My nan was really creative, although it wasn’t a trait she
was known for. When she passed away, everyone said they would miss her warm
hugs and kind-hearted nature. She was known for giving lots, while having very
little. She would deny having any creative ability and deflect compliments from
friends and family. Having never worked, obtained a driver’s licence, or
travelled far from home, I think she thought her opinions counted for less. She
was so proud of her children’s and grandchild’s achievements, but spoke as if
they weren’t tied to her in any way. Nan’s eyes would turn wet every time I’d share
my wins with her, no matter how trivial. She’d shift her weight on the wooden
dining chair and smile until her lips revealed her little teeth. She’d laugh
softly while keeping her mouth closed, causing air to become trapped behind her
teeth, creating a soft wheezing sound. She knew how to share in someone else’s
happiness like no other; perhaps because she had difficulty recognising her own.
I prefer to think it was because she loved us so deeply, our happiness was all
she ever needed.
I loved getting dropped at Nan and Pop’s, especially when
one of the other cousins was there. We would play Nintendo in the back room
while Pop snored his head off in “his” room just down the hall. When Nan would
finish cleaning or preparing lunch, she’d come and play Mario Cart with us.
She’d sit on the floor and move her whole body with the controller, as if her
on-screen steering would improve if she really leaned into the corners. Pop
owned a rude joke book which I’d sneak from the bookshelf when I was left
alone. If he or Nan walked in unexpectedly, I’d shove the book under the couch
and pretend to watch old episodes of Mr. Bean.
Nan would call out when it was time to eat and we’d all sit
around her big wooden table. My cousins would usually get Coke and I’d ask for
a big glass of cold strawberry milk. I was fascinated to learn how Nan made her
cigarettes using a little plastic machine. One day she taught me how to insert
the loose tobacco and inject it into a paper filter. As I thrusted the slider
across, I imagined I was loading a gun. As we’d sit and chat, I’d restock her
empty packets with half-filled cigarettes. It just occurred to me now that she
probably had to redo them as soon as I left.
When it was just Nan and I, we would walk to the local park.
It was next to a milk bar owned by a Chinese family, who’d stock random items
like big silk undies right next to a stand of chips. I’d buy a paper packet of
sherbet with a lolly dip stick that looked like chalk. Then we’d walk around
the back of the shop, careful not to step on shards of broken glass, to reach
the park. I’d convince Nan to sit on one side of a modern see-saw that
resembled a maroon coloured spider. It’s black rubbery legs would hang down and
widen to form a seat only suitable for very small bottoms; I imagine Nan would
have been rather uncomfortable. I’d be dangling in the air while waiting for
Nan to push off from the ground. As she floated upward, my feet would barely
skim the tanbark before gravity would pull her back down. I cherished alone time
with Nan, but when we played on the see-saw I wished my cousin Jai was there to
take her place.
Nan invented a treasure hunt game in the park that went on
for years. Despite its simplicity and grunginess, somehow she managed to make
it far more exciting than any Nintendo game or joke book. It involved
collecting up all the used icy pole sticks littered around the playground. Once
we had a huge bundle, we’d bury them deep into the ground under various pieces
of play equipment. There was never a set amount or system to keep track of
which ones were part of the game, but it was the job of the next cousin to find
as many as possible. It was usually the first thing I’d do upon arriving at the
park. Nan would join in at first, then plant herself on a piece of equipment and
watch on with a smile. It was her job to judge whether the sticks were from the
game, based on how old and soiled they looked. Even when they looked fresh, she’d
pretend she didn’t notice so we could add them to our total. Her relaxed attitude
helped to dilute my intense competitiveness.
Nan had a unique ability to make everyone and everything
seem special. I love how she made new boyfriends instantly feel like part of the
family, despite knowing they probably wouldn’t be around come next Christmas.
She asked questions with such genuine interest and gave the kind of kisses
everyone actually loved to receive. She had an open-door policy all year round,
even on special days like Easter and Christmas. I used to find it annoying when
random people would turn up to take part in our family events. I think the reason
why we had so many extras around Christmas time was because there was never any
expectation to come or play a particular role. When I got my car licence I
enjoyed popping around to Nan and Pop’s on the way home from work. Nine out of
ten times I’d walk in to find them sitting at Nan’s wooden table; often a
neighbour would be visiting and the women would be in dressing-gowns. If they
weren’t home, they were either out buying groceries or playing the pokies just
around the corner.
One day I dropped in for a cuppa just after Nan and Pop had
returned from shopping. Nan was unpacking the groceries while I was chatting
away. She pulled a box of Home Brand ice-cream cones out of her shopping bag
and noticed the cardboard box was damaged. She opened the box and held up the
plastic tray filled with crumbled wafer. She questioned whether 20 crushed
cones out of 100 warranted a refund (of about $2). She decided to keep them
because she hated confrontation, despite feeling ripped off. It wasn’t until
Nan passed away that I found out how much she sacrificed to make us happy. Apparently
she would buy a small pack of lamb ribs each week and freeze them until she had
enough to invite my cousin and I around for dinner. We’d always eat more than
our fair share of the delicious BBQ ribs and fight to take home any left overs.
Even now, Dad and his siblings recall Nan inventing dishes using left overs and
cheap cuts of meat to feed the whole family.
When I was about eight years old, Nan bought each of her
daughters and seven grandchildren a “lucky duck” for Christmas. She got them
from the local Chinese two-dollar shop, which has since doubled in size. The
ducks were made of cheap porcelain and coloured to represent each of our birth
stones. They came in a small velvet pouch and had a round sticker on the bottom
which read “Aussie Lucky Duck.” Mine was cream with multi-coloured flecks of
glitter fixed to its back; it was meant to represent a diamond. At the time I
was envious of my cousins, who had colourful birth stones like sapphire and
aqua marine. Nan made me believe the duck was truly lucky, encouraging me to
clutch onto it whenever she bought me a two-dollar scratchy ticket. I often won
between $3-12, which helped validate her belief. Over the years, some cousins
misplaced their duck or forgot about it altogether; but I kept mine close by,
even when I started to explore overseas. Each time something good happened to
me, I considered myself lucky and thanked the duck for working its magic.
Throughout my adulthood the duck has been clutched in moments of distress, or
tucked away in a bag while I’m out having the time of my life.
Before Nan died, I attributed many of my greatest
experiences to having good luck. I think that’s partly because the term luck is
often thrown around by friends and family when discussing my achievements. “You’re
so lucky,” friends would say with equal parts excitement and envy. While I
agree I’m extremely fortunate, I have grown to learn the luck they speak of is
mostly self-created or sought out. I think Nan taught me luck is generated
through genuineness and creativity. She had the ability to turn a bunch of
rotten icy pole sticks and a $2 duck made in China into something worth seeking
and holding onto.
Nan’s Lucky Duck still tags along with me when I go on
trips, even though I now know I create my own luck. It reminds me of all the
beautiful memories I made with Nan and symbolises her best traits. Despite what
she’d say, I believe she nurtured the creativity within me and majority of Dad’s
family. Without even knowing it, I think she demonstrated the importance of
family and shared joy. Every now and then when a friend shares a happy or sad
story, I feel my eyes turn wet just like hers did. I like to think I developed
this somewhat humiliating trait from my beautiful humble nan, Shirley Grace
Hawkins.
