Have you ever given a joint present to a young couple, and then wondered who would keep it if they split up?
I made a plate for my grandparents. Square, and slightly curved, like a sushi plate. I pushed leaves into it so the veins left indentations in the clay, and after it was fired I glazed it a rich earthy brown.
I never thought about who would keep it. I never thought about my grandparents splitting up. That’s not something grandparents do. Teenagers split up. Young people. Celebrities. And occasionally someone else’s parents. But not my grandparents.
It’s hard enough making a new start when you’re 21. Imagine making a new start when you’re 84! Imagine going into hospital for what should be fairly routine heart surgery, then something goes wrong and you end up back in hospital for another operation and they have to put you in restraints for a couple of days because you’re thrashing around in agony and you might disconnect the life support… and then, weeks later when you come out of hospital you find out that your wife has left you and she’s sold the house.
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When I was a child my grandparents lived in a beautiful house by lake Rotorua. There was a slippery brick path that led down from the house. It always seemed to be cool and dark in the garden. There were mosses and violets, ferns and lilies underneath the trees, and a rough stone seat underneath an old rhododendron.
Down by the water grew harakeke, and my grandfather planted Jerusalem artichokes in the sandy soil. He used to chop them up into a soup that always tasted a little earthy.
There was a boat shed, with a little dinghy. And an island, so close that I could leap across from the shore, so tiny that it was home to only one willow tree. A tangle of bright red roots like veins trailing through the water.
The house had huge windows overlooking the lake. The living room always smelled old and musty. It was filled with treasures – fragile books, antique Chinese vases, precious rugs, and beautiful paintings.
The kitchen always smelled like freshly baked bread, rich with whole grain flours, and vegetables roasting or steaming on the stove.
Downstairs were the looms and the spinning wheels, the floor covered in scraps of cloth and piles of wool. I used to watch both of my grandparents at work, pulling and threading and turning until the beautiful fabrics tumbled out of their hands.
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My grandmother always made me squeal with laughter, pulling silly faces or putting on voices, or rubbing my feet until I writhed helplessly.
My grandfather was involved with the peace movement, and he had a badge making machine that he used to make peace badges. Sometimes he would let me draw pictures and turn them into badges.
He loved travelling, and throughout my childhood he brought me back so many wonderful treasures. The ones I loved most were the glossy red yukata and the green Spanish dancing dress. I wore them until they were ridiculously short and the sleeves cut into my arms.
It’s painful to seem him so frail. Until last year he was still looking after a huge vegetable garden, bee keeping, learning new hobbies, travelling… He’s done so much in his life. So many stories. In 1923 he and his family went on the first campervan trip ever in this country. A few years later he told his mother he wasn’t going to eat meat any more, and he’s been a vegetarian for 78 years and counting. He’s worked on ships, and as a film cameraman. He’s been involved with the peace movement and the environmental movement. He’s a great supporter of herbs and natural remedies. And until recently, he’s been incredibly healthy. Even in his 70s he could beat Thomas - a strong young Swedish man - at arm wrestling.
Now I’m pushing him around in a wheelchair.
I don’t feel old enough to care for him.
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I don’t feel old enough to bear my grandfather’s tears.
Posted by Fionnaigh at June 10, 2003 11:55 PM