#1383 theoldmortuary ponders

Sydney Harbour Bridge. The Opera House is just visible

This monotone image was my first sight of Sydney Harbour Bridge at about 6 am. I love it when nature dials down colour to monotone. Time is suspended and real life is presented, as if in a black and white film.

One month on I realise that this could not have been a more fitting first moment.

When I was 10 my Aunt, Uncle and Cousin migrated to Australia. There were complex reasons for this. It was my first experience of heartbreak not caused by death, but by distance-created absence. We had been an extremely tight familial group. Two sisters, their husbands and two girls, both only children. My cousin was severely handicapped and this was the reason the family sought a new life in Australia.

My uncle, who was a nursery man and landscape gardener,was employed to be a plantsman and landscape gardener for the Sydney Opera House Project and nearby botanic gardens.

Apart from occasional ‘bluey’ air mail letters our only contact was ardent following of news coverage of one of the great building projects of its time. All in black and white.

Which is why this image delights me.

Hello old friend. You look just the same as in 1960’s news broadcasts and papers.

Of course I promised you, theoldmortuary blog readers sunshine throughout January.

Two days later.

Funny to think that my uncle would have watched this building being built whilst leaning on a shovel or at the wheel of earth moving equipment. As was often the case in the sixties he did a really manual job while wearing country gentleman clothing. Brogue shoes, tailored trousers, a shirt and tie and a ‘Sports’ jacket with a fine knit Fair-Isle jumper.

Our story | Sydney Opera House https://share.google/Wg5elSKQnWeBIcIyg

©Sarah Barker

Although in the heat of Sydney he might have slipped off the jacket and rolled his sleeves up.

#1376 theoldmortuary ponders

Twas the first day of Twixtmas. Or Boxing Day for some of us.

The giddy excess of Christmas Day is over and we have 6 days left of the old year. 6 days of exploring new books, toiletries, candles, maybe some early clearing out. 6 days of nibbling in the foothills of the festive food mountain. 6 days to savour the gift that is a loving family. Fascinating friends and a  solid house to call home. 6 days of pondering Christmas Pasts.

For no particular reason I spent some time pondering Brian Bilston’s poem.

Two reasons. I am a woman of simple needs at Christmas, and indeed life. Family, friends, some travel , some kindness, health and happiness. Positivity where possible. Yes there are dark moments but valuing and storing the good vibes helps out in the  more uncomfortable and distressing moments of life.

For many years I shared Christmas with a woman who,  valued and relished negativity.  She views life and other people with the sharp acidity of lemon juice on a mouth ulcer

Christmas always demonstrated the chasm between our outlooks.  How would she use Brian’s Poem as inspiration for her Christmas  experience and how would I. Who knows?

To be clear she was as happy in her negative world as I am elsewhere and as generous as any other person in the festive season. Different viewpoints can be interesting and enlightening. Also infuriating.

The Christmas things we have opposing views on in no particular order are

Shortbread biscuits.

Why would anyone give shortbread biscuits at Christmas? Her

The year I gave her a big box and I received a smaller one.

A golden buttery treat to see me through the winter months. Me

Candles.

What would anyone buy me a candle for, I have lovely bright electricity.

The more the merrier. Me

Photographs of children

The non- genetic are more highly prized. Her

Twenty of the same three children, fabulous. Me

Not sure I get that, but each to their own, or not.

I could go on but that would be missing the point. How have these two very different women existed in close familial contact for more than 40 years.

Compromise in the public domain.

Respect and understanding of different life experiences.

An awareness that one of the greatest gifts of Christmas is the confidential invisibility of ‘ Thought Bubbles’

Honestly, without invisible ‘Thought Bubbles’ we would not have made it past the first Christmas.

A quarter of her is in the children that I adore and an eighth in the grandchildren who are loved and cherished. I would not have them different in any way. Maybe her gift of negativity is useful and strengthening for them with their abundance of positivity from all their other gene pools.

So to Brian’s poem of collective nouns I would add.

A Compromise of Christmases.

More valuable in so many different ways.

Family. Just a collection of mis matched baubles.

#1361 theoldmortuary ponders

24 hours in Hong Kong.

This time yesterday we were taking a tea and wee break in Hong Kong Airport. Sitting below a pink festive waterfall. Which inspired me to catch the pink dawn this morning .

Moment 01 in Hong Kong

I am not sure pale pink is a colour I normally associate with Hong Kong or Christmas but both worked for quiet contemplation before the hurly- burly, vivid carnival that is family life in Hong Kong.

Let it begin.

#1364 theoldmortuary ponders.

Describe a family member.

Picking one family member would be too tricky in a very small family. These 3 brightly coloured autumn leaves, resting on brown mushy ones, almost exactly represent my actual knowledge and ability to describe family members. The top-of-the-pile green and red autumn leaf represents the two genetic family members that I know best, my children. Whom I would only ever describe in the broadest of brush strokes,simply to save myself from being an embarrassing mother.They are both fabulous individuals who are making their way in the world as reliable and kind individuals. And have in turn created my grandchildren who already know me better than I ever knew my own grandparents.

I am the leaf in the middle in shades of yellow and orange and am not about to describe myself.

My parents are represented by the bottom of the pile leaf in shades of black and red. I probably knew my parents better than most people do, as I occupied their world as an only child, in a way that siblings would never do. My parents were hard working aspirational, working class people. During my childhood they floated into the middle class by becoming professional people, I don’t think they ever noticed or were bothered by such things. I took a powerful work ethic from my dad who would relax after his salaried work  by being a perfectionist D.I.Y er and carpenter. My mother worked as an administrator and occupied her spare time working voluntarily in our community. I have always been quite community minded.They were both talented creative people who really didn’t give enough time to follow their creative dreams. I suppose it is my similarity to them that makes me aware of just how well I did know them. But writing about either one to the exclusion of the other would make me rather sad.

Beyond them is the mush of brown autumn leaves. I did not know either set of grandparents well. My mum’s parents were running small businesses and my dads parents were remote. I was the only grandchild in their lifetime. Neither side were hugging type grandparents, or involved in playing or adventures. We just seemed to exist, occasionally, on the same orbit and as long as I was good and quiet with my head in a book then all was well. This is not the way of contemporary families, but although this description of a small family may seem joyless  there is much to be thankful for in a family that knew the value of hard work and were reliable, law abiding citizens. I am disappointed in myself that I was not interested enough as a young person to know any of my grandparents well enough to describe  even one of them  successfully .But I am not sure they were all that interested in me either.

So I have described a group of people who were my small family. Nothing flashy, nothing bad. Secure and loving in their own ways and an excellent foundation for whatever I have made of my own life.

#1274 theoldmortuary ponders.

Dartmoor Sheep

Here is a Dartmoor Sheep demonstrating where a Scrag End of  Lamb is anatomically. However for the purpose of this blog the sheep is actually chasing down the Scrag End of Summer. Which has been officially declared in this house. Just like Swifts, the birds ; the last of our summer visitors have left the building today. Our Swifts, our family have flown, not for sub-Saharan Africa but for Hong Kong and Canada. So the main events of Summer are done.

However I am a big fan of the scrag end of summer. The slightly faded landscape, the gentler heat and even the unpredictable weather.  Sometimes I fool myself that Scrag End Summer is a pretty long time period. But right now we are missing our summer visitors and a bustling busy house. It will take a little adjustment and a few cups of tea before we fully embrace the reality of the Scrag End of Summer 2025.

#1273 theoldmortuary ponders.

Smeatons Tower, Plymouth Hoe.

Yesterday was a day of peaks. Fitting a lot of local tourism into a day and achievements of different sorts all slotted into the day like pieces of a jigsaw.

I would like to say we peaked early in the day calmly by taking down the marquee at the Tennis Club. Our family of tall and fit individuals were invaluable.

But just before that, I had hit a peak of stupidity and miscalculated who was where and had house keys. Neatly managing to lock the house with no keys on the outside. Luckily I had managed to only lock the front of the house. Just a twelve foot stone wall to clamber.

Luck was with me, as it was for the whole day. I had also locked out a former Welsh Guard who did a very athletic vertical wall climb to save the very early part of the day.

Dilly Dallying firmly behind me , the marquee was taken down and we visited our Canadian Cohorts Airbnb to see very familiar sights from a different perspective.

Their accommodation was over our favourite coffee shop.

Then with peak efficiency we hit our Family Gathering Brunch exactly on schedule.

Entertained vividly by the RNLI we posed by an old crane.

Then straight off to Tinside for a swim.

Although that particular peak experience was to swim in the sea so we were a little to the left of this picture.

Then up to the Hoe for some posing and musing about the Beatle Buttock print sculpture nearby.

And just like that the last schedule of the day was on the horizon. Dinner at Nora”s with Norah.

But while we were busy being peak performing tourists something funny was happening.  This blog started reaching a record number of views. Peak viewing.

The wonderful thing about hosting out-of-town family is that we fill the day with lovely things. So much so that locking everyone out of the house is just a minor inconvenience.

#1300 theoldmortuary ponders. Part 2

Fishing in Tranquility Bay

Who would you like to talk to soon?

Part 2 the blog I would have written if I hadn’t written Part 1.

#1299 theoldmortuary ponders. Part 1.

It would be great to have a natter with my Dad. But as he has been in another realm for 30 years, I would have to say that if I can postpone that natter for as long as possible, I would be very grateful . Especially as we would then be in a position of having an eternity of nattering, perhaps.

I have been having a bit of survivor guilt recently,having outlived both my parents by 4 years. I am probably unrecognisable from the 36 year old they left behind so that would be quite the big subject. I feel guilty because they were never able to be the grandparents they could have been due to ill health and caring responsibilities.. I am lucky enough to be a Nana to 3 delightful granddaughters.It is such a life enhancing role. I am sad that both my parents and children missed out on knowing each other well. My own grandparents born in 1888 and 1898, part of the ‘lost’ generation who had survived two world wars, were never as thrilled to be with me as I am with my small people. As long as I was quiet and with my head in a book they were content to let me be. My other female grandparent was born in the First World War and was a busy businesswoman by the time she was my grandparent. She dropped into my life as an infrequent but glamorous visitor exuding American-style glamour and smelling of perfume, cigarettes and gin and tonic evenings. A heady mix in rural Essex. Also hardly the sort of grandparent required in the 2020’s.. I don’t think bonding  and building a relationship with me was a priority  for them.

But their children, my parents, would have been fabulous grandparents if they had had the chance.

So like much of my adult life I have to make ‘grandparenting’ up as I go along. I must say I find it all rather lovely, hence the survivors guilt and the desire for that conversation, but not any time soon.

Fishing in Tranquility Bay

#1256 theoldmortuary ponders

This may not be the kindest way to discuss my maternal grandmother, but pondering does not always go the way of acceptability or indeed kindness. On a positive note I cleared the algae off this photo before using it.

Rocks at Bigbury

For good pondering I also need to flip and tweak.

I have outlived my own mother for four years and in the last year we have bought a high magnification illuminated make-up mirror.

As I peered into the mirror one mornng I looked close up at my soft but craggy cheeks. Skipped a generation and thought how alike my face was to my Nana’s. This is no bad thing, I adored my grandmother and kissing her softly wrinkled cheek was always a pleasure. Her cheeks were velvety and yielding, and smelled of glamour. She ran two businesses,smoked elegantly and constantly and always looked like Lucille Ball.

Men couldn’t help themselves and neither could she. In her seventies she moved to Melbourne in Australia. Pastures new and different men to captivate. Welsh Valleys , the flatlands of Essex and finally an Australian city. All changes made when her allure required her to move on.

My cheeks have not lived the life of my Nana’s. My mother very much disapproved of  her  ‘antics’. I was directed, encouraged and obediently followed a different path.

But a small child knows nothing of such adult stuff . Kissing a soft cheek that smells faintly of smoke, good cosmetics and a gin and tonic was a safe and exotic harbour for me.

I was aghast when my own wrinkles were laid bare by the new mirror but also charmed that in some small way my grandmother had returned to me.

My mum and her mum ( in the doorway of her pub) and unknown woman.

Google is a funny old thing. The pub my grandparents ran is long gone and has changed from the robust name of the Red Cow to the rather generically cute Daisy Cottage.

Google found an old Christmas card sent by the publicans.

©Andrew Clark

And a Historic England listing.

So much to enjoy from wrinkles. Botox will never be as interesting.

#1241 theoldmortuary ponders.

Mothers Day.

I went to a live music gig earlier in the week to hear Cara Dillon perform tracks from her new album.

It was an unexpected, last minute attendance with my daughter. I had no prior knowledge of what I might be hearing.

Link below to a review of the album.

https://klofmag.com/2024/03/cara-dillon-coming-home-album-review/

Coming Home was an eloquent and beautiful homage to family and place. Something Irish people do with skill and sensitivity.

Not so, the good people of Essex which is where my heritage and sense of place are rooted.

I came away from the gig enlightened and entranced by the music and the words and very humbled that I have no such ability to show such gratitude and respect to my forbears and place of my upbringing.

Some of the footling about this week with my hybrid photography/printmaking was definitely inspired by the gig.

The green abstract shape in the Tulip picture could be absent forbears or future descendants. Just placing me, represented as quick-to-fade tulips. Frozen in time as just a piece of the family jigsaw. Which of course is exactly what I am. Just a grain of sand in one family’s story.

Sand Dunes

All of my forbears, both close and distant are in another realm, my only purpose on Mothers Day is to celebrate that I am a mother and grandmother to some fabulous humans and remember that there were a whole stack of family members before me. Nothing really regrettable about  that. It is the natural way of a family tree.

I just can’t write amazing words and music to celebrate them. I blame my genes.

©Ruby Light.

Ruby Light Portraits
07779 266914

https://g.co/kgs/U6Ct8ex

#1093 theoldmortuary ponders.

The sun sets on the first of November an infinitely better day than 31st October. As an update, Hugo is recovering well from his trauma.  Far braver than us, he boldly walked the streets of our local area with never a backward glance. We were on high alert. Despite his  injuries he had responsibilities. Overnight care of one of his small people.

She in turn is offering him quiet time watching Trolls with her.

It seems to work for both of them.