Last Sunday, 25 August 2013, my grandmother, Marie Elizabeth Cochrane, passed away. She was born on 1 April 1916, which made her 97 and then some when she died. Pretty amazing, hey?
I've not shed any tears at her passing, although it is extremely sad that she is no longer with us. She lived for a very, very long time, and her very sharp, very active, very ordered mind was trapped in a body that stopped working, step by painful step, a while ago. While her last few days were very traumatic for her, she is at peace now, and is no longer suffering.
We attended a memorial service that was held for her - more a celebration of her life - and there were a few things that struck me during the proceedings.
My grandmother was born in the middle of one world war, and gave birth to her two daughters just before and during the next. When her husband, my grandfather, came back from being a Major in the British Army after WW2, they were very unaccustomed to one another, I'm sure. She had been a single mother, raising two young girls in war time austerity - he was used to commanding the company of men in theatres of war in North Africa and Italy. They were both particularly strong-willed people, so I'm sure that it wasn't easy to pick up where they had left off when he went off to war - in fact, it was probably impossible.
But, as my uncle said in his tribute, back then, you didn't give up. If something was breaking or broken, you worked damn hard to fix it, because there was just no way that you could walk away.
We've never lived close to my grandmother - she and my Oupa lived in Welkom while I was growing up, and then they moved to Cape Town in 1987, to be closer to my aunt and to the very specific health care that he needed.
I remember her being extraordinarily house proud - no matter how many people were in the Welkom house over Christmas, everything had a place, and everything was in its place. Every precious possession was kept spotless, and protected from any possible damage. Every item of crockery, cutlery, glassware, and ornament was treated as an investment, rather than an easy-to-replace disposable thing. I guess that also came from the years of austerity, when there was no buying things on credit, when you went to Stuttafords once a month to buy a single place setting of the crockery or cutlery set you wanted, until you had the full collection. And you bought no more than what you needed - because you just didn't have the cupboard space to store anything more.
And then you looked after it, really, really well, because you had worked so hard for that precious item, and you had planned your life so carefully around it.
There's a lesson in that. Gotta love Mr Price, Woolies etc for home fashion - but there are lessons to be learned here about money, time and clutter.
On clutter - my gran lived in a bedsit in a retirement spot in Cape Town. She was also mostly blind, with a condition that literally meant that she had tunnel vision. This combination meant that she planned a place for everything that she needed - and she refused to have anything in her space that she didn't need. Only one cardigan. Only one hanger per blouse - no extras. The black pullover in its place on a particular shelf. In spite of these strict limitations on the size of her wardrobe, she always looked elegant, with her fine hair styled to the best of her abilities. No need for a packed wardrobe, no need for one in every colour...
The Methodist minister who conducted the memorial service spoke of his monthly visits to her, because she could no longer get to church. A man well into his 70s and with many years' experience of ministering to the faithful, he spoke of how he learned a spiritual lesson from her, every single time he visited her.
The former manager of her retirement complex spoke of her grace, of her thoughtfulness, of her gentle ways of asking for things to be done around the place - and of her careful thank-yous whenever her requests were met. These are the old ways, the ways of old people, but they are ways of treating others that really should not be forgotten - having respect, remembering the details of people's lives.
I met her neighbour, who told me that although she had never met me, she knew everything about my life - my husband, my children - because my grandmother had told her, and that she was so particularly proud of all of us, of my mom, my aunt, and her family. There's something in this too - how often do people talk about their families - not with pride, but derision, or nastiness. How many mothers talk their children down - how many children say nasty things about their parents? And how many grown siblings talk badly about one another? The lesson here - tell the good stories, tell them with pride, be excited for people's achievements. We all screw up. If someone in your family screws up, don't go telling the world. Find something good to say when you're asked about their health.
Getting all preachy here. That wasn't my intention.
But this, I guess, is my own tribute to my grandmother. She was an impressive and commanding figure who had the respect and love of so many people. She loved her children and her husband, so very much, and treasured her brothers, sister and their families too. She knew who she was, and never wavered from that. She knew what she believed, and wasn't afraid to shout it from the rooftops. And she took care of herself, and every little detail of her life- even beyond what anyone else would have thought humanly possible - right to the end.
Rest in peace, Nanny.
