Trixie Timney; much loved

Trixie had been named Agnes at birth, but nobody called her that: and to me her first grandchild she was Nana.

It was not until I reached 12 years of age that I realised that Nana was... not tall (I will not utter the S word!) It was on a school holiday visit that we walked to the shop together, she tutted and told me to walk on the low side of the sloped sidewalk so that she could walk on the higher. I did not dare ask her directly of course, but I later learnt that she measured just 4’10 tall.

Her height was not her most striking feature of course (and I feel a little guilty for even mentioning that first!). It was the sparkle of her eyes and ready laughter that created her first impression. Nana loved a good joke. She kept a shoebox in her pantry where she collected them, all handwritten, to be taken out and rummaged through to find the perfect joke for any given occasion.

She was never far from the pantry, and jokes were not the only treasure in there, because she loved to cook. In the huge (stepladder-accessed) pantry were stacked tins filled with treats. Within minutes of arriving for a visit, the teapot would be set on the table with a plate brimming with cakes. Eating was compulsory.

Many years before, Nana and Grandad owned a tearooms in Tirau and she was known far and wide for her scones. She could whip up a batch in the blink of an eye and would usually be bringing a batch out of the oven by the time she was topping up the teapot.

Visiting Nana always meant a cup of tea.

Multiple cups of tea, and questions.

Nana was the first person who ever asked me what I thought of politics. I was about 19 at the time, and green as grass. It must have been an election year – so while Grandad was in the next room and ranting at the news on telly, Nana sat me down with a cup of tea and with her sparking brown eyes asked what I thought of it all? I don’t remember what I answered, I was not the remarkable one, Nana, with her endless interest in others was inspiring.

When Grandad died, she was heartbroken. He was just a few months off 100, and she was just 86 at the time. At the wake, I went and sat with her, and she held my hand, we softly talked about who knows what. It was the holding of her hand that mattered.

Grandad remained close to her after death, she never let him go. She’d speak of him in the day-to-day, her love of him continued as part of her own existence. She wrote a poem about him, and it seemed a different man than the Grandad I knew because she knew him from his youth too. She knew his whole.

Whenever I’d visit Nana, her face would light up to see me. She had a way of making me feel special. I fixed her necklace for her on one of those visits. She was about to go to see the doctor, and I complimented her lipstick, she struck a jaunty pose and made me laugh -- but in that moment I also noticed that she’d become skinny.

It was not long after that when Nana Trixie suddenly was taken to hospital. I didn’t know what to do; all I could think about was holding her hand at Grandad's funeral…
I did the wrong thing. I didn’t go to Auckland, to hold her hand again, though in my heart I'd never let go. I was so scared of losing her.

I have her photo framed in my dining room, where I can see her in my kitchen and day to day. She is smiling, and I can feel her love for me, I think she has forgiven me.



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