Shapes - Remembering Jean McEwan

This past week, my family said a tearful farewell to a woman who had a profound influence on our lives. Jean McEwan, my grandmother, passed away after a short illness, aged 95 years. Her funeral was less a solemn service and more a celebration of her life - a life that was full and lived well. The following is a piece my cousin and I put together over a couple of phone calls, plenty of tears and a little bit of laughter. We read this together at Nana's service.

Shapes.

by Dean Mayes and Keryn McEwan.

Square.

The squat little heater that sits on the hearth in the North Road living room. Its kerosene globe glows red, warming our bodies as the rain patters the tin roof. We watch the black and white TV; munching her homemade pasties as big as house bricks, or perhaps it was a bowl of her famous pea and ham soup. We play along with the quiz show and we marvel at her sharp mind, her worldly knowledge, as she deftly answers question after question in between the click-clack of her knitting needles - with a wink and a smile.

Cylinder.

The tall glass bottles she collects; Alpine soft drink all the colours of the rainbow. She serves them with ice blocks on warm summer days with her legendary Anzac biscuits and we sit under the liquid amber, playing with Matchbox cars at the base of the trunk, contemplating – but never conquering – a climb of that mighty tree. Her eyes were everywhere, our safety never in question when she was nearby. The empty soft drink bottles we carry to the corner shop, exchanging them for coins to then buy bags of lollies. We return to her in our sugar rush and she greets us by her rose bushes with her wink and her smile.

Triangle.

The chintzy silver Christmas tree, the only one I ever knew existed. Adorned with bright, colourful baubles that reflect the love of family gathered in the living room to exchange gifts, warm hugs and festive laughter. She sweeps into the room with platters of treats, inviting us to eat; her bell voice urging, “Come on, come on, there’s more to come.” The tiny kitchen has been prepared, a banquet of her finest cooking. Christmas ham, vegetables, her handmade Christmas puddings and cakes. She stands at the head of the table, ready to receive her diners, always with her wink and her smile.

Teardrop.

Her beloved fuschias; her pride and joy. Little fingers always found their way to those fat, pink teardrops to squeeze and delight in the pop of the buds – not appreciating it was too early for them to bloom. There’s not much that makes her wild, but a popped fuschia always does. The fallen leaves of the liquid amber to, so easy to kick through, spread far and wide across the hillside lawn. She chases us with the handle of the rake as she scurries to banish the leaves into neat piles. Or our feats of daring involving that clothesline. The run-up was perfect. Our leaps superhuman. Our giggles merciless. No wink or smile from her then.

Circle.

She was at the centre of all of us. Mum, Nana, Little Aunty Jean. As we branched out, embraced our callings and created circles of our own, she gave a little bit of herself to ours, ensuring that she would live on in many lifetimes. We are the chef, the hairdresser, the nurse, the businesswoman, the professionals, the servicemen and women. She has seen us achieve and has reveled in our success – always with that wink and that smile.

A friend of mine recently wrote, “I don’t believe in life after death or even in a moment that stays on beyond itself...What I do believe in is momentum – that one thought leads to another; that people leave shapes in other people, and those shapes carry forward.”

Nana has left shapes in all of us.

DFA.

The Dying Wish - A Journey With Star Wars.

Star Wars is more than just an entertainment franchise - that much is clear. It's more than a popular cultural phenomenon that has stood the test of time. Because of its longevity, Star Wars has come to mean many different things to many different people. 

Here's what it means to me...

In 1999, during the run up to the release of Episode 1, I was a junior Nurse at a private hospital in Adelaide. 

In late April of that year, I encountered a patient - a young man named David - who was terminally ill. He'd been diagnosed with an aggressive cancer just a few months before and he'd been given only weeks to live. 

It was a rainy Friday night when I first met him. He lay in his bed, grossly swollen with fluid, completely bald and barely able to lift his head from the pillow. He was surrounded by Star Wars toys and, of course, my face lit up at all of the cool things he had. Alot of it was the mid 90's Hasbro merch - a couple of light up light sabers, a big arsed Millennium Falcon, some 12 inch figs and of course, those beefed up 3 & 3/4 figs that got most of us back into collecting after that long hiatus. 

Suffice to say, we hit it off right away and I was encouraged by the fact that he too, had found something of a kindred spirit in me. His smile said it all. 

Over the course of the next couple of weeks, I made sure that I was able to look after David when I was on duty and I'd bring in items from my own vintage collection for him to check out and play around with. We'd talk the films and the then EU books and of course, we'd toss theories back and forth about the possible story that Episode 1 would present. At one time, during his admission, there was a slight glimmer of hope that the medical and nursing team might be able to get David well enough that he could attend the premiere of the film in June, but it became clear that his condition was deteriorating quickly. He wouldn't get his wish.

Then I discovered something in the course of our conversations that created an opportunity to do the next best thing. 

David had never seen the Holiday Special.

He'd heard about it but assumed that it was an urban myth - the kind you'd hear about in those early days of the internet when message boards were still a big thing and the web hadn't​ quite saturated our consciousness. 

I had (and still have) a bootleg copy of the Holiday Special that I'd tracked down on one of the early iterations of eBay. When I told David this, the excitement in his dying eyes was as bright as the twin suns and so, I duly arranged for a special night where we would screen the Special on his TV, in his hospital room. 

I came in on a Saturday night - my night off. His family had gotten in on the fun and we had a spread of snacks in his room, all his Star Wars kit on display and David dressed in his Star Wars jimmy-jams. 

And we screened the Holiday Special. It was still the most wonderfully terrible piece of Star Wars even committed to celluloid (or DVD as it were), but it didn't matter. For David, for his family and the nurses and doctors who came in and out over the course of that evening, it was the best thing we had ever seen. So much laughter and gritting of teeth the worst bits. Cheers and tears at little Lumpy and fist pumps at Han and Chewie outrunning the Imperials on their way to Kashyyyk. 

For David, it was the most wonderful thing ever. Star Wars that he had never seen. 

I went to the midnight screening of Episode 1, having stood in line for hours with hundreds of other excited fans at Marion's GU Megaplex. Just as we were about to go in, I got a message from one of my colleagues at the hospital. David had died, literally half an hour before midnight. 

I went to David's funeral a few days later. He was buried in his Star Wars jimmy-jams, his coffin was draped in a Star Wars beach towel and his green and red light sabers were crossed over the centre. 


His Mum told me afterwards that they would never forget that last Saturday night. Screening the Holiday Special for him had given both he and them one last occasion of joy together.

That's what Star Wars means to me. Because of it, I was able to connect with someone during their darkest hour and share in something they could find joy in before their end. 

Star Wars brings people together. It creates memories that last forever.

DFA. 

New Release by Dean Mayes - Feast.

I'm pleased to officially release, in digital format, a new short fiction piece called "Feast" that I showcased in part on the blog here a couple of weeks ago. 

At the end of your life, will you just fade away to nothing or will you burn the candle just one more time? 

Australian author Dean Mayes (Gifts of the Peramangk, The Hambledown Dream, The Regenesis Cluster) poses a thought provoking essay "Feast" that will leave you emotionally moved and your mind crackling with possibilities.

To purchase, simply select your desired format from the drop down menu in the left hand side bar and finalize your payment via Paypal. You will then receive your copy of Feast via email.

DFA.