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Looking for family, looking for tribe
Sep. 4th, 2013 05:11 pmIn the early days of the twentieth century, a gentleman named Charlie (unusually, for the time, he really was christened Charlie, not Charles) got married. He married Emily and they lived normally ever after. They had five children and, though Charlie died relatively young, Emily lived to her mid-nineties.
Which is how come I can just remember her, as a very old lady, sitting in her rocking chair in her house in Huntingdon. She was my great-grandmother, and her son Ernest (whom she outlived) was my grandfather. Over the last ten years, the other four children, my great aunts and uncles, have all passed away. At each of the funerals, those present have come to a conclusion: firstly, that they all get on really quite well and secondly, that they only really see each other at funerals.
My mother, her brother, and their eight cousins played together as children but these days are geographically disparate. Their offspring - and, now, their offspring's offspring - have in many cases not met. Ilona took drastic action, and organised a Nobody's Dead party in the rather lovely Barton Seagrave, near Kettering, last weekend.
( Nobody's Dead! )
Which is how come I can just remember her, as a very old lady, sitting in her rocking chair in her house in Huntingdon. She was my great-grandmother, and her son Ernest (whom she outlived) was my grandfather. Over the last ten years, the other four children, my great aunts and uncles, have all passed away. At each of the funerals, those present have come to a conclusion: firstly, that they all get on really quite well and secondly, that they only really see each other at funerals.
My mother, her brother, and their eight cousins played together as children but these days are geographically disparate. Their offspring - and, now, their offspring's offspring - have in many cases not met. Ilona took drastic action, and organised a Nobody's Dead party in the rather lovely Barton Seagrave, near Kettering, last weekend.
( Nobody's Dead! )
Earlier in the week, I nearly sent someone an email entitled "Wembley", because I was asking about their plans for Wednesday. And then I changed my mind, because I wasn't sure how many people frequently substitute Wembley for Wednesday.
My family does, but that's due to a conversation overheard by my grandad. He was on a train through London in the 40s, in a carriage with two gentlemen who were cheerful as newts. One peered out into the darkness, and the following conversation ensued:
"Is this Wembley?"
"No, it's Thursday."
"So am I! Let's have a drink."
However, I was moved yesterday to wonder whether this conversation was, in fact, the sort of apocryphal exchange that everyone's grandfather heard on a train in the 40s.
The answer, rather disappointingly, turns out to be yes.
Even if it is a hoary old joke, it's probably far too late for me to remove from my brain the fundamental belief that the working week goes Monday, Tuesday, Wembley...
My family does, but that's due to a conversation overheard by my grandad. He was on a train through London in the 40s, in a carriage with two gentlemen who were cheerful as newts. One peered out into the darkness, and the following conversation ensued:
"Is this Wembley?"
"No, it's Thursday."
"So am I! Let's have a drink."
However, I was moved yesterday to wonder whether this conversation was, in fact, the sort of apocryphal exchange that everyone's grandfather heard on a train in the 40s.
The answer, rather disappointingly, turns out to be yes.
Even if it is a hoary old joke, it's probably far too late for me to remove from my brain the fundamental belief that the working week goes Monday, Tuesday, Wembley...
