2026: March 14: Sandra

One of the most faithful readers of this blog died last week. My aunt Sandra. She was my father's sister, 15 years younger than him - an age gap that I believe caused my grandmother some social embarrassment back in the day. Quite possibly Gran was the only person who actually cared, but she worried a lot about what people might say about her behind her back. Sandra was only 12 years older than me, and there was a time when we would get asked if we were sisters. She was diagnosed as a teen with Type 1 diabetes and managed it so vigilantly than she got a special certificate from the Diabetes Society for living 50 years on insulin, a feat not often achieved. 

My aunt Jill's wedding. L to R: aunt Anne, Grace (Gran), Jill, Sandra, Jack (Grandpop). The gloves! Photo from my mother's albums. 

Sandra in the early 1960s. Photo by my father. 

But the diabetes also meant she was slow to heal, and in her last few years she suffered a lot of health issues that made daily life challenging. Delicate skin meant falls and scrapes could easily lead to infection, for example, and we've known this was coming for a while. Still, it is hard to say goodbye to one of the two other people who were in the house the night my father died, back in 1989. 

And saying goodbye I am. In person! Yes, I'm taking a lightning trip to New Zealand on Monday for a week (with two of those days spent travelling), just as fuel prices and air fares soar. But what is money for if not to spend an afternoon with aunts and cousins and brothers and nephews and step-mothers celebrating a good life. 

We have been asked to wear colorful clothes. Oh, wait until you see my dress. Thank you, local Goodwill shop, it is perfect. Oh, also, I don't know if Sandra's children know that March 22 is my father's birthday. But Ingrid and I will sure remember. 

Here is a quote from one of the countless letters she wrote to me: 

“I used to worry about wasting time and think of it as a guilty pleasure. But I don’t anymore because I now know I never waste time. Everything is worthwhile. My goals are still lofty… you know, write a book etc, but I now know I’ll not get there, but I shall enjoy the process and that will be enough for me. I don’t do anything I don’t want to do. I guess it’s a case of accepting who you really are.” 

She got frustrated with things, like politicians who started unnecessary wars and walkers who let their dogs get too close to nesting shore birds and how there is sugar added to everything. She took solace in everyday beauty, in writing, in growing vegetables, in singing. She got very concerned for my physical well-being one time when I told her I didn't sing and she was visibly relieved when I admitted that of course, I do sing in the car. One of the songs I remember her singing frequently was On Ilkley Moor Baht 'at (On Ilkley Moor Without a Hat), a traditional Yorkshire song about a person who goes a courting on Ilkley Moor without a hat on, catches a cold and dies. The lyrics include these (this is a translation from Yorkshire dialect into standard English):

Then we shall have to bury thee. On Ilkley Moor Baht' at.

Then the worms will come and eat thee up. On Ilkley Moor Baht 'at.

Then the ducks will come and eat the worms. On Ilkley Moor Baht 'at.

Then we will come and eat up the ducks. On Ilkley Moor Baht 'at.

Then we shall all have eaten thee. On Ilkley Moor Baht 'at. 

I am tempted to recite these at the celebration. Sandra would probably be amused, although I'm not sure if everyone will appreciate it.  I could add some interpretation, like, you know, we carry our loved ones inside us even after they are gone. Because we do. 

Me and Sandra. 1975. Sandra made us matching dresses for Bill and Ingrid's wedding. She only bought enough material to make herself a short dress because she was saving money. She was saving money because she'd met a British sailor at a party and she was going to England to visit him. My grandfather was so upset he told her he'd disown her. But she did it anyway. Then she married the sailor and brought him back to New Zealand, and my grandfather had to eat his words, because the sailor was Peter, and everyone loves Peter. Sandra and Peter stayed married for 50 years.