Last night my nan took us out to dinner on the final night of their visit. My mother sulked; she wanted to eat at home, but was voted vehemently down. We went to a thai place where the food was sublime. This morning we took them to the station, stopping at a few places in Maryborough to try and get sandwiches for them to take on the train, my mother reeling in shock that no one had brown bread. She had to resort to getting a couple of plain rolls from a bakery. Maryborough and Hervey Bay are white-bread heaven. I’m sure most of their populace exists on it. Anyway. Of course I’d left my purse at home on the fridge so had to scrounge petrol money from my mum, who managed not to roll her eyes.

My mother and her mother in my backyard...

Said goodbye at the station. I don’t know when I’m going to see my nan again. She’s heading back to Marblehead, Massachusetts in mid-April. We had a lovely time with her – she loved how quiet it is here. Read her way through a few books. Got the hang of getting in and out of the front seat of the van. For someone who is 80-ish, she is very on the ball. We hit the beach a couple of times, went to every op-shop in Maryborough, went to the movies, visited M’s mother, took a tour of Brooklyn House. Most places we went to eat she and I would share a shandy. The three of us walked into the public bar of the Red Roo in Maryborough and drank beer to recover from the heat of the day. My nan has that admirable habit of seeming to be comfortable pretty much anywhere; she left Mudgee, and Australia, in about 1945 as a war bride, married to an American soldier that she’d met in a restaurant in Lonsdale Street, Melbourne. So she’s learnt to be adaptable! It was not nice saying goodbye at the station. Nan is not good at goodbyes, and I am worse. I usually get depressed leaving people in Melbourne, but leaving my little five foot nothing Nan was far worse. M and I promised that we head over to the US to visit this time next year when we have sold the house and have some funds for the first time ever. I feel like a wrung out face washer.