“Australia’s most travelled woman” is the title earned by Catriona Rowntree after more than 16 years at the helm of Australia’s favourite travel show, Getaway, on Channel 9. Catriona began her television career on WonderWorld!, and has worked on radio and in print. In addition to her media roles, Catriona is always involved in community work and is currently an Ambassador for the Year of the Farmer. She is also a very popular public speaker, highly sought after as an MC and the host of various events. When not in an airplane, Catriona lives with her husband and two children on their farm in rural Victoria.

A Grandmother’s Wisdom

Lessons learnt at my Nan’s knee

By Catriona Rowntree

Allen & Unwin

Copyright © 2013 Catriona Rowntree
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-74237-796-4

Contents

Introduction,
I’d like to introduce you to my Nan,
Be careful who you listen to, darling,
Not everyone’s going to like you,
But you’re good at everything, darling,
Don’t do anything you wouldn’t want to see on the front page of the Herald,
Hand me your credit card and get the scissors,
You’d better snap that boy up before the other girls do,
I only ever wanted you to be happy,
Follow your heart and you can’t go wrong,
You’re only a short time engaged, treasure every moment,
Enjoy being a newlywed, as you’re a parent for life,
Just keep on going, darling,
Fortune is found in family,
I love you too, darling,
What will be your legacy?,
My Nan’s words of wisdom,

CHAPTER 1

I’d like to introduce you to my Nan

I want to share with you a little bit of my Nan’s story. After all, as I’m claiming ‘World’s Best Nan’ status for her, you’ll want to know why she deserves that exalted title.

There were certainly a few elements to her life that set her apart, beginning with her name. It’s a conversation starter if ever there was one. To this day I’ve never heard of another Riria. The most placid woman you’d ever have the good fortune to meet was given a name that means anger in the Maori language. I don’t think a person’s demeanour could ever be so mismatched to a name. Nan’s mum had known a little local girl back in Auckland, New Zealand, who was the sweetest child she’d ever met and vowed that if ever she were blessed with a daughter of her own, Riria would be her name, too. Thanks very much, Mum!

Nan was born on the auspicious day of Black Friday the thirteenth, in the twelfth month of 1912. Heavens to Betsy, what a welcome to the world. Apparently, when Nan’s parents proudly walked her down the street through the flower-filled suburb of Parnell to the cathedral to be christened, the next-door neighbour yelled out, ‘You better give that poor child a nice middle name like Joy, to equal out the horrible first name.’ Good on the neighbour, I say. Joy would have been far more appropriate for my Nan.

By the afternoon, Riria Joy Whitley had been given the nod by the good Lord himself, hallelujah. And I’m happy to let you know that her ‘angry’ name had no influence on her character. In fact, Riria went on to reveal, through the force of her angelic personality, that kindness and good fortune would be her trademark personality traits.

Before I continue, I think it’s worth saying that the only way I can ever remember Nan referring to her family is with a smile on her face and pure love in her voice. Wouldn’t you love to be described like that? The impression given to me of her early days has seemed to me altogether golden.

Nan arrived into the world during the halcyon days of New Zealand, only a couple of years before World War One, to hardworking and kind-hearted parents. Fred and Evelyn Whitley were both calm and happy individuals who, blessed with a happy home and two healthy children, felt they did not want for anything. I suppose it was a simpler time, when that was all that mattered. In fact, Nan would say that that’s still all that really matters.

Nan grew up right next door to her own paternal grandmother, with her mum’s parents a little further up the street, just near the now famous Parnell Rose Gardens, overlooking the Auckland Harbour. I believe that the seed of knowing how to be a beautiful grandmother grew from the daily example of her own. On my dressing table at home, I treasure a small black-and-white photo of the pair. There you’ll see a sweetly dressed little girl, ribbons in her hair, holding the hand of her own dear grandmother, who sits in a rocking chair on the verandah of their home. Looking at it now as I write, if it weren’t for the turn of the century clothes, it could be an image of Nan and me; I feel our friendship, our easygoing relationship pictured right there.

So, what can I tell you about Nan. Swimming was her great passion in her early life. Nan can’t remember a time in her life when she couldn’t swim with complete confidence. Her dad literally dropped her into the water at the age of two and said, ‘Now go for it.’ She and her brother, Selwyn, both became champion swimmers who would always joke about being the first to swim across Auckland Harbour. In 1935, the day before Nan embarked on an adventurous solo trip to Australia, she and Selwyn did just that. It wasn’t without peril. A terrific rip washed them a mile down the harbour and then they became entangled in a Navy whale boat race. The future Governor General of New Zealand just happened to be onboard one of the boats, and when Nan met him coincidentally months later at a Navy cocktail party in Sydney, he mentioned the crazy loons who’d nearly stopped the race. Nan proudly piped up, ‘Yes, that was me!’ but he simply refused to believe her.

As I mentioned, this happened just before Riria left her friends and family behind in New Zealand to pursue her love of travel and to see the world. Her first port of call was Sydney town. On 29 April 1935, a 23-year-old girl paid just ten pounds to travel by sea on the Wanganella and cross the pond. Tragedy struck early in her trip, though. Nan had organised to board with Mrs Ashwin of Kensington where her dear friend, Chris McRea, was also staying. But, sadly, Chris contracted meningitis almost as soon as Nan arrived and died within two weeks of her arrival.

What would you do in this case? Stay in a foreign country or return home to your family for comfort? At the urging of her parents, Nan stayed in Sydney and, until recently, never mentioned to me this heartbreaking beginning to her new life. I can’t bear to think of how hard that must have been for Nan, to be away from her loved ones and to endure so much pain.

But Nan never spoke of her challenges. She only ever dwelled on the good times, on funny stories and her adventures: proudly telling tales of being one of the first girls in Sydney to wear trousers, of attending all sorts of parties, including that flash cocktail reception upon the HMS Gloucester. Invited with her roommate and good friend, Molly Moore, Nan tells that they made quite an entrance to this elegant affair when, gliding up the gangplank, poor Molly got her narrow heel stuck in the timber slats and tripped head over heel, literally, onto the ship. Hello Sailor!

Well, you can imagine that with such a lust for life, it wasn’t long before love came knocking on Riria’s door. And, as Nan was to discover, just as I experienced so many years later for myself, when it comes to true love, you can’t pick who you fall for. Nan had a friend, a fellow Kiwi, Alice Lombard, who managed the Red Hen Restaurant in Macleay Street, Kings Cross, a favourite for the regular guests of the nearby Carlton Hotel. One of these guests was a gorgeous Scotsman, Andrew Smeaton.

Andrew had been a valiant member of the famous Black Watch Army and had played soccer for his country. He also shared Nan’s sense of adventure. Life led him around the world, but his fortune was to be found among the goldfields of Papua New Guinea where he’d been so successful in his business ventures that he’d ‘officially’ retired at age 40. Nan could thrill you with so many stories of Andy’s travels and business, but I only ever wanted to hear about their love story. I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve asked to hear it; I never tire of it and I’m sure I mythologise their past more at each retelling.

While on a business trip to Sydney, Andy was dining at the Red Hen restaurant, where he’d befriended Alice. One night, he asked Alice why she looked so concerned; she said she was worried about her friend who was determined to travel to New Guinea. This friend had heard it was all palm trees, blue seas and white sandy beaches. Andy promised to meet Alice’s friend to explain that PNG wasn’t a place for a young girl travelling on her own. Nan and Andy did meet that next night and even though he was nearly twice her age … it was love at first sight. Within months, he proposed to her underneath the Pohutukawa tree, back home in the Parnell Rose Gardens. And soon after they were married in the same cathedral where the girl ‘with the horrible name’ had been christened. They were surrounded by friends, family and, yes, her beloved grandmother.

While I will tell you more about Nan’s life as we go on, I’ll also tell you a little about myself, if you don’t mind. I was blessed with being the youngest member of my family, a family of four noisy children and two very much in-love, but utterly exhausted, parents. I say blessed, certainly not because I was spoilt being the youngest — I’m still waiting for that day — but because with three siblings Mum and Dad were so busy looking after their first three that Nan was forced to pick up the slack with me. She just tucked me up under her cosy wing, or at least that’s how I’ve always felt.

Unlike a lot of my friends’ families our grandmother lived with us or, I should say, we lived with her. When Mum and Dad married, they moved to Sydney’s Paddington, renovating old shambolic terrace houses and selling them for a profit. All well and good as a couple, but slightly challenging as their family slowly grew. There was nothing glamorous about this and as they kept breeding so did Nan’s concerns over the wellbeing of her grandchildren. When baby number three was on its way and Mum revealed that their next house had only an outside toilet, Nan put her foot down. She insisted my parents return to her North Shore home. They could renovate there, if they wished, but she suggested that any additions include an extra storey for her. She wanted the children to grow up with a nice backyard, her support close by and, thankfully, an indoor loo. Let’s face it, this situation would not be ideal for every man — moving in with the mother-in-law — but it’s a testament to both their natures, Nan’s and Dad’s, that this set-up has endured for over 50 years.

In time, our house was divided with my family downstairs and Nan settled comfortably on her own level above where, due to it also being home to a cosy TV room, we all spent most of our time. Sometimes downstairs could be open warfare, often chaotic and rarely peaceful. We were all relieved when my wish was granted to move me out of the bedroom I shared with one of my sisters, a situation that was unbearable by the time we hit our teens, to a converted room upstairs near Nan.

For me, that small move was such a massive relief. A sense of calm I’d never known settled lightly upon me, and had a positive effect on everything from my school grades to personal relationships. I also now had my ‘angel’ all to myself. There was nothing I held back from her — from questions about boys to clothing choices — and in all the many times that I sought Nan’s opinion, I never once felt any harsh judgement.

From early on my relationship with Nan was special. My aunt tells me that Nan and I share a similar nature and fit happily together like two peas in a pod. But Nan, although she’d never admit it, has always had a gorgeous charisma about her. She was able to connect with any person, on any level. A gifted listener, a famous ‘fence-sitter’, everyone who crossed her path relaxed and basked in her company. I realise now that in absorbing Nan’s advice and conversation I subconsciously learnt from her example and applied it to my own life.

Every day I feel as if I have Nan’s voice in my ear guiding me. It’s hard to know where to start in selecting the life lessons she’s passed onto me and to weight the importance of each one. Some of her ‘lessons’ make us laugh, while others make us nod sagely. The fact that I can easily bring to mind this mixture of advice, is some indication that I remain forever grateful for her older, wiser voice which still resonates in everything I do.

CHAPTER 2

Be careful who you listen to, darling

‘Not smart enough.’

‘Not pretty enough.’

‘Talks too much.’

‘Doesn’t know anyone.’

‘Underweight.’

‘Overweight.’

‘Bugs Bunny face.’

‘Annoying.’

‘Too happy.’

And the best of them all? ‘You breathe in a funny way.’

When it comes to putdowns, I’ve had my fair share, like most people. Some of these were warranted, some were plain spiteful and a few were just nonsensical. I was raised on a hefty dose of putdowns from my sisters. Like a lot of children, I shared a bedroom with a sibling. We squabbled, we bickered, we occasionally drew blood and I can assure you I gave as good as my wimpy body got. Of course this was all good preparation to toughen me up for school, which opened up a whole new world of bullying, finely chiselled barbs and snarky remarks.

But the putdowns don’t stop when you leave school. Work places aren’t always supportive, and sometimes what you hear said about yourself and others in the workplace can be challenging — I’d say from work mates, but there’s nothing matey about the harshness of some of the criticism I’ve heard.

Then there’re the kinds of insults hurled around our day-to-day lives that we have to brace ourselves against, such as when you inadvertently drive too slowly in the traffic for someone’s liking, or when you don’t realise there’s a queue in a bank and you stand in the wrong place; it just happens sometimes, that everyday life opens you up to the odd missile projected from some angry individual with nothing against you in particular.

When I was young (and even not so young), I always went to my Nan as a safe place to recover from the wounds of a serpent’s tongue. I would crawl onto her lap in her big comfy lounge chair in the television room (‘Nan’s Chair’ is how we’d refer to it) and tell her everything. You know the kind of ‘nanna’ chair I mean, one with the handle at the side that lets you recline? It was a celadon green velvet fabric. That chair was so big and wonderful, I’d even feel special sitting on it when Nan wasn’t using it. But better still were the times when I sat on it with her, nestled right up close, and she’d dry my tears, comfort me and together we’d solve whatever problem was troubling me.

When I was hurting from the harsh words of others, I would take shelter under Nan’s wing and, almost without fail, she’d say the same thing to me to cheer me up and help me smile again. They were simple words, yes, but words of wisdom all the same, sometimes said with emotion, sometimes with a laugh, but pretty much always with a cuddle. ‘Be careful who you listen to, darling.’ Softly spoken advice but crystal clear. And then she’d often add: ‘Sticks and stones may break your bones, but names will never hurt you.’

Nan’s simple clarity was such a blessing. Every time, these words made me take a step back from my emotional response, enabling me to take stock of the situation. Often she’d help me realise that it wasn’t about me at all, that the putdown said more about the person delivering the spite than about me. As I was to discover time and time again, Nan was right. When someone says something that wounds you, remember they are just words and ultimately, and most importantly, it’s up to you to choose who and what you listen to. It is that simple: if you listen to the bad, you’ll feel bad; so listen to the good and feel better — Nan knew that, and now I know that, too.

Over the years, there have been two important times when had I listened to the person in question and taken heed of their assessment of me, my life would have been very, very different — and not in a good way. In fact, I still reflect back to those occasions almost daily, they really were that life changing. I’d like to share them with you now, just briefly. When I was at school, it may not surprise you to know that I was a bit of a chatterbox. I come from a very talkative household and could never understand why this love of chatter was not appreciated at school. My talking had me constantly in trouble, to the point where my mum knew never to expect me home early on a Thursday as I’d usually be on detention for talking.

When I was thirteen, however, things got a bit serious. I should just say that I attended the kind of conservative school where quirks were repressed, rather than encouraged. The headmistress of the school pulled me aside one day. After reprimanding me for a minor offence (I’d taken up a dare to eat my science experiment — a Condys crystal), she got on a roll and decided to go the whole hog. She declared, among other things, that I was ‘… nothing but trouble, would never amount to anything [and that I was to be] suspended. Indefinitely.’ Did I mention I was thirteen?

My spirit was not only crushed, it was screwed up and kicked to the curb. The confusion, the shame I felt for what I’d done to our family, was overwhelming. I was sent straight home from her office, tear-stained and shaking, to await the judgement of my parents. They could have gone either way, but thankfully they came up trumps. They embraced me and the very next day they put on a united front and went up to the school. They pleaded my case with that vile headmistress, only to have her reiterate her thoughts and say that she’d do everything in her power to prevent me from getting into another private school. Which, in fact, she did.

Time to pause and offer up a small prayer of thanks to those who follow Nan’s mantra and are indeed careful of who they listen to.

After my parents were flatly refused interviews for me at a handful of local schools that the headmistress had spoken to, one headmaster was intrigued enough to invite me to visit him. I vividly remember each moment about that day, a day that changed the course of my life. I remember the clothes I wore, the tenderness of my dad’s support, the tiny office where we anxiously sat awaiting the appointment. I especially remember the words that I chose to listen to. ‘Let’s see, your English marks are wonderful, you love history, art, writing … My dear, there’s nothing wrong with you. We just need to get you into speech and drama, some debating, maybe … You could get paid for all this talking some day!’

(Continues…)Excerpted from A Grandmother’s Wisdom by Catriona Rowntree. Copyright © 2013 Catriona Rowntree. Excerpted by permission of Allen & Unwin.
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