The more stories I heard from Kerre, the more I realised that memory works differently from history. History attempts to record events accurately and chronologically. Family memory preserves what mattered, often regardless of sequence, because emotional truth frequently survives long after factual detail begins to fade.
Every family has its own mythology. Not the grand myths that appear in books or history lessons, but the stories that are told so often they become part of the family identity itself. They are the stories repeated at birthdays, weddings, funerals and Christmas gatherings, growing slightly larger and more polished with every retelling.
In our family, one of those stories always seemed to begin with the same question. It was a question that could be heard echoing across showgrounds, through paddocks, around riverbanks and down country streets. Somebody would suddenly look around, realise a small figure was missing, and ask in a voice carrying equal parts concern and resignation, “Where’s Kerre?”
Long before she became the person everybody turned to for advice, support and family history, Kerre was known for something entirely different. She was the child who wandered off. Not deliberately, not rebelliously and certainly not maliciously, but with the sort of innocent curiosity that constantly led her towards whatever happened to be beyond the next fence, around the next corner or hidden behind the next crowd.
The adults worried endlessly about it. Kerre, on the other hand, appeared completely unconcerned by the anxiety she generated. Looking back now, there is something almost prophetic about that contrast because for most of her childhood everybody worried about Kerre, whereas later in life Kerre would become the person worrying about everybody else.
One of the earliest stories that survives concerns a local show. Like all good family stories, the details have softened around the edges over the years, but the essential facts remain intact. At some point during the excitement, noise and confusion of the day, Kerre disappeared.
Country shows are wonderful places for children and terrible places for parents. There are animals, rides, food stalls, competitions, machinery displays and enough distractions to pull a youngster’s attention in twenty different directions at once. It does not take long for a child to vanish from sight, particularly one who seems naturally attracted to exploration.
The search began almost immediately. Family members scattered in different directions, all but her father it seems, checking exhibits, scanning crowds and imagining increasingly alarming possibilities, while Snow played cards. Meanwhile, the person at the centre of all this concern was apparently enjoying her day without the slightest awareness that a rescue operation was underway.
The search for Kerre became one of those family stories that grew larger every time it was retold, but one detail always remained consistent. While the rest of the family was frantically combing the showgrounds, checking pavilions, sideshow alleys and livestock yards, Snow was nowhere to be found. As the hours dragged on and anxiety steadily transformed into genuine fear, it became painfully obvious that one parent was carrying the entire burden of the crisis while the other was enjoying a very different sort of day.
Eventually Kerre was located, unharmed and entirely oblivious to the panic she had created, sound asleep curled up against the belly of a horse she had befriended. The relief was overwhelming, but relief has a habit of leaving exhaustion in its wake, and exhaustion often creates fertile ground for anger. Kerre’s mother had spent hours imagining every possible outcome available to a frightened parent. She had faced the prospect, however briefly, of never finding her daughter again, and by the time the immediate danger had passed she was emotionally wrung out.
It was sometime later that Snow finally reappeared. Far from looking concerned or apologetic, he arrived carrying the unmistakable swagger of a man who believed he had enjoyed a successful day. While the family had been conducting a search operation, Snow had apparently been conducting a gambling campaign. His pockets were reportedly bulging with winnings, and he arrived home rather pleased with both himself and the financial outcome of his afternoon.
Unfortunately for Snow, he had badly misread the mood awaiting him.
Family legend says that the reception he received could only be described as volcanic. Any satisfaction he felt at his gambling success evaporated almost instantly as Kerre’s mother unleashed hours of accumulated fear, frustration and fury. The winnings that had seemed so impressive only moments before suddenly became evidence of his absence rather than proof of his success. What good was a pocket full of money when the mother of your children had spent the afternoon believing one of them might be lost forever?
The argument that followed entered family folklore. Various versions exist depending upon which relative is telling the story, but all agree on the central theme. Snow’s winnings did not receive the admiration he had anticipated. Instead, they became symbolic of exactly where his priorities had been while his wife had been carrying the weight of every parent’s worst nightmare entirely on her own.
What makes the story endure is not simply the humour of the situation, although there is certainly humour hidden within it after enough years have passed. What survives is the glimpse it offers into the realities of family life. Behind every amusing family anecdote sits a moment that was once very real, very emotional and very raw. For Kerre’s mother, that day was not a funny story at all. It was several hours of fear followed by the sight of her husband proudly displaying gambling winnings at precisely the wrong moment.
Years later, everybody could laugh about it. The lost child had been found, the family remained intact and the story became another piece of family mythology. Yet beneath the laughter sat an important truth. Long before Kerre became the person who quietly carried the worries of others, she had been raised by people who understood that family responsibility sometimes means putting aside your own interests and showing up when you are needed. On that particular day, Snow may have learned that lesson the hard way, delivered with considerable volume by a mother who was far beyond merely ropable. She was a woman who had spent an afternoon believing she had lost her child, and no amount of gambling winnings was ever going to compensate for that.
What strikes me now is how often the same pattern appears throughout Kerre’s early years. The circumstances changed but the dynamic remained remarkably consistent. Other people saw danger while Kerre saw possibility, and other people imagined consequences while Kerre remained interested only in discovering what lay ahead.
The flood story reveals much the same thing. Floods occupy a special place in Australian family memory because they transform ordinary landscapes into something unfamiliar and unpredictable. Roads disappear, paddocks become lakes and familiar landmarks suddenly take on a completely different character.
Where most people saw risk, Kerre saw something fascinating. The adults, understandably, viewed the situation through the eyes of responsibility and caution. Kerre viewed it through the eyes of a child whose curiosity remained stronger than her concern.
Listening to these stories years later, I found myself wondering what it must have been like raising thirteen children. Modern parents often describe exhaustion while managing one or two children, yet families like ours somehow navigated households that resembled small communities. Within a family of that size, every child develops a reputation whether they intend to or not.
Some children become known for being responsible. Some become known for mischief, stubbornness or determination. Kerre became known as the child most likely to be found somewhere nobody expected her to be.
Even the story surrounding the Janice-versus-Patricia naming debate contributes something to that picture. On the surface it appears to be a simple family anecdote, but family stories rarely survive for generations unless they reveal something larger than the event itself. They endure because they offer small glimpses into the personalities, relationships and dynamics that shaped the family.
The more stories I heard from Kerre, the more I realised that memory works differently from history. History attempts to record events accurately and chronologically. Family memory preserves what mattered, often regardless of sequence, because emotional truth frequently survives long after factual detail begins to fade.
What survived from Kerre’s childhood was not a list of dates and milestones. What survived were stories about curiosity, independence, resilience and an apparent inability to remain exactly where she was expected to be. Those stories may have amused the family at the time, but together they reveal something much more important.
Nobody looking at that little girl could have predicted she would one day become the emotional centre of such a large extended family. Nobody would have guessed that the child everybody searched for would eventually become the person everybody sought out. Nobody would have imagined that the youngster causing concern would later become the steady presence reassuring everybody else.
Yet perhaps the clues were already there. Curiosity often leads people towards understanding, and understanding often leads people towards responsibility. Long before anybody called her the matriarch of the family, Kerre was already following her own path through the world, one unexpected detour at a time.
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