Mum
was my best friend. Sorry to all my mates there. It has taken months to bring
myself to type this. She had a very long innings but it was still sad to see
her go…
Mum was my best friend. She was Louisa Butters nee
Haresign (5\3\1921), born in Leeds, but liked to be called “Louie”. We would
talk on the telephone at least once most days. Rarely a cross word. This
activity sadly ended last summer when her dementia got in the way (she could no
longer understand what was being said).
Life is strange without her. I feel lost on a never
ending, featureless empty plain. A peaceful but odd freedom.
I was her blue-eyed boy. This role was latterly shared
by my nephews Nick and Phil. We were “her boys”. Nobody has ever called me a
“Mummy’s Boy”, but they would have been justified had they done so.
So I’m obviously biased. Yet anyone who met Mum
would agree that she was quite a character. A bit old fashioned but often very
witty. I guess I get my story-telling thing from her. (She would often amuse us
with stories). At his wedding reception Nick (who has done some stand-up comedy
recently) remarked that he got many of his jokes from Gran.
Mum always kept a fantastically colourful garden,
full of flowers. She loved those blooms and even knew their Latin names. This
hobby sprang from her growing tomatoes in a nursery during the war. Mum was a
great cook too: her stew and dumplings were sublime. Unlike myself she was a
whizz at Arithmetic and ran a “Grattan Catalogue” club for many years. Her
early years as a tailoress and in the woollen mills gave her fine skills for
making and repairing clothes.
There was a sharper side to her character however.
Nick observed that Dad had had 16 years of peace just interrupted by Mum’s
passing. Indeed Mum and Dad did fight – well, argue – like cat and dog and
awful lot. In modern times they might have been divorced.
Dad was Peter Butters (13\2\1920 – 23\6\1997), born
in Leeds. (He died a couple of months before Princess Di, with a comet over his
head). If Mum was the brains of the family then Dad was the brawn. Most of his
life he was a foundry worker. In his spare time he played local league
football, cricket, snooker and darts (that I know of). His folks hailed from
Staffordshire (around Stoke area) but Dad was a bluff Yorkshireman. I miss him
too, in spite of our differences at times.
My sister Joan often took sides with Dad, which
didn’t go down too well with Mum. Nevertheless Joan housed Mum for nearly 10
years after Mum had had too many falls to stay in her own house. Joan made the
funeral arrangements and wrote a fine eulogy for Mum.
In a nutshell, Joan said that Mum had many names for
many people. “And to each of us that given name meant something different…To
some it will be a Nurturer, to others a teacher, A shoulder to cry on, or as
just someone there to listen…But to all of us she will have been someone always
there sometimes sitting quietly, taking all in, and sometimes on her soap box,
giving her evidence…But ALWAYS with a cup of Rington’s tea in her hand.”
So, as usual, my sister has the final word.
Paul
Butters
©
PB 8\3\2014 in Humberside
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