Cemetery Sunday
Jun. 13th, 2004 02:41 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
littlemooseToday is cemetery sunday in the village. I doubt it's such an all-encompassing thing in places with a mixed population, but this is an all-catholic village, and chapel comes first.
For those of you who have no idea what I'm on about, here's the rough guide - there's a annual service in the cemetary, everyone gathers at the graves of their loved ones, and prays. Not just for the souls of the departed, but that those self-same souls, once they reach heaven, put in a good word for us, down here, showing how much we love them by coming to their grave once a year. Intercession, they call it.
Then everyone goes back to the houses of whatever family they have in the village and eat scones and sandwiches, drink tea and play endless rounds of 'who's died since we were last here'.
You might have guessed that for the last ten years or so, I've had as little to do with it all as possible.
The worst part is the effect this has on mum. Mum has a big family. And out of the 9 siblings, and countless nephews, nieces and grand-nephews and grand-neices, on a regular basis we see two. Aunt Mary, mum's oldest sister, and Uncle Seamus, who's in the middle somewhere. Aunt Kate and Uncle Paddy drop in whenever they're over from england so they don't count (and their visits are sheer torture anyway).
The rest come to the village, quite often. But none of them ever make it past Aunt Margaret's house. Which is approximately 120 metres away at the bottom of the terrace opposite our cul-de-sac. Mum just shrugs and says it's not like we visit them often. No, we can't because mum's arthritis makes it impossible for her to travel, which they all know.
And yet, mum always spends the weekend before cemetery sunday baking and cleaning and getting things straight just in case anyone does come, even though for the next couple of days after she'll be a complete wreck because her back can't take it. And dad and I help even though physically, we're not much better. And Aunt Mary always stops in, and they play 'who's dead' and it cheers mum a bit, but then we have plates of scones and sandwiches and fruit brack to finish and put away in the freezer.
And there's always a row of cars outside Aunt Margaret's as long as the street. I went down one year, under the pretense of borrowing something, to see who was there... and none of them would look me in the eye. I've told mum I don't liike what this does to her, and she just carries on in denial, but I won't tell her that.
I don't know what it is. Mum thinks so much of her family and they think so little of her... I can understand they might not want to eat again, after bing down at Maggies, but they could say hello?
And now you know why I feel closer to dad's family... they may be on another island, but I've never felt lonely for want of them. Whenever we've had a crisis to face, our phone has rung off the hook with english voices. And you know the sad thing? Deep down, I think I know what all this is about. Dad was born a protestant. Sad, isn't it?
For those of you who have no idea what I'm on about, here's the rough guide - there's a annual service in the cemetary, everyone gathers at the graves of their loved ones, and prays. Not just for the souls of the departed, but that those self-same souls, once they reach heaven, put in a good word for us, down here, showing how much we love them by coming to their grave once a year. Intercession, they call it.
Then everyone goes back to the houses of whatever family they have in the village and eat scones and sandwiches, drink tea and play endless rounds of 'who's died since we were last here'.
You might have guessed that for the last ten years or so, I've had as little to do with it all as possible.
The worst part is the effect this has on mum. Mum has a big family. And out of the 9 siblings, and countless nephews, nieces and grand-nephews and grand-neices, on a regular basis we see two. Aunt Mary, mum's oldest sister, and Uncle Seamus, who's in the middle somewhere. Aunt Kate and Uncle Paddy drop in whenever they're over from england so they don't count (and their visits are sheer torture anyway).
The rest come to the village, quite often. But none of them ever make it past Aunt Margaret's house. Which is approximately 120 metres away at the bottom of the terrace opposite our cul-de-sac. Mum just shrugs and says it's not like we visit them often. No, we can't because mum's arthritis makes it impossible for her to travel, which they all know.
And yet, mum always spends the weekend before cemetery sunday baking and cleaning and getting things straight just in case anyone does come, even though for the next couple of days after she'll be a complete wreck because her back can't take it. And dad and I help even though physically, we're not much better. And Aunt Mary always stops in, and they play 'who's dead' and it cheers mum a bit, but then we have plates of scones and sandwiches and fruit brack to finish and put away in the freezer.
And there's always a row of cars outside Aunt Margaret's as long as the street. I went down one year, under the pretense of borrowing something, to see who was there... and none of them would look me in the eye. I've told mum I don't liike what this does to her, and she just carries on in denial, but I won't tell her that.
I don't know what it is. Mum thinks so much of her family and they think so little of her... I can understand they might not want to eat again, after bing down at Maggies, but they could say hello?
And now you know why I feel closer to dad's family... they may be on another island, but I've never felt lonely for want of them. Whenever we've had a crisis to face, our phone has rung off the hook with english voices. And you know the sad thing? Deep down, I think I know what all this is about. Dad was born a protestant. Sad, isn't it?
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no subject
Date: 2004-06-13 07:02 am (UTC):(
no subject
Date: 2004-06-13 07:29 am (UTC)I hate cemetery Sunday - I never go. There is something about people wandering about trying to remember just where their loved ones are buried - because they only come once a year, and not because they want to, but because they have to be seen to be there.
As for the family's treatment of your mum - there is just no excuse. That she has raised such an open-minded daughter is a credit to her. It really is their loss.
My mother refused to help out organising my wedding - my crime was marrying an athiest. He'd never even been christened. Unforgivable. I grew up in a town full bigotry, and plenty of it in my own family. It makes me so sad to read that you are all punished in such a cruel way, and all for love.
I grew up being taught 'love thy neighbour, so long as they are Catholic'.
Their loss.
*hugs* to you all.
no subject
Date: 2004-06-13 09:23 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-06-13 11:36 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-06-13 02:34 pm (UTC)