Funeral Notice
Live Stream
Condolences
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I was so sad to hear that Aunty Fay had passed away. Geraldine “Fay” Foster, 1933–2026.
Ninety-three years is an incredible lifetime, but when someone has been part of your family for as long as you can remember, it still somehow doesn't feel long enough.
I have such fond memories of you from when I was a child, Aunty Fay. Funny enough, it's often the ridiculous little moments that stay with you the longest. The things that probably seemed like complete disasters at the time eventually become the family stories that get told over and over again.
I often tell my daughter about the family trip we took as children to visit you at your home in Toowoomba. It should probably be remembered as a lovely family holiday. Instead, one of my strongest memories is my dad, John, running over a family of ducks on the way there.
As if the poor ducks weren't enough trauma for one road trip, we then had all four tyres blow out because Dad had bought retreads.
Not one tyre. Not two.
All four.
Dad apparently believed if you were going to have a family holiday disaster, there was no point doing it by halves.
I've told my daughter that story so many times over the years that it's become part of her family history too, even though it happened long before she was around. Dad's bargain retreads achieved a kind of immortality I'm fairly certain he never intended. And somewhere, I suspect, there's a duck family with a much less cheerful version of the story.
Then there were the Christmases at Nan Rowell's.
Those are some of the memories that really come flooding back now. You and Uncle Bob being there, everyone together, all the noise and laughter, food everywhere, kids running around and, of course, the poker games at Christmas.
I remember everyone sitting around playing cards, carrying on, laughing and probably taking the whole thing far more seriously than any Christmas poker game had a right to be taken. Those are the little snapshots I can still see in my head.
Back then it was just Christmas.
We didn't know we were making memories.
As children, we never stopped to think that there would come a Christmas when that exact group of people wouldn't be sitting around the table anymore. We didn't think about a time when Nan wouldn't be there, or Uncle Bob, or Dad, or now Aunty Fay.
You just assume there will always be another Christmas.
Another poker game.
Another family gathering.
Another chance to see everyone.
Then somehow the years disappear.
That's one of the hardest things about losing someone who belongs to your childhood. You're grieving them, but you're also grieving another little piece of a world that doesn't exist anymore.
I'd give anything to walk back into Nan Rowell's house on one of those Christmas days now. Just for an hour.
To hear everyone's voices again. To see everyone sitting around that table playing poker. To hear the laughing and arguing over the cards. To hear the same old stories we'd probably heard a hundred times before. To see Nan, Uncle Bob, Dad and all those familiar faces exactly where they belonged.
I'd even happily sit through someone carrying on because they were convinced somebody had cheated.
The things that seemed so ordinary then feel incredibly precious now.
Aunty Fay, you are part of those memories for me.
When I think of you, I don't just think about the sadness of you passing. I think about Toowoomba. I think about Uncle Bob. I think about Nan Rowell's. I think about those Christmases and the poker games. I think about Dad, John.
And unfortunately for Dad's reputation, I still think about four retread tyres and those poor bloody ducks.
That's family, I suppose.
We don't only carry people forward through photographs or names. We carry them through stories. The funny ones, the sad ones and the completely ridiculous ones. We tell them to our children, and eventually they know people and places they never even got the chance to experience themselves.
I'm grateful that my childhood has memories of you woven through it, Aunty Fay. And I'm grateful that all these years later I can still tell my daughter those stories and keep a little piece of those days alive.
It feels like another door to my childhood has quietly closed with your passing.
And that hurts.
But everything behind that door is still there in our memories.
Rest peacefully, Aunty Fay.
I hope somewhere you've found Nan and Uncle Bob again. I hope Dad, John, is there too. I hope you're all sitting around a Christmas table together, the cards have been dealt, the poker game has already become far too competitive and everyone is talking over everyone else.
And if Dad announces he's driving everyone home afterwards...
please, for the love of God, check his tyres first. ❤️
You will be remembered with so much love, laughter and sadness.
With love and so many fond memories,
Jackie