{"id":6174,"date":"2024-05-16T18:40:39","date_gmt":"2024-05-16T08:10:39","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.wakefieldpress.com.au\/blog\/?p=6174"},"modified":"2024-05-16T18:40:43","modified_gmt":"2024-05-16T08:10:43","slug":"announcement-valerie-volk-wins-third-wwwc","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.wakefieldpress.com.au\/blog\/2024\/05\/announcement-valerie-volk-wins-third-wwwc\/","title":{"rendered":"ANNOUNCEMENT: Valerie Volk Wins the April WWWC!"},"content":{"rendered":"
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We’re pleased to announce the winner of the April WWWC: Valerie Volk. Fitting indeed that Valerie’s third WWWC win matches up so perfectly with the prompt ‘three generations’.<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

Valerie’s winning piece ‘Patterns’ is an examination of mother-daughter relationships and the cycles of behaviour we often fall into. Read her winning piece below.<\/p>\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n

Patterns<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

The others are standing awkwardly, shuffling their feet in the unusual heat of this autumn afternoon. Somehow you don\u2019t want funerals to be on sunny afternoons. Seems inappropriate. The skies should be grey, the atmosphere threatening, sombre. It\u2019s almost an insult to the occasion, to be fanning ourselves and wishing we were at the beach.<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

Or anywhere else, for that matter. I don\u2019t want to be here, and neither do the others, I suspect. Why do we put ourselves through family funerals? ‘Of course you\u2019ll come!’ My mother\u2019s voice had been crisp, and I recognised the tone. It was her there\u2019ll be no arguments over this, my girl <\/em>voice. I was used to it. We all were.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

‘And, Jenny, you\u2019ll wear something appropriate. Not jeans with the knees out and a cut-off top. Proper clothes. Something your grandmother would have approved of.’<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That had taken some doing. Short of rifling through the old girl\u2019s wardrobe I really couldn\u2019t think of anything of mine she wouldn\u2019t have raised an eyebrow over. Guess wherever she is now, she isn\u2019t raising her eyebrows anymore. Damn, that sounds as if I didn\u2019t like her, but I did. She had a bit of a twinkle in her eye, and I sometimes thought she disapproved more of my mum than of me. I reckon she\u2019d had a bit of fun in her day. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

For a moment, I had a pang of something. What? Grief? No, that was too strong. Just a regret that she wasn\u2019t round anymore. It was fun to go to the farm when I was little. There was a game we used to have. I\u2019d be a cat, and crawl into her room miaowing, and she\u2019d play along, patting my head and taking me to the big old kitchen for a saucer of milk. When Mum came in there\u2019d be the familiar scowl on her face. ‘Really Mother, you shouldn\u2019t encourage the child!’<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Gran was probably the only one who\u2019d understood how it broke me up when Dad left. There\u2019d been too many changes to cope with, and hers was the only place where I felt that the world was secure. Especially when Mum went off to the city to find us somewhere new to live and to start her new job, and I was left with Gran for what seemed like forever. Not that I minded. In fact I look back on that time \u2013 even though it was only a few months \u2013 as one of the happiest times of my life. Gran loved me, and when I cuddled up to her I felt safe.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Yes, I\u2019ll miss the old girl. More, I\u2019m pretty sure, than anyone else standing here today. Little country churchyards aren\u2019t really their style. I was wondering if Dad might have turned up, because they used to get on so well. But he probably doesn\u2019t even know. It was all pretty quick at the end. She would have been glad of that. ‘No long illnesses for me,’ she told me once. ‘I\u2019d rather wear out than rust out.’ That was Gran, always a doer. I guess Mum inherited that from her. Wonder if she\u2019s thinking about that.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u00ad\u00ad\u00ad\u00ad\u00ad\u00ad\u00ad\u00ad\u00ad______________________________<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n\n

Jenny looks over at me, then looks away. We\u2019re not standing together; she\u2019s on the other side of the grave. But that\u2019s typical. We\u2019ve never stood together. I think she blames me for the way her father left. Still, after all these years. But then so did my mother. I\u2019ll never forget the way she looked at me when I came to tell her that Ian was leaving me. Just a cool appraisal. ‘You\u2019re not surprised, are you Ros?’\u00a0That hurt.<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

What would have surprised me would have been if she\u2019d thrown her arms around me in sympathy, and poured out a bit of maternal comfort. I think that would have broken me up. It was probably better that she didn\u2019t. This way it left me free to hang on to the icy calm I\u2019ve always been known for.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Well, today\u2019s a day that needs it anyway. I don\u2019t want to investigate how I feel and certainly not in front of the group here. All of those old biddys are friends of Mum\u2019s, and it surprised me that so many of them turned up. Lots of tentative pats on my shoulder. ‘We\u2019ll miss her, Ros,’ seemed to be the pattern of the day. They made no attempts at sympathetic hugs, thank goodness. I guess Mum had told them how I hated to be touched. I do sometimes wonder why that\u2019s so difficult for me, but I tend to flinch when people try to get affectionate. Perhaps that explains why Ian left. Maybe that\u2019s what Mum meant.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It would have been unfair. After all, I can\u2019t remember her ever showing me much affection. A kiss on the cheek for goodnight at best, but even that I felt she had to steel herself for. Steel. Yes, that\u2019s a good word for it. I always felt she had to psych herself up for any real contact with me. No wonder I held back from her. Too late now to get upset about it. I guess I\u2019d always hoped that one day we might manage a real conversation. Even, heaven help us, a genuine hug.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Jenny\u2019s the same. She really doesn\u2019t like me very much, and I don\u2019t blame her. I\u2019m not the sort of person that others warm to, even my own daughter. It doesn\u2019t mean I don\u2019t love her, just because I don\u2019t do all that touchy-feely stuff. I used to watch other mothers cuddling their babies and wonder why they did it. Surely there are other ways of showing people you love them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I don\u2019t know how Mum would have reacted if I\u2019d come and put my arms around her. One of the many things I\u2019ll never find out now. Even when she was dying, I really had trouble touching her. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

But I\u2019m sorry now I didn\u2019t try more. Yet another regret.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u00ad\u00ad\u00ad\u00ad\u00ad\u00ad\u00ad\u00ad\u00ad______________________________<\/h2>\n\n\n\n
\n

Dear Ros,<\/p>\n\n\n\n

You\u2019ll be surprised to get a letter from your mother and I\u2019m not at all sure how you\u2019ll react. This is probably not a good idea, and perhaps once I\u2019ve written it I\u2019ll turn coward and tear it up. But then you\u2019ll never know, and perhaps there are things that should be said, even from the grave.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I hope you read it. If you\u2019re getting it, it means I\u2019ve gone, and I wonder what your memories of me will be like. They won\u2019t be warm and fuzzy, that I know. I suspect you\u2019ll recall too many times where I failed you, and when the lurking hostility and resentment boiled over. It\u2019s probably good that we haven\u2019t seen much of each other in recent years. A week or two \u2013 that\u2019s all we could manage before tensions came to the surface. No, better that we kept our distance.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That\u2019s what it\u2019s always been \u2013 distance. And I\u2019m sorry. I don\u2019t understand it, and God knows I\u2019ve tried over the years. Was it because you were such a difficult birth? Even then you struggled, as if you didn\u2019t want to be born. In my arms you would stiffen and cry, and only seemed happy when your aunt held you. She could cuddle and hug you in a way that I never could. With me you\u2019d pull away. Why? Or was it \u2013 and only now can I look at this clearly \u2013 was it that you could feel my own holding back? Now I can understand, and regret so much.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Even more because I can see how like me you are. Did I do this to you? I\u2019m sorry. Worse still, because you are the same with Jenny, whom we both love so much. But I can relax and be myself with Jenny in a way I never could with you, and I suspect you resent that even more. Don\u2019t. Be glad that it\u2019s possible to be different, even though I couldn\u2019t be like that with you.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But it\u2019s a pattern, and it has to be broken. Three generations of us. The way I\u2019ve been with you. The way you are with Jenny. And so it will go on, unless we break the mould and learn how to show love openly. Because I do love you very much, just as you love your daughter. It\u2019s sad that we run the risk of another generation following in our footsteps.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That\u2019s why I\u2019ve written you this letter, and I want you to read it with Jenny, and talk about what we have done. Perhaps between us we can free her to live her life better than we have managed. I\u2019m not going to read what I have written, or I may retreat and put the letter in the bin, instead of the envelope with your name on it, and the message. \u2018For Ros, with my love.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mum<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

Valerie Volk<\/strong>\u00a0is an award-winning Adelaide writer of poetry, verse novels, short stories and longer fiction. She is fascinated by the perennial question ‘What if \u2026?’ and is a self-confessed voyeur of other people’s lives. Family history has been the inspiration for several of her fictional novels. Valerie loves all music \u2013 especially classical, opera and jazz \u2013 travel and cats, not necessarily in that order, but she loves writing most of all. Her latest novel is\u00a0Finding Emma<\/a><\/em>.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

We’re pleased to announce the winner of the April WWWC: Valerie Volk. Fitting indeed that Valerie’s third WWWC win matches up so perfectly with the prompt ‘three generations’. Valerie’s winning piece ‘Patterns’ is an examination of mother-daughter relationships and the … Continue reading →<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":12,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"advanced_seo_description":"","jetpack_seo_html_title":"","jetpack_seo_noindex":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[80],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-6174","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-for-fun"],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p4v1Of-1BA","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack-related-posts":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.wakefieldpress.com.au\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6174","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.wakefieldpress.com.au\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.wakefieldpress.com.au\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.wakefieldpress.com.au\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/12"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.wakefieldpress.com.au\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=6174"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/www.wakefieldpress.com.au\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6174\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":6176,"href":"https:\/\/www.wakefieldpress.com.au\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6174\/revisions\/6176"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.wakefieldpress.com.au\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=6174"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.wakefieldpress.com.au\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=6174"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.wakefieldpress.com.au\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=6174"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}