I'm honoured to be able to talk about Nanna, especially because she was also one of my best friends. I don't usually attend funerals but she did make me promise to do this, so if my eulogy is a little unorthodox I'll trust myself to your good wishes. According to narrative imperative, folklore and fairy tales, Nannas are soft-cheeked and kind, filled with wisdom, unconditional love, and secret recipes, although more than ordinarily prone to being eaten by wolves. When I was a small child my Nanna was a figure from the best of stories. Such soft, smiling cheeks, gentle arms and welcoming eyes, the type of gaze that radiates delight in your mere presence. She could make anything taste wonderful, which probably is a type of magic, and made the best pickles, chutney, and corned silverside with white sauce. She would tell us stories, not about strangers or fictional people, but about our family, about Grandad Owen, and Uncle Michael the sailor, and our mum, Kerry. She would show us Mum's clothes and toys from when she was a child, and other mystical items wrapped carefully in the best of all things; tissue paper. She had a small collection of jewellery that may not have impressed a millionaire but she would handle it gently and tell us the stories - the necklace she wore as a deb, and the rose she wore dancing with Grandad Owen. When my sister and I were about four or five years old, Mum was admitted to hospital with a bad back. We were used to Mum being at home with us, so when we went to interrupt Dad washing his work ute to ask him to play with us, and he said no, we decided to take matters into our own hands. Instead of packing a basket, like little red riding hood, we took out our two largest teddies (just the essentials), crammed them into a very large, boxy tartan suitcase, and hauled them across the back yard and the vacant lot behind. Target - Nanna's house. We made it about 1 country block before a nice lady sweeping her veranda interrupted the getaway."Are you girls okay?" "Yes! We're going to Nanna's house.""And who is your Nanna?" "Dorothy Goddard.""Oh, I know Dorothy, come and sit here while I call her to come and pick you up." So, we sat and drank cordial until Nanna appeared in her chariot to save us. And did she return us home? No fear! She aided and abetted us all the way back to her house for some stew and stories and even a wee nap! She did narc on us eventually, obviously, and our parents arrived in grim state to carry us home. Nanna was always good for a bit of a white horse moment. She was a cheeky seditionist, even though she also had strong ideas about doing what your mother tells you! When I was in school, and not enjoying life overly, she would rock up at lunch time sometimes and just sit and chat with me. Nanna's house was a gentle fort of cleanliness and order, soft crocheted blankets, polished wood, clunky demon bar stools, baby powder and Oil of Ulan (Olay). Ordinary activities, like waking up, washing your face, eating breakfast, washing your hands; these all had their times, appropriate paraphernalia stored efficiently within reach, and put neatly back after use. It had more rules than home, you had to be quieter and move slower, not drop things or slam the fridge, and Nanna could do a quick scowl and a scold at the mere hint of devil-may-care behaviour around the crockery. But as so often happens in life, grandparents have more time to show you how to do these magical things, and somehow you can actually be better at their house. We felt like the centre of the universe at Nanna's house, as only the most privileged of grandchildren do. Mum, as mums do, liked to tell us that we were living in a blessed state. That in her day she might spend hours hiding out amongst the gardens to avoid the wrath of Nanna. She would wander back into the house hours later, having forgotten all about her infringement, only to be greeted with the swat she'd run away from. But although Nanna could be stern she never gave us a smack so it was clear Mum was being dramatic 😛 :-PNanna loved playing with words, phrases and songs. If you chanced upon the correct phrase, you might trigger a song, a poem, a story, or even a little dance! It might be from fiction, a poem, a memory, or just something Grandad liked to say. She might, in the middle of urging you to put your shoes on so we could go in the car, begin an impromptu ditty, "Put your shoes on Lucy, don't you know you're in the city, put your shoes on Lucy, it's really such a pity, that Lucy can't go barefoot wherever she goes, cos she likes to feel the wriggle of her toes." Or a carelessly spoken, "I suppose", would often bring on a recitation of.What do you suppose? A bee sat on my nose!And then what do you think? He gave a little wink!And said, "I beg your pardon, I thought you were a garden!"If you were worried, she'd say, "Don't rurry, Dickie," and laugh, before recalling again how little Kerry had used that phrase to comfort her fluttery pet budgie. And if you said "each other" she would say "Chudders!" and give you a glowing recitation of the time when Dannii was very little, and she asked to play "chudders". And when Nanna asked what "chudders" was, little Dannii took her by the hand and led her outside and said, "See Nanny, we throw the ball to eachudder."And then there were the spoonerisms! The shitted feet, the duckin fill, belly jeans, palt and seppar, and prilly sick. Spoonerisms, especially those trafficked in by our cheeky Nanna, can be fraught with opportunities for misadventure and there came a time when Nanna went to call herself a duckin fill at the checkout, only to say it the right way around!She devoured books and pulled out her favourite phrases for use in everyday life. Notably picking up "the art of redistribution" from Tommo & Hawk by Bryce Courtney, which was pulled out at the very whisper of a card game from then until the very last one we played in her hospital room. Nanna was a voracious card player, regularly whipping myself and my stepdad, Joe, at cards. She would protest that "if we'd been scoring" she wouldn't have won, but to be honest she usually won when we bothered to score, too! Nanna and I were playing radio rummy since I was about seven years old, but she also played Gin Rummy on her iPad, and canasta. Of course, she wasn't always a gracious loser (or winner!) and could be heard to shout "you cheeky sod!", and other choice phrases, at the computer when it beat her at Gin Rummy, or at me for that matter! And sometimes when she was feeling down nothing would cheer her up quite like beating me three hands in a row, although she gloated like a lady. It was the moment I found out we were both watching Lois & Clark: The New Adventures of Superman that I knew we were destined to be not just Nanny and granddaughter, but good friends. I could hardly know the best was yet to come. When I was 15 and I complained on a visit to Nanna's house that everyone was making fun of me because I didn't want a boyfriend yet, and she said robustly, "Tell them to sod off! What do you want one of them for? They're nothing but trouble!" It was at that moment I know that I'd found, in the words of Anne Shirley, a kindred spirit. We shared tastes in tv shows and books, enjoyed crosswords and puzzles, liked a gentle day at home more than a stressful jaunt among fluorescent lights. We were both sadly inept at sports, found casual socialisation difficult, didn't understand the eccentricities of the ordinary, and found anger and conflict inordinately tiring. We found refuge in stories, fantasies where there were good people and bad, and she introduced me to some of my favourite authors. Much in the way of humans of similar taste everywhere, we congratulated ourselves on having both refined taste and uncommon good sense 😛 :-PShe had a beautiful loud laugh, the kind you get shushed for in public places. I remember the relief when she would take Dannii and I to the cinema, and we both laughed loudly, with it bursting unrestrained from our chests, to no longer be the loudest laugh in the room! Although we did tend to put our companions to the blush. I would of course tease her mercilessly about her British accent, which remained a permanent fixture even though she was born in Australia. Barely could the words "face" or "place" be uttered without a ridiculous echo. And if she happened to mention her "toe", the entire family would chorus "Yah! Me toooe!" with feverish glee, re-enacting the famous occasion when Grandad ran over her toe with a tractor. As I got older, I grew to see her not just as my Nanna, but as a daughter, a sister, a wife, a mother, a woman and a human being. I will never know her as a mother better than her children, or know her as a sister better than her brothers and sisters, but this is some of what I do know. Dorothy was never eaten by the wolves, though she encountered more than she should have. She grew up in a time and circumstances that we have the luxury of never fully understanding, and married young, as so many women did. It would be fair to say that many women left home early due to expectations, the economy, or an untenable situation, and what I know about that time in her life is both sad and scanty, because she rarely spoke about either wounds or scars. Things happened to her that no girl, woman or mother should face, and she became my hero because, even with the laws and culture of the time, which gave her no legal, financial, or social power, she fought and she kept fighting, for her family and herself, with all the resources at her disposal. She worked hard and was never too proud to mop a floor, change hotel bed sheets, or serve at tables. She was, if not fearless, unrelentingly forthright in taking and making every opportunity to pull herself and her children forward and get back everything she lost. Sadly, as life conspires, not everything that is lost can be found. I got the feeling when Nanna looked at Grandad that she saw him has her knight in shining armour. It seemed she felt safe when he was around, and she was precious to him. I remember her sitting at the kitchen table in Armadale and Grandad came inside, all eager to show her something he'd been working on in the tool shed. He exhorted her to come with him and then, when she didn't put her crossword down and jump up fast enough, he grabbed her cardigan and popped it around her shoulders and said "Come a little long, then, come a little long." And she gave him a kind of delighted, breathless laugh, critically bordering on a giggle, and said, "Yes, yes, I'm coming" in the most affectionate way as he hustled her down the corridor. But you see, while he was definitively her knight in shining armour, she had also rescued herself before she met him, and because she was able to do both, she was quite the most magnificent person I've ever known. During the COVID lockdown of WA, I lived with Nanna from Monday to Friday each week while working in Perth. It was a difficult time for everyone, and Nanna would cook her lunch and put leftovers in the fridge for me when I got home, and wash my laundry, because of the long hours I was working. When I was faced with a wall of fast-moving difficulties, she'd say to me at the start of every day, "Dazzle them with science! Knock their socks off!" and she somehow meant it, and believed I could do it too, and called me "clever little kiddy" even when I was stumped. Of course, she also meant it when I told her at the end of a day if people hadn't been feeling cooperative, when she roundly denounced them with, "Bugger 'em! You don't need that rubbish!"Nanna was often robust in her opinions, despite her distaste for conflict. I used to worry when Nanna would blurt out, "Dear God, what have you done to your hair now?" Or "put a singlet on under that shirt you're going to freeze to death!" Or, "you're not going out in that, are you?!" But after a while you see patterns. Patterns show you things like the doting adoration in these brisk, sometimes off-the-cuff remonstrations. We humans pick at things to show we care, we interfere when we're worried, we're overly precious about our space when we're insecure, we persist in believing all compliments are vapid, can't see our own beauty, and filter out the intensity of other people's emotions. Those we love are lovable, and those who love us somehow have questionable decision-making powers. Mum and Nanna were often having these very battles, in which I saw the strange story of how we go from generation to generation repeating this uneasy insecurity, parents and children always uncertain whether they're good enough for each other, but somehow grandparents and grandchildren under no illusions in knowing we love each other to our very bones. It's a funny old thing, and when I was visiting Nanna in hospital one day she said to me, "I don't know what I'd do without you" and after a wee pause. "I don't know what I'd do without Kerry." With a strange but gentle vehemence. So I said, "You must stop giving her such a hard time, she works so hard for you all the time." And she shocked me with, "Nah, it'll never happen. We're too much alike!" It was all I could do to keep my face together! I wish I'd gotten it on video. 60 years in the making. She was my hero for many years before I understood that Nanna didn't realise she was beautiful, or that she made her clothes special by wearing them, and that the way she organised a room made it a better room to be in. I realised that, much in the same way many of us gently invalidate nice things we hear, Nanna heard our "I love yous" as a type of gentle benediction. Because she believed we loved her because we were family, of course, but as she grew older she worried almost constantly about being a burden. Over the past 8 months or so when she was gradually getting weaker, less patient, and more ready to leave us, I've had a lot of time to think about Nanny. I thought about her clothes, neat as a pin, the way she would not only iron her pants with a perfect crease (even house pants) but handkerchiefs and tea towels also. I thought about her daily regime - wake up, wash your face, apply face cream, make coffee, eat breakfast, do crossword. And no matter the day, the same ending - shower, then the early news, then dinner, then reading or crochet, or knitting, or a tv show, or the computer, followed by teeth brushing and night cream, then bed. The way she constantly insisted our lives would be made better by washing our faces in the morning.I thought about the way she kept her cardigans, not just the wayward tissues in every single one, but the way she would wear them, then air and brush them and put them away, in the same way that people in the Victorian era would brush and air their outer garments and wash the undergarments beneath. And the bag in her top dresser drawer filled with gloves - debutante gloves, evening gloves, day gloves and dancing gloves - and her beautiful stockings with a line of gold up the back. I thought about her gifts, which were never expensive but always beautiful and thoughtful, often hand made. The booties she knitted for new babies, the slippers she crocheted for all of us, the cardigan she made me during COVID by eyeballing one I'd seen and liked. I thought about the hours she spent marking the name and age of every family member and friend into her calendar in January each year. The way she never tired of hearing stories about her "kiddies" - her kids, her kids kids, her kids kids kids... Big news and small. Nanna was a person who liked things the way she liked them - she took time and care to find things she liked and save for them; they had a place, and she was most comfortable when people adhered to them. She travelled in her life, around Australia and sometimes overseas, but she was deeply happy in her home and with her own belongings. She had very certain ideas about which foods she did and didn't like (sometimes when she hadn't tasted them!). But in the last few months she would randomly eat things she'd never eaten before and somehow pronounce them delightful. Ready-made meals from Coles were delicious, the seafood crepe at the hospital was eaten with gusto, and the most unthinkable thing, horror of horrors, a Hungry Jacks cheeseburger was eaten. She was introduced to this one day out shopping with Dannii and her kids, and you may imagine Mum's shock when the next time she took Nanna shopping, Nanna said to her, "Is it time for my cheeseburger yet?" She even requested one while she was in the hospital, just before she came home!She showed every evidence of enjoying a variety of pets throughout her life (hers and other peoples') but maintained stubbornly that she couldn't stand them. She hated being wet or dirty, couldn't bear anything up against her neck - clothes or rugs or sheets - and scratchy materials were a solid no. She was so funny, and clever; she really had no idea how smart she was and continued to insist that I could just as easily do cryptic crosswords as she could. She would have us rolling in tears while playing cards, with her sassy retorts and funny sayings. She could even dissolve into laughter at herself, like she did the day she lost her patience with telling us for nigh on the hundredth time to mind our language, and what came out was, "Mind your bloody language!" She was stubborn to the bone and wouldn't take help, in big things or small, and had to be threatened with calling an ambulance to take her to the hospital on more than one occasion before she'd agree to see her doctor. I thought about the way she, at 93, survived the incredible pain that sent her to hospital without taking a single tablet until the 3rd day, when she agreed to take a one panadeine. With a weak heart and previous lung scarring from pneumonia, how did she get through her last stay in hospital, including getting COVID. Over the past couple of months we saw her change, from accepting ad hoc "I love yous" in that way we all do, to feeling the truth behind the words. When people came back, day after day, to visit her in hospital, and didn't give up after a few days or a week and go away. When Uncle Michael and Aunty Michelle came to see her, she lit up like a Christmas tree, she'd been so worried she wouldn't see them. Every video message or note that was received by Mum, myself or Dannii was given to Nanna, and she was so touched by every single one; that people continued to remember her, and cared how she was doing. She had been telling us that she would be a burden and we, naturally, doubled down on the intention to make sure she felt how much she was loved, and made it our quest to bring her home. Her friend Zoe had died at home in her sleep, and it was a cherished dream for the past few years that, when her time came, she would go in the same way. The day she came home from hospital her cheeks were beaming, she was so happy to be there. "I'm home everybody!"That moment was the sun coming out, and everything that followed was made worthwhile. When Nanna began to decline and was unconscious for significant periods, I began to miss her already, but she stayed sassy til the end. One day Jayden wandered out of his room at midday after being up late helping the night before, and she cracked from her hospital bed, "ah, the phoenix has arisen". Another day, mum's dog Khai was jumping up trying to get close enough to sniff Nanna's hand and she said, "What's it doing?" "He's worried about you," Mum said."So?!" Nanny demanded in her inimitable style, "Does he have a cure?"One afternoon when she was attempting to stand but couldn't weight bear anymore, she continued to insist that she could and, when it turned out the rumours were true and she couldn't quite manage it, she pulled out an old favourite from Grandad and swore robustly, "Damn and bugger the damn shitting sneezing swines!" And it restored her to brilliant good humour. Almost to the end she had her crossword books, her iPad, her cups of coffee, and an endless array of custard-based dishes. We would bring a real coffee from the coffee shop, extra hot with an extra shot, and she would take a sip and go, "Ugh! Strong!" My heart in my throat I'd say, "But I thought that's what you ordered, Nan." "Ugh! Yes! Good!" she'd say. Until the last 8 weeks, I considered myself a poor choice for nurse to anyone. Now I find myself filled with awe at the incredible privilege that was given me in being allowed to serve someone I love. Without wishing for this type of illness to be visited on anyone, everyone should have the opportunity to be of service to someone they love. I can only say that caring for Nanna was the most beautiful thing I've been privileged to do in my life, and I'd do it all again. At times life can feel isolated, purposeless, or saccharine. There are times you can't find your place, times you're out of sync, times you can't find your feet, and existential crises abound. Bathing a loved one, sitting listening to their breaths, seeing their discomfort or pain, and having the opportunity to make it better for them - there is no greater honour. I want to give special thanks Mum, who thought of everything, stayed day and night with hardly a whiff of sleep, especially over the last few days, and was the best a person could hope to have at their side. Nothing was too much trouble for her Mum's comfort. I want to thank Jayden for his strength and courage, his big heart, and his even more beautiful mind. Sometimes just Jay entering the room was enough to cheer Nanny when she was struggling. Just one step into the room and her face would light up, and she'd hold her arms out for a hug. He would stay and hold her hand, tease her, help us clean and prepare food - anything he was asked and more for his Doc Doc. I want to thank Dannii for coming in from Donnybrook to help, I know it meant the world to Nanna to have her Dannii there, and for helping take care of Nanna, and Brad for keeping the home fires burning and taking care of the kids so Dannii could be with Nan.I'd like to also thank everyone who visited, sent their kind messages, and checked in on Nanna - she was so happy and touched all over again, every time someone sent even a small message, especially her "kiddies". There is no doubt that I have not done her justice with this poor conglomeration of factoids and memories; there is no hope of my portraying the knowledge and love that we all have of Dorothy into one moment, or even one day. She was strong, beautiful, shy, stubborn, smart, funny, gentle, particular, clean, sweet, kind, refined, certain, respectful, obstreperous, delightful, facetious, loving, distinguished, and humble. And she would have been made wildly uncomfortable by every word of this - "balderdash!" She would have said, or the eternal favourite when I mentioned any of her wonderful qualities to her face, "you're a silly sausage" or even "a funny bugger".I've learned so many things from my Nanny in the 40 years I was lucky to have her, and I don't know if I've even identified them all. But I'll leave you with the 4 below: The reason to take five minutes to wash your face and brush your teeth in the morning and at night is to tell yourself that you're worth the time it takes to do so. That you deserve to feel cared for, clean, and comfortable. It's part of the building bricks that lays the foundation for self-respect. And, with that strength and determination that marked her life, Nanna knew that some days there is nothing more to do than get up, wash your face, and keep going. The reason you take five minutes to hang up your clothes is because that piece of clothing represents someone's love. It represents either your own time and effort in making the item or earning the money to buy it, or someone else's. Washing it, folding it, and treating it with care is the secret language that tells that person (or yourself) that their time and effort isn't unappreciated. This is a small, achievable part of laying the foundation for how you treat other people. And Nanna knew that many people weren't worth your time, but those that were deserved consideration and care, because they are everything in the end. It always means more when you create something for someone yourself and they will remember it for years; there is value in your time and skill, and it doesn't have to be perfect to be worthwhile. Some of the items Nanna made and gave to people when she was younger show signs of learning and practice, and it only makes them more meaningful and precious. There are always, always more crosswords.