Painted Faces - the masks people wear

A grandmother's love...

    I was Gran's youngest grand-daughter, daughter of her youngest daughter. She was the only grandparent I knew, or rather had a relationship with, as my father's dad lived in a rest home in Auckland, many hours' drive away. We saw him infrequently and when we did, he was very withdrawn – depressed I would say on reflection now. Apparently, he had never been the same since his return from WW1 where he was gassed, and especially so since the death of my grandmother a few months before my birth. To my young self I couldn't understand this distant man who refused to go out with us or even talk much. He was somewhat of a confusing, frightening figure to me, and I felt but didn't understand his sadness. Gran's husband, my other grandfather, had died years before my birth after a long illness.

     My Gran meant the world to me. We were especially close. My earliest memory is of staying with her in her beachfront home, standing on a chair pulled up to the sink so I could reach to "wash" the dishes. A friend of hers arrived and she introduced us – the pride and love in her voice was apparent, making an impact to my two-year-old ears. I felt so special, this would not be allowed at home!

     We would set the table for breakfast before going to bed then watch the sun sparkling on the sea as we ate it the next morning. Magical! During my childhood we'd walk for what seemed like miles along the shingly shore collecting shells and sometimes driftwood and I'd wonder at the power of the ocean. It fascinated me, the way the waves pounded on the shore, seemingly with an emotion all its own. I would lie in bed frightened some nights, listening to its anger and hoping the waves didn't leap over the dunes and catch me. I was sure they could, had in fact on occasion seen them make it to the swamp between us and the dunes separating Gran's property from the beach.

     As a pre-schooler I remember my Mum and Dad leaving us kids with Gran while they went away one weekend. She took me into bed with her as I cried, wanting my Mum. Then I felt horribly guilty that I'd maybe made Gran feel unwanted or second best. I find it strange now that a child that age would even worry about that, but I have always been told that I was "old beyond my years" and that even at birth the doctor commented that he'd never seen a baby while being born silently appraise the world in front of her with such knowing, worried eyes.

     I think Gran had more hands-on contact with my brothers and I than with our other cousins. She walked the floor with me as a new-born with colic, my Mum staying with her when my dad travelled for work. So maybe that produced a bond between us that was never broken.

     We lived with her for 6 months on two occasions, when building a new house when I was 5 years old and then before moving to Dunedin in order to complete the school year before moving. I loved living there. Even the long drive to and from school with mum was special – a way of waking properly in the morning, collecting my thoughts for the day, then unwinding from a long day at school. And mum would sit with us when we arrived home on the bed and read to us – there's something nurturing and calming about being read to. It was bliss! After dinner we would play outside – ball games or tag until the sun went down and we had to leave the rising moonlight and come inside for bed.

     Gran's gardens were amazing. Terraced from the veranda down to the swamp and always full of colour and flowers. Everything she touched seemed to grow, she had the proverbial green thumb and spent hours looking after it all, with apparently endless knowledge on everything that grew in the earth. Something I'm sad to say I did not inherit! She encouraged me to garden; at our new home I had my own small plot of garden, and I grew snapdragons which morphed into families of talking puppets after carefully picking them one by one. Squeeze them gently and their "mouths" opened and talked – such a wonderful game that I played for hours on my own.

    Gran had gone on a world cruise when I was about 7 years old. After what seemed like forever but was probably only 6 months, she came back with presents for everyone and stories of her travels that held me captive. I would sit next to her cuddled up on the couch as we pored over an atlas, and she showed me the places she had been and the routes she had taken. It sounded magnificent to my young ears and my imagination soared. I vowed then and there that when I grew up, I was going to go to all those places too. And preferably on a ship. Definitely on a ship.

    Most surprising was the fact that when she, my grandfather, my uncle, and Gran's parents emigrated to New Zealand in the 1920s she suffered such bad sea sickness on the journey that a disgusted sailor declared "How can you be so sick and call yourself an Englishwoman?! It's a disgrace!" I considered she must have been extremely brave to have embarked upon such travel again for mere pleasure. But then gentle she might be, but my Gran never lacked courage or strength of character. I vowed to be like her and to make her proud. In my eyes she could do no wrong and was precious beyond measure. I would treasure and honour her always.