Time....

“We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths;

In feelings, not in figures on a dial” ~ Philip James Bailey.

You may have noticed, as I have, the way in which time speeds along these years, faster than ever before.

Perhaps that statement could be debatable. Perhaps it is our faster pace of life that is the culprit, leaving us all with the impression that someone has reduced the number of weeks between one Christmas ending, and the next Christmas beginning.

With that in mind, I find I simply must utter the classic statement ~”Where did this year go?!”

I still have yet to determine why every December brings with it the thoughts of changes I wish to make to my life, as I venture towards improving the quality of said life. Call it “Making New Year’s Resolutions” if you must; I prefer to regard any changes I feel I must make as “learning and growing”.

My wise and wonderful mother repeatedly informed me that you are never too old to learn something new. As a twenty-something year old I scoffed at her statement, not due to disrespect for my mum, but rather from my own misconception that I would be “forever young”, and not ever “old enough to learn something new”.

Well, my memories of having been twenty-something have long since melded themselves into the far away distance of yesteryear, being replaced by a strong desire to learn something new, anything new, oh please, just let me learn!

Therefore, in earnest review of the Year of Our Lord, 2011, as I find myself in the midst of profound flash-backs of the year that was, have I gained any wisdom from my numerous choices and actions?

I wish I could answer that question with a resounding “yes!” but honesty prevents me from doing so.

Yet again, I recall wrong choices made, for all the right reasons. And why, I ask myself, must hindsight bring me all of the wisdom I strive for, yet again?

As I beat my head against the brick wall, strongly chastising myself for all of my wrong-doings throughout this year, a more profound question comes to me ~ “If I could relive the past year and re-do anything I have done, would I change anything?” More importantly, could I change anything, given the knowledge I found myself with at the time?

And therein lies the answer to all of the questions The Universe could ever wish to throw in my direction on this subject. If I have made my choices by acting upon every God-Given Instinct in my possession; if my actions are made without cruelty or malice toward another person; if I am able to lay my head upon my pillow and sleep soundly each night, free of any hint of a guilty conscience ~ I have learned something new, and I have grown.

….and I will continue to grow, and learn some more, next year….

Alice

Behind the door of my Dad’s tall-boy wardrobe, stuffed away at the back of one of the shelves, lived a stack of old photos.

Very old photos. Photos of ancestors long gone, some known, some remaining unnamed to the day my Dad was also gone.

Photos of my Dad will always include his name, so as future generations will not be left wondering, for years on end, as we were, as to his identity.

Who was the lady, in the largest photo of them all, the lady with the hint of a smile around her lips and the kind eyes, wearing her “Sunday Best”, posing for the photographer who possibly took her photo with one of those very old fashioned cameras we see only in museums and in old films, that let out a puff of smoke when the photo is taken?

My Dad suspected she may have been his grandmother, although he didn’t know for sure. He didn’t know the Christian names of any of his grandparents. When he was a young lad, children just simply didn’t ask such trivial questions, so never would know their names.

The years went by. The lady with the hint of a smile and the kind eyes remained unnamed.

Fortunately for me, I wasn’t born back in the day when “children should be seen and not heard”. My inquisitive mind would not have coped with such treatment. I like to know who’s who and what’s what.

Researching a subject of interest to me brings about a great deal of satisfaction.

Back in the 1990’s, when I discovered the internet, the search engine became my best friend.

All of the doors covered with years of dusty old cobwebs were finally opened up to me, as I researched my family history, finding the names of the unknown and unnamed ancestors my father and I had often wondered about.

Dad’s grandmother’s names were Mary-Anne and Alice, but which name belonged to the lady with those eyes and that hint of a smile? Was she really either of his grandmothers, or had verbal history got the whole story completely wrong?

Was the lady even family at all?

The answer to those questions arrived unexpectedly, without fuss or fanfare, when I recently discovered a cousin who had, to date, been completely unknown to me.

Our parents were first cousins, therefore, that meant we shared great-grandparents.

My new-found cousin emailed me a copy of an old photo he had, a photo of our great-grandmother, Alice.

It was her. Dad’s old photo, from the back of the shelf in his tallboy.

Her name is Alice. Alice, with the kind eyes and the hint of a smile.

A beautiful lady.

A beautiful name.

A park of childhood memories

For many years now, the Blue Mountains have been nothing more to me than a place where I once lived, an area filled to overflowing with treasured memories.

For fifteen years I stayed away. Not purposely avoiding the area, although longing to be in a place where I didn’t believe I belonged any more.

So I just didn’t go there.

Mind you, it isn’t just a quick day trip for me these days, to travel from the area where I now live, to visit the area of my childhood. It’s about a twelve hour trip, maybe more, depending on how the journey unfolds.

Curiosity got the better of me recently. I had to be brave; I had to return to the place of my memories.

It was almost as if I needed to justify to myself that this magical area really did exist and wasn’t simply a figment of my imagination; a nirvana from a wonderful dream, so beautiful that I had believed it into reality.

Most of my memories had taken place during the years of my childhood, therefore I wanted, no, needed to see the mountains again through the eyes of an adult. My adult eyes.

And I knew I had to go alone. I couldn’t be influenced by the opinions of another. My feelings and thoughts had to be my own, not those of someone else.

There was only one person I could think of in the whole world who I wanted to travel back in time with me, someone who wouldn’t be so opinionated as to ruin my adventure, who would see our trip as simply a journey to an unknown area and a place that I held dear to my heart.

He wouldn’t place judgement on me. He wouldn’t complain. He wouldn’t be overly opinionated as to the reasons I wished to take this trip, but would simply enjoy the change of scenery.

He wouldn’t burst my bubble. And I could trust him, implicitly. My thirteen year old son.

I took a leap of faith. Faith in my son; faith in myself; faith in the mountains of my memories.

And they didn’t disappoint.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

Anne, aged 2 years and 10 months.

The pages of my musty old family photo albums are dotted throughout with photos of Anne, whilst she was still a baby.

After both of my parents had died I was nominated as the designated keeper of all of the family albums for two reasons ~ I’m the youngest family member by a number of years, but most importantly, I have the interest in family history. In fact, I’m really the only family member interested in our history, apart from Anne.

Even then, Anne only had an interest up to a certain point. She would have liked to have known more about our more immediate family members, whereas my interest extended back to researching as far back as centuries ago, by which time Anne had lost interest!

She had been the first born child, grandchild and niece in the family, born during the war years when news of any happy event was cherished.

Anne was a cute, pretty, sweet, adorable child, immediately wrapping all family members around her tiny little finger.

According to my Mum, Anne was spoiled rotten! But who could blame my family for loving this little princess, who had arrived at a time when joy was needed? Anne was the little ray of sunshine in their lives that they had longed for.

On the winter’s morning of Anne’s birth there were only two people present, my Mum and her sister, who was still just a teenager. Hospital births were unheard of during the war years in far northern England, where Anne made her entry into the world.

The midwife had been sent for, but didn’t arrive before Anne’s birth. My Mum was one of a very rare breed of women who did not experience labour pains!

So, on the morning of the 16^th of February, in the same house, the same room and even the very same bed in which my Mum had been born herself twenty years earlier, Anne arrived in this world with a minimum of fuss or fanfare.

For the next three years, Mum cared for Anne alone, whilst working herself on the local buses, selling tickets and collecting bus fares. Dad was away, a soldier in the army, with Mum not knowing, usually for weeks at a time, whether he had survived the latest battle he had been sent to, or even what country he was in, for that matter.

As Anne grew, Mum explained to her that the man in the army uniform in the big photo on the sideboard was her daddy, and Anne would climb up to the photo each night to kiss her daddy goodnight.

When Dad finally returned home from fighting in the war, Anne still kissed the photo each night, not understanding who the stranger in the house was!

I cannot imagine myself the reality of the hardships these first three members of my birth family must have endured and I have only the strongest sense of admiration for their collective strength and courage, during a time of incredible struggle and hardship.

Yet, despite all of the grief surrounding their lives during these years, when Mum and Dad told me their stories from many years before my birth, whilst beginning their family on the other side of the world from where I myself was born, they spoke with genuine affection and love.

Perhaps their struggles in those very early days of their married life together instilled in them the ability to never give up, to strive for their goals, believing nothing in this world was impossible if you set your mind to it.

These early year shaped Anne’s life also, but not always in a positive way. Anne held on to resentment for some of the choices my parents made, resentment which would eat away at her soul as the years progressed.

If only she could have given up wishing for a life other than the one she had been born to. Perhaps she would still be here today.

Happy Birthday, my Dearest Anne. Wherever you are now, I wish with all of my heart that you are reading these words and can feel the love I have for you and have always had for you.

I send all of my love to you, my sister, for as long as time.

With love always from your Baby Sister. xxxxxx

Imagine the “generation gap” between sisters, therefore, when the eldest is old enough to be the younger sister’s mother!

That was the case in my first family, my birth family. I was only four years old when Anne was married.

Anne was my eldest sister, who could have passed for my mother and on occasion, she did! And yes, Anne was her real name. Not the name on her birth certificate, but it was what I called her.

Anne was born in England, during the years of the Second World War. By the time I was born my family had immigrated to Australia and the years of the last world war were a distant memory.

Anne’s and my upbringing were worlds apart. We shared the same parents, although her relationship with them was rather formal and at times, strained.

My relationship with our parents was a complete contrast to Anne’s. My parents were also my friends and I could talk to them about anything at all, much to Anne’s horror! She often told me she had never been able to broach some of the subjects I had discussed with Mum and Dad!

Some time after our mother had died in 1993, Anne shared with me her remorse at never knowing how our mother felt about her. Horrified by Anne’s statement, I told her that Mum had loved her, of course!

After a moment of silent contemplation, Anne told me that our mother had never said the words “I love you” to her.

I was stunned, to say the least. All my life, from my first ever memories, I had told Mum how much I loved her. I had held my young and short arms out as wide as I could stretch them, telling her that that was how much I loved her.

Obviously, when Mum held her adult arms outstretched, the expanse was wider than I could manage, so she would jokingly tell me that she must love me more than I loved her!

Every day of my life, when I spoke to my Mum, the conversation would end with “I love you”, and she would reply, “I love you too”.

To this day I constantly tell my children I love them. It’s as natural as breathing.

Yet Anne said that Mum never said the words to her.

Even now, I still find it near impossible to believe what Anne said. It’s almost as though she spoke about different people when she spoke about our parents. They were not the memories I had of them.

I assured Anne that I knew Mum loved her. I even reminded her of something Mum often said about her four daughters ~ “I know all of your faults and I know all of your strengths and you are all different. And I love you all the same”.

How could Anne have missed that, I asked?

The weeks went by and I was speaking on the phone to my second eldest sister. She told me how cruel I had been to Anne!

“What am I suppose to have done that was cruel?”, I asked, in stunned amazement.

I am not now, nor have I ever been described as a cruel person! In fact, I’m quite the opposite!

“You told Anne that you knew Mum loved her”, sister number two explained.

Bewildered to the max, I asked how she felt this was a cruel thing to do.

My sister was of the belief that it was kinder not to tell Anne that I knew Mum loved her, as it hadn’t come directly from our Mum.

To this day, I stand by what I said to Anne. I have no regrets. Disappointed at my second eldest sister’s reaction, yes! But even with the benefit of hindsight, I had to say what I did to Anne.

Today is Valentine’s Day. If my Mum were still alive, I would take her flowers. Not roses, the traditional flower for the day, but something colourful and unusual. Because that’s what Mum would have liked.

And I would have told my Mum “I love you”.

Don’t save Valentine’s Day just for romance. Think of everyone in your life who you love and let them know how you feel.

While you’re at it, don’t save the statement “I love you” just for Valentine’s Day either.

I still believe Anne had selective hearing. Mum told everyone she loved them, especially during her last days. Anne spent every day of the last few weeks of Mum’s life at her bedside. Being the fair person she was Mum would not have left Anne out.

You can never say the words “I love you” too much. Don’t leave saying these words until it’s too late.