“Of all the money that e’er I had
I spent it in good company
And all the harm I’ve ever done
Alas it was to none but me
And all I’ve done for want of wit
To mem’ry now I can’t recall
So fill to me the parting glass
Good night and joy be to you all”
My mother died eleven years ago today. It is therefore apt that this week’s Reflection is of her.
Most sons are close to their mother, and that was true of me. However, we were not tactile. I have no recollection of hugs or kisses from my mother. Although as a young boy that must have happened. Yet we got on well. I was always able to share anything with her as I grew up. She taught me much about life and relationships. Especially that you should never wake up one day to find yourself at the end of someone else’s life.
She was a fiercely independent woman all through her life. She sued her first husband for divorce at a time of less equality when such an act could ‘tarnish’ a woman’s reputation. In my mother’s mind, it was far more essential to be happy.
From her telling, her first encounter with my father was at the age of fourteen when running errands. He was the then manager (and much older at twenty-eight) of a poultry and fish shop. She recalled she found him intimidating. Little did she suspect that some 20 years later, that intimidating man would become her second husband. My father did indeed have a temper. However, my mother was no pushover. I recall my parents having ‘boisterous’ verbal interchanges at times. The two then left the field with honours even and both afterwards laughing over those interchanges.
My mother was no academic. She lost more than a year at school to Diphtheria and Scarlet Fever; many didn’t survive those illnesses. As to her ‘career’, it was varied. A seamstress, laundry worker, housekeeper in a boy’s home, cleaner and in the war a ‘Canary’, the nickname given to the munition’s girls. She had wished to join the ATS, but flat feet ruled that out, so she opted for the hazardous occupation of making artillery shells.
It would be fair to describe her as a ‘character’. She was an inveterate smoker who enjoyed an active social life (her flat feet never stopped her dancing) and a drink or two (or three). As a teenager, I much enjoyed listening to her youthful exploits. Indeed, she added further to the catalogue as the years went by. In later years she began every morning with a cigarette, a glass of ‘medicine’, courtesy of Captain Morgan, and a pot of tea to ‘set her up’ for the day ahead.
The drawing of my mother is by my son, Mark Watson. Done a year or so before her death. She was then in the sunset days of her life, as dementia dissolved away her personality. Yet Mark captured the sparkle in her soul better than any photograph. One of my FB followers nicknamed my mother TOB (Tough Old Bird). Despite her mental frailty and to paraphrase Dylan Thomas, she did not surrender to the dying of the light.
My mother was an excellent female role model for me and an inspiration to me on living life. She lived her life on her terms, and the saddest period of my life was watching her become the living ghost of the woman she once was. Ageing is a ruthless process.
I am immensely proud of the woman who was my mother.
This song, ‘The Parting Glass’, always calls her passing to my mind. Written around 1600, the song reflects the tradition in Scotland (and other countries) of a parting glass being the final hospitality offered to a departing guest. Usually, once they were on horseback, for fortification on their journey. The belief is that this farewell song was the most popular in Scotland before ‘Auld Lang Syne’ came along.