1930 — 2026
"I hope that they remember me."
The moments that became family legend.
They first met and Tommy tried to kiss her.
"I don't kiss strange men."
The next day she was in Ivanhoe — "just a hop, skip, and a jump" — and who should turn up but his lordship. He took her to the movies. Easter Parade, 1948. Fred Astaire and Judy Garland.
And that's where the relationship began.
Nan never reached for a wooden spoon. She'd flick off her shoe and chase you with it.
"We knew we'd better go do it. Otherwise, we were getting a whack with the shoe."
She wore the same pair of shoes constantly. The kids learned fast.
Taylah and Zoe slept at Nan's house and brought a Furby — one of those little toy animals that made random noises. They put it behind Nan's chair while she napped.
Every now and then it would make a sound. Nan would go: "What was that?"
They laughed their heads off. Nan called Taylah's laugh "a wicked laugh."
Pop told Kerry the legal smoking age was eighteen. Kerry, being Kerry, walked herself down to the local police station to check.
The police told her it was sixteen. She'd proven Pop wrong — but she was more scared of her brother Geoff finding out than anyone else.
Kerry and Glenn had been together for ten years when Nan and Pop happened to be visiting Queensland. Kerry and Glenn decided to get married because they were there.
They were told they'd need to observe a waiting period. They went to court. The judge waived it — on the grounds that they'd already been together a decade.
Nan worked at a factory making prams, somewhere in Victoria. She did a first aid course at work and they made her the first aid officer.
How long was she there?
"I'm going to say thirty, but it could be twenty."
Nan grew up in Stanley, Tasmania — the town with the nut. For a time the family lived on Hunter Island, where her father worked.
His job was cattle. His boss would send down a set number, her dad would look after them and fatten them up, and then they'd go back for sale.
Dianne was living in Sunshine, one street over from where the family would later end up. A couple of weeks before her twenty-first birthday, Geoff brought her a dozen red roses.
Three months later she moved from Chapman Street to Boreham Street with Geoff. They were together almost every minute of every day from then on.
Anne's bedroom was right near the front door. If she heard you come in, she'd dob.
The kids called her the tattletale. Kerry would try to sneak past her doorway without making a sound — because if Anne heard you, everyone would know about it.
What she actually said.
I don't kiss strange men.
I loved my kids, that's all I could think.
She was, she was fucking funny.
I lost the name and I wanted it to go to somebody good.
We were good friends, just real, as being husband and wife.
I know, put on weight, James, don't judge me.
What was that?
A lot less washing and housework.
We were very sorted.
Isn't that shameful?
The objects that outlast a life.
A big, heavy old pot — Nan's signature kitchen item. When it got hot, it held the heat until it cooked the chips properly.
Just for chips. Nothing else.
Multiple volumes, spanning decades. Each entry starts with the weather. Then timestamped actions.
"At 10:30 I brought in the washing and headed off to Safeway. Got some petrol on my way home."
Pure record. No introspection, no feelings, no wishes. Currently held by Taylah.
Nan and Tommy's wedding photo, on display in her nursing home room. When James commented on it:
"I know, put on weight, James, don't judge me."
TJ was a blue budgie. Sunny was yellow, and came after Nana Watko died.
Two birds, kept for years.
Cats throughout her life. When she moved to the nursing home, she was asked what was important to bring.
The answer: the cat.
The things you'd know if you knew her.
Nan never used a wooden spoon. She'd flick off her shoe. The kids learned fast. The grandkids learned faster.
Factual daily logs. Weather first. Then timestamps. No feelings, no wishes.
Today was seventeen degrees. At ten-thirty I brought in the washing. I had my porridge.
She remembered meeting Tommy in 1948. She remembered Stanley, the factory, naming April. All sharp.
But she forgot she'd had dinner two hours earlier. She couldn't recall her best friend's name.
"Isn't that shameful?"
Cats her whole life. When asked what mattered most to bring to the nursing home: the cat. Not photos, not furniture. The cat.
"Very sorted" about pregnancy. "A lot less washing" about the kids leaving. Diaries without introspection.
She recorded what she did, not what she felt.
Did a first aid course at the pram factory and became the first aid officer. Stayed for decades.
"I'm going to say thirty, but it could be twenty."
The reasons behind the names and the choices.
Nan named her daughter Anne after her sister April, who died before Anne was born.
"I lost the name and I wanted it to go to somebody good."
The yellow budgie came after Nana Watko died. A small life to fill a small absence.
Kerry was sixteen. Glenn was twenty-one. They met through Kerry's brother Geoff. It took ten years and a Queensland judge before they made it official.
Nan moved from Tasmania around 1947 or 1948, aged seventeen or eighteen. The reason was lost under television noise during the one recording we have.
She met Tommy in Victoria that same year or the next.
The things that lasted.
Nan had a big, heavy old pot for cooking chips. It held its heat. Her son Geoff carried it forward — always cut his own chips from potatoes too.
The four cousins — Taylah, Zoe, Zane, Kyle — never all stayed at Nan's at the same time.
"That would have been too much."
It was Taylah and Zoe, or Zane and Kyle. Never all four.
Nan's diaries started every entry with the temperature. A lifelong habit — decades of Melbourne weather, one line at a time.
Nan's morning staple. Confirmed during the 2025 visit: "I had my porridge." Same as in the diaries. Some things don't change.
The patterns no one planned.
Adam and Taylah share a birthday — both born on the fifth of November. Uncle and niece, same day.
Darren and David — future brothers-in-law — were born on the same day. Same year, same date.
Janelle and James — nine days apart in the calendar, one year between them.