And once again, an uncanny coincidence concerning our grandmothers telling stories of fancy tinged with truths and tales!!
Mine was French though and a large part of the reason I am here... I have the outline of a fictional novel based on my grandmothers story written, though it will take me years to finish I am determined to write it before I’m no linger capable.
This is beautifully written Miranda.. I can imagine every second of your encounter with these characters! X
I love that image, "sucks the spines out of cows"! And I wonder too about your grandmother. There must be some truth to her story, some seed that started that story rolling.
There must be some truth to it. So many small stories must get lost across every life. Hugely significant moments in individual lives that don’t make a mark on recorded history.
My grandmother was known to make shit up. But she had a pretty traumatic childhood. Her little sister was killed by a train not long before the family moved to Utiku--an incident for which she was blamed because she let go of her sister’s hand. She lost her father, very young and her brother ran away when their mother remarried.
I can understand why a lonely little girl might make up a story or two. I know I did when I was small. I couldn’t necessarily have told you which stories were true when I was that young.
I wish there was some way of knowing what and how much is true. No doubt my desire for absolute truth is a “me problem”. I know there’s no such thing but I keep hunting for it. Maybe because I was gaslight so often by my mother that I want to KNOW.
Fascinating reading Miranda. I grew up immersed in stories, but they were of the completely make believe kind. My mum read to us every night and I think I’ve inherited my love of make believe from that. My parents and grandparents never really shared their own stories with us, I don’t think. Or perhaps I just wasn’t listening.
Ha! If this was while you were small, it's quite possible you weren't listening. I don't have much memory of my grandparents telling me about themselves but they all died while I was still quite young. Most of the stories I know have come second hand, through my mother, and when I was old enough to care. But I know my mother is far from reliable when separating fact from fantasy. From all I know of her mother, she was very similar.
Beautifully written, Miranda, and the wrapping up - powerful like your grandmother.
I don't know much about my grandmother, though I spent most of my childhood with her. She never talked much, but she carried herself with a grounded presence I find no adequate words to express, even to this day.
What a beautiful description, Fotini. Those few words have conjured a very strong image of your grandmother in my mind.
I never knew any of my grandparents well. While they were all in NZ, I was born and raised in London. At that time, the only means of communication were by letter or very expensive and painful phone calls with a two-second delay. They all died before I reached an age where I could travel independently or really get to know them.
Most of my stories of my grandparents come from my scant childhood memories or via my mother, whose own idea of reality is questionable. I think this is why I so wanted to find something concrete that would confirm those inherited stories when I travelled to New Zealand as an adult.
What I don’t know is much more than what I do or think I know. But I feel the only concrete thing I can hold on to is my own ‘sense’ of others (and even that is ever-changing).
What you feel for your grandmother is yours to treasure despite the holes in her story.
I also feel I have much more to say about all this - you got me thinking, Miranda, but I can’t pin it down in a single comment.
Maybe the "sense" we have of people is as close to concrete as we ever really get.
You've got me thinking too, Fotini. I love these Substack conversations. I get so many new ideas from chatting with people in this space. Thank you for being here. I hope I get to hear more about where this thinking takes you.
I’m glad to be here, Miranda - lots of food for thought and many wonderful people to interact with. Thank you for sharing your writing. We wouldn’t have had a conversation if you hadn’t posted this.
I’ll be around, ruminating on our chat and see where that leads me. You’ll be the first to know!
And once again, an uncanny coincidence concerning our grandmothers telling stories of fancy tinged with truths and tales!!
Mine was French though and a large part of the reason I am here... I have the outline of a fictional novel based on my grandmothers story written, though it will take me years to finish I am determined to write it before I’m no linger capable.
This is beautifully written Miranda.. I can imagine every second of your encounter with these characters! X
Maybe every grandmother--or every human does it? I’d love to read your novel, Susie. When it’s ready.
I love that image, "sucks the spines out of cows"! And I wonder too about your grandmother. There must be some truth to her story, some seed that started that story rolling.
There must be some truth to it. So many small stories must get lost across every life. Hugely significant moments in individual lives that don’t make a mark on recorded history.
My grandmother was known to make shit up. But she had a pretty traumatic childhood. Her little sister was killed by a train not long before the family moved to Utiku--an incident for which she was blamed because she let go of her sister’s hand. She lost her father, very young and her brother ran away when their mother remarried.
I can understand why a lonely little girl might make up a story or two. I know I did when I was small. I couldn’t necessarily have told you which stories were true when I was that young.
I wish there was some way of knowing what and how much is true. No doubt my desire for absolute truth is a “me problem”. I know there’s no such thing but I keep hunting for it. Maybe because I was gaslight so often by my mother that I want to KNOW.
Ahh. Heart loved this Miranda. ♥️🪄
Thank you, lovely. x
Yup! 🙈 you’re probably right!
Fascinating reading Miranda. I grew up immersed in stories, but they were of the completely make believe kind. My mum read to us every night and I think I’ve inherited my love of make believe from that. My parents and grandparents never really shared their own stories with us, I don’t think. Or perhaps I just wasn’t listening.
Ha! If this was while you were small, it's quite possible you weren't listening. I don't have much memory of my grandparents telling me about themselves but they all died while I was still quite young. Most of the stories I know have come second hand, through my mother, and when I was old enough to care. But I know my mother is far from reliable when separating fact from fantasy. From all I know of her mother, she was very similar.
Beautifully written, Miranda, and the wrapping up - powerful like your grandmother.
I don't know much about my grandmother, though I spent most of my childhood with her. She never talked much, but she carried herself with a grounded presence I find no adequate words to express, even to this day.
What a beautiful description, Fotini. Those few words have conjured a very strong image of your grandmother in my mind.
I never knew any of my grandparents well. While they were all in NZ, I was born and raised in London. At that time, the only means of communication were by letter or very expensive and painful phone calls with a two-second delay. They all died before I reached an age where I could travel independently or really get to know them.
Most of my stories of my grandparents come from my scant childhood memories or via my mother, whose own idea of reality is questionable. I think this is why I so wanted to find something concrete that would confirm those inherited stories when I travelled to New Zealand as an adult.
What I don’t know is much more than what I do or think I know. But I feel the only concrete thing I can hold on to is my own ‘sense’ of others (and even that is ever-changing).
What you feel for your grandmother is yours to treasure despite the holes in her story.
I also feel I have much more to say about all this - you got me thinking, Miranda, but I can’t pin it down in a single comment.
Maybe the "sense" we have of people is as close to concrete as we ever really get.
You've got me thinking too, Fotini. I love these Substack conversations. I get so many new ideas from chatting with people in this space. Thank you for being here. I hope I get to hear more about where this thinking takes you.
I’m glad to be here, Miranda - lots of food for thought and many wonderful people to interact with. Thank you for sharing your writing. We wouldn’t have had a conversation if you hadn’t posted this.
I’ll be around, ruminating on our chat and see where that leads me. You’ll be the first to know!