My grandfather has been in my thoughts a lot recently. For most of my young life, he was our third parent. He lived in our house, picked us up from school and often cooked meatballs for dinner, he fixed anything that was broken, he was practical and compassionate and when we asked him, he would offer straightforward advice on what to do about guys, assignments, teachers, teasing, any number of things.
When he died some years ago, at age 93, he was strong and fit and healthy and mostly deaf and going blind and all of his friends were long dead and we think he was pleased to finally go. He would say 'Dying's not so bad. I'm just waiting for God to take me'.
I have been missing him. Our kids keep us flat-out busy, juggling family and work is hard, there are so many jobs to do and never enough time and then when I turn around there's fruit peel all over the floor and someone is crying and screaming over a stuffed dinosaur, a stick that looks like a gun, a percussion instrument, an unequal distribution of cheese pieces, or a real injury. It's nearly 10PM and we're still doing the ironing, there's laundry to sort and documentation to finish and I am so very tired. We keep getting minor illnesses brought home from daycare and school and work. And one of these weeks I hope to actually have a phone conversation with one of my own friends. Catching up with anyone in person will have to wait for a few years, I suppose.
My grandfather lived three lives: an airman in World War 2, an immigrant with a wife and daughter in the '50's, and a grandfather in our house in my lifetime. When I knew him, he had a good sense of perspective. I recently went to his grave and tried to ask him something, of course the grass didn't answer, but sitting there while the kids asked questions about him, I realised that when he was my age, he was still based at an airbase somewhere in England and had only fallen in love twice, and had escaped death from either being a foolish young man or from being in the war about 7 times, he had a good dozen near-misses to go. He was a decade away from meeting his future wife and having a daughter, he was only halfway through the first of his 'lives'. He'd probably look at us and say "You're doing OK. It's not going to be like this forever."
He had a bunch of folk cures. This is one for sore throats. I just made myself one and I feel better. My husband won't touch this brew, he says it's a bit yuk.
Another good cure is the brine from the jar in which his homemade and slightly fermented garlicky beetroot is stored. Cure for what, you ask? Cure for anything. On our last trip, some European cousins insisted that my husband drink a generous glass of fermented-beetroot-brine to ward off a cold. He managed to finish it then said it was 'a bit strong'. And yes it worked, no sign of the virus for the rest of the trip.
Here's one more of his old folk cures. When feeling melancholy and missing a dead friend, tell people a story about them.
When he died some years ago, at age 93, he was strong and fit and healthy and mostly deaf and going blind and all of his friends were long dead and we think he was pleased to finally go. He would say 'Dying's not so bad. I'm just waiting for God to take me'.
I have been missing him. Our kids keep us flat-out busy, juggling family and work is hard, there are so many jobs to do and never enough time and then when I turn around there's fruit peel all over the floor and someone is crying and screaming over a stuffed dinosaur, a stick that looks like a gun, a percussion instrument, an unequal distribution of cheese pieces, or a real injury. It's nearly 10PM and we're still doing the ironing, there's laundry to sort and documentation to finish and I am so very tired. We keep getting minor illnesses brought home from daycare and school and work. And one of these weeks I hope to actually have a phone conversation with one of my own friends. Catching up with anyone in person will have to wait for a few years, I suppose.
My grandfather lived three lives: an airman in World War 2, an immigrant with a wife and daughter in the '50's, and a grandfather in our house in my lifetime. When I knew him, he had a good sense of perspective. I recently went to his grave and tried to ask him something, of course the grass didn't answer, but sitting there while the kids asked questions about him, I realised that when he was my age, he was still based at an airbase somewhere in England and had only fallen in love twice, and had escaped death from either being a foolish young man or from being in the war about 7 times, he had a good dozen near-misses to go. He was a decade away from meeting his future wife and having a daughter, he was only halfway through the first of his 'lives'. He'd probably look at us and say "You're doing OK. It's not going to be like this forever."
He had a bunch of folk cures. This is one for sore throats. I just made myself one and I feel better. My husband won't touch this brew, he says it's a bit yuk.
- Two-thirds of a mug of hot strong black tea,
- Juice of half a lemon
- A spoonful of honey (nothing revolutionary so far - but make sure the tea is still hot at this point.)
- One egg yolk (Separate off all the white. Break it in the half-shell using a fork and mix it into the drink really fast. It partially cooks in the hot tea.)
- A single shot of whisky (Probably not in the kids' version of this brew, even though some of the alcohol evaporates off if the tea is hot enough)
Another good cure is the brine from the jar in which his homemade and slightly fermented garlicky beetroot is stored. Cure for what, you ask? Cure for anything. On our last trip, some European cousins insisted that my husband drink a generous glass of fermented-beetroot-brine to ward off a cold. He managed to finish it then said it was 'a bit strong'. And yes it worked, no sign of the virus for the rest of the trip.
Here's one more of his old folk cures. When feeling melancholy and missing a dead friend, tell people a story about them.
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