On the anniversary of the day my maternal grandmother went to her final rest I’ve written this poem in her memory and hope I have done justice to the life of Jessie MacDonald Robertson Russell. I’ve tried to stay true to the stories she told me that all too often families edit out. These are the bits of the dead person’s life that they don’t agree with her and I believe my gran deserves a better fate than that. It’s for that reason I’ve given it the title A Life Without Edits . I hope you enjoy the read.
A Life Without Edits
The service was held at home
at 9 15 prompt.
three days after she died
almost to the minute
a minister she had never met in her life
tried to tell relatives and friends
about Jess the granny , the mother, the wife
based only on polite conversations
with the family by which
I mean
my mother, aunts , and selected friends
keeping up Presbyterian pretence
was deemed far more important
than less well known stories
about how she hated both the crown and the Tories
and called Churchill a Nazi
who took the right side in war only by accident
or what he probably called a mistake
there was no mention of Jess the Red Clydesider
who believed in the socialist republicanism of McLean
or the woman who hated giving to charity
on the principal that if the rich paid their taxes
there would be no need
who called it the child of greed
but donated more than her share
because others wouldn’t
or the student of Scotland who educated herself
and the youngest of her grandchildren
in everything from geography to Gaelic
politics to cultural traditions
and why the United Kingdom was never for her or me
this was the Jess my mother didn’t want others to see
in truth she didn’t know
too much about it
the campaining years
halted by the depression and war
at the time of her youngest’s arrival
when survival was the name of the game
though in the winter of her years
she made sure I knew the history
so the truth of her story could be told
not edited by ministers or daughters
who didn’t share her views
she always watched the STV news
not the tartan window dressing
on BBC shortbread as she called it
there only good on hogmanay
she once claimed
one day a year and even then we have to pay for the boats
we’re not allowed to rock
such information would have shocked the ladies of the mission
who and fair play to them
turned up to pay their respects
to Jess the woman who taught me to listen to lyrics and melodies
and read between the lines of every poem
even, no especially my own
to make sure it was the best it could be
and left no room for ambiguity.
© Gayle Smith 2021
Skirtingroundmylife 