All Dottie ....

This is the first of the blogs that will come under the umbrella of the Toastmaster project I was outwitted into doing.  Happily so, I will add.

On posting in Facebook what I was doing and why I received some terrific suggestions on the theme to make it - e.g. How to live life in retirement ...  Women running over 50 ... The not so ordinary people I have met ...   A Kiwis view of the British lifestyle ...  Travel is the spice of life ...  or, to be, just me.

Loved all the suggestions - guess they could be regarded as the first of my comments for my first blog.  So I've decided to use them all.  And thus retain the title I have always had for my blog - A Blog About Life.  That way it incorporates it all as I can certainly write on every topic suggested.

The first topic will come under the umbrella 'The Not So Ordinary People I Have Met'.  Thanks Daniel.

So, today's first official blog:   All Dottie

My lovely friend Christine rang me recently to tell me that Dot had passed away. 

Christine & Dave & Me

The news did not come as a real surprise as Dot was in her 90^th year and for some years had been in a physical state of decline, but as is always the case in these situations, it still deeply saddened me that someone who had a special niche in many people’s lives, and certainly in mine, is no longer with us.  My heart was very heavy. 

I would suppose to a number of Dot’s friends and family she had not actually been with us for some considerable time, years even. 

Last time I saw her was in a café in Avondale in Auckland, it was November 2019.

Dot was in her early 50’s when she walked into the foyer one Sunday morning some decades ago to join the YMCA Marathon Club.  And she quickly became a notable member.  The November cafe occasion was organised by a mutual friend with the purpose of having a number of ‘old’ marathon clubbers come together to enjoy a lunch and catch up, as for many our lives had gone in different directions; the lunch was considered a lovely way to ensure the link of friendship continued.

Dot was among those attending.  She was there in body and spirit but not quite there in the mental capacity we had so loved. The cruelty of dementia had picked on Dot over the previous few years and had slowly worked its way into ensuring she was unable to look after herself.

The organising friend ensured Dot would not miss the get together occasion and had picked Dot up from the care home she was residing in.  Facially Dot looked no older than she had done for her previous 20 years, but bodily her mental health debilitation was obvious.  Unable to care for herself, even unable to walk unassisted it was certainly sad to see that irrepressible, fun-loving, silly, giddy lady be doomed to her final days in the sad world of mental and physical decline.  The saving grace was the fact she was unaware of her own decline and looked truly happy to be surrounded by faces she saw as maybe familiar, be she not able to work out from when or where. 

She spoke in inaudible whispers, and one could barely glean one word she would utter, but she looked happy, and smiled at each person that went to chat with her, she was clearly happy to be in her world in our world.

On hearing of Dot’s passing I was saddened that consequences meant I would not be able to travel  to Auckland to be at her most important event, her final crossing of her life’s finishing line. 

I yearned to be there for the end of her life’s marathon race.  To cheer her through and tell her well done. I was sorry to not have the chance of saying a few words of farewell to her.

Whilst pondering the sadness of her declining years and eventual passing I reminded myself of those unique and unforgettable Dot events that epitomised the character she was.

I cannot recall the exact date of first meeting Dot and so wish that my Tony was here as I am sure he would remember first meeting Dot.  I was on the committee of the marathon club at the time and Dot came along as a new member to train to run a marathon.  She must have been in her early 50’s at the time.  Not such a notable age for us then as the marathon club catered for the widest age group of runners than any other athletic club in the country.  During my time as President of the club it had over 600 active members, probably with an average age of 35 to 45 years, with many in their late 50’s and early 60’s.  Good runners, fit runners, runners who held their own at national marathon, road racing and cross country championships. 

Dot wasn’t quite in the latter category but she quickly fitted in well with those on the Sunday morning runs in the 10 Minute pack.

And she quickly became quite a popular, if bemusing, character.  She loved to chuckle and certainly gave her fellow runners much to chuckle about.  Not long after Dot joined the club her daughter became a member, one of a few mother-and-daughter pairings within the club at the time.

I am sure there would have been marvellous stories being remembered at her post funeral cuppa – stories of Dot and her ‘dottiness’, her ditheriness, her love of running and her love of being involved in everything the club did.  Over the years Dot became a club treasure. 

Our Mrs Mops

During a busy period when both Tony and I were working corporate we were involved in a great many other activities that meant our days were full so we decided to ask Dot if she would become our weekly house cleaner. She was already cleaning houses for folk as her way to earn the dollars to fund many of the overseas trips she regularly planned.  Many of those trips were with fellow marathon club members to run marathons around the world:  London, Paris, New York, Dublin - I’m unsure what others.  Therefore, Tony and I felt we would be doing both parties a favour by hiring Dot to come in Fridays to have a lovely clean house to come home to pre-weekend and at the same time helping Dot earn the monies for her many travels.

It worked well.  Very well.  Dot was studious, conscientious, and never let us down. We trusted her implicitly and always looked forward to driving home from work on a Friday to a tidied and clean home.

Sure, there were some glitches.  But we chose to overlook them.  Afterall, what’s wrong with intermittent fibres of cat fur left all around the inside of the hand basins or shower, or bath?  Yes, Dot’s eyesight wasn’t the greatest so we could overlook this odd, Dot-like glitch. Plus, everyone knew Dot adored animals, and we had a friendly family cat and as all cats do when Dot is around, it would rub itself against Dot’s legs wherever she went and Dot would pick it up and give it the adoring strokes and pats it was seeking.  But of course, as we all know, cat fur flies everywhere, particularly when you have a wet cleaning cloth in your patting hands, resulting in neatly spread intermittent cat fur on the personal cleaning surfaces. 

No matter, Verna’s usual chore when arriving home on a Friday was to grab a clean cleaning cloth, zip around the house quickly and rinse those hairs down the drains.  Afterall, at least the surfaces the hairs were stuck on were clean surfaces.

Dot did get paid by the hour for her cleaning.  It bemused us both that the hours we paid for did include her compulsory cup of tea break.  Which, being Dot, would not have been the standard ten minute stop to boil the kettle, make and drink the tea, then return to work.  Her tea breaks included a good, comfy sit and a read of whatever reading material she’d been tidying up.

There were many an occasion we would arrive home to find our running or Metro magazines left on the tables opened at pages she last read.  No matter.  We were still very happy to have Dot as our character cleaner.  Afterall, they say charity begins at home.

Having her cake and eating it

I did once make the mistake, although at the time it was a genuine offer of sharing, in telling Dot that I had made some biscuits which were in a tin in the pantry and she was more than welcome to have a couple with her cuppa when next in cleaning. Gleeful Dot happily told me the following Sunday how lovely they were.  That’s when I actually made the real mistake.  I responded to her comment in saying, “You are most welcome to help yourself to any biscuits that may be in the biscuit tin Dot.” 

From that time on the biscuit tin was the recipient of Dot’s reaching hand every Friday afternoon.  As was the cake tin next to it.  And the one next to that.  Indeed, I’d often have to zip out on a Thursday evening to the local shop to restock the tins just for Dot.  We frequently noted that not only were the biscuits depleted but that banana or chocolate cake that may be in another tin had had an extra large slice cut from it.

It was all fine by us.  We just chuckled, shrugged and enjoyed regaling the story of Dot and the cat fur and biscuit tins to those who knew her.

Until the day I went to go get that last piece of delectable Christmas cake that another dear friend had made for us some months earlier.  It was the best Christmas cake she had made us and we savoured every bite of it and never shared with anyone.  Our cake was for us and us only and we would bring it out on days when we truly felt we deserved a self treat.  We’d make ourselves a cuppa, bring out the cake tin and sit and salivate over the treat we were about to devour.

We’d had a hard day out doing whatever and Tony was unloading the car while I went and put the kettle on.  Coffee made and poured, we reached for the cake tin knowing the very last piece of that scrumptious Christmas cake was stored awaiting the very moment for us two to enjoy every crumb.  Open the lid.  Empty.  Gone.  Nothing.  Zilch. 

Faces shocked we look at each other.  “Dot!” we exclaimed, in unison. 

Yes.  Dot.  She had enjoyed the last piece of our preciously stored and saved Christmas cake.  That particular cake tin was stored on a separate shelf to the usual ones, always was, because it was so special we tucked it away one shelf higher.  That particular Friday cleaning day the biscuit tin was running low with only one biscuit in it and nothing in the other tins.  Dot had clearly felt the one biscuit was not her usual weekly fare so would have used the kitchen stool to stand on and reach our ‘special’ tin and without any malice or thought of trespassing our treasure, found that one, lonely last piece of Christmas cake.  It was months after Christmas so knowing Dot she probably assumed it was past it’s use by date and that we’d clearly forgotten about it, so she ate it.

To be continued next blog:   Dot and her other enjoyable legacy memories ... it's fun ... because Dot was fun.  😊