I wasn’t going to mention this on here, but then blogging collided a little with “real” life, so I changed my mind.
The other day, I got home from a trip north to Cheshire. It was a bittersweet experience. My very dear aunt Dot died suddenly, and it was with a heavy heart that the Twisted Seniors and I made the long journey north to attend her funeral. Dot was Father Twisted’s little sister, and underneath a certain amount of teasing and banter, their mutual affection ran deep, though neither of them would have admitted it.
Nobody was surprised that the service and the wake were packed out, because Dot’s warmth and humour made an impression on everyone she met. She was unfailingly kind-hearted and optimistic and generous. When I mentioned her death to friends and neighbours in our village, many of them reminded me that they met her when she came to stay and that she was lovely. Even the twinnage – whose shyness makes them wary of speaking to pretty much anyone – loved Dot for her playfulness. I felt bad for not taking them to the funeral, but they’ve missed so much school already.
Will you indulge me if I share a few memories, please? I remember first spending time with her and realizing that she was awesome at roughly the age of nine, on the day when this photo of me and my cousins was taken. (Sadly I don’t have a picture of Dot from that day.)
But it was in my late teens that she and I grew properly close. I thought she was cool and interesting. And I spent happy weeks staying with her “oop north”, where we shared our love of mountains, wildlife, literature, and all sorts of Indian food. I even lived with her for a year or so in my early twenties.
Yet Dot’s life wasn’t easy. In early adulthood, she developed the severe obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) that would blight the rest of her days. Let’s just say that the ‘treatment’ – I use that word loosely – that she received back in the day would not in any way be considered acceptable now. On a lighter note, she told me about her time as an inpatient at the famous Bethlem psychiatric hospital in London (origin of the word ‘bedlam’), and how she and a couple of other patients would sneak out in the evening to go and watch a nearby colony of badgers. For this, I admired her: here was a woman who had her priorities right! Dot and I talked OCD for hours and hours and hours and hours. And hours. It’s because of her that I decided to become a clinical psychologist – I wanted to provide something kinder, more collaborative, and more effective than the awful “treatment” she’d endured.
So at the end of last week I went to the funeral, and read a verse (Christina Rossetti’s ‘Remember’). It was good to see family, especially my three cousins. The eulogies – from Father Twisted, and Dot’s first husband, and her current partner – were deeply moving. The saddest thing was thinking at the wake about how much she would have enjoyed the occasion, if only she could have been there.
The thing that prompted me to post all this here was that at the wake, a number of kind people came up, introduced themselves, and mentioned that Dot had led them to this blog and told them all about the twinnage. I had no idea. It’s typical of her generosity of spirit, though, that she spoke kindly to so many people about these ramblings of mine. There was me thinking that the success of this blog was down to the TOTAL BRILLIANCE of my writing, when all along it was just because my dear aunt told the whole world to read it. That’s what led me to write this post: it didn’t feel right to do a ‘normal’ post when, as Dot’s friend Ali rightly said, there’s a Dot-shaped hole in all our lives.
The day after the funeral, we visited the family home for what will likely be the final time, because it’s due to be sold. My grandparents bought this little house in 1970, and they, and then Dot, lived in it until now. I know, I know, it’s just bricks and mortar; time moves on. But I’ll miss this house. I’ll miss its beautiful long, narrow, back garden. I’ll miss chatting to the other people in the terrace.
Rest in peace, Dot. You’ll never be forgotten.
Thank you for indulging me, my Fine, Fibrous Friends. Normal levels of yarny silliness will be resumed next time.
Thank you for this post. My three brothers and I buried our Mum yesterday and it sounds as if she was very similar to your Aunty Dot. Loved by everyone who met them. Sending love.
Oh goodness Rosie, I’m so sorry to read those words. May your Mum rest in peace and may everyone who knew her (especially you and your brothers) derive some comfort from precious memories of her. Sending love to you, too.
So sorry for your loss. This post is a first class tribute to a wonderful woman.
Thank you. She was a first class woman, so it wasn’t difficult to pay tribute to her.
Thank you for this post – reminding me of these kind of women in my own life – and how wonderful it feels to sit and BE with those memories.
And Phil – I am one of those who actually THINK that your blog IS brilliant – or not *think*, but FEEL – everything beautiful you write about your aunt could be said without yourself – as I “know” you through your writing/stitching. Much love!
Are you sure that Dot didn’t tell you to say that?! But joking aside, thank you so much. I’m glad that you have/had Dots in your own life, too, because these women are an honour to know.
So sorry for your loss of your beloved Aunt! Thank you for sharing her with us! Hugz to you and your family
Thank you so much! She was indeed beloved.
Sorry for your loss sounds so inadequate but what else can I say? Keep on knitting, I’m sure your aunt Dot would tell you! hugs from a windy island in the Med. xx
Ooh, windy island in the Med sounds fun! I hope it’s warm as well as windy. And thank you for your words of kindness – I really do appreciate them.
What a precious tribute to your aunt Dot. She sounds like a wonderful person. Thank you for sharing a bit of her with us.
She really was, and thank you for reading.
“There is a time in life when you expect the world to be always full of new things. And then comes a day when you realise that is not how it will be at all. You see that life will become a thing made of holes. Absences. Losses. Things that were there and are no longer. And you realise, too, that you have to grow around and between the gaps, though you can put your hand out to where things were and feel that tense, shining dullness of the space where the menories are”.
——– Helen Macdonald, H Is For Hawk
It’s devastatingly true, for all of us.
Phil, I’m so sorry.
Thanks for sharing such beautiful memories with us all. A big, big hug.
Gosh, powerful words, and so very true. Thank you for sharing that piece. And thank you for your kindness, too.
What a lovely remembrance, Phil. Thank you for sharing with us. So very sorry for your loss.
Thank you for all of this. You’re very kind.
I am very sorry that you lost a loved one. It’s always hard. She indeed would have loved your blog post about her. I love the picture of her with the camera! Oh what a mischievous grin she has in that picture! Again my heart felt sympathies.
Thank you. She was VERY mischievous, so this picture of her is absolutely perfect.
Your lovely words have given us a picture of a kind, beautiful and fun filled lady. The memories will help carry you through to a point where remembering brings a warm contented feeling.
Thank you She absolutely was kind, beautiful and fun-filled. You’re right. The memories are precious but I just wish that she had stayed with us for longer.
I’m so sad to hear of the loss of your dear Aunt. May your memories always keep her near.
Thank you so much.
We recently lost my father-in-law in the dim small days between Christmas and New Year. It is hard. Grief leaves a hole that never goes, but gradually that hole fills up with the memories of that person and that makes it a little easier to bear. Thank you for sharing your memories of your aunt with us. I hope it helped you too. Sending hugs.
I’m so sorry that you’re enduring the pain of the loss of your father-in-law. I hope you have many, many, memories of his goodness. Love results in grief and grief is hard. Thank you for your kind words.
SO lovely to hear about your Aunt Dot …she sounds and looks like a very special person and something of a ‘fairy godmother to your good self. Feel sure she is ‘woven’ into your many stunning pieces of work … not least the ‘dots’/ spots! Phyl xx
So very sorry for your loss. I know it all to well. I have buried to many loved ones in the 6 months that I have gone numb with the goodbyes. Love to you and your family, peace always.
Phil, I can feel your Dot shaped hole and hold you all with love. What a wonderful character your Aunty Dot sounds and her energy looks so playful. A beautiful tribute to a beautoful character. Soft hugs for you all. <3
Hi Phil,
I’m so sorry to hear of the loss of your Aunt. I’m hoping you can help me out. I’m going to be sharing my home with 3 generations of Ukranians as soon as we can get their visas sorted. The youngest is a 9 year old boy who’s lost everything except a change of clothes. I don’t know his interests or anything about 9 year olds I was hoping you might be able to give me a heads up on how to make him feel welcome. Is he told for a stuffie? I’m going to give his recently widowed Grandmother, and his Mum one. Thanks
Hi, and huge apologies for slow response. (I thought I’d replied to this, then realized that I hadn’t.) It’s difficult with 9-y-o’s, because by that age they’ll have developed definite preferences, so it’s hard to choose anything without knowing what interests them. (Sport? Art? Stories? Animals?) I know this sounds random, but maybe a table-tennis set? Good luck with sorting the visas, and I hope that the people you’ll be housing have suffered less trauma than so many of their fellow Ukranians.