Tales from Falsidehill

Granma

It has been four years since my Granma died. I thought I would post the poem I wrote for her, which the minister read out at her funeral. I’m so glad I wrote it, so that other people could get a glimpse of what she meant to me. I remember when I read it to my dad over the phone; he couldn’t speak afterwards as he was choked up by it. That meant a lot to me.

I can still remember my Granma’s hands – they were so tough! She always used Astral hand cream from a round blue tub. I can remember the way her clothes felt, and the smell of her house. She would always bring presents for us when she visited, and she visited often. Before she made her way home, she would always stand in front of the mirror in our hall and spray her hair with far too much hairspray. If we ever went somewhere to eat, my mum and gran would always have an argument over who was going to pay. It would always be ‘put your purse away’ ‘no, you put yours away’ back and forth for ages. My sister and I would roll our eyes at each other.

She used to tell us stories. She told us one story over and over again about the time when she wrote a story for a competition, about a dog that was tied up all day outside a shop. The story won her a book and she was so happy, but her dad sold the book. She told us about the time when her teacher told her to draw a straight line without using a ruler. And the line she drew was so straight that he didn’t believe she didn’t use a ruler, so he gave her the strap. I wonder what stories I will tell my grandchildren over and over again. I hope they won’t mind in the same way that I didn’t mind. I would love to hear her tell me them again.I always remember this one day when she took me to the shows at Leith Links when I was quite young. I have no idea why it was just the two of us. I remember feeling responsible for her because she was registered blind. I would watch her so carefully. She would use her fingers to figure out which coins she was handing over to pay for things. I remember being suspicious of anyone who gave her change back, making sure they didn’t rip her off. But I doubt they even noticed that she couldn’t see, as she was so good at getting around. I always wondered if she ever really knew what I looked like, or if that didn’t really matter.

Even years after she died, I could easily let the tears well up when I passed her house, on the bus on my way to work. I remember when I saw her for the last time. She was in hospital, and before I walked into the room she was in, I could see her trying to get out of bed. She looked frightened and she was making some kind of fuss which just wasn’t like her at all – I had never seen her doing anything like that before. I just started crying, and I had to go and sort myself out before I went in. Then when I did, my mum told her to stop making a fuss because I was there to see her. As soon as she heard that I was there, she started to comb her hair and sit up straight. My mum asked her if she remembered who I was. She said ‘of course I know who Lynsey is, she’s my granddaughter’. I felt so happy that she still knew me. I took off my engagement ring for her to see, and she kissed it.

I had no idea that writing this post would make me cry this much! If my grandchildren love me anywhere near as much as I love her then I will be happy.