Joy Morrison was born on March 14, 1922 in Darnall, South Africa. It was 105 degrees in the shade. Her aunt Hilda announced the news, shouting, “Joy! Joy! It’s a girl!” And that’s how my mother was named. She certainly lived up to it. My late aunt Adaire described her as a woman who “embraced life with both arms”. I think that was an understatement. Joy was born just before the great depression to a farming family that experienced both feast and famine. The fourth of five children, of an era where women were considered second-class citizens, she was one of only five in her class to graduate from high school. Her aspirations to become a teacher were dashed when World War II broke out. Instead of following her dreams, she decided to join the war effort and became a member of the special signals unit. She taught herself Morse code while competing in fishing tournaments. She interpreted radar signals during the war, before the Germans knew that the Allies had radar -- a mixed blessing in that these signals often indicated where her loved ones were lost at sea. Joy married Len Morrison, a decorated World War II spitfire pilot and squadron leader; they had three children. Bruce became a lawyer, and Derek an accountant. I was born 12 years after Derek, and was barely a teenager when Bruce emigrated to London and Derek to America. The following year, my father died suddenly -- a week before my parents were to open their own business. My mother rose to the challenge, worked very hard, and not only maintained our standard of living, but also improved it. Derek married the love of his life, Carol, and they gave Joy her first two grandchildren: Andrew and Richard. I finished college and moved to a different town. Joy lost her son Bruce, who died following a long illness soon after his thirty-ninth birthday. Joy’s third grandchild, Lauren, was born. Mum continued to work into her seventies; sold her business, and came to live with my brother Derek’s family in America. In her eighties, she was diagnosed with breast cancer, underwent a mastectomy, and, like everything else my mother tackled -- she conquered. Bruce, Derek and I always knew that our mother was the best mother in the world. There was NO doubt. She was a mother and wife above all, a doting grandmother, a fiercely loyal friend, a talented artist, a compelling story teller, an accomplished dress designer, a competitive sportswoman, an experienced angler and sailor, and a successful entrepreneur. While Joy achieved a great deal, her legacy stems from the optimism, enthusiasm, strength, and genuine love of life that were abundant in my mother. These characteristics were a tonic to all who knew her. As my cousin Lesley said: “If we could have the same effect on people that Joy had on us, we could make this world a much better place.” Joy’s great-nephew Jed, when he was in his mid-twenties, wrote her a letter thanking her for having such a positive and profound impact on his life. I don’t know how many twenty-something year-olds you know, but it takes some doing to inspire a generation Nexter to take the time to write an unbidden five-page letter of thanks. Joy’s best friend’s son Michael described my mother as “a generous, joyful and feisty soul”. She gave everything to the people she loved. And to everyone else, the least she would do was to offer a scotch. Joy was not without her opinions, and -- like her scotch -- they were not watered down in any way. Mum’s life was black and white, and she always let you know where she stood. She was relentlessly resolute. When Anthony asked me to marry him, my mother not only rejoiced (she was so afraid that I’d be left on the shelf), but immediately arranged for Anthony and me to enjoy a romantic holiday in the Drakensberg, a breathtakingly beautiful mountain range in South Africa. Upon our return to her home in South Africa, she gave us her engagement ring, promised to make my dress (which she ultimately did), tried to strong-arm the local Catholic Church into marrying us that week, and commenced arrangements for a reception in her home. Despite her efforts, an instant wedding was not on the cards (yes, the Priest stood up to my mother), so my mum threw us an engagement party instead. Joy’s maternal family can be traced back to the first Norwegian missionaries to come to South Africa. My mother was a proud Methodist (thanks to her British father), and she married a Jew. Her children had limited religious education. And yet, when Anthony and I got engaged, my mother was the first to embrace my conversion to Catholicism. She said to me “The great thing about Catholics is that they’re very PUNC-TU-AL. I know that your wedding mass won’t go longer than an hour. Please tell the priest that I’m too arthritic to kneel”. When I became a Catholic, my mother gave me the prayer book that she was given on her confirmation. She embraced our faith, and when she moved to Madison, Father George was her gateway to God. We are so blessed by all that the St. Vincent Martyr Church and School community have done for our family, and especially for my mother. Joy asked that her ashes be buried with her mother in South Africa. My brother, who unfortunately could not be with us today, will join me in interring her ashes in Bethany, our family graveyard. While my mother’s remains will be buried a long way from our home, I am fortunate to have a little of her in each of my children. Sean is wise beyond his years; Tess is the artist in the family; Ruari has mum’s Joi de Vivre, and an equal measure of feistiness; and Enya has her fashion sense as well as her vanity. I could go on forever about my mother. But, as I said, she respected the Catholic faith most of all for its punctuality, and I’m over my five-minute mark. So, without further ado, please join us for lunch at Il Mondo Vecchio on Main Street, Madison, directly after the funeral. My mother always insisted on one thing – a toast. Let’s follow that instruction by celebrating Joy’s life.