Maisie and Les, 1961, at Uncle Kieth’s wedding in Mt Gambier.

Nana and Papa are my father’s parents.  They both died in 1963, when I was 8 years old. We lived outside of Balmoral (Victoria), at Englefield. I remember, when everyone came back to our place from Papa’s funeral, asking my dad if he had cried. One of my aunts shushed me and hustled me off. I think I asked because I’d been amazed to see him cry after Nana died. She died suddenly from a brain haemorrhage and then Papa stopped taking his blood pressure medication; he keeled over about six weeks later, while shoeing a horse. I guess he felt bad – mum told me a doctor at the Horsham hospital told Papa is was okay to go to the football (I think that is why they were in Horsham, in the first place) and she died unexpectedly before he came back. Mum had a photo like this enlarged, and hand tinted, and put in a lovely frame. We grew up with it in the house until dad gave it to one of his siblings.

Leslie Joseph Cyril PARISH was born 1905, in Mt Gambier, South Australia. Mavis (Maisie) Olive Crute was born 1908 in Stawell, Victoria. Les and Maisie married 19th January 1928, at Horsham. Their first child was born late December (the babe in the photo above). Les and Maisie had seven children, with my dad being the third child, and the second son.

Our PARISH family line traces back to Smith Parish, baptised in Caldecote, Essex, Cambridgeshire, England, 1792, the bastard child of Sarah Parish. Maisie’s line goes back to Aspley Guise, Bedfordshire, England, to William White CRUTE, baptised 1796. One of my aunts did the research on dad’s family, long before I was remotely interested.

I remember Nana and papa with love: they were such generous, loving people. I had a large wart on the palm of one hand, and Papa purchased it from me for a penny. It vanished. Nana used to make me dry dishes, and I hated it. I’m not sure if I meant to drop a plate once, or if it was an accident, but I remember thinking Ha! she won’t make me dry again. No such luck. She made me clean it up and then I had to finish the rest of the drying on my own for ages, every night, after that.

Nana had a couple of sayings I loved. I’m sure I cracked up in giggles every time she said same. I smile, just recalling.

If I asked her what was for tea: it was always duck under the table. And if I asked her what she was knitting (she always seemed to be knitting): a wigwam for a goose’s bridle.

I’ve got to track down Papa’s obituary notice and add it here. He trained trotters, and drove them. I suppose he part-owned one or two, as well.

It’s not hard to see where my nose comes from. And Nana’s nose came from her mother.   ❤

Horsham Cemetery. R.I.P.