Granny Tax
On just (I say just…) turning forty it seems like a crossroads has been reached. I’m suddenly feeling all grown up and worrying about pensions and stuff. It’s sobering.
I also seem to be going to a lot of funerals recently for another thing. An old family friend I’ve known since we were both kids said to me at one recently, “Weddings and funerals, that’s it for us now, Misssy. Weddings and funerals. Next time I see you will be when someone’s died.”
Oh dear.
All of a sudden I look around and three-quarters of my grandparents have gone, and I never got answers to so many questions. Now read that sentence again, it’s not that I never asked questions, I just never got answers.
Examples:
“Gran, how did you meet Papa?”
“Move your head, the snooker semi-final’s on.”
or
“Papa, what were your grandparents’ names?”
“This whisky needs a splash of water, there you go. Just a splash, mind. Don’t drown it!”
or
“Gran, did that old uncle really get the Victoria Cross or was that something you saw in a film and thought was your life?”
“No, that’s a Battenburg. They didn’t have Victoria Sponge.”
or
“Granda, why are we all so…well…. odd?”
“Well, it’s been nice to see you all. Here’s some money for the kids. I’m due down the pub. Cheery-Bye! Just slam the door behind you as you go out.”
Recently I’ve been trying to prise some old, old family photos out from under my paternal grandmother or, “Last Gran Standing” as she’s known (behind her back). She’s got a carefully stashed catalogue of holiday photos of my dad as a boy with his brother and sister that she’s only let me see once. Up until that point I thought my dad had been born six foot tall with sideburns. Who knew he was ever a kid? Not me.
Why won’t she let me see them? Why won’t she let me take them away and copy them and then give them back with only a few choice ones stolen? Why won’t she indulge my questions about who was who in my family now that I’m obsessed with that TV family tree programme “Who Do you Think You Are?” but don’t have the BBC researchers at my disposal or the celebrity status to warrant someone else doing all the hard work for me?
Why are old people so …well, difficult?
I think I’ve found the answer; they are onto us. As soon as family members start asking to do theses on you, or want to see documents, photos or pick your brains on what happened when years ago to Great Uncle Jim who may or may not have been gay, then that’s it- your funeral is being planned. People only want to know all that stuff when they think there’s going to be a day soon when they can say “If only I spoke to her when she was alive…”
As soon as you hear the words, “Granny, tell me about what life was like when…” then it’s time to panic, get your affairs in order and cancel the newspaper.
How annoying must this be, though? To have a granddaughter set up a video camera in your front room and say, “Right Granny, off you go. Speak of olden times, crone! I’ve got three 60 minute tapes, go for it! Don’t fear the Reaper.”
I’ve already devised a strategy for this kind of near death hectoring that will doubtless go on once I hit the 80 mark, I am going to demand payment. For every family story I expect to be taken along on an outing I otherwise would be a nuisance to take along. For every photo album that gets borrowed, I want my house cleaned from top to bottom and my lawn cut. For every clarification on an item of family genealogy I want a free session of chin electrolysis paid for AND a lift to the salon and back.
Last of all, for anything that requires me to write anything down on paper to help out with family trees, or any rummaging in drawers to find any certificates of any kind I want pre-paid tickets to accompany them on their next family holiday. And first dibs on the window seat on the ‘plane.
Effectively for every family memory I divulge I want a new one created for me in the present. That should stop them in their tracks.
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