Nan's Funeral: Memories

 ‘Tough as old boots,’ she once said about herself. 

When she moved down to live with us in Tea Gardens, it was so easy. She fitted right in, becoming part of the team and helping with the washing, ironing and dishes. There was this thing she’d do in the kitchen where she’d often throw her hands up in dismay saying, ‘it’s all so different…so much stuff! Where does it all go?!’

She was competitive and impatient. ‘I don’t have time to be upset,’ she’d say. ‘I’m too busy!’ So off she’d race off into town in her grey Ford laser, kicking up dust in her wake. ‘The car just likes to go fast,’ she once explained. Off she’d go decked out in her bowls gear, three times a week. Or Bingo, another favoured weekly outing where she was a great player, often coming home with chocolates and other treats

She loved scrabble too and was just as competitive there. A game was always welcome, but you did so at your own peril! Even into her nineties she remained sharp as ever, taking no prisoners.

It wasn’t long before we were venturing down to the Country Club most Sundays for a game of social bowls. Those years were a great way of getting involved with the Tea Gardens Community. People in town still remember her fondly.

After Pa’s death, I travelled up for the 90^th Centenary of St Albans. First night I visited, we took a taxi down to Carmel’s Italian restaurant for dinner. We had crumbed prawns for entrée [Nan’s favourite] followed by sea-food marinara for mains. A bit spicy for Nan - ‘you can have the doggy bag for lunch tomorrow,’ she said - but we enjoyed ourselves all the same. Then she was determined that we walk home.

            Half-way up Hill Street, arm-in-arm, I asked how she was.

‘‘Oh, I’m fine!’ she replied briskly ‘Been doing this for years! I used to push the pram up this hill when I was pregnant with you mother!’

Fifty years later, she’s walking up that same hill, with the son of the woman who was once in her belly as she made that trek! I thought then, and still do now, how precious

Lastly, I recall her last words to me. ‘You have to let me go,’ she said. Yes, do have to let her go. But I cannot forget. 

Rest in peace, dear Nan.   x

En La Montanyas del Andes (In the Mountains of the Andes)

 

‘Hola!' said Antonio as the woman came up the aisle of the bus.

            She looked at him warily, but relaxed once she saw his kind and smiling face. Very pretty, with dark features and a strong nose, she was clearly a local in these Peruvian parts. The only remaining seat was beside Antonio, so she sat down next to him, placing her rucksack on her knees. The bus pulled away.

            At length he spoke again seeing this as the perfect opportunity to practice his Spanish.

‘Como estas?’

The woman smiled wearily. ‘Mas o menos. Trabajo,’ she explained.

 A moment later she looked at him again curiously. Finally she spoke, as if testing her hypothesis. ‘Tan..tu no Bolivian, si?’

From her intonation and those last three words, Antonio could at least figure what she was getting at. He shook his head. ‘No, no es Bolivian.’

‘Americano?’

‘No way! I’m, er…yo soy Australiano.’

Her face brightened. ‘Australiano? Donde ellas dicen ‘Heh-dai may-eet?’

Antonio laughed at her thickly heavily accented English. The road—more or less a goat track—hugged the rugged rock-faces that rose upwards. As they climbed higher, they could see below the sprawling plains of Bolivia.

            ‘Como te llamas?’ asked the woman.

            Antonio remembered his Spanish lessons back home. ‘Um…me llama Antonio. Cual es…tu  nombre?’

            ‘Mi nombre es Carolina. Habla mucho Espanol?’

            ‘Only un poco,’ said Anonio. ‘Still muy elementario! "Gato"..."beinvinido"..."cumpleanos"..."basura."  Y simple frases like "Como estas?" "Cual es cuanta?" Stuff like that. Tu habla Inglis?’

            Carolina shook her head. ‘No...pero yo eschuchar inglis mucho.Sin embargo mi papa es un professor en Brisbane, tan el hablo inglis con frequencia. Yo entiendiendo mucho.’

            ‘So…tu naciste en Bolivia?’ asked Antonio.

            ‘Si, en Cocachamba.’

            ‘No way!’ exclaimed Antonio, slipping back into English. ‘Que interesante! I have…err……mi querido amiga also de Cocachamba!’

            ‘Si?’ asked Carolina. ‘Es pequeno mundo!’

            Suddenly the bus ground to a halt. There was some commotion up, the front before the driver informed his pasengers there’d be a half-hour wait at customs. Apparently, some new fitting had to be checked before heading further up the mountains. Antonio and Carolina looked at each other then shrugged. They weren’t going anywhere and there were clearly more annoying travel companions to be stuck with.

            At length Carolina spoke again.

            ‘Tan tu, donde naciste en Austrliana?’

            ‘Si,’ Antonio replied. ‘En Newcastle. Pero ahora vivo un pueblo llamada Muswellbrook.’

            Carolina practiced a few times trying to say it before laughing. ‘Es un gracia nombre! Pero trabajas—a que te dedicas? ’

            Antonio was ready for this one. It had become one of his favourite phrases since learning Spanish.

            ‘Fregar los platos!’

            ‘Cual es nombre del restaurante?’

            ‘Oh, es llamada “Miner’s Arms”. Pub-grub,’ he added with a cheeky grin. ‘Comeda mucho delicioso!

            Carolina simply smiled, as much of what he said was gibberish to her—as was her speech to him. But they could make out little bits here and there, and Antonio was surprised at how they could already communicate on some level.

And he smiled too, knowing he might have met un amiga for his trip through Latinoamerica…