Tag Archive: Mother

We Joked about it

My Mother - Happy Birthday

My Mother – Happy Birthday

Yes, my Mother and I joked on the phone about about her getting to 90, like her two sisters,  two days after her 89th birthday, 24 hours later she collapsed on the bathroom floor, her innings was over.

Then I got that dreaded phone call from my brother.

Had she not, today she would have been 90.

I never knew her as she looked in this photo. I hadn’t seen her for 17 years, the last time I was in NZ. I remember her as a younger person, a vital person.

So today is not an easy day for me. I had a restless night, I was up several times, most of my day’s blogging was done about 3am.

With my blogging completed, my day is already different. I was out watering my plants early before the sun had risen too high. I had to, because of the earlier than usual class yesterday, they didn’t get their evening watering.

Yesterday was hot as I said yesterday, today the forecast is for even hotter, so I may look for an air conditioned restaurant and while away the day in the company of a bottle of chilled sauvignon blanc, it’s the only sensible thing to do. Not to get drunk and forget about the significance of the day, I don’t do that; but a bottle of chilled wine merely goes wonderfully with a meal on a hot day.



Lixo is a Great Help

As you all know, this week has not started well, but I have accepted my mother’s passing and moving forward.

I must thank all of you who have left comments, your valuable support is greatly appreciated. For those who didn’t, don’t panic, I understand; at times like this I don’t know what to write either. I know that just by reading the last two posts you were thinking.

Lixo ironing my clean shorts

Lixo ironing my clean shorts this morning

Lixo has been a great help. He knew something wasn’t right on Sunday night and he slept on the bed all night; he hasn’t done that for months now that he is a big boy. It’s much more fun Tom-catting around the neighbourhood.

He has been helping around the house. Doing those little chores that I hate like the ironing.

I am waiting for the rain to stop so I can go to therapy the supermarket. My new fridge doesn’t have lunch. Apart from condiments and jam there is only half a roll of salami, there are two onions on the vege stand, and not a crumb of bread in the cupboard. I seriously need to buy food.

The rain has stopped.



Doing Nothing, just remembering

That’s what I promised to do this weekend.

Basically, I have achieved nothing much, apart from a little blogging yesterday.

I had meant to blog here too, in fact the “Add New Post” page has been open since about yesterday lunch time, and I am now preparing lunch today.

Fish ‘n’ Chips, that wonderful English standby.

I had several ideas about what to blog yesterday, but then that great dark cloud loomed over the horizon; you know the one that prevents you from thinking clearly.

One of the ideas was prompted by an image I came across in my vast archives.

Yes, an old fashioned razor strop.

This was the most feared weapon in our house. Not the razor, my father had some tucked away in an old cigar box in his writing desk; but the strop.

You see that was what Bush would have called a WMD. With this in the middle drawer we were subdued in acquiescence. It didn’t even need to be taken out of the drawer, which was the ‘junk draw’ in the kitchen. The mere knowledge that this existed was an unwritten guarantee of exemplary behaviour. I can only remember the sting once. I was about five, and I had disturbed my father’s sleep in by waking my little brother. My pyjama pants were down, I was bent across the bed and the strop applied. The harsh slap of leather on bare flesh, once felt, never forgotten.

Today, of course, I could rat on my parents for being so brutal and probably divorce them or something.

It’s not that my parents were into brutality, but I do remember the omnipresence of that strop. I can remember one time my mother, who was a little on the plump side of thin, chasing myself and my younger brother town the yard to the orchard where like a couple of cats treed by a rabid dog we sought safety in an apple tree. Our giggling at our narrow escape only served to enrage her with threats of, “just wait till your father gets home!” I don’t remember the final act of that particular play, nor the reason that prompted her to chase us down the yard in the first place.

So it was last night that my mother called, she is now 88 and I am 60; she calls me each Saturday for a chin-wag. Last Saturday she didn’t. That has happened before, but last night her voice was frail, I could hear it. She needs heart surgery, but her body is not strong enough, but this wasn’t the problem this time; her body is just worn out. On her own admittance, she didn’t ring earlier in the week, she didn’t have the strength to manage the phone. Whereas, the week before she needed hospitalisation, she was driving her car.

If you understand cricket; no batsman was ever sneezed at for a respectable innings of 88 not out, but we know innately when we are facing our final over; and this was tacitly understood between us last night. Myself, being the eldest child, I was always my mother’s confident, she would tell me things that she never dared tell my father. As we hung up last night, we each said, “I love you,” which we haven’t said to each other for many, many years.

So with that, later. Maybe there will be a Sunday Travel Tales, maybe there won’t.

%d bloggers like this: