PAT McDERMOTT:

They say you can choose your friends, but for the lucky ones, you can also choose your own family.

when friends become family

Our kids complained about the dire shortage of nans in our family when they were growing up. My mother lived 16,000 kilometres away in blizzardly cold Canada. My mother-in-law lived on the distant, but undeniably warmer, north coast of New South Wales.

Both nans assured us this had nothing to do with getting out of babysitting. From time to time they came for visits. But it wasn’t the same as having a nan close to hand for those grim days when you can’t lift your head from the pillow.

You want her to arrive at your door and TAKE CHARGE! If she has trashy magazines in one hand and a decent takeaway coffee in the other you feel better immediately. The kids eat their cereal. The baby changes its own nappy. The whinge-o-meter drops to ‘bearable’.

Things looked up when we moved to a bigger house. As we followed the removalist’s van up the driveway, a pleasant-looking woman waved hello from the porch of the house next door. “She looks nice. Let’s ask her to be our nan,” said Reagan. who was seven. “Not yet,” muttered the MOTH (Man of the House). “We don’t want to scare her off.”

Four-year-old Flynn had other worries. She’d been invited to her first proper birthday party – on moving day! I had wrapping paper, ribbon, gift and card but no sticky tape or scissors.

“Check the boxes,” said the MOTH, waving in the direction of the 30 large boxes stacked on the front veranda. There were 140 more still in the van.

I searched frantically through the ones I could reach, butchers’ paper flying wildly in all directions. Flynn looked teary. She’d be the only one with an unwrapped present.

“Ask our new neighbour,” said the MOTH as he lumbered past with a television. “Maybe we can borrow some beer too.”

Our neighbour’s name was Marie. She didn’t have beer but she did have sticky tape, scissors and scones, warm from the oven, with jam and cream.

“We live next door to Mary Poppins!” the girls squealed. Marie and I became fast friends and remained so for 40 years.

She was the grandma you have when you haven’t got a grandma. She came to trash and treasure days, kindergarten graduations and ballet recitals. The children wandered in and out of her garden and house, bringing her interesting rocks, bugs still kicking and pre-school artwork dripping with paint.

They discussed the important issues of the day over freshly made biscuits. Courtenay, aged five, told Marie that her little brother (Ruff Red, aged three) only came in for the biscuits. “Why do you come in?’ Marie asked. “I come in to talk,” chirped Courtenay. “And for the biscuits!”

In years to come Marie would tell the police she found our teenagers’ noisy parties absolutely delightful.

“Of course, I’m a little deaf, officer, and I sleep at the front of the house.”

We jammed our extra bottles in her bin. Our kids hugged her goodbye before they headed overseas and raced in to tell her their adventures when they came safely home. She was an honoured guest at our 21st birthdays, engagements and weddings.

Not long before she died, I asked if she’d ever regretted opening her door 40 years ago to a young mum in search of sticky tape.

“Not once,” she whispered. “I’m just sorry I didn’t have any beer.”

We sat in the comfortable silence of old friends.