Memories of Mother

On reading through my diary of 1985 I suddenly realise that my mother's birthday would have been last week. (On the 5th of August.) It was in fact the only year of my life I kept a diary for the whole year. A godsend in view of an autobiographical work I have been writing for some considerable time. Meticulously written in biro, it already seems archaic at the side of our blogging exploits of 2009.

August 5th 1985
'The birthday of Mary Elizabeth Stevens, my mother. An incredible, independent, stubborn, beautiful fighter. What do I remember thirty two years on?

I remember a little, busy woman working, often, almost always working. Preparing school meals, cleaning for the rich, cleaning our home for her pride. I remember shopping in Derby at Cheshires, an old family business, returning usually with 'yellow fish' or pyclets, two favourites that we could ill afford.

I remember a home maybe lacking in the trappings of wealth, but a happy home scrupulously clean. We lived in three different houses until Mary died in 1953. try as I might, only fleeting memories can be retrieved. A cherry lady ornament in a window, cherries held aloft invitingly but never consumed. A Westminster chimes clock, erratic in its timekeeping. A pet cat with an amazing long neck and amusing expression. (Made out of pot.) A black leaded dog, almost certainly a Scottie.

Sweets lovingly made from flour, cocoa and other forgotten ingredients.
Rather secretive visits to her nightwatchman friend, also I recall named Stevens, the nearest Mary came to romance as a hardworking widow and mother of two. Similar secretive visits to Stockbrook Street, home of Ernest Steven's sister Elsie. (Ernest was my mother's husband and died in tragic circumstances in 1942. Stockbrook Street was an area rated lowly in many eyes. This would be particularly so in the eyes of my mother's chapel attending, rather insular family.)

Strange days, long ago days, but happy days nevertheless.'

I honestly believe that all our experiences in life are stored forever in the brain. Whether or not we can retrieve them at will is another matter. A difficulty that inevitably increases with age. All the more reason to commit pen to paper whilst we are still in charge of our faculties. How many childhood memories have you retained for whatever reason. And how many of you have put pen to paper?