That's What Mothers do

To write a eulogy is not easy. I have a few minutes to sum up my mother’s life, and what she meant to me, my brother and sister, not to mention her extended family. I think all I can do is tell you what memories I have of my mum, and I hope you can relate to them.

The second eldest of seven children mum was born in Dundee in Scotland and grew up in Rosyth, a dockyard town where she met our dad Douglas, known at the time, as I am sure many here will know, as Mac, who was in the Navy. When we were growing up in the 70’s dad was away at sea for several lengthy spells and she looked after the three of us on her own with only a bar of chocolate at the end of the day to look forward to. (Mum, not us!)

Who was mum to me? She was the woman who sent us to school with our dinner money each week, safely wrapped in an envelope and then put in the palm of our hands with a glove over to keep it secure. The woman who made sure we never went hungry, whether for nourishment or love – we always left with a kiss in the morning, and a kiss goodnight. We did get strange looks in the summer, mind, with our gloves on.

I can speak for us all when I say she, and dad, gave us blessed childhoods. We were luckier than we knew at the time – we can look back and reflect on that with such fond memories; at the shared mealtimes around the table – I’d climb mountains for one of mum’s roast beef dinners, even though she had an uncanny knack of managing to use every pot and pan she owned in the house, but she cleverly worked out the Sunday washing-up rota for us three to take in turn. We all said a quiet prayer of thanks when she got her first dishwasher! Her desserts were legendary – I know the “Veggie” club she joined – a dining group which meets once a month – wouldn’t let her leave! I can only say thank goodness they weren’t vegan!

Family dinners continued into our adult lives – as you may possibly tell her love of food was a gene she passed on to me – and she thrived in having us all around her when our different lives allowed us to meet – usually at Christmas, a time that both she and dad loved and of which we have such warm memories too. I remember particularly the Christmas of 1989, when the Lambada craze swept the nation, and mum grew fond of the tune, putting it on repeat and insisting I dance with her – not a dance any son should have to perform with their mother, but she persisted, until eventually somewhere between the Latin beats and the Baileys we became entangled in the Christmas tree. Just an example of her sense of fun, her good humour, and her love of dancing, which I know she enjoyed, whether it was performing Scottish dancing or watching the ballet. It was mum who said to me, “You really should go and see a ballet, you don’t know what you’re missing” – and when I did finally go, with mums words of advice ringing in my ears, I was able to say “You were right”, without, typically of mum, her ever feeling the need to say “I told you so”.

For all the love mum so generously shared, it can’t go unmentioned how much she adored her grandchildren – first Jack and Lorna, then Zachary and baby Sebastian who sadly is not with us – no doubt in mums arms, as she continues to be a one woman knitting machine, a hobby she loved. She liked to proudly tell anyone who would listen of her grandchildren’s achievements, or to wheel Zachary into town in his buggy to show him off, when he wasn’t purloining all the rest of her free time to play “Emergency Services” or “Air – Sea Rescue”. The rules of those games she seemed to pick up easily, yet ask her to play “Trivial Pursuit” and the rules would defy her – not that she didn’t know the answers, she just couldn’t grasp that she didn’t need to shout them out when it wasn’t her turn, causing much hilarity or consternation, depending which side you were on.

For all that though, mum had the rules of the biggest game – that of life – pretty much sussed. Never taking anything for granted, she impressed us all with her strength after dad died – they’d only been able to enjoy a few years together in Stamford, the town they both grew to love, before mum was widowed at the age of 50. As we obviously worried how mum would cope – she is, after all the woman who took four years to decide whether to buy a new dining table or not – we could only watch with admiration as she picked herself up and built a new life, moving to Gresley Drive and enjoying the company of her many friends and family whom she regarded so highly, sharing trips out, holidays abroad or simply a chat over coffee in the high street. When she was diagnosed with her illness, she characteristically played it down, understating how she was feeling to spare our feelings, not wishing to be an inconvenience to anyone. Right to the end, it was mum who turned to me in the early hours of the morning and said it was me who should be in bed, getting some rest.

You could say that’s what mothers do, but it was more than that. However you might know her – as Betty, the name she grew up with (and she’d hate you knowing that) which she insisted be dropped for Elizabeth or Liz, or as Granny, Aunty – or just “mum” – she shared the same sense of fun, and simple good old fashioned decency with everyone, and for that she’ll be deeply missed.

Mum, we love you – God bless.