Tales of another place.
When I was boy, a few years older than you are now – its 2022 guys, do the sums….I encountered a few relatives as our dad took us to places – not many, but a few. Later on I found out that it was usually to ask for help with ‘living’, getting by – I imagine this involved money in some way, or at least in kind, whatever that looked like. Most of the benevolence came from my mums, your great grandmother, side of the family. Dads family lived in England, so geography ruled at that time.
My mum died in an accident when I was 8/9 years old, Mhairi was six or so the year President Kennedy was assassinated.
My dad struggled, he worked in relatively unskilled jobs, two, three at a time to get by. Loads of tales there! Another time perhaps!
Anyhow, when we visited my, our, grandads and Nana’s it was a bit special as it was so comfortable on all levels. Beds were warm, food was hot and they were both just good, kind people oozing it in every way. Even at the age of 11, I could feel this. We, my sister and I, had a wee jokey thing that we went for a week with a half crown pocket money from dad but returned with a pocket full of them from various relatives. A schism of a happy time, escape for a wee while.
I was browsing the other day and a poem by Norman McCaig (who he? Well, huge..look him up) rattled a few memory bells.
One in particular was when our grandparents spoke in Gaelic – their first language from the Isle of Lewis where they both came from -they spoke it fast and briefly.
One part was to practice when the one Gaelic programme per week was on the radio and the other approach was when they wanted to talk about my sister and I. Usually about our next steps with Dad. I think.
They spoke either very loud or very fast or very quiet. Generally of course as non speakers we had no essence of the conversation. Mum had been a fluent speaker. I wonder if she had lived, might we have learned the Gaelic? Some kind of loss in so many ways I guess.
Anyway this first verse of McCaigs poem ‘Aunt Julia’ prompted thoughts.
Aunt Julia spoke Gaelic
very loud and very fast.
I could not answer her –
I could not understand her.
This verse too, not a literal sense but a spirit of my Grans hard work.
She wore men’s boots
when she wore any.
– I can see her strong foot,
stained with peat,
paddling with the treadle of the spinningwheel
while her right hand drew yarn
marvellously out of the air.
Referring to a previous comment, re warmth, food..
Hers was the only house
where I’ve lain at night
in the absolute darkness
of a box bed, listening to
crickets being friendly.
The sound of so called ‘crickets’ emphasised that even in a strange town, house, the sounds around were more friendly than at home
And Nana oozed the symbols of warmth in a temporary island of safety
She was brown eggs, black skirts
and a keeper of threepennybits
in a teapot.
Threepenny bits.. for sure, those 12 sided coins, worth a bag of sweets at the bottom of your troos! Wealth a while!
Grandmas threepenny’s were in fact silver sixpenny pieces that she cooked into a clootie dumpling, specially for me and my sister, every time we visited. What a buzz, before buzz was popular@
Aunt Julia spoke Gaelic
very loud and very fast.
By the time I had learned
a little, she lay
silenced
at Luskentyre. McCaig
Except this time Nana lay in the crowded urban field of East Kilbride, that town that had weirdly offered refuge. I’d have preferred The Island.
However, like MacCaig’s auntie Julia, she passed with so many questions and conversations
Unanswered. For me, at least.