Grandparents...

After talking about my nan briefly during Stella's birth story, I felt it might be nice to share a little more about these wonderful people I was blessed to have in my life growing up.

My Nan, is my dad's mum. Her name was Dorothy, but most people called her Dossie, and she was awesome. She is where I get my crafty side from. She was an amazing knitter and sewer, she made all of my clothes when I was small (before name brands become essential) and my barbies and cabbage patch dolls had extensive wardrobes thanks to her. She taught me to knit and sew as a child, neither of which I do well anymore. She also taught me to cross stitch, which I still do quite a bit of and am rather good and quick at. She lived with my pop across the road from my primary school and each day used to bring me and my closest friends treats at recess and lunch. In winter it would be hot milo or tomato soup with toast, in summer, home made icypoles or ice cream cones. She was fastidious about neat hair and straight parts, and every morning I would sit at her feet while she did my hair for school. Never a hair out of place, no bumps and pigtails were always exactly even.

She was a wonderful cook of meals. She did the best ox tail and veggie soup. Granted I don't eat veggies but the broth and ox tail from that soup was the best thing ever on a cold winters day. She did a full roast dinner every Sunday lunch and never have I found anyone who does roast potatoes as good as she did. She wasn't much of a dessert cook, but always had time to help make toffee, or chocolate crackles or honey comb with me as a child to indulge my whims.

She spoilt me rotten. I had my own room there and spent several nights a week at nan's house. If there was a new toy out, she would get it for me, she even fought with a lady at the toy shop over the last black my child doll, because I wanted a black one. Natarsha, as she was named, still holds pride of place on my dresser now, dressed fully in a hand knitted navy and red outfit, complete with knickers and all... I was so spoilt that my nan paid for my first car. From the day I was born she had been saving her 1 & 2 cent pieces and putting them into an account for me, when they stopped making them she started putting her 5 cent pieces in instead. By the time I turned 18, there was almost $1500 in the account to buy my first car, a 1982 Holden Gemini.

I'm not sure if she was just slightly morbid, or if she truly believed it, but she asked me to wear the necklace she wore on her wedding day when I did my deb ball in 1995 as she felt she wouldn't be here to see me married and she figured my deb dress was close enough to a wedding dress. So I did. I didn't particularly like the necklace as a 16 year old, but I could see how much it meant to her, so I wore it. Needless to say I also wore the necklace on my wedding day in 2004 with my nan there to celebrate with me. It has been left to me to care for, it was given to my nan by her own mother-in-law as her something old on her wedding day, so it has been in our family for over 100 years now. Several of my aunts and cousins have also been married in the necklace, and in time I hope to collate a photo history of the necklace to travel with it on its journey through our family. Which I really should do before any more of my great aunts pass on.

My last memory of her is at home, she got very sick very fast and passed quickly. It was what she always wanted, her sisters got dementia and suffered before passing, and she didn't want that to happen to her. She had asked to see me, I burst into tears as soon as I got there, she held me and told me to not be silly, she wasn't going anywhere, she was going to hold that baby of mine before she gave up the fight. If only her prediction was right.

My Pop, my dad's dad, is a big loud bellowing man. His name is Ronald, but everyone called him Tom (his middle name) He was a farrier and knew a whole lot about horses and seemingly cows and other animals too. It is from my pop that I get my love of all things fruity as well as my storytelling skills. My nan and pop had huge fruit trees in their backyard at home. As a child I climbed these trees and overindulged on blood plums, apples, apricots and locuts... there was also a huge fyjoa tree, but I don't like those. Pop would bring me home cherries and strawberries and mango's from the markets and we would sit like royalty stuffing our faces with out sweet delights.

During these times curled up on his lap eating fruit, he would tell me story after story. He had stories about all kinds of things, and as a child I loved them all. But the one that sticks with me all these years later, is the one about the hobyahs. The story is about a little old woman and a little old man who live in the forest with their dog (his name changed regularly). Each night the hobyahs (who were like horrible little goblin creatures who wanted to eat them) would come up to the house and the dog would bark and bark and the little old man would get cross and yell at the dog, each night cutting off part of the dog to teach him a lesson (yep charming story for a young child) so first was his tail, then an hear, leg, nose, etc until there was no dog left anymore. The next night, the hobyahs came again, this time because there was no dog to scare them off, they kidnapped the little old woman and took her back to their camp. When the little old man woke up he was shocked to find his wife gone, so he put the dog back together again (umm yeah ok...) and off they went to find the little old woman. They did, the hobyahs were going to cook and eat her, but the dog barked and scared them all off and the little old man rescued her and they lived happily ever after.... naturally you need to have the lap of a loving poppy and the voices and snarls for this story to really work, but it was this time with him that began my passion for storytelling and hearing stories.

He also taught me a healthy respect for animals. I was not allowed to be afraid of horses, but was never to trust them. His joking began my complete and utter fear of cows. One day out at 'the block' where our horses were kept, a cow had birthed a new calf. He was going out to make sure it was all OK as the calf hadn't gotten up to walk as yet and he asked if I wanted to come with him. Sure! Half way across the paddock he joked I had better be careful the bull didn't charge me seeing as I was wearing red! That was it, I bolted right out of that paddock and will not go near cows now, EVER. The worst bit is that there wasn't even a bull in the paddock, not to mention that they charge movement not red. It was also during my time out 'the block' that my love of molasses was started. For those who don't know, molasses is a thick black sticky sweet substance, its a stage in sugar making, much richer than treacle..but delicious all the same and according to my pop its the perfect thing for horse cough. It was given to the horses at the first sign of a cough, not to mention given to me too at a sore throat (many of which were claimed for a spoonful of molasses) Out 'the block' most nights after school, I would wander off and stick my finger in the giants tubs of molasses we had there. A favourite horse used to be rewarded with apples slices dipped in molasses.

My pop recently, on Australia Day, celebrated his 90th birthday. He was determined to make it to that day but kept telling us all that he wouldn't last much longer. Time will tell on this one I guess.

My mum's mum was always known as Possy Poo Nan. WHY? Well because she called me possum poo poo and well, I had 2 nans so had to be able to tell the difference, and possy poo poo nan just stuck. Her real name was Olive. She was a little woman with a sharp wit and potty mouth. I adored her. She taught me dirty rhymes and we would laugh and cackle as mum would tell her off for teaching me such things. Granted it wasn't quite so funny when I would get into trouble at school (catholic school I might add) for singing "we 3 kings from orentair, selling ladies underwear, one on a scooter, pulling his hooter, following yonder star". She said shit and fart and bugger and I thought she was tough. She loved cuddles and would squeeze you so very tight that for a second you would quite literally stop breathing.

Possy poo nan used to come and stay with us every Wed and Thur night during my childhood. She wasn't much of a meal cook, but boy could that woman bake desserts. She made the most amazing apple pies and choc mud cakes. People would kill for her lemon meringue pie and her scones were to die for. Each week of a Wednesday we would race home from school to see what sweet treat was waiting for us from her. During my, well, I guess eating disorder time, she would bring something for the family, then a second dessert just for me. I would sit and hide and stuff my face, then purge and punish myself for a week for being so weak.

The older she got, the more she seemed to shrink. I guess that fact that I was also growing didn't help that perception either, but really she was shrinking. She still sent $10 in a card for my birthday every year until she died, actually, come to think of it, my birthday this year will be my first without a card from her. She lived independently almost until she died from cancer in July last year. While it was sad, her passing came as a relief after months of illness. One of my last memories of her was just after Stella was born, I had gone to visit her with the new baby. We chatted about mundane things for a while and then she asked, "are you feeding her?" to which I replied, "oh no, I let her starve, don't want her to get fat like the rest of us." she laughed, told me not to be a smart arse and clarified, "I mean, are you feeding her or is she on the bottle?" I told her that I was in fact feeding her, to which my nan replied, "Its a lovely thing isn't it?" After how hard I had fought to feed Stella, it meant so much to have her acknowledge the awesomeness of what I was doing. We then had a brief chat about her breastfeeding history, it was a nice final memory.

So if I haven't bored you to tears and you have read this far, thank you. I know how blessed I am to have had 3 wonderful grandparents growing up. My mum's dad died when she was only 14 so I never got to know him at all. I also am so happy that my children have 6 loving grandparents to guide them through their childhood. My parents are divorced and both remarried, but the step grandies love the kids just as much as the others do. Unfortunately, my kids grandies, were able to agree on different names so that there is no risk of anyone becoming poo poo anything... lol