Holly Faye Dixon
Anne Hartley
She was also a listening volunteer for the Samaritans, and honestly, I couldn't imagine a more soothing voice to hear on the other end of the phone during a difficult time. Even I can admit, my Gran was a safe place to call when I was upset or hurting. My Mother would call my Gran almost every day to catch up. Nothing would be more precious that being able to hear my Gran's voice now.
She treasured every occasion. Every Christmas and birthday, she handmade cards that deserved to be framed and hung on the wall. She would send regular care packages from Scotland filled with Easter eggs, advent calendars and gifts when she wasn't able to visit. Of course, every package was duct-taped so securely that extracting presents was a near surgical operation.
She was the kindest person. She had a real gentleness to her, her presence made everything lighter, more fun, more soothing. She could giggle at the silliest thing, and often dazzled with the stories of her clumsiness, including forgetting a large pair of garden shears in her bag before a flight to visit us in England, and being questioned by airport security. It was amazing how she could be so nimble and poised with a brush but so carefree in life. She was cheerful and silly. She liked to name inanimate objects and befriend stray cats. She adored Japanese culture and almost always had NHK, the Japanese Broadcasting Corporation, on the TV so that she could learn as much as she could. She once visited Japan for her 60th birthday, and I think she would have lived in Japan and been very happy there.
She was everything you would want a grandparent to be. She inspired me in so many ways, and I can only hope to live up to the legacy she left behind; she is and was in many ways a role model not only of a wonderfully creative person, but a kind, generous soul.
In the last year of her life, my Gran enjoyed the little pleasures in life, like going out to eat dessert (when her muted appetite allowed between chemotherapy) and watching The Great British Bake Off when she couldn't sleep. After her death, she hand wrote a novel which I am still combing through, taking in the intricacies of her imagination on each page. I remember almost ten years ago, she explained the family tree of her characters, and how they all interconnected, and I was awed by the level of detail and care she put into her writing. I wanted to put that same care into her eulogy.
I wrote her eulogy in the week after receiving the news of her death, but I found it difficult to put words on the paper. I wanted my tribute to my Gran to be perfect. So while I gathered my memories, I hand wrote funeral invitations and compiled her favourite music for the service. Of course, everything has a deadline, even a tribute to your Gran's life, as the funeral was fast approaching. To help inspire the memories that would best encapsulate her, I listened to peaceful music and watched a Japanese painting tutorial as I wrote, with photos of my Gran surrounding my laptop. Tears were shed, as was to be expected, but I finally wrote the eulogy I felt truly reflected my Gran as I knew her.
I hope my Gran would have felt honoured, celebrated and loved by the words I wrote.
Anne Hartley was my Gran. She suffered with stage four cancer for over a year, and my Mother moved in with her to help with around the clock care and hospital appointments. She passed away in September of 2023, and shortly afterwards, I wrote a eulogy to commemorate her life at her funeral service in Scotland. The artwork on this page all belongs to Anne Hartley.
To provide a brief history of my Gran's life, she first lived in England during her marriage to my Grandfather where she raised my Mother. After her divorce, she moved to Scotland and made a cosy home there with a delightful garden. My Gran was beloved in our family. She had a talent for everything creative, but she was an artist at heart. She taught art classes, worked as a cleaner at hotels and a mansion and was often commissioned to make clothes, paintings and various crafts.
A Eulogy For Anne Hartley
The careful precision of a black pen against the morning light cast over a pad of thick paper. The comforting hug of an armchair by the window on an early morning, observing the peaceful yet firm silence of a house before anyone has stirred. Petite, light-footed birds liked to land on brittle branches and hop along the patio floor under the warmth of her curious gaze. Were they posing for her? Was life standing still to be on her canvas?
She had gentleness that was unparalleled and an appreciative word for everything in nature, from dainty wilting garden flowers to the whisper of a deer through the trees. Her mind was one that seemed rich, teeming with ideas like flickering fish in a pond. She had endless things to say but guarded her words and spoke selectively, as if letting you peer round a hidden door in her psyche when you were not brave enough to enter.
She couldn’t always stand without wobbling but she could hold you in fierce protective pride of her cardigan and know you were loved, while the silky softness of her blonde hair tickled your face. For all her grace and poise, she was clumsy; the smallest things - her glasses sliding off her lap, losing her pen, the abomination of someone having brown sauce with dinner - would produce a toothy grin, bright shining eyes and a giggle that would keep going until there were tears. Quiet, cheerful arguments were often had with a cat who refused to be reasoned with and insisted on being spoiled.
She spent her spare time writing love letters to her children, her family, etching her affection into every page with each flick of a brush or scratch of charcoal. We live in fast impatient pleasures and high stress requirements that never loosen their grip, and she lived perfectly in sync to her own tempo, a secret peacefulness that we will not know or understand.
There are always people who we are never going to have enough time with. She had the rare kindness of a person that everyone wants to stay forever. A life as precious as the ones she admired through looking glasses and recreated on light, delicate tracing paper.
We truly lost the best part of us. We lost Anne.
