A Constant Friend

 

Dear Del,

You have been my childhood companion in anorak and swimsuit holidays in the rain. 

A constant friend on those first exhilarating trips abroad as teenagers. 

Wherever I’ve been, in good times and bad you’ve been there. 

Making the effort to visit, call or write. 

Using every means to bridge the distance that life at times creates. 

You’ve always been generous and kind. 

I remember on my 50th birthday you took to took me to my first-ever spa experience and I sucked up the novelty of being pampered head to toe. 

I treasure a photo of us in our teens dancing together in the ankle-deep waves of the Med laughing and having the time of our lives. 

Most of all I remember standing at a loved one’s grave and feeling as if my heart was being lowered into a deep dark hole. 

I cried my pain and my loss. 

And across the grave, among the many in the crowded graveyard, I saw my pain reflected clearly in your eyes.

Concern love, sympathy, and empathy were all there. 

During my childhood, in turbulent adolescence and challenging adulthood, you have ever been at my side a loyal friend to face the joy and the shadows. 

I will ever remember that both at the happiest of times and the unspeakable moments you were there, really there for me.  

Thanks for reminding me what friendship and family mean.

with love from your cousin

Colette

Electric Fences, pigs and the shocks in life

I had walked along the seafront in Rhodes on my way to tutor a student who lived a good fifty minutes from where I lived.  Not only that, but the last 30 mins were up a very steep hill that made the heart speed up.  To add insult to injury just halfway into my walk I tripped over an uneven paving stone and twisted my ankle.   Lying in a crumpled heap a passing good-natured group of young tourists lifted me up and carried me to a nearby bench.  Their support was really appreciated but after they left I realised that I would have to continue on my way to work.  Strangely after 15 minutes of walking gingerly, the severe pain in my ankle had subsided to only an ache and I could even manage the final steep climb.  

My student lived in a wealthy area on a ridge above the town.  As you get higher up the hill the houses grow in size and opulence.  Swimming pools grow large and the villas spread out over more land and gardens.  My student’s house even has a security gate at the front and gaining access involved endless buzzers and video doorbells on both the outer garden wall entrance and front door.  My lesson took place in a huge living room that held four complete sets of armchairs and sofas in different positions scattered across the thick piled carpet.  Their housekeeper asks us if we want coffee/tea and a snack.  My student is a sulky teenager and he demands a toasted sandwich with an expresso coffee. I say “nothing, thanks”.  Having never had servants I resent this middle-aged Asian woman having to take orders from this bad-tempered teen.  It makes me want to smack him.

Totally unfair I know but, on a day, when I have had to walk with a sore ankle up steep hills to work for obscenely rich people in their penthouse villa with a massive pool my mental irritation seems to trump my physical discomfort.  His younger brother is watching a video, on a massive screen the size of a wall, of killer whales attacking a seal on an ice flow.  

It shocks me that so often rich people’s kids are often so unhappy and resentful.  It shouldn’t, so many things are given to them that the excess seems to have leeched all happiness out of their veins.  It is as if having so much feeds a growing desire to have much more and they perversely feel deprived constantly.  I have observed it in many cultures and this teenager’s constant whining and complaining was not a surprise to me.  Neither was his parent’s constant guilt towards him.  This too I had come across often.  His mother treated her sixteen-year-old with exaggerated care and concern handling him like an unexploded ordinance.   It was of immense satisfaction for me to give these spoilt teenagers a different sort of treatment from what they usually expected.  

In my experience, a parent's guilt acts as rocket fuel for self-pity in teenagers.  I apply the foam extinguisher of ‘not giving a rat’s ass’ and follow it up with the electric fence of high expectations.  During our hour together, I make him work his socks off, and however hard he applies himself I radiate disappointment that he is far below the standard I expect of him.  Such students are so unused to this treatment they try all kinds of distraction/coping strategies.  Whatever they come up with it is vital to keep one’s own composure and to quickly rip off whatever protection they try and apply.  In my experience the faster you react the less chance they have to feel secure about the whole interaction. In fact, keeping such students off balance is exactly what keeps the lesson on track.  

I’m sure there are more knowledgeable ways to make this situation work but my method has the advantage that I quite enjoy their discomfort and lack of control.  It helps that I had only brothers growing up and have three sons of my own and each and every one of them had brains to burn as they say.  Such exposure makes you learn to be pragmatic and to focus only on what is effective in such interactions.  

As a father of a friend of mine said during a speech at his son’s wedding, “You all know Christopher!  He met Yolanda at primary school and decided within a week that she was the one he would marry.  We made him wait until he finished secondary school but you all know Christopher, trying to get him to change his direction is like trying to turn a pig at a gate!”  The farming audience howled in laughter, most having faced many a stubborn pig in their days.  My grandfather reared pigs and I knew all about them having been chased down lanes by his monsters many times.  Trying to get a pig not to go through an open gate was impossible.  My grandfather’s solution was to use electric fences and these usually did the job. However, he had one very bad-tempered boar that just got furious at the shocks from the electric fence and demolished both it and the gate behind it.  

My childhood was full of electric shocks.  When I was a child my grandfather would ask me to take a metal bucket from him in the field and have his hand, behind his back, on the live electric fence.  I would instantly feel the painful shock of electricity blast through me.  He was clever to use other methods to distract me and I remember having to learn to outthink him to avoid getting such shocks.  Years later I remember visiting the farm to find my elderly grandfather in an armchair, no longer so mobile. I introduced my eldest 3-year-old son to him.  My grandfather greeted him warmly and then hauled out his false teeth and set them dramatically on the small table in front of him.  My son ran howling in fear from the room and refused to even enter the room again.  I found myself amused, Granda hadn’t changed and we all just learned to accept the funny unique style of this guy.  My sons would have to learn that lesson too.  They all grew to love him as much as we did. Life takes all of us by surprise at times but it sure helps to learn a bit of robustness early on.  It makes everything else that follows a little easier.

I found when I left the villa my ankle was in agony, being seated had allowed time for the thing to swell.  I limped down the steep hill in front of plush gardens and huge cars to the nearest bus stop.  By the time I got there, I wanted to cry with the pain but sat on the seats in front of the bus stop relieved to be sitting at least.  There were two benches and on the other bench further up the street sat a young school girl with her school bag on the ground in front of her. 

A group of youths appeared pushing and shoving each other and shouting at the bus stop.  They had drinks and became louder and more noticeable.  When would this darn bus come, I thought? One of the youths approached the schoolgirl and started laughing putting his face down close to hers.  She backed away into the seat and he immediately picked up her school bag and tossed it to one of his friends.  Her distress was clear but they were having a great time tossing it between them and laughing.  She didn’t try and get her bag back, she just sat very still.  

Another boy sauntered over and sat down beside her and put his arm along the back of the bench behind her shoulder.  She moved along the bench away from him and there was a chorus of laughter from his mates who were holding out her bag asking her to come and get it.  I was tired and I was in pain but I had had enough.  I limped over to the other bench and sat in the space between the boy and the young girl.  Then, I took my shoe and sock off to inspect the damage I’d done to my ankle. It was hugely swollen and a very odd colour indeed.  I told the boy to move and put my ankle on the bench where he had been sitting.  Just having it elevated brought huge relief.  Now, I just had to worry about getting the sock and shoe back on if the bus came.  

My presence had ruined the gang’s fun and there was an embarrassing moment where they looked at the girl and then at my ankle and then at each other.  One brought her schoolbag reluctantly and dropped it at her feet before drifting back to his mates.  The schoolgirl lifted her bag and hugged it to herself in relief. Nothing was said, nothing needed to be.  Sometimes actions speak louder than words.  In my mind, I remembered my grandfather’s electric fences, his stubborn pigs, and the effectiveness of a bit of a shock in changing perspectives.  

Missing Moon Memo Found 25 years later

I was eleven years old when on July 20 1969, Neil Armstrong and Edwin “Buzz” Aldrin walked on the moon. I remember the awe of that landing and the epic line, “That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.”  

Truth be told, things did not go totally to plan. It turned out that there was a problem with how the Service Module separated from the Command Module before landing. Instead of these two fully separating and going off on different trajectories to avoid any possibility of collision, the Service Module burnt up very close to the Command Module and was actually visible to Buzz Aldrin on board. They were just very fortunate that, despite this closeness, none of the debris resulting from the Service Module's re-entry impacted the Command Module. This was not the only near miss. 

US Air Force Captain Hank Brandli had found, via top-secret spy satellite images, that a storm front was imminent in the Apollo recovery area. There mean that there was a distinct possibility of powerful upper-level winds ripping their parachutes to shreds during descent. Poor visibility, due to the storm, would also substantially reduce their ability to find the Apollo 11 capsule even if it did manage to land in one piece. Thankfully, two individuals on the ground put their careers on the line by taking the decision to move the landing point 215 nautical miles (398 km) northeast avoiding the storm front. This change meant altering the flight plans last minute involving a different sequence of computer programs never before attempted.

All of this meant things could have easily ended in disaster rather than incredible success. The Moon landing is a tale of heroism and bravery. But the American authorities were not blind to the chances of things ending very differently. An extraordinary memo was discovered 25 years after the landing in the US National Archives. It was written by Nixon’s then speechwriter William Safire and sent to President Nixon’s Chief of Staff, H.R. Haldeman to be used in the event of a disaster that would maroon the astronauts on the moon. Its content is given below. 

  IN EVENT OF MOON DISASTER: Fate has ordained that the men who went to the moon to explore in peace will stay on the moon to rest in peace. 

These brave men, Neil Armstrong and Edwin Aldrin, know that there is no hope for their recovery. But they also know that there is hope for mankind in their sacrifice. 

 These two men are laying down their lives in mankind's most noble goal: the search for truth and understanding. 

 They will be mourned by their families and friends; they will be mourned by their nation; they will be mourned by the people of the world; they will be mourned by a Mother Earth that dared send two of her sons into the unknown. 

 In their exploration, they stirred the people of the world to feel as one; in their sacrifice, they bind more tightly the brotherhood of man. 

 In ancient days, men looked at stars and saw their heroes in the constellations. In modern times, we do much the same, but our heroes are epic men of flesh and blood. 

 Others will follow, and surely find their way home. Man's search will not be denied. But these men were the first, and they will remain the foremost in our hearts. 

 For every human being who looks up at the moon in the nights to come will know that there is some corner of another world that is forever mankind. 

 PRIOR TO THE PRESIDENT'S STATEMENT: The President should telephone each of the widows-to-be. 

AFTER THE PRESIDENT'S STATEMENT, AT THE POINT WHEN NASA ENDS COMMUNICATIONS WITH THE MEN: 

 A clergyman should adopt the same procedure as a burial at sea, commending their souls to "the deepest of the deep, " concluding with the Lord's Prayer.

Spring cleaning in September?

It began simply. Over Sunday lunch my mum was trying to tell visiting family members just what she’d done the previous day. However, she just couldn’t bring to her mind the words necessary to describe exactly what she had achieved. Sitting beside her I felt deep sympathy because I too have reached an age when perfectly simple words do not bubble up when you most need them. My mum adopted her usual approach, in these circumstances, she pointed out of the window and said “I painted the thing below the kitchen window outside”. The ‘thing’ of course was the windowsill. She had spent a happy hour painting the mucky grey windowsill a blistering white colour. In fact, this cleanness she had appreciated so much she had decided to paint another object white as well. Sitting at the table, I felt quite sorry for my mum when the word ‘windowsill’ wouldn’t come up and wanted to rush in and provide it. But I have learnt that when you start to talk for the person, though you think you’re helping, you’re actually sabotaging them. Longer term they start to cease using this tricky language business and rely on you more and more for translation purposes. However, having struggled to describe the windowsill paint job the other painted object was even trickier. I felt genuine sympathy as I couldn’t remember the name of the thing she had painted either. So, I explained, she had painted white the cement inside the tyre wheel holding up the post with the clothes hanging above it in the garden. I had forgotten the word ‘rotary washing line’. Such is life at present! Just when I begin to feel sorry that life is so confusing and tricky for my mum I discover that life has snuck up behind me and is proving equally problematic for me. This amuses my mum who often tells me triumphantly, “You become like the people you live with, you know!” It doesn’t stop with language quirks. Last week I discovered my mum has started spring cleaning. I should’ve guessed when the week before she started painting the windowsill. But to be honest it was only when she cleaned all the shelves in the sunroom and all the material on a nearby trolley and the windows that I suddenly tweaked that this spring clean was a real thing she had begun. I remonstrated with her that this is the end of September, no time to start a spring clean, but she smiled and said confidently, “Better early than late!” Since then she has gone on to tackle the kitchen cupboards, the large corridor storage cupboard and all the drawers. It is exhausting just watching her busily hauling out, cleaning and rearranging stuff. By the fourth day I was caught up in her wake and I started cleaning the bathroom even removing shower doors to do it properly. It is a contagious thing this spring cleaning. The problem is once you start you suddenly realise how dirty everything has become. In comparison to the sparking clean surface you have wiped, the tiles above it appear yellow and grease stained. Once the walls have been bleached into shiny submission the skirting boards take on a disgusting complexion. And so, it goes on! Having cleaned some tiny aspect of the house with much effort we both have a ridiculous evening show and tell session. She shows me what she has done, pulling open cupboard doors to display ordered shelves neatly stacked and I point out my cleaning achievements to her. I suspect with time this will grow into routine mutual applause at both our efforts. At first, I was annoyed especially when my mum was totally exhausted and stiff with pain after each cleaning frenzy but now I can see why she is enjoying it. There is a deep satisfaction from seeing the visible improvement around one. We catch each other examining our own work already done with a slightly smug air. There is a momentum developing and I hesitate to say it but we seem to be getting slightly better and try to raise our game with each passing day. There is also the deep satisfaction that this spring clean has got to be the earliest we have ever attempted. For once we feel we have a head start on life, after all it is months and months until spring. The other joyous discoveries are that you don’t need to know the name of something to clean it and we are gradually finding things we thought we lost. “It’s time for a spring cleaning of your thoughts, it’s time to stop to just existing it’s time to start living.” Steve Maraboli

Words we need to hear from those who have been shot!

Over a hundred and ten years ago an ex-president of the US was shot in the chest by an assailant. Ten years ago, a young schoolgirl in Pakistan was shot in the head on a bus.  Just six years ago a UK female politician was shot twice in the head and once in the chest and then stabbed fifteen times before dying.  These events may span over a century but the victim’s voices were targeted deliberately in an attempt to silence and stop them.  

It seems fitting that we in response should not, for once, focus on their attackers and their motives but on these three individuals and what they have to say to us.  I feel their words are especially relevant today and worthy of reflection.  Perversely, those who have faced such violence and abuse, while treading a path of integrity, are also those from whom there is much to learn.

In 1912 four years after leaving the White House, Theodore Roosevelt was shot. He was in Milwaukee about to give a speech and had his notes in his thick coat pocket. His assailant used a revolver and the bullet lodged in Roosevelt’s chest wall.  However, its progress had been slowed by his thick coat pocket containing 50 pages of his speech. The amazing thing was that Roosevelt insisted on giving his talk, despite just being shot. In fact, that bullet remained in his body for the rest of his life as removing it was deemed too dangerous by the medical professionals of the day. You can read the entire talk he gave on the 14th of October 1912 as we still have the transcript of his words.  Despite the advice of his assistants Roosevelt tackled, among other things, a very important issue of particular relevance today. He felt that the level of public discourse had become contaminated and demeaned. He claimed vicious slander and abuse were being routinely thrown by political opponents against each other. With his chest aching from his gunshot wound, he pointed out that weak and vicious minds could be easily inflamed to acts of violence by the torrents of abuse in the media. He said,

“I disown and repudiate any man of my party who attacks with such false slander and abuse any opponent of any other party; I now wish to say seriously to all the daily newspapers, to the Republicans, the Democrat and socialist parties, that they cannot month in month out and year in year out make the kind of untruthful, of bitter, assault that they have made and not expect that brutal, violent natures or brutal violent characters, especially when the brutality is accompanied by a not very strong mind; they cannot expect that such natures will be unaffected by it.    

On the 9th of October 2012, the Taliban gunmen boarded a school bus in Pakistan and shot 15-year-old Malala Yousafzai in the head. They picked her out specifically as, from the age of eleven, she had been campaigning about the importance of education for all children.  Subsequently, she went on to address the UN and give an address that is especially relevant, since this year the Taliban has denied education to girls in Afghanistan. During her address, she pointed out,

“Today is the day of every woman, every boy, and every girl who raise their voice for their rights. There are hundreds of human rights activists and social workers who are not only speaking for their rights, but who are struggling to achieve their goals of peace, education and equality. Thousands of people have been killed by the terrorists and millions have been injured. I am just one of them. So, here I stand … here I stand, one girl among many. I speak not for myself, but so those without a voice can be heard. Those who have fought for their rights. Their right to live in peace. The right to be treated with dignity. The right to equality of opportunity. The right to be educated … I am here to speak up for the right of education for every child.”

On 16 June 2016, MP Jo Cox was on her way to meet her constituents at a routine surgery in Birstall, West Yorkshire, when an assailant shot her twice in the head and once in the chest with a modified hunting rifle.  He then stabbed her fifteen times outside a library on Market Street. Jo Cox, the mother of two young children, died of her injuries shortly after being admitted to hospital. Her assailant had cried out "This is for Britain", "keep Britain independent", and "Put Britain first" during the attack. The judge, at the following trial, said he had no doubt Cox had been murdered to advance political, racial, and ideological causes of violent white supremacism and exclusive nationalism most associated with Nazism and its modern forms.

Cox had previously worked for the aid groups Oxfam and Oxfam International and had been head of Oxfam International's humanitarian campaigns in 2007. She helped to publish 'For a Safer Tomorrow', which aimed at preventing the brutal targeting of civilians in war. From 2009 to 2011, Cox was director of the Maternal Mortality Campaign, and the following year, she worked for Save the Children, the National Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children, and the White Ribbon Alliance for Safe Motherhood. This was the quality of individual that was taken from us so brutally by ignorance and hate.  In her maiden speech to parliament as an MP she spoke as follows,

“Our communities have been deeply enhanced by immigration, be it of Irish Catholics across the constituency or of Muslims from Gujarat in India or from Pakistan, principally from Kashmir. While we celebrate our diversity, what surprises me time and time again as I travel around the constituency is that we are far more united and have far more in common with each other than things that divide us.”

........................................................................................

... the rise of justice ensures the appearance of unity in the world, all who take on the formidable challenges of struggling for it have indeed captured the spirit of the age epitomized in the principle of oneness.

The Universal House of Justice

Reflections on Character fuelled by my P3 art piece

 My Mum is a custodian of epic proportions.  Things from decades even 50 years ago, of worth, are carefully stored.  In her garage, there are even the school exercise books of my children with their early writing, poetry and stories.  My grandfather’s old medals, certificates, and awards for shooting etc are all on shelves safe and sound.  My father’s letters of reference as a young teacher, his qualifications and his many letters are wrapped up with care.   The very first letter he sent to my mum over 70 years ago can still be retrieved and read.  The pages worn thin, with lines from folding and unfolding, show my father’s handwriting and thoughts.  On the wall opposite me is an oil painting by my grandmother which is around a hundred years old.  I’ve known this about my mum for years that she takes care of things and people with tenderness.   In her attic, above the garage, there is even a huge bag of my artwork from school.  It includes work from my primary school years P3 and P4.  Today, for the first time in almost 60 years I got a ladder and braved the spiders and their webs, to get the bag down.

As I took out one of my earliest pieces (see above) from P3 in primary school the art took me back.  Made of material stuck on a sort of canvas, I can actually remember making it.  It is indelibly branded in my memory. I did it in the room used for sewing and knitting.  That must sound odd to a modern audience but there was a time when very young primary students would spend hours mastering all kinds of stitches (both in sewing and knitting).  As our artwork required material we were making our creations in this room.  

The teacher was the wife of the headmaster a man who had suffered from polio as a child and limped badly.  His father had been a captain of a tea clipper (merchant sailing vessel of the 1860s) which shows how old I am! Anyway, Mrs Philips, his wife, mostly taught P1s those innocents to whom school must have seemed a bit of a shock.  In Northern Ireland you start school aged only 4 and if you happen to have a birthday in July you would be a 3-year-old who had just had turned 4 a matter of weeks previously. 

Mrs Philips was terrifying indeed.  She seemed permanently furious with all children.  I am not sure if she was born like that or had morphed into this type of enraged teacher with age but the end result was awful.  This particular picture, of mine I remember so well because while I made it one of her P1s was locked in the sewing box room adjacent to the class and roared and wept the entire period.  Someone whispered that he had wet himself with fear and as punishment had been locked in the storage cupboard.  The sound of his howls and his suffering was heart-breaking and being young myself the horror of it went deep.  Sometime during that endless class, I promised myself I would never become immune to the suffering of others.  As I stuck material with a shaking hand onto my board I pledged that if there was any other choice as an adult I would choose not to inflict pain such as this.  

In later years I could rationalize and tell myself that perhaps Mrs Philips had not always been like this.  Maybe, she had been a good mother and treated her own children well.  Indeed, it was possible she had taught primary school for years and did a tremendous job and this present version of herself was not characteristic of the real person she had been for most of her adult life.  I began to think of people like a graphic line with goodness on the y-axis and time on the x-axis, sometimes down and sometimes up.  Perhaps, Mrs Philips was in the abusive phase only at this point in her life?

Then, at university, I suddenly thought that a simple line is not adequate to reflect a person. Perhaps instead we should use an extra dimension, making an area.  What if a person’s character is proportional to the area under the line.  That would be much harder to determine but be more accurate because if you stayed loving for 40 of your 60 years then you would have a larger area under the curve.  It makes sense, doesn’t it?  If you had been a vicious person for 60 years you could end up with an area of roughly 120 but a loving person for that length of time would have a tremendous score of 600!  But, what if you are a hurtful teacher but a loving mother? 

Obviously, we need another dimension.  What if we added a three-dimensional approach to our diagram? This could represent all the other aspects of our lives, how we treat our parents, grandparents, neighbours, our dog etc.  Instead of an area, we would be looking at a volume where that line is rotated through 360 degrees in space. Here it is shown for a simple line rather than our jagged line but it gives the principle.  Our character is now represented not by a line or an area but by solid volume.

But though this might reflect much more about a person’s character it still fails to take into account all the interactions that happen to each of us as we pass through life.  You can meet an amazing person who inspires you to be better than you ever were before.  So perhaps 3-dimensional shapes that interact with others to substantially change would be closer to reality. Not a totally solid volume but a more malleable shape. 

Then, we have had occasions when religions have come along and changed not only individuals but whole civilizations.  It often seems that at the start of a religion dramatic positive changes happen to a whole populations' spirituality and then with time corruption can set in. Meaningless rituals and corrupt clergy can play too big a role.  Perhaps, then the character can be represented as malleable solids/volumes interacting with each other in a liquid (representing for example religion).  When religion is a dense, deep, inspirational contribution to life the molded volumes/solids all float higher on top.  When, religion becomes corrupt, materialistic, divisive, and fanatical the liquid becomes less dense and lighter without meaning or sense at which point the shapes sink into its depths far from the surface above.

Knowledge is praiseworthy when it is coupled with ethical conduct and virtuous character ...

Bahá'í writings

The Favourite Daughter!

I cannot remember when it was first said to me exactly, but I can remember the location. My dad and I were driving up to a forest walk near Ringsend high in the mountains with our black Labrador Monty in the back. 

He was singing as he drove and then he turned to me, out of the blue, and informed me that I was his favourite daughter! As a very young primary school pupil, this new status felt epic indeed. It was a title that had never been bestowed upon my other siblings so I felt exceptionally honoured. If my siblings resented my new title they never showed any evidence of this. Perhaps the baby of the family is normally treated with undue deference. They do seem to get away with much more than their older siblings. Parents know that this is their last offspring and generally place fewer demands on them than they did on their older children. 

I did not gloat over my siblings as my father’s favourite daughter. Instead, I held the privilege of that station close to my heart. As a child, there are so many things that hurt you, bullying, failures, slights, being ignored or self-doubt but this unexpected title acted as a mighty shelter to a rather supersensitive and easily bruised child.

It took me far too long to work out what my father’s words actually meant. I was his favourite daughter indeed but I was also his only daughter as I have only brothers.  No wonder my brothers did not resent it, they had worked that all out years ago. It makes me smile now when I remember how much my title of “favourite daughter” meant to me.

I am grateful for so many other things my dad taught me. He stressed the importance of honesty, having integrity, being free of prejudice and the importance of being really curious about everything.  I now devour books and love the sea as he did. I still respect so many of the principles he strove for his entire life.  I loved the way he let me wrestle with him on our landing at home and made me, a small child, believe that I could defeat a 15-stone grown man like him.  Okay, he played tricks too but even that I remember with fondness.  When we walked together to school, I wanted him to hold my hand really tightly and to tease me he would deliberately loosen his hold. In later years when I lived abroad, his weekly faxes were the high point of our family life. That distinctive hum of the fax machine and his handwriting appearance brought all of us together as a family to read his words which were full of good humour and insights. I will remain infinitely grateful that he always held my heart tenderly and lovingly. Perhaps knowing you are loved is the mightiest remedy of all.