Sunday, July 18, 2010
Post Thirty-One: In Print for Nan's Fridge.
I got my ugly mug in the Sunday Mail yesterday. It's funny, considering how close I am to death and the lessons I've learnt on the temporary nature of attractiveness, the folly of silly physical insecurities...I still hate the picture and think I look pretty blah. I kind of look like a chucky doll or a jib jab head.
Sulking aside, the article was lovely and I was relieved that it didn't paint me as an over-opinionated satanist or anything of the sort. It was a little strange that it said I was inspired by humanity, which isn't quite accurate. Inspired by comedy, art, beer, candy, music, bbq chicken and the warm fuzzies yes, but not humanity on the whole. I'm far too cynical to be propelled by the acts of human kind. Other than that...awesome!
I'm pretty happy that my Nanna will have something to put on her fridge. Mum has sent it to her. I was picturing this today and wondering what kind of magnets she'll have securing it up.
My Nanna is adorable, but not in the traditional sense. She's an intensely loud, plump woman with a deep bellowing voice that is growing shaky with age. Nan has beautiful glowing rosy cheeks, and her strange thin lips are now curtained by a crisp white mini-mo. I was always a little confused by her presence, as she wasn't a warm woman but she wasn't bitter either. I think she frightened me a little in an exciting way. Her arms are supremely soft, like no skin I have ever felt before. I think it's because she used to be so big and her bingo arms were so full of fat that now, half deflated, they've taken on a strange frailty.
Nan has been widowed for a long time now, I think I was about 9 or 10 when my Pa died. His name was George and he was a genuine, beautifully odd man. Apparently he was an awesome war hero, but he never liked telling me the stories I begged for and I could see, even as a young child, the pain behind his eyes. I was shattered when his heart gave way one morning whilst fishing, and I remember how I felt when he passed as if it was yesterday. I have never had a closer relationship to a family member since and regret that he didn't hold out for long enough to see me grow up and absymally fail in most high school sporting and social events and the like. Maybe he'd think I was a decent adult, maybe he'd think I was 'kooky'.
Anyway, Pa called me mouse. I never actually asked why but can deduce that this is because I was stupidly tiny and shy as a child. I was pretty much a midget. I was silly and naughty when I wanted to be, but not around the whole O'Connor/Veitch congregation. A spectacle they are.
He would cut out political and sometimes rather adult cartoons for me and put them in white envelopes labelled 'for mouse, love pa.' The thing is, Pa was really quiet himself, rarely speaking that I can recall, and in an otherwise extremely loud house I think this bonded us. He was generous, always throwing coins on the floor for my sisters and cousins to pounce on and buy candy down the road. My favourite memory though, is that when he did this I'd hold off and go around the corner, and then we'd go for a walk and he'd give me all the gold coins he had, placing them in my hand as though I didn't have to fight for it because of my patience.
It's really cool revisiting memories like that, and I should pick up the phone and call my Nan. I haven't seen her in a few years, and last time I did she was screaming at Cameron Diaz on the TV screen, calling her a stupid twat for walking in the snow without a warm coat on. She's losing her marbles, but I come from her. Maybe she'll fill me in on Pa's war stories, and maybe I'll finally make sense of her.