I want to pay a little tribute to a wonderful lady that I never ever had the pleasure of meeting, but I know her darling daughter well, for which fact and whose friendship I am humongously grateful...
Molly Anne Fabre, late of The View from this End was a writer and an artist, a lover of dogs, her French husband, JP, her family, her home and her history. She told stories about her early childhood that made me cry. She and her siblings were serially abandoned by her mother into the non-care of horrific nuns, and yet (in spite of her name, which I understood as Moany, rather than Mo-Annie(!), until corrected by her loving and dutiful daughter, Sara,), Moannie never seemed to actually moan about her lot in life. She spoke about things factually, but from the heart, and with real emotion. And my heart, my rescuer's heart, bled for her.
Moannie wrote in a way that seemed as if it flowed from her like a running river; It was as if it were vital for her to get everything, every fact of her existence, out there into the world - To be counted, to count as a woman. ...She adored comments on her stories, often replying to every one, and she was a faithful and loyal supporter of other bloggers.
Sometimes when I would write about how I missed my own mother, who passed on a week later than Moannie did this year in October of 1996, in fact, Moannie would appear in my comments box with soothing, caring words, making me feel warm, held, appreciated and supported.
I don't think she ever knew what exactly she meant to me in those many moments...
I don't think she ever knew what exactly she meant to me in those many moments...
Sara took this photo of her Mum in the summer. It became her favourite.
Moannie had an indomitable spirit, or so it seemed to us in Blogland. She oozed vitality, fun, feisty wit, and a maybe not so quiet strength.
Moannie had an indomitable spirit, or so it seemed to us in Blogland. She oozed vitality, fun, feisty wit, and a maybe not so quiet strength.
Hers had been a life of journeys, onwards and upwards. Of adventure. Of reaching out to people. And being reached. And met.
Finally, the view from this end stories moved indelibly into the present, with Moannie telling us about her battle with cancer (which she called the Fecker). She dictated her words bravely from her hospice bed when she could no longer use Paco her pc and, when she was too unwell, Sara took up her 'pen' to tell us all how Moannie was faring.
This was dignified and touchingly beautiful. And bloody hard. And fucking brave. I never find endings easy. We talk about having a 'good death'. What can that mean? Is it even possible?
I have ferreted back in time, and found these words to me from Moannie, which seem to sum up the very essence of how she was to us here in Blogland, those of us fortunate enough to have known her:
The context here is that I was whingeing and worrying about a forthcoming operation,
"Dear Fhina, you know the fact that you have made me cry shows how much this Blogging phenomena magically bonds us all together; how we all rush to hug away hurt, and strive to find the right words to soothe aching hearts.
And the truth is that it is not psuedo, pretend, fake caring - Why would we spend time in false words? The pain we feel for you is as real as the sun, moon and stars. We are real friends even though we shall never meet".
What more can be said?
Well, if we can see ourselves reflected back in the words and eyes and souls of others; when we know we have made an impact, then we can know we have lived life to the full. Molly Anne will be terribly missed.
I know she was very partial to a handsome Frenchman!
...And, I like these words from the subject, Marcel Proust. I once spent a week in a big house right on the golden beach-front in Trouville, Normandy, that had been turned into flats. In the nineteenth century it had been a hotel that Proust himself stayed in and was also painted by Monet.
These words are principally for Sara, and at the same time, I hope they may stand for all of us who continue to miss the faces we loved:
“Now there is one thing I can tell you: you will enjoy certain pleasures you would not fathom now. When you still had your mother you often thought of the days when you would have her no longer. Now you will often think of days past when you had her.
When you are used to this horrible thing that they will forever be cast into the past, then you will gently feel her revive, returning to take her place, her entire place, beside you.
At the present time, this is not yet possible.
Let yourself be inert, wait till the incomprehensible power ... that has broken you restores you a little, I say a little, for henceforth you will always keep something broken about you. Tell yourself this, too, for it is a kind of pleasure to know that you will never love less, that you will never be consoled, that you will constantly remember more and more.”
― Marcel Proust
I have ferreted back in time, and found these words to me from Moannie, which seem to sum up the very essence of how she was to us here in Blogland, those of us fortunate enough to have known her:
The context here is that I was whingeing and worrying about a forthcoming operation,
"Dear Fhina, you know the fact that you have made me cry shows how much this Blogging phenomena magically bonds us all together; how we all rush to hug away hurt, and strive to find the right words to soothe aching hearts.
And the truth is that it is not psuedo, pretend, fake caring - Why would we spend time in false words? The pain we feel for you is as real as the sun, moon and stars. We are real friends even though we shall never meet".
What more can be said?
Well, if we can see ourselves reflected back in the words and eyes and souls of others; when we know we have made an impact, then we can know we have lived life to the full. Molly Anne will be terribly missed.
I know she was very partial to a handsome Frenchman!
...And, I like these words from the subject, Marcel Proust. I once spent a week in a big house right on the golden beach-front in Trouville, Normandy, that had been turned into flats. In the nineteenth century it had been a hotel that Proust himself stayed in and was also painted by Monet.
These words are principally for Sara, and at the same time, I hope they may stand for all of us who continue to miss the faces we loved:
“Now there is one thing I can tell you: you will enjoy certain pleasures you would not fathom now. When you still had your mother you often thought of the days when you would have her no longer. Now you will often think of days past when you had her.
When you are used to this horrible thing that they will forever be cast into the past, then you will gently feel her revive, returning to take her place, her entire place, beside you.
At the present time, this is not yet possible.
Let yourself be inert, wait till the incomprehensible power ... that has broken you restores you a little, I say a little, for henceforth you will always keep something broken about you. Tell yourself this, too, for it is a kind of pleasure to know that you will never love less, that you will never be consoled, that you will constantly remember more and more.”
― Marcel Proust
