listen carefully and you'll hear me singing along...

goodbye grandpa

It had all the necessary ingredients for turning into a disastrous affair - ex-husband and wife rubbing shoulders for first time in nearly three years, mentally ill daughter on day release, unforgiving in-laws, granddaughter with a flare for the dramatic. To be honest I was dreading it, and if the last funerals I attended were anything to go by, with good reason.

Take my father-in-law's affair. Old and new families sat in strained silence on opposite sides of the funeral chapel, one nursing memories of an angry, violent man, the other recalling a kindly soul who loved dancing and always remembered their birthdays. The two extremes of experience were revealed in heartfelt eulogies and the tension was palpable. As we stood around the grave and threw down the obligatory flower my heart ached for the losses of the first family - the loving relationships that had never been and now never could be. It was painful, awkward and all together tragic.

Then there was the funeral Frank and I attended almost a year ago for the son of church friends. He had committed suicide following the breakdown of his marriage. Six young children sat fatherless and crying, yet all his friends could offer to one another by way of comfort were memories of a hard drinking man who loved a good party. Despite the best efforts of the minister it was a bleak affair that matched the grey sky and blustery wind outside, devoid of hope and comfort. He was gone and I could not shake the sense of it all being a tragic waste.

Finally in May, there was the funeral for our young neighbour who drank himself into an early grave. As his two year old daughter danced around the coffin, oblivious to her loss and the sadness of those around her I felt overwhelmed. Another life thrown away, another soul unable to cope with life's pain, lost forever.

It is probably not too surprising then that the thought of another funeral was less than inspiring. Never mind that he was my grandfather, that he had lived a long, full life and made it to 95 - the potential for uncomfortable family confrontation overshadowed all else in my thinking. Of course, me being the granddaughter with a flare for the dramatic, I rather played up the possibility of disaster for the sake of a good story. Nevertheless, the potential was real. My mother decided to travel from Adelaide to say her goodbyes despite her recent divorce from my father. I do have an aunt with schizophrenia and I don't like to predict how she might have responded. My other aunt and another uncle have had no contact with my mother since the divorce and the aunt once deliberately told me not to visit before cutting me off in her letter writing. Who knew how the relationships might all play out in one room together?

As it was I am glad I went. I do not feel overly sad Grandpa is gone. Throughout much of my life we lived far apart and I never really knew him. (What was it like in World War II? What did he think about my parents divorce and my father's consequent remarriage?! What wisdom from such a long life could he pass on to me as I make my own way through the world?) During brief childhood visits I remember the unmistakable smell of their home, but my memory is of an austere man intent on disciplining rather than enjoying his grandchildren. Later, as an adult I visited whenever I was in Melbourne and wrote from time to time. Grandpa always replied immediately to my letters and assured me of his love and prayers before tucking in a little snippet of encouragement from a church newsletter or magazine. He had mellowed in his old age into a gentle man who loved nothing better than to talk about his latest readings on God.

It was impossible not to notice Grandpa's increasing frailty - between broken hips, skin disorders and problems with his gastrointestinal tract he felt his age and was ready to go. For some time he had been voicing his desire to join Jesus and my grandmother in the next world. Death was a release. I feel the loss of his love and prayers for my well being, but I am happy Grandpa is now where he wanted to be, no longer struggling with an old body that could barely do what he wanted it to.

And the funeral? Mum and Dad were perfectly civil and polite and I enjoyed spending time with them and one of my brothers on the drive across the city. My mentally ill aunt did not attend. Due to my need to return to Tasmania for an evening appointment, I missed seeing the other aunt. My uncle struggled to look at or speak to me or my mother, but that is his burden to bear. I loved catching up with my other aunt - and my cousins who I have not seen for more than ten years were delightful company.

Despite all my misgivings it was a good day - a fitting tribute to my grandfather from whom we all came.

life in a small town

It's a funny thing living in a small city - at once warm, friendly, comfortable and yet restrictive, frictional (yes, that is a word), awkward.

I remember when I first moved here, walking through the mall with a new friend. I could not believe how many people she knew. Every which way we turned she was bobbing her head in greeting, waving or calling out a cheerful hello. Coming from a large city where I might bump into one familiar face every week or two, I could only shake my head in wonder at her obvious popularity.

Of course now I know differently. After a few years of small city life I too walk down the street and bob my head every which way in greeting as I cross paths with friends and acquaintances from multiple social arenas. I doubt I would win any popularity contests, this is just life in a city populated by only a small pool of people. And it is nice - seeing people I know in the shops, supermarket, gym and park gives a wonderful sense of belonging. Warm, friendly, comfortable.

The down side is managing those fractious relationships that one finds everywhere there are people. In London they might have created barely more than a ripple - turn away from the heat of disagreement and thousands of people crowd around, fill the space, distract the mind from the hurt. Where I live now, turn around and you just might bump into the partner or best friend of the one with whom you exchanged words. Even more likely, you will spy them across the street when you least expect to. That is the way it goes. Restrictive, frictional, awkward!

My mind drifts back again to my arrival in this place. The mother of my 'popular' friend described what she considered to be an effective coping mechanism for life in a small town. "People have a lovely way of ignoring past altercations. When you bump into each other at the supermarket you smile blandly, exchange pleasantries and move on as if nothing untoward ever happened."

Being someone who values truth and honesty, I was horrified. Ignore the past? Pretend nothing happened? Exchange pleasantries despite failing to see eye to eye? How artificial! Dishonest! Almost criminal and certainly lacking in integrity! One should confront the issue, resolve it and always approach the supermarket with a clear conscience.

Ah the idealism. If only life were so simple.

Here I sit some years later able to recognise some issues are just not reconcilable. As I wade through the situation I spectacularly created in my workplace I cannot avoid meeting people I know at the butcher, the greengrocer, on the street corner. In truth even in London the issue might hang in the air, only there I could change course and walk towards a fresh relationship uncontaminated by disagreements. Here there is not so far to walk and it would not take long to run through every person in town in search of the perfectly peaceful friendship. So while I despise my disingenuous attitude, I too now reconcile where possible and where it is impossible, I ignore the issue, smile and exchange pleasantries. And if they choose to look away or pretend they do not see me - I will call out no greeting and make no effort to cultivate an artificial conversation. It's easier that way. More honest somehow. An acknowledgement all is not right and perhaps never will be. A concession to the truth we are all just broken people muddling our way through the best we can.

Perhaps my friend's mother was right. Pretending is the best way to survive life in a small town. Certainly it is the easiest.

fragile

As I type, a small, dark toddler lies nestled on my lap. Asleep. Our chests rise and fall in gentle harmony and I wonder if there is anything more precious than this - a child in my arms asleep, even a child not my own. He lies so trusting, totally abandoned, resting in the safety of my embrace and I am struck by his vulnerability and fragility. I want to protect him from all harm (is that a small bruise I see on his eyelid?), nurture him, defend him.

As these feelings swell in my breast I can't forget what happened just a few nights ago. He screamed and screamed in total denial of his need to sleep. While both our tempers flared, I plonked him none too gently on the lounge and Frank and I loudly debated his readiness to sleep. We were both right - eventually he slept. But in the brief flare of rage did we harm him? Despite all my latent longing to shelter him from danger, did I instead leave a nasty imprint upon his mind?

Tonight I prepared myself for the onslaught, determined to maintain calm whatever this young child threw at me. He fell asleep at 6:30pm, stirring once or twice but settling quickly. I don't deserve his trust or adoration. Something shifts within me as I ponder his ability to forgive my wrong of the other night.

It strikes me we all have an element of this little Indian boy tucked away inside. We all need to be loved, nurtured, protected. We all are fragile, easily broken. Our bodies are bulkier, our hearts encrusted in defensive stone, but inside lies a softness to be cherished.

I am weak and faulty, I fail all the time, but the best in me stretches to offer this little boy love and hope and safety. The best in me also reaches out to my husband with deep valuing and respect and the desire to cherish him (he is amazing).

I am fragile. They are fragile.
Together, perhaps, we might find strength.