Our state of mind informs our reality, does it not?
I recall the impact of what I called "a special place" even as a young child: how I tiptoed when I entered the local church, a concert hall, a ruined abbey. I instinctively felt the need to speak softly, to allow my eyes to rove across every niche, to tune my ears to the slightest sound, while being aware of a growing sense of awe in my little chest. The church, blessed and consecrated for worship, its very essence taken from its soaring nave, candlelit apses and impressive altar, marked it as the place to meet the divine. The concert hall, echoing when empty, but later resounding with glorious music, also inspired that same heart-swell, accompanied by a feeling that I ought to be good.
The ruins of Kirkstall Abbey, Yorkshire, sacked during the reign of Henry VIII under his Dissolution of the Monasteries decree, were my early introduction to pantheism. Nature has overtaken the site of the deconsecrated abbey, although some of its stone walls still stand, and breaths of its former glory remain to stir the breast: a ruined wall rising starkly against the sky, a flowering shrub at its base on which briefly rests a butterfly, along with the soft notes of the droning bee. William Wordsworth wrote, in both his beautiful poetry and thoughtful prose, about the hallowed relationship between nature and spirit, and I am persuaded.
But what about retaining that feeling of awe in more lowly spots? I had heard about cloistered nuns who believed that the most menial tasks were sacred because they were offered to their God, which inspired a transcendent feeling as they scrubbed. I sometimes thought about that when I was cleaning toilets in the campground we owned for several years, but could never get myself into a contemplative state of mind. The noise of faucets being turned on and off, the flushing of the toilets, the sound of the mop splashing in a bucket, did not nudge me onto a higher plane. It was a chore to be finished as quickly as possible. Not only that, I resented the campers who came in right afterwards to use my newly scoured facilities, leaving soap scum in the sinks and wet footprints on the floor. So much for my feeling that I ought to be good.
One summer, a man and his wife stayed for a while in our campground. They remained longer than they originally intended, because they believed the surrounding woods was a haven for fairies. They observed their tiny faces peering over the boughs of trees, smiling through the leaves, and peeking under the ancient roots. The couple were also very conversant about nature, particularly wild plants and flowers, made their own oils and unguents from rosemary and lavender, and were altogether charming and generous in their sharing of the lore they claimed as their own. When I was with them, I confess I found myself wanting to find an elf beside the mushrooms growing plentifully in the dank, moist earth. However, although I never glimpsed one of the little folk, I did enjoy a feeling of innocence for a little while, along with the "hail-fellow-well-met" feeling in my heart.
A variety of places and experiences over the years have filled me with both reverence and joy, and I am open to the idea that the most unremarkable areas can evoke such deep feelings, even though the communal bathroom was a stretch for me. For example, I believe that Robbin Island, the notorious prison in South Africa that housed Nelson Mandela for so many years is now sacred. The essence of this good man surely remains there: his faith in his anti-apartheid cause, his love for humanity, and his courage in the face of years of injustice, torture and imprisonment, either dwells in the air within the compound or is imprinted on our minds when we visit the site. Does it matter which?
I now think of my little house as a container for the sacred. The window seat, built so lovingly for me by my husband, lends itself to meditation, tender thoughts and, yes, comfort in difficult moments. At times, I view my dog Bertie's trusting, sleepy little body between my knees as a beloved icon. And having been prodded in the following direction over the years, I've also discovered that not only spaces, but certain times of the year also lend themselves to deeper contemplation. As part of our collective unconscious, pagan themes of darkness/light emerge in our psyche over and over again.
At Easter, for example, this old story and its accompanying rituals which overlay even more ancient tales, allow us to publically embrace death--of self, seasons, loved ones--either within religious movements or without, but always with a sense of hope. Winter is nearly over--spring is on the horizon. Of course, darkness can hover at any time of the year, but it is a comfort to be able to ritualize it or speak it out loud as a sacrament. As I have aged, I've learned to move towards sadness when it comes upon me. I no longer flee from despair, but, like Persephone, allow myself to descend into the Underworld. It is not pleasant, but it's there that I have always absorbed the emotional lessons life has had in store for me. By greeting them, I am able to rise up again, a little wiser and filled with gratitude, aware of the naturalness of the yin and yang of life.
I don't really know if I've ever experienced the divine or if I'd recognize it if I did, but I have come close to transcendence in places other than a church, a concert hall or a ruined abbey. I've also experienced a spiritual renewal in the presence of loved ones--or in the memory of them. The sacred waits to be discovered in the most unlikely of spots. We simply have--to be.
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
Monday, April 9, 2012
Ode to Mashed Potatoes
My friend Alexandra
Fixed the best mashed potatoes--
It was
Her raison d'etre.
At fifteen years old,
We spent Saturdays together.
She lived in a three-story home;
Kitchen in the cellar,
Tiny work bench,
Small white cookstove.
At four p.m. we'd descend
The steep dark staircase
To peel potatoes
Stored in a wooden bucket
Behind the sturdy oak door.
Big white Idahos,
Thick brown peel,
With eyes.
She examined closely
Every potato I pared;
Made sure
All specks were removed,
Then cut them up
Just so.
Popped them in cosy salt-water
To boil.
Softened to perfection
Out they came--
And the magic began.
I've never seen anyone beat potatoes
With such elan;
First with a fork
Until all the lumps
Were frightened into submission,
Then with a whisk
Until they were
Air-downy--
Adding gradually
Soft coverlets of
Golden butter and
Creamy milk.
Such fluffy potatoes,
They grew in size
As she whisked
And whisked.
I swear her right arm was
Twice the size
Of her left one.
When the glorious concoction
Was spun
To her satisfaction,
They were cradled in a warm oven
So they could
Be eaten
At the correct temperature.
Sometimes I stayed for dinner--
Beef Wellington? filet mignon?
I don't recall
The rest of the menu.
But those potatoes,
Mashed with such care,
Peeled and eyed
Under such loving
Supervision,
Resting comfortably
But briefly
On our plates,
Were the gustatory stars.
Fixed the best mashed potatoes--
It was
Her raison d'etre.
At fifteen years old,
We spent Saturdays together.
She lived in a three-story home;
Kitchen in the cellar,
Tiny work bench,
Small white cookstove.
At four p.m. we'd descend
The steep dark staircase
To peel potatoes
Stored in a wooden bucket
Behind the sturdy oak door.
Big white Idahos,
Thick brown peel,
With eyes.
She examined closely
Every potato I pared;
Made sure
All specks were removed,
Then cut them up
Just so.
Popped them in cosy salt-water
To boil.
Softened to perfection
Out they came--
And the magic began.
I've never seen anyone beat potatoes
With such elan;
First with a fork
Until all the lumps
Were frightened into submission,
Then with a whisk
Until they were
Air-downy--
Adding gradually
Soft coverlets of
Golden butter and
Creamy milk.
Such fluffy potatoes,
They grew in size
As she whisked
And whisked.
I swear her right arm was
Twice the size
Of her left one.
When the glorious concoction
Was spun
To her satisfaction,
They were cradled in a warm oven
So they could
Be eaten
At the correct temperature.
Sometimes I stayed for dinner--
Beef Wellington? filet mignon?
I don't recall
The rest of the menu.
But those potatoes,
Mashed with such care,
Peeled and eyed
Under such loving
Supervision,
Resting comfortably
But briefly
On our plates,
Were the gustatory stars.
Sunday, March 25, 2012
Before I Was Here, Part IV
The happy couple honeymooned in Torquay in the south of England. To ensure that the ride was easy on his bride, Ernest purchased a sidecar for his motorbike, and their luggage was stored in it, but leaving a little room so that Gerty could sit in it for a while if she tired of riding pillion. The days up to their wedding were very busy, so once they arrived in Torquay, they did some sight seeing and were glad to relax in the sea air under a sunny sky.
A month before the wedding, they had rented a small cottage on Stonebridge Lane in Old Farnley. It had been empty for some time, and smelled musty from disuse. Gerty had fallen in love with it at first sight. It was built around 1770, at the same time as its neighbour, the Nag's Head public house, which was just up the street from the Wesleyan Methodist Church. The outer walls of the dwelling were at least eight inches thick. A beautiful window with a wide ledge, deep enough to sit on, overlooked the corner where Hall Lane and Stonebridge Lane met. Primitive indoor plumbing graced the tiny bathroom and there was running water in the kitchen, but nothing else had been touched. The house was simply crying out for some tender loving care.
They enlisted the help of Ernest's brother Tommy and his girlfriend Lily, Ernest's sister Emily and her husband Harold, plus Gerty's sisters Beaty, Laura and Kathleen, and they all willingly joined in the painting, sweeping, scrubbing and polishing it required. Gerty made curtains for all the windows, Ernest's parents gave them one of their small carpets to lay over the stone floor, and Gerty's father brought fresh flowers from his allotment garden. A new double bed, a small oak sideboard with matching table and four chairs, and a living room suite took all of their savings, but everything was fully paid for. Much fun and laughter accompanied all this work, and they were both very grateful for the help--and very happy with the outcome.
Life continued apace for Gerty and Ernest. They continued to work hard, saved as much as they could for a house of their own "in the future," enjoyed their lovely little home, and discovered they had a knack for entertaining. Nothing fancy--but friends and family were always welcome and visited frequently. Gerty's cousin Agnes bought a house and lived just across the street with her husband Sidney and young daughter Norma.
One day, Lily, now Tommy's fiancee, sought out Gerty. "I just want to tell you that there's a woman who's nobbling Ernest," she said gravely. "I popped into Taylor's Chemist Shop yesterday, and there was your Ernest leaning across the counter talking to a blonde with a big bust, and she was flirting with him like mad. I understand this is not the first time, either--usually around 5 o'clock," she ended with a flourish. Gerty thought it over, and decided to follow up. A couple of days later, at 5 p.m. on the dot, she stood in front of Taylor's and looked through the shop window. Sure enough, there was Ernest laughing and talking with the blonde with the big bust. Gerty opened the door, and as the bell tinkled to sound the entrance of a customer, the blonde turned and looked at her, then said brightly, "I'll just step back so you can serve this lady, Ernest." And she smiled and wiggled her fingers at him. Throwing back her head, Gerty loudly declared, "I am no lady, I am his wife!"
The blonde's smile faded, and she hurriedly left the shop. Ernest blushed and stammered, but Gerty silently turned and went home. History once again has nothing to say about a conversation in which Gerty took an important part, but Lily told Thomas Ambrose, who read his errant son the riot act. He ended by pointing out that Ernest was very lucky to have a good wife like Gerty, and that he fully expected to hear no more about any such caddish behavior. Case closed.
A little over a year later, and on a beautiful summer day in 1938, Ernest and Gerty took a walk from Old Farnley to New Farnley along Lawns Lane. Across from what was then known as Quarry House, they saw the foundations of fourteen new semi-detached homes. The builder himself happened to be there, checking on his crew and the work they were carrying out. The young couple stopped to chat with him, and found out that each home would cost three hundred pounds with a ten percent deposit. Every few days thereafter, they walked by to watch the progress--with longing in their eyes. "You're a nice young couple," the builder remarked one day, "and I think you'd like to buy one, wouldn't you?" "Yes, sir," said Ernest eagerly, "But we hadn't planned on buying a house so soon, and besides, we don't have thirty pounds saved up yet." "If you're really keen," said the builder, "I will lend you thirty pounds, interest free, and you can pay me back at one pound a week for thirty weeks. Can you manage that?" After a hurried consultation about the state of their finances, Ernest whispered, "What do you think, Trudy?" "We can manage," she said, and so the deal was made--and kept--over a simple handshake.
In the autumn of 1938, Gerty and Ernest proudly moved into their brand new home, but there was an underlying apprehension in the air that was threatening to grow ever larger. The winds of war were beginning to blow in from the east. (to be continued)
A month before the wedding, they had rented a small cottage on Stonebridge Lane in Old Farnley. It had been empty for some time, and smelled musty from disuse. Gerty had fallen in love with it at first sight. It was built around 1770, at the same time as its neighbour, the Nag's Head public house, which was just up the street from the Wesleyan Methodist Church. The outer walls of the dwelling were at least eight inches thick. A beautiful window with a wide ledge, deep enough to sit on, overlooked the corner where Hall Lane and Stonebridge Lane met. Primitive indoor plumbing graced the tiny bathroom and there was running water in the kitchen, but nothing else had been touched. The house was simply crying out for some tender loving care.
They enlisted the help of Ernest's brother Tommy and his girlfriend Lily, Ernest's sister Emily and her husband Harold, plus Gerty's sisters Beaty, Laura and Kathleen, and they all willingly joined in the painting, sweeping, scrubbing and polishing it required. Gerty made curtains for all the windows, Ernest's parents gave them one of their small carpets to lay over the stone floor, and Gerty's father brought fresh flowers from his allotment garden. A new double bed, a small oak sideboard with matching table and four chairs, and a living room suite took all of their savings, but everything was fully paid for. Much fun and laughter accompanied all this work, and they were both very grateful for the help--and very happy with the outcome.
Life continued apace for Gerty and Ernest. They continued to work hard, saved as much as they could for a house of their own "in the future," enjoyed their lovely little home, and discovered they had a knack for entertaining. Nothing fancy--but friends and family were always welcome and visited frequently. Gerty's cousin Agnes bought a house and lived just across the street with her husband Sidney and young daughter Norma.
One day, Lily, now Tommy's fiancee, sought out Gerty. "I just want to tell you that there's a woman who's nobbling Ernest," she said gravely. "I popped into Taylor's Chemist Shop yesterday, and there was your Ernest leaning across the counter talking to a blonde with a big bust, and she was flirting with him like mad. I understand this is not the first time, either--usually around 5 o'clock," she ended with a flourish. Gerty thought it over, and decided to follow up. A couple of days later, at 5 p.m. on the dot, she stood in front of Taylor's and looked through the shop window. Sure enough, there was Ernest laughing and talking with the blonde with the big bust. Gerty opened the door, and as the bell tinkled to sound the entrance of a customer, the blonde turned and looked at her, then said brightly, "I'll just step back so you can serve this lady, Ernest." And she smiled and wiggled her fingers at him. Throwing back her head, Gerty loudly declared, "I am no lady, I am his wife!"
The blonde's smile faded, and she hurriedly left the shop. Ernest blushed and stammered, but Gerty silently turned and went home. History once again has nothing to say about a conversation in which Gerty took an important part, but Lily told Thomas Ambrose, who read his errant son the riot act. He ended by pointing out that Ernest was very lucky to have a good wife like Gerty, and that he fully expected to hear no more about any such caddish behavior. Case closed.
A little over a year later, and on a beautiful summer day in 1938, Ernest and Gerty took a walk from Old Farnley to New Farnley along Lawns Lane. Across from what was then known as Quarry House, they saw the foundations of fourteen new semi-detached homes. The builder himself happened to be there, checking on his crew and the work they were carrying out. The young couple stopped to chat with him, and found out that each home would cost three hundred pounds with a ten percent deposit. Every few days thereafter, they walked by to watch the progress--with longing in their eyes. "You're a nice young couple," the builder remarked one day, "and I think you'd like to buy one, wouldn't you?" "Yes, sir," said Ernest eagerly, "But we hadn't planned on buying a house so soon, and besides, we don't have thirty pounds saved up yet." "If you're really keen," said the builder, "I will lend you thirty pounds, interest free, and you can pay me back at one pound a week for thirty weeks. Can you manage that?" After a hurried consultation about the state of their finances, Ernest whispered, "What do you think, Trudy?" "We can manage," she said, and so the deal was made--and kept--over a simple handshake.
In the autumn of 1938, Gerty and Ernest proudly moved into their brand new home, but there was an underlying apprehension in the air that was threatening to grow ever larger. The winds of war were beginning to blow in from the east. (to be continued)
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Neighbo(u)rs
When I was asked "Who are our neighbours?" at the Wesleyan Methodist Sunday School in Old Farnley, so many years ago, I thought it was a trick question. I expected an immediate gold star, as I knew the names of everyone on my street. But the waters were definitely muddied when I heard the story of The Good Samaritan, because it became a complicated exercise that I was not yet equipped to answer.
Who were my neighbours? Perhaps it depends on how the word is spelled.
The wonderful Wood family was our favorite neighbour when we lived at 28 Baronsmead in Whitkirk, Yorkshire. The mother, Monica, who became my Mum's friend, tended such a beautiful garden filled with riotous color and complementary textures, that my mother, each spring, vowed she was going to emulate her. However, by June, Mum had changed her mind, as it took more time and effort than she was willing to expend. But we all continued to enjoy Monica's gift of beauty to the entire street.
One kindly neighbor on Malcolm Avenue in West Los Angeles, was an elderly man who had a boa constrictor named Curly. The poor creature's spine was lumpy and misshapen, and its skin literally curled over bony knobs along the entire length of his body. My son was Curly's regular visitor, and when Roger's two cousins, Jason and Luke, visited from Adelaide, Australia, Curly was an integral part of the welcoming committee. Later, when I was a docent at the Los Angeles Zoo and our neighbor developed leukemia, I found Curly a new home there. The malformed boa fascinated the children, and became a regular in the Discovery Circle (where we handled the animals and brought them up close to the children), along with a ferret, a burrowing owl, an opposum, a turtle, and a hawk.
Once, on a chilly day when I went to the reptile house to pick up a ball python to take the shedding Curly's place, the curator urged me to put the cloth bag holding the snake under my coat to keep it warm. "It's the neighborly thing to do for our scaly buddies," he said. So I did, and hugged it close. When it was time to display the small python, my ear heard a rattle and my hand definitely felt one as I reached into the bag to take out the snake. I snatched back my hand, pulled the drawstring tightly on the bag, dangled it far from my body (in the cold air but who cared at that point?), and vibrated with anxiety all the way back to the reptile house where I vociferously complained about some lunatic who had given me a dangerous animal instead of a benign one. "I could've been killed," I asserted to loud gales of laughter. In the bag was the ball python with a rattler's rattle stuck to its spine--a reptile lover's idea of a joke. Ha ha.
My religious great grandmother, Emma Bradbury, was a well-known figure in her neighbourhood of Wortley, Leeds. She was an important woman in the Salvation Army and took all its tenets seriously, including abstinence from alcohol. She was a regular visitor to the local public houses, though, where she either kindly cajoled or more grimly bullied their clientele to donate a little of their booze money for good causes in the area. She could always be depended upon to utter entertaining sallies as she did so, no doubt accounting for her great success in this regard. "You in your small corner . . ." were her words of thanks, taken from the lyrics of a well-known children's hymn.
Each Christmas, when my mother was small, Emma took her to Farnley Hall, the stately home of the Armitage family, to receive its annual donation for the Salvation Army. It was a memorable experience for Mum. As Emma was always invited to stay for a cup of tea in the kitchen, Mum looked forward to a slice of creamy sponge cake and a fizzy drink, treats that were unaffordable for her parents. It was also a time when she felt special: her sisters weren't there.
During World War II in England, neighbours came from farther afield. When my grandparents' house was completely obliterated by a bomb, my mother offered them a home with her in the countryside of New Farnley. That lasted for three weeks, which was as long as my grandmother could stand the quiet of the surrounding fields and woods. Instead, she volunteered to run a boarding house in the area known as The Grasmeres for single male war workers from around the country who had been posted to Leeds, and where she could once again enjoy the trams and other traffic noises. One of her boarders, Mr. Hastie, stayed for quite a while after the war. He entertained my cousin Norman and me at dinner by feeding us his peas from the edge of a knife whenever my grandmother was out of the room. Another boarder, Cecil, also remained after the war, and worked at the News Theatre in Leeds. He always sneaked in Dad and me for free. It was where I fell in love with Laurel and Hardy and took an immediate dislike to The Three Stooges.
When my father was demobilized in 1946, there were still some German prisoners-of-war in the neighbourhood who were awaiting repatriation. My father always spoke to these lonely men as they walked down Lawns Lane for exercise. He befriended one of them who had a daughter the same age as me (four). He was a cobbler, and he made me a pair of lovely slippers that he wove from some rope.
One day, a couple of neighbourhood men came to the house to demand that Dad either stop fraternizing with the enemy or they would see to it that he was ostracized. My father was furious. His response was to tell them to go jump in the lake (in Old Farnley about a mile away): "I've done my bit for King and country," he told them. "And I was in the Middle East and separated from my wife and child for over three years," he continued. "My daughter was 3 months old when I left, and three-and-a-half years old when I saw her next. The friggin' war is now over," he said fiercely, "And some of these poor buggers have had the same experience as me-- haven't seen their kids in years, and are in need of some kind words and a friendly gesture. So go right ahead and ostracize me."
Neighbo(u)rs. I guess, like most other things, they're in the sight of the beholder.
Who were my neighbours? Perhaps it depends on how the word is spelled.
The wonderful Wood family was our favorite neighbour when we lived at 28 Baronsmead in Whitkirk, Yorkshire. The mother, Monica, who became my Mum's friend, tended such a beautiful garden filled with riotous color and complementary textures, that my mother, each spring, vowed she was going to emulate her. However, by June, Mum had changed her mind, as it took more time and effort than she was willing to expend. But we all continued to enjoy Monica's gift of beauty to the entire street.
One kindly neighbor on Malcolm Avenue in West Los Angeles, was an elderly man who had a boa constrictor named Curly. The poor creature's spine was lumpy and misshapen, and its skin literally curled over bony knobs along the entire length of his body. My son was Curly's regular visitor, and when Roger's two cousins, Jason and Luke, visited from Adelaide, Australia, Curly was an integral part of the welcoming committee. Later, when I was a docent at the Los Angeles Zoo and our neighbor developed leukemia, I found Curly a new home there. The malformed boa fascinated the children, and became a regular in the Discovery Circle (where we handled the animals and brought them up close to the children), along with a ferret, a burrowing owl, an opposum, a turtle, and a hawk.
Once, on a chilly day when I went to the reptile house to pick up a ball python to take the shedding Curly's place, the curator urged me to put the cloth bag holding the snake under my coat to keep it warm. "It's the neighborly thing to do for our scaly buddies," he said. So I did, and hugged it close. When it was time to display the small python, my ear heard a rattle and my hand definitely felt one as I reached into the bag to take out the snake. I snatched back my hand, pulled the drawstring tightly on the bag, dangled it far from my body (in the cold air but who cared at that point?), and vibrated with anxiety all the way back to the reptile house where I vociferously complained about some lunatic who had given me a dangerous animal instead of a benign one. "I could've been killed," I asserted to loud gales of laughter. In the bag was the ball python with a rattler's rattle stuck to its spine--a reptile lover's idea of a joke. Ha ha.
My religious great grandmother, Emma Bradbury, was a well-known figure in her neighbourhood of Wortley, Leeds. She was an important woman in the Salvation Army and took all its tenets seriously, including abstinence from alcohol. She was a regular visitor to the local public houses, though, where she either kindly cajoled or more grimly bullied their clientele to donate a little of their booze money for good causes in the area. She could always be depended upon to utter entertaining sallies as she did so, no doubt accounting for her great success in this regard. "You in your small corner . . ." were her words of thanks, taken from the lyrics of a well-known children's hymn.
Each Christmas, when my mother was small, Emma took her to Farnley Hall, the stately home of the Armitage family, to receive its annual donation for the Salvation Army. It was a memorable experience for Mum. As Emma was always invited to stay for a cup of tea in the kitchen, Mum looked forward to a slice of creamy sponge cake and a fizzy drink, treats that were unaffordable for her parents. It was also a time when she felt special: her sisters weren't there.
During World War II in England, neighbours came from farther afield. When my grandparents' house was completely obliterated by a bomb, my mother offered them a home with her in the countryside of New Farnley. That lasted for three weeks, which was as long as my grandmother could stand the quiet of the surrounding fields and woods. Instead, she volunteered to run a boarding house in the area known as The Grasmeres for single male war workers from around the country who had been posted to Leeds, and where she could once again enjoy the trams and other traffic noises. One of her boarders, Mr. Hastie, stayed for quite a while after the war. He entertained my cousin Norman and me at dinner by feeding us his peas from the edge of a knife whenever my grandmother was out of the room. Another boarder, Cecil, also remained after the war, and worked at the News Theatre in Leeds. He always sneaked in Dad and me for free. It was where I fell in love with Laurel and Hardy and took an immediate dislike to The Three Stooges.
When my father was demobilized in 1946, there were still some German prisoners-of-war in the neighbourhood who were awaiting repatriation. My father always spoke to these lonely men as they walked down Lawns Lane for exercise. He befriended one of them who had a daughter the same age as me (four). He was a cobbler, and he made me a pair of lovely slippers that he wove from some rope.
One day, a couple of neighbourhood men came to the house to demand that Dad either stop fraternizing with the enemy or they would see to it that he was ostracized. My father was furious. His response was to tell them to go jump in the lake (in Old Farnley about a mile away): "I've done my bit for King and country," he told them. "And I was in the Middle East and separated from my wife and child for over three years," he continued. "My daughter was 3 months old when I left, and three-and-a-half years old when I saw her next. The friggin' war is now over," he said fiercely, "And some of these poor buggers have had the same experience as me-- haven't seen their kids in years, and are in need of some kind words and a friendly gesture. So go right ahead and ostracize me."
Neighbo(u)rs. I guess, like most other things, they're in the sight of the beholder.
Friday, February 24, 2012
Power--But No Glory
It was a nightmare.
A number of men, all in a row, some representing religious institutions, were testifying about the horror of birth control, and why women in the United States should not be using any form of it. But wait. It wasn't a dream. I actually saw this scene, broadcast from the U.S. Congress, in February, 2012. At the same time, the state of Virginia was actually considering the governmental rape of women seeking abortion in the first trimester, by penetrating their vaginas with a foreign object in order to perform an ultrasound, so they have "all the information they need" before making this decision. The assumption that such a step has not been given any thought by the women about to undergo this procedure is so patronizing and insulting that it defies a coherent response.
Rape: penetration without consent.
But on February 28 I was rendered totally gob-smacked by the latest in spewed hatred from Rush Limbaugh. A female student at Georgetown University testified that her college friend lost an ovary because her insurance company refused to cover her treatment for cysts--which happened to be oral contraceptives. Limbaugh's rant, which I don't intend to repeat here, concluded with an astonishing demand that women who use contraceptives covered by their insurance policies, are sluts and prostitutes and should videotape their sexual liaisons and post them on-line for everyone to see. "I'm paying for them and this is what I want in return"--was his thesis. John Boehner said his remarks were inappropriate. Inappropriate? That's it?
In Cutting For Stone, Abraham Verghesi illustrates the plight of young women in Ethiopia whose lives are destroyed by fistulas, occurring in the area between the vagina and the rectum, as a result of being too young, we're talking 10-15 years of age, when giving birth to a child. These dreadful chasms in the body make it impossible for these poor girls to properly urinate or defecate, and they are thus treated as outcasts and pariahs because they are of no further use to their families or "society." And to add insult to injury, they reek of faeces, and must live outside their neighborhoods.
But what about female circumcision? And how many women insist that this dreadful "surgery" be carried out on their own daughters as a result of their acceptance of hundreds of years of an unquestioned barbaric practice? We can also include the partial sewing-up of the vagina, so that women experience pain, not pleasure, upon intercourse. If the idea is to keep the women faithful to their husbands, then I guess it works. I always thought that our Puritan outlook on sex--ostracism in Hester Prynne's case-- was bad enough, but this?
I saw a BBC documentary recently about forced marriages carried out under the radar in Indian and Pakistani neghborhoods in the United Kingdom. Some of the women ran away, but were hunted down by private detectives or were living in isolation with the ever-present fear that they would be discovered. I also read articles about the murder of young women who caused their families living in England to lose their "honor" because they were: a) seen unaccompanied with a young man, b) were the victims of rape, or c) were caught after they ran away in an unsuccessful attempt to avoid their fathers' or brothers' wrath.
And now this--the wanna-be presidential candidates in the United States republican party decrying birth control.
What is it about the need for dominance and power among some religious males over their female counterparts, aided and abetted in many instances by many female "believers?" Who are these people? We're certainly not in Somalia or Ethiopia or Saudi Arabia or Russia, which latter has its own thriving sex-industry commodity: young women who are either kidnapped or promised a better life elsewhere as an au pair, but who end up in brothels usually in the west. I don't let Thailand off the hook, either, as it is a mecca for pedophiles to indulge their proclivities with children who are sold by or kidnapped from their families.
Will we ever improve? Is it enough to shine candlelight in our own small corner of the world as some of us try to do?
As a point of interest, the manufacturers of Viagra haven't a care in the world.
A number of men, all in a row, some representing religious institutions, were testifying about the horror of birth control, and why women in the United States should not be using any form of it. But wait. It wasn't a dream. I actually saw this scene, broadcast from the U.S. Congress, in February, 2012. At the same time, the state of Virginia was actually considering the governmental rape of women seeking abortion in the first trimester, by penetrating their vaginas with a foreign object in order to perform an ultrasound, so they have "all the information they need" before making this decision. The assumption that such a step has not been given any thought by the women about to undergo this procedure is so patronizing and insulting that it defies a coherent response.
Rape: penetration without consent.
But on February 28 I was rendered totally gob-smacked by the latest in spewed hatred from Rush Limbaugh. A female student at Georgetown University testified that her college friend lost an ovary because her insurance company refused to cover her treatment for cysts--which happened to be oral contraceptives. Limbaugh's rant, which I don't intend to repeat here, concluded with an astonishing demand that women who use contraceptives covered by their insurance policies, are sluts and prostitutes and should videotape their sexual liaisons and post them on-line for everyone to see. "I'm paying for them and this is what I want in return"--was his thesis. John Boehner said his remarks were inappropriate. Inappropriate? That's it?
In Cutting For Stone, Abraham Verghesi illustrates the plight of young women in Ethiopia whose lives are destroyed by fistulas, occurring in the area between the vagina and the rectum, as a result of being too young, we're talking 10-15 years of age, when giving birth to a child. These dreadful chasms in the body make it impossible for these poor girls to properly urinate or defecate, and they are thus treated as outcasts and pariahs because they are of no further use to their families or "society." And to add insult to injury, they reek of faeces, and must live outside their neighborhoods.
But what about female circumcision? And how many women insist that this dreadful "surgery" be carried out on their own daughters as a result of their acceptance of hundreds of years of an unquestioned barbaric practice? We can also include the partial sewing-up of the vagina, so that women experience pain, not pleasure, upon intercourse. If the idea is to keep the women faithful to their husbands, then I guess it works. I always thought that our Puritan outlook on sex--ostracism in Hester Prynne's case-- was bad enough, but this?
I saw a BBC documentary recently about forced marriages carried out under the radar in Indian and Pakistani neghborhoods in the United Kingdom. Some of the women ran away, but were hunted down by private detectives or were living in isolation with the ever-present fear that they would be discovered. I also read articles about the murder of young women who caused their families living in England to lose their "honor" because they were: a) seen unaccompanied with a young man, b) were the victims of rape, or c) were caught after they ran away in an unsuccessful attempt to avoid their fathers' or brothers' wrath.
And now this--the wanna-be presidential candidates in the United States republican party decrying birth control.
What is it about the need for dominance and power among some religious males over their female counterparts, aided and abetted in many instances by many female "believers?" Who are these people? We're certainly not in Somalia or Ethiopia or Saudi Arabia or Russia, which latter has its own thriving sex-industry commodity: young women who are either kidnapped or promised a better life elsewhere as an au pair, but who end up in brothels usually in the west. I don't let Thailand off the hook, either, as it is a mecca for pedophiles to indulge their proclivities with children who are sold by or kidnapped from their families.
Will we ever improve? Is it enough to shine candlelight in our own small corner of the world as some of us try to do?
As a point of interest, the manufacturers of Viagra haven't a care in the world.
Saturday, February 18, 2012
Before I Was Here, Part III
Gerty did not immediately accept Ernest's ring. She knew she was falling in love with him, and that it was all over between her and Fred, but she needed to speak with her former fiance, and to set things right at home. Ernest agreed. When Gerty went back in the house with Fred's ring in her pocket, Milly was waiting for her. "I don't like the way you've been behaving, my girl," she said. "You're not being fair to Fred, and you're not being fair to me, either. I didn't bring you up to wear one man's ring while you're going out with another. I want you to give me the ring Fred gave you." Gerty obeyed, handed it over, and she never saw it again.
History is silent on her conversation with Fred, although the long-suffering suitor must have been prepared for it. A few days later, Ernest came by to speak to her father. It was much easier than he had anticipated. Milly wasn't home, and George Henry was an agreeable and affable man; even more so when Ernest took him out to the pub for a pint later on. When he found out that his daughter was Trudy on Ernest's lips, George simply said his usual, "Oh, aye," and it was left at that.
Ernest formally proposed to Gerty that night, and although she thought initially that his ring looked a little "lost" on her finger compared to the one she had given up, she was now madly in love and eager to look at the ring happily ever after. Milly contented herself with a minimal: "Is that the best he can do?" and the matter was settled.
The following weekend, the happy couple went to Bridlington for the day. On the way home, however, the motorbike hit a greasy spot and it took all of Ernest's skill to keep it upright as it skidded over the road and into the hedgerow. Gerty's face hit Ernest's back with quite a force. "Are you all right?" he asked in a panic, as he turned off the engine and dismounted to check on her. Her nose was bleeding, but she smiled up at him to assure him she was all right. Ernest's eyes widened and he took a step backwards. "Are you sure you're okay?" he asked again, but his mouth was twitching. "I'm thure ath can be," she answered, and then stopped in horror. She could feel her tongue poking through a space in the front of her mouth where her teeth should have been. Oh no! Her bridge was gone. When she was in her early teens, she had suffered a fall which had knocked out her two front teeth. Understandably in any such sensitive young woman, her edentulous state was a topic fraught with danger for anyone who dared to mention it. Ernest took out his handkerchief to wipe her face as her nose was bleeding, but despite his best efforts, he started to laugh.
Gerty was mortified, but her embarrassment quickly turned to anger as her face reddened, her nose dripped blood on her chin, and Ernest's concern for her seemed shallow in the extreme, in light of his amusement. She snatched his handkerchief from his grasp as she stepped off the bike, began to look on it, under it and through her clothing for the errant dentures, crying, "Thtop laughing at me. I hate you, and I'll never thpeak to you again." As Ernest turned away to search along the roadside, Gerty looked up and shrieked, "There they are. Thtop. Thtop. My teeth are thtuck to the back of your jacket." And sure enough, they were firmly embedded in the leather, with the metal prongs gaily glinting in the afternoon sun.
Once her bridge was back in place, Gerty calmed down. Ernest apologized profusely for his ungallant behavior, then winked at her, chucked her under the chin, and gave her a big kiss as he tenderly wiped the remaining blood from her face. Then they looked at each other--and laughed until their sides ached. Except for a slightly swollen nose and slightly damaged dignity, Gerty recovered completely from the entire event.
Ernest was now a regular visitor to the Balmforth household, and he was a paragon of virtue in front of Milly. She began to soften towards him, and allowed that he was a good looking young man, he worked hard at his job at Taylor's Chemist Shop, and was responsibly saving as much money as he could for the future. In addition, he was now a dispenser, which was a considerable step up from a shop assistant. He was obviously smart, and certainly very good company even if he was a bit glib.
Gerty was working hard at her two jobs. She was also sewing her trousseau, and had just finished a beautiful green suit, which she tried on in front of her friend, Edna. "I don't know when I'll wear it," she said as she caressed the material. "Maybe on my honeymoon." Edna was filled with admiration. A few days later, Gerty ran into Edna on her way home from work. "So you couldn't wait to wear it, could you?" Edna laughed. "What do you mean?" asked Gerty. "Your green suit. I saw you going lickety split under the Wellington Street bridge the other night." "Wellington Street bridge?" repeated a puzzled Gerty. Then declared, "It wasn't me." "Yes, it was," insisted Edna. "I'd know that suit anywhere."
Saying a quick goodbye, Gerty hurried home, her temper rising. She hurtled through the front door and confronted her sister who took one look at her face and tried to walk away. "How could you!" Gerty shouted. Beaty stopped. "I have no idea what you're talking about," she said smoothly. "Don't you lie to me," Gerty shouted again. "My suit was seen walking under the Wellington Street bridge, and you're the only one who steals my clothes. How could you?" she repeated. "I haven't even worn it myself, yet." "Oh, well," shrugged Beaty. "It's very comfortable, so you'll enjoy it when you put it on." History is once again silent about a conversation in which Gerty was involved. However, it may be worth noting that fifty years later, the green suit was still a bone of contention between the sisters.
The wedding plans were small. After a simple ceremony in the church at which both families were present, a wedding breakfast was held at the Cemetery public house owned by friends on the bride's side, and appropriately named because it faced the local graveyard. Both Ernest and Gerty wore smart, new suits, and Gerty even flung a fox fur over her shoulder, the epitome of haute couture in June, 1937. In a summer season rife with national gossip, their marriage announcement in the local paper vied with news of the upcoming nuptials of the Duke and Duchess of Windsor. (to be continued)
History is silent on her conversation with Fred, although the long-suffering suitor must have been prepared for it. A few days later, Ernest came by to speak to her father. It was much easier than he had anticipated. Milly wasn't home, and George Henry was an agreeable and affable man; even more so when Ernest took him out to the pub for a pint later on. When he found out that his daughter was Trudy on Ernest's lips, George simply said his usual, "Oh, aye," and it was left at that.
Ernest formally proposed to Gerty that night, and although she thought initially that his ring looked a little "lost" on her finger compared to the one she had given up, she was now madly in love and eager to look at the ring happily ever after. Milly contented herself with a minimal: "Is that the best he can do?" and the matter was settled.
The following weekend, the happy couple went to Bridlington for the day. On the way home, however, the motorbike hit a greasy spot and it took all of Ernest's skill to keep it upright as it skidded over the road and into the hedgerow. Gerty's face hit Ernest's back with quite a force. "Are you all right?" he asked in a panic, as he turned off the engine and dismounted to check on her. Her nose was bleeding, but she smiled up at him to assure him she was all right. Ernest's eyes widened and he took a step backwards. "Are you sure you're okay?" he asked again, but his mouth was twitching. "I'm thure ath can be," she answered, and then stopped in horror. She could feel her tongue poking through a space in the front of her mouth where her teeth should have been. Oh no! Her bridge was gone. When she was in her early teens, she had suffered a fall which had knocked out her two front teeth. Understandably in any such sensitive young woman, her edentulous state was a topic fraught with danger for anyone who dared to mention it. Ernest took out his handkerchief to wipe her face as her nose was bleeding, but despite his best efforts, he started to laugh.
Gerty was mortified, but her embarrassment quickly turned to anger as her face reddened, her nose dripped blood on her chin, and Ernest's concern for her seemed shallow in the extreme, in light of his amusement. She snatched his handkerchief from his grasp as she stepped off the bike, began to look on it, under it and through her clothing for the errant dentures, crying, "Thtop laughing at me. I hate you, and I'll never thpeak to you again." As Ernest turned away to search along the roadside, Gerty looked up and shrieked, "There they are. Thtop. Thtop. My teeth are thtuck to the back of your jacket." And sure enough, they were firmly embedded in the leather, with the metal prongs gaily glinting in the afternoon sun.
Once her bridge was back in place, Gerty calmed down. Ernest apologized profusely for his ungallant behavior, then winked at her, chucked her under the chin, and gave her a big kiss as he tenderly wiped the remaining blood from her face. Then they looked at each other--and laughed until their sides ached. Except for a slightly swollen nose and slightly damaged dignity, Gerty recovered completely from the entire event.
Ernest was now a regular visitor to the Balmforth household, and he was a paragon of virtue in front of Milly. She began to soften towards him, and allowed that he was a good looking young man, he worked hard at his job at Taylor's Chemist Shop, and was responsibly saving as much money as he could for the future. In addition, he was now a dispenser, which was a considerable step up from a shop assistant. He was obviously smart, and certainly very good company even if he was a bit glib.
Gerty was working hard at her two jobs. She was also sewing her trousseau, and had just finished a beautiful green suit, which she tried on in front of her friend, Edna. "I don't know when I'll wear it," she said as she caressed the material. "Maybe on my honeymoon." Edna was filled with admiration. A few days later, Gerty ran into Edna on her way home from work. "So you couldn't wait to wear it, could you?" Edna laughed. "What do you mean?" asked Gerty. "Your green suit. I saw you going lickety split under the Wellington Street bridge the other night." "Wellington Street bridge?" repeated a puzzled Gerty. Then declared, "It wasn't me." "Yes, it was," insisted Edna. "I'd know that suit anywhere."
Saying a quick goodbye, Gerty hurried home, her temper rising. She hurtled through the front door and confronted her sister who took one look at her face and tried to walk away. "How could you!" Gerty shouted. Beaty stopped. "I have no idea what you're talking about," she said smoothly. "Don't you lie to me," Gerty shouted again. "My suit was seen walking under the Wellington Street bridge, and you're the only one who steals my clothes. How could you?" she repeated. "I haven't even worn it myself, yet." "Oh, well," shrugged Beaty. "It's very comfortable, so you'll enjoy it when you put it on." History is once again silent about a conversation in which Gerty was involved. However, it may be worth noting that fifty years later, the green suit was still a bone of contention between the sisters.
The wedding plans were small. After a simple ceremony in the church at which both families were present, a wedding breakfast was held at the Cemetery public house owned by friends on the bride's side, and appropriately named because it faced the local graveyard. Both Ernest and Gerty wore smart, new suits, and Gerty even flung a fox fur over her shoulder, the epitome of haute couture in June, 1937. In a summer season rife with national gossip, their marriage announcement in the local paper vied with news of the upcoming nuptials of the Duke and Duchess of Windsor. (to be continued)
Sunday, February 12, 2012
Annie Lizzie--A Quiet Life, Part II
The aforementioned wardrobe was always locked, and Aunty Annie had the only key, hidden--well--no-one knew where. One day, when listening in on adult conversations (a favorite pastime), I heard my mother say to Grandma, "Well, whatever does she keep in there that's such a secret?" Grandma sniffed, and said she supposed it was all her money, for she certainly didn't spend any on clothes or outings." Then, I heard Grandma tell my mother that she was tired of hearing the folk at the Forget-Me-Not Club say how lucky she was that she had such a wonderful sister. "They never tell Annie how lucky she is to have me," she complained. "They have no idea what she can be like. Trying to persuade her to part with even a shilling is an uphill battle, and getting her to do any vacuuming or sweeping is impossible. I wish I could switch places, so I could stop doing the heavier work and take over her dusting and dish-washing instead."
The only interesting part of this information for Pat and me was the wardrobe, and we tried hard to find out what Annie Lizzie had in it by searching for the key in the room (forbidden!) and following her up the stairs and peeking through the crack in the door. But she was too canny for us, and when she opened the wardrobe, her key appeared like magic in her fingers. She opened the door only wide enough to insert her hand and arm inside and pull out whatever she needed, usually an apron or cardigan. She was always neat and tidy, but her clothes were shabby, bearing out Grandma's observations.
When my brother was small, he dreaded going to Blackpool. He had asthma and eczema and they always, along with his agitation, became worse in the car on the way there. My poor, dear, little Tyke. He was obviously suffering, but didn't have the vocabulary yet to tell us why. Later on, we found out that the problem was with Annie Lizzie and her room. He slept in the bed "for spare" in my tap dancing space between the storage boxes and the wardrobe. He heard her clothes fall to the floor in the dark when she undressed, but he couldn't identify the sound; when he looked at Annie Lizzie laying tidily in bed, almost upright in her white gown with her hands folded neatly across her chest, he imagined he was sleeping in a room with a dead body; the wardrobe loomed over his bed like an ancient sepulchre holding who-knew-what horrors, and the gleaming white sheet was the spirit of Dearjim that looked as if it were moving in the shadows. I was probably sleeping with Grandma, but if I happened to be sleeping with Aunty Annie, he couldn't see me in the valley.
The only time Grandma was really furious with Pat and me was when we hid at the bottom of the stairs and cried, "Boo!" when Annie Lizzie came down. What a palaver. She clutched her bosom and staggered to the couch, falling backwards in a heap. She cried, "Oh, oh, oh," then closed her eyes and lay very still. Grandma bounded into the room, took in the scene, and in a deadly, quiet voice, ordered us to go outside by the front door and NOT TO MOVE. When Grandma joined us, she was trembling with anger. We were really scared as we thought we must have killed Aunty Annie. But it turned out the fury directed at us was because Grandma had spent a long time persuading her that, yes, she could manage to do a little sweeping, and Aunty Annie was preparing to try that very morning. In one fell swoop, we had ruined several weeks of sweet-talking. Once again, she was faced with having to do all the heavier work herself, and it was ALL OUR FAULT.
Not long after, Annie Lizzie issued a call to arms. It was a regular rallying cry, "Ants, Em'ly, Ants." Ants--the bane of their existence in the Blackpool house. The little critters usually congregated along the threshhold of the back door or along the window sill in the kitchen before beginning their foray into the house, and their numbers were legion. Hearing the alarm, Grandma prepared for action, armed with a tin of ant powder in each hand. At this point, Annie Lizzie, having completed her mission, was hors de combat, and stood back to encourage her sister's fight. The two of them were close allies--a veritable Betsey Trotwood and Mr. Dick of the Ant Brigade. Muttering under her breath, Grandma liberally sprinkled the powder on the intruders, and with brush and tray, swept the dead bodies into the dustbin. It was then cup-of-tea time to celebrate a battle won--but no resting on laurels as we all knew another assault by the little black devils was always in the offing.
When my parents, brother and I left England for Australia in 1958, the two sisters were still living together in Blackpool in peace and harmony--mostly. I recall that Annie Lizzie never spoke sharply to or grumbled about any of us, but loved us in a calm and quiet way. Grandma, talkative and in-charge, was realistic and pragmatic, but loved us anyway. I saw them once after that on a trip back to England nine years later. They were living with Grandma's daughter, my Aunt Emily--Pat's mother, and the three widows were amicably residing together in a large house in Burley-in-Wharfedale. Emily owned a business and worked away from home, but she did the sweeping. Grandma had taken over the dusting and dish-washing, but Annie Lizzie still got up to clear away the plates.
Many years later, I found out that when she was a young woman, Annie Lizzie had undergone a double mastectomy for cancer. I can't imagine what it must have been like to undergo such an ordeal with ether as the anesthetic, with women's breast surgery in its infancy, and with mutilation and its terrible scars as inevitable--a daily reminder of her ordeal. I thought about the courage of other women like her, who, when widowed, had only a small pension to sustain them, and so lived mainly through the largesse of siblings or extended family. Perhaps that's why she didn't spend very much. It is obvious that the family did not think she had a bad heart, and her long life also gainsays this conclusion. I am led to wonder how many years her fear, suffered in silence following her shocking diagnosis and treatment, really lasted, and how likely it was that such dread led to her palpitations and conviction that she was doomed to live the rest of her life in poor health. We'll never know.
I'm pretty sure she did look forward to all our visits, but her privacy, gained only in her bedroom, must have been treasured. Her scant property and personal papers most certainly deserved a home under lock and key in her old, oak wardrobe, don't you think?
Annie Elizabeth Slater Beaumont, c. 1883-1975. Annie Lizzie. Bless her.
The only interesting part of this information for Pat and me was the wardrobe, and we tried hard to find out what Annie Lizzie had in it by searching for the key in the room (forbidden!) and following her up the stairs and peeking through the crack in the door. But she was too canny for us, and when she opened the wardrobe, her key appeared like magic in her fingers. She opened the door only wide enough to insert her hand and arm inside and pull out whatever she needed, usually an apron or cardigan. She was always neat and tidy, but her clothes were shabby, bearing out Grandma's observations.
When my brother was small, he dreaded going to Blackpool. He had asthma and eczema and they always, along with his agitation, became worse in the car on the way there. My poor, dear, little Tyke. He was obviously suffering, but didn't have the vocabulary yet to tell us why. Later on, we found out that the problem was with Annie Lizzie and her room. He slept in the bed "for spare" in my tap dancing space between the storage boxes and the wardrobe. He heard her clothes fall to the floor in the dark when she undressed, but he couldn't identify the sound; when he looked at Annie Lizzie laying tidily in bed, almost upright in her white gown with her hands folded neatly across her chest, he imagined he was sleeping in a room with a dead body; the wardrobe loomed over his bed like an ancient sepulchre holding who-knew-what horrors, and the gleaming white sheet was the spirit of Dearjim that looked as if it were moving in the shadows. I was probably sleeping with Grandma, but if I happened to be sleeping with Aunty Annie, he couldn't see me in the valley.
The only time Grandma was really furious with Pat and me was when we hid at the bottom of the stairs and cried, "Boo!" when Annie Lizzie came down. What a palaver. She clutched her bosom and staggered to the couch, falling backwards in a heap. She cried, "Oh, oh, oh," then closed her eyes and lay very still. Grandma bounded into the room, took in the scene, and in a deadly, quiet voice, ordered us to go outside by the front door and NOT TO MOVE. When Grandma joined us, she was trembling with anger. We were really scared as we thought we must have killed Aunty Annie. But it turned out the fury directed at us was because Grandma had spent a long time persuading her that, yes, she could manage to do a little sweeping, and Aunty Annie was preparing to try that very morning. In one fell swoop, we had ruined several weeks of sweet-talking. Once again, she was faced with having to do all the heavier work herself, and it was ALL OUR FAULT.
Not long after, Annie Lizzie issued a call to arms. It was a regular rallying cry, "Ants, Em'ly, Ants." Ants--the bane of their existence in the Blackpool house. The little critters usually congregated along the threshhold of the back door or along the window sill in the kitchen before beginning their foray into the house, and their numbers were legion. Hearing the alarm, Grandma prepared for action, armed with a tin of ant powder in each hand. At this point, Annie Lizzie, having completed her mission, was hors de combat, and stood back to encourage her sister's fight. The two of them were close allies--a veritable Betsey Trotwood and Mr. Dick of the Ant Brigade. Muttering under her breath, Grandma liberally sprinkled the powder on the intruders, and with brush and tray, swept the dead bodies into the dustbin. It was then cup-of-tea time to celebrate a battle won--but no resting on laurels as we all knew another assault by the little black devils was always in the offing.
When my parents, brother and I left England for Australia in 1958, the two sisters were still living together in Blackpool in peace and harmony--mostly. I recall that Annie Lizzie never spoke sharply to or grumbled about any of us, but loved us in a calm and quiet way. Grandma, talkative and in-charge, was realistic and pragmatic, but loved us anyway. I saw them once after that on a trip back to England nine years later. They were living with Grandma's daughter, my Aunt Emily--Pat's mother, and the three widows were amicably residing together in a large house in Burley-in-Wharfedale. Emily owned a business and worked away from home, but she did the sweeping. Grandma had taken over the dusting and dish-washing, but Annie Lizzie still got up to clear away the plates.
Many years later, I found out that when she was a young woman, Annie Lizzie had undergone a double mastectomy for cancer. I can't imagine what it must have been like to undergo such an ordeal with ether as the anesthetic, with women's breast surgery in its infancy, and with mutilation and its terrible scars as inevitable--a daily reminder of her ordeal. I thought about the courage of other women like her, who, when widowed, had only a small pension to sustain them, and so lived mainly through the largesse of siblings or extended family. Perhaps that's why she didn't spend very much. It is obvious that the family did not think she had a bad heart, and her long life also gainsays this conclusion. I am led to wonder how many years her fear, suffered in silence following her shocking diagnosis and treatment, really lasted, and how likely it was that such dread led to her palpitations and conviction that she was doomed to live the rest of her life in poor health. We'll never know.
I'm pretty sure she did look forward to all our visits, but her privacy, gained only in her bedroom, must have been treasured. Her scant property and personal papers most certainly deserved a home under lock and key in her old, oak wardrobe, don't you think?
Annie Elizabeth Slater Beaumont, c. 1883-1975. Annie Lizzie. Bless her.
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