My grandmother Joyce died a month ago. In fact, I don't even know what date it was - sometime in August. So much has happened since. It's been so busy - my mothe-in-law, Annie was here at the time from Austria, which was a great help, as she looked after Elka quite a lot. Then there was preparing for the funeral, which was epic. I painted Joyce's coffin, at Joycey's request. I chose a botanical theme, selecting flowers from her garden or flowers she loved as images. I included a section of a Judith Wright poem, appropriately titled "In the Garden". (Joyce went to NEGS with Judith in the 30s.)
And I designed the funeral service booklet, which took some time. Everyone else was busy with organisational things too.
Since, we have decided to buy Joycey's house from cousin Yuri. This place is the only place my cousins, brothers and I have childhood memories. Built in 1987, we have been coming here ever since to visit Joyce. So everyone was rapt when we made the announcement. It makes so much sense to us, sentimentally, but financially as well.
We have put our house on the market in Lismore, and moved in to Joycey's house. And it is still very much Joyce's house. Some of our furniture, our touch, our boxes etc. But people drop in as they would have dropped in on Joyce. And Kymba's hair is still in the carpet. And Joyce's voice can be heard as I open every kitchen cupboard, or bathroom drawer - "Don't throw that out!" or "Have the fresh one - open the new packet!". I hear her everywhere.
When she died, I was so sad. She was a force to contend with, and one that is very missable. But in the busy weeks that followed her death, it's felt weird that I haven't missed her more. Am I heartless? Am I too busy to be sentimental?
I was relieved today to feel a twang of grief again, as I walked through Alstonville Plaza. This is after all Joyce's territory, and we have always associated everything about Alstonville and particularly this house with Joyce. So I am sure these whiffs of sadness will follow me as I move through my daily life. I hope so, anyway.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
London Blues
Everybody does it. They finish school, or university, and with a dream under their belt of London Bridge, The Thames, Portabello Road Markets or of meeting a gorgeous Mr Darcy-like creature with whom to stroll around the English country-side, like they do in the BBC series we grew up on, they head to London.
The big L. London. Sucking young Australian's into its grey and mysterious vortex. What's the appeal?
When I went to Europe, I was instead dreaming about sipping wine in Provence, being an artist in Paris, or a Bohemian in Barcelona. There was nothing appealing to me about London.
And yet, I spoke no French or any Spanish, and in London they speak English, and some relatives live there, so I followed my logic, ignored my intuition, and went with London.
To be honest, from day one, to day 365, I never got the appeal. Why do we swarm to this ugly, hostile city? The only friendly people there are other Aussies. Everyone else is either living under the poverty line, carrying a knife, or balancing six kids, grimacing at life as they do so, or they live in Chelsea, rich as kings and queens, and snobbish as all get out.
They first time I cracked a smile from someone in London was in one of the 1000s of Boots stores. The lady behind the counter began our encounter by snarling at me. Then ignoring me. Then, when she discovered my unique Melbourne-bought wallet, dramatically changed her tone and smiled! She liked my wallet! But this spontaneous display of warmth was not the norm.
Things changed a bit when summer set in. The gardens were amass with sun-seekers, stripping off clothes and sipping Pims. There was a hum or warmth and excitement through the place. My spirits cheered somewhat, but unfortunately, with poorly paid work, and hellishly expensive rent and other expenses, like green vegetables, I never was able to do that much, except lie in parks, soaking up the occasional sunny day. Which of course I could have done nearly every day of the year in the country I am from.
I snuck into Paris, Berlin and Barcelona briefly, but it was never enough to justify my lousy year in London.
After kicking the blues, the grey skies, and narrowly escaping a desperately failing relationship, I headed home, scarred, somewhat traumatised. Home was lovely, warm and welcoming. And when I reached the friendly gates of the Brisbane International Terminal, I vowed never to turn around and head back to London with the other Australian refugees. It really was a crap host to a rather crappy year in my life.
The big L. London. Sucking young Australian's into its grey and mysterious vortex. What's the appeal?
When I went to Europe, I was instead dreaming about sipping wine in Provence, being an artist in Paris, or a Bohemian in Barcelona. There was nothing appealing to me about London.
And yet, I spoke no French or any Spanish, and in London they speak English, and some relatives live there, so I followed my logic, ignored my intuition, and went with London.
To be honest, from day one, to day 365, I never got the appeal. Why do we swarm to this ugly, hostile city? The only friendly people there are other Aussies. Everyone else is either living under the poverty line, carrying a knife, or balancing six kids, grimacing at life as they do so, or they live in Chelsea, rich as kings and queens, and snobbish as all get out.
They first time I cracked a smile from someone in London was in one of the 1000s of Boots stores. The lady behind the counter began our encounter by snarling at me. Then ignoring me. Then, when she discovered my unique Melbourne-bought wallet, dramatically changed her tone and smiled! She liked my wallet! But this spontaneous display of warmth was not the norm.
Things changed a bit when summer set in. The gardens were amass with sun-seekers, stripping off clothes and sipping Pims. There was a hum or warmth and excitement through the place. My spirits cheered somewhat, but unfortunately, with poorly paid work, and hellishly expensive rent and other expenses, like green vegetables, I never was able to do that much, except lie in parks, soaking up the occasional sunny day. Which of course I could have done nearly every day of the year in the country I am from.
I snuck into Paris, Berlin and Barcelona briefly, but it was never enough to justify my lousy year in London.
After kicking the blues, the grey skies, and narrowly escaping a desperately failing relationship, I headed home, scarred, somewhat traumatised. Home was lovely, warm and welcoming. And when I reached the friendly gates of the Brisbane International Terminal, I vowed never to turn around and head back to London with the other Australian refugees. It really was a crap host to a rather crappy year in my life.
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