Oral history was part of my first degree undertaken in 1994. I was drafted to HMS Gannet, Scotland, at RNAS Prestwick. It was quite a shock for a long time Cornwall serving sailor. I was a Chief Petty Officer and had received the draft notice when I was working off watch as the Warrant Officer’s and Chief’s Mess DJ.
Yes another string to my bow. As well as this, I was the stage manager for our amateur dramatics company designing and building stage sets for plays and pantomimes in March and December. I'll tell you about them someday perhaps.
But in this, in my 69th blog article I want to write about the conversations we have with our loved ones and March is a time of birthdays in our house. Mine is on the eleventh, and Teresa’s eldest, Rachel, celebrates hers on the nineteenth. Her youngest, Catherine, was born in November, but their dad, David and his twin sister, Julia mark their birthdays on the thirteenth. I guess it’s usually a time of celebration, a flurry of cards and cakes, a joyful anticipation. This year, though, the birthday joys to come are tinged with a quiet sadness. The news of the girls’ grandmother, Hazel’s, passing which arrived quietly, a ripple in the still waters of early February.
It reached Teresa by phone, a call that left her with a complex mix of emotions – some sadness, certainly, and a flood of memories.
That weekend, we sat in our conservatory, the rain washing softly over the glass roof, a WoodWick candle crackling in the background. Over a bottle of wine, the conversation turned, as it inevitably does, to life, death, and the intricate tapestry of family connections.
It was a conversation sparked by loss, but one that wandered through the landscape of the past, touching on blended families, the passage of time, and the different ways we process grief.
When the tearful phone call came, for Teresa, it was more than just the passing of a former mother-in-law. It was a reminder of a period in her life, a time when her family looked different, a connection that, though distant now, still held a thread to her past. That afternoon, as we sat together, the light rain washing over the conservatory roof, the conversation flowed easily, touching on the delicate balance of blended families, the different reactions of her daughters to the news, and the way loss can illuminate the intricate connections that bind us together, even across time and change. It was also a reminder of her daughters’ father and his twin, birthdays coming up so soon after Hazel’s passing.
And it wasn't just Hazel. The conversation drifted further back, to other losses, other lives that had touched ours. We reminisced about Doris, Teresa's mother, and her long struggle with illness. The sanatorium, a word that conjured images of another era, became a focal point. We talked about the challenges she faced, the quiet strength she possessed, and the enduring impact of her love. Then, inevitably, we turned to my mum and dad, Sally and Alf. Their story, a testament to enduring love, a love that weathered the storms of TB, family life, and the inevitable aches and pains of time. I remembered my mum, her laughter, her playful spirit, and the way she and her husband of 63 years Alf, navigated the complexities of a long marriage. These stories, these memories, they're all interwoven, aren't they?
We talked about sanatoriums, those places that loomed so large in the post-war era. Places of healing, yes, but also places of separation, where families were fractured by illness. And we talked about Doris. My wife's mother. How she had this liver problem, even as a child. It wasn't TB, as so many assume when they hear the word "sanatorium." It was something else, something that required her to be sent away, to a place of sterile white walls and hushed whispers.
We spoke of the… the bag. She had been on dialysis after she had a heart valve with pigs’ valve inserted in around 1985 when Teresa was in Germany. The illness she had to manage, as a little girl. A detail that always struck me as particularly poignant. What it was for, exactly, still I’m not entirely sure. It was a private thing, something she never spoke of. But it was a constant, a part of Doris’s young life, a life marked by illness.
And then, later, after she'd married and had her family – five children – the kidney trouble returned as the result of the heart valve replacement and the drugs given to her affected her kidneys . Cruelly, just as life seemed to be settling into a rhythm of joy and stability. My wife remembered how difficult that time was. Teresa had been in Germany with her then-husband, Gwilym, stationed there with the army. So far away, at such a crucial moment.
The last time she saw her mum… it was in November 1995. Teresa was pregnant with Rachel. A new life budding, while Doris was preparing to say goodbye. "Goodbye, my love," she’d whispered. Simple words, yet so final. A moment etched forever in my wife's memory.
Then our conversation shifted, as it always does eventually, to my mum and dad, Sally and Alf. Another story, another family touched by the long shadow of illness. Sally, so full of life, had TB. She, too, spent time in a sanatorium. But she recovered, thankfully. She and Alf built a life together, a long and beautiful life spanning sixty-three years.
They had four children. And they had their own share of challenges. But they also had an incredible love, a bond that seemed to weather any storm.
I remembered my mum’s infectious laughter, her love of my dad singing every anniversary, putting the record by Slim Whitman on every year “Darling Happy Anniversary eee” He would start the day and my mum had her song she recited during their long marriage her’s being that Englebert Humperdinck song, "Please Release Me, let me go". She'd sing it to Alf, teasing him playfully. A small, sweet memory that speaks volumes about their relationship.
After my dad passed in a local hospice with Prostate and Colon cancer in 2006, I think Sally knew her time was near, for she made one last journey. A visit to her youngest daughter, my sweet little sister Sally Ann who lives in Indiana, USA. At that time in 2008, I had moved her to Winchester and she hated it in sheltered accommodation. Eventually, I succumbed to the endless pressure of wanting to go to see her.
She had many medical ailments including hypertension, diabetes and breast cancer. Getting insurance was the hardest thing but I got a reasonable priced one from the post office which carried a caveat that if she died abroad of something she already had then there would be no pay out.
She still wanted to go and so I got her doctor to write a letter for the tablets she had to take with her, arranged for airport assistance for her exit from the U.K. and a taxi to take her to Heathrow.
Sally went into an American hospital over Christmas having caught a chill and which developed into respiratory problems, on December 28 2008 Sally passed.
The insurance paid out everything except the ambulance pick up cost. She had a private room at the hospital and was repatriated back to the UK which I was informed cost £70k.
A quiet goodbye, a final blessing.
These stories, these whispers from the past, they're so important. They remind us of the strength of the human spirit, the resilience of families, and the enduring power of love. They remind us that even in the face of illness and loss, life goes on. And that the memories of those we love, they stay with us, always.
(Sound of rain fading, candle crackling softly)
Selective Poem
POEM The Crackle and the Tears
by Vince Taylor
I hear the rain and the crackle, reflecting
On lost family and friends, memories of golden days.
Of Mum and Dad and times, the love that ascends,
Times of innocence that remain with me always.
Simon and Garfunkel play in the background,
"Old Friends," as we sit together in chairs like bookends.
The rain, the wine, and whispers of the past resound,
Going over things that we don't generally ask.
Our love goes on even now, after so many years,
The memories not fading, brought back by the tears.
Goodbye my love, thank you for reminiscing,
This is my quiet goodbye, my final blessing.