Farewell rock n roll Nan
No, not the popular wheat-based accompaniment to an Indian meal, but the last of my Grandparents, Olive Quick, aka 'Scarborough Grandma', who died on the 3rd of May. Her departure is of course very sad, but greatly offset by very happy memories of her.
She managed to combine being impervious and brusque with being warm and loving; perhaps not unconnected to living through the second world war, being a children's nurse and latterly a teacher.
As children we had many holidays in the dilapidated-yet-beautiful Scarborough where she lived and raised my Dad with her other four children -- just down the coast from Whitby for you WGW vets.
It's pretty hard to quantify anything specific she taught me; she's more a network of rich memories and experiences that help to provide a solid foundation for an otherwise twitchy psyche :p
One very early memory is a simple one of sitting on the edge of a big concrete sea wall between the beach and a path up to the little chalet she rented every summer as a base of operations for her expanding collection of grand-children. I remember sitting there, resting my head against her warm and solid frame, looking down at my chilly bare child-feet dangling off the edge, watching quietly as she washed the sand from them, then dried and warmed them in a towel.
And, oh dear. In my mid-teens she inadvertently participated in the Great Nike Jacket Fiasco. :)
You see, I was really bad at conforming. And I don't mean in a cool 'I'm doing my own thing' way. Oh no. I wanted nothing more than a reassuring dollop of unconditional acceptance from the little bastards known affectionately as my 'friends'. And conformity was not something easily attained. No, it was a moving target, always out of reach. However, for a brief period of happy delusion I came to believe that acceptance would be derived from owning the current derigour material item, a NIKE JACKET *heavenly trumpets; marketeers orgasming*.
Finally, after lord-knows how many months of wheedling and harassment, my mother finally relented, and purchased for me my very own Nike Jacket.
The joy! I was sure now to know true happiness. Imagine the gleeful bliss with which I entered the school gates the following Monday.
Guess what. MY JACKET DIDN'T HAVE AN EMBROIDERED LOGO. What a fool I had been! Little did I realise that there was an entire sodding hierarchy of Nike jackets. And mine was at the bottom of the pile.
And guess what my dear Scarborough Grandma did when she learned of the situation? She got me to post the jacket to her, and she hand-embroidered the logo for me.
Well, I'm not going to delve into the subsequent mental scarring that derived from turning up at school in a bottom-of-the-range jacket that had been hand stitched BY MY GRAN (rather than by a slave labourer in the developing world), as this is in danger of turning into a deranged rant :P
Enough. Suffice to say that my grandma brought a lot of happiness to many people; I love her lots and will miss her very much.
The whole family gathered for her funeral, and then we had a lovely wake with food and drink and laughter and silly games. There is photographic evidence if you are interested. I promise not to think you prurient if you are. Also behold my narrow escape from being seriously ginger :)
http://flickr.com/photos/slightlywinded/sets/72157600209754874/
Tom
PS For the record, I *was* going to except AnalogueHeart from the 'little bastards' label earlier (for he was there), but I just remembered that he put a hole punch through the sleeve of my poor beleaguered Nike jacket in a maths class. Bastard. ;)
PPS There was a lot more by way of delicious food and hand-knitted jumpers than this post lets on.
She managed to combine being impervious and brusque with being warm and loving; perhaps not unconnected to living through the second world war, being a children's nurse and latterly a teacher.
As children we had many holidays in the dilapidated-yet-beautiful Scarborough where she lived and raised my Dad with her other four children -- just down the coast from Whitby for you WGW vets.
It's pretty hard to quantify anything specific she taught me; she's more a network of rich memories and experiences that help to provide a solid foundation for an otherwise twitchy psyche :p
One very early memory is a simple one of sitting on the edge of a big concrete sea wall between the beach and a path up to the little chalet she rented every summer as a base of operations for her expanding collection of grand-children. I remember sitting there, resting my head against her warm and solid frame, looking down at my chilly bare child-feet dangling off the edge, watching quietly as she washed the sand from them, then dried and warmed them in a towel.
And, oh dear. In my mid-teens she inadvertently participated in the Great Nike Jacket Fiasco. :)
You see, I was really bad at conforming. And I don't mean in a cool 'I'm doing my own thing' way. Oh no. I wanted nothing more than a reassuring dollop of unconditional acceptance from the little bastards known affectionately as my 'friends'. And conformity was not something easily attained. No, it was a moving target, always out of reach. However, for a brief period of happy delusion I came to believe that acceptance would be derived from owning the current derigour material item, a NIKE JACKET *heavenly trumpets; marketeers orgasming*.
Finally, after lord-knows how many months of wheedling and harassment, my mother finally relented, and purchased for me my very own Nike Jacket.
The joy! I was sure now to know true happiness. Imagine the gleeful bliss with which I entered the school gates the following Monday.
Guess what. MY JACKET DIDN'T HAVE AN EMBROIDERED LOGO. What a fool I had been! Little did I realise that there was an entire sodding hierarchy of Nike jackets. And mine was at the bottom of the pile.
And guess what my dear Scarborough Grandma did when she learned of the situation? She got me to post the jacket to her, and she hand-embroidered the logo for me.
Well, I'm not going to delve into the subsequent mental scarring that derived from turning up at school in a bottom-of-the-range jacket that had been hand stitched BY MY GRAN (rather than by a slave labourer in the developing world), as this is in danger of turning into a deranged rant :P
Enough. Suffice to say that my grandma brought a lot of happiness to many people; I love her lots and will miss her very much.
The whole family gathered for her funeral, and then we had a lovely wake with food and drink and laughter and silly games. There is photographic evidence if you are interested. I promise not to think you prurient if you are. Also behold my narrow escape from being seriously ginger :)
http://flickr.com/photos/slightlywinded/sets/72157600209754874/
Tom
PS For the record, I *was* going to except AnalogueHeart from the 'little bastards' label earlier (for he was there), but I just remembered that he put a hole punch through the sleeve of my poor beleaguered Nike jacket in a maths class. Bastard. ;)
PPS There was a lot more by way of delicious food and hand-knitted jumpers than this post lets on.