The importance of family

BY KERRY WILLIAMSON

He might not realise it just yet, but the boy is lucky.

In fact, he’s luckier than most.

I just spent the weekend away from my son. In the space of three sad, funny, exhausting, heart-warming, tearful days, I achieved quite a bit.

I said goodbye to my nana for the last time, resumed special friendships with rarely seen members of the Williamson clan, and came to realise even more just how important family is.

I also ate my weight in blue cod, devoured a plate-full of banana and carrot cake, said a few prayers against my better judgment, and drank more than a few cold Speights.

I played rugby passes until the ball went over the fence, I fought over Uncle Noo-Noo’s special spuds, I visited the cottage where my great-grandmother was born and I helped clean out my nana’s old room at the rest-home.

I even pinched her bowling cap as a memento. 

I’m home now, tired, still a little emotional, and more aware than ever that family is one of the most important things in the world, if not the most important.

That’s a realisation that has taken a while to dawn on me. But it’s something I mean to instil in the boy.

I’ve never been big on family. That has a lot to do with my rather dysfunctional childhood, the fact that my family never really resembled anyone else’s.

That’s not necessarily anyone’s fault, that’s just the way it was. I grew up believing that I didn’t need family, that I was just fine on my own. For the most part, I was.

But I’m a little older and wiser now, and the more time I spend around family, the more I see that – if we are lucky – it can be our rock, our one constant.

Funerals are good for making you see that. Death tends to put things into perspective.

One third of my family packed into the front two rows of the Mosgiel Presbyterian Church on Saturday morning, three days after my Nana Willy died.

We were a ragtag lot. I wore a tie but forgot my belt. Two cousins wore jeans, although one proudly proclaimed that his mum had spent 150 bucks on his. We hid our scrunched up tissues in our pockets and made uncomfortable jokes.

We held it together pretty well, but we all lost it at one stage or the other. I didn’t expect many tears – I hadn’t spent a lot of time with my nana in recent years – but they came all the same. I may have even sobbed just a little. 

Us grandkids carried our nana's coffin to the hearse as a lone bag-piper played, we stood around outside not really knowing what to do, and then we headed back into the church to devour savouries, down cups of weak coffee and share stories.

A few people from my past, people I should have known but had no idea who they were, asked about the boy. And I proudly told them that he was already displaying quite a few of Nana Willy’s traits. They liked that.

Losing the family matriarch is a good time to assess things. And I soon realised that even though I have spent very little time with these people – uncles, aunties, cousins, great-aunts – they are as close to me as anyone.

The first thing my Uncle Noo said to me when I arrived in Mosgiel was “you’ve got shorter”. I replied with a quick “you’ve got fatter” and patted his belly. And just like that, we were away.

None of us let up the entire time. But it was all in good fun, and it felt as natural as sunshine. You don’t have to try with family; the bonds are just there. They may not be like you – heck, they may not even like you - but blood is blood. 

And that’s where my son is luckier than most.

Fate and a few big decisions mean the boy has three families. He has my mum’s side of the family. He has my dad’s side of the family.

And he has the Conrads, those funny-talking redneck yahoos from Canada, who just happen to be on the wife’s side.

Each side of the family loves the boy like crazy, and will be there for him no matter what.

Aunty C will always offer to babysit and Uncle T will one day take him fishing; Mum will teach him how to dance; Dad will teach him how to pass a rugby ball; Great-Aunt Fran will try to convert him.

Grandpa Conrad will teach him how to swing a hockey stick, and Grand-dad Walters a golf club; Uncle Noo will give him a silly nickname; Great-Gramma Nita will show him how to cheat at cards; and his southern cousins will try and make him roll his r’s.

Cousin H will help him soup up his car and cousin J will help him break into Hollywood; my stepbrothers will help him with music; Cousins H and G will teach him how to tackle.

Grandma Conrad will try and beat him at Scrabble; Aunty J will teach him how to dress; and Uncle D will teach him how to boil a lobster just so.

They will all be there for him, whenever he needs them. He won’t even need to ask. Family just know.

It has taken time, but I’ve readjusted my thinking on family. There’s nothing like it.

The boy might not realise that yet. But he soon will.

 

- © Fairfax NZ News