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The following words dropped into my slumbering brain:
“He’s the great grandson of Stacy Keach.”
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Who he may have been I shall never know since at that moment I was awakened by Willow’s gentle mew.
And what remote reach of my brain dredged up such an idea, I can’t imagine. Equally strange was the knowledge that he was “foreign.”
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How fascinating is the dormant mind?
Many decades have passed since I last saw a mention of the man’s name, yet my brain saw fit to trot out the notion that I could identify his great grandson.
Bizarre.
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Willow’s wake-up call is recent.
Perhaps she’s noticed that when Muffin wakes me with her rather louder demands, I rise promptly and feed her.
But she has taken to making the same cry at night, around 10 pm when I often get up to walk about. Willow then gets her goodnight petting session. She is not a lap cat and does not submit to being picked up, but she loves me to get down on the floor to massage her body, whispering sweet nothings.
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Feline behaviour changes.
Since Little Man invited himself in, Willow doesn’t come to play at breakfast time anymore, obviously afraid that the boy will chase her, which he does from time to time.
It never turns into a fight. He’s just very playful as all young animals are.
Poor little chap, saddled with so many *old fogies.
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*This brought something else to mind.
Having never had offspring, nor even been involved with caring for a young person, I am in no position to make recommendations on child-rearing, except for the fact that like everyone else, I once was one.
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One of my earliest memories is of walking down the Earl’s Court Road with my mother and wanting to swing from her arm. She told me:
“No darling, I’m too old.”
My recommendation: Don’t ever tell your young child you are too old.
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Probably because of the war, my parents didn’t have children until they were well into their thirties, but they were hardly old.
Yet my mother’s words put fear into my young mind. I knew that old people died and I could not imagine anything more awful than losing her.
It was a dread that remained with me right up until the day I received an early morning call from my father to say he had been informed that Mum’s heart was very weak.
Did he want me to fly over? He said no, he thought not. She was in hospital being evaluated for on-going care.
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Not long after, the phone rang again.
“She’s dead!” my father declared.
The statement I had so dreaded. Somehow I hadn’t imagined it would be quite so blunt.
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Until it happens, you can’t imagine what your reaction will be to something traumatic.
Because it was still early, I realised that if I hurried, I could get to England that night to be with my dad, which seemed the thing to do. So I quickly called the airport to arrange leave and a ticket, threw some things in a suitcase and rushed out.
Luckily Yeti’s babysitter lived nearby and I knew I could depend on her. Being away from my cat was always stressful.
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When it comes to losing pets, mine or anyone else’s, I am hopeless. Grief hits me instantly and overwhelms me.
Why is it that people are so different? Losing people, I mean?
Is it knowing that certain actions must be taken and one must simply get on with them?
Once aboard the flight to London, I expected grief to set in but I seemed to be stuck in neutral.
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Maybe when I arrived and saw my dad?
Perhaps indeed that would have been the time for tears, but my father was an unemotional man.
Though I knew this was the case, he dearly loved my mother and I had always foolishly imagined that if she died first, he would go to pieces. Which was largely why I rushed over so promptly to be with him.
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Over the following days, my brother arrived back from Africa where he had only just returned from a previous visit.
Arranging the funeral was – odd.
The undertaker worked out of a stonemason’s yard which was grey, stark and smelled chemical.
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My parents had never discussed end-of-life plans and Dad was not exactly forth-coming with ideas, so I arranged the cremation and interment at a nearby church to which he could easily walk, if he so chose.
Later on, Dad told my aunt that he didn’t think Mum would have wished to be buried there. Why could he not have said so at the time!!
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The vicar came around to see us which was awkward, my father and brother both being atheist.
Though I am unsure of my own beliefs, having been educated by Catholic nuns, I was the spokesperson.
The prayer of St Francis was all I could think of to suggest.
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Lord, make me an instrument of your peace:
where there is hatred, let me sow love;
where there is injury, pardon;
where there is doubt, faith;
where there is despair, hope;
where there is darkness, light;
where there is sadness, joy.
O divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek
to be consoled as to console,
to be understood as to understand,
to be loved as to love.
For it is in giving that we receive,
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned,
and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.
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The message is fitting, whatever one believes and my mother had been a giving person, so I felt it appropriate.
As we waited those long days before a funeral, we tried to stay busy. I dealt with my mother’s clothing as I thought it might be too difficult for my father, but maybe I should have let him do it.
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A dear friend came to be with me at the funeral and it was only in his company that I finally found tears. As we drove away from the crematorium, I looked up into the stunning July sky and said my farewell.
To this day, a bright summer’s sky brings Mum back to me.
Next day I flew home to get on with life.
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That awful time I had so dreaded was not at all what I had expected.
Dad did not fall apart. He decided to go travelling and not too long after I was helping him pack up and move to Seattle where I had by then relocated.
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It’s an unremarkable story. The point of telling it is to emphasise the importance of making your wishes known. Do not leave your bereaved family guessing and making bad decisions in moments of stress.
And do not tell young children that you are old!
My mum told me to ‘sort out’ her funeral, and not to have anyone else speaking about her. So when she died, I did just that. In 2013, I wrote about it on my blog.
https://beetleypete.com/2013/03/12/eulogy-for-an-ordinary-woman/
Now I am going to sit wondering why Stacey Keach was on your mind.
Best wishes, Pete.
What a lovely eulogy, Pete. Your mum was obviously very special.
Thank you, Carolyn, for your family memories, beautiful study of the sky, and photos of your cats. I am not worried about Stacey Keach, as I don’t know his films. I like St. Francis’ prayer as it has a deep meaning.
Joanna
We always expected Dad to follow on closely behind when Mum died. He surprised us all by cooking, cleaning, washing and ironing and enjoying an active life for another 10 + years.