My baby sister Sylvia died in her home in Geneva this week, on November 27th.
She had a way of quietly affecting other peoples’ lives for the better (and speaking for myself) doing so without them realizing at the time that it was a lesson. She didn’t always have the easiest life, but I never heard a complaint or even a “woe is me”, she just made the best of each moment. In the last year, when I’d phone, she would always ask how I was, and when I’d ask how she was in return (and immediately kick myself, because it was a stupid question) the worst she would say was, “Oh, comme ci, comme ça”. Then we would talk about everything and nothing, with possibly a recommendation to read the latest book she had got from the library.
Sylvia drifted in and out of my life from time to time, but always seemed to enhance it. This may be a quirk of my memory, but her advice or stern admonitions sunk in far better than other peoples’ did. It also seems to me that while I don’t have a lot of childhood memories, those I do have feature Sylvia far more often than one would expect, based on the percentage of years that we spent in the same country.
Once we settled down in England, with Sylvia and her family in Geneva, every visit to see Sylvia or times when she visited England became a memorable occasion. My first trip in an aircraft was a short hop over the channel with my Mum to join Sylvia and Ron on a trip through the Loire valley visiting dozens (well, maybe several) wonderful chateaux, which was probably the beginning of my love of old buildings. When Ashley was one or so, Penny and I joined the Knights at a rental cottage in Cornwall, and this resulted in one of my life-long food memories, fresh-picked mushrooms being fried up for breakfast. (At the time I was too picky to actually eat any, but the memory stayed with me, and gets replayed often when I’m frying them up myself.)
Another food memory was a visit to a local Geneva restaurant for beef fondue. My mouth still waters when I recall the small plates of sauces that we got to mix together so that each piece had a different taste. Possibly on the same trip there was an incident with wine being poured by the waiter in a stream directed into the customer’s mouth. Suffice it to say I was able to gulp it down, but had no idea how to tell the guy to stop. I forget exactly how many trips I took to Geneva, either two or three, I think, but each one was a learning experience and lots of fun. One time Sylvia needed some milk and sent me to the store despite my objections that my school French wasn’t up to the task. I was shooed out the door, and returned with the milk and lived to tell the tale.
Another result of these trips was my life-long love of photography, inspired by Ron. I just wish I hadn’t also picked up the love of having multiple cameras and lenses.
The last time I saw Sylvia was in 2006, at her son Richard’s home and as we were leaving and saying our goodbyes, she said “So, see you in another fourteen years?” and then she did a quick calculation and said, “Yes, I think I’ll be around then, see you.” Well, alas, that was not to be. But almost.
Thank you Sylvia for all those experiences and your part in my youthful development. Those memories will live on.
[With the exception of the 2006 photo, these are scans of old paper photos, or photographs of negatives, so lots of post-processing to get them to this state. I’d welcome any photos that anyone would like to add. As you can see, my collection is rather sparse. Thank you Richard and Ashley for some additional photos. Ashley’s are the 1957 and 1960 photos.]
