The Front Door Was Always Open

In fear of feeling uninspired with my blog posts, I’ve decided that I should take it back to the very start. And for me, it was never a case of ‘what’ inspired me to start writing, it was a person. My Grandma, Audrey Rotherham. 

My Grandma was an English teacher and a lover of theatre and literature. Her house reflected every part of who she was; intelligent, busy and a tad eccentric. Shelves overflowed with literature, poetry collections and plays. 

Growing up with her just around the corner from us, I think it’s fair to say that I spent more than half of my childhood in her house. 

After sadly being widowed in her fifties, Grandma spent the majority of her life fiercely independent but never alone. She built a life full of creativity, intellect and warmth which she poured into the people around her — mostly me, though everyone who knew Grandma learnt something from her.

The woman was good at everything. She taught me how to bake, cook, sew, draw, paint and write. Honestly, if it was creative, she could do it, and would patiently teach you until you could too. Her passions quickly became mine simply through the joy that radiated from her whenever she spoke about them.

Since we lost her in 2023 during my second year of university, there hasn’t been an essay submitted, blog I’ve written or job application I’ve sent off without wondering what she would have thought of it all. 

What would she have made of my dissertation on Tennesee Williams’ A Streetcar Named Desire, which was dedicated to her?

To even the lecture she would be giving me now if I admitted I haven’t properly finished reading a book in far too long. 

So, if you’re reading this… is of course my own project but also, shamelessly dedicated to making sure I’m keeping the passions I shared with my Grandma alive. 

Writing about topics I care deeply about has always scared me due to the fear that I won’t be doing them justice or failing to capture how much it means to me. And my Grandma is definitely one of them – if not the most prominent one. 

So, I hope someone reading this who didn’t know her is able to get a glimpse into the superwoman she was. 

My Grandma never seemed old to me, so in a strange way, I never really expected her to die. I know that sounds ridiculous because death is inevitable, but she was always so sharp — nothing ever went over her head. She was constantly busy: driving somewhere, visiting friends or coming over every Sunday for dinner. 

So when her health unexpectedly started to deteriorate, I wasn’t prepared to lose her. I’m not sure whether I was turning a blind eye to protect myself from the scary thought of her not being there anymore, or whether she really was more unwell than I realised. I was away at university when she took a turn, so I didn’t witness it firsthand, but I think a part of me had simply convinced itself that she was invincible.

One of my fondest memories with her is actually a more recent one. When my brother and I went off to university, she kept in contact by writing us letters. We became pen pals, and I always looked forward to collecting my post from the mailroom. And of course, there would always be a sneaky tenner tucked inside labelled ‘beer money’.

I still have every letter she wrote to me, and after she died, my brother and I found the ones we had written to her stored in separate folders she’d made for us. Inside were little tokens and snippets of our lives; achievements, birthday cards we had made her, drawings and theatre tickets from shows she’d taken us to see.

But really, our best memories are the ones from my childhood. The ones that formed so many of the interests and perspectives I still have now.

I’d often find newspaper articles she had cut out posted through our letterbox that she thought may have been interesting to me. From random things I had mentioned to her, to articles about a book I was reading at school. Not only was it nice to know how often she was thinking of us grandkids but also how eager she was to help and be involved in our lives.

We went to the theatre most weekends (back in the day when tickets were only a tenner). By the time I was fifteen, I was lucky enough to have seen pretty much every major play — a privilege that definitely isn’t lost on me.

As I got older, she even encouraged me to invite my friends along in case I had “better” things to do. Though this was never really the case, it’s so special to me that many of my childhood friends also have fond memories of my Grandma. Some even joined us for our weekly Pizza Express Thursdays, a tradition that lasted right up until I left sixth form.

She was the type of person who would ask waitresses where they were from, whether they had children and what they wanted to do in life. Her natural curiosity was what led to so many of her friendships (some rather unconventional) and ultimately what made her so widely loved.

I remember the day of her funeral, walking down the aisle to our seats at the front and realising the church didn’t have an empty seat in sight. In fact, they had to put out extra chairs for the number of people who came.

In a strange way, this transformed a devastating day into a beautiful celebration of life. Seeing just how many people loved my Grandma the way I did was incredibly comforting. As a family, we already knew how many friends she had, yet seeing all the people who she had an impact on gathered in one room was incredibly special. 

She really was the kind of person everyone adored simply because she made time and effort for everyone she knew. And to me, that is a life well lived.

With all her magical traits, my Grandma was incredibly stubborn. Despite being optimistic and open to everyone’s opinions and views, she knew what she wanted and how she wanted it. 

For example, she struggled with the adjustment of everything moving online. So, to help her stay in contact with old friends, keep up with theatre ticket releases and new shows, we bought her an iPad. I wrote step by step instructions on how to turn it on, unlock the home screen and use Safari and email. But, rest assured, it stayed in the box, untouched and left to gather dust. 

She was stuck in her ways and couldn't understand why no one would want to have a conversation over the phone anymore or respond in writing.

She also loved to challenge your opinions (just to spark a healthy debate) but in a way that made you rethink everything. 

“And why do you think that, Olivia?” 

“You must be able to form an argument on your opinions, Olivia.”

Especially during my moody, non-verbal teenage years, this could be frustrating. But with hindsight, it was her way of encouraging us to think critically and engage. To analyse and pay attention to the things around us instead of just simply accepting things as the way they are. 

With this forming the foundation of my childhood, I’ve come to realise that this is also the core of theatre and literature. The best stories are the ones that make you think and question, even long after you’ve finished. And despite a degree in English Literature, my understanding of this had started long before the lectures and studying. It started with my Grandma, surrounded by books, and endless conversations that taught me how to think, engage and form sound arguments. 

Yet, one of the most important influences she had on me was her belief that there was nothing too ambitious for myself and my brother to strive for. She would always push us to go for the most challenging options and to take risks because, as she always used to say…

“The front door is always open.” 

Which was her way of saying that if things didn’t work out, we would always have the stability of our family to rely on. That no matter what choices we make or risks we take, that trying is always worth it. 

This was also quite literal, as Grandma did actually always have her front door open. For the kids next door to come in and chat with her and for her neighbours who would often call in for a cup of tea. 

We used to walk into her house and she’d say “YooHoo” from the living room so we knew where to find her. 

As I mentioned earlier, she was never alone and anyone who was lonely could always trust Audrey to be there for them. 

Grief is strange because life continues to move forward regardless of how badly you want it to pause. But through writing, I’ve realised that losing someone doesn’t necessarily mean losing the parts of them they gave to you. 

I guess in some ways you could say that every opinion I form, every article I read and every sentence I write, carries traces of my Grandma in it.

I know this blog would have excited her, even if I would’ve had to print out every post for her to read. I know she’d still be cutting out articles about blogging or hot topics that I could write my opinions on and be posting them through the letterbox.

Although it devastates me that she isn’t here to see where life takes me, maybe this is my way of keeping her with me anyway.

So if you’re reading this, you’re also reading a little piece of everything my Grandma spent years teaching me: to stay curious, to think critically, to engage with the world around me, to make time for people and most importantly, to keep writing.