A lot has been said today about Margaret the wife, Margaret the mother, Margaret the sister and friend. I’m here to tell you about my Nan.
Nan, who you could talk about anything with. If I ever was home when Mum and Nan were on the phone, it sounded like such everyday things, things I’d wonder “why would they be talking about that?” Once I was a little older, and started talking to Nan on the phone every now and then as well, I knew. It’s what Nan wanted to hear about. She was just as interested in the everyday stuff as she was the extraordinary.
Nan, who loved her reality TV – and god forbid you call her during Big Brother or Australian Idol! I grew out of both shows, but I had to keep up with the basics at least, because Nan would always ask me what I thought of such-and-such, and "isn’t that little Irish bloke” a good singer?
Nan, who was a great judge of character. When I got back together with Scott, and subsequently married him, she seemed happiest of all. She’d always liked him, and told me off when we broke up originally.
Nan, who would always have a full spread of food – or at least ham rolls – no matter if you gave her no notice you were coming over. You could drop in after not seeing her for a month, and it would be like you were expected. Hot dogs or dim sims cooking on the stove, Nan making you cups of tea (when you really wanted some sarsaparilla) And on that note – who, out of all the grandchildren here, is not addicted to sweet tea and sarsaparilla now because of Nan? Cream, sugar, and jam sandwiches? Sticking your finger in the sugar bowl?
Nan, who would tell me off if I wasn’t wearing socks, shoes, and a warm jacket if I went over her place. Even in the middle of summer, if I walked in barefoot, she’d force shoes on me.
Nan, who was always just there. This past week has been so strange – Mum didn’t have her daily phone call over a cup of coffee. When we walked into Nan and Pa’s house, Nan wasn’t bustling around the kitchen. We’ve all just been lost.
Nan, who when my son died and then was born, visited us in the hospital and willingly overlooked the fact he was gone. He wasn’t just a cruel statistic to her. He kissed his little cheeks, stroked his feet, and told him how beautiful he was. She didn’t care that he’d never open his eyes and laugh at her. She looked at her great-grandson and smiled at him rather than cry like so many others have done. I’m comforted by the fact that they’re together now, wherever that may be.
Nan, who found out I was pregnant again and immediately ran out to buy a heap of baby stuff. And bringing everything back to the beginning... Nan, who taught my Mum how to be a good mum. When people told mum she was “spoiling” me as a baby, Nan was the one holding her hand and telling her she was doing a good job.
For all of these things I am grateful. I may have never realised it until this week, but I am a better person for having been her granddaughter. I will someday be a Nan my grandkids can talk to, who will give them sweet tea and sarsaparilla. I’ll be the mum holding my daughters’ hands as they learn how to be mothers themselves. And I’ll never stop telling my family I love them. Nan never did.
How do I write everything I feel in such a small space?
I know it's not incredibly important, and I can say all I want at her funeral (there's another headache - I put myself in charge of the photo slideshow and promptly realised I didn't know how to put it on DVD!), but you didn't know her. She collected all the notices in the paper for everyone she was even remotely connected to - sometimes she'd even critique them 
- so it needs to be perfect for her.
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