tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6496460488742488789.post4654229537422165183..comments2024-03-18T10:29:46.055+00:00Comments on Ken Armstrong Writing Stuff: Seven YearsKen Armstronghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07775956557261111127noreply@blogger.comBlogger3125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6496460488742488789.post-43822539908405998302019-04-17T23:41:49.109+01:002019-04-17T23:41:49.109+01:00Yes, I’d have said it’s around four years, never s...Yes, I’d have said it’s around four years, never seven. Last time I met your dad was with you at your play in Castlebar about 8 years ago, no maybe it was 10, or 11. He was in great form and really enjoying evening, clearly very proud. Think you and him headed off to some nightclub afterwards, not sure, we had to give it a miss to get back to Sligo.<br /><br />Similarly, the years between mum passing and dad, whilst I felt we were always close, in that time we got closer.<br /><br />Thanks for your story<br />And lots more.Damian Bnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6496460488742488789.post-15477296908787695082019-03-16T14:57:44.279+00:002019-03-16T14:57:44.279+00:00I struggle with posts like this on a couple of lev...I struggle with posts like this on a couple of levels. Firstly, and most obviously, I didn’t know your father. I don’t miss him. I can’t share your loss, not on that level. Secondly, I should at least be able to empathise with you because I have lost <i>a</i> dad but not all losses are equal. It’s some twenty years since he died. I forget the date. Hell, I’m not even sure which year it was but if I needed to I could find my old wallet where I kept the train ticket. I have the train ticket from the day Mum died too. And their death certificates are lying around somewhere. <br /><br />I would’ve hoped you would’ve had a copy of <i>Left</i> by now but I’m still waiting on my second beta reader getting back to me. Among other things it’s my response to my inability to deal with the loss of my parents in… let’s just go with a “conventional” way. In the book I write:<br /><br /><i> There are no rules to grief. Some say there are, rules, steps, stages, five or maybe seven, like a programme. I wondered if I might get a certificate when I was done to bring home and show the flat. Look, flat, what I did. Aren’t I a good girl? Christ, I sound like Shirley Valentine.<br /> How do you know you’re doing it properly? I imagined people in the street, strangers elbowing each other, and sniggering or tutting as I passed: <br /> “Look Mabel, there’s that woman who doesn’t know how to mourn right.”<br /> “Oh, yeees. Sorry-looking thing, isn’t she?” <br /> “Do you think we should go over and talk to her?”<br /> “God, no. It might be catching.”<br /> I wonder how many stages there are to the other emotions. You never hear anyone talking about the four phases to love or the three degrees of joy. Did you know there are supposedly forty-eight different emotions? I looked it up once. Forty-frickin’-eight!</i><br /> <br />Do I miss my parents? Yes, I can honestly say that. But our relationship was complicated. There was a lot of disappointment going round. I think duty held us together more than love and that’s not a bad thing. It makes it hard for me to say, “I know what you’re going through,” because I really don’t. <br /><br />Of course as soon as you start recalling things I find myself, as I do, looking for comparable memories. I remember my dad taking us to the baths on Saturdays although I didn’t actually learn to swim until I was about thirteen and only ever mastered (I use the term loosely) the breast stroke. He never had to endure an endoscopy but he did have to undergo exploratory surgery on his stomach and then there were the heart attacks, the one that didn’t kill him and the one that did. He was also a flirt which would’ve been fine he hadn’t objected so to my mother flirting. I doubt he ever saw or would’ve wanted to see <i>The Shining</i> but I do remember him getting het up watching the wrestling on a Saturday afternoon. God, he hated Mick McManus. He would’ve been gutted to learn the matches were all staged—gutted.Jim Murdochhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/12786388638146471193noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6496460488742488789.post-86812867133967307272019-03-10T15:56:38.749+00:002019-03-10T15:56:38.749+00:00Lovely post, Ken. I also have some lovely memories...Lovely post, Ken. I also have some lovely memories of your Mum and Dad in years gone by. 💕 Anonymoushttps://www.blogger.com/profile/04587269739718457960noreply@blogger.com