Nanna

On Sunday morning at about 6:30 I got a call from my dad. My Nanna (his mother) had passed away during the night. It was not totally unexpected: she was 90 years old, and had been battling dementia for the better part of the last decade. For the last few years she was a shell of her former self: unable to leave her bed, feed herself, or communicate in any way. It was terrible to see, but in a strange melancholy way her illness gave the family time to prepare for life without her. In the past fortnight she had developed a virus, and for the last week she had stopped eating. I visited her on Friday afternoon for the last time. My cousins and two aunties were in the room. We talked about our work, our families, shared a few memories and a bottle of scotch, all while Nanna lay in a state of struggled breathing before us. Every now and again one of us would move over to her, sit on the bed, and talk to her. We told her who was in the room, shared some ‘remember the time…’ stories with her, and then went back to our conversation.

After my grandpa died, the whole family – mum, dad, the three kids, my aunty and uncle and their three kids – would drive over to Nanna’s place in Springvale for a Saturday night lamb roast. Nanna always made (frozen) mint peas. She had a crate of Slade’s* soft drinks for the kids. And there was always a loaf of bread on the table (how very Greek). And we’d sit around, and talk, and just have a great time. Our parents would help with the dishes, as the kids would sit in front of the TV (usually watching Hey, Hey It’s Saturday, The Golden Girls, or a wholesome Saturday night movie). Our parents would then kiss us goodbye, and leave us under the care of Nanna. There was only one condition: we had to be at church in the morning. No exceptions.

As soon as mum and dad left, the party started. Nanna would break out the ice cream, chocolate topping, and lollies. As is the way with grandparents, you weren’t really full until you were writhing on the ground in pain, clenching your stomach. And even then, you could probably fit in another bite. After a speedy recovery fuelled by a hot chocolate, we’d set up some mattresses right in front of the TV, get into our PJs and settle in for the night. We’d watch the rest of the movie, or maybe play some board games, or sometimes get Nanna to tell us some stories of what our parents were like as kids.

Nanna and Grandpa raised my dad and two aunties on a farm on the Eyre Peninsular in South Australia. My favourite stories obviously involved my dad – how, when he was 14, he and grandpa would drive trucks loaded with livestock from the farm all the way the Perth. Or, after they sold the farm and moved to Adelaide, about the restaurant they owned, ‘Comleys’. Or even later, after everyone moved to Melbourne, Nanna would tell us about her time working at the zoo. I remember one story involved a very cruel zookeeper getting killed by an elephant he had been provoking for a while. I’m not sure if it’s true, but as Nanna knew, you should never let the truth get in the way of a good story.

After a good night’s sleep, we’d wake up super early, ready to make good on our promise to be at church in the morning. We’d fold up the mattresses, put the sheets and pillows away, have a shower, get dressed, and be ready for breakfast right on time. Coco-pops. Orange juice. Toast with that fake Kraft plastic cheese. It was truly the breakfast of champions. We would always be way ahead of time.

And then Nanna would need to clean the house. The whole house. “What would happen if there was an accident, and people saw the state the house was in?” she would say. At the time, we didn’t comprehend the morbidity of the statement, and as an adult had said it, it must’ve been true. So she would clean the house. Top to bottom. Not one surface was left un-vacuumed, unpolished, or unscrubbed.

We would then jam ourselves into her car, and make the drive from Springvale to Moorabbin. In record time. Nanna was a lead-foot. I’ve never seen a grandma drive like that. She expertly swung through roundabouts. Orange lights? Might as well be green. Red lights? That one was orange. (OK, that’s not entirely true). And of course after all that, we’d only be ten minutes late.

After church on Sunday afternoon, if we were lucky, would be spent again with Nanna. She’d take us to Southland and shout us to a movie (movie tickets were $5 in those days). While we were at the movies, she’d window-shop, drink Donut King coffee, and buy us more food. Upon our return home, we’d be wrecked and worn out. It was a perfect weekend for any kid.

But then we all grew older. Spending the weekends at Nanna’s place wasn’t so cool in high school. I had homework, and a social life of sorts. Nanna was getting older too. She’d visit us, and we’d see her about once a week, but the visits were becoming more formal. More often than not, she’d be the one to visit us. Gladly doing some ironing, or helping with some dishes. Anything to spend some time with the family.

Before long it became apparent that her health was declining. I can imagine few things worse than being diagnosed with dementia, and knowing exactly what’s coming, and knowing there’s nothing you can do to stop it. That, plus the knowledge that one day soon, everyone around you will be a stranger.

On her birthday last year, the family gathered around her. There were some moments when her eyes would light up, like she knew what was happening. But just as quickly, she would descend back into her chair and have that blank look on her face, with nonsensical words or sounds expelling from her mouth. When I think back to that, she seemed so much more alive back then than when I last saw her on Friday. I remember I came late to the party, and as I walked into the room she burst into tears. I don’t know if it was my presence (I have that affect on ladies), or some long-forgotten memory, or just her condition, but as I sat beside her she held my hand tightly and wouldn’t let go.

Before I left on Friday afternoon, I sat on the bed next to her, brushed her hair with my hand, and gave her a kiss on her forehead. “It’s Tim, Nanna” I said, trying to make eye contact and giving a big wave. “I love you.” I stopped myself from saying, “I’ll see you later.” because I knew I wouldn’t.

Last night was spent at my aunt and uncle’s house. Most of the cousins were there too. We played with the kids, had pizza, and a champagne toast to Nanna. There weren’t many tears, but lots of good memories. At one point in the night, my dad raised his glass, looked up to the sky and said, “Well, dad. We kept her here as long as possible, I hope you’ve enjoyed the silence.”  We all laughed- Nanna’s mouth was almost as fast as her driving.

I know it’s a funeral cliché, but seeing the family together is exactly what Nanna would’ve wanted. She loved any excuse to get us all together, and was quite often the life of the party. In the twenty-four hours she’s been gone, I’ve smiled on more than one occasion as a random memory has flashed into my mind of my time spent with Nanna. Those short flashes of happy memories are what it’s all about. Try to make as many as possible.

 Thanks, Nanna.

* For those who don't know what Slades Soft Drinks are: http://www.slades.com.au/

Holy shit it's been ages. Here's something from 2010 I wrote for a literature class. Enjoy!

The Game Room

In the early hours of July 2^nd 1961, after a long battle with depression, Ernest Hemingway positioned his favourite double barrel shotgun to his mouth and pulled the trigger. His aim was flawless. Now he finds himself having a conversation with William Shakespeare about women, death and African game hunting.

“It’s not really so painful.” He said.

“No?”

He looked around. The barrel of the shotgun was still smoking. A splatter of blood covered the wall of his basement storeroom. A piece of what looked like his skull had landed almost too perfectly on a stuffed and mounted squirrel he had kept from his first hunting trip as a young boy.

William sat down on a wicker chair that had been put down there by Ernest three months ago. “I propose you clean up before Mary returns home.”

“Why? Because between the death of her husband and a God-awful stain she’s more likely to fuss over the stain?”

William stared right through Ernest.

Ernest understood. “It still didn’t hurt.”

“When will she get home?”

“What the hell does it matter?” Ernest snapped back, “It’s not like it can be undone.” He’d moved over to the bloody wall, looking at the thick red splatter. It was not unlike a Rorschach Test he’d been shown only months earlier.

William lent back in the chair, his fingers stroking through the little beard on his chin. “What do you expect her to do now? How can she possibly go on living without her husband to provide for her?”

“She survived before she met me. She’ll survive after.”

“Is it enough to just survive?” William quizzed, “How about to live?”

“It’s funny that you’re here right now.” Ernest broke his staring match with the blood.

“Were you expecting someone else?”

“Maybe,” Ernest replied, “Maybe someone from my past.”

“A girl?”

Ernest smiled nostalgically.

“Who are you thinking of?” William continued.

“Mary. And the rest.”

“There was only ever Anne for me.”

“What? In your entire life?”

William nodded. “It’s the way it was back then.”

Ernest lumbered over to William and took a seat opposite. “You talk differently than I expected.”

“What did you expect?”

“Lots of fancy words. Like your plays, you know?”

“Sorry to disappoint you, my friend. This is how I talk.”

Ernest shrugged. “It’s ok. No big deal.”

The silence of the conversation echoed through the basement as both men sat opposite each other, trying to avoid each other’s gaze. This was the first time Ernest had actually taken any time to just sit back and relax in his basement. He never came down here anymore, not even to look at his old collection of game he had mounted on the walls. A glassy eyed zebra looked forever into space. That was easy game; big, brooding, there we so many of them on the plain. The warthog was much more difficult; it disappeared into shrubs and long grass, it was a real hunt.

“You ever go hunting?” Ernest asked.

William looked up, as if he had been in a dream. “No. I was never much of an outdoorsman.”

Ernest grunted, “Figures. No women, no hunting. What did you do?”

“I spent most of my time writing; acting when I needed to. A lot was spent away from my family.”

“Are you telling me you spent time away from your wife, and you never went astray? Not once? Not ever?”

 “I can honestly say I never cheated on her with another woman.”

“You crazy son of a bitch. How’d you do it?”

“When you love someone enough, you do anything not to hurt them.”

“But women,” Ernest said, “Jesus, they’re so God-damned intoxicating. They change you, shape you. You’re going with one, and some time down the track you think: what the hell has happened to me? I was never like this. And so you take a stand, you find another woman to change you back. And so it goes on.”

“Don’t you see though? That’s what’s great about it all. Both of you grow together, creating a new life form. That’s intoxicating.”

“Why would I want to change? I like me.”

William looked over at the wall, “Really?”

Ernest slowly turned around to look at the wall. The blood had slowly made its way towards the floor. It no longer resembled a familiar Rorschach Test, but a violent evolving stain. “Why are you here?”

“I don’t know. I’m not in control.”

“Well I’m sure as hell not either!”

“But you want to be, don’t you? That’s why you put the gun in your mouth.”

“Does that sound like the action of a man in control?”

“Entirely. How much more control do you want than that over your very life?”

“It’s not about that.”

“Then what is it about?” William looked over at the game trophies. There they were. The mounted heads of animals Ernest had hunted and killed, all in the name of control and power. Now reduced to collecting dust in an old man’s basement, reminders of ancient conquests of the past. Each one had a story behind it, a chase, a hunt. And it always ended the same way: he was the winner.

“Looks like I finally found a beast worth hunting.”

William let out a little smile, enjoying the moment of irony.

“But you never shoot the head from such close range.” Ernest continued, “Ruins the head mount. The grand trophy. What have you got left without the head? Just a bag of useless blood and guts.”

“Is that how you see yourself now?”

“I don’t know how I see myself now. Hell, I don’t even know what’s going on. One minute I’ve got a loaded shotgun in my mouth, the next I’m here talking to you. I think one of us owes the other an explanation.”

The two men locked eyes again. Neither of them willing to give up an inch.

Ernest broke the battle. “What do you know about what’s going on?”

“What makes you think I’ve any idea about this whole mess?”

“I just supposed you’d done this before.”                 

“It’s new to me.” William sat back in his chair, fingers rhythmically tapping the arm rests. “Let’s talk about your writing.”

“Let’s not.”

“Why?”

“Because writing shouldn’t be talked about. That’s why they call it writing.”

“So what would you like to do?”

“I don’t know.” He thought for a moment. “You think this is it?”

William looked around the musty old basement. “This? No. Not even close.”

“Good. I’d be disappointed if it was; all that praying just to end up in your own damn basement.”

William stood up and walked over to the row of mounted animal heads on the wall. He walked past each one, intricately inspecting all the details of the long deceased trophies. There was something about them; something uncanny. They were real, but they had a sense of mockery about them. As if such noble creatures couldn’t possibly be destined to hang on wall, a shadow of their former selves, the pride and grace they once had gone with the pull of a trigger.

“Quite a collection, isn’t it?” Ernest said proudly.

“Indeed. All yours?”

“Of course. You keep what you hunt. It’s your trophy.”

“It looks like you’ve done quite well for yourself.”

Ernest chuckled, “These ones are my discards. Small fry. I keep the big ones on display, like any normal person would do of their prized trophies.”

“And what does Mary say to having a house full of dead animals?”

“It’s my house.”

“Of course. But she does stay here, doesn’t she?”

“It’s my house. If she doesn’t like it, there are plenty of others around she can have.”

“That’s hardly fair.” William shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “She contributes to the household; surely she should get some say.”

“She does. It’s totally up to her if she stays here or not. She has total freedom.”

“Do you love her?”

“What kind of bloody stupid question is that? Of course I do. I’ve loved her since the day we met. It’s this house I can’t stand. The walls. The roof. The lack of space. I was never happier than out on safari. Or on the water.  When there’s an infinite space of pure nature between you and your problems...that’s freedom...the breeding ground of creativity. It’s paradise.”

“Then why not go back?”

“It’s a bit late now.”

“I meant before. Before this.”

“I don’t know. I’m too old. Too tired. Why even bother with it anymore? You just end up at the same destination, doesn’t matter where you start. You can’t outrun him, you can’t outsmart him, you can’t even outthink him. This...hunter...will get you. He hunts you like nothing else. He knows your every move. He’s inside your mind, waiting for that moment of weakness...the rustling in the bushes...the snap of a twig under hoof. Once he has you in his sight, what can you do? He never misses. And he always aims for the head.”

Ernest slouched deep into his chair, hands feebly dangling by his side. His eyes moved to William, now a fuzzy dark shape occupying the space in the chair. He looked around the room; it wasn’t the same as before. It was dark and dirty. Not the way he remembered it. His stuffed game trophies were old and rotting, hair falling out, moth eaten and neglected. Stuffing was extruding from the neck of an old gazelle. Layers upon layers of dust covered an ancient squirrel. Then he saw the worst site of all. His own body. Lying, lifeless. He wanted to cry, but he felt nothing. ‘Was this it?’ he thought. Still he felt nothing. Even with his own dead body lying just feet from him he couldn’t conjure up one simple emotion. Before he hated the drowning effect of emotions, now he longed for just one. “William!” he shouted as he turned around. But there was nothing. He was alone.

Darkness clouded the room. The mounted trophies became veiled by this dense mist that vented in from every direction. Even as the darkness consumed him entirely, he felt nothing.

END 

So what do you think? I haven't edited it (I lost the original copy with the teacher's notes scrawled across it). But I know I got a Distinction for it.