Perhaps it can be.
I remember when my mother died. It was the closest I had ever been in the presence of death.
I got a phone call to tell me I should come to the hospital; she was not going to last much longer. I was on the way out the door when the call said she had passed.
That was followed by going to the hospital, where I stayed for an hour, trying to assemble my thoughts.
In that moment when I first saw her, I felt numb. And much as I hate to say it, she was not much of a mother to me or any of us, for that matter, and I never really understood why.
Our grandmother, her mother, had been more caring and considerate.
For a few days after, I guess I went through a period where I tried to think of all the good things about her, but the bad still intruded. Those thoughts included my father, who was still alive, and had we been on speaking terms, perhaps it might have helped.
Instead, I was left with mixed emotions.
A few days later, I started putting words on paper, deciding that I would try to put together a eulogy of sorts, in case it was called for.
Writing about it was a form of solace, a period where I could address what it was that I felt, and at the end of it, I felt better.
Only later, much later, when I started digging into the family genealogy, did a lot of stuff start making sense.
Like most people, she was as complicated as the day was long.
She had an older sister whom I believe she was very jealous of; she had a boyfriend who was a local boy, since she was sixteen, writing continually during the war after he signed up, and writing about the life they would have together.
She had an explosive temper and managed at one time or another to alienate or get on the wrong side of everybody she cared about, and girlfriends in particular. That tempered extended, eventually to her boyfriend, now home from the war, and I believe they were looking forward to getting married.
A row put an end to it. He didn’t answer her letters of apology and ignored a telegram she sent, an indication of how badly she had fractured their relationship.
It’s 1946, and she’s working in Melbourne.
My father had gone overseas, why, we’ll never know, and ended up with his own matrimonial disaster, and having a wedding planned called off, he returned home disappointed and alone, going back to his old job of projectionist that he had before he enlisted.
It’s 1947, and he’s in the Snowy Mountain district as a roving projectionist.
I could only imagine how she and her family managed her disappointment situation, and her sister, who herself had married and had her own life, might account for my mother’s feelings towards her.
With that failed relationship in the past, her matrimonial prospects are now in the hands of a woman who is charged with finding a suitable husband.
That man was my father.
He gets the introduction, goes to see her, and she has gone home for the weekend to her parents’ house. It’s not surprising she had had another row with her girlfriends, and she faces time alone in her room.
He writes, not in the same romantic flowery prose of her last boyfriend, but of how domestic his life is, and how much he needs a wife to do those chores.
The thing is, he is a returned serviceman and used to fending for himself. This is not going to be a match made in heaven. He has his own anger management issues and battles with his own family, and it’s no surprise to learn there were ultimatums and threats to call off the wedding.
And yet, in 1950, it finally went ahead. There may have been compelling reasons, but one thing that was assured, neither of them advertised the fact that they had families, and we, as children, rarely, if ever, saw our aunts and uncles, only on rare occasions our grandparents.
Does snake me feel any better writing this down?
No. It does, however, provide a deeper understanding of the two people who were my parents and sadness at the loss of never knowing my aunts, uncles and grandparents, and goes a long way towards explaining why I am the way I am.
Show Up Consistently (The Visibility Engine)
Target the Right Gatekeepers
Leverage “Micro‑Virality” Platforms
Build a Community First
Collect Data, Iterate, and Scale
Stay Informed About Industry Shifts
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 