One of the earliest memories I have of my nanna is unwrapping a Christmas present from her and finding a doll. That probably seems perfectly normal, except that my nanna knew I hated dolls (but didn’t know I was already a lesbian). The look on my confused face set off her trademark cackle from the back of the room, revealing the gift to be a dastardly prank. Dolls remained a theme into adulthood, as she continuously threatened to leave her incredibly creepy porcelain doll collection to me in her will, laughing every time I replied that if she did, I would toss them all immediately into a skip bin and set it on fire. It turns out she didn’t follow through on her threat, and I am relieved I don’t have to hire and then destroy a skip.
My mum called me a couple of weeks ago, and as soon as I heard her say “Rebecca”, I knew something had happened. She has a certain phone voice that comes through when she’s about to deliver bad news. It’s tearful, but clear and powerful. A Rolodex of all the terrible things she could be calling about started flipping through my mind. For the readers under 50 who don’t know what a Rolodex is, just imagine I’m scrolling through the contacts list in my phone really fast. Mum informed me that my beloved nanna had suffered a sudden brain bleed at home, and was being taken to the hospital.
She didn’t make it through. I’m writing this at the airport, flying home from her funeral. Unfortunately – and not for the first time in my life – I find myself crying next to a Red Rooster.
I had a special relationship with my nanna, although I’m sure all of her 45-plus grandchildren and great-grandchildren felt the same. We each received a birthday card every single year until she died, and I truly have no idea how she did this with such a big family – she must have spent 50% of her time writing and sending cards. I hold grave fears for the Australian greeting card industry now that she has passed.
Her funeral was filled with her huge family. We heard from her children and step-children about what an amazing, supportive parent she had always been, and how she was like a second mother to many of their friends. We heard from her best friend of many decades, who knew from the moment they met that they would be lifelong friends, and they spoke several times a week, for decades. We heard from her Seniors Club friend, who spoke about how Nanna would always make sure the more frail and elderly members got their morning tea first, like when you see a toddler trying to help a baby. Her thoughtfulness and her care were common themes.
But there was one aspect of her personality that wasn’t covered at the funeral, so I want to discuss it here: my nanna was also a troll. I don’t mean the kind of troll who lives under a bridge or has colourful, spiky hair; I mean the kind of person who delights in getting a rise out of you. My nanna’s trolling began when I unwrapped that doll at Christmas, and she became masterful at it.
I was her eldest granddaughter, and Nanna and I bonded early – mostly over our shared love of jokes, and her particular love of pushing my buttons. When I still lived in Brisbane, I would take her out to lunch every couple of weeks, and we would go through the same routine of deciding where to eat. The routine was redundant, because regardless of where we went, Nanna seemed to be under the impression that menus are optional. They are just suggestions, and everyone is free to ask for things that aren’t listed. Surprisingly, it would often work, because she was nice, and because ultimately what she always wanted was a simple toasted sandwich.
“Why didn’t you just go to a place that sells toasted sandwiches?” you are probably asking, and I don’t have an answer for you, except that she was a troll. To a woman raised on flavourless Depression-era slop, toasted sandwiches were a revelation, and they became a big part of her life. They came up several times during her funeral, all unrelated stories. Her stepson said that he imagined when Nanna was offered a glorious feast upon her arrival in heaven, she would ask God if he could just quickly run out the back and make her a ham, cheese and tomato toastie. Over lunch (me eating menu food, her eating a sandwich) we would talk, debate, and laugh about everything under the sun. I think she felt really alive when we bantered back and forth, and honestly so did I.
After not being able to see her for a long time during Covid, I visited Nanna a few months ago in person, and got to introduce her to my girlfriend. I feel so lucky we had that visit. The final conversation we had was when I called her a couple of weeks before she died. At the time I even tweeted about it because we teased each other, and we made each other laugh so much.
Cute alert: Was talking to my nanna about where I live & I said Chippendale & she said “oh!” & I said “yeah. like the strippers” which she ignored & said “no there was a cartoon, they were monkeys I think”& I said “I think you mean chipmunks” & she laughed & laughed at herself
— Bec Shaw (@Brocklesnitch) September 29, 2022
I feel so grateful for that last conversation, and for all the conversations, and jokes, and debates, and that we learned from each other as we went along in our lives.
My mum asked if I wanted to say something at the funeral, and I forced myself to write something small. I ended it with a joke – saying that I felt lucky that now I finally got to have the last word, for once. But Nanna wasn’t done yet. There was a late addition to the funeral program, and my bit had to be bumped. I was genuinely relieved, and wouldn’t have it any other way. The woman had trolled me one more time from beyond, making sure I didn’t get the last word. It was funny, and so fitting. Perfection.
Throughout her life, and then even in death, Nanna taught me an important lesson about ageing. You never have to lose your wit, or your desire to create mischief. You can and should always find ways to laugh, and people to laugh with. It’s my 40th birthday in a week or so, and I plan to carry that spirit onwards with me. I’m going to be a troll, but for love. Just like my nanna.
• Rebecca Shaw is a writer based in Sydney
