Everything's Coming Up Clover - Foreword & Prologue
At 79 years of age, Clover Rayton fears life as she knows it is over. Her children have wrenched her from a carefree independent life and incarcerated her in an ‘old folks home.’ Clover is not happy about it, most emphatically not! Ornery, opinionated and interfering, her mission is to create havoc in everyone’s life and make them rue the day she was forced to darken the doors of Honeystone Mansion. Her diary records her first year ‘out to pasture,’ and the reader is carried along by Clover’s outrageous activities and misunderstandings as she romps single-mindedly through life causing mayhem and consternation as she goes. But somewhere along the way, the unexpected happens.
At 79 years of age, Clover Rayton fears life as she knows it is over. Her children have wrenched her from a carefree independent life and incarcerated her in an ‘old folks home.’ Clover is not happy about it, most emphatically not! Ornery, opinionated and interfering, her mission is to create havoc in everyone’s life and make them rue the day she was forced to darken the doors of Honeystone Mansion. Her diary records her first year ‘out to pasture,’ and the reader is carried along by Clover’s outrageous activities and misunderstandings as she romps single-mindedly through life causing mayhem and consternation as she goes. But somewhere along the way, the unexpected happens.
FOREWORD
I am delighted for the opportunity to introduce you to Clover, an irrepressible character brought to life through Dora’s shrewd observations both as a care aide in a retirement community and as an advocate for the elderly. Clover is an olio of some of the people Dora met during her many and varied interactions with other seniors both at work and at play. The exploits of her wickedly scheming yet naïve heroine resonate with the reality of the last chapters of life as Dora saw them.
While Dora herself had little in common with her cantankerous diva (she always saw the best in everyone and everything), her rich life experience shines through as her unique voice imbues Clover’s adventures with sympathy, pathos and, above all, humour. The reader is never quite sure how it will all turn out but knows Clover will have the last word, and that there will likely be a sting in the tail.
Being one of the fortunate few who heard Dora read Clover’s stories aloud I will always hear her delightful Yorkshire tones in my head as I read this book. And in my heart, always hold gratitude for her friendship.
Thanks to Dora’s family for making Clover, and therefore Dora, always available to us, to lift our spirits, to make us laugh, but mostly to enable us to remember a remarkable woman.
Rosselind Sexton
I am delighted for the opportunity to introduce you to Clover, an irrepressible character brought to life through Dora’s shrewd observations both as a care aide in a retirement community and as an advocate for the elderly. Clover is an olio of some of the people Dora met during her many and varied interactions with other seniors both at work and at play. The exploits of her wickedly scheming yet naïve heroine resonate with the reality of the last chapters of life as Dora saw them.
While Dora herself had little in common with her cantankerous diva (she always saw the best in everyone and everything), her rich life experience shines through as her unique voice imbues Clover’s adventures with sympathy, pathos and, above all, humour. The reader is never quite sure how it will all turn out but knows Clover will have the last word, and that there will likely be a sting in the tail.
Being one of the fortunate few who heard Dora read Clover’s stories aloud I will always hear her delightful Yorkshire tones in my head as I read this book. And in my heart, always hold gratitude for her friendship.
Thanks to Dora’s family for making Clover, and therefore Dora, always available to us, to lift our spirits, to make us laugh, but mostly to enable us to remember a remarkable woman.
Rosselind Sexton
ABOUT THE BOOK
In 2010, my mother, Dora Preston, was hospitalized with a ruptured appendix. Unfortunately her impending surgery revealed more. Yes, the appendix had ruptured. Regrettably, an undiagnosed tumour had also ruptured. Her diagnosis was bleak, and like her mother before her, we discovered that my mother was also to die from terminal colon cancer.
After the terrible news settled, my mother took stock. She had lived a life full of adventure, rich with love and laughter. But as a writer, there was an explicit regret. She revealed, “I wish I’d done more to publish my book.” In fact, when her oncology appointment arrived, a close friend and I decided to attend, hoping to soften the blow. However, my mother had no intention of wallowing. Instead, once what we already knew was confirmed, my mother proceeded to explain to the doctors about her unpublished novel. With vigour and enthusiasm she launched into the story. The doctors sat patiently, intently listening as my mother gave an account of Clover’s adventures and how Clover had arrived on the page. An hour later, still giggling about Clover, and Dora’s insatiable determination, my friend and I wheeled her back to her hospital room.
Dora spent roughly ten years compiling the manuscripts that created Everything’s Coming Up Clover. Its pages are filled with her many years of insight, wisdom and humour, crafted together by an amazing gift for writing. I am filled with enormous pride, and eternally grateful and honoured to bring this book to life for my mother. With peace and love, Mum, I fulfil a writer’s final wish.
Glenys Preston Blackburn
In 2010, my mother, Dora Preston, was hospitalized with a ruptured appendix. Unfortunately her impending surgery revealed more. Yes, the appendix had ruptured. Regrettably, an undiagnosed tumour had also ruptured. Her diagnosis was bleak, and like her mother before her, we discovered that my mother was also to die from terminal colon cancer.
After the terrible news settled, my mother took stock. She had lived a life full of adventure, rich with love and laughter. But as a writer, there was an explicit regret. She revealed, “I wish I’d done more to publish my book.” In fact, when her oncology appointment arrived, a close friend and I decided to attend, hoping to soften the blow. However, my mother had no intention of wallowing. Instead, once what we already knew was confirmed, my mother proceeded to explain to the doctors about her unpublished novel. With vigour and enthusiasm she launched into the story. The doctors sat patiently, intently listening as my mother gave an account of Clover’s adventures and how Clover had arrived on the page. An hour later, still giggling about Clover, and Dora’s insatiable determination, my friend and I wheeled her back to her hospital room.
Dora spent roughly ten years compiling the manuscripts that created Everything’s Coming Up Clover. Its pages are filled with her many years of insight, wisdom and humour, crafted together by an amazing gift for writing. I am filled with enormous pride, and eternally grateful and honoured to bring this book to life for my mother. With peace and love, Mum, I fulfil a writer’s final wish.
Glenys Preston Blackburn
PROLOGUE
THIS DAY WILL GO DOWN IN INFAMY; I’LL SEE THAT IT DOES!
I’ve decided to write a diary so the world will know. Yes, they’ll read how my two daughters and two sons had me incarcerated. How they’ve put their mum away in the prime of her life. How they’ve had her locked up in an ‘old folk’s home.’ It was Horace, the eldest, who lowered the boom.
“We’ve been thinking, Mum,” he said. “You’ve been doing some funny things lately...you know...forgetting stuff.” He looked at the other three for help; they were only too willing to oblige. Muriel stopped polishing my TV screen with a paper towel and said,
"The manager tells us you keep losing your keys.” I told her he was a snitch. I didn’t tell them that yesterday I even lost the building. Then Doris started.
“You’ve done some very dangerous things, Mum. You’ve burned the ironing board right through, and how many times have we come in and turned the oven off?” I thought to myself, no wonder every time they come to see me I wind up with cold bed socks. I told them all to mind their own business and leave my oven alone. Fred, my youngest, had to join in, of course.
“Well, we wondered what on earth you were cooking, Mother. It smelled awful.”
“Not half as bad as your wife’s sauerkraut,” I pointed out. Fred was quiet for a while and then he started again. He went on about the Halleluiah Chorus CD he and his wife Gerty bought me for Christmas. They caught me using it for a beer coaster.
“Well,” I told him, “you can’t sing along to a thing like that. I asked you for Tony Bennett. I didn’t want a bunch of people singing at a funeral.”
They all sat staring around the room for a while. Then Muriel went back to polishing the TV screen. She must have used at least half my roll of paper towels. It was my nice roll too, all covered with little butterflies! I only keep it for show. I was going to say something about it to Muriel when Doris suddenly started crying.
“Look at that lovely rubber plant me and Tom bought you.” She blew her nose and sniffled a bit. “Do you think it’s happy holding up all those Christmas ornaments?” I told her I didn’t know. I never asked it. Then Muriel, from behind the pile of paper towels, noticed something else.
“I don’t seem to recognize this pile of laundry here, Mother.” She was sorting the clothing on the end of the coffee table. “Jockey shorts? And what are you doing with a T-shirt that says ‘I spent a night with The Living Dead’?” I explained carefully how I forgot which dryer I was in.
“You’re young,” I told her, “wait till it happens to you.”
“I’m fifty-six,” she said and like Doris she started crying. Then Horace informed me about the plot they’d hatched for the New Year.
“Look, Mum, we’ve found a nice place, Honeystone Mansion. It’s right downtown where you always like to be.”
“Honeystone?” I shouted, “I’ve seen the people coming out of there. They’re old!”
“You’re nearly eighty, Mother,” Doris said rolling her eyes. Only a young person of fifty-four could be so malicious and cruel. Horace told them all to shut up.
“We’ve been to see them at Honeystone Mansion; it’s a lovely place,” he insisted. “They tell us you can come and go as you please, and you know you love wandering around town.” Then Fred piped up.
“It’s for your own good, Mother.”
“You’re just a baby,” I snapped. “What do you know?”
So they made up their minds. They’re putting their old mother out to pasture. The van comes tomorrow to take all my treasured possessions to some auction. All those nice gramophone records of ‘Wartime Melodies,’ my ‘Sing-a-long with Max Bygraves,’ and my great big toffee tin full of buttons saved since I was a child. Two hundred and forty-seven Legion magazines; I marked a page in two of them where my husband was mentioned. I’ve got a fancy spoon collection from all the holidays he took me on. We were married forty-five years. Granted, there are only three spoons, but they’re precious. And that lovely ball of string I’ve saved it since World War ll. I’m not sure why they asked us to save string–it’s as big as a melon now. I hold the door back with it on a warm day. Will I need my husband’s cricket bat anymore? I was waiting for a burglar, but one never came. The only piece of crockery I’m bothered about is grandma’s old chamber pot. You can’t replace treasures like that. It looked lovely last spring full of tulips.
I’ll go to this Honeystone Mansion, but I won’t make it easy for them. I know that!
THIS DAY WILL GO DOWN IN INFAMY; I’LL SEE THAT IT DOES!
I’ve decided to write a diary so the world will know. Yes, they’ll read how my two daughters and two sons had me incarcerated. How they’ve put their mum away in the prime of her life. How they’ve had her locked up in an ‘old folk’s home.’ It was Horace, the eldest, who lowered the boom.
“We’ve been thinking, Mum,” he said. “You’ve been doing some funny things lately...you know...forgetting stuff.” He looked at the other three for help; they were only too willing to oblige. Muriel stopped polishing my TV screen with a paper towel and said,
"The manager tells us you keep losing your keys.” I told her he was a snitch. I didn’t tell them that yesterday I even lost the building. Then Doris started.
“You’ve done some very dangerous things, Mum. You’ve burned the ironing board right through, and how many times have we come in and turned the oven off?” I thought to myself, no wonder every time they come to see me I wind up with cold bed socks. I told them all to mind their own business and leave my oven alone. Fred, my youngest, had to join in, of course.
“Well, we wondered what on earth you were cooking, Mother. It smelled awful.”
“Not half as bad as your wife’s sauerkraut,” I pointed out. Fred was quiet for a while and then he started again. He went on about the Halleluiah Chorus CD he and his wife Gerty bought me for Christmas. They caught me using it for a beer coaster.
“Well,” I told him, “you can’t sing along to a thing like that. I asked you for Tony Bennett. I didn’t want a bunch of people singing at a funeral.”
They all sat staring around the room for a while. Then Muriel went back to polishing the TV screen. She must have used at least half my roll of paper towels. It was my nice roll too, all covered with little butterflies! I only keep it for show. I was going to say something about it to Muriel when Doris suddenly started crying.
“Look at that lovely rubber plant me and Tom bought you.” She blew her nose and sniffled a bit. “Do you think it’s happy holding up all those Christmas ornaments?” I told her I didn’t know. I never asked it. Then Muriel, from behind the pile of paper towels, noticed something else.
“I don’t seem to recognize this pile of laundry here, Mother.” She was sorting the clothing on the end of the coffee table. “Jockey shorts? And what are you doing with a T-shirt that says ‘I spent a night with The Living Dead’?” I explained carefully how I forgot which dryer I was in.
“You’re young,” I told her, “wait till it happens to you.”
“I’m fifty-six,” she said and like Doris she started crying. Then Horace informed me about the plot they’d hatched for the New Year.
“Look, Mum, we’ve found a nice place, Honeystone Mansion. It’s right downtown where you always like to be.”
“Honeystone?” I shouted, “I’ve seen the people coming out of there. They’re old!”
“You’re nearly eighty, Mother,” Doris said rolling her eyes. Only a young person of fifty-four could be so malicious and cruel. Horace told them all to shut up.
“We’ve been to see them at Honeystone Mansion; it’s a lovely place,” he insisted. “They tell us you can come and go as you please, and you know you love wandering around town.” Then Fred piped up.
“It’s for your own good, Mother.”
“You’re just a baby,” I snapped. “What do you know?”
So they made up their minds. They’re putting their old mother out to pasture. The van comes tomorrow to take all my treasured possessions to some auction. All those nice gramophone records of ‘Wartime Melodies,’ my ‘Sing-a-long with Max Bygraves,’ and my great big toffee tin full of buttons saved since I was a child. Two hundred and forty-seven Legion magazines; I marked a page in two of them where my husband was mentioned. I’ve got a fancy spoon collection from all the holidays he took me on. We were married forty-five years. Granted, there are only three spoons, but they’re precious. And that lovely ball of string I’ve saved it since World War ll. I’m not sure why they asked us to save string–it’s as big as a melon now. I hold the door back with it on a warm day. Will I need my husband’s cricket bat anymore? I was waiting for a burglar, but one never came. The only piece of crockery I’m bothered about is grandma’s old chamber pot. You can’t replace treasures like that. It looked lovely last spring full of tulips.
I’ll go to this Honeystone Mansion, but I won’t make it easy for them. I know that!
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