I found this on the BBC News website - a really sweet little audio slideshow about the Crossbones Cemetary, which I've mentioned before. It kind of gives you an idea of what the gates look like and what the ceremony's all about...
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-11642938
Showing posts with label ancestors. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ancestors. Show all posts
Sunday, 31 October 2010
A Walk Between The Worlds...
So today is Samhain, the Witches New Year and a celebration of all that is past; when the last of the harvest has been gathered and our ancestors looked forwards, no doubt with some trepidation, to the winter ahead and trying to get through it in one piece. I'm kinda hoping that the next 12 months are slightly better than the last 12 (although there have been some seriously wonderful moments), but although I'm feeling all reflective this is not going to be one of those 'oh do you remember when we...?' posts. Instead, as the veil between the worlds is at its thinnest point tonight and the realms of the living and the dead become intertwined, I'm going to honour my own dead...
My first experience of death (human death, that is; I'd already witnessed The Passing Of The First Goldfish) came when I was 10 years old and my beloved Nanna, my dad's mum, died. She had been 'not well' for a very long time but the end, when it came, seemed to me at least to be very sudden: one day she was in hospital, very ill, and then a few days later she passed over. My Nanna was one of the kindest people I have ever been fortunate enough to know; all my memories of her are of laughter and joy, which push away the ones of her being ill, and to this day I only have to see certain objects or smell certain perfumes and I'm immediately reminded of her. And if I ever happen to see an older lady doing her shopping in her slippers, I have hysterics because my Nanna did that more than once! She was a one in a million, my Nanna, and I'm forever grateful for the early memories of love and laughter that she gave me.
Even after she passed over, however, and as devastated as I was, I knew that she was still part of me. She lived on in my memories, yes, but I knew her spirit was still there as well, watching over us. In fact when my Arhoo, my dad's dad, passed over after a long illness, just before I turned 21, I strongly believe that she was there to take him across. I can't explain it in words, but when I went to see my Grandad in hospital just before he passed, I'm sure she was there because he looked t something or someone that wasn't physically there and he smiled. My Nanna and Grandad were very close, so I'm not surprised that she came for him. I was privileged to have wonderful grandparents - on both sides of the family - and Arhoo was a great practical joker. All the memories I have of him, rather than being of the last time I saw him in hospital, are of a kind, caring man who took great delight in stealing my breakfast and writing me out a bill after a week's stay at their house. What can I say; no wonder I'm broke! There's also the story about him dropping an artillery shell almost on his foot during the war...don't ask. Burying him on April Fools Day was a bittersweet experience, but I know that he's at peace now and that is what sustains me. I was always amazed growing up that so many people in Rochford knew my Grandad and thought so much of him, but as I got older and learnt about his work as the local undertaker it all made sense. Knowing that people whose families he had buried, and the district nurses who'd helped care for him in the last years of his life, were at his funeral is testament to the sort of man that he was, and I am so proud to be able to say that he was my own beloved Arhoo.
My other Grandad, my mum's dad, passed when I was 14 and in that very self-centred 'stroppy teenager' phase. He had been ill for a long time and I think I was in complete denial that he was going to die. I'd already lost my Nanna; to my mind there was no way my warm, funny, adorable Grandad who let me kick ants and drown his precious plants when I was 'helping' to water them was going to die as well. Of course, the Universe never asks us what we want and I found his passing probably the hardest of all. I adored all my grandparents because they were such warm, wonderfully caring people, but we'd lived with my mum's parents since I was 7 and so I'd grown up with my Grandad. He had the patience of several thousand saints, which was tested to the limits when he tried to teach me my times tables, but he never complained about any of the ridiculous games my brother and I asked him to play with us and was exactly the sort of grandfather I would want any putative child of mine to have. In fact I wish every child could have the grandparents I did; all four of them were (and still are, in my Nan's case) among the kindest people I've ever met and even a smidgen of the love and affection that I got from them could go a long way towards helping other children turn their lives around. My Grandad never judged me, even when I was the most obnoxious little cow imaginable and, although he had passed over when my obnoxious little cow phase was at its worst, I know that he was still there: his spirit stopped me killing myself when I was 15. But I owe him more than just my life; I owe him my ability to (sometimes) work out what seven eights are, my delusional belief that my violin playing was completely extraordinary and an unhealthy obsession with digging potatoes out of the earth with my bare hands. His belief in me even when I doubted myself was above and beyond the call of any familial ties, and I know deep down that, when I really start to think I’m a failure or I can’t do something, all I have to do is close my eyes and think of him, and I’ll find the belief that I need.
Just over a year ago I also lost my Great Uncle Ronnie and my Great Auntie Rose, my Grandad’s older brother and his wife. I didn’t know Ronnie and Rosie as well as I knew my grandparents, but whenever they came down to us for family get-togethers or to stay with my Nan and Grandad they always took the time to play with me and enfold me with the same warmth that they extended to their own grandchildren. Again, they were both extremely kind and loving people, and to have had them in my life – even momentarily – has been a blessing.
So tonight, as the walls between the worlds fall away and the ancestors return home for their brief, fleeting visits, I want to honour the people that I have loved and lost over the years, and thank them for their role in shaping the child I was and the woman I am becoming. To my beloved grandparents Margaret and Aubrey Pipe and Denis Ward; to my Great Uncle Ronald Ward and my Great Aunties Rose and Violet, who passed over several years ago.
There are others, too; ancestors whose names I may know but whose stories are a mystery, and all those who stretch back beyond the records we have found to the beginning of human life. Their blood flows through my veins still, and I thank them for it.
To Marie, who passed over when we were still at school and made all of us realise how fragile life could be, I wish peace at last.
And to all of you who may be reading this rather rambling, shambolic thing that I call my blog; to all of you who have lost loved ones, I send you my love and will whisper a silent wish to the winds that they are also at peace. Samhain is a time to look back and honour those who have gone before us, but it is also a time to look ahead to the turn of another year and all the promise that it holds. Happy Samhain, everyone, and may the new year bring you all joy, good health and good fortune. xx
My first experience of death (human death, that is; I'd already witnessed The Passing Of The First Goldfish) came when I was 10 years old and my beloved Nanna, my dad's mum, died. She had been 'not well' for a very long time but the end, when it came, seemed to me at least to be very sudden: one day she was in hospital, very ill, and then a few days later she passed over. My Nanna was one of the kindest people I have ever been fortunate enough to know; all my memories of her are of laughter and joy, which push away the ones of her being ill, and to this day I only have to see certain objects or smell certain perfumes and I'm immediately reminded of her. And if I ever happen to see an older lady doing her shopping in her slippers, I have hysterics because my Nanna did that more than once! She was a one in a million, my Nanna, and I'm forever grateful for the early memories of love and laughter that she gave me.
Even after she passed over, however, and as devastated as I was, I knew that she was still part of me. She lived on in my memories, yes, but I knew her spirit was still there as well, watching over us. In fact when my Arhoo, my dad's dad, passed over after a long illness, just before I turned 21, I strongly believe that she was there to take him across. I can't explain it in words, but when I went to see my Grandad in hospital just before he passed, I'm sure she was there because he looked t something or someone that wasn't physically there and he smiled. My Nanna and Grandad were very close, so I'm not surprised that she came for him. I was privileged to have wonderful grandparents - on both sides of the family - and Arhoo was a great practical joker. All the memories I have of him, rather than being of the last time I saw him in hospital, are of a kind, caring man who took great delight in stealing my breakfast and writing me out a bill after a week's stay at their house. What can I say; no wonder I'm broke! There's also the story about him dropping an artillery shell almost on his foot during the war...don't ask. Burying him on April Fools Day was a bittersweet experience, but I know that he's at peace now and that is what sustains me. I was always amazed growing up that so many people in Rochford knew my Grandad and thought so much of him, but as I got older and learnt about his work as the local undertaker it all made sense. Knowing that people whose families he had buried, and the district nurses who'd helped care for him in the last years of his life, were at his funeral is testament to the sort of man that he was, and I am so proud to be able to say that he was my own beloved Arhoo.
My other Grandad, my mum's dad, passed when I was 14 and in that very self-centred 'stroppy teenager' phase. He had been ill for a long time and I think I was in complete denial that he was going to die. I'd already lost my Nanna; to my mind there was no way my warm, funny, adorable Grandad who let me kick ants and drown his precious plants when I was 'helping' to water them was going to die as well. Of course, the Universe never asks us what we want and I found his passing probably the hardest of all. I adored all my grandparents because they were such warm, wonderfully caring people, but we'd lived with my mum's parents since I was 7 and so I'd grown up with my Grandad. He had the patience of several thousand saints, which was tested to the limits when he tried to teach me my times tables, but he never complained about any of the ridiculous games my brother and I asked him to play with us and was exactly the sort of grandfather I would want any putative child of mine to have. In fact I wish every child could have the grandparents I did; all four of them were (and still are, in my Nan's case) among the kindest people I've ever met and even a smidgen of the love and affection that I got from them could go a long way towards helping other children turn their lives around. My Grandad never judged me, even when I was the most obnoxious little cow imaginable and, although he had passed over when my obnoxious little cow phase was at its worst, I know that he was still there: his spirit stopped me killing myself when I was 15. But I owe him more than just my life; I owe him my ability to (sometimes) work out what seven eights are, my delusional belief that my violin playing was completely extraordinary and an unhealthy obsession with digging potatoes out of the earth with my bare hands. His belief in me even when I doubted myself was above and beyond the call of any familial ties, and I know deep down that, when I really start to think I’m a failure or I can’t do something, all I have to do is close my eyes and think of him, and I’ll find the belief that I need.
Just over a year ago I also lost my Great Uncle Ronnie and my Great Auntie Rose, my Grandad’s older brother and his wife. I didn’t know Ronnie and Rosie as well as I knew my grandparents, but whenever they came down to us for family get-togethers or to stay with my Nan and Grandad they always took the time to play with me and enfold me with the same warmth that they extended to their own grandchildren. Again, they were both extremely kind and loving people, and to have had them in my life – even momentarily – has been a blessing.
So tonight, as the walls between the worlds fall away and the ancestors return home for their brief, fleeting visits, I want to honour the people that I have loved and lost over the years, and thank them for their role in shaping the child I was and the woman I am becoming. To my beloved grandparents Margaret and Aubrey Pipe and Denis Ward; to my Great Uncle Ronald Ward and my Great Aunties Rose and Violet, who passed over several years ago.
There are others, too; ancestors whose names I may know but whose stories are a mystery, and all those who stretch back beyond the records we have found to the beginning of human life. Their blood flows through my veins still, and I thank them for it.
To Marie, who passed over when we were still at school and made all of us realise how fragile life could be, I wish peace at last.
And to all of you who may be reading this rather rambling, shambolic thing that I call my blog; to all of you who have lost loved ones, I send you my love and will whisper a silent wish to the winds that they are also at peace. Samhain is a time to look back and honour those who have gone before us, but it is also a time to look ahead to the turn of another year and all the promise that it holds. Happy Samhain, everyone, and may the new year bring you all joy, good health and good fortune. xx
Monday, 30 August 2010
Pomp and Circumstance, Pride and Pagentry
There are some things that we in this country will never do well, like being able to big ourselves up all the time as our Yankee cousins do, or win anything at a major football championships. (Come on, people, you know I'm right. As always). However, there are also some things that we do incredibly well, and pomp and pagentry is one of them. (Or should that be two?) Whether it's the Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace pulling in the tourists or the solemn splendour of Remembrance Day; the pomp and circumstance of the Last Night of the Proms or the dignified reception the people of Wooton Basset give to our returning war dead, we Brits are bloody good at the required pagentry.
The reason I've been thinking about this today is because I've just watched the Edinburgh Royal Military Tattoo, always guaranteed to be an absolute showstopper and to bring a lump to the throat and a tear to the eye. Whenever I see something like this, the brave men and women of our Armed Forces parading in some form or another, I always feel incredibly humbled and very, very proud (even of you, Rob, despite the fact that you pick on me terribly!) But something like the Tattoo, in particular, also makes me feel very un-English.
I know, shocking admission, right? But while I can get all fired up for "Land of Hope and Glory" and "Rule Britannia" at the Proms, Jerusalem leaves me cold. Play me something Celtic-based, however; something Scottish or Irish; an air on the bagpipes, the passionate love letter of "Scotland the Brave" or the mournful beauty of "The Fields of Athenry" and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, my skin prickles with goosebumps, tears start to my eyes and the lump forms in my throat. I am more moved on sporting occasions by "Ireland's Call", "The Soldier's Song" or "Flower of Scotland" than by "God Save the Queen" (and I an ardent Royalist!)
One possible explanation for this is, of course, the ancient Celtic blood that flows through my veins; another is the mysterious Irishman who haunts the family legends yet remains infuriatingly untraceable through the records. The third option, however, and one that is no less plausible, is that I was either Scottish or Irish (or both) in a past life. It would explain why for so many years I had a desperate, burning longing to visit Dublin, despite never having been there or knowing anyone who had been there, and why I felt so at home when I finally arrived; or why my spirit soared and my heart felt free when I set foot in the Highlands of Scotland.
Whatever the reason, though, it doesn't detract from the power of the Massed Bands of the Pipes and Drums, or from the dignity and courage of the service men and women of Britain's military. We may have thoroughly inept and crooked politicians who send them into illegal wars with limited equipment, but their bravery and sacrifice makes me fiercely patriotic and incredibly proud to be a Brit. As do the grand parades and military events such as Trooping the Colour or the Edinburgh Tattoo, that we do better than any other country in the world...
The reason I've been thinking about this today is because I've just watched the Edinburgh Royal Military Tattoo, always guaranteed to be an absolute showstopper and to bring a lump to the throat and a tear to the eye. Whenever I see something like this, the brave men and women of our Armed Forces parading in some form or another, I always feel incredibly humbled and very, very proud (even of you, Rob, despite the fact that you pick on me terribly!) But something like the Tattoo, in particular, also makes me feel very un-English.
I know, shocking admission, right? But while I can get all fired up for "Land of Hope and Glory" and "Rule Britannia" at the Proms, Jerusalem leaves me cold. Play me something Celtic-based, however; something Scottish or Irish; an air on the bagpipes, the passionate love letter of "Scotland the Brave" or the mournful beauty of "The Fields of Athenry" and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, my skin prickles with goosebumps, tears start to my eyes and the lump forms in my throat. I am more moved on sporting occasions by "Ireland's Call", "The Soldier's Song" or "Flower of Scotland" than by "God Save the Queen" (and I an ardent Royalist!)
One possible explanation for this is, of course, the ancient Celtic blood that flows through my veins; another is the mysterious Irishman who haunts the family legends yet remains infuriatingly untraceable through the records. The third option, however, and one that is no less plausible, is that I was either Scottish or Irish (or both) in a past life. It would explain why for so many years I had a desperate, burning longing to visit Dublin, despite never having been there or knowing anyone who had been there, and why I felt so at home when I finally arrived; or why my spirit soared and my heart felt free when I set foot in the Highlands of Scotland.
Whatever the reason, though, it doesn't detract from the power of the Massed Bands of the Pipes and Drums, or from the dignity and courage of the service men and women of Britain's military. We may have thoroughly inept and crooked politicians who send them into illegal wars with limited equipment, but their bravery and sacrifice makes me fiercely patriotic and incredibly proud to be a Brit. As do the grand parades and military events such as Trooping the Colour or the Edinburgh Tattoo, that we do better than any other country in the world...
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