ONION SKINS
August 18th 2008 17:44
I just received word from my Aunty Mary, my Uncle is dying. Although we were never emotionally close, as he lived in another state and over the last forty years I saw him rarely, I did feel a pang of regret, and a lot of empathy for my Aunt, stoic to the end.
Onion Skins
older the outer,
the first to wither,
as nature have it be.
younger the inner,
protected till time,
exposure to outer,
dries with age.
each skin,
of the other,
connected,
till time cleaves,
them asunder.
a union,
in progression,
one then other,
in turn to die,
as nature have it be,
older before younger,
now...,
not so necessarily.
Up until I was 12, I saw Uncle Robert and Aunty Mary more regularly. My family lived in the same city as their family and, as we were cousins, our families would gather together at Christmas, Easter and occasionally, over school holidays, I would be invited to stay at their home. It was a large white house, with large and well clipped lawns, it had a stately presence. His children were numerous, more than my family; Catholicism had its advantages and many disadvantages.
My mother first met Uncle Robert at the age of four when she was sent to Adelaide, after her father died. My grandmother was not considered capable, at the time, of looking after the needs of my mother, so she was sent to her Adelaide cousins, for safe keeping.
Her first encounter with her extended family was at a large Georgian house, which sat in the foothills overlooking the city of Adelaide, the long drive overshadowed by old peppercorn trees, their thin woody limbs interlocking, whispering in the wind.
The family had gradually sold off the surrounding pasturage, their once financial dynamism, now in diminuendo. The inhabitants of this graceful old mansion, showed all the cracks and flaws of humanity, through the struggle to survive, while maintaining some dignity; at times amusing to observe, to a cool and cruel eye, but bemusing for those being slowly suffocated, by current day's misfortune, and a fading horizon.
Great Aunt Maggie, the matriarch of the family in Adelaide, took mother under her strict Victorian wing; all manners and formality, imbued with a withdrawn attitude, ram-rod straight back and un-stated sadness. My mother’s four year old frame, small and silent, with an open, blue eyed, unblinking stare, hid the turmoil and apprehension within. Slowly, like an old vine, all their lives entwined, midst the large, dusty, fine China vases, old cracked oil paintings, frayed servant bell pulls and the steady tock and tick, of many marble encased clocks, all marching to a different tempo, never reaching the hour at the same time.
At first, Uncle Robert and mother were very wary of each other; each quietly eyeing the other, waiting to see if friend or foe, they would be.
They became good friends; mother the tougher, more adventurous type, Uncle Robert more timid, worrying and asthmatic. In no time, they were both bold adventurers together, darting through the few remaining fields surrounding their home, looking for lost treasure and climbing the huge vines that entangled the wrought iron balcony and verandah. They crawled and scaled across this Georgian edifice like black ants in search of food, Their adventures took them from the roof, to pat its name, to the many rooms in the basement, all the while studiously avoiding the fearsome “Tommy Tickle Tail.”
(to be continued)
Photo credit: ComputerHotline (Belfort, France)
Attribution: Share Alike: Courtesy openphoto.net: LINK
Onion Skins
older the outer,
the first to wither,
as nature have it be.
younger the inner,
protected till time,
exposure to outer,
dries with age.
each skin,
of the other,
connected,
till time cleaves,
them asunder.
a union,
in progression,
one then other,
in turn to die,
as nature have it be,
older before younger,
now...,
not so necessarily.
Up until I was 12, I saw Uncle Robert and Aunty Mary more regularly. My family lived in the same city as their family and, as we were cousins, our families would gather together at Christmas, Easter and occasionally, over school holidays, I would be invited to stay at their home. It was a large white house, with large and well clipped lawns, it had a stately presence. His children were numerous, more than my family; Catholicism had its advantages and many disadvantages.
My mother first met Uncle Robert at the age of four when she was sent to Adelaide, after her father died. My grandmother was not considered capable, at the time, of looking after the needs of my mother, so she was sent to her Adelaide cousins, for safe keeping.
Her first encounter with her extended family was at a large Georgian house, which sat in the foothills overlooking the city of Adelaide, the long drive overshadowed by old peppercorn trees, their thin woody limbs interlocking, whispering in the wind.
The family had gradually sold off the surrounding pasturage, their once financial dynamism, now in diminuendo. The inhabitants of this graceful old mansion, showed all the cracks and flaws of humanity, through the struggle to survive, while maintaining some dignity; at times amusing to observe, to a cool and cruel eye, but bemusing for those being slowly suffocated, by current day's misfortune, and a fading horizon.
Great Aunt Maggie, the matriarch of the family in Adelaide, took mother under her strict Victorian wing; all manners and formality, imbued with a withdrawn attitude, ram-rod straight back and un-stated sadness. My mother’s four year old frame, small and silent, with an open, blue eyed, unblinking stare, hid the turmoil and apprehension within. Slowly, like an old vine, all their lives entwined, midst the large, dusty, fine China vases, old cracked oil paintings, frayed servant bell pulls and the steady tock and tick, of many marble encased clocks, all marching to a different tempo, never reaching the hour at the same time.
At first, Uncle Robert and mother were very wary of each other; each quietly eyeing the other, waiting to see if friend or foe, they would be.
They became good friends; mother the tougher, more adventurous type, Uncle Robert more timid, worrying and asthmatic. In no time, they were both bold adventurers together, darting through the few remaining fields surrounding their home, looking for lost treasure and climbing the huge vines that entangled the wrought iron balcony and verandah. They crawled and scaled across this Georgian edifice like black ants in search of food, Their adventures took them from the roof, to pat its name, to the many rooms in the basement, all the while studiously avoiding the fearsome “Tommy Tickle Tail.”
(to be continued)
Photo credit: ComputerHotline (Belfort, France)
Attribution: Share Alike: Courtesy openphoto.net: LINK
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Comment by Ash
Australian Traveller
Flashes of memories
Just catching up on your blog. I love the start of this story - the poetic beginning and with words like this:
who cannot resist the urge to continue on.... and so there I shall go!
Ash
Comment by Mountain Fog
Infognito
Screen Trek
QUOTE ME NO QUOTES!
Hi Ash,
tanx, and it seems you have a rare taste in literature, as you are my only appreciative reader on this one!
cheers
fog
Comment by Lilla
From The Home Front
Enviro Warrior
Dream Herald
Esoteric Bookshop
Ooh how wonderful to be able to read something so well written once again on orble ... Inspiring....
Bravo!
...and the passage Ash highlighted too.
Superb...
Encore.
Glad I took the time to travel here Looking forward to the rest..)..
Thank you for sharing.
Lilla ...
Comment by Mountain Fog
Infognito
Screen Trek
QUOTE ME NO QUOTES!
Tanx for the compliments!
I must go back over it all and do some constructive editing, as I scanned what you quoted, I immediately saw some more poignant and poetic alternatives to some of my more prosaic phrasing.
It's difficult for me, as I usually blurt it all out and post it, then forget to go back and do a re-write, or lack the will to do so...
Anyhoo, tanx again Diamond Gurrlish!!
fog