Guest Blogger Gillian Bouras: As Time Goes By

While I am away in New York City for a couple of weeks, a fantastic group of elderbloggers and elderblog readers agreed to fill in for me. Today it is Gillian Bouras, an Australian writer who has lived in the Peloponnese, Greece, for many years. Her journalism has been published in six countries, and she has written eight books, the latest of which, No Time for Dances.

---

When you’ll never see sixty again, it’s a ludicrous business, that of having to deal with a Wicked Stepmother. But there you go: life just keeps on getting stranger. In fact, my WS, as well as being just plain impossible, is impossible to deal with.

She didn’t kidnap my father precisely, although she snapped him up very soon after my mother died, but she certainly confiscated his paternal emotions, and then locked them away somewhere inaccessible. She also either stole or destroyed our family history. The books, the family Bibles, my mother’s embroidery and china have all disappeared. And so have the photographs.

I thought I’d never see any of the old snaps again, the more so as I live in Greece, so that the tyranny of distance complicates matters. Always. But then, out of the blue, a very old uncle sent me his rather battered album, a padded grey affair, bound in faded red cording, so that at least I can see my child-self, and remember my sister and cousins the way we were.

And I can observe how absurdly young my parents were to be parents. (The idea of my 28-year-old son having a four-year-old child is almost as ludicrous as my having to cope with WS.)

The informal wedding photos are there: groom in uniform, bride in a borrowed dress too short for her. And I can smile over the little snippets of recall: That bouquet weighed a ton, Mum would say whenever the wedding photos were trotted out.

There are pictures of our paternal grandparents, on whom we doted, and even some of the great-grandparents we never knew.

I’m glad I have this album, but in a sense I do not need it. Going back is easy: one blink and I am there, seeing not rocks, tufted mountains, olive trees and cypresses, but a maze of Melbourne’s suburban streets edged by clipped nature strips, each of which had a clipped prunus tree planted dead-centre.

At the heart of the maze is a wide bitumen road along which the milkman’s and the baker’s horses still clopped when I first went there, and where Nana, five feet nothing and in her night clothes, once held tightly on to the reins of the milkman’s horse, which had bolted, leaving a dawn trail of splintered glass and greasy milk.

At the end of that bitumen road there was another, threaded by tram track, an indicator of a different world. Every morning Uncle Lionel, Nana’s brother, walked to the Number 57 tram. My sister and I, visiting, heard its faint rattle as it bore him away to The Shop. We heard its clack as it brought him back again to the same greeting every evening.

“You’re late, Lionel.”

“Am I, Harriett?”

Nana and Uncle Lionel, both widowed, lived together in No. 7, an austere place, I now realize. We didn’t realize it then. On the mornings of our visits we were permitted to watch our great-uncle while he shaved with a cut-throat razor, an old-fashioned tool even at that time.

This ritual took place in a very basic bathroom: the bath itself had a permanent green stain trickling downwards and clawed feet, and was filled by means of a lethal weapon: a gas heater. This monster was activated by a lit match, often held in trembling fingers: sixty years ago, mini-explosions were an inevitable part of cleanliness.

We stood in the doorway and watched. Uncle Lionel’s razor strop, worn black with use, hung on the towel-rail, and the slender blade, ivory-handled, whished and swished along the leather before carving tracks through the foam on that white-skinned bony face. We held our breath as the wickedly sharp implement passed over his prominent Adam’s apple. But nothing ever happened, except the accomplishment of a perfectly smooth face.

I don’t need photographs to recall all these things, as I do quite often when sleep eludes me. Then I check off the details of Nana’s room, which was not as austere as the rest of the house, but rather reflected the tension in her, her dual nature with its clash between worldliness and other-worldliness.

On her chest of drawers resided her tortoise-shell vanity set: brush, comb and hand-mirror with matching tray, home to real hair-pins, not “those new-fangled bobby things.” A cheval mirror stood in one corner and on a satin pouffe next to the mirror reposed a most magnificent doll, dressed like Marie Antoinette down to the last detail of fake powdered wig and glittering high-heeled slippers.

But on the wall above the doll hung a print of Durer’s Hands of an Apostle, all ascetic fine lines, and near it was another, much larger picture: a tall Christ, be-robed and wearing a spiky crown of thorns, carried a shining lantern held low. His hand knocked at an ivy-mantled door, and beneath His feet a scroll unfurled itself and proclaimed the predictable message: I am the Light of the World. Holman Hunt, beloved of the Victorians, was the artist.

I tick all these things and more (the Bible, the Promise Box) off in my head, as it were. And before I finally drift off into sleep, I think: Time and decay may rob me of these snapshots of memory, but no Wicked Stepmother can.

EDITORIAL NOTE: While I am away, The Elder Storytelling Place is on hiatus. You can read past stories here. And if you are inclined, you could send in stories for publication when I return. All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. Instructions for submitting are here.

Comments

[kenju]

What a good story. I, too, had a wicked stepmother. I acquired her unwillingly when I was in my late 50's and my dad was 88. She didn't steal our photos or china, but nearly everything else. I didn't let her steal my dad, though, as I held on to him with very sticky fingers.

[Marian Van Eyk McCain]

What a marvellous story, Gillian! Thanks to your clear writing, I could see every detail. (Including the #57 tram, but I cheated on that one 'cos I used to catch it when I worked in North Melboune, way back in another lifetime.)
I used to watch my Granddad shave, too, with just that same fascination. He had certain special faces he made in order to stretch the skin taut, and I can see them clearly still.

[Peter Tibbles]

Boy, I’m glad I didn’t have to follow that one.
Great piece.

[Nancy]

Gillian,

I really enjoyed your story.

Thanks for stepping in for Ronni and writing such an interesting account of the memories that mean the most to you and can never be taken away from you by anyone;much less a WS.....

[mythster]

"Mahvellous" dear lady, absoutely "mahvellous"!
How can you remember all the little details like that?
When I try to think about my childhood days most of it is just a blur with a few people and incidents highlighted but in rather hazy silhouettes .
Thanks for sharing

[mary jamison]

Has anyone else noticed how often old men -- elder men, I guess -- make terrible marriage choices, and act on them quickly, soon after being widowed? In my own small circle of acquaintances, I know of about 5.

[Cowtown Pattie]

Gillian,

Wonderful story written with much love and affection shining through the perfectly descriptive words.

I can picture Uncle Lionel and the young faces in rapt attention as the blade scrapes down his face, the morning whiskers making that sandpapery sound.

[Mage Bailey]

Thank you so much for this wonderful portrait. Beautiful.

[Kay Dennison]

Great story! Sounds like the experience of so many of my friends. My dad died in 1985 at age 61 after a mercifully short bout with a rare cancer. My parents had divorced when I was eighteen after 19 years of marriage. It was difficult to say the least.

I had a couple stepmothers. The first two were wicked. (I'd like to track down the one who stole his poetry like dog.)

The last one is nice. I'm heading up to Toledo to visit her for a day or so to help her celebrate her 80th birthday. She says she has a box of things she wants me to have: pictures, his Bible, etc.
I am delighted of course. I also know that I am blessed that she is being kind to me. She doesn't have to be but she is.

[tamar]

Breathtaking! Every trace of your shared memory triggered my own counterparts... about things, even WS's. (My experience is one of sibling and WS ... Wicked Spouse.) I love how you coolly integrate reality with what you can control: your attitude. The physical effects are so dear, so precious, and yet we can go on despite their loss (or theft) because of imagination and memory. Your description of the pre-PC-tortoise-shell coiffure set on the vanity sparked memories of my Manhattanite Russian immigrant grandmother's vanity (flea market source) and all the accoutrements atop, from powder puffs in jars to hand mirrors for checking backs of 'dos, and more ... Viktor Frankl survived incarceration in the Nazi camps and then drew on his traumatic experiences to healing broken lives and wounded souls. His must-read book, Man's Search for Meaning, is a slim volume where I first learned of his idea that life and people can rob you of everything (even life) yet your attitude is yours alone, forever. Your post speaks to that, too. Thanks.

[44loha]

What a warm and gentle story. Very nice. The setting, the details, the ending. Thank you.

[Cile]

I loved reading your story...all the memories and how you have treasured them and shared them here! I'm treasuring now the realization that no one - whatever their intention - can steal a valuable memory steeped in love. I thank you for that lesson and the details of your story.

[liloldme]

Well written, very well written!
Alas, I am a step-mother, and quite aware of the cloak I wear.
Soon after becoming a SM my oldest step-son proclaimed he was going to tell Snow White about me.
Forty years later and we are still best friends, and his sister never fails to say, "love you" when we part...somehow we made it, I think due to the respect I gave to their mother who died when they were teenagers...and I never threw anything away.

[Darlene]

What a wonderful story. Bless your Uncle for giving you the album.

I had a WS (wicked step sister) who stole everything she could from me; even stole my boyfriends. I never wanted another step-relative after she and her father did so much damage. Nonetheless, I ended up with a NS (nice step daughter) and we are good friends.

[chancy]

Lovely story. When I finished reading it I said "Ahhh" out loud in recognition of the clear and beautifully written way you transported me into your past.

[doctafill]

You painted the picture so beautifully, I was there with you the whole time. Visited Melbourne and enjoyed the atmosphere. Friendly people, good sense of humor. You are an incredible writer.

[doctafill]

That should be "incredibly great writer."

Best wishes from Montreal, where it has been raining most of May.. we are dying for some OZ sun.

[Diane]

Gillian! It's so crazy to see you here. I subscribe to this blog, but don't always read it, so was happy your name was in the headline in my email. We got together a few times in Athens in 1986. Did I write about you for Athens Magazine? Now I can't even recall. Anyway, would love to hear from you directly. I'm at diane@bydianedaniel.com. (Yes, still a writer!)

[Kate]

I agree with others: such beautiful writing. Thanks for sharing it with us.

[joared]

I've never understood how step parents can be so insensitive to feelings of their step children, but obviously it happens.

Enjoyed your story so well-written with such great detail. Yes, our memories are ours, but glad you have the album from your uncle.

[Bracelet]

I cannot understand as sign to your RSS