Attic Trunk

Dear Reader, 

I had a difficult and disconcerting experience this week.  My ex-husband died a month or two ago and my children have had to sort out his affairs, what to sell and how to pay the bills etc. All very stressful for them. But one thing that one daughter did, she arranged the Service Sheet for his funeral, what hymns, music and readings to place.  Perhaps she said to me you could write down the name of the vicar you want at your funeral and any choices for the Service sheet would make life a lot easier for us.  I can see that.  I understand.  But sitting down and doing it was a touch grim.  Lots of thoughts about dying and death obviously came to mind and who, anyway, would come to my funeral?  Lots of my friend are now dead so it won't be a big gathering.  

I decided to have 'Lord of the Dance' as one of my hymns.  Life is, after all, a bit of a dance and possibly  where we are going will have plenty of dancing.  I asked my step-son, Jeremy, what he thought would happen to us when we had died.  Jeremy is a wonderful and wise man and this is what he said.  "Well either it will be a magnificent surprise, or nothing."  Either way is a distinct possibility so I will go for the surprise.

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From Gilbert White, February 6th, 1778, in Hampshire

'Foxes begin now to be very rank, and to smell so high, that as one rides along of a morning it is easy to distinguish where they had been the night before. At this season the intercourse between the sexes commences.'

From Francis Kilvert, February 6th, 1874 in Hampshire

'Another fairy frost.  the rime froze on the trees during the night and this morning every bough was bearded with delicate frost work.'

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Attic Trunk

 

 

 

Searching through her mother's attic trunk

she recognised a dusty, broken cricket bat,

saw a tiny knotted shawl that must have shrunk

and a youthful photo of aunt Dora, looking fat.

She found silver shoes wrapped in a crimson gypsy skirt

and a purple box housing a worn-thin wedding ring,

a Spanish fan trimmed with lace, and a grandad shirt

embracing faded love letters, tied with ageing string.

From sepia postcards she studied unknown folk,

and pulled out, lovingly, a greasy-tweed cloth cap,

her father’s penny whistle, a badger carved from oak,

and brass rubbings, rolled up in a parchment map.

Precious things we keep are candles on our life’s tree,

their discovery tells secret stories, provides a key.

 

                                                                         *

 

With very best wishes, Patricia