Absent Friends Suppers

Remembering Nannie

‘Nannie'

Nannie was born in Wales, however lived in Scotland for most of her years. She met her true love ‘Pat’ Edward Patullo, during the war, him in the RAF, her in the WAAF. They married, settled in Scotland and had 2 children. Sadly Nannie was widowed at a very early age. She devoted the next half century of her life to her family, near and far, and had lots of grandchildren to nurture and watch grow.

Nannie can be remembered for so many things, her theatrical ways, guitar playing, yodelling, poetry, mischief making, bowling, baking, her love of rude jokes and a laugh which sounded like her insides were crumbling! Her loyalty and love she handed out freely, she was proud of every single one of her family and told us all so often. To us, she will be simply remembered as our ‘Nannie’, too many qualities and fond memories to put into words.

On the 8^th November, Nannie’s 96^th Birthday, Remembrance Sunday and at the end of the ‘To Absent Friends festival’, we stopped our busy lives and paused for reflection and thanks for our Nannie, all she had given us and what she meant to us all.

At her Samhain Supper we ate her favourite food; bangers, mash and (burnt) fried onions (we drew a line at kippers!), followed by chocolate and more chocolate. We had a dram (or two) and shared our favourite stories of our Nannie. For those further away, we read their poetry about Nannie and made some hilarious attempts at Facetiming 3 ways (it was chaos – just how she would have loved it!). We jacked up an old VCR and played a war recruitment film from the Imperial War Museum, in which she proudly was encouraging others to ‘join up’.

In her final years, Nannie became a little obsessed with winning the lotto, she bought tickets for every draw and told us frequently how she would be dividing the millions between us all . Sadly for Nannie, she didn’t scoop the big prize; however Nannie, rest assured, you have left us with more than money can buy! x

By Lynn Griffin.

Two people and a cat

"We should do this more often!"

In our flat, we do cook. We do eat together. But rarely do we actually devote time to a full sit-down meal. When it's two of you and a cat, there seems little point. To Absent Friends gave us the point. Inspired by the idea of a Samhain Supper, we decided we'd make the effort, and sit down to a meal in memory of our grandparents.

It feels a little odd and uncomfortable - remembering dead relatives is not a typical reason for a couple to have a meal together. But then again, we did sit down for a full Christmas Dinner for the two of us. We did the same for a Burns Supper; I even performed, badly, an Address to a Haggis. Comparatively speaking, chatting about your family history over dinner isn't such a strange ritual.

Food

My girlfriend Jo's grandparents died when she was small or before she was born, so she doesn't have any culinary associations with them.

It meant menu inspiration had to come from my side. My Grandma Peacock loved preparing food for the family on a Sunday afternoon. She was very deaf, so food enabled her to be part of everything, when perhaps she couldn't join in with conversation. She would put on huge spreads - cold meats and chips and cold beans, so that anyone who turned up (often four sets of aunts, uncles and cousins over the course of a day) could dive in.

Too much to prepare for this evening, mind you. On the other hand, I remember my Grandad Peacock, a Yorkshireman who worked in the textile trade, cooking two good old fashioned things from times when budgets were tight and arteries were furry - fried bread and cheese, and bread and butter pudding.

Fried bread would have been a controversial main course, but at least dessert was sorted. The other thing my Grandad used to like was eating tinned tomatoes. For the sake of my cholesterol, I ditched the fried bread, and used the tenuous link to do a tomatoey Mediterranean chicken thing as the main.

Drink inspiration came from the other side of my family - the Barracloughs. My Gran used to give me a glass of sherry when I visited her after school (the civilised side of underage drinking in the 1980s) so we got a bottle of that. My Grandad B smoked Woodbine, but that would have been taking things too far.

Music

Music came courtesy of the 1940s and 1950s, our grandparents' eras. I love old-times music, and it's a good accompaniment to dinner. I had some specific things I wanted to play from my side - Patsy Cline, who my Grandad liked (and was a big favourite in Jo's house too) and also Goodnight Irene (it was my Gran's name) and I'll Take You Home Again, Kathleen which I remember she liked when I learned it on the piano as a kid.

But then we got to play some Bananarama too. My Grandad, normally a Radio 2 man, must have taken a shine to them when they were on Top of the Pops, and possibly not just for the music. We ended up buying him a Bananarama video for Christmas one year. They have quite a lot of hits to choose from when you start trying to make a playlist.

Chat

I did wonder when I decided to do a Samhuinn Supper whether it'd feel awkward trying to pay tribute to our grandparents over dinner. "So...tell me about your Grandad..." In the end, chat just followed from the music and the food. Once the first story happens, "My Grandad used to say..." others follow.

Sadly, neither Jo or I will meet each other's grandparents, so getting to hear about hers is not only interesting in itself, but also helps me understand where she's coming from. I'm sure the same applies in reverse: a taste for cheap retro food obviously runs in my family.

Jo's Welsh but her grandparents were all from Hampshire, so it's not all male voice choirs and rugby. Like mine, a happy accident of ages and timing meant her grandfathers missed both wars. It gives you pause for thought – without that, neither of us may be here. Thus, the chat rolled on as the sherry got poured...

We'd definitely do another one, though we might need some extra guests. No-one wants to hear the same family stories year after year after year – or maybe we do!

By Robert Peacock.

Supper at the Scottish Parliament

What happens if you invite virtual strangers to share memories of dead loved ones over dinner?

Wouldn’t that be awkward – being trapped at a dinner party, talking to fellow guests about dead people?

At the Scottish Partnership for Palliative Care, we wanted to find out. And we wanted Members of the Scottish Parliament (MSPs) to find out too...

So we sent out invitations to all MSPs:

And then we waited...

Would anyone want to come?

The responses we received to our invitations were touching and heart warming. Many MSPs emailed us sharing personal stories of loss. Understandably, many, though supportive of the work, had experiences still too raw to discuss over dinner with strangers.

Still, four MSPs accepted our invitation. And so, with excitement and trepidation, we started to make plans...

We invited some of the many people who are committed to promoting more open and supportive attitudes to death, dying and bereavement in Scotland - people who support this work in their professional and personal lives: the Chief Executive of Cruse Bereavement Care; a Consultant in Public Health at NHS Fife, the Chief Executive of Ayrshire Hospice, a Nurse Consultant from NHS Lothian, a recently retired colleague who looked after her mother with dementia at home.

Our invitations were quickly accepted, and the guests keenly committed to making contributions - the story of an artefact, the memory of a friend, a poem, a song – and we were able to make a rough programme of the evening’s contributions.

We booked the Members Restaurant at the Scottish Parliament – students from Ayrshire College would give us a 3 course meal for a price that even a small charity working on a shoe-string could justify... So, we were all set...

Then, all of a sudden it hit me

Then, all of a sudden, it hit me - this wasn’t just an academic or administrative exercise. I couldn’t just turn up at the Parliament, greet guests, smile nicely, and sit back and enjoy a nice 3-course meal.

I would have to contribute.

But how? I am no public speaker. Plus, what do I know about loss, or grief, or bereavement? I am no expert. I’m not even a skilled amateur. Like Jon Snow, I know nothing.

Then I realised, that isn’t what To Absent Friends is about. There are no qualifications to take part. It isn’t a competition to find out who has had the saddest life or can share the funniest anecdote. One of the points is to remind ourselves that we can all support each other through death and bereavement. You don’t need to be a counsellor, a priest, a politician or a stand-up comedian to take part. You just have to be genuine.

So I reflected... what would I like to share? Who would I like to pay tribute to that night?

I spent some evenings that week, pen in hand, recalling fond memories of times spent with my grandparents. I found myself enjoying the memories, enjoying working out how I could do them justice when I shared them with my fellow guests. To be honest, I surprised myself – I loved having a reason to spend time with those memories.

The dinner

So, is it possible to hold an event where guests who barely know each other share meaningful memories of dead loved ones? Yes.

The formality of structuring the meal around pre-volunteered contributions protected us from awkward silences, or niggling doubts about whether or not to stand up. The changing formats of the contributions kept the evening interesting. The dinner was hosted by Michael McMahon MSP, whose genuine warmth is infectious.

I’m sorry, there are no photos. The mood was intimate, and it just felt wrong to take pictures. Similarly, I won’t share the detail of people’s contributions, but I don’t think I need to. Someone sang a funny song their Dad taught them. Someone shared memories of his daughter. Someone else told the fascinating story behind a family artefact. Some pieces were rehearsed, some were spur of the moment. There was laughter, and there were tears.

And though we are all still relative strangers, I think on my fellow guests from that night with fondness. They smiled as I performed my piece about my Grandma, and I in turn was by moved and inspired by their stories. That night we shared so much more than a meal.

“This is what those who haven’t crossed the tropic of grief often fail to understand: the fact that someone is dead may mean that they are not alive, but doesn’t mean they do not exist.”

Julian Barnes