High, flying adored

As a child, I spent a fair amount of time with my grandparents.

My Pa taught me to drive his ute and dress fly-blown sheep in the middle of a paddock. My Nana taught me to cook with a million saucepans and trays for a simple dinner and to grow a garden of beauty and productivity.

Adoring Nana was easy. She made scones, smiled through lips painted a soft pink, her face soft and wrinkled with a fine coat of powder. She’s feisty and gentle too, so I know I’ve grabbed a few of her traits.

Anyway, she had her first flight the other day, at 86. Air ambulance to Sydney for an emergency scan of the degenerating bones in her neck. I arrived by her bedside and waved.

She quickly put me to work.

“Hello, could you please check this television remote.”

“Hello Nana.” I leaned over and kissed her cheek.

“Oh, Johnny Meyer, I didn’t realise it was you with your beard. I just thought you were a handsome wardsman.”

I took her washing home and when I was hanging it out, I felt sad and also very lucky to still have her around and to be able to be of service to her, to do menial tasks like her laundry.

On my return the next day, we talked about her constant companion — cancer — and how it was morphing around her body. I wanted to know how she felt. To quiet the noise around her.

“Are you afraid Nana?” I asked quietly.

“No, this cancer is at the back of my mind. I’m just hoping someone is watering my cucumbers,” she said, sipping her lemonade.

There I had it. Perspective. What meant the most to Nana was not we all panic about. This is the woman who delayed the air ambulance because her blackberry jam wasn’t finished.

A simple and effective lesson we can only learn from those closest to us.