Catherine Cookson - Master of Sardonic Wit! Who knew?
Back in the fifties and sixties - the era that was my childhood’s wide, broad and unrestricted demesne - Catherine was a household name, and one of the most widely read novelists in those burgeoning days of postwar recovery.
But the aftermath of the war was not pleasant for this brave and wonderful woman.
The “thin ice of modern life”, to tell it Pink Floyd’s way, cracked under her overwrought steps. She fell “out of her depth and out of her mind.”
Her recovery was slow.
Being talented, she decided to WRITE for her therapy. And it worked.
And it made her into a hula-hoop era STAR...
This beautiful novel - found tucked in the back of her bedroom dresser drawer, after she passed away - was a private form of therapy. It’s about temporary stress-related mental illness and the consequential bum rap that hangs over its victims FOR LIFE.
And it’s HILARIOUS.
And Catherine WAS John the Gravedigger, at least in spirit.
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You know, your forties can be an ordeal. AND the period that follows them.
For that’s when menopause begins for the ladies, and for you lucky guys... mid-life crisis! That hurdle was the TALLEST one I ever tried to get over.
The sources of my earlier stressed-out paranoia had become clear through rational daylight.
The trolls around me had removed their Cloaks of Invisibility. Suspicions had morphed into Facts. And I was overcome by the existentialist’s sense of the Absurd.
The Real was set on its Head. “Hic opus est: hic labor!” Yes, Latin Virgil was right. Now for some REAL Work.
But poor John the Gravedigger's got midage crisis SO bad he SEES things. Like, for example, St Christopher.
St Christopher walks, talks and breathes constantly by his side. And John's not even Catholic.
So like that poète maudit of the modern novel, Malcolm Lowry, he's now Under the Volcano. And he's losing all credibility fast. Will he bring the world down on his head - or will he once again scramble up to sanity?
In my own case, my meds always in my pocket, I weathered a much smaller storm for the next thirty years. So even though at retirement I burned out, the fun had only begun...
But my faith would see me through.
You know, life’s a rum business.
Just don't overplay your hand, like John the Gravedigger.
Don’t give voice to too many concerns, either, if you have a reliable fallback.
Aim for Quiet Resilience.
And weather it all out - till it’s over.
Till you find yourself safe again...
At the Eye of the Storm.