Archive by Author

Nearly there (in so many ways)

25 May

On 26 August 2021 I wrote

Blocking is the final stage of making something lovely out of yarn.

And today is a day for blocking on the terrace. This was a delight to knit and will be deliciously warm this winter.

Pattern- Sycamore by @harveyknits
Yarn – DK from @newlanarkspinning
Colour – copper green. (It’s more goosegogs to me but I love it)

I was nearly there, nearly finished this shawl, which was happily gifted to my big sister.

As a reminder, we’re selling our house. So if you, or anyone you know, wants to live this lifestyle where it can feel like you’re on your holiday every evening, sitting on the Terrace enjoying the sun going down, then take a look here, and get in touch with Fraser.

It’s been quite a big decision to move from here, but in the end it’s not been the most difficult decision to make. We’re both excited about the new life we’ll lead in Galloway, and we’ll always have the happiest of memories of living here.

So, we’re nearly there; once our house is sold we will move to Galloway.

I was in Gatehouse this weekend, which was hosting The Gralloch, which I might write more about another time. The wee town was absolutely buzzing, with around 1,000 cyclists (including an Olympian, a world record holder and a F1 driver) starting and finishing their gruelling 100km gravel race almost outside our door – the town population is only around 1,000 so it all felt quite busy!

Spending time with Mum was mostly peaceful – she again slept through my entire visit on Saturday, so I chatted a bit to her while I knitted, and reminded her how much I love her; I stroked her hair and held her hand as she slept on; I felt grateful that she seems so calm, so untroubled by the world and her inevitable transition out of it. I sense that Mum is nearly there, wherever there is. But the flipside is that she is now only nearly here.

On Sunday she opened her eyes briefly as a carer gently tried to feed her breakfast. It was both beautiful and sad to watch. There is such genuine care being given by the staff, such kindness; and it gives Mum such dignity. But I found myself unspeakably sad afterwards, having seen Mum so frail and hardly able to eat even the softest porridge as it is spooned into her mouth.

I know there will come a time again when I am able to remember Mum as she was, but I seem to have blocked off that memory for now, having found it too impossible to hold both her as she was and as she is now. The contrast is too cruel.

Mum (standing up) with her sister, Joyce

***

Trying to care for Mum as she developed dementia nearly broke me on a number of occasions. Gentle meditative stitching the Fisherman’s Smock probably saved me, giving me a focus and forcing me to carve out time when I could let everything go and just concentrate on those tiny stitches. I would really appreciate it if you could make a donation towards Alzheimer Scotland. They’re doing stuff that makes living with this more bearable for so many people. Thank you, thank you, a thousand thank yous.

And if you want to read more about my relationship with Mum and her dementia, then you could start here at Taking smock of the Situation. Or just dip in. After all, if I’ve learned anything this last few years it’s that chronology and time are less important than we might believe.

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Puck

23 May

On 26 August 2021 I wrote

Evidently it’s #InternationalDogDay. So here’s our favourite wee ragamuffin, Puck.

Puck came to us in 2020 during that first year of lockdown. Although he was most definitely a lockdown puppy, he wasn’t your classic lockdown puppy, bought just because we were at home all day. He was the replacement for dear wee MobyDog, the Jack Russell who had lived her best life in Mauldslie. We’d always talked of succession planning for when Moby left us, but we hadn’t foreseen it would happen during a global pandemic (of course).

As we went into lockdown Moby seemed a bit out of sorts, not quite as lively as she’d been and having trouble when she was trying to poo (too much information? sorry). Anyway, we called the vet and, it being lockdown, were told to come to the clinic and call them from the car park. A nurse came out and talked to us outside in the sunshine and then Moby followed her quite happily into the building, so the vet could see what they thought was wrong. Moby seemed so happy and carefree. As were we.

The nurse returned shortly afterwards – Moby had a tumour. There were options, and without giving it very much thought we chose to operate (the most expensive option) which would give Moby the best chance of getting a bit more life back again.

Moby died on the operating table – when they opened her up they realised there was no way they could remove everything and enable her to live. She was euthanased.

I had taken Moby for a walk down the woods that morning before we had called the vet. And she was her happy little self, trotting along, sniffing at everything that was the same height as her nose. And within hours she was gone. I was glad that our last sight of her was happily walking away with the nurse in that bright sunshine.

Wee Moby dog living her best life

We had always known that we’d get another dog, and hoped to get a rescue dog. But after several months we realised that there may never be a rescue dog which would be suitable for a home with another dog. And a cat. And many hens. So we put it out into the universe that we were looking for a dog.

And within days our neighbour up the road told us that Wullie’s Patterdale Terrier had just had pups, and we could go along and see them. We chose the biggest naughtiest pup. They had called him Tyson, but as he was born on Midsummer’s Night we renamed him Puck. And he has lived up to his name.

Puck pretending to be a kangaroo – excited that he’s spotted the return of The Captain

***

Mostly on this blog I write about trying to care for Mum as she developed dementia, which nearly broke me on a number of occasions. Gentle meditative stitching the Fisherman’s Smock probably saved me, giving me a focus and forcing me to carve out time when I could let everything go and just concentrate on those tiny stitches. I would really appreciate it if you could make a donation towards Alzheimer Scotland. They’re doing stuff that makes living with this more bearable for so many people. Thank you, thank you, a thousand thank yous.

And if you want to read more about my relationship with Mum and her dementia, then you could start here at Taking smock of the Situation. Or just dip in. After all, if I’ve learned anything this last few years it’s that chronology and time are less important than we might believe.

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Creativity

18 May

On 25 August 2021 I wrote more…

This wee dude is nearly done and although I have one more swallow to stitch I’m already thinking about the next design. It’s going to be a cheeky wee quick one. And I’m already excited about it.

It’s been interesting today, just letting my mind wander. I was thinking how creative all my family are, and how I don’t consider myself creative at all. At least not musically or visually… but I know I am with food. Give me some random ingredients and I can create you a tasty meal. Today I made pita bread (there it is, puffing up in the pizza oven) and brought a selection of salads and cold meats and cheese and boiled eggs to the table so we filled our pitas then filled our faces. The pita recipe is from Ripe Figs, the most beautiful celebration of food, migration and a world without borders by Yasmin Khan.

Mum is an artist. She can pick up a pencil, a pen, a brush and draw whatever is in front of her. Well she could. The optician confirmed she has macular degeneration which explains why she’s being saying “I’m blind” for over a year. And I think this combined with her dementia means we will never see her draw again. I hope she doesn’t miss drawing, but I think she maybe she does, when she remembers it was a talent she had.

Mum never did draw again. And these days she sleeps most of the hours of each day, so I know she never will.

Thankfully I don’t think she ever did regret that she could no longer draw; she seemed not to know that she ever had that ability. So, while I feel sad at that loss, Mum never did.

We had hung one of her pen and ink drawings in her room in the care home – it’s a charming picture of her lush green veg boxes, overflowing with abundance, and surrounded by small creatures – swallows, a snail, a wee mouse, a spider.

In late August 2022 I was sitting with Mum as I embroidered – the design was adapted from a pen and ink drawing I had found in one of her sketchbooks, of silver birch trees in the Autumn. I showed Mum and let her know how much I loved stitching her drawings, reminding her what a talented artist she was. She did her funny wee scowl, looking puzzled, and with disbelief asked “Am I?”.

I talked some more about the ease with which she could draw anything in front of her.

She had no recollection of this aspect of her life at all. And what surprised me more, was that she had no curiosity about it, and no disappointment that she could no longer do it. It was as if I was talking to her about someone she really didn’t care for and certainly wasn’t interested in.

She hmmmphed at me, as an indication that she’d like to move on to other topics.

By this time Mum had lost all her curiosity in the world around her. And with that loss of curiosity, comes a loss of interest in almost anything. This was so very different to the Mum I had known for most of my life, who showed interest in everything.

I don’t say this in any critical way at all, or even with sadness, though I’d be lying if I pretended I wasn’t grieving for Mum. It is just a statement of how I perceived Mum, and how our relationship was at that time. In some ways visits with her became easier for me (I know, I know, it shouldn’t be all about me, but my experience is all that I can write about with any confidence). When she was losing her ability to communicate so well, there were visits when she would be distressed but was unable to articulate why. This distress was rare, what was more common was that we struggled after a while to communicate about anything much at all – Mum would tire, and fail to find the words she was looking for. Previously, when I was living with her I could finish every sentence for her when she lost a word – we existed as a team together. After several months in the care home this was not possible. I sometimes could not fathom what she was trying to tell me at all. So, more recently, when she lost the inclination to talk much at all, I took my embroidery or knitting with me and after a short chat I would tell her that I was going to get on with my knitting (or whatever) and that I’d just sit quiet as a mouse beside her. I often told her she looked tired, and she agreed that she was … essentially I gave her permission to snooze.

Perhaps we all need to be given permission to snooze some days.

***

Trying to care for Mum as she developed dementia nearly broke me on a number of occasions. Gentle meditative stitching the Fisherman’s Smock probably saved me, giving me a focus and forcing me to carve out time when I could let everything go and just concentrate on those tiny stitches. I would really appreciate it if you could make a donation towards Alzheimer Scotland. They’re doing stuff that makes living with this more bearable for so many people. Thank you, thank you, a thousand thank yous.

And if you want to read more about my relationship with Mum and her dementia, then you could start here at Taking smock of the Situation. Or just dip in. After all, if I’ve learned anything this last few years it’s that chronology and time are less important than we might believe.

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Paradise (lost)

16 May

On 25 August 2021 I wrote

Another fine day in paradise

Paradise wasn’t lost at all. It was here all along. perhaps we needed a global pandemic and my mother’s dementia to see it, but look! Life was pretty good!

Remember, if you want to find your own paradise and think it might be here, we’re selling the house, with the view, and the fabulous terrace with the views across the Clyde Valley. You’d have to buy your own pizza oven, but it would be worth it! You can get all the details here.

***

I started writing this series of posts here, with Taking Smock of the Situation, an embroidery project I started after I realised Mum might have dementia. There I was, embroidering her old fisherman’s smock with symbols relating to her life; while her memories were having their own wee party, jumbling themselves up and then running off into the night, never to be seen again.

Before that I blogged about whatever I was cooking and you can find my recipes here.

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How are you?

11 May

On 25 August 2021 I wrote

This is fun! I’m sitting in the sun, mindlessly stitching and feeling my whole self begin to relax.

This wee swallow is beginning to take shape but I need to go and make lunch so you’ll see the rest of him later. Yes, since there have been so many days with no updates, I decided you can have double updates some days. Watch this space later.

I have just re-read something else I wrote at this time, illustrating how much I curated my life on social media to suit the world I wanted you to believe I live in.

My friend Juliet had asked me that simple question, “How are you?”

And I don’t sugar the pill with Juliet, I am able to be entirely open and honest with her. I said, “I’m not sure really. I say everything is ok, because it’s not awful. And I’m sitting outside sipping coffee and eating madeleines. And embroidering swallows. So it is ok by most standards.” And, honestly, by most standards it was.

But then I went on to say, “I’m sad. OK but sad”

And when Juliet responded with “I think sad is very acceptable”

I knew this to be true, “It is. Indeed. And I have madeleines”

So Juliet added, “And love”

And because it was on WhatsApp and sometimes you get out of synch, I then replied with, “Orange and cardamom flavoured if you want to know” and “An abundance of it”

I hope that wherever you are and whatever is going on in your life that you, too, have an abundance of love. And also that you have people around you who you can say how it really is when they ask how you are.

***

You might want to dip into other posts, or understand how we got to this point? This series of posts starts here, with Taking Smock of the Situation, an embroidery project I started after I realised Mum might have dementia. There I was, embroidering her old fisherman’s smock with symbols relating to her life; as her memories were being thrown around like so many pieces of jigsaw in a big box.

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The memory of madeleines

9 May

On 24 August 2021 I wrote

It’s glorious weather here today. And I’m on holiday from work this week, so after a lazy start and a walk with the dogs I made some madeleines. Oh my good god they are delicious!

And this afternoon I pootled a bit, then had a coffee break on the Terrace and did a bit of stabbing.

I called Mum late afternoon and talked about flowers for a minute or two. That was fine.

Now might be the time to state that I have never read any Proust. And it seems likely that I probably never will if I’m honest (and I like being honest).

But I had a desire to understand about the whole madeleines Proust thing (which is no doubt impossible to fully understand if I resort to Wikipedia instead of actually going to the primary source). Anyway, I now know that in A la Recherche du Temps Perdu, or In Search of Lost Time if you want the English translation, the madeleines are used to demonstrate involuntary memory, and how it differs from the partial memory of voluntary memory.

Basically, when the character in the book tastes a madeleine dipped in tea it brings forth a forgotten memory of his aunt eating madeleines dipped in tea on a Sunday morning. And I guess a whole lot of other associated stuff with that memory.

I get this. I had this involuntary memory experience a couple of years when I saw Mum spooning the froth off the top of her cup of hot chocolate in a café. I realised I do this whenever I get a frothy drink. I also find myself sometimes involuntarily ordering a black coffee with a wee jug of cold milk on the side, because this is exactly what Dad used to order, and sometimes his words just come out before I have thought about the fact that I prefer a flat white. I wonder if Dad might have liked a flat white, if they had been more readily available in his lifetime?

Anyway, memories.

Memories of memories.

And shadows of memories, ghosts of memories.

I’m interested in what we remember, and what we lose. What we notice at the time, and what we hold in our memory banks so we can revisit them later. I hope I always remember the woodpecker that had breakfast at the birdfeeder just 2 feet from my desk this morning. Will it come back to me, unbidden, if I see a woodpecker again when I am old? Will I always remember that moment it first landed on the birdfeeder and I held my breath, lest I disturb it? And how when it had its fill, it flew back up to the telegraph pole and clung on, in classic woodpecker pose, but this time not so close, so I couldn’t see the detail of each and every feather.

Also, I do love the photograph (above) of the ghosts of madeleines, created by the dusting of icing sugar.

***

You might want to dip into other posts, or understand how we got to this point? This series of posts starts here, with Taking Smock of the Situation, an embroidery project I started after I realised Mum might have dementia. There I was, embroidering her old fisherman’s smock with symbols relating to her life; as her memories were being thrown around like so many pieces of jigsaw in a big box.

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Letters to The Times, and wetting a new baby’s head!

5 May

On 24 August 2021 I wrote

MisoCat sat with me on the sofa as I stabbed yesterday evening.

She’s occasionally good company, when she’s not attempting to hack into my work laptop by pressing ALL the keys on the keyboard.

The bonus pics today are mum’s father, Commander James Graham. I met an elderly gentleman at a party the other week (I know! A party!).. and he discovered who I was, and then reminded me how much Grandpa liked to write to the papers. Most weeks there seemed to be a letter from Cdr James Graham in The Times.

One of my cousins asked who the elderly gentleman was, who recalled our grandfather… and I responded with what was actually the more interesting story:

He is a neighbour of Archie and Sarah McConnel. The first story he told me (when all he knew was that I’m from Gatehouse) was when he first started work as a trainee quantity surveyor.. he had a meeting in Fleet Street with Mr Wolffe. At the end of the meeting Mr Wolffe cracked open a bottle of champagne and invited him to join him… in toasting the birth of his latest child. That baby was me! His name is Robert Waugh.

The moment I tell Sarah that her neighbour toasted my birth, over half a century ago

***

Trying to care for Mum as she developed dementia nearly broke me on a number of occasions. Gentle meditative stitching the Fisherman’s Smock probably saved me, giving me a focus and forcing me to carve out time when I could let everything go and just concentrate on those tiny stitches. I would really appreciate it if you could make a donation towards Alzheimer Scotland. They’re doing stuff that makes living with this more bearable for so many people. Thank you, thank you, a thousand thank yous.

And if you want to read more about my relationship with Mum and her dementia, then you could start here at Taking smock of the Situation. Or just dip in. After all, if I’ve learned anything this last couple of years it’s that chronology and time are less important than we might believe.

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A pet bee

2 May

On 24 August 2021 I wrote:

One of our pet bees, having a snack.

Some days you get to just sit back and enjoy life. I feel enormously lucky that I live somewhere I have such easy access to the life enhancing properties of nature.

In the late summer of 2021 the flowers on our terrace were glorious and we were regularly entranced by the gentle hum of the bees that hopped from flower to flower, drinking in all that nectar. Whichever bee was nearest us was called our Pet Bee. Just recalling this, I can feel the heat of the sun on my skin, and feel I’m blinking with the sunlight. And the bees, I can hear the bees, gently buzzing in my background. Such a happy wee sound.

And, we are selling this lovely haven, so if you or someone you know would like this lifestyle for yourself, here’s the details. Mauldslie Kennels, for sale.

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Enjoy every moment

28 Apr

On 23 August 2021 I also wrote:

I’m nearly at swallow time again, just as the wee darlings prepare to set off for the Southern Hemisphere again.

I didn’t speak to Mum today. I’ve thought long and hard about it, but I have decided that daily contact probably won’t benefit either of us. I don’t really know if it would be good for mum or not, if I knew it was a comfort to her I would do it in a flash. I know that within minutes she has no recollection of my call.

And phone calls with her are generally less positive than visits. And I honestly can’t do them every day. OK I could. But I choose not to.

I know she is well cared for. This used not to be enough, I wanted her also to have some pleasure in her life.. she had a remarkable ability to still find pleasure in her diminishing world, as she became less mobile and increasingly blind. We picked her flowers so she could smell them. We cooked tasty meals packed full of flavours to stimulate her taste buds. I hold on to that moment she smelled the honeysuckle early this summer. She seems unable to find that joy any more.

So. Go out. Smell the flowers. Sow seeds. Grow plants. Feed the birds. Soak up nature. Swim in the sea. Climb trees. Eat plums as you pick them from the tree. Eat whatever takes your fancy. Enjoy every moment while you know how to.

It both breaks my heart and brings me solace to re-visit this post in my memory. Solace, remembering all the joy Mum eked out of her world, and shared with all of us around her. Sadness to recall how distressed and confused Mum could be on a phone call. I continued to call her several times a week, until one day, many months later, I decided not to any more. As much as anything, I needed to wean myself off that regular check in with her once it was no longer nourishing either of us.

But today I urge you all to take every ounce of joy that you can from each hour of each day. I am reminded of the night before I left home to go to University, in London, leaving home for the first time, and at the age of only just 18. I went to say goodbye to my Gran… we chatted and she talked of this and that, I remember not what… and then she paused and looked at me with those pale blue eyes of hers.

As she was holding my eye contact, she said: “Loïs, don’t do anything you’ll regret.”

I gulped. This seemed like an important instruction from Gran, whom I was named after, and adored (but also I did not want to disappoint her in any way). She was my premier matriarch in this matriarchal family.

She continued, “But remember that the only things you regret in life are the opportunities you missed. If it makes you happy(and you’re not hurting anyone else) do it”

Gran was so right.

As you travel through this world, enthusiastically embrace every opportunity and follow your heart.

A young(ish) Gran in a fabulous embroidered cloak
Me with Gran, circa 1967

***

I started writing this series of posts here, with Taking Smock of the Situation, an embroidery project I started after I realised Mum might have dementia. There I was, embroidering her old fisherman’s smock with symbols relating to her life; while her memories were slipping away, like me at a party I don’t want to be at.

Before that I blogged about whatever I was cooking and you can find my recipes here.

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So many hankies

25 Apr

On 23 August 2021 I wrote

You were just wondering what 62 freshly laundered hankies would look like, hanging to dry on a whirligig weren’t you?

Well here you are.

This is the ‘mostly white’ collection and it includes some beautifully embroidered hankies, probably first owned by my great grandmother. They are the softest, finest cotton although many are past their prime and will be repurposed – I have a plan!

My plan, involving lavender and embroidery swirled about in my brain for months (and months) as a thing I might be able to do. I was hesitant though. I had forgotten how delicate old hankies can be, the cloth is soft and oh so thin, reminding me of how fragile Mum’s skin had become, how easily it broke if she knocked herself at all.

But, when you have so many hankies, what’s the worst that can happen? You end up with one in the bin because you messed it up? That would hardly be a disaster.

So, in time, I embroidered on a number of hankies, and created bespoke lavender pillows out of them.

On the first, I embroidered the foxgloves that Mum had painted in Summer 2020 as part of the 100 Days Project; and on the reverse I embroidered a beautiful Mary Oliver quote for my friend Juliet. After that first ultra delicate hankie, I chose a more robust one, and stitched simpler designs – for Mum (Alix), for her sister (Jen) and for Fenella’s mother (Brenda).

Mum loved to hold the lavender pillow to her nose, to breathe in the sweet scent of those lavender flowers. Latterly she couldn’t remember what the smell was, but she knew she liked it. I do wish that I had made the wee outer covers more like a pillow case so they could be thrown in the laundry and washed as they do get a bit icky with bits of food dropped on them! But hey ho, we live and learn.

These lavender pillow hankies were a labour of absolute love and delight – quick wee projects that gave a second life to some old well-loved hankies. There’s another hankie project that you’ll read about in the future, filled with even more love.. but you’ll have to wait for that one.

***

I started writing this series of posts here, with Taking Smock of the Situation, an embroidery project I started after I realised Mum might have dementia. There I was, embroidering her old fisherman’s smock with symbols relating to her life; while her memories were slipping away, like me at a party I don’t want to be at.

Before that I blogged about whatever I was cooking and you can find my recipes here.

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