RIP Jan Wilson

We remind ourselves that everyone dies, and a small voice inside demurely agrees, ‘Everyone.’ Then it whispers, ‘Everyone—except me.’ How can we imagine the end of imagining, the end of the conversation with ourselves which guides us through the world?

—Inga Clendinnen

‘About Bones’ in The Penguin Book of Death

Funerals are whimsical beasts, a chimaera concocted of grief, despair, and loss—along with laughter and happy memories shared with loved ones. I attended the funeral of a dear friend from Bega, Mona Stilling, in 1984. At the wake somebody said, ‘If only Mona were here, she’d be having such a great time’. The same thought crossed my mind about Jan. 

She lived for her family and just adored Paul, her husband of 43 years. As we walked into the chapel, a lone piper played The Skye Boat Song. Jan’s white coffin was draped with red sweet peas. I know they were her favourite flowers. During the eulogy I shared some of our life growing up together, and later a couple said they didn’t know Jan had played the bagpipes in the Orange Pipe Band. I mentioned Jan’s best friend from across the road in Franklin Road Orange, Sue Bargwana, not knowing she was there. Jo, Jan’s younger daughter read a moving poem. Amy and Ryan stood with their mum Kylee while Amy told of their love for their Nan and how much they will miss her. Afterwards Kylee gave me a bunch of the sweet peas, just as the family released blue balloons to the haunting notes of Amazing Grace. 

Rae, Jan and Helen Keegan

Jan’s parents, Madge and Bill Marston married in 1943. At the time, Madge’s son Ted was thirteen. I went to live with them a year later. When I was five, Madge mysteriously disappeared and came home with Jan, so Ted and I had a baby sister. I have a vague memory of sitting down and Jan being put into my arms and marvelling at her long skinny fingers, and being allowed to push her up to Cook Park in the cane pram, a couple of blocks from where we lived.

Jan in front of the sweet peas at Christmas

Ted built a see-saw in our backyard. Helen Keegan from next door used to come and play. When Jan was around five we moved from the rented house in 72 Clinton Street to 114 Franklin Road. We experienced the kind of idyllic childhood people are striving for now. We could ride our bikes around until dark; and we were almost self-sufficient. Madge and Bill had a huge block of land. Bill looked after the vegetables out the back and Madge the flowers out the front. She planted sweet peas on St Patrick's Day. Ted and Bill built a chook yard and made a cubby house in the corner of the 6’ paling fence for us. We had a table and chairs, tea-set, books and dolls, and spent weeks there until the spiders moved in. 

Bill at the Orange Show

Bill was an auctioneer at ‘R. Barr, Marston and Co.’ in Lords Place Orange. People came for miles around to listen to him. There’s a story I wrote about him published in The Complete Book of Blokes and Sheds.

Jan and Madge at the Orange Show 

Madge was a fantastic cook, always winning prizes at the Orange Show. She made jams and preserves, made all our clothes, brushed our hair every night and wound our hair in rag curls. Our life revolved around the Presbyterian Sunday School and the Caledonian Society. Jan and I both learned Highland Dancing. About ten years ago I found out we don't have one iota of Scottish blood; it must have been better to be born in Glasgow rather than Ballymena working on the gold diggings at Lambing Flat in 1861.

One Saturday Madge was making her famous marshmallow cake for Robbie Burns night. The cake layer had a dozen eggs, then a marshmallow layer topped with chocolate icing. I heard Jan laughing and went into the kitchen. Madge had gone outside and marshmallow was spinning out from the Sunbeam mixer splatting all over her and around the kitchen. We didn’t think to turn it off and just stood there helplessly laughing. Madge was not pleased. 

Jan and Rae Bogan Street Parkes 

I went to live in Parkes with Madge’s sister Anne when I was fifteen, but Jan often came to Parkes for holidays. Our cousin Keith was the same age as her. Jan was bridesmaid at our wedding in Parkes and a year later came to live with us in our flat in Crows Nest. (See Vale Janette Wilson blog.)

Bill Atchison, Jan, Barry, Rae, Barry's Sister Gayle, John Luckie
Margaret Pavey   16 September 1961

Barry, Rae, Paul, Jan, Madge, Edith and Ted Blandford   25 January 1969

Australian Farming Families and the CWA

Rae and Deb Hunt

Members and friends of the Berry Branch of the Country Women’s Association of NSW packed the Berry School of Arts for a talk by Deb Hunt, whose third book, Australian Farming Families has been published. Deb is an entertaining speaker—not all authors are good presenters, but she is a storyteller as well as writer.

I met Deb when I was ‘Writer in Residence’ at Broken Hill facilitating a community life writing project ‘Belonging in Broken Hill’. I was delighted when our classes were mentioned in her previous book, Love in the Outback.

High Afternoon Tea at the Berry CWA

After living in Broken Hill and working as a writer for the Royal Flying Doctor Service, Deb became intrigued by stories of people living in isolated rural areas. She travelled throughout Australia,  gathering stories to ‘provide a window into a way of life that defines the Australian spirit at its best’. She said that the experience made her a good listener. Prior to publication, Deb forwarded the final draft to each family for approval. At the end of her talk Deb said that since her previous visit to Berry, she had joined the Country Women’s Association.

http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:BalldaleHall.JPG

I attended my first Country Women’s Association meeting in the supper room at the back of the Balldale Hall in 1965. The women were organising supper for the Scottish debutante ball. They planned for three sittings in the trestle-tabled supper room. Everyone was volunteering—to roast fowls and mutton; boil ham; make salads and pavlovas. Who’ll do the trifles? Silence, then eyes were on me. I thought, ‘Oh well at least I can bash up a trifle’. Then I’m given one hundred oval-shaped cut-glass bowls to take home. 

Balldale Police Station and Residence

‘We like them done with sliced jam sponge, sherry flavouring, egg custard, then a layer of whipped cream decorated with rainbow rings of piped jelly.’

Piped jelly??? 

And so my battle with the ancient Bega fuel stove, baking jam sponges and stirring gallons of custard began. The trick with the jelly was to have it almost but not quite set. Not too hot or it melted the cream, not too runny or it wouldn’t hold its shape, and not too firm to push through the nozzle at the end of the calico piping bag. Eventually it was just right, and like baby bear I cried and cried as I piped concentric circles of Aeroplane port wine, lemon, strawberry, lime and orange jellies.

The night of the ball, parents made beds for their kids in the back of cars ready for when they were exhausted from sliding up and down the hall to spread the Pop’s floor dressing, or dancing with parents in the barn dance and strip-the-willow. Two years later I was President of Balldale CWA, and yes we baked and baked just like Berry CWA.