Memories are made of this

I am lucky enough to be part of a four-generation family of women. I can look in two directions: one way towards my eighty-three-year old mother, and the other way towards my daughters and granddaughters. As far as I can remember I have always been included in a group of women.

My first memories were as a small child living in London during World War Two and the men I remember were soldiers and airmen in uniforms who sometimes came home on leave for short spells. Meanwhile, I lived with a mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, three aunts and a cat. It became part of my daily life to sit with them around the fire, and from four-years old, to try to understand this strange world of chatting women. Most of all, I remember the laughter. I do remember the struggle to 'make do and mend' which all women were urged to do when clothes were rationed and new ones very hard to come by. They would sew, somehow make a new dress out of two old ones, and make use the most unlikely materials to turn into warm clothes. I clearly remember a blanket being dyed bright green. A fine sight we must all have looked: I had a coat, my mother a jacket, and an aunt had the skirt. But we were warm that winter.

I remember the day we were told parcels of children's clothes had arrived as gifts from America. Each child was to choose one garment. My mother urged me to get something - anything - warm. My grandmother with an eye to my ever-growing feet, to get some new shoes. My aunt whispered to me to get something pretty, and perhaps this was at the back of my mind when I stepped forward looked at the generous pile of clothes from our American friends, and made my selection.

I can still remember the look of expectation on all their faces when I returned home with my parcel. With a flourish I held up in triumph a candy striped short skating skirt. Silence greeted me. My mother with, I now think, great restraint, said 'But there is nowhere to skate'. Within seconds the whole group of women collapsed with laughter.

Perhaps this is where I learnt of the value of a close-knit family group. I know now that they were frightened, lonely, often hungry, women. They were coping with the bombs falling on London, and worried about their men away at war. But as a child I knew nothing of this, and remember only the laughter and constant chatter which filled the house. I wouldn't have been able to identify it then, but the house was also filled with love.

I know how fortunate I am. With my mother, I can still turn to her, as a daughter, for advice. But as a mother myself, I have the delight in being there to see my daughters grow from young girls into confident women, wives and mothers. And my granddaughters? Well, what greater joy could there be for anyone than to see these little girls so full of life and wonder. What could be better than to have the opportunity of passing onto them stories about 'what grandma did in the war', and almost - to them - unbelievable stories of a childhood without chocolate, cars, tv, bananas, or ice-cream. They love to hear how I was made to sit under the dining room table when the bombs rained down, and how I learnt to read wearing a 'Mickey Mouse' gasmask.

But our chatter today is a two-way street. My mother and I listen to them. They have stories to tell too. I don't believe it is easy to be a child growing up today. They have to manage the breakup of families. Divorce was a word I did not know as a child. They are aware of drugs, peer pressure, and the race to achieve in this competitive world. They care and worry about the Rain Forest, pollution and animal rights.

So here I am. The millennium is upon us. I sit and gossip with my family as women do all the world over. Sometimes even some of the men join in. Where has the time gone to? Can it really be that now I am the grandma? As I write this, I feel the ghost of my own grandmother looking over my shoulder. She wouldn't know about a computer, but I think she would approve of the message I am sending. That each generation learns something from the next, whilst at the same time passing onto them some of the things that have been learnt. And in my heart I do believe it is the women who pass onto each generation the secrets of family life. Only don't tell the men I told you that.

© Jill Curtis 2001