It really is amazing what people will throw in their lofts and sheds. Especially as they forget what’s in there and inconveniently expire, leaving the descendants to sort through it all. At this juncture, I am one of the aforementioned descendants.
We found all sorts of antique stuff just set aside! like the picture above of some stencilling paint and brushes in red, white and blue, that must have been used to paint a union jack or something, maybe for VE day. We find ourselves sifting through what look like dreadfully ugly chinaware that actually might be worth auctioning and very pretty little things that are worthless. Worth is a funny thing isn’t it. These things all meant something to my late Grandmother but I have no connection to them – many I haven’t even seen before, but this is no time for sentimentality – Those cute biscuit tins and those that are filled with buttons that have long since lost their garments but no-one ca bear to throw them away. We found bags of fabric just waiting to be made into curtains or dresses or something else, but they were just wrapped up safely next to an old “His Master’s Voice” radio and a load of french liguaphone record sets.
(did you know that HMV stands for his master’s voice? I didn’t!) I found that my Grandfather was accepted into Cambridge University but the scholarship was not full and his parents could not afford to send him. I’m so glad that now I’ve made it there myself -I didn’t know him well but I’m sure he’d be proud,
Among the piles of dresses and fur coats we found two horseshoes, some antique sheep clippers, and boxes and boxes of lovely old books that were dusty and delicate.
I won’t say that the experience of lugging all that stuff around and sorting through was fun, but I will say that it was insightful and surprising at times.
It makes me wonder what someone else would make of the stuff I have stuffed under by bed!
” Show me the ways to button up buttons That have forgotten they’re buttons Well we can’t have that forgetting that”~tori amos, yes, anastasia
“I guess I can only fail to understand your pain” ~ Earthquake, Leona Naess
It’s my responsibility – to mend the rift, to take the steps, to see the good. It’s my duty to forgive and forget, to see that the problems are all inside me.
Isn’t taking responsibility for things which I had no control over, and seeing myself as the source of all problems what started my descent into all manner of psychological messes and illnesses? Isn’t always having to be the one to make the effort and be the ‘good girl’ who sees the good in everyone what got me walked over by so may people, isn’t all of that why I was so vulnerable?
Tell me why I would put myself in that situation again. I can be told from multiple angles that everything is my fault, I can even start to believe it again, but I’m afraid of going backwards, and letting unhealthy influencdes back in, before I am strong enough to fend them off.
I guess you could call that selfishness. Self-preservation. You could say I am alienating someone, or – you could look at the history, the pain, the sickness, the wasted years, the lessons have been learnt, I know not to get too close, I think the madness may be contagious, I think I’ve had to shelter myself at the cost of shutting someone out because of what they did, who they are, what they stand for, and if that’s the only way I can stay sane then who are you to tell me I’m wrong?
I don’t get it. In another life my gran and I should have been sisters. How did another type of creature altogether bridge the generations between us? I’ll never know. I was sad to leave her this morning but I have commitments back at home, and I cant undo the pain, only listen. Nor can I mend other broken people who don’t want to be helped. There is more but this is not the place. I wonder what anger turns into when it overflows? Or it is left to fester with noone trying to hold back the tides? I suppose it ferments into resentment. We shall see if the dam can hold it until the floods are over. Perhaps I need a higher dam, but it keeps the love and acceptance penned up on the other side, and shouldn’t that flow freely and wash the rest if the landscape clean?Experience comes at a cost, and you are rarely in a position to bargain.
I’ll start with the something awesome. I went to visit my gran and mum and rummaged in my old room. I found a story book that I wrote as a young kid with my best friend Emily…I still need to read through it as I can’t remember what happened, all I know is my handwriting was dreadful where Emily’s was neat and her illustrations far surpassed mine in skill!
Naturally SO has decided to take the piss, claiming it’s a story about pony pony and pony walking along, saying hello to ponypony and walking along saying pony pony pony. That childhood magic was broken entirely with his comment.
Ok something painful, I have acquired a saddlesore the size of a planet. SO thinks it’s ok to keep slapping my arse, mimicking a flicking motion at me while calling me ‘saddlesore’ or ‘bumflick’ and then taking the piss riotously when I say the sore is below my sit bone. Apparently as he’s never seen a sit bone on an anatomical diagram and continued making ‘humourous’ japes about sitting down on his SIT bum etc.
Sigh, maybe if I had looked it up before and given the medical term ‘tuber ischiadicum’ known as the sitz or sitting bones, perhaps he would have been less vile.
Ok now something disturbing. I found out that when my grans partner who is diabetic, became very ill, he was hospitalised. This is fine, then he was released to her and my mother to care for, but he had forgotten how to deal with his insulin injections. Instead of straight away calling the necessary people to find out how to deal with him, they believed him when he said it was ok to use the same needle for a week. Anyone with the slightest hint of common sense knows you NEVER re-use a needle…only the seriousness of the situation didn’t sunk in…eventually when he was rehospitalised they learned the truth…new needle every time…but they could have killed him. And somehow my mother was able to tell me this tale through bouts of laughter. I am horrified…they used the same needle multiple times a day, did not clean or refrigerate it, used it on multiple insulin vials….I’m just shocked that they didn’t think to ask someone (me) who has experience in sterile techniques etc….I just run cold thinking about it. I know that they were under pressure dealing with him but I could have furnished them with more information than they had and contacted the right people in the NHS had they only asked but I had no idea what was going on! So yeah…it just makes me wonder what games people are playing. There is more to add but I can’t write that here…I’m just glad the guy managed to survive without severe blood poisoning against all odds.