PART ONE
My mum would have been 99 years old tomorrow (18th May.) She passed away 27 years ago, and not a week goes by that I don’t think of her. She was one of the World’s greatest listeners. She actually listened. Instead of waiting for you to stop speaking, which is a signal for most people to begin their various diatribes, she listened to what you had to say. Whenever I have problems with members of my family, issues at work, even my friends, I catch myself wondering what she would have said in various circumstances that I have experienced over the years, what advice she would have offered.
Many times when I had problems in school, work, marriage, and divorce I would sit down and tell her what was worrying me, angering me, depressing me, whatever. Invariably, I would solve the problem or at least understand the issues better by using her as a sounding board. By my mum listening or asking me questions I sometimes came up with solutions. Not all the time, but it did enable me to see the wood through the trees.
She left school at 14 years old, but she had great command of current affairs and was an avid reader. Ironically, my mum and dad attended the same school, Dyfatty, but didn’t know each other then because of the six year age difference. Her brother, Sam, was in the same class as my Dad, and when eventually my dad and mum started courting, he teased my mum unmercifully about dating that skinny boy Jack James from Dyfatty Street.
They met in RTs in Cwmfelin where they both worked. It was a Munitions factory during the war, so my Dad was not called up until 1942. They married in May and he was called up in June of 1942, or somewhere near that month. I have letters written by my Dad to my mum when he was serving in the RAF, and she was being chatted up by American GIs in the Rhyddings Hotel in Brynmill, Swansea. He was bereft from what my mum had written to him about GIs giving her gifts of cigarettes, chocolate and nylons, but in exchange for what favors he demanded to know. My mum’s reply must have tore him off a strip because in his next letter he was apologizing profusely for doubting her fidelity.
My brother was born in 1946, and they settled down for a normal family life and my mum never worked again save for becoming the home maker, disciplinarian, counselor and child psychologist. We lived in a two up, two down Victorian terraced house in Pottery Street. The WC was at the bottom of the garden. This was the house where she delivered me in the passage (pardon the pun, hallway.) She decided she had been pregnant long enough and accelerated proceedings by taking copious amounts of castor oil, and her and new born baby were hospitalized for three weeks. Did I mention she had a stubborn streak which has been inherited by subsequent generations?
We moved to a prefab (prefabricated dwellings were detached single storey units and designed to last 7 years. They were intended as a temporary fix to the housing shortage created by the Blitz and sub-standard Victorian terraced housing which was demolished at the end of the War. We moved out in 1962, so do the maths.) when I was five, and initially I was terrified of the vast open prairies that encircled the prefab estate. Most of the children attended Brynhyfryd School, a Victorian monolith with Dickensian overtones. My mum was not happy sending her two sons to Brynhyfryd, and arranged an appointment with Mr. Bayton, headmaster of a spanking new school, Gwyrosydd. He agreed to accept us into the new school, and I spent six happy years there. However, there was an incident when I received the cane for slapping a girl’s face in retaliation for her hitting me. Mr. Watson ignored by protestations and delivered a savage blow across my hand. My mum noticed the angry weal across my hand, and demanded to know what happened. She was furious, and threatened to march up the school and confront Mr. Watson. I pleaded with her not to, and she reluctantly agreed to my wishes.
To be continued:
Happy Birthday Mum, I miss you.XXX
