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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“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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When You’re a Mother

What do you do when someone you love is over a thousand miles away and crying on the phone?

What can you do, except say a few words that you hope will help them through the next few days until they return home, send them a mamma hug over the phone, hang up the phone, then cry.

Which is what I did today. My daughter is away for a week, staying with family friends who live a long way from here. She has a cold and doesn’t feel well.

On top of that, she was made feel uncomfortable by some friends of the friend she is staying with. Not wishing to upset her hostess, she told her half a story, leaving out the bits of the story that may upset our friend.

With only half the information, our friend has placed an unfair judgement on my daughter, telling her she is disappointed with her.

I’m proud of my daughter. I know the extent she will go to, to save someone’s feelings. Maybe she’s right in doing so, maybe she’s wrong. All I know is, her heart is in the right place.

And sometimes, with her gentle, kind and caring heart beating away in The Place of Good Intentions, her heart is broken.

Hearing her cry, so far away from home, my own heart is broken. I feel helpless. So I tell her I love her. And she tells me she loves me.

I guess that’s just what you have to do, when you’re a mother.

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It’s All In A Name….Or Is It?

A casual conversation this morning with my son has turned out to have been a thought-provoking event. It began by my asking him who he had sat with at lunch yesterday at school. (My question being posed due to knowing that he had “broken up” with his first girlfriend of two & a half weeks, at the ripe old age of 12 & had spent every lunchtime for the duration of the relationship sitting with her & her friends).

Oliver reeled off the names of a few friends….Brodie, Jarred, Savannah, etc. etc…
“What about Alice?” I asked. He looked at me, stunned.
I explained my question, re. Alice. “Isn’t she Savannah’s best friend?” (I knew this for a fact, as both girls had signed his pencil-case recently).
“No! Alice is friends with Montana!”

My mistake. Hence my morning of contemplation.

My older two children have collected many friends & acquaintances during their school years, with names such as Joshua, Tim, James, Matthew & Daniel for the boys & equally as regular girls names such as Laura, Rachel, Emily, Katie & Sarah.

Now, with my younger two, I am hearing the names Savannah, Montana, Madison & Dakota. (Is this due to the American influence on the western world, I ponder?) Then there’s December, Aries, Storm & Night. (Perhaps chosen due to the times they were born?)

Names do have their phases of popularity. My school days bring back memories of my friends Susan, Judith, Julie, Karen, Virginia & Heather, all lovely girls. A girl named Rebecca, a most unusual name at the time, I thought, had waist length plaits & a gentle manner. Which explains why, ever since that time, I have expected any Rebecca who has crossed my path to be a gentle soul.

Rebecca’s twin brother, Kingsley, an equally gentle mannered boy, was the kindest boy in the class. You would never catch Kingsley pulling a girl’s hair, or putting his foot out to trip someone up as they passed by his desk!

“Nice boys” were always called Bradley or James (including Jamie, a name now usually given to girls!) or Ian or Peter. Philip was a smooth talker, with dreamy eyes (Well, I was only 10 years old when he came to my school!) Andrew, Haydn & Noel were the trouble makers, while Ronald pushed me over at the cloak racks one day! (From that day onwards, his name was “Mud” to me!)

Then there is John. Oh dear…John. I once confided to my best friend, who was married to a John at the time, that to my mind, parents only named their babies John if they didn’t know what else to call them. To my amazement, she agreed! Story had it that her then husband had been born, most inconveniently, on his parents honeymoon. And about two months prematurely. Not knowing what to name their sudden arrival, he was named after his father….John. (Mind you, John senior, to his credit, had spruced up his name somewhat, being known himself as Jake!)

No offense to any John’s who may be reading this. My own father in law is named John. But that is actually his middle name. (Whatever possessed him to want to be known as John, I really can’t imagine!)

When tracing my family tree a couple of years ago I came across the same old names, generation after generation. Every man named James would name his first son, you guessed it…James. When son number two came along, he was named William, after his wife’s father, of course. Imagine my joy when I came across the name of my three times great grandfather…Jabez! Now, that’s a name you don’t hear every day.

All of the women in my family were named Sarah or Lily. But then I discovered a Rachel! (Oh, but then Rachel’s parents were William & Sarah).

My husband worked with a man named Arthur some years ago. Arthur was around my husband’s age but the name Arthur gave me images of an old man. So, I asked my husband to find out what Arthur’s middle name was. That might help, thought I. Sadly, I was to learn that his middle name was Harold…Arthur Harold. My spirits dropped. My mind’s eye was now seeing a little old man, short, thin & hunched over, wearing thick rimmed glasses & speaking with a timid little voice. How could this be? My husband enjoyed working with Arthur! They had become close friends!

Well, I finally met Arthur. In walked a tall, muscle-bound, handsome man….his voice boomed across the room; his manner oozed with confidence; he had an amazing sence of humour!!

From that day, I immediately & totally lost confidence in my judgements of people based on their names! I felt totally at ease with Arthur & admitted my pre-conceived ideas to him, asking if he would mind if I called him Arthur Harold, as the two names together seemed less “nerdy” (which he certainly wasn’t!) He agreed to the image that his name may suggest & also agreed to allow me to call him Arthur Harold on one condition….so long as he could call me Misses! Arthur Harold & I became friends.

Names definitely have their way of conjuring up images of the person in possession of the name. And they also go through their phases in popularity.

I remember a scene in the Disney movie “Pocahontas”, when John Smith & Pocahontas are introducing themselves to each other. John Smith says, “You have the most unusual names here…Pocahontas”, to which Pocahontas replies, “You have the most unusual name too…John Smith”!

Can’t you just see it now…in the year 2110 trend-setters will be giving birth to baby boys, and, tired of the old-fashioned names that have been around for the last 100 years, will start a new trend by naming their sons John. Followed closely by son number two with an equally unusual name….Arthur.

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