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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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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“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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Happy Birthday to Anne, With Love.

“To have a loving relationship with a sister is not simply to have a buddy or confidante; it is to have a soul mate for life.” ~ Victoria Secunda

It would be Anne’s birthday today; my big sister, my mother figure, my best friend.

Just after I bid Anne adieu for the last time, I found a poem, “Fairy Song”, which reminds me of my sister every time I read it, for Anne is the butterfly I see fluttering through my garden, the bird song I hear each morning and the beautiful rose nodding its petals in the breeze.

Happy Birthday, my Dear Sister. xxxxxx

Fairy Song ~ John Keats

Shed no tear! O, shed no tear!

The flower will bloom another year.

Weep no more! O, weep no more!

Young buds sleep in the root’s white core.

Dry your eyes! O, dry your eyes!

For I thought in Paradise

to ease my breast of melodies -

Shed no tear.

Overhead! Look overhead!

‘Mong the blossoms white and red -

Look up, look up. I flutter now

On this flush pomegranate bough.

See me! ’tis this silvery bell

Ever curses the good man’s ill.

Shed no tear! O shed no tear!

The flowers will bloom another year.

Adieu, adieu – I fly, adieu,

I vanish in the heaven’s blue -

Adieu, adieu!

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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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Healing Words…and the Power of Family

When We Were Young

On the 13^th February this year I started to write about my sister. I had a huge need back then to write about her…and I quote myself here ~

“All of my upcoming posts will involve my sister. I have no idea yet how many times I will write about her. I’ll just keep writing until I have run out of words. I’ll write about her until it feels right to change the subject.”

It’s been a while since I wrote anything about her, because I haven’t felt the need to do so. In fact, I believe that I may have actually run out of words.

The words I wrote about my sister were necessary for me to write at the time. Looking back on how I had been feeling, I needed to resume my place as her sister.

That may sound like a rather odd thing to say. Let me explain.

I had spent so much time listening to other members of my family lamenting the loss of Anne and how her death had affected their lives.

I felt as though I had to consider my relations, making my own feelings take a back seat, as other people were hurting.

And that’s why I started to write about Anne. Suddenly my feelings had become so insignificant (in my mind, at least). I felt the need to scream out to the world, “She was my sister. I loved her too!” But I couldn’t utter any words.

So, I began to write.

Have I ever mentioned before how much I love to write? Words, written (or typed!) can heal wounds in ways that no amount of therapy would ever be capable of doing!

As I have written about Anne over the last few months, I have come to realise that it wasn’t so much her death that had a profound effect on me, it was her life!

So much of the person I am today is due to the influence Anne has had on my life. She was, and always will be my sister; no one can ever take that away from me. Never.

There are still two other wonderful women in my life, who I have regular contact with. They are my other two sisters, and they are both amazing people.

My two other sisters loved Anne as well. They too have their memories and realise that Anne’s life had an effect on their own.

How could she not have an effect on us all? We are sisters!

We are family….

Never underestimate the power of family. I know I won’t.

I have photos. I have memories.

And in my heart, I will always have three sisters, who I love dearly.

Always….

Sisters Forever

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The Magic of Mellowing

 

Me, Mum & Anne

As the years have progressed, it has been my observation that most people mellow with age.

I know I have!

To some extent, my sister Anne mellowed also, although it did take the single most devastating news that I have ever received in my life to bring about a significant change to Anne’s demeanour.

My mother meant the world to me. I believe I have mentioned in previous posts here that she was not just my mother; she and I were the best of friends. I trusted and depended on my mum completely, in fact I depended on her too much.

Mum and Anne had a completely different relationship. At times their relationship was strained, other times fiery and full of arguments and there were other times when they didn’t even speak!

When we were given the news that our Mum was extremely ill, Anne and Mum finally put their differences aside and began a loving mother and daughter relationship, much like the relationship that Mum and I always had.

When my mother began to speak to me about the visits she not only enjoyed, but looked forward to with Anne, with genuine affection, it felt to me as if a huge weight had been lifted off my shoulders!

Two of my best friends in the entire world were finally friends also. I can’t begin to describe the relief and happiness I felt as I watched their relationship grow.

As Mum’s final days here on earth drew to a close, Anne would spend every day at her hospital bedside, along with our father. I appreciated knowing that my mum was not alone when I couldn’t be with her. Having three young children myself, the youngest still a baby, other family commitments took up a significant amount of my days.

It’s ironic though, that on the morning my Mum left us, my baby daughter and I had our final visit with her, alone. Anne and Dad had not yet arrived at the hospital.

After my baby and I had left the room, the nurse went in to check on Mum, only to find she had gone. Was she alive when I left her? I believe she was, as I could see a large pulse beating in Mum’s neck.

Anne was understandably upset that Mum had gone while she wasn’t with her; after all of the hours and days she had sat at her bedside.

After Mum was gone, Anne changed. It wasn’t just a progression of the mellowing, she really changed.

My once fun and flippant sister began to age. She pointed out the fact that she was now the “older generation” of women in our family.

Being a talented artist and sewer, Anne would spend countless hours making craft items for every member of her family, ensuring her name and the date of completion of her project was added to each item.

Something to remember her by, she said. So she wouldn’t be forgotten, after she herself was gone.

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A Woman of Contrasts and Contradictions

There are women born into this world whose maternal instincts are well developed and strong. Becoming a mother comes as naturally to them as breathing.

My eldest sister was definitely not one of those women!

She seemed to prefer spending her days playing tennis, rather than being a mother to her two children.

Anne spent her entire life in possession of many other admirable attributes; however “warm and fuzzy mummy” was not one of them.

Almost in direct contrast to my saying that Anne was not what one would call a natural mother, when it came to being an auntie, step-mother, grandmother and friend to all young people, she topped the list of ‘favourite people”.

My own children adored their Auntie Anne. Her patience with young children astounded me, every time I witnessed her gentle, calm and genuine demeanour whilst in their presence.

For the person I had known as a child myself had been otherwise.

Although she never admitted it to me in so many words, I believe that the love and tolerance towards children, developed later in Anne’s life, may well have been due to the fact that they weren’t her own children, hence removing the ultimate responsibility for their well being from her shoulders.

As I listened to the interactions my sister had with my children in their younger years, I felt nothing other than total admiration for my sister, as she shared words of wisdom with each of them.

Anne advised my children on many occasions to be prepared for an answer which was not necessarily to your liking, when asking a question, as each person should be given the freedom to answer questions truthfully, even if it wasn’t the answer you desired.

If one of my children were to make an outrageous statement, such as “I’m so hungry, I could eat a horse!” Anne would jokingly advise them to be careful what they said, as she was a strong believer that a person should not make a promise, statement or threat that they obviously could not keep, as it could make you appear foolish!

Anne also claimed herself to be a pacifist. She spoke often of how she would avoid confrontation, at all costs. Such statements would leave me at times with a major dilemma, as it would usually be Anne herself who would cause a confrontation.

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.

It was always easy to tell if Anne was upset or annoyed about something. She became very “prickly” in her manner. The hardest part was how to work out what her problem was, without exacerbating the problem. When you didn’t know what the problem was in the first place, that could be just a tad tricky!

Anne could be so caring and compassionate. She could also be contradictory and judgemental! Having a close relationship with my sister could be likened to being on a roller-coaster ride!

Sometimes unfortunately and at other times fortunately for me, I continued to take that ride on the roller-coaster. When the alternative was intolerable, being not having a relationship with my sister at all, I chose the roller-coaster.

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Searching for Love

My Wedding Day

There was always a man in Anne’s life.

Even before my birth, my sister had been engaged and later called off the engagement without any explanation to the family.

I loved and adored the man she married. To this day, I keep in touch with him and in my eyes he will always be my brother. I have no memory of any time in my life when he wasn’t there; he’s simply part of my family, a member who I hold very dear to my heart.

Unfortunately Anne didn’t feel the same way about her first husband. Who knows why she chose to marry him and to continue living for fifteen years in a marriage that was hardly to her liking.

But that was the way Anne lived her life. She made her choices for her own reasons. Nothing swayed her to think otherwise.

Anne’s delightful, flirtatious personality drew men to her like bees to a honey pot. She was never short of admirers.

And as Anne prepared to leave her husband, I prepared myself for marriage.

To cut a long and complicated story short and also to divert from a story long gone and best forgotten, I married a Catholic. I’m a Protestant. Even during the late 1970’s my marriage was regarded as a mixed marriage.

My staunch Protestant mother refused to attend my marriage as it would take place in a Catholic Church. My Dad followed her lead, as did my two younger sisters.

But true to form, Anne was there. Anne was always there for me, as I was always there for her. Anne followed her own advice, the same advice she had instilled into me for a number of years ~ do what is right for you. And for Anne, the right thing to do was to be my Matron-of-Honour at my wedding.

Accompanying Anne to my wedding was her latest love, although this love did not last for long. Soon after my wedding day he had been replaced by an old flame from years gone by.

Just three months after my first child was born Anne and her old flame were married.

For a period of time he seemed to be the ideal choice of husband for my sister. But he couldn’t keep up the pretence forever and before long his true colours were showing.

He resented anyone close to Anne and Anne and I were as close as any two sisters could be.

Being a man with an extremely dominant personality, he didn’t appreciate Anne’s independent streak. While he enjoyed the playful, witty banter which he and Anne engaged in, he could not, and did not, tolerate her strength of will, to rival his own.

Anne only stayed with husband number two for financial reasons. Bottom line, he provided a roof over her head. By complaining profusely about his nightly snoring, Anne managed to manoeuvre her way out of his bed and into a separate bedroom of her own.

Anne’s husband was nothing short of rude toward my husband and me, as was the case with most members of our family. I don’t wish to dwell on his unpleasant personality, but future posts will explain my reasons for emphasising his dominant, controlling, arrogant personality.

My sister made her choices of the men in her life for reasons I’m sure were best known to her alone. She rarely seemed to be happy. Always searching for something else; something more than what she already had.

I strongly doubt that the perfect partner for my sister actually existed.

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The Ice Princess

Anne and me.

The “Ice Princess” lived in the house next door.

I believed her to be the most beautiful woman in the world, but I never spoke to her. She had no time for me. But that didn’t bother me at all.

I wanted to be just like her when I grew up. To my child’s mind, she epitomised beauty, elegance, wisdom, wit and knowledge.

Her husband always spoke to me though. If I had a question, he was the approachable one. When Mum and Dad were invited over to play cards after dinner, he asked me to join in the game, and helped me to win.

He offered me a sip from his glass of beer and shared the bowls of chips and lollies with me. He even allowed me to strike the match to light his cigarette.

As for the “Ice Princess” though, she didn’t seem to realise that I existed, unless I got in her way and she told me to move. Or she wanted me to watch out for her little son for a few minutes, while she had some important chore to do.

Sometimes on a Saturday afternoon I would sit out the front of our house and watch the two of them play tennis on the street. They were great tennis players.

And to see them dance together was pure magic! She had some old records that they loved to dance to, and she would sing to the songs as they danced. Of course, she knew all of the words to the songs and she never sang out of tune.

When she baked a cake, she didn’t even need to follow a recipe! But I never tasted a single thing from her kitchen that didn’t immediately melt in my mouth.

As for knitting, she could whip up a jumper for her son within a couple of days! She laughed at my stunned awe at her expertise in knitting, telling me it really was quite easy, anyone could do it. “Well, Mum can’t”, I’d tell her, and she’d laugh her light-hearted laugh. Conversation over.

Many days, I would hear her and Mum argue, although I never knew what about, nor did I have any opinions on their matters of dissention. I loved my Mum and idolised the “Ice Princess”. Case closed.

My parents and I moved to another house while I was still very young, by which time the “Ice Princess” had given birth to her second and last child, a daughter.

Why did she ever become a mother? Perhaps she felt it was the “done thing” back in those days, just as she seemed to believe getting married the appropriate thing to do. She played the role of wife and mother very well for a number of years, although her heart was never in either role.

With my fifteenth birthday approaching, it was with great excitement that I received the news of the “Ice Princesses” upcoming visit. We now lived about one thousand kilometres away from where I had spent the early years of my life and I couldn’t wait for their visit. She would have the two children with her, but her husband would not be accompanying them.

Now in her thirties, to me she was still as beautiful and poised as she had always been.

Suddenly, the “Ice Princess” began regarding me as a human being! We talked for hours, but not just idle, menial chatter about the latest fashions. It became apparent that we had a number of common interests.

She realised that I had become more than just an annoying child, hanging around her feet. I realised that the “Ice Princess” had become my strongest ally.

And so began my relationship with my sister, Anne, a relationship that at times would mean more to me than any other.

The ice on the princess had melted, and in doing so had revealed a simply amazing friend.

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