dancingthroughchaos

My eldest sister is poised to become a grandparent. 

It also means that the dynamics of the family shift a little as we all move up a generation – if you see what I mean – and that’s a milestone we’d be foolish to ignore.  It inevitably puts me in mind of all things grand-parenty which, of course, takes me back to my own Granny.  Feel free to enjoy the photograph of us together pretty early on in my life.  

My Mum gave birth to me at home, just across the hall from where I’m currently sitting, in fact in the main bedroom of the family home she still occupies (I’m just here to make sure Lockdown 2.0 isn’t quite so isolating).  I was welcomed into the world by two midwives and my Dad (as I may have mentioned before), with the immortal sailor’s cry, “Thar she blows!” Somewhat unfair considering I arrived as neat and very un-whale like package; a compact 6lb 6oz is one most mothers would kill their anaesthetist for.  Unfortunately the women in my family have a tendency to haemorrhage and, sure enough, Mum had to be admitted to hospital not long after, taking me with her. 

Having had four children of my own I’m not unaware of the crazy cocktail of hormones that can surge around an unsuspecting body in the post-natal days and Mum seemed to get a double portion of those which required a bit more hospital time.  At this point, the narrative tells me that Granny came to look after me and I’ve always wondered whether this goes at least part way to explaining the strong bond we shared.  She was a fantastic granny anyway, as my sisters and cousins would all testify, but just to illustrate the point I must tell you that this is the woman who went to the effort of knitting slippers for my Banana-man pencil topper after I had created a house for him (and his fruit and vegetable friends), from a cardboard box.  Yes, slippers.  Giant yellow slippers that made the chap look as though he had been in a fairly cataclysmic industrial-level accident.  That my friends, is a granny worth her salt.  Not only that, but until she died in her own bed thirty years ago, she kept one of my infant school creations on her window sill.  This iconic art work consisted of half a loo roll squeezed and glued together at the top, a shaped piece of leather glued to its bottom end to serve as feet, all enrobed in beige, fake-fur fabric with the addition of two googly eyes and a smiley mouth fixed at a jaunty, yet slightly surreal, angle.  This ‘gonk’ (the genus under which such creatures were universally grouped at the time) was presented to her, I think one Christmas, from a very excited five year-old me.  God bless her that she displayed it in her bedroom in all its moulting glory for over twenty years, greeting it/him/her each morning as she opened her curtains.  This is the kind of devotion grandparents need to develop.  It’s a tall order and one to which I aspire at some point.

Meanwhile I’m chewing over the conundrum of great-aunthood.  Hopefully the requirements aren’t quite so demanding as for a granny.  I had a few of my own great-aunts back in the day, the foremost of whom was Granny’s sister-in-law Nancy.  Having had polio as a child, which curtailed her roller-skating antics down the hills of Purley, she endured a lifetime of wonky walking, a bespoke raised boot and a severe calliper strapped to one leg.  I never heard her moan.  Not only that, but she had the horrendous experience of finding out she was a married to a bigamist when wife #1 turned up at his funeral.  Can you imagine?!  Rather than collapse into years of therapy, bitterness and regret, she drew on her faith, turned her face to a new day, re-grouped and embarked on a full life including driving the roads of Devon in her adapted Invacar car – a three-wheeled fibreglass creation, common in the 1960s and 70s and, amazingly, only banned form the roads seven years ago.   https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/blogs-ouch-23061676

She faithfully remembered us all at birthdays and Christmas with hand-written cards illustrated with various woodland animals in jackets and trousers, accompanied (more importantly as far as we were concerned) by a welcome postal order.  Her Royal Albert china was recklessly brought out for our annual elevenses visits; events which were marked primarily by the serving of iced gems, a confectionary treat unheard of in our own household’s culinary repertoire. 

I am confident that most of these milestones won’t feature in my own great-aunting regime knowing that a) polio has been pretty much eradicated thanks to all those advances in medicine and revolting tasting drops on sugar cubes which were forced down us during childhood; b) my husband doesn’t have time or patience for another wife anywhere else;  c) my life is already very full and anyway, I’d rather drive a tank – a treat I am saving up for my next significant birthday; d) the china pattern is indelibly seared on my memory and activated every time I see a related piece in either a charity shop or on line but doesn’t seem mandatory for entertaining great-nieces – what a relief; e) while iced-gems should probably be assigned to the treats of yesteryear, there are oodles of other yummy treats with which an indulgent relative with no hands on responsibility for the aftermath of such a massive sugar rush in the recipient, can spoil said visitor.  Yay!

So, while we’ve all been distracted by working out the latest Covid rules (I never did get the hang of that tier thing; rule of 6 – do children under 11 count or not? etc), bracing ourselves for another session of lockdown or semi-lockdown and hoping that Christmas bears some resemblance to a festive occasion; while we’ve observed with genuine incredulity the shenanigans unfolding in the US election with both sides bringing the office into disrepute to some extent, and the mind-blowing petulance of the current incumbent, life is still going on.  As the UK Covid death toll crawled its inexorable climb beyond the 50,000 mark this week, it’s little comfort to know that the Black Death left a massive loss of between 50 and 200 million in 22 years of mayhem back in the 14th century.  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UPBDIZX7DIc&list=PLGkEXBDPJ0ZGaoSoxoOQWXsmeHtDiF5cP&index=21&t=3s

And yet, life goes on as it has always done through the generations.  Babies are being born, people are getting married, anniversaries are celebrated, milestones reached and lost loved ones mourned.  

If you’re feeling overwhelmed, I’m not surprised.  There’s a hang of a media connections.  I’m thinking of putting up the Christmas decorations any day, mainly as a fist shaking exercise in the face of a season that threatens to disappoint.  I refuse to allow that eventuality and instead will take a tip from past generations, including Granny, wrap the presents and carry on regardless.  After all, life will go on anyway; we just get to choose the attitude with which we jump on board.  Choose wisely and if you still have a grandparent about, call them while you can.  I wish I could.