On a recent visit to see my Grandmother, I asked her how she came by her nickname ‘Yogi.’ She told me she couldn’t remember, to which I made some cheeky comment about how memories fade when you’re as old as her. She gave me a faux frown and said something she’s been saying all my life; “You’re not too old for a good hiding you know.” I wonder when exactly I will be too old. Perhaps I should have asked that.
‘Yogi’ and Granddad lived just down the road from us, their bungalow at number 70 Falmouth Road was just a couple of minutes’ bike ride away. Opening the side gate would always excite their dogs who would bark and bark causing Granddad to bark back at them telling them to be quiet.
There was always candy on offer, it was a treat to go to Yogi & Granddad’s after school. Yogi would get the sweet box down from shelves behind the retractable kitchen table that would pull down from the wall. It was thick and had a pattern like broken glass, I remember sitting around it eating dinner, drawing, making things, and playing with cars.
They had a Teletext TV, a kind of internet long before the days of the world wide web we know today. You could read the news, find out what was on TV, or go to page 300 on Oracle for the kids’ section where my siblings and I would do the quizzes.
In the summer we would pick blackberries from their garden that backed onto the London railway line. If I heard a train coming I would rush to the flimsy wire fence and step onto it, swinging back and forth as the train hurtled sometimes sounding its horn.
Yogi had a jar of buttons and things that I used to love turning out and sifting through. Week in and week out it was full of the same strange and fascinating treasures from sparkling buttons and big old coins, to sewing thread and thimbles.
Neither Yogi nor Granddad were religious but in that jar, I found a crucifix. I remember being fascinated by the little man on the cross. I didn’t really know who he was or why he was “sleeping” on the cross, as Yogi told me, I just liked that he was a little man. With the contents of the jar spread before me, I remember sitting in the hall and asking Yogi if I could have the little man on the cross. “When I die you can.” She said. I looked back at Jesus and then back at Yogi and asked, as only a child would, “When will that be?” I don’t remember what she answered, I just remember it wasn’t going to be anytime soon.
In the garden of their old place on Falmouth Road Yogi liked to feed the birds. There was a bird table upon which my brother, sister, and I would place bread crumbs and seed packs. In various trees and from various places hung bird feeders full of seeds and goodies that the little birds enjoyed. We even nicknamed a cake she use to make ‘bird seed cake’ on account of the fact it looked so similar to the stuff she used to feed to the birds. That cake was always so filling, I don’t think I ever managed to eat a whole slice.
Bread Pudding reminds me of Yogi. She made a mean Bread Pudding. Packed with Raisons and topped with a lashing of sugar (which I think was my addition), her Bread Pudding was, in my opinion, the best in the land. Maybe it’s just my rose-tinted memory, but to this day I’ve yet to have a Bread Pudding better than hers.
With bread itself, she used to tell me to eat the crusts. “It’ll make your hair curl.” She would say, which was exactly what I didn’t want to happen, so I would leave the crusts safe in the knowledge that I’d be allowed to leave them – more food for the birds!
As I grew up and popped by to see her and Granddad she would always be quick to ask me the same question. “How’s the love life?” She’s asked that same question every single time I saw her since I was a teenager despite the fact I never once gave a straight answer.
On a recent visit to see her, I asked her to tell me a little about herself, I told her I wanted to know a little bit about Doris Bradley. “I’m Yogi.” She told me. I explained that I wanted to learn something of the woman she was, some of her stories before she became ‘Yogi.’ She wasn’t forthcoming which might have been disappointing but for the fact that I concluded that no matter what I might learn about Doris Bradley, she would always be ‘Yogi’ to me and she was happy to be just that.
I didn’t want to take her for granted so I tried to make every effort to see her as much as I could. I would send her postcards from wherever I was in the world, perhaps in a way to show her that the “naughty boy” she once told me was “bloody hard to love” had grown up, done well for himself, and was now a happy man of the world.
Yogi died today, leaving behind children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren – a legacy I hope she was proud of.
So Long Yogi, or as you might have said “Ta ta.”
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Wrote the following comment on Jun 8, 2009 at 8:40 pm
That’s a touching tribute Simon.
Wrote the following comment on Jun 8, 2009 at 9:33 pm
I remember sitting in church on Sundays with my family and going through my grandma’s purse for something to entertain myself. She always had mints and a calculator, and I would sit and pop a mint occasionally and press buttons on the calculator to add or multiply or whatever took my fancy.
I often ask her what her life was like before I knew her, and she was just as evasive as your Yogi. It’s nice to think that she was my “grammy” and she was happy to to be just that. :)
Wrote the following comment on Jun 8, 2009 at 9:47 pm
How funny Becky, I also have a memory of the gramps and a calculator. They had one which I could play with and I used to press 1++1=. It showed the number 2, but then if you press the = button again it would say 3, then 4, then 5 and so on. I used to then spend hours seeing how high I could get that figure.
Yes, I was a fairly simple kid! :-)
Wrote the following comment on Jun 8, 2009 at 9:57 pm
It’s a wonderful thing being a grandparent, and your tributes to both ‘Yogi’ and your Granddad are very moving. I have no doubt they were both very proud of you Simon.
Wrote the following comment on Jun 8, 2009 at 10:33 pm
I only had the pleasure of meeting yogi once, and it was an absolute pleasure, even if she did think I was Simon’s brother Peter :-) She was exactly as I had imagined her to be, based on Simon’s stories. When I saw them interacting together, there was such an obvious affection there. Simon would tell her she wasn’t old, pull her leg about things and entertain her with his stories.
I’m sorry for your loss mate, she seemed like a lovely woman.
Wrote the following comment on Jun 9, 2009 at 3:51 am
Glad to know you enjoyed your time with your grandmother. I’m pretty sure she will look for you wherever she’s at right now.
Wrote the following comment on Jun 9, 2009 at 4:03 am
What a funny/cute nik for your Grandmother. I’m sorry for the loss Simon.
Wrote the following comment on Jun 9, 2009 at 5:02 am
awwwww what a sweet post. i need to send postcards to my grandmothers more often. i try not to take them for granted.
Wrote the following comment on Jun 9, 2009 at 5:15 am
I’m so sorry for your loss Simon. She sounds like a really lovely lady with real spark. I’m glad you have such fond memories of her and reading them reminds me that I really aught to spend more time with my own gma.
Wrote the following comment on Jun 9, 2009 at 9:31 pm
Sorry to hear about her passing, Simon, but it was so nice to read your memories of her. Thank you for sharing them.
Wrote the following comment on Jun 9, 2009 at 9:40 pm
Simon,
Sorry to hear about the passing of Yogi. I’m sure she was extremely proud of her family, including her grandchildren!
We should meet up sometime and go catch a sunset!!
Take care, you know where the guys are if you need cheering up!
Jp
Wrote the following comment on Jun 9, 2009 at 10:57 pm
A fitting tribute Simon.
I will explain why she called her self Yogi when I see you next. But it must be our secret!!!
Paul, Yogi’s son
Wrote the following comment on Jun 10, 2009 at 1:12 am
hugz!!
Wrote the following comment on Jun 10, 2009 at 3:13 am
Sweet of you to share yogi’s tale. I thought of my grandmother while reading this.
Wrote the following comment on Jun 10, 2009 at 7:32 pm
This is very sweet and full of warmth. the small man sleeping on the cross made me smile. Thank you for sharing Yogi with us.
Wrote the following comment on Jun 10, 2009 at 7:37 pm
That’s such a nice tribute Simon. My condolences to you and your family.
Wrote the following comment on Jun 11, 2009 at 1:59 am
Sorry to hear about your grandma dude.
Wrote the following comment on Jun 11, 2009 at 5:26 pm
Sad new, but it’s great you have such nice memories of her and Jerry the ted too.
Wrote the following comment on Jun 12, 2009 at 4:10 am
Simon this is such a sweet post. Your Yogi would love knowing you recall her memory so fondly, I’m sure.
That bit about the little man “sleeping” of the cross was just darling.
Wrote the following comment on Jun 16, 2009 at 10:08 pm
Sorry to hear of your loss Simon ~ she’ll be watching over you for sure. Sharing your memories of Yogi reminded me of my late Grandma too. They’re such sweeties, Grandma’s! I found your site by accident when looking for another Simon (Jones) I’ve lost touch with. He thinks I’m still in Africa and we’ve both changed phone numbers and lost touch. I found your blogs interesting though (shared love of sunsets etc) so have been reading for a while. Glad your friends are there for you at this time, take care Simon. Lyn :)
Wrote the following comment on Jun 17, 2009 at 4:10 pm
Hello.
I just lost my Nanny too and yours reminds me a lot of mine. I miss her every day… And she sure was a firecracker. Thanks for being so open about your loss.
:)
Wrote the following comment on Jun 17, 2009 at 6:24 pm
Thanks for the comments everyone.
Wrote the following comment on Jun 17, 2009 at 6:35 pm
Hey Simon ~ I’m sure if I suggested it we would all send you a group hug to help you through so..(((Simon)))
Wrote the following comment on Jun 20, 2009 at 1:25 am
What a wonderful life–I’m glad you have these great memories, even as I’m sad to hear of your loss.