13 Things Not Everyone Knows About Me

1.

I had three grandfathers (though only two grandmothers). ‘Grandpa’,

the only one I ever met, was a ‘step’, but my mother and I loved him – 

because he loved us, gave us books and wise advice, and lots of time

for long conversations and letters, and walks through Nature together.

2.

Of all my grandparents, though, the one I loved most was my Nana, 

Grandpa’s wife. She died when I was only four. I’ll never forget her.

A warm rich voice, a warm lap to sit on, warm arms to clasp me safe, 

a big warm bosom to snuggle into. She told me stories, sang me lullabies.

3. 

I was nine before parents and teachers noticed I needed glasses. 

Before that, the other kids called me ‘stuck up’. I didn’t say hello 

until they were close and I could see their faces, see who they were. 

By which time, feeling ignored, they turned up their noses at me. 

4. 

I like a handsome face as much as the next girl, and also a splendid form. But a better aphrodisiac is laughter. Make me laugh, go on doing that, and you’ve probably got me. But if you want to keep me – listen! 

Hear me! Hear me deep. Open to what you hear. Consider it.

5.

Everyone knows I’m a cat-lover, been one all my life. Not many know

my dearest animal friend was a dog. He stood as high as my thigh. 

His bark was a deep bay. He was a stray who came and found me – 

after I had many visions of him. (He reincarnated later as one of my cats.)

6. 

I have a water phobia. I love the water, but swim from the neck down.

I need to keep my face out; can’t be splashed or I panic – really panic. 

I believe I drowned in Atlantis. Some of us didn’t get out in time.

When the water came, I swam and swam, but at last I grew too tired. 

7.

I’d be scared to get close to any but a small spider. Yet I revere spiders.

In my house no-one’s allowed to kill them. Unless they’re dangerous.

When a white-tailed spider crawled from under a pile of washing, once, in my elderly mother’s home, I stomped on it quick. An exception.

8. 

A few of my dreams have a special flavour. When I wake up, I know 

they are not just part of the ordinary run of dreams, where we sort out

the daily garbage. Also, I remember them. I remember them always.

Some turn out prophetic. The rest, I think, are glimpses of other lives.

9.

I have a deformed fingernail on the ring finger of my right hand. 

My cousin dropped a brick on it when she was three. I was four. 

She always said it was an accident, but still claimed to feel guilty. 

I always believed she did it on purpose. No-one ever notices, though.

10.

When I was little I longed to be a ballet dancer.  But when my Mum

took me to my first (and only) ballet class, I couldn’t do it! My body

wouldn’t carry out even the simplest instructions. Lack of rhythm, 

poor coordination, no ear for music … which? Probably all. 

11.

When I was growing up, I never dreamed about being a bride. I never

craved babies. Didn’t want a handsome Prince to come and rescue me.

I wanted to be the swashbuckler; my own d’Artagnan or Robin Hood.

I didn’t want to be a boy. I wanted the adventures boys were allowed. 

12.

I have very small hands and feet, and head. But they don’t look small.

Just don’t ever give me hats or gloves or slippers; I’ll swim in them.

No-one quite believes this. They’re sure they’ll get it right. They don’t.

My Firstborn says he's the same. You wouldn’t guess it of him, either.

13. 

I’ve always had a thing for dragons. There was a time I'd call them 

through the ether, to be my companions or guardians; even requested

their company for others – who did experience it. My 'tuned in' friend,

Letitia, said I had two dragon incarnations a very long time ago.

Dragon photo (and dragon ) mine.

Sharing this post with Thursday Thirteen, a new game to play.

Loss and Longing, Love and Light

Loss and Longing, Love and Light

Nana (my mother’s mother) was the great love of my early childhood. We all loved her, the whole family. I was only four when we lost her.

I recall her long, long hair when she let it out at night, brushed it slowly and firmly, then plaited it again and looped the plait into a coil on her neck. 

I liked to watch the lingering strokes of the brush; how deftly yet leisurely she divided the strands and laid them over each other to gradually form the plait; the placing of the long hairpins; and the last gesture as she firmly patted her bun into place.

I recall the soft lap I curled up in; the warm, cradling arms. ‘Gentle Jesus, meek and mild, look upon a little child,’ she crooned, lulling me to sleep.

I couldn’t really grasp the language of the next bit: ‘Pity my simplicity’ (not too long a word for me even then, only I thought it meant I was stupid) ‘and suffer me to come to Thee’ (I didn’t like the idea of anyone suffering, thanks a lot!). But that was irrelevant. Mainly, Nana’s lap was the place to be: my place.

After Nana died, my Mum lay a long time in a darkened room. ‘Don’t cry,’ said my Dad to me, ‘you’ll upset her. Go and play.’ I wandered listlessly around the lawn and along the paths. I told myself she was in Heaven. I listened to hear her in the clouds. I felt, slightly, that I did; but aloft, so distant….  

Years later – all the years following her loss – I heard the family tales: her melodic voice; the collection of little dogs that followed her everywhere; her compassion for listening (out of the blue) to strangers’ troubles, in such a way that they felt healed. People were naturally, spontaneously drawn to confide in her, I was told. I knew; she listened to me too, although I was only small.

I didn’t have her long, but she was a light to me – a gentle light yet strong, shining continually over all my life.

They said she thought herself ugly. Laughable! Of all people in the whole world, she was the most radiantly beautiful.

Written (in exactly 369 words excluding title) for Weekly Scribblings #49 at Poets and Storytellers United: my own prompt where I invite people to write something – anything – purposefully using one particular letter repeatedly. My letter here, of course, is L. I didn't have any idea beforehand of how it might impact the writing – and I'm not sure I have now, though I hope it might lend a softness. Once I knew what, or rather who, I wanted to write about (not the first time I've written of her) I picked that letter because it starts the word Love.

A Contrast of Grandmothers

A Contrast of Grandmothers

Both my grandmothers were good, strong women. While they didn’t question the  conventional role of women in their era, and in some ways lived up to it splendidly, neither was conventional.

My Indian grandmother, my Mum’s mother, was Florence May Holmes, née Pereira. (Anglo-Indian really, with a strand of Portuguese.) I called her Nana. She was warm, soft, spontaneous, full of laughter and song, with a tender heart for other people’s troubles. She enjoyed a joke and a beer, and had three children by different fathers, only the last of whom she married — Francis Sidney Holmes, my dear Grandpa, my Mum’s stepfather, the only grandfather I knew. 

Nana loved animals, and was always trailed by several dogs. She had cats too, but dogs were her favourites. I remember her generous lap where I felt safe, loved. I remember her singing to me of ‘Gentle Jesus, meek and mild.’ I remember her letting down her long hair at night from its daytime coil, brushing it 100 times. She was the great love of my early life. She died when I was four. 

The other, Australian of English descent, was Alice Robinson, born Selina Alice Noar, always known as Alice – or Grandma. My Dad was her second son, and the second of her seven children by her husband, John Thomas (Jack) Robinson, the only love of her long life. He was an alcoholic; she, not surprisingly, was a fervent member of the Women’s Christian Temperance Union. 

Grandma disliked dogs — dirty things that should be kept outside. She didn’t care for cats either. And she wasn’t a hugger. I don’t have the warm, tactile memories of her that I do of my Nana. 

She lived interstate, so I saw her much less often than Nana. But she wrote many fond letters to Lovely Lambkin, her special name for me –  the only one of her many grandchildren to receive one. 

She sent me books for presents. (So did Grandpa Holmes.) She was the great reader from whom her children inherited the love of books. In my teens we became friends.

Always primly dressed, she too had long hair in a bun, which she brushed out at night, 100 times.

To be continued............ 


The 369-word prose prompts at Poets and Storytellers United seem to have started something! I found myself writing about my grandparents as if this could be the start of a memoir. Anyway it's only the beginning of what I want to say about them, so I'll see where it takes me.  I'm sharing it with Writers' Pantry #13.