Memories Found in a Little Blue Bowl

On 19th August 1995, my husband and I were married in our village church. It was a burning hot day at the end of one of those unusually long, dry spells. All the moisture had been parched from the soil and gardens were looking weary and dry. The light was white and hot and we were bathed in golden sunshine.

During my husband’s speech and after the traditional round of applause to ‘my wife and I’, he presented my bouquet of purple freesias and pink carnations to his grandmother ‘Nanny’ as she was known to us, pronouncing her the ‘Queen of the family’, as he did so. She was embarrassed but thrilled, and I like to think it was a highlight of our special day for her.

Just one week later she died in hospital, suddenly and unexpectedly, she hadn’t been ill. We were on our honeymoon at the time. We have a framed picture of her and her husband, grandad, on our wedding day. They are laughing and holding hands in the dappled light. She is wearing a pink and green floral dress and pale green hat. Her face is soft and smiling. She is happy. It was a happy day.

Nanny was kind, an encourager, a regular letter writer and a woman of faith. I had often visited her on my own when I was on holiday from university and continued to do so until I was married. She was always interested in what I was doing. Both my own grandmothers had died before I was 9, so this grandmotherly relationship was special.

Some years later when my husband’s grandad also died, we were helping to clear their house. A house that held many memories, not just for my husband, but for me too. Of the things we saved from their personal belongings, a small single bowl, smothered in blue flowers is the most poignant. It has no monetary value, but to us, it is priceless.

This little blue bowl adorned every celebratory table at their house, and was part of every meal we shared with them.

Boxing Day.

Sunday Teas

Birthday meals.

It matched nothing else on the table and it always contained cold hard boiled eggs, carefully cut into halves. The family joke was that we were only ever allowed half an egg. As children of the 70’s and 80’s raised on excess, this made us laugh. She of course had lived through the war and rationing. Half an egg was a luxury.

This bowl has survived our various house moves from our first flat which she was never able to visit to the house we live in now. It is as much a part of our kitchen paraphernalia as our kettle.

Each time we use it, and of course we only ever put eggs in it, we smile, we remember and we are transported back in time to a crowded tea table. A table with family and mismatched china and nanny, the queen of the family, and our little blue bowl at the centre.