a. My grandmother's journal (non-fiction) - Pt 1

                          

I've always felt close to my maternal grandmother - despite the fact that she died when I was only five years old.

My grandmother, Hilda, suffered with multi-infarct dementia during her final years.  And, related to this, I never got to have an actual conversation with her.  Not one that I can recall, anyway. However, I did visit her often - with my mother, and my two siblings - until her death in 1971.

I recall travelling across Adelaide (the capital city of South Australia) - on two separate buses - during the late 1960's, to visit her each week. The hospital ward in which she stayed - blind, paralysed, and bedridden - was part of a single-storey complex set on a large expanse of lawn and surrounded, at the periphery of the grounds, by rows of pine-trees.

As I was so young at the time, my memories about the interior of the building are scant:  Although I do recall a large dimly-lit room; very high ceilings; off-white walls; rows of metal-framed beds with taut white blankets, sheets and pillows; a clock ticking from high up … and an atmosphere of sadness, loss and silence.

My mother, Anne, would sit, during those visits, on a chair beside her mother's bed, and she would talk to my grandmother for about an hour.  I don't recall my grandmother ever replying.  The 'conversations' were more like softly-spoken monologues by my mother. Yet, in such a quiet room hers was the only voice. The only sign of life.

I recall being aware that my mother put a lot of effort into trying to sound cheerful and happy.  Maybe, like me now, she was imagining her mother as she had been - before the strokes - when her mind had been bright and happy and clever.  Maybe, she hoped that her mother could still hear her. Still understand what she was saying. Still exist as her mother, from somewhere deep within the wasted shell of her worn-out body.

Maybe - this is why my mother went to so much trouble to visit my grandmother so regularly - until the inevitable phone-call, that is.

I can still see my mother, in her mid 30's, holding the phone receiver as she stood in the dark hallway of our house. The phone-call was short.  My mother didn't scream, or cry, or even speak much.  Silent tears were the only clue to the  pain she was feeling.  She thanked the caller and then escaped to her bedroom - where she remained for many hours.

However, I think that my mother knew that the worst of the suffering was over:  For both herself and her mother.

And that is my relationship - and my 'experiences' during my life - with my grandmother.  That's all I have.

Yet, in spite of this, I have always felt very close to her. I have always felt like we are kindred spirits. And, for some reason, that I don't understand, I have had the 'feeling' that she is watching over me - since my teens.

Why?

Well, in part I think it's because of the many stories that my mother told me, during my childhood and youth, about my grandmother.  My mother's stories allowed me to see her, hear her, understand her, admire her, and even love her - because I got to know her.  And she was a woman I am proud to call my grandmother.

Stories … words … can do that.  Words are powerful.  And, my mother was a very good story-teller.  Her words were colourful and vivid.  Her stories, about the family of her childhood - all dead and gone during my own life - were filled with love and life. 

I also got to know my grandmother from her own words.  Her journal. A journal which she wrote, in secret over many years,  to one day give to my mother as a gift. But the gift was also to me, her grand-daughter. Without her journal, I would have never heard her voice.  I would have heard my mother tell me 'roughly' what she said.  But, in her journal, I can hear her voice.  I can feel her soul and I can know her more intimately.  Before the strokes took her voice and her mind away.

My mother gave me the journal, to read, decades ago - when I was about eighteen.  I loved it.

I then lost the journal, for many years, forgetting that I even had it in my possession. By chance I found it again, while cleaning out a cupboard, about a decade ago, and returned it to my mother. However, I first made another copy of it for myself and my children to read. I wanted to keep a copy of my grandmother's words.  I wanted to be able to hear her voice again - some time in the future. Her words were like a window to her soul.

I then lost the journal, and forgot about it, until a few weeks ago - when it resurface during a house move. This time,  I gave it to my own 18 year old daughter to read.  She loved it,like I had at her age.

My grandmother's journal is from a different era in Australia.  A simpler era - from 1948 − 1963. And, because I think that my grandmother speaks for women at that time - and because she was such a kind and intelligent and loving woman - I thought it might be a nice thing to share on my blog site.  Along with some stories about her (told to me by my mother) with each journal entry.

So, here it is.

I'll tell a story or two, and give a journal entry or three, with each blog.

I find, practicing Medicine, that every single person has an interesting story to tell: A story about love, tragedy, struggles, loss, happiness … and the accumulation of wisdom.

This is my grandmother's story: 



My grandmother's journal - written to her daughter (my mother) Anne:  1948 − 1963.

I've written enough for this first blog entry, in this series, so I'll get straight into my grandmother's first few journal entries - without further ado.  Although, I will firstly list a few basic details about my grandmother - to help set the scene:

My grandmother, Hilda Norman, was born in 1896 in the rural South Australia town, Bow Hill.

She had a twin brother, Walter (country policeman), and an older sister, Hannah (teacher).  Her mother was Irish ( Margaret Teate), and her father was Swedish (Nils Peter Norman).  Both of her parents migrated to Australia during their early 20's, leaving their parents and families behind in Europe.  They had hoped to find a better life in Australia.



HILDA'S  JOURNAL


November 23rd   1948

Darling -

That line stands for our favourite name for you. I thought of writing "my darling daughter" (which you are) but, being at heart a very sentimental person I (sometimes) try to hide the fact.

I want to fill all these pages and give the book to you for a surprise sometime.

How did I come to think of doing this? I thought of it about fifteen minutes ago when I was down by the fowl house.  I looked at the chicks, the hens, and the new laid eggs in a box in the corner, simple things, but they gave me suddenly a feeling of pleasure and satisfaction. The simple things like that and all nature, all growing things seem so right and good.

I wanted to talk to you about it, perhaps I will. One wants to share one's thoughts with those we love, and one's pleasures and happiness too.

I would like to write more now but you will be home from school soon and I have some work to do.  Goodbye.

(Do you ever think what a beautiful word that is? It means "God be with you".

Goodbye then until I write again -

Tomorrow I hope, darling little old teenager       xxx and my love.



February 9th   1949

I didn't think it would be so long before I wrote again dear, but it has been school holidays and I had this  hidden away.  Since I last wrote we have had a happy time together at home. We didn't go out much.  A few weeks ago you started making a calendar to give me for my birthday, finding a verse or two or a few lines for each day and a little picture for each day too.

You showed me a few verses and pictures and they were lovely. When I have the calendar it will give me fresh pleasure each day. You have been so busy and happy doing it dear.  That has pleased me very much.

Before the holidays there was Speech Night. I was there. You looked so nice in a pretty new white silk dress and you wore your first pair of stockings. (silk)

I felt so proud of you as you went up to receive your prize (a book) for coming second in your class and first in English. You got five credits too in your examination.

You looked very nice, dear, going off to school yesterday with your uniform, especially nice for the first day back at school and your hair in a new style, a very pretty curly cut you had done in the holidays.

Well, I must leave this now and do some more work.  Allan has just brought me blackberries for jam

- More soon.

Goodbye darling little old teenager.




11th February 1949   Friday


A lovely cool day yesterday. I went into town, the shops were close because, through power restrictions, no fans were going. We are having a lovely cool February so far.

Last month was very hot, muggy too. I felt the weather a lot and thought wistfully of winter's cool fresh air and cosy fires.

You met me after school, dear, and we had a nice time together looking around shops and having chocolate ices and cool drinks.

I will have you home from school the next two days and you will be glad of the rest from school. This cool change has tired you, and fixing up about new books and getting used to Miss Balch has been trying too, as well as a new make of typewriter that won't work properly for you.  Next week you will be more settled at school.

Now I must get to work and start my blackberry jam (it is lovely).

I can hear Pop Eye cutting his fancy pines at the back.

It is nice to sit down and write like this like talking to you. Now I can go along cheerfully with the work of the day.

Goodbye darling until next week.  xxx





I'll continue the journal and my mother's stories of my grandmother, Hilda - in the next few blogs in this series.

I find the pace of life so different to today.  Simpler.