This photo of my maternal grandmother never fails to move me. In my memory she is an old lady, living in Spain, with an auburn wig, set like Elizabeth Taylor’s, dressed in a flowing kaftan, wearing diamante trimmed aviators, her dachshund Fritzen von Hanover frolicking around her ankles. It’s a reminder that she had an identity that I never knew, could never guess at.
(It’s up there, very small, on the header of my blog.)
I went to my mother’s house for Easter lunch last week, and was looking at the photos in her drawing room, and wishing I had talked more to my grandparents whilst they were all still alive.
Above: That’s my mother’s stepmother, Granny Horse to us, in the centre photo, flanked by my uncles and my grandfather at my parent’s wedding. (And that’s her again in the top left photo, mounted on a skewbald, in the hunting field.)
Here’s my maternal grandfather with my mother on her wedding day in 1967. Granny, above, was his first wife.