Wednesday, July 09, 2008
To the village where I was born to bury my mother's ashes. She died last October but we couldn't co-ordinate availability of family and rental cottage until last weekend. It was the first time I'd been there with my sister since I was 4. She told me an author lived in one of the cottages and used to take us down to the bottom of her garden to see the fairies. We'd leave sherbet for them and were taken back the next day to find it gone. No wonder I always KNEW they existed.
The church is redundant 14C, tucked away in a hidden valley right next to our tiny old cottage. That was a 2 up 2 down, outside loo, no bathroom, no heating little place when we were there. Now it's all whitewash and hair extensions but still very pretty. All went well, my mother had a good, long life, going at 95, outliving all her friends but the one, a gravel-voiced chain smoker who was there to represent them all. It still hits you like a brick though. Funniest moment was unloading sister's boyfriend's car. They'd been to the supermarket and I was helping to bring in the bags. Picked up rectangular, burgundy box which I thought was a bottle of brandy or whiskey but which turned out to be my mother.
No news but about to hear any moment. The editor and my agent are talking any time now, so I WILL know pretty soon, like when I click on email in a minute, or, this afternoon, or tomorrow, or the next day or the one after that.
Bye bye, thanks for visiting, come again soon.
Posted by Stephanie Zia at Wednesday, July 09, 2008