by M Cunningham Webb
Poignant
When going to the Oncology Department on Wednesdays, with Tony for his treatment, at first I expected it to be scarily depressing and upsetting. Instead I found it to be an interesting cross section of fascinating characters, as most gatherings are. The children there were naughty and adorable even though they were also sick. The adults were a complex mixture of: chatterboxes, hard cases, leg pullers, well travelled wags and of course whingers and ‘sad sacks.’ The nursing staff was not made up of angels as you might expect, they were real people. One had crashed his car the previous day and complained about the cost of repairs. A second, newly separated, was doing the ‘I’m a liberated woman’ act. A third showed newly taken pictures of his children. All were efficient and compassionate, even though they were overworked. On the way home, I reflected on the poignancy of it all.
Bearded Men
The men I have loved in the past and the man I currently love have all worn beards. If I found myself in a room full of men I would only notice the bearded ones amongst them. Does this suggest that in my deepest instincts, I craved ‘a caveman?’ I don’t think so. Maybe it is conditioning of a more subtle kind. As a little girl I remember looking at a very handsome man, with facial hair, in a sepia photograph. To my eyes he was more handsome than Rock Hudson or Glen Ford. Whoever he was, (my deceased grandfather, maybe,) he has had a major influence on my life, even though we had never met. I seem to have been looking for someone just like him.
One of my Earliest Memories
One of my earliest memories is of an embarrassing incident when I was less than three years old. I saw my Nana walking up our street wearing her tan coat and hat. Hurrying as fast as my chubby little legs could carry me, I ran to meet her, before she reached our front door. With great delight I threw my arms around her knees and looked up expecting to hear her kind words and to see her smiling down at me. Instead, a different woman, who wasn’t my Nana at all, was scowling down at me and shaking me free of her legs. I can still remember the feeling of acute embarrassment, which I experienced, for the first time in my life.
She threw the First Punch.
“She threw the first punch, me Lord,” Catty Barry told the judge, pointing her finger in anger at her opponent.
“She was being nasty and insulting and she called me establishment a bawdy house, your honour. When I told her to leave, she punched me on the jaw and pushed me hard. Then she had the audacity to tell me that me nose was like the last rose of summer.”
Catty Barry stopped, apparently still seething from the insult.
The Judge was clearly intrigued and inquired,
“What happened then, Miss Barry?”
“Well I put her in her place, me Lord, by telling her, ‘well, at least I not blooming alone.’”
I was so relieved
He looked nothing like his photo on his profile page, on the internet dating website. Obviously he had it taken many years ago, before the beer belly and the dejected look. I was so relieved that I had only agreed to meet him for lunch. I insisted in paying for myself, so that there would be no hidden obligations. After ten minutes of continuous sarcasm about his ex wife I decided he was neither attractive in looks nor manner. Once I had finished my eight dollar ‘special’ at the bowls club restaurant, I could tell him, easily, “You are probably a nice person with good qualities but we have absolutely nothing in common.”
How are you?
“How are you?” he asked as we shook hands. I realised it was a habitual platitude and that he didn’t really expect an answer. I fell into the trap of saying,
Fine, how are you?”
I could see his chest puff up as he started his spiel, which had all the signs of being well rehearsed. I got it all: how much his back hurt, how his ex was a bitch who fleeced him, how his kids didn’t want anything to do with him. This was followed by how he had lost his job and all the other woes he had to share. On and on he droned. When he stopped for breath I successfully interjected, “I am sorry about all that. I only came to say that I can’t stay for coffee with you, today. I remembered an hour ago that I have another appointment, which is really urgent and could not be postponed.”
Heading for the door I figured that it was probably the shortest internet date I had had so far.
Going Back
It is lovely to go back although it is not always easy. Everyone seems the same and it seems like I have changed immeasurably because of many new experiences. It takes a day or two to get over my jetlag and to get back on the same wavelength that I was on 22 years ago. That was when l left to live in another country at the opposite side of the world. People act as if it doesn’t matter that I’ve been gone for so long but the gaps between me and those I have loved my whole life, sometimes seem insurmountable. There is a feeling of separation which adds to the notion that you are in some sort of time warp. Add to this the fact that I get lost in the city where I grew up because of a new one way traffic system. There is a tunnel under the river that was never there before. Seventeen new suburbs have extended the city outwards to join up with what once were country towns. There are also important things that will always stay the same: those who really do care, the friendliness, the quick sense of humour, the accents, the attitudes, ‘the Guinness and the rain.’
Coffee
Don’t offer me instant coffee, ever! I grew up with a bottle of Iral (like Camp) coffee in the cupboard; it was made from chicory essence and tasted quite good when added to boiled milk. It was almost the same as the enjoyable milky stuff they served in the coffee bars, down town, in my teens. Then I travelled to work in Italy and discovered the true meaning of the word COFFEE. On my days off, I would leave the house, where I had a job as a nanny, at 6.00 am and head into the city. I’d stop at a bar, which opened that early to serve customers coffee on their way to work. Having bought two demitasse cups of black and strong coffee, I would throw them back one after the other, as I had seen the locals do. The wonderful liquid coursed through my veins and I could feel the full extent of the caffeine hit. Oh, yes, good coffee is my drug of choice.
Edinburgh
If ever there was a city where I felt I belonged, even though I wasn’t born there and I had never lived there, it is Edinburgh. I felt instantly at home, like I wasn’t just a visitor on my very first and every subsequent visit there. Maybe I belonged there in a previous life. Edinburgh is essentially a ‘lang toon’ or long town with its one long beautiful picturesque main street. All other streets then run parallel to that on the south side of the city. It was the design of the original town which has expanded into the breathtakingly stunning city of today. The royal mile ambles as it climbs gently up towards the magnificent Edinburgh Castle. The historical towers seem to overlook and survey with pride the buildings and streets below and if watching carefully over its subjects, like a parent does their family. My joy is that every time I go back there I still continue to get that feeling.
My Musical
I love all musical theatre and have an eclectic taste. However, the musical ‘Hair’ is very special to me. I first saw it in my twenties and its naivety and simplicity spoke directly to me, making the musical a show dear to my heart. The sketchy storyline didn’t take from it, nor did the innocent nude scene which shocked the ‘pillars of society’ at that time. The anti-war and anti-establishment motifs were the main appeal, as they were the voice of a whole generation of young people; my generation. Add that sense of belonging then to the musical score, which for its era was truly innovative and fresh. Some are still widely played as classics of modern ‘show tunes.’ The Age of Aquarius, Frank Mills and the Hair Anthem at up there with the numbers that will always transport me back to my youth.
Redhead
When your parents and your entire family are redheads, like you are, you learn early on to tolerate nicknames and teasing. “The Foxy Family” and “Copper Nobs” where shouted at us as we walked home from school. New teachers called me “the girl with the red hair” for a long time before they learned my name. People suggested that there must have been lots of fighting in our house, as redheads are supposed to be fiery. This was not true. I believe we had possibly the same number of fights as any other family and probably a lot fewer than most. I sometimes hated my colouring until when in my teens I realised that it made me noticeable and marked me as being unique. Our parents told us our hair was beautiful and made us feel that we were special because of it. We were advised that red was not a good colour to wear, as it clashed with our colouring. I’ve been called: Fox, Red, Rusty and Carrot Top. In Australia they added Ranga (from Orang-utan) and Blue (being the opposite of red.) Now that I am losing my hair colour as I age, I keep enhancing it (cosmetically) because it has become an interictal part of who I am.
Excuses
I could write an epistle about the excuses I’ve been given by students, over the years, who had not completed homework or an assignment on time.
“I put it on the laundry bench while I looked for football socks for the game this afternoon, Miss, and then my bother tried to grab the same pair of socks and he knocked my assignment into the washing machine while the lid was open and the machine was working.” That was one of the longest excuses I’ve ever heard.
“The dog ate it, Miss,” was the shortest. “I thought it wasn’t due until Monday, Miss,” was the most frequently used. The best and most honest excuse award went to the boy who told me, “I just didn’t know how to start it, Miss, and I was too embarrassed to ask. It would mean admitting that I wasn’t paying attention in class when you explained it.” Teachers hear all the excuses you can imagine. Is it surprising that they doubt them all?
My Grandmother
Helena was my grandmother. She was widowed at thirty seven and reared eleven children by working three jobs in the days before widow’s pensions. “She had to be both mother and father to us while we were growing up,” my mother told me. This suggested that my grandmother was strong, firm and in control. But to me growing up she always seemed kind, calm and relaxed. I slept in her house every night from the age of thirteen. She read as many as ten library books a week while wearing two or three pairs of glasses at a time, because she had cataracts. My grandmother loved murder mysteries and the book dust covers were often filled with gory, graphic illustrations. She sat comfortably, next to the gas fire, knees apart while reading and often lit her cigarette off the end of the last one. This resulted in a yellow streak in her otherwise white hair from the smoke. As the ash fell, it gathered in the dip of her apron skirt, which doubled as an ashtray. We sat and read together in compatible silence. When it came time for bed, she stood up and shook the ash out the back door before putting her cat, Manky, outside to perform her ablutions for the night.
Red
“Red,” they said, “will clash with you hair colour so you should not wear it.” As a result I’ve never worn it much myself but have always admired it on other people.
Film stars wore red but it was considered loud and attention seeking, in the era in which I grew up. It was probably too vibrant and looked ridiculous in the often rainy landscape and cold weather back home.
“She was like a Yank, all dressed in red,” I once heard a neighbour describe her son’s new girlfriend. My Nana, who couldn’t whisper even if she tried, once remarked as on St. Patrick’s Bridge, we passed a woman wearing a splendid red hat,
“Red hat, no drawers.”
Favourite Movie Derived from a Book
My favourite film derived from a book was ‘Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone.’ I was in awe of J.K. Rowling for writing something that boys between the ages of twelve and fifteen actually wanted to read, without coercion. One day during the school holiday, I spotted the film in DVD in the shop across the road from my unit in Fingal. It was a combined food store cum bottle shop cum post office cum video store cum fast food outlet. I went to buy vinegar and came back clutching the new Harry Potter film. Having made myself comfortable for the afternoon, I revelled in watching it twice so as not to miss anything. The wonderful interpretation, special effects and acting were all superb. It surpassed my imaginative visions in my head, as I read the book. I was really impressed by the excellence of the film and my appetite was whet for the others still to be made, from the rest of the series.
What I Learned this Week
This week I have learned that my mood has lifted and that I feel motivated to start writing again. My daughters will be surprised to find me standing outside of ‘my Grief Cage,’ when they come to give me support, on Tony’s anniversary. I have also learned that it is not necessarily those big occasions, which we seem to dread, like: birthdays, Christmas, and anniversaries etc. which are the most difficult. Rather, it is the memories of walking on the beach where we saw whales, the curry night with friends, the time I got heat stroke at Woodford and Tony bought me some iced tea. Those are the kind of memorable incidents which I want to hold on to for ever.
Recovery
Recovery they call it, as if I was getting over a serious medical procedure or a long illness. I don’t feel like that, though. It is more like I have been suspended for a long time on a cold, dull plain where I am slightly removed from where everyone else is normal. I didn’t want to get involved with their normality, it was too painful. It was a bit self indulgent, that self imposed isolation, where I stayed until I was ready to be me again. Thankfully, I wasn’t going insane as I had imagined at times. I was just giving myself time to adjust to what has to be my future.
Getting up
Sometimes it is easy. I jump out of bed when the alarm on my phone rings, hop in the shower and get dressed. Then I eat something and leave the house on a mission to go and do something. When I stay at home, I’m usually tackling the chores that must be done, not always with enthusiasm. At other times, like today, I lay awake listening to the heavy rain and thought; I have nothing or nobody to need me out of bed and functioning. Then it is a real chore to drag myself to the kitchen and make a choice about what to eat. I sit around in my night clothes, messing with the computer and wasting time all day. Still the phone doesn’t ring and the mail box is empty. I hear my mother’s voice encouraging me to, “Count your blessings,” and “There are always people who are worse off than you are.” Then I think to myself, if I only accomplish one thing today, then I won’t be a complete failure. I put a load in the washing machine. Feeble success!
This collection of 3 minute reflections is from stimuli at the WordsFlow Writers' Group which I attend. I am surprised at how much they reveal about my feelings at the times I was writing them.
0 comments:
Post a Comment