Scrambler

​An Australian Creative Director and Strategist fumbles through life in America. Live from New York.

An Australian Creative Director and Strategist fumbles through life New York City.

Memories of Joan.

13 years ago, my father passed away. This week, his mother (and my grandmother) also passed. I reached out to my cousins and family to express my condolences, and I thought I'd share my thoughts.

Luce and I knew her well for 16 (and 14) years, and Mum for even longer. In my memory, she was always a gentle lady, and I have fond memories of her husky voice, chatting with Dad, Luce and I over a cup of tea and a biscuit in the kitchen at Eastwood. I remember her laugh, which was usually a series of wheezes accompanied by a good natured smile. I remember her hair, and I remember her bickering good naturedly with Aunty Anne, often over the finer points of a film’s plot, or the activities of a neighbor I’d never met, but that Dad, Anne, Tony and Carol grew up with. They all loved a gossip and a chat, didn’t they?

I remember the pomegranate tree in her backyard, and I remember being incredibly impressed by Uncle Ren’s soccer skills in her backyard on a hot Easter weekend sometime during the mid-90s. I remember a tree stump, a Hills Hoist on a concrete path, and a shed with spiders in it. I remember talking to Uncle Tony about diving, and listening to Dad and Tony reminisce about trips up the coast. I remember the food being incredible, and I remember how much Dad, Tony, Anne and Carol cared about her. Well, I remember as much as I can, from the back of my mind where all the memories of childhood hang out, mixing and melding together.

Rest in peace, Nanny Joan. I hope you are looking down on us, enjoying a cup of tea with your husband, and both of your sons.