One hundred and twenty six.

One hundred and twenty six.  That’s how old my Grandma would have been today. 

She was one of a family of thirteen and her Father died whilst she was still young.  Her mother was a very feisty lady and managed to keep the family together. 

Grandma became a pupil teacher, training as she taught at the village school.  She was also organist at the Primitive Methodist Chapel and through her love of music she met my grandfather.  They married and had two boys and two girls.

Grandma had started work when she was twelve (Grandad when he was ten) but they valued education and managed somehow to let all four children go to Grammar School.  Imagine their pride when their younger boy became a professor and was later awarded an OBE for services to agriculture.

Grandad was a tenant farmer in partnership with his brother and continued to farm well into his seventies.  Grandma was an old fashioned farmer’s wife, making butter, baking and running a huge and rather primitive farmhouse.  She had time for her grandchildren and we all used to go for holidays with them.  She was a little stooped woman with a wispy grey bun and she had the twinkliest eyes and the biggest heart I have ever known.

She died over thirty years ago.  And I still miss her.