Granny Frass’s Garden of Wisdom..

(and Other Things My Siblings Ignored)

Before we get too carried away with messages from beyond and the shady shenanigans of my dearly departed father, it’s only right that I introduce you to the true matriarch of our family – the woman who raised me, kept the whole circus running and managed to do it with a grin, a garden fork and a weak cup of tae in hand.

Ladies and gents, meet Granny Frass.

Now, Granny Frass wasn’t your average granny. She didn’t sit in a rocking chair knitting doilies (although, to be fair, she could knit a scarf long enough to wrap ‘round your bad decisions). She was made of tougher stuff. The kind of woman who could dig over a vegetable patch before breakfast, bake six pies before lunch and still have enough energy to tell you off for tracking mud into her spotless kitchen.

She raised me when life got a bit messy and while some of my siblings floated in and out like stray pigeons at a family BBQ, I stayed firmly under her wing. She taught me about nature ,how to read the weather in the sky, how to grow a prize-winning marigold and how certain plants can heal a scratch or a broken heart (or in our case, a hangover).

Granny Frass believed in hard work, honesty and not taking any nonsense from anyone. And let me tell you, in this family, that last one was a full-time job.

Now, let’s be brutally honest: some of my siblings didn’t inherit a single one of her traits. Not a green thumb between them. Couldn’t tell a daisy from a dandelion if their inheritance depended on it. And lord knows Granny Frass tried – bless her. She’d line us up in the garden and attempt to pass down her wisdom but half of them were too busy plotting their next getaway or moaning about the dirt under their nails.

I often wonder what Granny Frass would say about all of this now. This blog, the messages from beyond, the let’s call it ‘creative’ sibling rivalry that’s about to spill across these pages.

I reckon she’d stand there, hands on her hips, a mischievous sparkle in her eye and say:

“Well, it’s about bloody time someone started sorting this lot out. Now, where’s my cup of tea and who’s moved my begonias?”

Because Granny Frass didn’t suffer fools. She didn’t do drama unless it was in a soap opera. And she sure as sugar didn’t tolerate grown adults behaving like squabbling schoolchildren.

So this post is for her. The woman who taught me how to dig deep (literally and figuratively), how to grow something beautiful from nothing and how to call a spade a spade (and occasionally whack someone with it if they got too lippy).

You’ll be hearing more about Granny Frass as this saga unfolds. She deserves her own chapter in the madness, and believe me – there are stories. But for now, consider this your official introduction to the woman who would’ve handled this family scandal with one eyebrow raised and a pot of chamomile on the boil.

Rest easy, Granny. We’re finally sorting this mess out.