Menolyrical; Final Friday Fiction

The last Friday of March 2020 and the world is very different from what it was even a month ago. Here in blog land, we are keeping each other good company, and for this, we must be grateful. 

As more of you will have a bit more time on your hands, perhaps you'll have a go at the FFF challenge. See the dedicated page (check tabs up top) to find out how to join in. 

REMINISCENCE
One of the brilliant things about memory is that it generally recalls the good and - mostly - forgets the trials and tribulations of a particular time or relationship. Of course, there are degrees to this, many shades, and there are a few who remember only the dark. Predominantly though, the good times light our paths.

One of the tasks undertaken recently while adjusting to the new paradigm since Covid was a clear-out of my late mother's old dressing table stool. Which, I think was really always a sewing stool (you know the type) but it served in the bedroom too. It would have been her birthday on March 24th. It was a nice way to reminisce.

There was all manner of stuff in there. Clearly, my sisters had had a rummage and, I suspect, 'cherry-picked'. Much of it I could happily trash. Some scribbled notes on scraps of paper in mother's handwriting. Things about knitting stitches, or that something that she had heard from 'Shiela' or 'Wilma' or needed to pass on to 'Betty' or 'Dorrie'. There were cuttings from papers and mags which held no interest beyond the fact they had been of interest to her. Some sewing stuff. The odd nail, washer and screw. An inch of wool kept for 'just in case'. And another and another. This was the quintessential Elsie; always be ready for a rainy day, waste-not-want-not.

Among the items I opted to preserve were these. The photos were taken in Australia. The outside one at Old Sydney Town (historic re-enactment compound). The inside one, from our first visit to the newly refurbished Sydney city storehouse, the Queen Victoria Building. It was quite novel in the late 1980s to have old buildings repurposed to modern mall-style usage. It remains a very popular destination.

Who knows whether the box had been a gift sent from the USA or was a found item, but it is cute. (I have a 'thing' for little boxes and tins). Inside was some costume jewellery, most of which was trashable. I have kept, however, the little roll of bias trim. 'Just in case'. Will use the hair clasp as a paper clip. The diamonte necklace is worth nothing and has some spinels missing. However, I can remember my mother getting it for her 30th birthday and she wore it often when going out with dad. The little diamonte spray brooch she inherited from her own mother and I am happy to have it in my possession. Pure nostalgia.

Then there is the 'roo brooch. A tourist kitsch item, really, but of better quality than would be found these days. Who knew we'd be saying that about 1980s paraphernalia?!

Last, but far from least, the Children's Service pamphlet. Produced by the 'Scottish Council of Churches' (now known as the Action of Churches Together). Where on earth mother obtained this from I have no idea. I don't remember it ever from my own childhood... it is quite possible she picked it up from a bowls club fayre stall in her last years. Possibly finding some solace in the prayers within it? She never attended church, beyond the basic requirements of weddings, funerals and other nominated occasions.

It's a bit of a mystery, then. However, as a spiritual being, a philosopher and researcher of all things faith-related, I shall keep it in her memory. Tomorrow, you will find one of the small prayers quoted here. I hope you will find it fitting.

Nothing fictional about today's post, yet, in the recall of memory, it can only ever be coloured by the direct experience of this individual. Whether that would tally with the individual who was my mother, is quite another thing. I know that when family memories are discussed with my siblings, there are often differences in 'view'. Sometimes, one wonders if one actually shared the same space, or whether one or the other is living in la-la-land.

Do we all create our own lives? Is all of this just a fiction anyway, our lives just an imagining; like the sparks from a fire, looking bright and flame-like, but - in the end - falling away to ash and merging with the earth?

©Yamini Ali MacLean 2020