At birth I was found to have what was described as an 'alternating squint', which made me a pathetic wee thing. One eye went into the corner near my nose and when I covered the bad eye with my hand the other eye went into the middle, hence 'alternating'. So I wasn't a pretty sight, as well as being very tiny.
Mum and dad were devastated, of course, for who wants a child with a visible defect that other kids can ridicule?
So right from being a small child I had regular trips to the hospital for eye tests to see if the squint could be corrected. And at three years old I was prescribed glasses.
The ophthalmologist decided to operate on my eyes at 4 years old, after I had been wearing little NHS round pink specs for a year - they were tied on by having elastic around the back of my head.
So as a small child I was admitted to hospital and one eye was operated on. When I woke up from the surgery I was terrified to discover that both of my arms were heavily bandaged. I was frightened that something bad had happened that they hadn't told me about.
What the bandages were actually for was to stop me lifting my arms and rubbing my eyes and causing damage. What a relief!
Then followed a further four years of wearing glasses, regular hospital visits and an occasional elastoplast on top of the lens covering my good eye, because the other eye had been labelled 'lazy' and needed to work on its own, not just slide into the corner.
To be fair, the condition is hereditary and my auntie (mum's sister) suffered from the same thing - but hers had never been corrected.
At age 8 I was admitted once again to the hospital and this time the surgery was carried out on the other eye, the eye muscles adjusted in length so that now when I looked at anyone my two eyes worked in tandem and neither eye was misbehaving.
Mum and dad were distraught each time I had to stay in hospital and my older brother pined for me while I was away. Nobody to fight with, I thought.
But I was very happy to go home at the end of the week, because I had spent my 8th birthday in hospital, and it was like Christmas, arriving home to hugs and presents.
The result of these operations was near-perfectly straight eyes. I still had to wear glasses to improve my vision but no-one could accuse me of having crooked eyes. And coloured contact lenses are a real bonus for vain people like me.
Forty years later during an eye test I asked the ophthalmologist what they do now for such a disorder. 'Exactly the same,' she said, 'and they couldn't do a better job than they did way back then. It's very good, you have nice straight eyes.'
I was so pleased. And so was mum. I told mum how grateful I was that she got my eyes fixed.
My auntie is now 81 and her eyes still have a squint. Funny that neither she nor her mum never thought to have it corrected.
And good that my mum did it for me.
Tuesday, 12 January 2010
Monday, 11 January 2010
'Let me put your coat on, pet, and we'll make the beds....'
This cold weather reminds me of winters in the house where I lived after I was born. In the 1950s central heating didn't exist and we lived in a small 2-up, 2-down house. That means two bedrooms upstairs and a living room and kitchen downstairs.
There was a lavatory across the yard outside, and we took a bath in front of the open fire.
The only heating in the house was the open coal fire in the living room, and the living room had a main door onto the street, so that meant much of the heat disappeared out the door.
I was premature and was small and frail when I was born; then I suffered pneumonia in the first year of my life, so I was kept well wrapped up against the cold. Aunts and grandparents knitted cosy cardigans and sweaters for me and my brother and made us lovely woollen hats and gloves to keep us warm.
When my brother had started school and I was three, mum and I would spend time together in the house. We played at being married friends and I would pretend I had a husband and children and we would swap stories about our children being ill and our husbands losing their jobs, and how difficult life was. This was pure fiction, as my dad was always in work and we never had terrible things befall us.
Housework was a major part of mum's day, and keeping the place clean when it was heated by an open coal fire was no mean feat. Keeping it warm in the winter was another challenge.
When it came to making the beds and cleaning upstairs, mum would get my hat and coat, mittens and woolly hat and say 'Come on pet, put your coat on and we'll go upstairs to make the beds.'
Upstairs, where there was no heating, the windows were coated on the inside with a beautiful layer of sparkling ice crystals, and the temperature of the bedrooms was close to freezing point. Our breath formed cold, misty clouds as we breathed out.
As bedtime approached, dad woul light a kerosene heater upstairs so our bedrooms would be warm for us going up to bed clutching our hot water bottles.
We suffered no harm from the cold, but we certainly appreciate central heating now.
There was a lavatory across the yard outside, and we took a bath in front of the open fire.
The only heating in the house was the open coal fire in the living room, and the living room had a main door onto the street, so that meant much of the heat disappeared out the door.
I was premature and was small and frail when I was born; then I suffered pneumonia in the first year of my life, so I was kept well wrapped up against the cold. Aunts and grandparents knitted cosy cardigans and sweaters for me and my brother and made us lovely woollen hats and gloves to keep us warm.
When my brother had started school and I was three, mum and I would spend time together in the house. We played at being married friends and I would pretend I had a husband and children and we would swap stories about our children being ill and our husbands losing their jobs, and how difficult life was. This was pure fiction, as my dad was always in work and we never had terrible things befall us.
Housework was a major part of mum's day, and keeping the place clean when it was heated by an open coal fire was no mean feat. Keeping it warm in the winter was another challenge.
When it came to making the beds and cleaning upstairs, mum would get my hat and coat, mittens and woolly hat and say 'Come on pet, put your coat on and we'll go upstairs to make the beds.'
Upstairs, where there was no heating, the windows were coated on the inside with a beautiful layer of sparkling ice crystals, and the temperature of the bedrooms was close to freezing point. Our breath formed cold, misty clouds as we breathed out.
As bedtime approached, dad woul light a kerosene heater upstairs so our bedrooms would be warm for us going up to bed clutching our hot water bottles.
We suffered no harm from the cold, but we certainly appreciate central heating now.
Friday, 8 January 2010
'If it's the last thing I do.....'
I wrote a year ago about some lovely Roland Cartier shoes I had bought for mum in a charity shop in Edinburgh. She never had a pair of Roland Cartier shoes in her life as they were expensive and posh.
When I saw these perfect, navy suede with chic gold heel trim shoes in the shop window I couldn't resist them. I couldn't believe either that they were size 3! So I bought them. The shop assistant said I could change them if they didn't fit, which was kind. Seems a bit harsh buying something in a charity shop then demanding a refund when they don't fit, and I couldn't see me carting them all the way back to Edinburgh.
Mum's eyes lit up when she saw them. Slipping her own shoes off quickly, she tried them on. 'Oh, they are beautiful!', she said, and they were.
But they didn't fit. They were too small. I can't remember mum ever trying on shoes that were too small for her tiny feet, but these were. Well, the left one was, because her ankle was always swollen due to her heart condition.
'I'll work on them,' she said. 'I'll get them on if it's the last thing I do.'
I couldn't persuade her that they could be taken back to the charity shop next time I went to Edinburgh and someone else could enjoy them instead. She refused to part with them.
So, on a couple of occasions I visited mum and I could see she was wearing the shoes in the house to try and stretch the left one to fit her. But it wouldn't. It was a whole size too small for her. But it was her project, to get that shoe to fit.
When mum died and we were planning her funeral service I asked the lady who was preparing mum for her final journey to make her look lovely and smart, just as she was throughout her life. I took a nice smiley photo of mum and explained how she liked her hair done. I chose her nicest outfit and a slinky slip to go under it.
She would certainly look her best in the crystal earrings, blue jacket, tartan skirt, freshly coiffed hair, and her usual perfume - 'Timeless' by Avon.
I told the lady about mum's Roland Cartier shoes.
'She said she would get them on if it was the last thing she did,' I told her. 'But if they won't go on now, please can she take them with her anyway?'
The lady was so kind, and when we went to say goodbye to mum for the last time, she whispered gently to me, 'Your mum is wearing her Roland Cartier shoes.'
When I saw these perfect, navy suede with chic gold heel trim shoes in the shop window I couldn't resist them. I couldn't believe either that they were size 3! So I bought them. The shop assistant said I could change them if they didn't fit, which was kind. Seems a bit harsh buying something in a charity shop then demanding a refund when they don't fit, and I couldn't see me carting them all the way back to Edinburgh.
Mum's eyes lit up when she saw them. Slipping her own shoes off quickly, she tried them on. 'Oh, they are beautiful!', she said, and they were.
But they didn't fit. They were too small. I can't remember mum ever trying on shoes that were too small for her tiny feet, but these were. Well, the left one was, because her ankle was always swollen due to her heart condition.
'I'll work on them,' she said. 'I'll get them on if it's the last thing I do.'
I couldn't persuade her that they could be taken back to the charity shop next time I went to Edinburgh and someone else could enjoy them instead. She refused to part with them.
So, on a couple of occasions I visited mum and I could see she was wearing the shoes in the house to try and stretch the left one to fit her. But it wouldn't. It was a whole size too small for her. But it was her project, to get that shoe to fit.
When mum died and we were planning her funeral service I asked the lady who was preparing mum for her final journey to make her look lovely and smart, just as she was throughout her life. I took a nice smiley photo of mum and explained how she liked her hair done. I chose her nicest outfit and a slinky slip to go under it.
She would certainly look her best in the crystal earrings, blue jacket, tartan skirt, freshly coiffed hair, and her usual perfume - 'Timeless' by Avon.
I told the lady about mum's Roland Cartier shoes.
'She said she would get them on if it was the last thing she did,' I told her. 'But if they won't go on now, please can she take them with her anyway?'
The lady was so kind, and when we went to say goodbye to mum for the last time, she whispered gently to me, 'Your mum is wearing her Roland Cartier shoes.'
Christmas without mum
All my life I have thought of my mum at Christmas, everyone does. Most of my life I have spent Christmas with my mum, or visited her shortly afterwards.
But not this year. She has gone.
My husband and I had a lovely Christmas together and as we raised our glass or champagne we toasted mum: 'She was a lovely lady' he said. 'Yes,' I agreed.
Then we realised we were sitting in the same seats at our dining table that we sat in last Christmas and the one next to us was empty, the one where mum had sat last year.
'A toast to absent friends', I said, 'mum and dad'.
Even when I went Christmas shopping this year I found myself looking at things and thinking 'Mum would like that'. It's going to take a while, but I am coming to terms with life without her and seeing references to her everywhere.
I am doing a lot of sewing at the moment as the snow is forcing us to stay indoors, and I am using her bits and pieces - cutting out scissors, coloured threads, unpicker, spare bits of fabric and stiffeners used to make medieval hats.
She is everywhere.
I got into great difficulty making a medieval jacket a couple of weeks ago, but I couldn't ask her advice, which I always did in the past. I have to stand on my own two feet now, but I realise she was a mine of information. I'll have to try Wikipedia now...
But not this year. She has gone.
My husband and I had a lovely Christmas together and as we raised our glass or champagne we toasted mum: 'She was a lovely lady' he said. 'Yes,' I agreed.
Then we realised we were sitting in the same seats at our dining table that we sat in last Christmas and the one next to us was empty, the one where mum had sat last year.
'A toast to absent friends', I said, 'mum and dad'.
Even when I went Christmas shopping this year I found myself looking at things and thinking 'Mum would like that'. It's going to take a while, but I am coming to terms with life without her and seeing references to her everywhere.
I am doing a lot of sewing at the moment as the snow is forcing us to stay indoors, and I am using her bits and pieces - cutting out scissors, coloured threads, unpicker, spare bits of fabric and stiffeners used to make medieval hats.
She is everywhere.
I got into great difficulty making a medieval jacket a couple of weeks ago, but I couldn't ask her advice, which I always did in the past. I have to stand on my own two feet now, but I realise she was a mine of information. I'll have to try Wikipedia now...
Wednesday, 1 July 2009
boxes in all shapes and sizes
Mum loved boxes. I never knew this until it gradually dawned on me after moving her into a new house and seeing containers of all ages and shapes and sizes, that for decades she has been keeping the boxes that things came in. Things? Well, yes - things going back years - cigars (dad's), biscuits, chocolates, drawing pins, cosmetics, thread, paper clips, elastic, toiletries, stationery, envelopes, jewellery, phew! everything!
What a lovely way to remember a present long since used - 'that's the box that my Christmas present from Juliet came in'. Those white choc chip cookies were certainly gorgeous and wicked, and the beautiful tall art nouveau tin box that Juliet had found in some classy shop, adorned with pretty sensuous ladies in Alphonse Mucha style, carries the memory. How can I possibly throw that one away? Well, I haven't - it's mine, with its triple connections, mum, Juliet and gorgeous biscuits.
Not only did she keep these useful and often very attractive cardboard, plastic and metal containers, but she put new and different things in them. Mum was a fervent recycler when it comes to containers. Probably a throw-back to the war years when everything had to be kept and re-used due to shortages of new things. Not a bad philosophy. Mum was certainly not of a throw-away mentality.
Sometimes the boxes were elevated in status - I have a beautiful green velvet box with a hinged, jewelled and sequinned lid - full of precious jewels of mine - that mum created out of one of my dad's cardboard cigar boxes in about 1971, Mum would see the potential in a container, and lovingly refurbish it so we could put exquisite things of our own into her exquisite creation.
There's a delightful 1940s cigarette box made of a very shiny and heavy gold metal, with a hinged lid that makes a loud metallic clunk! when you let go. It has sat on sideboards and lamp tables and coffee tables for as long as I can remember. It used to have cigarettes in about 40 years ago, till my dad gave up smoking, then it had drawing pins and useful small items.
Latterly it held books of stamps and the odd safety pin. Now I have it and I'm looking for a way to give it a new lease of life by giving it something suitably weighty to carry. Haven't decided yet, but it's got so many memories it needs a special role. What I do know is it was given to mum and dad as a wedding present in 1948, quite a luxury in those days of restraint and deprivation.
One of the most heart-breaking items to deal with after mum's death was her ziggurat-shaped pull-out wooden sewing box, tiered so that you could pull it to each side and display everything all at once. Well, the memories tumble from every item in there - the gold thread that she used to embroider table linen, the heavy button thread that she sewed our coat buttons on with, the elastic thread that kept in the ribs of jumpers that had gone wide in the wash, and literally dozens of colours of thread used to sew up my dresses, her skirts, jackets, curtains, holiday tops, machine-embroidered table cloths, medieval frocks and gifts for others, like oven gloves and aprons.
These bobbins of thread have the names of their exotic colours written on them should you need a second bobbin - from plain old turquoise to wheat, gay green, silver blue, erin green, salmon and even variegated colours. Now of course it's all no.3176 or 297, not very evocative at all.
And then at the bottom of the all-encompassing sewing box is a small, innocuous red plastic box and inside a little roll of embroidered tape - 'hand made by Sarah Jane'. Enough to make me shut the box fast, keep all the memories in there for now.
What a lovely way to remember a present long since used - 'that's the box that my Christmas present from Juliet came in'. Those white choc chip cookies were certainly gorgeous and wicked, and the beautiful tall art nouveau tin box that Juliet had found in some classy shop, adorned with pretty sensuous ladies in Alphonse Mucha style, carries the memory. How can I possibly throw that one away? Well, I haven't - it's mine, with its triple connections, mum, Juliet and gorgeous biscuits.
Not only did she keep these useful and often very attractive cardboard, plastic and metal containers, but she put new and different things in them. Mum was a fervent recycler when it comes to containers. Probably a throw-back to the war years when everything had to be kept and re-used due to shortages of new things. Not a bad philosophy. Mum was certainly not of a throw-away mentality.
Sometimes the boxes were elevated in status - I have a beautiful green velvet box with a hinged, jewelled and sequinned lid - full of precious jewels of mine - that mum created out of one of my dad's cardboard cigar boxes in about 1971, Mum would see the potential in a container, and lovingly refurbish it so we could put exquisite things of our own into her exquisite creation.
There's a delightful 1940s cigarette box made of a very shiny and heavy gold metal, with a hinged lid that makes a loud metallic clunk! when you let go. It has sat on sideboards and lamp tables and coffee tables for as long as I can remember. It used to have cigarettes in about 40 years ago, till my dad gave up smoking, then it had drawing pins and useful small items.
Latterly it held books of stamps and the odd safety pin. Now I have it and I'm looking for a way to give it a new lease of life by giving it something suitably weighty to carry. Haven't decided yet, but it's got so many memories it needs a special role. What I do know is it was given to mum and dad as a wedding present in 1948, quite a luxury in those days of restraint and deprivation.
One of the most heart-breaking items to deal with after mum's death was her ziggurat-shaped pull-out wooden sewing box, tiered so that you could pull it to each side and display everything all at once. Well, the memories tumble from every item in there - the gold thread that she used to embroider table linen, the heavy button thread that she sewed our coat buttons on with, the elastic thread that kept in the ribs of jumpers that had gone wide in the wash, and literally dozens of colours of thread used to sew up my dresses, her skirts, jackets, curtains, holiday tops, machine-embroidered table cloths, medieval frocks and gifts for others, like oven gloves and aprons.
These bobbins of thread have the names of their exotic colours written on them should you need a second bobbin - from plain old turquoise to wheat, gay green, silver blue, erin green, salmon and even variegated colours. Now of course it's all no.3176 or 297, not very evocative at all.
And then at the bottom of the all-encompassing sewing box is a small, innocuous red plastic box and inside a little roll of embroidered tape - 'hand made by Sarah Jane'. Enough to make me shut the box fast, keep all the memories in there for now.
giving away mum's things
it's very hard doing the right thing with mum's possessions. Everyone who loses a loved one has to dispose of things that were important to the person but which can't be accommodated in anyone else's life.
Some things like furniture can be sold through the local newspaper or given to charity, which mum would very much approve of, but others are difficult to part with.
Mum's oldest friend is her Bernina sewing machine, bought in 1969 and a workhorse until the day mum died. It has clothed babies, children, golfers, bridesmaids and medieval ladies. It clothed my petite smart mum for nearly 40 years. It has furnished windows, tables, and beds. It has sewed fur, chiffon, leather (!, lace and velvet, and much much more.
My cupboards are full of little treasures like drawstring bags to hold tights or cosmetics or precious things, embroidered napkins and handkerchiefs, and latterly medieval dresses for dramatic purposes. Everywhere I look in my own environment I see mum's creativity, such a strong influence on my life.
I don't know how I will part with a 39-year-old Bernina, but something will have to occur to me as mum's flat is going on the market today.
Some things like furniture can be sold through the local newspaper or given to charity, which mum would very much approve of, but others are difficult to part with.
Mum's oldest friend is her Bernina sewing machine, bought in 1969 and a workhorse until the day mum died. It has clothed babies, children, golfers, bridesmaids and medieval ladies. It clothed my petite smart mum for nearly 40 years. It has furnished windows, tables, and beds. It has sewed fur, chiffon, leather (!, lace and velvet, and much much more.
My cupboards are full of little treasures like drawstring bags to hold tights or cosmetics or precious things, embroidered napkins and handkerchiefs, and latterly medieval dresses for dramatic purposes. Everywhere I look in my own environment I see mum's creativity, such a strong influence on my life.
I don't know how I will part with a 39-year-old Bernina, but something will have to occur to me as mum's flat is going on the market today.
Sunday, 28 June 2009
Mum has died peacefully
My wonderful loving mum has gone.
She was ready to go and I have said goodbye, but there is a huge empty space in my life.
No-one will ever love me as much as mum did. No-one will ever care about me like she did.
I was so lucky to have a treasure for a mum, and I am so pleased she spent much of her final years with me.
I have some beautiful memories of time spent with mum and they will see me through these dark days, which are raw with grief, and those to come as it becomes more bearable living without her.
And I have the support of friends and family to whom I am very appreciative. Thank you, I need you.
It is very hard to write on this blog now, but I hope I will soon be able fill it with golden memories and happy times shared.
goodbye, my precious. You enhanced my life and made me into the person I am today. I carry you in my heart, my heavy breaking heart, into the future.
xxx
She was ready to go and I have said goodbye, but there is a huge empty space in my life.
No-one will ever love me as much as mum did. No-one will ever care about me like she did.
I was so lucky to have a treasure for a mum, and I am so pleased she spent much of her final years with me.
I have some beautiful memories of time spent with mum and they will see me through these dark days, which are raw with grief, and those to come as it becomes more bearable living without her.
And I have the support of friends and family to whom I am very appreciative. Thank you, I need you.
It is very hard to write on this blog now, but I hope I will soon be able fill it with golden memories and happy times shared.
goodbye, my precious. You enhanced my life and made me into the person I am today. I carry you in my heart, my heavy breaking heart, into the future.
xxx
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