Funerals And Families
Without Prejudice
The chapel was the one where we went to farewell Lauren all those years ago, still beautiful, but mostly un remembered by me. This time I noticed all the details, the waiting room, the visitors book, the roses lying long stemmed in a basket. The programmes, never ever enough and immediately I see her photo on the front I feel tears well.
I promised myself no tears, be dignified, be sophisticated, not to fidget, not to cough, sneeze, clear my throat. The throat part is easy. I have laryngitis and whisper and croak my way through stilted conversation with the Usher. As usual I am way too early, but want no stress today, this day of goodbyes.
Flying down the freeway in 15 minutes instead of the usual 40.
And sophistication almost flew out the door as I exited my home this morning. Lunged on by the overenthusiastic German Sheperd pup, as ever she is delighted to see me as if for the first time. The grumpy cat, Nick, trying to weave his way through my legs and the gangly pup's legs nd I nudge them both away before they rip my new silky soft stockings, bought especially for the occasion.
I am dressed in a simple black dress, black wool jacket by Carla Zampatti, pearls at the neck and wrist. Sling back retro vintage heels. Layers for weird weather day as this one is. Threatening showers or sunlight in equal measure. Simple make up, except for the eyes that are heavily made up and that which will end up all over my eyelids before the day is out.
The rule about no crying broken later.
My Sister in Law's husband arrives, a bear of a man and his ever elegant wife. He all garrulous rambunctiousness that hides a genuine kindness. I see a nephew I haven't seen for a time and he grins and we hug and he has flown all the way from Perth, last night. He works in the mines on ridiculous money, he says, but he has paid off his house. Has an Irish girlfriend, now.
My girls arrive, with children in tow, one grand daughter hiding a bundle of joy tucked in her belly and with only four weeks to go. I stroke it almost absent mindedly as we talk. Both daughters already threatening tears but I am fine. I am dignified, mature, responsible I assure myself.
As if !
I have time to reflect, how she greeted me with open arms when I was but a girl of 16. Her and my Father in Law. On the farm, Mandalay, all those years ago. My Mum and Gwen long time correspondents by mail long before they met. Me deciding to stay in Victoria, and leaving home.
So many things I learned from her, this Ruth, this simple farmers wife, this friend.
Number one was never to use margarine, only butter in deference to the dairy farm.
Still followed.
She taught me to sew, crochet, cook, knit.
My substitute Mother.
To birth babies, to care for them, to cool them in excruciatingly long hot droning fly days.
To toughen up,suck it up, bear pain and sorrow like the imposters they are.
And after the service I am a crying, sniffing mess and want to lay down my head and just sob. Just sob.
A wake. Fresh sandwiches which are so welcome, and a cup of coffee. A time to catch up, a time to greet my beloved nephews and nieces, old relatives, new relatives. My ex is there but we don't speak. Too much emotion. I talk to his sisters and Aunts, his cousin who tells me how shattered Gwen was when Lauren died. It somehow seems fitting the service was at the same chapel. Grandma and granddaughter hand in hand walking on their last long journey together.
I see the surreptitious wiping of one eye by her youngest Son, Ivan. He loved his Mum. All the kids did. They were so special to her. And she to them. This ordinary woman, this housewife. She and I went to the U.K. Together in 1982. She so wise and unimpressed by blarney.
May she Rest In Peace xxxx
The chapel was the one where we went to farewell Lauren all those years ago, still beautiful, but mostly un remembered by me. This time I noticed all the details, the waiting room, the visitors book, the roses lying long stemmed in a basket. The programmes, never ever enough and immediately I see her photo on the front I feel tears well.
I promised myself no tears, be dignified, be sophisticated, not to fidget, not to cough, sneeze, clear my throat. The throat part is easy. I have laryngitis and whisper and croak my way through stilted conversation with the Usher. As usual I am way too early, but want no stress today, this day of goodbyes.
Flying down the freeway in 15 minutes instead of the usual 40.
And sophistication almost flew out the door as I exited my home this morning. Lunged on by the overenthusiastic German Sheperd pup, as ever she is delighted to see me as if for the first time. The grumpy cat, Nick, trying to weave his way through my legs and the gangly pup's legs nd I nudge them both away before they rip my new silky soft stockings, bought especially for the occasion.
I am dressed in a simple black dress, black wool jacket by Carla Zampatti, pearls at the neck and wrist. Sling back retro vintage heels. Layers for weird weather day as this one is. Threatening showers or sunlight in equal measure. Simple make up, except for the eyes that are heavily made up and that which will end up all over my eyelids before the day is out.
The rule about no crying broken later.
My Sister in Law's husband arrives, a bear of a man and his ever elegant wife. He all garrulous rambunctiousness that hides a genuine kindness. I see a nephew I haven't seen for a time and he grins and we hug and he has flown all the way from Perth, last night. He works in the mines on ridiculous money, he says, but he has paid off his house. Has an Irish girlfriend, now.
My girls arrive, with children in tow, one grand daughter hiding a bundle of joy tucked in her belly and with only four weeks to go. I stroke it almost absent mindedly as we talk. Both daughters already threatening tears but I am fine. I am dignified, mature, responsible I assure myself.
As if !
I have time to reflect, how she greeted me with open arms when I was but a girl of 16. Her and my Father in Law. On the farm, Mandalay, all those years ago. My Mum and Gwen long time correspondents by mail long before they met. Me deciding to stay in Victoria, and leaving home.
So many things I learned from her, this Ruth, this simple farmers wife, this friend.
Number one was never to use margarine, only butter in deference to the dairy farm.
Still followed.
She taught me to sew, crochet, cook, knit.
My substitute Mother.
To birth babies, to care for them, to cool them in excruciatingly long hot droning fly days.
To toughen up,suck it up, bear pain and sorrow like the imposters they are.
And after the service I am a crying, sniffing mess and want to lay down my head and just sob. Just sob.
A wake. Fresh sandwiches which are so welcome, and a cup of coffee. A time to catch up, a time to greet my beloved nephews and nieces, old relatives, new relatives. My ex is there but we don't speak. Too much emotion. I talk to his sisters and Aunts, his cousin who tells me how shattered Gwen was when Lauren died. It somehow seems fitting the service was at the same chapel. Grandma and granddaughter hand in hand walking on their last long journey together.
I see the surreptitious wiping of one eye by her youngest Son, Ivan. He loved his Mum. All the kids did. They were so special to her. And she to them. This ordinary woman, this housewife. She and I went to the U.K. Together in 1982. She so wise and unimpressed by blarney.
May she Rest In Peace xxxx
