KatieOne question someone asked me recently was ‘what was your earliest memory?’
I really struggled for to answer. It’s not that I don’t remember the earlier years of my life, more that I remember so much, that pinpointing an exact moment is quite difficult!
After a little thought, one specific memory came to mind. It may not be the first memory I ever had, but it is a strong recollection. It was of celebrating World Book Day at school when I was about 6 years old.
At that point, I was starting to devour books by the dozen from the local library and so to have a whole day devoted entirely to books was, to me anyway, pretty special. The fact that I had also been given a token to choose a book that I could keep was the cherry on the top of this cake. I couldn’t wait to spend it!
I remember my Dad advising me that it would be better to pick a novel that was a little bit more advanced than I was used to rather than something I would finish in about 20 minutes.
After some deliberation, he said “What about this one?” and he handed me ‘The Secret Garden’ by Francis Hodgson Burnett. Little did I know it then, but this children’s classic, set on the Yorkshire Moors, would quickly became one of my favourite books of all time and the precursor to my lifelong love of Literature.
I loved reading about the beautiful garden set behind a wall; the flowers, trees and hidden treasures that this written world explored sounded fantastic and as a child, I longed for one of my own.
It was only as an adult, standing in my Grandad’s garden with my cousins on a sad July 17th that I realised I had had a real version of this idyllic place all along.
Grandad Tom’s garden was without a doubt, his pride and joy.
It extended back beyond the property by many many feet and was split into two sections. The first half, closest to the house, was full of flowers, grass, benches and bird tables. It was, for all intents and purposes, your more typical garden. The second half, which was behind an open gate and fence, was more practical and this contained the greenhouse, vegetable patch, apple trees, pear trees, blackberry bushes and rhubarb plants.
It was always a working garden and Grandad supplied the family with potatoes, apples, grapes, blackberries, rhubarb, pears and, for the adults; homemade wine, for as far back as I can remember and probably longer still.
As well as the above, the other main feature of the garden was its infamous path; a long narrow walkway which went straight down the middle, from beginning to end. It was brilliant (if not extremely terrifying) for rollerskating down, especially at the very start where there was a steep (when you’re 5!) decline which would really test your skills on bladed shoes!
This path was also the place that the grandchildren were taken if they ever did anything wrong. To have Grandad take you ‘up the garden path’, normally meant you were in trouble! My two female cousins were good girls and never had this experience but my cheeky male cousins were frequent visitors! I myself, also ended up going once or twice over the course of my childhood – most notably when I ran away from school at the beginning of Year 7. Oops.
Despite spending hours rollerskating, playing, imagining and occasionally being told off in this green and exciting playground, I never put two and two together to realise that this was the place I’d always dreamed of spending time. I also fear I never appreciated just how much effort it took to keep the garden going – especially when Grandad reached his eighties and was still digging up tatties and ensuring everything was neat and tidy! He never seemed to let old age or occasional ill health stop him – the garden was his sanctuary and his castle.
Sadly, in July of this year, my beloved Grandad passed away after a short illness. He was a strong man, tall and capable, honest and forthright, with a clear opinion of right and wrong. He was the patriarch and the heart of the family, and , very importantly, he was always always the first person in line at a buffet! He was kind and cheerful and, for most of his life, very rarely ill. His passing hit us hard, as it was always going to do, and in our own way, we are all still collectively mourning.
For me, one of my ways to cope is through writing. I find it can be cathartic and a way of expressing emotion and making sense of the world. With this particular topic however, I am always conscious that it is not only my story and it is not only my loss to tell. Because of this, I wanted to be careful in the way in which I shared my feelings which is why it has taken a little while and many revisions prior to publishing this post to ensure it sounded right. I hope I have struck an appropriate tone and approach.
Grief affects everyone in many many ways and despite all the best will in the world, there is no time limit, standardised way of coping or prescription to make it go away.
I find myself thinking about my Grandad at the oddest moments; usually the quiet ones like brushing my teeth in the morning, washing my hair in the shower or in that odd feeling of limbo between waking and sleeping. I also find myself asking often, ‘what would Grandad do?‘ or ‘What would Grandad say?‘ He was always one for honesty and he’d also be a strong advocate of making sure you weren’t taken advantage of and were given what you deserved. He was the best person to talk to about job moves and promotions! He would also never pussyfoot around an opinion or hide when he felt you were doing something wrong. At the time, you probably didn’t appreciate it but in the end, you knew that 99% of the time, he’d been right.
Sometimes, I can almost hear him saying “How’s ya mam?” which was a question he’d always ask on the phone or “Alright lovey?” in his quiet, calm manner. It’s the little things which keep someone alive in your mind and in your heart.
A few weeks ago, after his funeral, I visited his house and took some potatoes from the garden and some apples from the tree. That evening, Michael and I cooked the most delicious roast and ate the scrummiest apple pie and we toasted a man that we had loved and respected.
There will always be moments you wish you could take back and moments you wish you could relive over and over. No matter how long we have with someone, in the end, it’ll never be long enough. The important thing is knowing that you had that time at all. Those memories will last a lifetime and as they say (in Harry Potter, admittedly….) those who love you, never really leave you.
So, in conclusion, while I couldn’t rightfully tell you what my earliest memory is, I can tell you about a little girl who dreamed of playing in her own Secret Garden. And I can tell you about a grown-up granddaughter who came to realise that she’d known that place all along.