f4f3 | …And Sometimes The News Is Bad

My wee Gran passed away last Thursday, peacefully in her sleep, a couple of months shy of her 95^th birthday.
All of the old clichés apply (there’s a reason why they become clichés): she had a long life, she was delighted with her family, and in the end, the end was a blessing. Her Alzheimer’s was not going to get any better, and though her health was good (the doctor said he couldn’t use his old standby of “heart failure” on the death certificate, because her heart was as strong as a horse’s) she was growing frailer each month.
She lived on her own, well into her eighties, and the Alzheimer’s was the reason she went into a care home – she left the cooker on a time too many, and liked to walk the length of the town. It was her decision to go into the home – my mum assumed she’d move in with her, but she was too used to her own space, I guess.
She only ever had two children, my mum and her brother Thomas, who died young in a motor-bike accident. From three grandchildren she ended up with six great-grandchildren.
She died maybe a mile from where she was born. We’ll be taking her to the church she was christened in on Thursday, and she’ll have a mass on Friday.
At the crematorium she’ll have two songs – the one she loved to hear my Granda sign (“I’ll Take You Home, Kathleen”) and the one she always said was her favourite (“I Belong To Glasgow”).
She didn’t have an easy life, when she was younger. My Grandad joined the AA before I was born, and he never drank in my memory, but he had good reasons for stopping. He was in the army when they married (he deserted to marry her, and served his time in the Glasshouse for it) but he did come home from the war. He died twenty five years ago, and she never stopped missing him.
At the end, I can say she lived a life of quiet decency, and she’s left fond memories.

Bye, Gran.