Celebrated children’s writer Joy Watson died on October 4, aged 83. Her daughter Mary-anne Scott writes about their farewells, synchronicity, and life in a big family of books.

One hundred years ago, my grandfather was a young man mustering sheep on a station, Pōhaturoa, which lies on the inland road between Gisborne and Wairoa.

“How much extra is the AA Plus?” I asked in a sad voice…

Studies show three out of four parents feel guilt, that they’re not spending enough time with their children.

She felt rage that on this day, of all days, he was still spraying bullets.

You know that all is well with the world when a man comes to clean your oven.

There’s nothing immediate about my selfie snapchats as I snap, delete, snap, delete….. and there’s nothing young about them either.

Parents love to see their child engrossed in a book, but still there’s a chasm between the dream and the reality.

There was an earthquake last night. Did you know?

As I unlocked the bach on a sizzling evening last week, I couldn’t have been happier; a week alone to write and read.

I’ve had three emails recently from iCloud — all crisp and official in the Apple colours and terminology. Of course there’s no one to reply to; the email is almost sterile in his hospital cleanliness and rightness. Anyway, we Catholics know full well, there’s no arguing with a cloud.

I was early for my Wellington to Hawkes Bay flight as I wanted a long uninterrupted run at my book.

I could always tell when Mum was expecting another baby because she used less and less tie on her apron bow. 

I remember a time when I had even less wisdom than I have now and one of my sons became ill with Glandular Fever. We all know that glange, as the trendy young things say, is a long slow process of rest, rest and more rest.

‘Oh my god,’ he said. There was a pause as he read his email, and then — ‘I’ve passed.’