A Different Kind of Rememberance

[PaulG]

If fate had been different I might have been born a Kiwi.  Last year at this time I posted my about the history of my father's and uncles experiences and tragedies during WWII and Korea.  I briefly touched upon how my mother and father met before he became a POW in WWII.

She trained as a nurse in Rugby, England all through the war, and received her certification there.  The same Rugby where the game was invented (BTW congrats to NZ for recently winning the Rugby World Cup).  She would sometimes tell me stories of her experiences at that time, but nothing too detailed.  One tid-bit that I always remember : The constant cat-calls of American soldiers when she would be walking down the street, usually with her friends.  "You'd think they never saw a women with breasts before!"

My mother died in 2003 at the age of 83, outliving my father by 20 years.  We began the task of parsing out her belongings amongst the family, and I took possession of the photo albums to digitize what I could.  Rummaging through the boxes of the long forgotten accumulations of a lifetime, I came accross two pieces of very old paper folded up.  It had an odd very faded blue tinge to it, and I could tell it had not been opened in decades.  Once opened, I saw writing in very faded pen.  It had turned into a very light yellowy tan, like the lemon juice invisible ink we would play with as kids.  The blue part of the ink had either bled into the paper or just disappeared, making it almost indecipherable.

I could see some faded typing along the top, and realized it was once a blank admission form from the hospital in Rugby.  I put it into the scanner and after several adjustments with the contrast was able to produce a digital copy that was somewhat readable.  Then I recognized the handwriting as my mother's.  The puncuation and spelling were copied as seen.  What's italicized and in quotations are my mother's comments:



"Copy of something one of my patients had waiting for me when I went on duty the other night.  What do you think of it."

I

Oh, Nurse, when I give you the description,
Of the chronic palpitation in my breast,
Will you make me up a sedative prescription,
To give my battered heart a bit of rest?

II

Your treatment in the past has been so drastic
That it only serves to aggravate my ills,
Your scruples should be rather more elastic
For your kisses must be sweeter than your pills

III

You did not diagnose my case correctly,
But analysed the symptoms as a sham.
I shall try another hospital directly
If I find you really do not care a drachm

IV

You cultivate an air of disinfection
To protect you from the microbes of romance
And you check any demonstrations of affection
By the antiseptic dressing of your glance.

V

My temperature is feverishly getting
To a point where I shall soon be past suspence
And you, may very soon be left regretting
The antidotes to passion you dispence.

VI

So administer your priceless panacea,
And alleviate my sufferings awhile,
For there's nothing in the British Pharma'pocia
So reviving as the tonic of your smile.

"I have to find out who wrote it but my guess goes to a New Zealand boy.  Anyway I think it's damn good."


Whoever (Whomever?) it was, obviously was taught well.  I never learned to write like this in school.  Mind you, I wouldn't know the difference between a Shakespearean sonnett and bus station bathroom graffitti.

Needless to say, once I emailed it off to the rest of the family they were as surprised as me.  No-one knew about this.  I don't even know if my father would have known.  She had kept this in her possession for roughly 60 years.  I could postulate why, but that would do her a disservice.

The number of soldiers under her care for all those years must have been innumerable.  Of all of them this one obviously had an impact, but I'll never know if she actually found out who wrote it.

Growing up I had always perceived my mother as being old, as she was 42 when I was born.  She was born in 1920 and raised on a dairy farm in Co. Wicklow, Ireland during the Great Depression.  This was one of the few times where I was jolted into being reminded that she was once young and attractive.  One other time she surprised me was when she told me she used to ride horses bareback as a child.  "Oh really?", if I recall was my incredulous reply.  Then she floored me when she said, "Of course.  Then I would slide underneath with my legs around it's neck, and my hands gripping it's mane and ride upside down at a full gallup." 

And that is always something I wish I could have seen.  Thanks for the memories ma.  I wonder if that's where my love of motorcycling comes from?

I hope in your family you can find unspoken histories that could help illuminate your present.  It never hurts to ask, to look, to dig amongst the attic or basement.

[ZOA NOM]

Thanks for that smile. Great story.

[FJmonkey]

Precious moments nearly lost, how many are there? Lifetimes worth, many life times, this one was not. thanks for sharing it.