A Different Kind of Nanna

Throughout my troubled years my Nanna, Bronwen Meredith, was both a soul mate and a mentor.  But it didn’t start like that.  Like olives my Nanna was an acquired taste.

As a child I just thought she was weird.  Everyone else’s grandmothers were busy baking cookies and wearing pearls.  Mine went in protest marches.  In fact, she even spoke at the marches. She also wore terrible, boring clothes which, she told me proudly, she got from an op shop.  I did not want op shop clothes.  I wanted brightly coloured, brand new, feminine dresses that I could spin around in. 

She had travelled the world feeding the hungry and giving justice to the oppressed.  I had no interest in any of that.  I just resented the fact that she wouldn’t supply me with chocolate, the way everyone else’s grandmother did.

Eventually we found common ground in children’s books.  I loved reading and she knew lots about books.  She had been a school librarian and so she knew just the sort of books that would inspire and excite an inquisitive child. 

My Nanna also took her spiritual life seriously.  She was a Quaker and so I spent many Sunday mornings sitting in silence, which is how Quakers worship.  The Quaker meeting room had a window overlooking Mount Wellington, the beautiful mountain that is the backdrop to Hobart.  At these still times I would wonder at its beauty and think of the possibility that some spiritual reality existed outside of my little world.

Nanna’s commitment to education started very young.  At six years of age she went to the graduation of her uncle and observed that very few women were graduating.  “Why aren’t there more women?” she asked.  “Not very many women go to University,” she was told.  “Well,” said Nanna “I’m going to go.”

And indeed she did.  She studied for her Bachelor of Arts at the University of Tasmania and did very well, particularly in English Literature, where she achieved High Distinctions.  She then went on to qualify as a teacher. According to Nanna University was a wonderful place, where ideas were discussed and minds open.  And where women were finding that they too had good minds, and good ideas.

After marrying my grandfather (Papa)  they had five children. They both had successful teaching careers, which included teaching in Papua New Guinea and Aboriginal children in the Northern Territory.  They also worked for the Quaker aid agency which took them all over the world.

But, in my memory, Nanna and Papa lived in a big house a few kilometres north of Hobart. I spent many school holidays there as children and teenagers where we were exposed to politics, art and books.

Nanna and Papa’s house was filled with books on a range of subjects.  There were novels, poetry, Aboriginal books, books filled with art, literature from ages past and religious and political tomes.  Sometimes I just enjoyed looking at all the titles.  I remember reading the poetry particularly.  I felt so intellectually stimulated by their library.

Nanna and Papa protested against various things - including war, women's rights and racism.  Although I didn't appreciated this as a child I did when I started University where I was exposed to these ideas too.  I remember first studying Martin Luther King and feeling so angry at the racism he chose to combat.  I felt I finally had some idea where they were coming from.

After Papa's death and my breakdown Nanna and I became very close.  I would walk up to her nursing home each week to talk to her about intellectual topics such as literature, politics, spirituality and the arts.  Although we often disagreed Nanna was always respectful and said 'Meredith's have strong opinions.' (Meredith is my last name and was also hers)

During my long mental illness Nanna tried hard to support me.  She even went to see my psychiatrist when I was in hospital to try and work  out how best to help.  Apparently he told her to take me out and not to worry about me finding work until I had stabilised.

Nanna died in 2011.  The day before she passed away I sat there stroking her hands and reading to her.  

Some of my friends came to her funeral and were interested in the similarities between Nanna and me.  We were both intellectuals who enjoyed reading and writing.  We both had strong spiritual and political opinions, and shared similar values.  And, lastly, we both struggled with cooking and driving.

I still miss my Nanna.  I often think of things to talk to her about, then remember that she's no longer around.  I will always remember her kindness and her spirit.