The One With The Poem For My Grandad

Sorry for the lack of blogs after my new year pledge to post more often.

It has, as we say in Suffolk, been a 'rum old time'!

For anyone who followers me on Facebook and Twitter who'll know that the boy has been in hospital with complications with tonsillitis causing an enlarged lymph gland and had to have an operation to drain the fluid from the nodes. He was in for 7 days, then home for a week, then back for a further 5 days. He is much better now and that saga is a blog for another time, but it was while he was at home, in between hospital stays, he celebrated his 3rd birthday.

And on the morning of the boys 3rd birthday my grandad died.

Grandad was my Mum's dad and my last surviving grandparent. He was 86 and had been in poor health for the last few years. But it was still very sudden, unexpected and bitter sweet on the boys birthday. He died peacefully in his sleep and that is all any of us can really ever ask for isn't it? I know it's the end he would've liked.

During his national service he was a chef in the Royal Marines and was posted down in Kent where he met my Nana. In tribute, at the funeral, we walked out to 'A Life On the Ocean Wave' as it's the official anthem of that regiment. Without the Royal Marines my Mum, Uncle, myself and the boy wouldn't be here. It was a rousing, jolly chorus. It made me smile.

I got to thinking about what I'd like to be played at my funeral, which I know is morbid but you can't help it can you. Something jolly. Something funny. Something a bit showbiz. Cabaret? Make 'Em Laugh? Bring Me Sunshine? The Theme from The Good Life? I want something that will have people tittering rather than crying.

I also got to thinking about how lucky I have been to have had 3 out of my 4 grandparents alive for a good proportion of my life so far, and how my boy had a Great Grandfather for the first 3 years of his. I also thought about how I love watching the boy with Nanny P & Grandad Atu. Their relationship is so precious and loving. The joy they all get out of spending time together, playing and laughing, is beyond measure.

So for Grandad's funeral I thought back to my childhood and the Saturday afternoons and Sunday teatimes we'd all spend together. Then I wrote the poem below and read it at the funeral. I didn't even get to mention the games of snooker on my Uncles snooker table he bought from my Mum's club book, or battenburg cake and Bullseye, or how much Grandad loved my wedding day, which he generously helped to pay for, and for ages afterwards said to me "That was a good day out girl. I haven't had a day out like that for years!"

So here are the things I remember about my Grandad. His garden, his veggies, darts, cards and homemade Suffolk rusks.

Rest in Peace Grandad. I'll raise a glass of malt to you every year the boy gets older.

Remembering

I remember as a little girl, in the garden picking peas,

Both of us together crouched down upon our knees

I'd eat more than I picked and you always used to say,

" Save some for our dinner" but I knew it was ok.

You grew radishes and onions and runners on a vine.

In the greenhouse were tomatoes . Your new potatoes were divine.

How everyone called you Charlie, but Oscar was your name

And how you laughed when I got a cat, and his name was just the same.

On Saturday, in the scullery, standing on a chair,

You taught me darts and round the clock and why you must play fair.

You liked a drop of whisky, and I used to sneak a nip.

You'd say it was our secret, but now I've let it slip.

And you liked a litle flutter on the horses, just for fun.

You'd put 10p on, just for me, and sometimes I even won.

We'd get a cake from the Newstead van, but you prefered home made.

So for Sunday tea you'd make rusks with the table neatly laid.

And after tea, a game of cards, Nine Card Brag was your choice.

We'd play for pennies and laugh so loud you'd almost lose your voice.

You tried to make me eat Pheasant, but I used to wince and say,

"I don't like it Grandad, it's too strong, please take it away".

And when I had your great grandson, you were proud and all a glow,

But you teased and said "You know you should have done that ten years ago"

A Dad, a Grandad and a Great Grandad, your love was strong and true,

These are the things I remember from the time I spent with you.

The One With Remembrance Sunday

25 years ago this week I went on a sixth form excursion to the battlefields in France and Belgium. It was an A level history field trip and it changed my life.

That may sound rather an over dramatic, sweeping statement but it did.

We were studying World War 1, which has left me with a devotion and passion for the war poets to this day. As we walked along the actual trenches of the Somme and visited the endless fields of graves, we were all struck by the waste of all those young lives. 

Of course back then, as a bunch of idealistic 17 year olds, we were going to change the world. Some of our number wore white poppies for peace along with the blood red poppies of remembrance. After two Gulf wars, the conflict in Afghanistan, 9/11 and the London Tube bombings I doubt they do now.

Now peace seems like a luxury. Remembrance is a necessity. In my eyes anyway.

On Sunday, when I chatted to a friend on Twitter who was actually there on that field trip I suddenly remembered a poem I wrote some years later about the experience.

Yes you heard correctly. A poem.

I haven't written much poetry over the years but occasionally the mood takes me. I have never shared any of it with anyone before. Ever. But somehow this feels right and sums up how I felt then and now.

And yes we really did have Kate Bush The Whole Story playing on the tape deck of the coach and Army Dreamers came on just as we first saw the fields of graves. I also did fall arse over tit in a trench and get covered in mud!

So here it is. Wear your poppy with pride.

ARMY DREAMERS

Have you been there?

Have you seen it?

Did you trip up in a trench?

Did you laugh your teenage socks off?

Cos you couldn’t smell the stench.

Playing Kate Bush “Army Dreamers’

As the coach went passing by

Then we saw the fields of endless graves

And we all began to cry.

Now I’ll always buy a Poppy

To commentate their fate

And remind me how we stood there

Sobbing tears at Menin Gate.

Just a bunch of idealistic kids

But when the truth was told

The facts are bigger than ideals

And make your blood run cold.

The boys who died at just 16

The husbands, fathers, sons

Sent out to meet their slaughter

Ready with their guns.

The endless names on massive tombs,

The endless lines of graves.

Babies ripped from mother’s wombs,

And not one we could save.

Buried where they’ve fallen

It’s more than just a shame

The hopeless sense of heartbreak

For graves without a name.

And when we crossed the channel

We’d still hear their battle call

We’d all returned much altered

But they’d not come back at all.

So I always buy a poppy

To commemorate the dead

And say thank you to the living

With “Army Dreamer’s in my head.