A True Romantic

Pamela

Memories of My Mother

It is a fact of life that we will encounter death. Before our own time is up, we have to deal with losing people around us and it is a bitter pill to swallow. The loss of someone who you have loved, who’s been an positive influence and a cornerstone in your life is particularly hard, but your happy memories will buoy you up. Cling onto those memories, look back on good times and funny things they did or wise advice they gave to help move forward, gradually you’ll pull yourself out of the quagmire that is grief. You won’t forget and the gap that signifies their absence doesn’t close, but it becomes easier to bear.

At this moment in time, the house where my mother and father lived for the last phase of their lives, is up for sale. My siblings and I have taken away what is precious to us, pictures and papers and furniture to hold their memories safe. It has been hard to dismantle their happy home and consign it to boxes, especially as the Covid lockdowns have meant that we could not always be together during the process, but when we could the oral history was rich. We talked about incidents from our shared past and enjoyed looking back at our younger selves and the care and love our parents bestowed on us.

In the deep-clean of possessions that’s been forced on us, things have come to light which were forgotten or perhaps not even known by us. Some unpleasant, but many were good. I have now taken custody of my father’s scrapbooks and my mother’s diaries and photo album – their rich history will be safely stored.

I came across this message and an account in my mother’s words, shared with Jennifer Crusie‘s “Cherries” – a group of romantic writers – about how my parents met. I want to others to read it, because it holds so much positivity – we can all benefit from that.

— * — * —

Hey, all you youngsters of 50 and 60, I’m here to tell you that in your seventies, love and romance don’t stop – at least they haven’t stopped yet for me. (This was shared with the goup only a couple of weeks before she died).

— * — * —

Ok, this was back in the 50s, I was invited to a 21st birthday party, ball gowns and black tie. I wasn’t keen to go. In those days I was very shy and thought I wouldn’t know anyone. My mother urged me to go. I put on my favourite ball gown and the zip up the back broke.

“There you are, I can’t go,” I said to my mother.

She went to my cupboard and got out another dress, threw it over my head and zipped it up quite viciously.

“Yes, you can. You are to GO! If you hate it after half an hour, ring me and I’ll come and fetch you.” So I went. And stayed.

When I got there, this handsome guy was surrounded by a bevvy of giggling girls who obviously fancied him like mad. I did too, but I wasn’t going to let him see it. I asked someone who he was and was told he was the most fun guy in the room. I was determined not to be impressed.

When he asked me to dance, I said, “I hear you’re great fun, so scintillate.” Wind taken out of his sails. He grinned ruefully, and we kept on dancing.

Later in the evening he asked if he could take me home. Damn, I thought, I had already agreed to let someone else take me home so I turned him down. I was really disappointed because I would have liked to have gone with him. But as it turned out it was a good move. He had an old fashioned sense of honour and respected the fact that I wouldn’t go back on my word.

We started going out together and he was everything I ever wanted in a man. We married when I was 22 and he was 23 and have been together through thick and thin ever since.

— * — * —

My mother was evacuated from London to Exmoor to avoid the bombing in WWII. She was lucky enough to go with my grandmother and they lived on a dairy farm. Once my father retired my parents chose to settle in a very rural part of Norfolk and, with us four children grown up and making families of our own, she had more time to pursue her writing. This poem she wrote in 1993 celebrates the joy she found in this simpler life. We read it at her funeral in 2005.

I am a Country Child Again

Here in a rustic house I live

The summit of my dearest hopes.

Years did I dwell ‘mongst brick and stone

My children’s welfare my concern

But now they’ve gone – I am released,

I’m free to live howe’er I wish.

The country’s mine as ‘twas in youth;

The green grass gilded by the sun,

The fresh air free from toxic fumes.

My nostrils now nose sweeter scents –

New mown grass and fresh baked bread

Birdsong’s my blessing all day long.

The rain is gentle on my face,

When cold winds blow I do not care.

And though I’m wrinkled now and old

I’ve vigour as I had when young –

I am a country child again.

The evening air is soft and sweet

And still now after daytime blow.

I walk in fields thickset with grass

Waist high, seeds ripened by the sun.

We’ll make it hay ‘ere cuckoos leave.

Then sheep will come and gently graze

Reminding me of times gone by –

I am a country child again.

As each day ends I thank the Lord

That I, unworthy, have such joy.

The house I live in, thatched and pink

Is what I dreamed of while I lived

The rat-race life from morn to night.

From those to whom the Lord gives much

Much is required, the Bible says.

What will be required of me?

And can I pay the needed price?

I doubt it but I still enjoy

I am a country child again.

Pamela in her Riding Clothes

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