.

After harsh words with Anne, I would agonise over how to rebuild our friendship, because she was my sister and I loved her.

I am not agonising over Anne’s daughter though, nor do I feel any remorse.

My experiences with Anne developed and built my character. The suffering and trials were worth it. I have realised my ambition of easily moving on, regardless of conflict with my niece. She didn’t offer me honesty; I owe her nothing.

My sister, bless her, taught me well. Finally, I can walk away from the anger and pain.

“Bless a thing and it will bless you. Curse it and it will curse you…If you bless a situation, it has no power to hurt you, and even if it is troublesome for a time, it will gradually fade out, if you sincerely bless it.” ~ Emmet Fox

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