“Stand up and show every one how tall you are”, that is what Grandma would
always say. She showed us off and I took a secret pride in parading around on
display for whichever stranger had wandered into her room on that particular
visiting day. Grandma noticed the finer details, the things that we sometimes
took for granted as a healthy and growing family. Visiting her would bring us
back to these basic observations; she always made Grandmotherly comments
on how much we had grown, how we had improved in our various instruments,
increased by five shoe sizes, grown our hair and moved onto the next stages in
school and life.
Grandma lived a long and interesting life. As a young woman she was moulded
by the war before living through a lifetime of change and revolution, a lifetime
in which Granddad and her raised four children. It would be impossible to sum
her up in this short speech. Nevertheless, one thing springs to mind when I think
of her – that she was a strong woman. Over the past two years I have come to
fully appreciate the relationship that we had with her, and the security that her
constant presence in our lives gave us. How could my mind ever erase those
wonderful afternoons when Grandma would present us with an assortment of
stale, out of code sweets in recycled shortbread tins and empty Clover tubs? I
don’t think that my digestive system has recovered yet. Nor could I ever forget
the numerous afternoons spent running wildly through the orchard in Grandma
and Granddad’s back garden, chasing the flurries of butterflies that inhabited
the rose bush every year while Granddad lovingly looked on, only intervening
to rescue the poor insects when we accidentally grasped their patterned wings
too tightly. I can see Grandma perched on the bench by the conservatory, and
suddenly my mind overflows with memories from the bungalow that we all
know so well. The smell of Grandma’s freshly baked Eve’s pudding is not one I
often stumble upon in Bangkok but I can smell it now, and of course I remember
sitting around the dining room table eating greasy fish and chips from the local
chippy. I remember the room off the kitchen where we would lose ourselves in
all of the toys and games, cast a sceptical eye over the ancient television before
moving on to study the shelf of family photographs where I first learnt about all
of the other generations that make up our family.
This is what today is about; it is about surrounding Grandma with the generation
that will live on. One generation ends but another generation continues on in
its place. This morning is about seizing on the fragments of Grandma’s life that
we all share, the memories that we remember together as a family. Death can
be an uncomfortable subject, especially when we feel we have to dwell on the
person’s absence, on the fact that this person has gone and that we can no longer
feel, touch or smell them. But I believe that we should celebrate the life that our
Grandma had.
We miss her, and we love her.