Going to a funeral

I went to funeral today. It was for my great aunt who had reached the impressive age of 97. Her daughter (my aunt ), my cousins and second cousins were there, so was my mother and a few of my sisters.

My aunt had prepared a bio of her mum for the service which was read by a family friend. This lady had lived through the depression and the bombings of WW2 in East London. She had been married and lost children, some to disease and one to a car accident. Her husband had died nearly 40 years ago.

The accident which killed one of her children also killed that child’s partner orphaning five of her grandchildren. My aunt and uncle brought them all to this country where I first met them. I was about 13 at the time. My uncle bought a min bus to transport the whole extended family; him and my aunt, his three, the five orphans and Gran. She was called Gran by every one, including me, my cousins, their friends, and obviously, the 5 kids from the UK.

When they were all piled in the bus there was one spare seat. I was lucky enough to get that seat when I joined them on three or four camping trips. We stayed in camp grounds near the coast and explored the countryside. These trips are some of the treasured memories of my adolescence. I learned a few things on those trips; like beer and mussels (shell fish) and savoury crackers are a great combination, that girls on holiday are more adventurous and I needed to learn how to surf.

My first fumbling into the adult world were with the girls I met on these trips but that will have to be the subject of a future post. I am remembering a life that intersected mine and not presenting an exploration of my juvenile passions.

Just after this period in my life I got my drivers licence and my independence. I didn’t hang around the family much and essentially lost touch with my cousins. I did see them (and Gran) on family occasions. Now with every one grown up and married the occasions seem limited to funerals such as today. I suspect it is just a symptom of my post modern existence. I guess those extended family ties are just one of the things that have been surrendered to the suburban dream.

My memories of Gran are of something of a cross between Margaret Thatcher and the queen mother. She had a dignity and fiery spirit that were still evident when I first met her all those years ago. But my strongest impression of her was always that of a frail old lady. Thin and fragile.

She never spoke to me much and I can’t recall a one on one conversation with her. She was just there. Not a shadow, as some old people become in a large group, but not really interested in engaging with a pimply lad (I can respect that). She would sing along at the camp fire and I can recall her scolding her grand children for some misdemeanours but that is about it.

I remember her.