Brieanna Fist

I only have one grandparent that I see often. My grandpa lives in a retirement home in which he spent part of his working life as a Chaplin, after forming churches, working as a pastor, and working in prison chaplaincy. He achieved that, and Bible college, after dropping out of school at the age of eleven, to work on his parent’s farm in Tasmania alongside, at various times, his five brothers and sisters.

I feel so very privileged that I know his stories. Whilst my family react with mirth that he’s taken the time to painstakingly write his autobiography in Word documents, calling me to ask how to change the size of his font, I have been learning to appreciate the legacy I own in being a Fist.

My Pa once wrote that Fist is a good name, and asked us not to desecrate it in our generation.  Whilst I think we’ve lost the importance of a family name modernily, I am so grateful that he has lived long enough to give me these moments.

My grandma died incredibly affected by Alzheimers disease. September 2006. I was quite little when our family discovered that her memory was disintegrating, and very sheltered from the whole experience for a long time. But when Nanna realised she could no longer rely on the infallibility of her memories, she started calling me. The oldest. And she told me stories. She told me about her childhood, her family, about courting and being married to my Pa. I listened, but I wish that I had soaked in her experiences, as she tried to teach. I regret that I can’t recall most of those precious conversations, and that has caused in me an appreciation of the tales others from her generation tell.

‘And then I said to her, you better not shake me, or I’ll rattle I’m full of so many pills!’

I sat next to the most spirited little old lady the other day on the bus. She was with her sister, and they had just come back from Sydney. To do what, pray tell? To get a haircut! They had both lived in Sydney until two years ago when their mother died, and they had chosen to reside on the property their father had bought in Avoca, where they had camped as children. They didn’t like going home in the dark, for fear they’d fall over, and had sewed a cover for her packet of disposable tissues, which she doled out to her sick sister while calling out ‘Are you fine? Are you sure?’ every single time the bus rounded a corner.

Her willingness to share who she was with me, a stranger, was incredible. To be the imparted a lifetime’s worth of experiences? It is humbling.