Below the break you'll find the Eulogy that my Dad and I gave for my Mum during her Requiem Mass at St Joseph's Church in Portishead yesterday.
"Karine and I both went to the Canon Kennedy’s Primary School in Liverpool. I started in 1946, Karine in 1947. I don’t think that I was aware of her at School but apparently I made two big impressions on her. The first caused her to go home and tell her mother that her sister had a boy's name - Florence - and she never forgot that in my last year at school I was made a Prefect on the upper floor. She described me as “bossy” and a “snitch”. A good start to a potential relationship.
Fast forward to Christmas 1959, I had gone with family members to Victor Sylvester’s Dance Club, over the Odeon in Liverpool, and in the middle of a “Ladies Excuse Me” I felt a tap on my shoulder and I turned around and the very pretty girl in front of me, whom I knew visually from Church said “Excuse me, you’re Laurence Mooney, I’m Karine Hirst. Will you have this dance with me?”. My dance partner at the time – my sister Barbara - said “Hello Karine” and left us together, and we stayed that way for the next 60 years. We were married in the Metropolitan Cathedral of Christ the King in Liverpool at 2.00 pm on the 9th September 1967 and Karine died at 8.15 pm on the 9th September 2020, fifty-three years later.
We loved each other deeply and took great pride in what we achieved, particularly in our two children, Dominic and Alix, and ultimately our six grandchildren. Our first - and last - enforced extended separation started in March of this year when Karine went into Respite Care in Nailsea, the very day that the home went into lockdown. And she never came home!
And so it is only fair that these youngsters make their contribution about their mother, a ‘Lovely Lady’, a description I have heard of her so many many times since she was taken from us.
--
Thank you, Dad. What follows is a collection of memories of Mum that Alix and I pulled together over the last few weeks after she passed away. We shared them with Dad as he started to write the Eulogy, and he tells us that it shows sides of Mum he never saw. There’s no particular order to them; they are the memories (70 of them) which arose when we thought of her, bringing smiles and tears.
Here our memories of you, which are the sum of what’s left behind in the hearts of the people you touched...
Walking along the River Dane in the wind and rain, wrapped up in anoraks with the dog running ahead, full of the joys of the weather, you with a happy smile across your face.
And also picnics on the island in the middle of the river in the summer, with other children from the street and Mum trying to herd them like cats.
The fierce pride you had in me and my sister when we achieved anything.
The way that you always behaved properly and had high standards in everything you did, standards I always wanted to keep.
The time you came home from a school Christmas party where there had been drinks in the staff room, slightly the worse for wear, and you ended up sitting in the dog’s bed, telling us that at least he didn’t judge you for having a good time.
Walking you up the stairs to your room soon afterwards, joking that surely this was what you were meant to do for a teenager, not the other way around.
Your enduring passion for reading, and in that history especially. The way that your role as librarian at school meshed so wonderfully with that. The way that going to the library was one of our weekly things, and that you’d never really ever tell me off for reading under the covers.
That you could recite all the Kings and Queens of England and when they reigned and which house they belonged to.
Giving Alix Jilly Cooper books to read and a torch then telling her that if she was caught by Dad, you’d would deny everything!
The way you said, “Dominic, what are you doing?” when I skidded on ice and spun your black mini through 360 degrees with you in the passenger seat. And then you took me home & made me hot, sweet tea before we headed back out again to get to school.
The way that you entrusted that same mini to a group of demob happy six formers to go touring North Wales in Youth Hostels for a week. And the fact that you didn’t raise an eyelid that I was doing that with three eighteen-year-old girls.
The way that you walked everywhere. We used to walk for what seemed like forever (but Google Maps says that it’s only 3 miles) with the pram carrying my sister to go to see your parents on Halewood Road. We’d usually have Flash dog along too.
The way that you seemed happiest with dogs and cats. Flash, Rodger, Ben, Danny, Blackie, and Grumble and Grandparents' dogs; Cindy, Rags & Whisky are the ones we knew.
The way that you didn’t have to say anything when my first marriage broke up. You just hugged me and made me my favourite meal when I got home and told me that it’d be alright.
Your patience in matters of your mum, our grandmother especially when she put you through the emotional wringer continuously because you’d moved away from Liverpool and she still expected you to take care of her and didn’t acknowledge the strain that the hour and a half long round trips from Cheshire placed on you.
The time that your plan to get me into swimming lessons that I was a few days too young for failed because I couldn’t lie effectively about my age. “How old are you, young man?” “Four, I mean five, Mummy how old am I?”.
The way you bravely, stoically, fought against Parkinson’s and before that the various joint issues; you tried to hide your frustrations, with Dad probably seeing more of them.
The fact that you could see humour in this; that calling you ‘bionic woman’ didn’t offend you with your hip, knee and shoulder replacements.
The way you were so small and frail the last few times we visited and all I wanted to do was wrap you in my arms and protect you.
The way that your pride and love for Alix and I transferred to the grandchildren; there was always a story about who had been doing what whenever one of us phoned.
Your commitment to Cub Scouting for so many years, when you’d only become a leader to make sure that I could go and join the pack. I left by sixteen, but you stayed on for years.
Getting Alix into Cubs as an honorary member as it was before girls could join, getting her to do badges and the traction engine rally with the other official Cub Scouts.
Sunday afternoons, with the dinner cooking, and you listening to Andy Williams, the Carpenters, Barbara Streisand and Neil Diamond with a glass of something like a martini and tonic or some wine. Whenever we hear those songs, we think of you. I also remember that - by the time I was nine or ten - you’d shown me how to mix the martini properly for you!
You singing along loudly to ABBA on the radio in the car as we went on holiday, usually to Devon. A journey that started when you loaded two tired kids into the car at something like 3AM. I was never sure if you’d been to sleep before we left or not.
The way that you could just drink in the sun, a bit like your dad, Sydney, could. And that you’d go up to the sunbathing rock at the house in Devon (where we stayed again and again) so you could do it in privacy. You’d be up there with a book for hours, occasionally calling down for a cold drink.
The sparkle in you when you went out, especially to the smart events with the Catenians Marriage Care and more.
The fire in your relationship; we’d fight and argue but always back each other up and throw things, lots of things! But we never felt threatened by it; it was the fire between you.
The delight you took in your grandchildren; having them around, hearing their stories, playing with them. The way you looked after Nathan when Jill first went back to work.
The way you noticed things; my interest in gaming, and the way that you facilitated a lifelong passion for me by helping to get the books and games to engage me.
Understanding what made me tick; thinking that I would be engaged by engineering or law and encouraging me that way by helping me to find opportunities. And now I find myself in a career which sits at the confluence of those two disciplines in manufacturing.
The pragmatic streak that took over whenever needed.
The way you went without to make sure that my sister and I could not want for anything, something I only realised as I got older.
Walking along the clifftop path in Devon, having to stop you tripping and falling off because your eyes were on the view into the distance.
The way you’d chase us away laughing if we dropped a bucket of water over you when you were snoozing on the beach, but heaven forbid if we got your book wet.
Your passion for gardening, something you shared with dad, but something I never understood beyond the fact that the garden always looked great.
The winemaking phase; damson, gooseberry, apple… demi-jons stored in the airing cupboard or the loft.
The singing when we were decorating; the time with the wallpaper and calls of ‘the appliance of science’ when papering the ceiling accompanied by a bottle of wine. Certainly, you were enjoying yourselves enough to stop me sleeping.
When you were diagnosed with Parkinson’s after the doctor went out the room you asked Alix to hold your hand and then said ‘well this is a bugger and you need to help me tell your dad because this will really upset him’. You went out into the waiting room and collected dad in the car and when you told him he was naturally upset so you knocked Alix’s leg. The best she could come up with was ‘Mum, think of the new career avenues this opens up for you - you could work in a bar making cocktails, think how the shakes will mix the drinks’. You all cried with laughter; Dad looked at you completely bemused and rolled his eyes but he wasn’t as upset.
When you rang Alix from the bottom of the stairs while she was living in Germany and said ‘well not to worry but I was cleaning the white woodwork and I might have stepped in the washing up bowl and I have slipped down the stairs’. Alix asked if you had hurt yourself and you said ‘of course I have why, would I call you otherwise?’. We’re not quite sure what you hoped she’d do or if you were just looking for a friendly voice.
Alix fell out the door of the car as we left the riding stables; Mum picked her up and dusted her off, making sure she wasn’t injured. You said “well next time don’t lean on the door” - practical advice and one Alix uses with her kids when they lean on the car doors even though we have seat belts now. I got a lecture for not checking Alix’s door was shut, something I always do with my kids.
Alix remembers making the Christmas Yule logs and getting to drag the fork through the chocolate and your love of Christmas cards, so much that she hates when people say they are making a donation to charity in lieu of cards.
When Alix broke her arm and had a cast from armpit to fingers, you told Dominic not to wind Alix up as she might hit him with her cast. She took this as a green light and smacked him around the head with it. When Dom cried Mum said “Well, I told you she would”.
Your love of crochet, dress making and smocking - lots of smocking!
Watching Dynasty on a Friday night as a treat - no Grange Hill or soap operas and definitely not Dallas.
Will saying that the best bit about staying at Grandma’s was having chocolate mousse for breakfast. When Alix asked you about it, you said “What else would I give him, it’s what he asked for?!”
Your fear of driving, which was lifelong, yet you wanted your independence, but it meant the children had a lot of practice driving before their tests as once they started lessons you made them drive you everywhere.
When you crashed Dad’s car into the post of a carpark in Stratford-on-Avon and my exchange student friend Fabrice told you it was ‘zupa’ as we got to go on an AA low-loader home.
When you had just passed your test, we took Flash to Brereton Park; he was whining and you yelled “Shut up!”. Alix and I didn’t say a word after that. You obviously noticed the silence and demanded “what’s wrong, what have I done?”. When I said you told us to shut up, you laughed and said I meant the dog.
Picking blackberries from the hedges, and going to pick your own places where we must have eaten our own weight in strawberries and raspberries.
Your crazy 1980’s perm!
Rowing with Dad about the route you were taking through a town in France in the early hours of the morning. Dad didn’t agree with your directions, you argued and then sat on the map book, and you told him to see how easy he would find it now. You folded your arms and wouldn’t speak to him.
You terrifying French drivers by putting your feet up on the dashboard when we were on holiday and they thought they were looking at the driver!
Sitting in a field on the cliffs by Soar Mill Cove in Devon watching the baby badgers.
Your utter joy when we went to see ‘the Greatest Showman’ - you were totally transfixed.
Your love of ‘Out of Africa’ and ‘Love Story’, you watched them repeatedly with Alix, although perhaps not as often as Alix watched “Top Gun”
Your utter shock when Alix got a German Shepherd when the kids were tiny. Then when you met Archie in person you sat on the floor with him for hours cuddling him and letting him lick you and holding his paw.
Your love of Christmas; carols, lights decorations, lights and real trees. Also, the year you decided we should try Christmas with just the four of us, you got to Christmas night and declared it a terrible idea and we would never do it again, Christmas was about big family meals.
Your having too much to drink at Christmas and sitting on the rag rug Alix had as a present with Eileen and telling us it was a flying carpet. When we suggested it would be dangerous you put a colander on your head and said we shouldn’t worry you had protection.
The day you asked Alix what day the ambulance service closed for Christmas you looked horrified, when Alix said “we are there 24/7”. And a good thing to, as you were often in their care in later life.
Your constant desire to shield dad from your illness, because you worried how it would upset him.
Once your Lewy Body dementia took hold, you lost your filter, often making Alix cry with laughter with you because of some of the things you would come out with and then wink at me afterwards, giggling like a naughty school child! Alix wasn’t sure if it was the Lewy Bodies or an excuse to just get away with it some days
That you would often work your way through the cat and dog’s names before you settled on calling the children by their own.
Drinking with Liz and Sue at Catenian’s events, giggling and wearing sparkly dresses.
That you used to roll your eyes at Alix when you were trying to make her laugh when she shouldn’t be and then pretend you had no idea why she was laughing!
Chasing me around the garden pretending to be a dragon when I was a knight on a hobby horse armed with a spatula and a colander helmet; you always joked that the neighbours would have put you in the looney bin if they’d seen you.
Collecting cards and smoothing out wrapping paper paper on birthdays.
Trips to the library during school holidays for reading sessions, walking down Queens Drive from Dorking Grove towards Fiveways with the roar of traffic going past us.
The way that you justifiably and gently shamed me when I’d taken an old pre-decimalisation 2p from a friend and made me give it back and apologise to make a point about values.
When you came back from taking dad’s Citroen CX Estate up the motorway to Liverpool and the way you denied you’d driven fast, right until dad asked why the wing mirrors had folded in which only happened over a hundred-miles an hour. (But then how did he know?)
You decided to watch the fairy tale horror film ‘A Company of Wolves’ while we went Scout Swimming and we came back to find out that you’d spent part of the time we were away hiding in the downstairs toilet, as Rodger the dog had for some reason just decided to start howling.
The way you and Eileen organised the children to take turns entertaining your mother over Christmas to get some space and time to yourselves, hiding in the kitchen with wine, nibbles and giggles.
The day you left Alix home alone while you went to Ladies Night and she came downstairs later to find the patio door open and Rodger was barking. She rang and got you to come home during the meal as she was scared because she thought someone was in the house. You just gave Alix a hug when you got back, making it right like you always did.
—
Our mum - Karine - will live on in the hearts and memories of those who knew her. Compiling these memories reminded us that she was so much more than just our mother, Dad’s wife, Eileen’s sister, and a grandmother to six. Some of you knew her socially, others knew her from work. Fiercely determined, clever, passionate, faithful, caring and stoic as her body failed her, we ask you to remember happy memories of her, and perhaps share them with us when the time feels right.
Me, I will always remember her smile, and especially the joy she had when outside walking with the dog in the countryside when we were younger or playing with the grandchildren
My mum, Elizebeth (“with three ‘e’s”) Karine Mooney, was born on 2nd April 1942 and died on 9th September 2020. We will all miss her sparkle and smiles.
Pray for her, that she is in a better place and her suffering gone.
Dad's parts highlighted like this.
"Karine and I both went to the Canon Kennedy’s Primary School in Liverpool. I started in 1946, Karine in 1947. I don’t think that I was aware of her at School but apparently I made two big impressions on her. The first caused her to go home and tell her mother that her sister had a boy's name - Florence - and she never forgot that in my last year at school I was made a Prefect on the upper floor. She described me as “bossy” and a “snitch”. A good start to a potential relationship.
Fast forward to Christmas 1959, I had gone with family members to Victor Sylvester’s Dance Club, over the Odeon in Liverpool, and in the middle of a “Ladies Excuse Me” I felt a tap on my shoulder and I turned around and the very pretty girl in front of me, whom I knew visually from Church said “Excuse me, you’re Laurence Mooney, I’m Karine Hirst. Will you have this dance with me?”. My dance partner at the time – my sister Barbara - said “Hello Karine” and left us together, and we stayed that way for the next 60 years. We were married in the Metropolitan Cathedral of Christ the King in Liverpool at 2.00 pm on the 9th September 1967 and Karine died at 8.15 pm on the 9th September 2020, fifty-three years later.
We loved each other deeply and took great pride in what we achieved, particularly in our two children, Dominic and Alix, and ultimately our six grandchildren. Our first - and last - enforced extended separation started in March of this year when Karine went into Respite Care in Nailsea, the very day that the home went into lockdown. And she never came home!
And so it is only fair that these youngsters make their contribution about their mother, a ‘Lovely Lady’, a description I have heard of her so many many times since she was taken from us.
--
Thank you, Dad. What follows is a collection of memories of Mum that Alix and I pulled together over the last few weeks after she passed away. We shared them with Dad as he started to write the Eulogy, and he tells us that it shows sides of Mum he never saw. There’s no particular order to them; they are the memories (70 of them) which arose when we thought of her, bringing smiles and tears.
Here our memories of you, which are the sum of what’s left behind in the hearts of the people you touched...
Walking along the River Dane in the wind and rain, wrapped up in anoraks with the dog running ahead, full of the joys of the weather, you with a happy smile across your face.
And also picnics on the island in the middle of the river in the summer, with other children from the street and Mum trying to herd them like cats.
The fierce pride you had in me and my sister when we achieved anything.
The way that you always behaved properly and had high standards in everything you did, standards I always wanted to keep.
The time you came home from a school Christmas party where there had been drinks in the staff room, slightly the worse for wear, and you ended up sitting in the dog’s bed, telling us that at least he didn’t judge you for having a good time.
Walking you up the stairs to your room soon afterwards, joking that surely this was what you were meant to do for a teenager, not the other way around.
Your enduring passion for reading, and in that history especially. The way that your role as librarian at school meshed so wonderfully with that. The way that going to the library was one of our weekly things, and that you’d never really ever tell me off for reading under the covers.
That you could recite all the Kings and Queens of England and when they reigned and which house they belonged to.
Giving Alix Jilly Cooper books to read and a torch then telling her that if she was caught by Dad, you’d would deny everything!
The way you said, “Dominic, what are you doing?” when I skidded on ice and spun your black mini through 360 degrees with you in the passenger seat. And then you took me home & made me hot, sweet tea before we headed back out again to get to school.
The way that you entrusted that same mini to a group of demob happy six formers to go touring North Wales in Youth Hostels for a week. And the fact that you didn’t raise an eyelid that I was doing that with three eighteen-year-old girls.
The way that you walked everywhere. We used to walk for what seemed like forever (but Google Maps says that it’s only 3 miles) with the pram carrying my sister to go to see your parents on Halewood Road. We’d usually have Flash dog along too.
The way that you seemed happiest with dogs and cats. Flash, Rodger, Ben, Danny, Blackie, and Grumble and Grandparents' dogs; Cindy, Rags & Whisky are the ones we knew.
The way that you didn’t have to say anything when my first marriage broke up. You just hugged me and made me my favourite meal when I got home and told me that it’d be alright.
Your patience in matters of your mum, our grandmother especially when she put you through the emotional wringer continuously because you’d moved away from Liverpool and she still expected you to take care of her and didn’t acknowledge the strain that the hour and a half long round trips from Cheshire placed on you.
The time that your plan to get me into swimming lessons that I was a few days too young for failed because I couldn’t lie effectively about my age. “How old are you, young man?” “Four, I mean five, Mummy how old am I?”.
The way you bravely, stoically, fought against Parkinson’s and before that the various joint issues; you tried to hide your frustrations, with Dad probably seeing more of them.
The fact that you could see humour in this; that calling you ‘bionic woman’ didn’t offend you with your hip, knee and shoulder replacements.
The way you were so small and frail the last few times we visited and all I wanted to do was wrap you in my arms and protect you.
The way that your pride and love for Alix and I transferred to the grandchildren; there was always a story about who had been doing what whenever one of us phoned.
Your commitment to Cub Scouting for so many years, when you’d only become a leader to make sure that I could go and join the pack. I left by sixteen, but you stayed on for years.
Getting Alix into Cubs as an honorary member as it was before girls could join, getting her to do badges and the traction engine rally with the other official Cub Scouts.
Sunday afternoons, with the dinner cooking, and you listening to Andy Williams, the Carpenters, Barbara Streisand and Neil Diamond with a glass of something like a martini and tonic or some wine. Whenever we hear those songs, we think of you. I also remember that - by the time I was nine or ten - you’d shown me how to mix the martini properly for you!
You singing along loudly to ABBA on the radio in the car as we went on holiday, usually to Devon. A journey that started when you loaded two tired kids into the car at something like 3AM. I was never sure if you’d been to sleep before we left or not.
The way that you could just drink in the sun, a bit like your dad, Sydney, could. And that you’d go up to the sunbathing rock at the house in Devon (where we stayed again and again) so you could do it in privacy. You’d be up there with a book for hours, occasionally calling down for a cold drink.
The sparkle in you when you went out, especially to the smart events with the Catenians Marriage Care and more.
The fire in your relationship; we’d fight and argue but always back each other up and throw things, lots of things! But we never felt threatened by it; it was the fire between you.
The delight you took in your grandchildren; having them around, hearing their stories, playing with them. The way you looked after Nathan when Jill first went back to work.
The way you noticed things; my interest in gaming, and the way that you facilitated a lifelong passion for me by helping to get the books and games to engage me.
Understanding what made me tick; thinking that I would be engaged by engineering or law and encouraging me that way by helping me to find opportunities. And now I find myself in a career which sits at the confluence of those two disciplines in manufacturing.
The pragmatic streak that took over whenever needed.
The way you went without to make sure that my sister and I could not want for anything, something I only realised as I got older.
Walking along the clifftop path in Devon, having to stop you tripping and falling off because your eyes were on the view into the distance.
The way you’d chase us away laughing if we dropped a bucket of water over you when you were snoozing on the beach, but heaven forbid if we got your book wet.
Your passion for gardening, something you shared with dad, but something I never understood beyond the fact that the garden always looked great.
The winemaking phase; damson, gooseberry, apple… demi-jons stored in the airing cupboard or the loft.
The singing when we were decorating; the time with the wallpaper and calls of ‘the appliance of science’ when papering the ceiling accompanied by a bottle of wine. Certainly, you were enjoying yourselves enough to stop me sleeping.
When you were diagnosed with Parkinson’s after the doctor went out the room you asked Alix to hold your hand and then said ‘well this is a bugger and you need to help me tell your dad because this will really upset him’. You went out into the waiting room and collected dad in the car and when you told him he was naturally upset so you knocked Alix’s leg. The best she could come up with was ‘Mum, think of the new career avenues this opens up for you - you could work in a bar making cocktails, think how the shakes will mix the drinks’. You all cried with laughter; Dad looked at you completely bemused and rolled his eyes but he wasn’t as upset.
When you rang Alix from the bottom of the stairs while she was living in Germany and said ‘well not to worry but I was cleaning the white woodwork and I might have stepped in the washing up bowl and I have slipped down the stairs’. Alix asked if you had hurt yourself and you said ‘of course I have why, would I call you otherwise?’. We’re not quite sure what you hoped she’d do or if you were just looking for a friendly voice.
Alix fell out the door of the car as we left the riding stables; Mum picked her up and dusted her off, making sure she wasn’t injured. You said “well next time don’t lean on the door” - practical advice and one Alix uses with her kids when they lean on the car doors even though we have seat belts now. I got a lecture for not checking Alix’s door was shut, something I always do with my kids.
Alix remembers making the Christmas Yule logs and getting to drag the fork through the chocolate and your love of Christmas cards, so much that she hates when people say they are making a donation to charity in lieu of cards.
When Alix broke her arm and had a cast from armpit to fingers, you told Dominic not to wind Alix up as she might hit him with her cast. She took this as a green light and smacked him around the head with it. When Dom cried Mum said “Well, I told you she would”.
Your love of crochet, dress making and smocking - lots of smocking!
Watching Dynasty on a Friday night as a treat - no Grange Hill or soap operas and definitely not Dallas.
Will saying that the best bit about staying at Grandma’s was having chocolate mousse for breakfast. When Alix asked you about it, you said “What else would I give him, it’s what he asked for?!”
Your fear of driving, which was lifelong, yet you wanted your independence, but it meant the children had a lot of practice driving before their tests as once they started lessons you made them drive you everywhere.
When you crashed Dad’s car into the post of a carpark in Stratford-on-Avon and my exchange student friend Fabrice told you it was ‘zupa’ as we got to go on an AA low-loader home.
When you had just passed your test, we took Flash to Brereton Park; he was whining and you yelled “Shut up!”. Alix and I didn’t say a word after that. You obviously noticed the silence and demanded “what’s wrong, what have I done?”. When I said you told us to shut up, you laughed and said I meant the dog.
Picking blackberries from the hedges, and going to pick your own places where we must have eaten our own weight in strawberries and raspberries.
Your crazy 1980’s perm!
Rowing with Dad about the route you were taking through a town in France in the early hours of the morning. Dad didn’t agree with your directions, you argued and then sat on the map book, and you told him to see how easy he would find it now. You folded your arms and wouldn’t speak to him.
You terrifying French drivers by putting your feet up on the dashboard when we were on holiday and they thought they were looking at the driver!
Sitting in a field on the cliffs by Soar Mill Cove in Devon watching the baby badgers.
Your utter joy when we went to see ‘the Greatest Showman’ - you were totally transfixed.
Your love of ‘Out of Africa’ and ‘Love Story’, you watched them repeatedly with Alix, although perhaps not as often as Alix watched “Top Gun”
Your utter shock when Alix got a German Shepherd when the kids were tiny. Then when you met Archie in person you sat on the floor with him for hours cuddling him and letting him lick you and holding his paw.
Your love of Christmas; carols, lights decorations, lights and real trees. Also, the year you decided we should try Christmas with just the four of us, you got to Christmas night and declared it a terrible idea and we would never do it again, Christmas was about big family meals.
Your having too much to drink at Christmas and sitting on the rag rug Alix had as a present with Eileen and telling us it was a flying carpet. When we suggested it would be dangerous you put a colander on your head and said we shouldn’t worry you had protection.
The day you asked Alix what day the ambulance service closed for Christmas you looked horrified, when Alix said “we are there 24/7”. And a good thing to, as you were often in their care in later life.
Your constant desire to shield dad from your illness, because you worried how it would upset him.
Once your Lewy Body dementia took hold, you lost your filter, often making Alix cry with laughter with you because of some of the things you would come out with and then wink at me afterwards, giggling like a naughty school child! Alix wasn’t sure if it was the Lewy Bodies or an excuse to just get away with it some days
That you would often work your way through the cat and dog’s names before you settled on calling the children by their own.
Drinking with Liz and Sue at Catenian’s events, giggling and wearing sparkly dresses.
That you used to roll your eyes at Alix when you were trying to make her laugh when she shouldn’t be and then pretend you had no idea why she was laughing!
Chasing me around the garden pretending to be a dragon when I was a knight on a hobby horse armed with a spatula and a colander helmet; you always joked that the neighbours would have put you in the looney bin if they’d seen you.
Collecting cards and smoothing out wrapping paper paper on birthdays.
Trips to the library during school holidays for reading sessions, walking down Queens Drive from Dorking Grove towards Fiveways with the roar of traffic going past us.
The way that you justifiably and gently shamed me when I’d taken an old pre-decimalisation 2p from a friend and made me give it back and apologise to make a point about values.
When you came back from taking dad’s Citroen CX Estate up the motorway to Liverpool and the way you denied you’d driven fast, right until dad asked why the wing mirrors had folded in which only happened over a hundred-miles an hour. (But then how did he know?)
You decided to watch the fairy tale horror film ‘A Company of Wolves’ while we went Scout Swimming and we came back to find out that you’d spent part of the time we were away hiding in the downstairs toilet, as Rodger the dog had for some reason just decided to start howling.
The way you and Eileen organised the children to take turns entertaining your mother over Christmas to get some space and time to yourselves, hiding in the kitchen with wine, nibbles and giggles.
The day you left Alix home alone while you went to Ladies Night and she came downstairs later to find the patio door open and Rodger was barking. She rang and got you to come home during the meal as she was scared because she thought someone was in the house. You just gave Alix a hug when you got back, making it right like you always did.
—
Our mum - Karine - will live on in the hearts and memories of those who knew her. Compiling these memories reminded us that she was so much more than just our mother, Dad’s wife, Eileen’s sister, and a grandmother to six. Some of you knew her socially, others knew her from work. Fiercely determined, clever, passionate, faithful, caring and stoic as her body failed her, we ask you to remember happy memories of her, and perhaps share them with us when the time feels right.
Me, I will always remember her smile, and especially the joy she had when outside walking with the dog in the countryside when we were younger or playing with the grandchildren
My mum, Elizebeth (“with three ‘e’s”) Karine Mooney, was born on 2nd April 1942 and died on 9th September 2020. We will all miss her sparkle and smiles.
Pray for her, that she is in a better place and her suffering gone.
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The Livestream of the Mass is on Vimeo, and linked below.
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