This week’s theme over at The Gallery is A Family Story. As Tara says
This week I want you to dig back into your archives — be that last week, last year or the last century — and tell me a story. You know those quirky little stories you pass on from generation to generation? Every picture tells a little story, but some tell a really special one. I want to see THAT photo.
So … This is an oil painting of my father’s mother done by my mother, probably in the early 1960s. I photographed the painting a couple of years ago.
It is a scarily accurate representation. Yes, she was as miserable as she looks; I never recall her being in the least bit fun — but that’s what strict Baptism and being left by your husband for a young floozy during WWII does for you, I guess. (Somewhere I have three illegitimate half-aunts by my grandfather.) Only now am I beginning to understand some of what happened and the ramifications — but that’s not itself the point of the story.
My grandmother died in 1973. I had no contact with her, or my father’s brother and sister, after the mid-60s (when I would have been in my mid-teens). My father more or less disowned his sister when she married her (widowed) cousin (she knew she could never have children so that wasn’t a consideration).
My grandmother’s death brought about the final rift between my father and his family. My father understood that his brother and sister were accusing him of only being after his mother’s money (there wasn’t any!) when he was asking questions merely because he was his mother’s executor. He stood down as my grandmother’s executor and a rift was created. A rift which was never healed.
I missed my aunt. She and I had always got on well and she took a keen interest in how well I was doing. To be honest I didn’t miss my grandmother or my uncle, but then I saw little of them anyway. I knew I dared not re-make contact while my father was alive as that would only make matters worse.
When my father died in 2006, at the age of 86, I figured that if they were still alive his brother and sister (both younger than my father) deserved the courtesy of knowing. I had to do some research; I knew only my aunt’s and my uncle’s approximate addresses from my teenage years. Where were they now? Were they even alive? I thought my aunt probably wasn’t — a gut feeling which turned out to be wrong; it was my uncle’s wife and their eldest son who had died.
I found addresses; I hoped they were correct. I wrote them both a short letter with a Christmas card. In it I said that I hoped they would excuse my intrusion, that I thought they should know what had happened and an invited them, if they chose, to get in touch otherwise I would remain silent. The most I expected was a return Christmas card with a polite note. But within 24 hours I had both my aunt and uncle on the phone. They were delighted to remake contact. So after a gap of well over 40 years I met up with both of them, and my cousins plus some of their children.
As a result of healing the rift I have learnt a lot more about my family, and especially the circumstances surrounding all the angst. There was, of course, far more than met my teenage eyes. I am in the process of putting together all my aunt’s and my father’s papers. I can now see why my grandmother, my grandfather, my father and his siblings were as they were/are — and some of the joins that weren’t made thus causing the rift. Luckily my aunt decided at a young age to rise above it, and did so. She became a very senior nurse and declined more than one appointment as a Matron. Despite my father I too have mostly managed to rise above the negativity although somewhat later in life.
As to the painting, Noreen and I discovered it amongst my mother’s art work when we were clearing out her bungalow after she moved into a care home a couple of years ago. (My mother is now 96 and still drawing and painting!) Knowing my aunt (the youngest child) was close to her mother, I sent her this photograph of the painting.
In June 2010 I was invited to my aunt’s 80th birthday party. Not knowing what on earth to buy her I thought she should have the painting. Luckily my mother agreed. We had it framed. You cannot imagine how delighted she was! Here she is, looking unnaturally solemn, after being presented with the painting.
