In the lead-up to publication of my novel, I want to write a few posts about the inspiration for my story.
Last year, I wrote about my grandfather in ‘The Story Behind the Story‘. In that post, I talked about how as soon I started writing my novel, my grandparents’ voices came to me, along with many memories and snippets of family folklore.
This post is about another of my ancestors: my great-grandmother. She died when I was eight, and because I didn’t have as much to do with her as I did with my grandfather, I don’t have many memories of her.
However, she did leave a legacy, both good and bad.
In a Midweek Moment in 2015, I posted a photo of a silk bed-jacket made by my great-grandmother.
I have two of these jackets, which I keep wrapped in acid-free tissue paper in a box on the top shelf of my wardrobe.
They’re a little stained by the passage of time, and dated, both in fashion and because no one wears bed-jackets anymore, but I think they’re beautiful. They’re special to me because they’re two beautiful things I have from my family history, and I don’t have many of those.
They’re completely handmade, even the seams are hand-sewn. The stitches are so fine and even, it’s hard to believe they weren’t sewn by a machine. Both of these jackets could be worn inside out and no one would notice.
They’re designed to be worn, but they’re much more than functional clothing—they’re art. They’ve been made by someone with endless patience, a perfectionist even. Someone who took pride in their work, who had an eye for beauty. Someone who was creative, who didn’t just sew two pieces of cloth together to form a covering, but added extra touches to make the garment special—french seams; pintucking and embroidered rosebuds on the sleeves and epaulets; and crocheted cotton loops for the buttons and a trim around the lapels.
My great-grandmother was born Noreda Alice Clarke in 1900. She married Ernest Hill at the age of 16, and ten years later, at the tender age of 26, she was widowed and left to raise six children on her own.
It was heading into the Great Depression, and there was little money—I’m not sure pensions were even around in those days. My great-grandmother struggled to raise her family, and she and her six children moved in with her mother-in-law.
At some point during the next decade, she injured her spine when jumping from a moving bus, and from that time on, she was crippled. This is the story I was told, anyway.
I’ve calculated she must have been in her mid-thirties when this happened, and her youngest child, my great-uncle Bruce, would have been ten or eleven at most.
For the next 26 years, she was bedridden. Once her children grew up, she lived with them and their families, staying for months at a time until she moved onto the next.
Because she couldn’t walk, she was dependent on others for everything—she was carried everywhere; her meals brought to her; her chamber pot emptied; and a washbowl and flannel brought every day.
By all accounts, she was rather demanding, and I know that whenever she visited my grandmother, the sewing machine was hidden because my great-grandmother would have been annoyed the money hadn’t been spent on her.
Then, one Christmas Day, 26 years later, to everyone’s surprise she got up and walked again. Her recovery was talked about as nothing short of a miracle.
Many years later when I studied Medicine, my suspicions that spinal injuries don’t miraculously heal like that were confirmed. I was in my early twenties by then, and my great-grandmother had long left this earth. I asked my grandmother—her daughter—about the story.
‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘It was nothing to do with when she jumped from the bus …’
The real story was that one day a doctor had told her that she needed to rest, so she went to bed and didn’t get up again. At the time, everyone just accepted that she could no longer walk.
When I first learnt about this, I judged my great-grandmother quite harshly. What a manipulative woman! Lying in bed for 26 years and being waited on hand and foot. I felt sorry for her kids—she’d bailed out of her maternal duty and abandoned her young family. Instead of being the carer she should have been, she’d reversed the role and become the needy one. All for a made-up illness.
This only added to my personal memories of her as a tiny (less than five feet tall), old woman, dressed in dark grey, and perpetually grumpy. She was always seated, and if she did move, everyone jumped to attention, and a throng of people helped her hobble from the room on her walking stick.
We had to call her, ‘Mumma’, because she didn’t like ‘Grandma’, and were forever being told to keep our voices down and behave ourselves around her.
To me, she was like a gloomy presence at Christmas and family gatherings, and I avoided her. I was frightened of her—terrified, in fact. I stood as far away as I could, and had to be prodded forwards for the perfunctory kiss.
It was never said outright, but I heard the whispers of resentment towards her, including from my grandmother. I was only a child, but I knew it wasn’t just me who was frightened of her.
Mumma was killed in a car accident in 1975, and at the funeral I remember looking up at everyone crying and wondering why—they’d all disliked her when she was alive.
While she was alive, criticism of her was whispered, but it was quickly silenced after her death. I remember saying I hadn’t liked her, and being told off for being disrespectful of the dead.
‘She had a hard life, you know. She was a cripple.’
Decades later, one of my uncles referred to her as, ‘That bloody old cow, Mumma Hill …’ and I laughed out loud. It was a relief to finally hear the unvarnished truth and not an idealisation of this grumpy and, it has to be said, manipulative woman.
All of this is most likely true, and she might have been a manipulative old cow, but these days I feel more compassion towards her than I used to. I can only imagine how hard it would have been as a young woman in the 1920s, widowed with six children to raise on her own in rural Tasmania, without adequate financial and emotional support.
I suspect it was so hard she was unable to keep going. I suspect, too, that she couldn’t just say, I can’t cope anymore, and throw in the towel, but perhaps needed a physical illness to justify taking time out.
When I was a doctor, I saw this time and again—people stretched beyond their limits by circumstance, but who, for many reasons, felt unable to admit how much they were struggling. They developed physical ailments, often pain or weakness, which they genuinely felt, and which I viewed as their minds pleading for help via their bodies.
In this day and age, with much more known about psychology and with better community and government support, my great-grandmother might have been diagnosed with depression and given treatment and support to get her functioning again.
I’ve no doubt the circumstances of my great-grandmother’s life had a lot, if not everything, to do with her demeanour and life’s choices. She had her good points—her creativity being one of them—but she also had her bad ones. They were both a part of her, as they are of us all.
While she lay in bed, her hands weren’t idle, and she’s left a beautiful legacy: embroidered tablecloths, sheets, and jackets; brooches, sewing baskets, and pin cushions. As a child, I played with many of her things, giving little thought to the painstaking work that had gone into them. (I must say, I wish now that I’d treated them with more respect.)
When I hold these bed-jackets, I see the beauty she was able to create, and I wonder at what such a woman might have been able to do had her circumstances been different. They’re literal threads back through the generations to something good that became buried by grief and sadness and desperation.
The more difficult aspects of my great-grandmother’s life and personality have rippled through the generations and impacted on mine, but I have these to remind me of the beauty that was there, too.
One day I’ll pass them on to my children and, hopefully, they’ll survive to be passed onto their children, and the jackets, along with the stories, will be their threads to the past.
What a heartfelt post, Louise. I, too, have elderly relatives I have judged from one perspective in the past and now think about differently, with the wisdom (and perhaps the kindess) that have come from my own life experiences. Thank you so much for sharing such a personal story.
Thanks, Maureen. Things can be very black and white when you’re young, but they tend to get greyer as you age. (It’s not just our hair that greys!) Seeing different perspectives and understanding them is one of the nice things about ageing, I think.
What a divine post Louise. I have nothing else to say except I loved it and as for those bed jackets, perfection.
Thank you, Kooky! I’m so glad you enjoyed reading this, and I think those jackets are perfection, too—I’m awed by her skill each time I pull them out to look at them. x
Not long after I had finished reading I was offered my husbands family christening gown which I never knew existed. It is exquisite. How funny
How lovely! Please send a photo!
I will pm you 🙂
Great! 🙂
You tell the story so well, Louise. And yes, as I was reading about her inability to move I was thinking what a difference a psychologist would have made.
I think a psychologist and doctor would have made ALL the difference. When I think about it and how tough it must have been for her. I suspect she just couldn’t keep going …
Thanks for sharing this story, Louise. I have to admit to laughing out loud at the preposterous (26 years of bed rest!) and the familiar (funereal emotions; treatment of heirlooms) in your post. The way you write is so engaging. I can’t wait to read The Sisters’ Song.
I wonder now how I could believe it was totally normal for someone to spend 26 years in bed and then suddenly walk again! I never did quite swallow it all, but I was well into my 20s, if not my 30s, before it really hit me how abnormal it was. When you think about it, you would have to be mad to voluntarily spend over a quarter of a century in bed! I really think it was a sign of mental illness.
I’m glad you laughed, too! And I’m glad the funereal emotions were familiar, as they probably are to a lot of children!
Amazing story, Louise, and so much complexity here. I’m with you on how we judge folks when we’re children and then revise our views as we age and come to recognise how far more difficult these things are. Such lovely things your great grandmother left behind, not just her embroidery but this legacy.
Thanks, Lis. Yes, the story is amazing on so many levels. People always have a reason for the way they react, and my great-grandmother didn’t have it easy, that’s for sure. Things are a lot more black and white when young, and understanding complexity is nigh impossible. It’s easier for me to understand her now, with the distance of time.
Thank you for your lovely comment. x
Yes, amazing story Louise…and congratulations again on your novel coming out soon! How wonderful!!
Thanks, Kim. I’m glad you enjoyed reading this, and thank you for your good wishes! x
What an amazing story and legacy. It’s difficult when young not to make judgement or assumptions, that’s a passage of life that we don’t learn till we are adults and can make a choice and have a mind of our own. I know I was always dragged into my mothers perceptions of people. Now I know better x
As kids, we believe what we’re told, but then we leave home and start to see things for how they really are. I look back now and there were many things I was brought up to believe that weren’t true. Some, like this one about my great-grandmother, were quite delusional. It’s very hard to escape that level of ridiculousness.
I love your comment, “their minds pleading for help via their bodies”. It’s so true. She must have been completely overwhelmed and no doubt depressed. Another moving and captivating story from you, Louise.
Thanks, Michelle. I’m glad you appreciate the truth in that statement—not everyone does, including some doctors. I used to see it a lot, and when I explained it to people like that, most of the time, they could understand and show themselves some compassion.
I’m glad you enjoyed reading this story. x
Dad doesn’t talk about Mumma much, but her getting out of bed after 26 years was the one story he did tell us. Interesting read, Lou!
Thanks, Kimberlea. Please ask him about her, and let me know—I’d love to hear his memories. I’ve tried to be kind in this piece, but I’ve only ever known one person who had nice things to say about her. She did make nice things with her hands, though. 🙂
Such a lovely post and beautiful photo’s of those bed jackets. Your great-grandmother was indeed a very accomplished woman. I really love the way you are able to appreciate your gg’s circumstances and I agree if she lived in our times we would understand her condition in different terms. Sounds like your great-grandmother was a survivor.
Thanks, Heathermargaret. My great-grandmother was a survivor, that’s true, and I can see how hard it must have been for her. She had a lot to cope with, and, yes, I suspect she would have been diagnosed with a mental illness in current times. She was obviously very creative, and very accomplished with her hands—every time I pull those jackets out, I’m awed by how much work has gone into them. Needlework like that is such a lost art these days. Thank you for visiting and commenting. x
I love this story. I can understand your Mumma Hill. I would have done the same… except 26 years is a long time. Lol! I would have been so restless or I would forget I “can’t” walk. But her mental health must have gotten her through that life. There’s still a lot that can be improved but we are lucky right now as we can be treated for depression. We get too stretched and overworked. Sometimes, I entertain the thought of finding ways to claim disability and stay at home. 😀
I’m so glad you appreciated this story! I had four children in seven years and there were times I wanted to take to my bed and not get out again! Like you, I don’t think I could have lasted 26 years, though! You’re right, my great-grandmother had some difficult times to endure, and I guess she did it the only way she could. I still feel sorry for her kids, though. 🙁
There’s a ‘YouTuber’ (Kristina, I think) who talks about parenting and how the kids will later appreciate more the time spent together instead of a perfectly clean and tidy home. I see her point. Sometimes, it’s just not easy to keep taking people’s judgemental looks and comments. It’s also hard for a control freak or an OCD. We end up pushing ourselves too hard. The “job” is too challenging at times and sadly, yes, the children suffer. I hope the kids managed to get out of the effects of growing up that way.
I hope you don’t push yourself too hard, Anne. Tell people and their judgemental looks, especially about a clean and tidy home, to just go away! xx
Getting there, Louise. 🙂 Slowly but surely. Thank you. Hugs xxx
🙂 🙂 🙂
This story is as beautifully crafted as your great-grandmother’s bed jackets. Intricate and lovely. I can only imagine what this must have been like for you and your family but, in reading it, I did feel sympathy beyond words for your great-grandmother. For her children. What must it have been like to be there when she walked that Christmas? But what must it have been like to be without her for so long? I can’t help but wonder, though, what it must have been like to lose twenty-six years of your life to such a crippling disease/disorder? Possibly a severe depression. Heart-breaking and beautiful post (with gorgeous photos). <3
Thank you, Sarah! I spent a long time writing this, in fact, because I wanted to get it right—to tell the truth, but also do my great-grandmother justice.
I used to ask my grandmother about her mother, but I didn’t really get much information—she only ever said good things about her. I heard her complain about her mother while she was alive, but I never heard her say a single thing against her after her death, and anyone who did was quickly silenced. I really pressed my grandmother sometimes, but she wouldn’t be drawn. A lot of the questions you’ve asked are the same ones that have gone through my head over the years, and I’ll never have a truthful answer to them. I’ll never know how the kids really felt about their mother taking to her bed when they were in their teens. I do know that my grandmother was shocked when her mother walked again that Christmas—she really thought it was a miracle cure!
Thank you for reading and commenting. 🙂
Such an insightful post, Louise, not only about your great grandmother, but about your generosity of spirit, too. As your great grandmother was gifted in creating her beautiful garments, your gift is crafting with words that demonstrate compassion and love. Your post inspires me to write my ancestors’ stories and to include the’ less pretty bits’, as they are, in fact, what makes them human.
Thanks for your kind words, Susan! I could write another essay in response to your comment (!), but all I’ll say is I hope you do write your ancestors’ stories, and I think it’s important not to just write the ‘pretty bits’. As you say, no one is perfect—we’re all human and flawed, and that’s what makes us interesting. 🙂
What a tragic life Mumma Hill had. I feel her children understood this and did all they could to support her as she struggled on. How bittersweet that you have the beautiful remnants of this tough lady’s own inner beauty, expressed so delicately on something as feminine and personal as bed jackets. The dichotomy of her is captivating. And what about the way adults expected children to behave – for all the right reasons, of course. There is deep respect in rarely a bad word being said about Mumma Hill following her death. What an enigmatic character. And a bit of a battle axe, as many women of that difficult era were, like my own grandmother and her 16 wily sisters! Thanks for creating a reason for me to think more about the strong women that came before us, Louise. Mxxx
She demanded—I mean, was given—a lot of understanding, that’s for sure, Michele! 😉
No, we weren’t allowed to speak ill of her, and I remember the frustration of not being able to speak the truth, not just about her but about any of our elders, despite the fact they were often flawed people. I think times have changed for the better—you can acknowledge the bad as well as the good about someone these days, and still respect them.
Sixteen sisters! Imagine having so many children, and so many girls! Amazing story that you should write down one day, Michele! 🙂
A beautiful insight into a complex family ancestor. Your photos are the perfect complement to your recollections of Mumma Hill. Thank you for sharing with such honesty, Louise.
Complex is right, Teena! Disordered, abnormal, and dysfunctional might also suit, but probably the most accurate is ‘mentally ill’.
It was a pleasure to write this story, and an even greater delight to share the photos. Thank you for visiting. x
What a beautiful story Louise. It’s easy to forget that everyone has a story behind who they are. I think mums had it pretty tough back then – we are very lucky these days to be able to reach out to people (even if it’s from behind a keyboard!). x
Too true, Kristy. Yes, I’m realising that abnormal behaviour is really a symptom, not a diagnosis, and there’s a reason behind it. Thanks for visiting and commenting, and I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to reply. x
I was fascinated by your story about your great grandmother. It’s so sad that she got away with spending 26 years in bed without having to be bedridden. Mental illness was probably not talked much about at the time and her children believed she was unable to move after the jump from the bus. So, of course, it must have been “a miracle” when she suddenly stood up and walked after all those years. It’s an incredible story told in your wonderful words. With all the sadness of that story, I find it comforting that she was able to do all the beautiful heirlooms. I’m happy for you that you’re keeping them so well to pass on, and make them last almost forever. xx
I feel sad about it, too, Lena. When I think of all those wasted years in bed—although, at least it wasn’t entirely wasted, as the handcrafts show. You still wonder how much could have been prevented with some psychological support.
The skill and time that’s gone into the bed jackets is astounding. I remember lots of her crafts about the house when I was growing up, but as children we didn’t appreciate them as the heirlooms they were! I remember using her handmade leather sewing basket for my own. I have no idea what happened to most of her things—they were possibly even worn out by us kids!
As kids you never think about the work involved, so it’s just pure luck that you have something left to save for the future. I mean, after most of it was possibly worn out by all of you as kids. 🙂 If your children are like most today, they don’t realise that e.g. the bed jackets with all the finest work by hand will not be found – not much today and maybe not at all in the future. They may become museum pieces. As a grandmother I’m making hand crocheted blankets for all in my family. I’ve probably made around 20 now. And still going to cover (good pun here) possible great grandchildren. 🙂
My kids have no appreciation whatsoever for these precious family heirlooms! They think the jackets are old-fashioned, musty-smelling and ugly! Hopefully, they’ll come to appreciate them and the work that’s gone into them in a few years.
Your blankets sound lovely! I still have the shawl my grandmother knitted for me when I was born—the kids don’t think much of that either, but I do!