As the northern hemisphere celebrtes spring and looks forward to May Day or Beltane, we here in Africa are attuned to the coming of winter, the autumn bonfires of Samhain. I found myself standing outdoors in the garden this morning, looking at dark birds’ feathers and falling leaves, thinking of my Scottish grandmother of whom I know so little.
She was posibly alcoholic. The only reason I have for thinking that is because alcoholism runs through my family the same way reddish-fair hair and freckles do. And because my father never spoke to or contacted his mother once after he left home and sailed for Africa. There must have been great distrust and bitterness between them. I asume she is dead now and I have no idea if she ever knew I existed or wondered about me. My father had another brother and sister. His brother went to Canada after World War II and his sister married and stayed in Scotland. Beyond that I know nothing.
So I have done some genealogical searches on the Internet and found nothing. Jean Hamilton from Lanark who married a man from Linlithgow right back at the beginning of the 20th century has vanished into the obscurity of history. Her married name gives no better results. I know she was widowed young while living in France, her husband killed in a [drunken?] car accident in about 1933 and that she brought up her children in an apartment under the shadow of Holyrood Palace.
I know her youngest son (my father) was one of 31 000 small children evacuated from Edinburgh in 1938, their names tied on billet cards around their necks, boarding steam trains from crowded platforms and not knowing if they would ever see their parents again. And I know that my father spent nearly two years living on a farm in the Scottish Borders countryside. I wonder how Jean lived with that separation, I wonder if the estrangement began then.
I know it is likely she resembled me in certain ways and that our characters may have shared a Celtic feyness or Scotch stubbornness. My father was a clever articulate man who chose to stay silent on most topics and had a wide streak of cruelty running through his complex nature. I don’t know if my grandmother was a harsh Calvinist or a gentle lost sul unable to stay away from the sherry bottle.
In African traditions, people consult with the ancestors all their lives. I am not sure that it would be an unmixed blessing to hear from my Scottish grandmother. My questions might remain unanswered and there might be new and troubling questions. But as the autumn twilight gathers in the garden, I think about her and what we would have to say to one another. On life and parenting and sobriety. And the question of place and belonging.
The idea of consulting ancestors is such a foreign thing to me. One must assume your ancestors have your best interests at heart. It implies some sort of affection. Or, as I would fear, some sort of self-centered purpose that I would be used as an instrument. I suppose this just shows my own personal history.
I do feel fortunate to have positive relationships with my grandparents. All but one are still living. My therepist jokes that we share a common enemy: my parents. In some ways this is true in how we bond, I suppose.
I love reading how people think and how their lives unfold over a period of time–like on blogspot (us in AA or Alanon, or whatever!). And your own writings of that ilk are especially interesting, and always somehow you relate your blog to alcoholic recovery, Mary.
Thank you, gotta get goin’…See you in a few.
Most cultures have some sort of communion with ancestors, I think. Except Americans, who have no culture. lol
My native family is constantly talking and remembering and speaking with the Elders that still walk here and the ones that don’t. I have learned a lot about this stuff from the writings of Amy Tan, regarding the Chinese, and several other Asian and Native American writers.
Don’t you think that the cosmic dance continues ad infinitum? I love the thought that it is your Scottish grandmother who is calling to you now, in your wistful meanderings down these roads in search of your history…my grandmother Ruth speaks to me all the time…I recall being 11 and in the garden with her as she thanked and blessed all the vegetables that she picked for eating…when I am in my garden, planting and harvesting or just communing…I hear her voice, carried on the breeze.
Have a lovely day, cloudwatcher….xoxoxo
I very much liked this post today sweet dumplin’.
I still consult my ancestors and feelthier presence in my life…for many years I avoided it, but over the years it only for me got to be louder and their presence was more and more obvious.
This post is great, and merry samhain to you…as i begin to celebrate beltane.
Love,
g