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Quote of the Day: The Last “First”
A few months ago, on Easter Sunday 2021, I wrote a Ricochet post called “First Easter,” in which I reflected on the fact that, following the death of a loved one, there’s an inevitable year, 365 days, of “firsts.” It begins thus:
I learned, many years ago, that when a loved one dies, the twelve months following is a year of “firsts.” My first birthday without at least a phone call from Dad. The first Christmas without one of Michael’s slightly off-color cards (which he loved so much, and at whose awful jokes and our pained expressions, he laughed with such glee). The first Mother’s Day without lunch or dinner at Eat ‘n Park, an establishment so beloved by Mr. She’s mother that she’d eschew a meal at the finest restaurant within a hundred miles for their meatloaf and mashed potatoes, washed down with a root beer float. The first winter without my own mother’s frequent and apocalyptic predictions of weather catastrophe. The first 4th of July without Sam in charge of the pyrotechnics, every year putting on a fireworks show for the ages.
And this year, my first Easter in over forty years (gosh, that’s a long time) without Mr. She at my side.
He died, a year ago today. So this is the first anniversary of his death, and the last “first” of those sad, sometimes difficult, reminders.
For solace today I turn, not to the great writers of Western Civilization, some of whom Mr. She introduced me to, and some of whom I found on my own; nor to my beloved family and friends who’ve done yeoman’s work propping me up, letting me wallow, and prodding me onward, at the various points over the last year when I’ve needed one or other such forms of support or encouragement; but to Joyce Grenfell, a 20th-century English comedienne who exemplified, perhaps more than any other of that era, the good humor, determination, madcap enthusiasm, and unquenchable optimism of the people I grew up with and who did their best to form my character from birth onward.
Joyce Irene Grenfell was born on February 10, 1910, to an American socialite who’d married into an upper-class British family. (One of her maternal aunts was Nancy, Lady Astor, and the young Joyce spent much of her childhood at Cliveden, the Astor estate.) Her rather unconventional choice of career must have dismayed those close to her but, like Vera Lynn, she followed her heart, touring Europe during the Second World War to bring laughter, song, and a sense of home to the troops as she built her own reputation as a first-rate entertainer. Following the War, she enjoyed success in several venues, including in the movies– beginning with her turn in The Happiest Days of Your Life as the gawky, horse-faced games mistress Miss Gossage (“just call me sausage”) which endeared her to generations of nostalgic British boarding-school girls); on the stage, where her popular one-woman shows regularly sold out and ran for years; on radio and television as a popular monologist, game and quiz-show contestant; and even making her mark for a few years as a recurring guest on the Ed Sullivan Show in the United States:
Among other things, and in her spare time, Joyce wrote a bit of poetry.
And, at last, we come to the quote of the day, and what Joyce Grenfell had to say on the subject of death (her own came much too early, in 1979). They’re sentiments I think Mr. She would echo and endorse:
If I should die before the rest of you
Break not a flower nor inscribe a stone,
Nor when I’m gone speak in a Sunday voiceBut be the usual selves that I have known.
Weep if you must, Parting is hell,
But Life goes on, So sing as well.
I’ve been part of a singing family all my life, both by birth and by marriage.
And so, on the “first” anniversary of his death, and as part of the continuing celebration of his life, about which I like to make as much noise as possible, I present you with some of Mr. She’s favorites. Please remember him along with me, by joining in if, and wherever, you feel so inclined:
For times that came before me:
Honestly. If this doesn’t make you smile, I don’t think I want to know you:
For the kids:
And, for both of us, for our favorite movie, and for the memory of it all:
The fundamental things apply. Even, or perhaps especially, as time goes by.
Here’s to more song in all our lives.
Published in General
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This is the Quote of the Day. July’s sign-up sheet is here, and we’re off to a rather slow start so far this month, so there are plenty of dates available. Please sign up today!
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Another ongoing project to encourage new voices is our Group Writing Project. July’s theme is “We Hold These Truths (or Fictions).” If you’d like to weigh in, please sign up for Group Writing too!
One of my favorite series of Joyce Grenfell’s monologues is “Eng Lit,” in which she plays a university chancellors wife at tea with a(n) (invisible) chap who serves as a foil for her routine. She excelled at a certain type of eccentric Englishwoman whose type I instantly recognize, because my own family is full of them, and because I aspire even to just a small fraction of her oeuvre, demeanor and affect.
I’ve always thought that her remarks on the shortcomings of anarchy as a political ideal were spot on. They occur in this piece, in which she’s interviewing “Mervyn” the editor of the university’s underground newspaper. We learn, as their chat progresses, that Mervyn is trying to see the chancellor in the hopes that he can get the paper banned, to therefore become (in his dreams) much more influential. The bit that always makes me howl with laughter starts at about 6:52. I’ve tried to tee it up; but sometimes that doesn’t work. Still, the whole thing is well worth a look.
Deepest thanks.
Ah, you do excel at memories. Made me laugh and cry.
Wonderfully evocative, Mrs. She. This may be your best post yet, Mrs. She. And that’s saying a lot.
Thank you and bless you.
Here’s one for you.
Oh, lovely. Thanks. I know John Prine isn’t everyone’s cup of tea (discovered that when I wrote a post just before he died), but we loved him, and he’s one of the very few acts I’ve ever bothered to go and see live. (Emmylou Harris is another.)
I didn’t realize it was July 3rd that Mr. She departed. A year ago today, I snagged the QoTD so I could write up a few words on my Grandfather, who’d have turned 89 today. He was a good mister, too.
I worked at his funeral home for about five years. My least favorite job after a service was throwing away the flowers that the families didn’t want to keep; and I always noticed that, regardless of the number of attendees, there was something special about the people who left a little joy in their wake (and even at their Wake).
I’ve never heard this quote though, great choice. Lovely post! Rest In Peace, Mr. She.
How about Nancy Griffith? My cousin, a Texas hippie from the old days and Billy Joe Shaver’s roommate when both were newly divorced, sent me a demo tape of hers back in the early eighties. Here is her version of Prine’s song.
“Who will take care of the drains?” I immediately thought of my friend whose business, Gangbusters, is just that. LOL
The world needs people like your friend. I’m glad he’s here.
Perhaps this story (that I don’t think I’ve told on Ricochet before) will shed some light on why I find Joyce Grenfell so very charming and relatable:
Auntie Pat (98 in a week-and-a-half, may she live forever) is, like her father and mother, and many members of her family, a dedicated Aston Villa fan. The Muffetts had season tickets to The Villa from the day that such things were first offered. (The team was founded in 1874, and for those of you who don’t know, it’s a football team. “Proper football,” as Auntie Pat would say. She escorted Mr. She to a match many years ago, on one of our trips to the UK.)
Probably around the same time–that is when Pat was in her early 80’s and had a special parking spot just to herself, where cars weren’t allowed to drive, and right by the main entrance–she was at Villa Park with a couple of family members who went off to get a beer or find something to eat, only to come back and find Pat deep in enthusiastic conversation with the young man in the next row, a young man with spikes all over the place, blue hair and several safety-pins piercing and dangling from various parts of his anatomy. The family members were horrified.
Pat, however, was unflappable. She started chatting with her returned family, introduced them to her new acquaintance, said what a “marvelous time” they’d been having, what a “lovely boy” he was, and that “Alfie” (not his name) had been telling her all about (now I want you to imagine Pat speaking in the Chancellor’s Wife’s voice), “his pet rat.”
Lord, I miss that England.
Thank you. It’s not what I’d call great poetry, but it’s so simple, and I think so very genuine.
The “arrangements” for Mr. She were severely curtailed due to Covid. A few friends sent flowers to the house, which was lovely, and perhaps, on reflection, nicer than having to deal with them all at the funeral home. Some places around here send the leftovers to old folks’ homes and hospitals, but I’m guessing that hasn’t been done for a while because Covid either.
I found your post from a year ago and yes, a very good mister, was your grandpa. We’re luck to have had such people in our lives.
Yes, I like her too. Had not heard that version of the song, which is also lovely. Thanks.