Grief – The Black Dog

Like a thief in the night
Grief slinks silently back into my life
Disturbing the peace I have fought so hard for
It is like a fractious child demanding attention
And as the mother with her child, I give in
And am taken back to the beginning
When days were so long and nights even longer.
When I thought there was no way out of this slough of despair
And I am once again immobilised by it.
But I have been here before
Many times since that April night
And I know I can climb out
And once again put grief back where it belongs
Until the next time.

Judith Baxter, Mother, Grandmother, Sister, Blogger and Friend

Today my nemesis, Grief, decided to call.  Those of you who know me, know that I’m usually a positive, happy person, but just occasionally something drags me down to that terrible time.  Well, both terrible times as since I wrote my poem in August 2011, my later love has also died.

“Time does not bring relief; you all have lied
Who told me time would ease me of my pain!
I miss him in the weeping of the rain;
I want him at the shrinking of the tide”.
Edna St Vincent Millay

It’s now 19 years since my Dashing Young Scotsman died and 19 months since The Architect died.   And yes, life is changed, and I’m now making yet another, totally different life.  Soon the grief will move back into the background where it belongs and the sun will rise tomorrow and all will be right in my world.

Thanks for reading.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Where you used to be there, is a hole in the world,
which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime
and falling into at night.
I miss you like hell.”
Edna St Vincent Millay

Related posts

Grief;  Missing You;  Learning to Soar in a Changing World;

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Continuing The Story

Oh yes, they still had on their hats but…

Way back in March 2012, I started the story of Maisie Benton-Smythe and her friend Juliet Drummond whom we met having woken on a beach.  They had no recollection of how they arrived there but both were particularly pleased that they still had on their hats.

We learned that the day before, the two women had met up with another friend from school days, Imogen Carruthers.  In fact, these three were the scourge of the teachers and staff at their school, Struthers Hall, and were named The Terrible Trio.

Maisie eventually recalled that the two of them went to Imogen’s house where they had tea and after that, Imogen suggested they raid her husband’s wine cellar.  After several hours and several glasses of Sir Percy’s special wines, Imogen suggested a ride in her new, racy little Jaguar roadster to the County seat of the Carruthers family in Horley.  They all agreed.

Arriving at Sir Percy’s country retreat and having managed to outrage the housekeeper with the way they were acting, and the fact they had nothing to change into for supper, they decided to spend the night

After consuming a bottle of wine at dinner, Imogen declared that more wine should be brought from Sir Percy’s cellar and unfortunately, in getting the wine, she slipped on the cellar steps landing quite heavily on her shoulder.

An ambulance was called and Imogen was taken to hospital where she spent the night.

We are introduced to a very angry Sir Percy.  Mostly angry because he thinks the activities of his wife and her friends, react very badly on him, his position in society,  and his reputation.

There are some rather risque friends, or acquaintances, and a hilarious encounter in a house of ill repute.

But really to read the rest of this “gripping” saga, you will have to read the blog posts.  Much more fun than my just telling you here, without all the frills and furbelows that accompany the story.

And starting tomorrow, I shall continue the story from where we left off in January 2013, having been confronted by the swarthy gentleman in the Panama hat

Those related posts:

Hats on;   Hats On Again;  New Hats; The Beach;
The Bonnets; The Bonnets 2; T he Bonnets 3;  The Bonnets – Lost;
In Search of the Bonnets;
Found at Last; Yet More on the Bonnets; Keeping Promises;
The Swarthy Gent in the Panama Hat;  The Swarthy Gentleman

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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You Got a Friend…

Something to think about particularly as we grow older and if we are alone, even for short periods. Who are your 3 am call upon friends?

Lori Greer in Portland

Friends, like flowers, make me happy.

My friend became very sick one night at home.

Her husband was out of town.

There was no one to drive her to the hospital.

So, she drove herself across town at 2:30 in the morning.

She was sick and alone for hours at the hospital.

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It’s My Birthday and…

Well, how did I get to be this old?  I think somebody has deleted several decades of my life.  However…

The first email I opened this morning was from LondonWlogger who took me back a lifetime, to a time growing up in London when this area was the playground of three young girls.

We passed this on our way to and from school each day.  Did we really understand or appreciate how magical it was to have such a beauty in the middle of a built-up, town area?  I think not.

The Lea Valley, once a transport river busy with horse-drawn barges and later motorised barges.  It was an industrial area and supplied water for London, sand and gravel.  Now its a lazy, gentle river offering leisure boating.

 

Springfield Park where three little girls were taken by their mother most afternoons after school.  We lived in an apartment building with no green space to play on.  Many happy memories here.  I wonder if my sisters remember the cave where we played for many hours in the sunshine.

Thank you, Stu, at Wlogger for this post.

So now moving on some 60 plus years, I am sitting in Wellington New Zealand in the sunshine and losing myself in so many happy memories of a childhood spent surrounded by love and these beautiful bits of nature in a busy, busy, noisy city.

Off now, to get ready.  My son and daughter-in-law are coming to take me to lunch and then later, I shall have dinner with my daughter, her eldest son and his girlfriend.  How lucky am I?

NOTE:   All photos taken by London Wlogger. © Copyright 2017.  

 

I’m Not Too Old

This week’s challenge from Tara at Thin Spiral Notebook is Adventure.  Click on the link to play along.

My response to the challenge is not fiction, but it fits so well that I thought
I would post it.  Hope that doesn’t offend others
who play along with these challenges.  So..

She was about to be 75.  Surprised at this, she decided it was time for an adventure.  Oh, she had had many adventures, had travelled extensively with her late husband and since his death, on her own.  But were those trips real adventures.?  She thought not.

She decided on Florence.  It was a place she had visited before and wanted to spend a few months there.  Knowing nobody there and little of the language she packed and set off.

What fun she had and how glad she was she did this before she thought “I’m too old”

Author’s Note.  If you want to see and read more of this real life adventure go to Florence 

Changes

“A man, a plan, a canal – Panama!” ~ Leigh Mercer, 1948″

Tara at Thin Spiral Notebook says “For this week’s challenge, pick two (2) palindromes, or one (1) pair of semordnilaps for your story. Do not include your palindromes or semordnilap pair in your word count – so for this week, you get a 102 word limit.”

I chose diaper and repaid and so.

As I walked into the room, I saw Mother lying on the bed staring into space, showing no interest in anything.  How her life had changed in a few years.  This once vibrant, busy, strong woman was now reduced to this frail old lady lying quietly on the bed.  The illness had taken its toll and would continue to do so.

She was past recognising me and hadn’t for several months. And, as I changed her diaper I reflected on how many time she had changed mine when I was a baby and now she was being repaid as I changed hers.

I Don’t Cry At Funerals

I suppose it is because I was at a funeral yesterday and I was thinking of death and funerals, when this came to me in the shower this morning.  Real stream of consciousness writing.

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“I don’t cry at funerals,” she said to herself.  But she must have spoken it aloud as her son gently squeezed her shoulder in comfort.

It seemed that she had been to so many funerals.  She had seen friends some buried and others taken off to the crematorium.  Her young husband had died several years ago and though she had loved him, she didn’t cry even at his funeral.

But here she was watching the young men of the family lift her Grandmother’s casket and walk it out of the church.  And here she was crying.

She thought of that wonderful old lady.  She had been there for her since her mother had been taken away to hospital screaming about ghosts and terrors.  It was she who had taken the young girl into her home.  She was not really the Grandmother; just an older, caring neighbour who saw that the young girl had nobody to care for her.  She told the Social Services people that she was the grandmother.  And they, being overloaded with work and too many children to be cared for, accepted that she was whom she said she was.

The peace and quiet, the loving and caring of this new life totally enveloped the young girl so that memories of her mother, the noise and constant barrage of voices as her mother argued with unknown and unseen imaginary people began to fade and she wished/hoped she could live with Grandmother forever.

She had never known her mother’s family nor indeed her father’s.  There had just been the two of them for as long as she could remember.  And for a long time, all was well.  But then her mother started to abuse people in the street and shops where they bought their groceries. She had constant usually abusive, conversations with imaginary foes often in the early hours of the morning.

For several years, the girl hated going to bed knowing that in a few hours the noise would start and her mother would end up screaming.  And often she would awaken to find her mother standing over her yelling at her.

As her mother became worse, she couldn’t concentrate and found herself avoiding school as she stayed home to be with her mother.  Many times, her mother didn’t recognise her and would abuse her.  The final straw was when her mother picked up a kitchen knife and threatened to remove the girl’s tongue so that she wouldn’t argue with her anymore.

In total fright, the young girl fled to the house next door.  It was very early in the morning but the older woman was up having heard the noise, the screaming, and shouting. She took the young girl into her arms and sat her down in a comfortable chair while she called for an ambulance.  And from that time she had lived with Grandma.

But now, so many years later, she was at Grandma’s funeral.  And she wept openly as the coffin passed her in the church.  “Goodbye Grandma, ” she said “Thank you for loving me for so long.  I shall miss you.”

There is no end.  There is no beginning.
There is only the infinite passion of life.
Frederico Fellini.

Note – There’s a review of a new book  I received from my daughter.  It’s The Ice Beneath Her by Camilla Grebe.  Set in Stockholm it’s a must read.  Click here to read it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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