I have deliberately interpreted the prompt in its most literal sense. I generally fail to hang onto friends for a whole smorgasbord of reasons so I have few friends of very longstanding. So it goes. But for what it is worth my oldest friend was one of the finest in my small collection...
My oldest friend was a lady called May Illingworth. She was ninety when I met her and ninety three when she died. She was a remarkable woman. She was born in 1902 into comfortable circumstances in a mid Glamorgan county town which was surrounded by a countryside untouched by the industrial grime and grinding poverty that marked the Welsh valleys only slightly further to the north. Her father had fought in the Boer war, a fact that brought history amazingly close to me. There I was sharing a cup of tea with a woman whose father had probably been born just after the Crimean War. I felt as though I was in the room with a living breath of the past - she was delighted with my reaction. We became firm friends after that.
She was widowed, as were so many, in the Second World War. Her husband, a major, developed leukemia whilst serving in Italy but before he could be sent home to die a stray shell meant that what was left of him had to be buried quickly just outside Naples. Many years later she travelled to see his grave and brought back a few blades of grass plucked from beside her husband's grave marker. She placed a few in the family bible and gave the other few blades to her son. May and I watched a Remembrance Day service from the Albert Hall one year and they dropped poppies from the cavernous ceiling onto the people congregated below, one for every soldier who died in WWII.
"One of those is for Richard" May said and patted my hand as I cried for her.
She had never wept for her husband, she had not shed a tear for anything since the day she opened the telegram.
"I just couldn't" she said." I just knew that if I started I would never stop and I had the children to look after."
She was a woman free from either sentiment or self pity but sometimes her very lack of these would enable her to do or say something so simply that it would make the most expressive mark on another persons heart.
Hers was a life of unflinching pragmatism spiced with mischief and a pungent sense for the absurdities of life.
She had watched the century unfold from a time where travel was by horse and cart to watching a man set foot on the moon. Not a decade of her life passed without there being war inflicted on some part of the world whether by Kaiser Bill or Pol Pot and though wise in the ways of people and their various motivations, her faith in the basic decency of humanity remained undiminished. I admired her tremendously, she was everything that I felt was good about a person.
When she died I meant to write to her son about what his mother had meant to me. I never did, I could never find the words. I have found them now, too late for him, but they are out there now - I am more than glad I knew her.
My oldest friend was a lady called May Illingworth. She was ninety when I met her and ninety three when she died. She was a remarkable woman. She was born in 1902 into comfortable circumstances in a mid Glamorgan county town which was surrounded by a countryside untouched by the industrial grime and grinding poverty that marked the Welsh valleys only slightly further to the north. Her father had fought in the Boer war, a fact that brought history amazingly close to me. There I was sharing a cup of tea with a woman whose father had probably been born just after the Crimean War. I felt as though I was in the room with a living breath of the past - she was delighted with my reaction. We became firm friends after that.
She was widowed, as were so many, in the Second World War. Her husband, a major, developed leukemia whilst serving in Italy but before he could be sent home to die a stray shell meant that what was left of him had to be buried quickly just outside Naples. Many years later she travelled to see his grave and brought back a few blades of grass plucked from beside her husband's grave marker. She placed a few in the family bible and gave the other few blades to her son. May and I watched a Remembrance Day service from the Albert Hall one year and they dropped poppies from the cavernous ceiling onto the people congregated below, one for every soldier who died in WWII.
"One of those is for Richard" May said and patted my hand as I cried for her.
She had never wept for her husband, she had not shed a tear for anything since the day she opened the telegram.
"I just couldn't" she said." I just knew that if I started I would never stop and I had the children to look after."
She was a woman free from either sentiment or self pity but sometimes her very lack of these would enable her to do or say something so simply that it would make the most expressive mark on another persons heart.
Hers was a life of unflinching pragmatism spiced with mischief and a pungent sense for the absurdities of life.
She had watched the century unfold from a time where travel was by horse and cart to watching a man set foot on the moon. Not a decade of her life passed without there being war inflicted on some part of the world whether by Kaiser Bill or Pol Pot and though wise in the ways of people and their various motivations, her faith in the basic decency of humanity remained undiminished. I admired her tremendously, she was everything that I felt was good about a person.
When she died I meant to write to her son about what his mother had meant to me. I never did, I could never find the words. I have found them now, too late for him, but they are out there now - I am more than glad I knew her.
10 comments:
SIAN your the richer for knowing this Lady which you can pass on to your girls.thank you for sharing.my dad was born in 1904 he came from a family which were well to do only for his grandfather to lose all his money playing cards.thats for another time. thanks again.
Thank you for sharing your tale. People who we become close to, often touch something deep. It is the deep sharings that are wonderful pass to others.
Seems you were very special to one another.
Wow.... May sounds like she was an incredible friend to have, even for so short a time. I'm sure she felt that you were a great friend as well, to take such an interest in her history despite knowing her for so short a time.
And, as you share these little tidbits, the memory of May lives on with a few more people.
WE had a friend like that once. I hated leaving her house each time for fear it would be the last time we talked. The old stories were amazing. She made us christmas ornaments that we still use today. Great story.
What a wonderful post - she sounds like a remarkable woman & I can see why your were proud to call her your friend.
Jayne
I wish the words I type back to you here could be conveyed with the look on my face, the tone of my voice and the dampness in my eyes after reading your heartfelt story. Very moving...thank you sharing your memories with us.
what a gorgeous and moving post... so glad I took the time to visit you today.
(Hugs)
Sian- I am sure she treasured your friendship just as much. I find it sad that the older generation is sadly overlooked, because they can teach us so much.
That's a lovely story, Sian, what a lovely lady she must have been.
Kim x
How lovely this is, and how lucky you were to be able to call her "friend." I think her son would still love to read this, if there were any way of tracking him down.
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