My mum is very sweet, I have to say. Believe me…it is not just me that thinks so. People love my mum! In the town we grew up in, everyone knew my mum and people loved her. They thought she had a gorgeous personality. She was always smiling, always chatting, always showing kindness.
Just over ten years ago, once we had all left home, my parents moved closer to my grandfather so they could help him as his health was starting to decline. In the village they now live in, people have come to know and love my mum. She has the same gorgeous personality. People say exactly the same things as they did in my home town – your mum is always smiling, so friendly, so kind.
Yup that’s my mumma! I have so many stories about the people whose lives she has touched, I could easily fill a book about Mumma Bear. We could not have asked for a better example of how to be a gorgeous human being than our Mumma Bear!
Besides all the work at home, caring for a huge family, Mum did not work for money when we were younger. She wanted to be around for us during our early years. She felt starting work before we were at school would disrupt our development…or something like that. But once my youngest sister Milly had started school, Mumma then decided to go back to nursing. For several years she worked on an endoscopy unit in the nearby hospital.
I remember the very first time she received wages. After years of gratefully accepting hand-me-downs from other kind families, Mumma wanted to go out and buy us something new. There was a new shop in the local shopping centre and they had some beautiful teddy bears. Mum bought one for the three of us “little ones”. I must have been ten years old at this time, because Milly was now at school. Mine was a slightly ginger brown. I called my teddy “Max”. Milly had a white bear which she named “Snowy”. Mandy, her more beige brown bear she named “Honey”.
Three bears for three little girls. We were so grateful to Mumma Bear. We all treasured those bears. I still had Max when I left home in my mid-twenties!
That was not the only treat. Mumma Bear really wanted to treat us. She took us to a local restaurant which was famous for their naughty puddings and desserts. I ordered a Banana Split. Milly ordered a knickerbocker-glory. Mandy ordered a salad! A salad…just about the farthest thing from a naughty dessert!
Aaaaah! It’s nice to reminisce over the pages and pages of special memories of those you love. Mumma Bear was the perfect mother to the three little girls, who still think she is one of the sweetest people on the planet.
I had unanswered questions about why I was being sent to school and great difficulties understanding the whole concept of leaving my parents and being with a group of odd children who did not seem to be as switched on as I was. I saw no value in being forced to spend time there and I found it quite tiring at times. When it was all getting too much, I would go and hide in the “wendy house” and burrow underneath the pile of playclothes. There I would often fall fast asleep until the end of the school day.
The only way I settled in my mind this separation from home was feeling I had an important role to fill. I was always tidying up after the other children, helping them put their coats on, putting straws in milk cartons at “milk time”. I also had issues about the uniform – well it was grey…as some school uniforms are. I said to Mrs Richardson, “Yes, I know all the other children have to wear a uniform, but what I don’t understand is, why do I have to wear a uniform?” I didn’t see myself as one of them but that I was being forced against my will to be at this school. Well….whatever I said to the teachers, I was allowed to attend school throughout the infants and wear my choice of clothes rather than the uniform. What did I wear? I had so many pretty little girl dresses that had been given to my mum by my dad’s customers and friends. Quite an impressive wardrobe. I remember some of them vividly. Although I also loved wearing shorts and T-shirts at home, I was too proud to wear shorts for school, I did want to be smart. It sometimes strikes me as odd that although I was such a tomboy in so many ways – I always loved my dresses.
The children were following me home and asking me if I was an angel. I was very upset by this. Why? In our classroom, there was a golden book about the Bible the teacher used to read stories from at story time. The angels in the pictures were all men with beards and big muscles and huge wings. I thought the kids were being unkind calling me an angel. Mum and Dad tried to explain that some of the children were just fascinated by me. 
I learnt so much from them about what girls where supposed to be interested in. The girls taught me two things I never had experienced elsewhere. They all seemed to know how to do handstands. This was truly wonderful to me. I threw myself into copying them and they tried to help me. Nonetheless, it took me a long time to master the art of handstands. They also knew how to make daisy chains. Can you comprehend how marvellous it was to me to be able to produce something as beautiful as a daisy chain? You wouldn’t believe how much patience and effort I put in to trying to make them. I went missing from the school several times, and rather than being asleep in the wendy house, I was frequently found on the cricket pitch behind the school – which was not allowed. I thought that rule must apply to the odd little children who seemed rather backward. I often played on that cricket pitch with my Dad and siblings, so I felt comfortable up there. I know why I went there. The grass around the cricket pitch was a little longer than our school field and the daisies had longer stalks. The longer the stalks the more chance I had of being able to make a decent daisy chain. As I look back at primary school, I have to confess one of the deepest gifts it imparted to me was learning things like how to make daisy chains from other children. Everything else I was content to learn from books, books my parents bought for me. I was discontent at hearing the teachers express their own opinions.
Then there was the wetting myself issue. It happened twice that I can remember. It happens to a lot of children, doesn’t it? But it was the way it happened to me that seems memorable. Both times it was a fear thing. On one occasion, a very annoyed teacher (I have no idea why she was upset that morning) was marching everyone through the school and she turned around and said to me to stand still and not to leave that spot until she returned. Now, she just happened to have parked me right next to the large container containing sand and toys – so I occasionally let my fingers play with the sand. But out of obedient fear….I did not move from that spot. I have no idea why she left me there for so long (I think it was the other children that were in trouble), but by the time she came back to find me in the same spot, I was standing in a yellow puddle. She asked why I had not gone to the toilet and all I could do was repeat her words to me. Off to the headmaster’s secretary for some replacement underwear from the “lost and found” box.
Aaaaah schooooooool!!!! Life at school became a bit more interesting when I was in the first year of juniors (I think that would be Year 3) and was asked to leave the rest of my class one morning each week and join the children in their last year of primary school (Year 6) who had weekly swimming lessons. My sisters and I were part of our town swimming club so the headmaster wanted to see whether I could keep up with the children three years older than me. Sure enough they entered me into a couple of the races in the county swimming gala. I was swimming for the school competitively with kids who were three years older than me Our school won so many races in the county swimming gala and I remember winning mine also. The headmaster was delighted with me. We had a number of awards on display in the school lobby after that swimming gala. Ours was a small school, so it seemed quite a victory that we had won so much.
During the six-week school holiday between Year 3 and Year 4, I had been allowed to borrow a book from the school library. It was Johanna Spyri’s “Heidi“. The headmaster had told me that I must be careful not to lose it, I must bring it back at the end of the holidays or else I would not be allowed to borrow a book again. Can you imagine how devastated I was when my Dad broke the news one morning that our school (which by now I had grown to love) had been burnt down by three boys? Two were fourteen years of age and the other had just finished year 6 – he must have been eleven. I still remember his name, but not the other two boys.
Caramel 