June 27th, 2011
On losing Mummy, my brother and I gave each other a big hug and I whispered to him, “it’s just you and me now Bud…” yes, I actually said “Bud”, the American influence! And he whispered back, “we’re orphans!” Mummy took with her the last of the unconditional love I had been reaping all my life. She left, though, outward signs of her continuing presence in the mother, wife, sister and friend I have become because of her.
Mummy was a devoted mother, while I was growing up she was more vigilant than I. As a child I broke no bones nor suffered any cuts, scrapes or bruises under her watchful eye. I learned how to multi-task with her careful tutelage. Multi tasking, a term she never would have used, she would have said, “killing two birds with one stone,” was something she was good at and to this day I use my time economically. She would not have approved of all the down time she allowed herself in her final years. I can never remember Mummy actually sitting still and doing nothing, if she sat she was reading, typing a letter, knitting, enjoying a chat over a cup of coffee or a meal, watching Wimbledon or cricket on television or playing bridge!
Our minds, as with most mothers and daughters, were on the same wavelength. We shared a dry sense of humour and noticed the same absurdities while walking down a street or standing in a queue. All we had to do was just look at each other and raise our eyebrows in mock horror or surprise, or just laugh! This non-verbal communication made our relationship exclusive and intimate. She was a dead loss at church though where I would see countless things to share with her and she would keep her eyes firmly closed against distractions while she gave herself up to God. Her devotion to God reached out to us all, she was responsible for bringing my father into the Catholic fold and raised my brother and me as strong Christians, which we remain to this day.
Mummy introduced me to picnics. From a very young age I remember her packing a sandwich and an apple and taking our tea and us to the park to eat on the grass, if it was dry, or sitting on a bench. In Beirut the picnics continued and we would make sandwiches to take to St. George’s, the swimming club. During the long hot hours after lunch our tummies would eventually begin to rumble again and she’d allow us to order a plate of chips and a drink. I always had an orange Fanta. Mummy never ordered anything preferring to pick off our plates, and sip from our drinks. The chips were never an issue, she only ever took one, but to my young eyes I would see half my drink disappearing down her throat as she sipped my fanta, and I’d silently wonder why she didn’t order her own drink? I never said anything for she had brought me up to be seen and not heard and never to dare question an adult! Today I find myself doing the same thing with my children, however, they are more outspoken than I was, never having heard the charge about children remaining mute around adults, they righteously comment, “Mum, I said you could have a sip, not the whole drink…”
A year after I moved to America she moved here to Broadstairs with Daddy. She had retired from her administrative job at the Foreign Office a job she had only taken once she was satisfied Vincent and I no longer needed her at home during the day. In America I enjoyed many a long conversation with her over the phone, once we had become agreeable to spending a whole hour in this form of communication! I decided, if we were going to keep up a relationship we needed to talk regularly and for longer than just a few minutes. We became experts at just chit chatting about all and sundry and generally putting the world to rights. One of our most enjoyable topics each week was the books we had read. We would recommend titles and authors to each other and then compare notes.
In conclusion I am going to read some of a poem she helped me memorise years ago when I was at school in Beirut. We spent a long afternoon together learning the words, I understand them better now than I did when I was twelve, today particularly. Mummy did rage against the dying of the light, she did not enjoy losing and as I held her hand I could feel her giving the final hours of her life everything she had. She did not go gentle into that good night. Here are Dylan Thomas’ beautiful words.
| DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHTDo not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rage at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night. Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night. And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light. |
Well hello there! My name is Vivienne McNeny.
I am an empty nester exploring life as a Boomer…you could say I'm happily Boomering along!
As a homeschooling Mum I have finally quit the job of role model and mentor to my four children. I do what I want to do, eat when I feel like it, enjoy life with my blue eyed cowboy and clean my house once a month or so whether it needs it or not!
In true English form I write about the emergence of my true identity now that I can no longer hide behind my children as their Mum.
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