Is the Christmas glass half full?

It would be fairly obvious to those who really know me that the past few weeks have taken me through yet another phase of post-Tony grief.  The onset of Christmas has loomed over me since early October when someone casually asked me what I was doing for Christmas.

I remember being taken totally aback by the question.  After all, it was only early October and any thoughts of Christmas weren’t even in the hazy horizon of my mind.  I was still dealing with mid-winter past and the first year of the birthday seasons spent without my darling man.  So to be asked what I was doing at Christmas hit me totally unexpectedly.  Why would I be thinking about Christmas in early October, for goodness sake! 

Besides, we’d never had to prethink our Christmases for the past 20 years of Christmas.  Christmas has always been Christmas.  That is, we had done the same thing every Christmas for the almost past 20 years – being together, Tony and I, and doing what we had always done – to us every Christmas was the same old, same old. 

And what was that?  

It was taking ourselves down to the Waitemata Harbour early on a Christmas day, going for a long swim out to Bean Rock lighthouse, climbing up it and viewing the land from that unique position and height, then swimming back to shore.  The first year we did it there was just 3 of us.  Tony, myself and an old (not in years old in those days) Ironman friend of Tony’s, Bayden Pascoe.  On arriving back on shore and drying ourselves off we would then find some place open where we could get a coffee and something to eat before heading home for the rest of the day.  

Finding somewhere to coffee and eat on Christmas morning some twenty years ago was not that easy.  Cafes as of today’s café generation weren’t around in Auckland those days.  The first coffee we had was in the little brick building on Quay Street, adjacent to the Ferry Building – the  one that is now the ferry ticket building.  It was literally the only café open early Christmas morning.  We drank bad coffee out of plastic cups and had toast and jam off plastic plates and cutlery.  Twenty years ago that was probably almost twee.

The first year we did this was because it was the first year that neither of us had anyone at home for us to share our Christmas with.  Tony’s sons had gone to live with their mother and neither of my two were living in Auckland or likely to be thus being now bereft of kiddies to enjoy our Christmas with we decided to make our own entertainment to pass the traditionally child focused Christmas morning.

What happened in the proceeding years was that the Christmas morning swim became an annual institution with various friends and acquaintances who were strong swimmers deciding that an early morning Christmas Day swim was just the biscuit to begin their own festive day before heading to the in or out laws.  We have some lovely photos of those groups of swim friends who joined us for those swims – how life has changed and moved forward as many of those in the photographs have had their lives changed over the years and either no longer swim, or have since married/remarried and/or got their own children; or no longer triathlon or swim, or no longer live.  They are other stories for another time.

After the Christmas brunch or breakfast Tony and I would head home for the rest of the day where we would cook a turkey throughout the afternoon whilst friends and family would call and pop in for a summer drink and nibble or two.  Very often we would invite my step-mother over either for a nibble or the full meal, whichever suited her, and we’d have a most relaxed and enjoyable day either being by ourselves or enjoying the various and many pop-ins that may happen upon us.  No pressure, no stress (except that we never did get the turkey cooked to perfection – it was always either underdone or overdone – but we didn’t care – that was of no significance) and pure pleasure of being together.

So when in early October someone asked me what I was doing for Christmas my instant reaction was of surprise at the question then a vague rote response of, “I guess I’ll be doing the same as usual,” without embellishing on whatever ‘usual’ was.

But the question then hung gloomily on my mind for the ensuing weeks.  And more gloomily as the weeks passed for not only has Tony gone from my life for Christmas, but earlier this month my much loved step-mother unexpectedly passed away. Two enormous voids in the annual Christmas cheer.

Come late November the whole thought of Christmas had already become one of dismal reminders of Christmas’s past.  This time last year.  This time the year before.  This time 5 years ago, 7 years ago, 15 years ago.  Every reflected Christmas only reminded me of the Christmas to come.  I have not been looking forward to Christmas.  Then with Fay passing away early December the massive despondency of Christmas to come only became deeper and deeper.

Try as I might, the joy of Christmas’s past only made the thought of Christmas future one of melancholy  and downheartedness.  I think I did my best to whack the self imposed, woebegone attitude out of me.  I went to Christmas carol singing, I purchased Christmas cards with the good intentions of writing in them and posting them.  I purchased annual calendars to post to overseas friends and relatives.  I even took the cards and calendars with me to my house-cat-sitting role in Whangamata to make the most of the self time to get these supposedly pleasant tasks done.  I put my name down to attend a Christmas breakfast at the gym, another with friends for a lunch – I even prepaid for both.  I bought myself a Christmas dress.  But I never opened the packets of Christmas cards, nor the calendars to send; I never attended the breakfast, or the lunch and the Christmas dress remained on the hanger in the wardrobe. 

And Christmas loomed closer.

Yes, the annual Christmas morning swim was still planned; I found this out because I read the notice that it was on in our OWR blog site a few weeks ago ….  And it seemed that the boys (Danny and Glenn) had presumed that Christmas was going to be the same old, same old as they had both informed me they had specifically requested the day off at their respective places of employment so would be here for Christmas day.

The only problem was, it would not be same old, same old.  This year there would be no Tony here.  Last year was certainly a different Christmas for us, but we still went to Mission Bay Christmas morning and we still had Christmas dinners at home with extended families and we still had Tony doing all that with us.  This year the void would be enormous. 

And Christmas loomed closer.

And then early last week, little by little, the Christmas foreboding began to lift.  It began when son Glenn proposed the idea that we have Christmas at their home, the home where he and partner, Yoli, little Anthony and big Uncle Danny live.  The very suggestion of not being here for Christmas surprisingly and instantly lifted so much of the pensiveness I had been harbouring about the actual day.  An immense sense of relief flooded over me.  I realised just how much I did not want Christmas to be same old same old.  It could never be that again.  I knew instantly that it was time to get rid of same old and begin same new.  I think I was openly grateful at the suggestion.  I hope I was. 

The next day a very warm friend handed me a small gift and handed the same gift to another friend.  It was handed to us in a most casual and busy moment and handed with a particular purpose.  But it was a gift, a Christmas gift and receiving it was both unexpected and accepted with a surprising pleasure at her thought of giving and her thought pattern of what the gift was.  There was a certain enchantment at being the recipient of the unheralded presentation.

I was touched.

The same day I was made to realise the fortune of having many warm friends.  After spending some time rubbing down a magnificent set of feminine legs the possessor of the legs handed me a gorgeously baked and wrapped mini-Christmas cake that I know was made with love and tender affection – even if it did take her days, maybe weeks, of soaking the fruits in the witchery of alcoholic liquids.  That little cake sits on my coffee table and will probably be maturing all the more for many weeks to come before I will have to make the fatal cut and enjoy each crumb of the love it was made with.  I have weeks of great anticipation of that enjoyment.

I was touched.

Two days later I had a visit from one of the athletes I had coached last summer for Ironman back in March this year.  He came bearing a gift.  I have no idea what the gift is as it sits still wrapped, under the Christmas tree in my lounge.  What it is does not matter – it was the thought that he had gone out of his way to visit and share some fond memories and thoughts of future that meant much to me.  For he had invested a lot of soul into his athletic achievement over the last summer and I had invested much of my own soul in wanting him to do well with his goal so we had a shared and mutual bond there that I guess we both recognised.  His visit was a reminder of how much we as individuals can impact on each other’s lives when working for a common goal.  

I was touched.

That night I had a Christmas concert to attend which I had already decided days earlier to renege attending.  Yet as the day progressed I pondered on my decision not to attend and pondered on the value of making myself jolly up and ensure I would not be the morose member of the group attending.  Somehow the decision change seemed easier to make and ‘jollying’ up did not take nearly as much energy as it usually does.

It was a lovely night. 

Made all the lovelier to arrive home to a virginally white bouquet of flowers sitting at my door to greet me.   Whether the virginal white was specifically ordered to reflect my nun-like state I have no idea, but the irony was enjoyed by the recipient.  And how lucky was I!  Thank you to the One-Day-Will-Be-A-Finely-Tuning-Athlete.  You lifted what gloom spirits that were encircling me to a more distant plane. 

And the weekend following became one of invaluable awareness and  gratitude that my life is not a case of a glass half full – but an overwhelming show of proof that my life is a situation of a glass overflowing.

Overflowing  in the form of people who do actually take that extra little time to think, do and demonstrate they care.  At a time when I have been deeply self absorbed with soul searching melancholy the actions of warm friends have lifted that melancholy away – like a puff of wind they have blown that gloomy atmosphere hanging over my head completely out of the window and made me ever so grateful that I have had some valuable people in my world.

Doors have been mended, unstartable lawn mower has been started, lawns have been mown, a fresh smelling pine Christmas tree has arrived, been installed and decorated by two delightful children.  Have meandered  happily to MOTAT and its Christmas night lights and activities with special friend and child, bike and car problems fixed, lovely phone calls have been made, visitors received, hidden gifts discovered in the house.  And even real bubbles flowed on Sunday night as a warm collection of warm friends sat in my lounge for a pre-Christmas concert drink and merriness and bubbles were had.  And my Christmas dress came out of the wardrobe and worn, to the compliments of many.

No such thing as a glass half full.  It’s overflowing.  Overflowing with bubbles of goodwill.

Tony will be smiling. Smiling more than ever that others have lifted the doldrums from his wife’s Christmas gloom.  He will be a very happy man. For the bondship of our friends and for his wife.

Bring on Christmas Day.

Good bye to Fay - a most wonderful lady

Heck - it was the scariest thing.  So far, since Tony died nine months ago I have only had one occasion when I thought I saw him in a crowd of people.

I imagine this would happen often for some people after they have lost someone they love.  Head into any busy shopping mall and you could easily pick out people that could possibly look like someone else you know. Tony used to do that often, say to me, "Look at that person, don't they look like (whoever).....?"

The one time it happened to me sometime in the middle of this winter was the weirdest few moments; it truly freaked me, then sent me on a good hour of so of near despair.  Funnily enough, it wasn't the face of the person who I momentarily thought was Tony, it was a pair of man's legs.  Tony had very distinctive and great looking legs.  I know, I used to massage them frequently.  And people were always admiring his legs - much to my annoyance as my pair were clearly not worth commenting on.  

It was on one of the few runs I did over winter when I was in my own little world, struggling along, and I looked ahead to see this pair of legs running ahead of me.  Tony's legs. At least the adrenaline pump through my body momentarily thought they were Tony's legs.  They weren't, of course.  In fact, when looking longer I realised they were not quite as fabulous as Tony's legs were.  But they had done the damage by then.  I remember stopping, crying and walking back to the car.  For that one fleeting nano-second I had thought I had seen Tony. Hugely distressing.

I hope to never have any other instance like that again.  

Today, this morning, I was at Mission Bay.  I had gone down to watch some of the crew compete in the Panasonic triathlon series of events being organised early this morning.  Was walking along the Mission Bay footpath, adjacent to the beach, when I looked up and saw the spiting image of, not Tony, but my step-mother who passed away two weeks ago today.  I could not see the lady's face, I saw her from a distance; she was down at the waters edge, clearly supporting someone in the event.  But the body, the height, the clothing, the slight stoop, the age, everything about her was step-mum Fay. Of course I knew it wasn't, but on this occasion I stopped and took a longer and second look.  Yes, the little lady most certainly looked very like Fay. So someone else is lucky that their mother, grandmother, step mother, aunty, whatever, was well, alive and able to be down at Mission Bay at 7 am on a Sunday morning, to watch their efforts. Like most of us, that family probably don't realise just how special it is to have those older family members around.  

I did not get upset today. It made me quietly feel peaceful that the person I was looking at must be a little like Fay on the inside too.  Being down there so early on a Sunday supporting what was probably another, younger family member.  That was so Fay.

Since Fay died two Sundays ago, I have often been taken aback at the reaction of folk when they learn that my step mother had passed away.  The first few times it happened it almost offended me.  It seems that once I mentioned the word 'step' that people dismissed the loss as not being of such great significance as it would have been had the word not been used; had it been my 'mother' instead of my 'step mother'.  

I eventually realised and understood that other folk would not realised the significant place in our hearts that our 'step-mother' had.  She was no ordinary lady, yet in every way she was an ordinary lady.  She had been in our family life for nearly 40 years.  That's a long time to be a family member.  Losing Fay was a great loss - to all of our family, including my boys and Glenn's little Anthony.  She was a special lady.  So much so that I knew I had to share with others just what she meant to my family and myself.  So I wrote my own eulogy to Fay to deliver at her funeral four days later.  It must have been a reasonably good eulogy as I have been thanked for it by various members of those who were in attendance at the funeral.  Two have asked for a copy.  I told them to read my blog site.  So have pasted it here for you family.

Fay's Eulogy

Blood is not always thicker than water. 

Family is not always blood.  

Family are the people in your life who you love and who love you back.  My sisters, brother and I and all our own children loved Fay – to us she was as much as a blood relative to us as we are to each other.

·      She wasn't the world’s greatest cook.

·      She wasn't the world’s greatest housekeeper.

·      She wasn’t the world’s greatest golfer.

·      But she was the world’s greatest Grandma and Stepmother our Cook family could ever have been lucky enough to have.

·      And a dear, kind wife to our father.

·      We have nothing but gratitude that Fay came into his life, and ours

My name is Verna Cook-Jackson, I am the 3^rd child of Lyall Cook who married Fay on 28 December 1976.  I speak for my 2 sisters and brother.  And all our children and their children.

Gratitude

When I think of what Fay has delivered to our lives – I think of the word gratitude.  I am grateful that Fay was in our life, I am grateful my sons and nieces and nephews had Fay as a Grandmother.  I am grateful Fay was my father’s wife.

She came into our lives as a mother and step mother and grandmother and personally, to me, it was a very happy day as my father had found someone to love and share his life with.  And along with Fay came Dianne, as a sister to Tina, and Jan, Lee and Colin, another complete family for our Dad to overseer and enjoy.

Dad did not have to go far to find and court Fay, the only effort he had to put in to courting her was to walk the 50 metres across the road from his house to hers. For she literally lived across the road and had done for many years prior to her husband, and my mother dying, within a relatively close time period.

There was many a titter when we found out our father was 'crossing the road'. 

As a stepmother to us who were well into our 20’s when they married, she slotted into the role of mother, stepmother and grandmother very graciously.  To each of us she had a different relationship.

To my younger sister Tina, Fay was a Mum.

To my older sister Delwyn, Fay wasn't a step mother, she was/is a dear and close friend.  A week never passed without Fay either spending time with Delwyn or phoning her.  Delwyn will miss Fay greatly.

To me, she was a primo step mum who loved my Dad.

Fay never interfered in any way that could cause family difficulty, but was always there whether for joyous celebrations or family setbacks. 

As a grandmother, my boys were so very lucky.  Here was a person who took on the mantel of grandparent without a second thought.  Our children were Lyall’s grand children therefore they were her grandchildren – no debate or discussion, it was the way it was.   It is the only grandmother mine & Delwyn’s children have ever known.

Last night I picked up some old diaries of mine dating back to the late 70’s, early 80’s when my boys and Delwyn’s girls were small – and was reminded of just how an important role she took in their lives. All their lives. The amount of times ‘Grandma’ was mentioned in relation to the children was surprisingly frequent.  Barely a week went past when any of them did not have something to do with Grandma. 

She was a truly unique person. 

At 75 she completed her first ever marathon.  I was there that day and had no idea she had entered.  When I saw her at the start line her first words were, “Don’t tell the family, I don’t think they would be happy with me doing this,” said with a naughty giggle unique to Fay. She followed that with the statement, “Your father and I used to come and watch you girls run this marathon and I always wondered if I could do it too!”  She did.  At 75 years young.

After Dad died Fay told Delwyn of her own personal Bucket List.  It included walking the Tongariri Crossing, doing a couple of major tramps, including Milford Track, doing Tai Chi – and visiting Stewart Island.  It was only a few weeks ago when she was staying in the South Island with Colin & Wendy that she and Colin spent a day at Stewart Island. That by co-incidence, was the last on her list of Things to Do before I go. 

Ironical isn't it?

In this world there are those who are takers and those who are givers.  Fay would have had to have been up there with the world’s greatest givers, literally until her dying day. 

And she made Dad happy.

There are so many lovely stories about Fay and I hope many will be shared over tea and coffee this afternoon, but I want to share a couple with you.

I recall a day, many, many years ago when Dad decided he would take Fay to her first test cricket match to Eden Park.  I think it was 1980 when the West Indies were playing NZ. It was by chance that I was at home in the garden listening to the cricket commentary on the transistor  radio, when there was a pause in the commentary until a commentator said, “There seems to be a stop in play.  The umpires are waving their arms at something. Oh, now we can see what they are waving at. Ah yes, there is a little old lady walking across in front of the sight screen.  Oh, now she’s stopped, in the middle of the sight screen.  She’s seen the cricket players waving.  She’s stopped to see what they are waving at. Geoff Howarth out in the field of play is running over to her. Oh, she’s moving away folks.  She has moved off the field folks, the little old lady has moved from the field of play.  The game of cricket can be resumed.”

Dad, who was sitting in the lower terraces of the main stand heard all this commentary himself as he had his own little transistor radio plugged into his ear and told me when he looked up and saw it was his wife that was holding up the international cricket match, he shrunk down into his seat in the hope no one realised it was the “little old lady” who had earlier been sitting next to him.  Fate had it that he would not get out of this predicament, Fay promptly left the field and returned to her seat next to Dad which according to him, was the most embarrassing part with all muffled sniggers and giggles from those sitting around them.

“I’m never taking her to bloody cricket again!” he announced to us.

My husband, Tony, who passed away earlier this year, absolutely loved Fay – he saw her at the epitome of what he wanted to be like when he got older – even though he already was.

He loved retelling the story of the millennium New Year’s night when I phoned Fay about 6.30 in the evening to wish her a happy New Year.  I asked if she was doing anything special for the night and she said no, she was just going to see the night in quietly by herself. Tony and I and Glenn and a couple of friends were heading out to Piha that night to watch the last of the sunsets for that year.  I said to Fay that she was more than welcome to join us but we were leaving our house in Mt Albert at 7.15 sharp.  As you know Fay lives in Papatoetoe.  She giggled and thanked me for the invitation.  Literally at 10 past 7 there is a knock at the back door and there is Fay.  “Fay!” I said looking at my watch, “have you driven from your place to here in that time?”

“Yes,”she said, “and I was a bit worried as I’ve already had 2 speeding tickets in the last 3 months.

Tony loved that. She went so high up in his estimation from then on he called her The Flying Grandma. 

There are dozen of stories like that, share them this afternoon. In my non-spare time I scribed a short poem, to Fay.

A Tribute To Fay, Our Stepmother

We were bless with Fay as our stepmother
She stepped into the role of Grandma too
She come into our lives and our families,
to do what all grandmas & mothers do.

She looked after our sister &  our children
Their birthdays and celebrations she ne’r missed
And she never sought any return
For her love except to be kissed.

The blended family it soon almost doubled
Keeping her pulse on them all she did tend.
And she was always there for our father,
It was so sad when his life had to end.

Our Stepmother, so longing to comfort,
was determined that she'd not interfere.
But she was always right there in the background,
waiting graciously to help with our tears.

Well, now Fay it’s your turn to depart us
But let me whisper just what's on our hearts.
We were blessed that you joined our Cook family,
and in our lives we’re so grateful you were a part. 

Bless you Fay.