Ann BOLCH
Please join us to farewell our beloved Ann at 1pm, Monday, 12th May 2025 at Jubilee Hall, 52 Smith Street, Macedon.
Afterwards we invite you to walk with us to Macedon Cemetery for the burial ceremony before returning to Jubilee Hall where light refreshments will be served.
Please bring a flower from your garden (or a place important to you) to add to a floral tribute for Ann.
Words were so important to Ann; you are encouraged to bring a message to leave with her (paper and pens will also be available in the Hall for notes and drawings).
Ann loved all things colourful, please feel free to honour her by wearing colours that she loved.
Service Details
1.00 PM
Monday, 12th May
Jubilee Hall,
52 Smith Street, Macedon.
Please join us to farewell our beloved Ann at 1pm, Monday, 12th May 2025 at Jubilee Hall, 52 Smith Street, Macedon.
Afterwards we invite you to walk with us to Macedon Cemetery for the burial ceremony before returning to Jubilee Hall where light refreshments will be served.
Please bring a flower from your garden (or a place important to you) to add to a floral tribute for Ann.
Words were so important to Ann; you are encouraged to bring a message to leave with her (paper and pens will also be available in the Hall for notes and drawings).
Ann loved all things colourful, please feel free to honour her by wearing colours that she loved.
Please note: Livestreaming of the service is not guaranteed due to possible internet issues. In the event the livestream is interrupted, and, the ceremony is being recorded, the recording will be uploaded and available for viewing via the Livestream link after the service.
We are saddened that scammers are using loved a one’s funeral and grief to scam money.
Natural Grace will never ask you to pay to view a livestream of a funeral service.
We are not sending friend requests on Facebook for our guest’s funeral livestreams.
Please view any livestream directly through our website livestream link.
Hey Bolchie
Thanks for being my first big love. What we shared and dreamed is still an important part of who I am today. I will always cherish your humour, practical appreciation of life and no nonsense attitude.
I drove past your Gingerbread House in Yinnar on the weekend, and fondly remembered little moments we spent there, around Victoria and in Tassie.
I’m so sorry I didn’t know, couldn’t be there for you, and can’t be there now. But know that I am thinking of you, missing you and wish I could share the celebration of your life with all those who loved you.
And thanks for my first and only nickname that has followed me around the world. You will always be a part of me.
Love
Tank
Ann, thank you for your use of words, for your humour and for what you positively challenged in the world. We shall try and keep this passion and dedication flowing on your behalf.
Between the Lines – Tribute to Ann Bloch there was Ann Bolch.
Ann, whose pen was a prayer. Whose eyes read me before I ever spoke. She didn’t just read my drafts—she read my pauses, my silences, my shifts. She read my eye, my body, my gender, my brain. She wrote like fire in a soft breeze—gentle, but with the power to reshape the land.
She wasn’t just an editor or collaborator. She was a mirror. And sometimes, a map. In our sessions, words weren’t just corrected—they were healed. She never tried to change my voice. She tuned it. Amplified it. Let it cry when it needed to. Let it roar.
We were planning a journey—Nepal, India, the temples, the slums, the songs of street vendors, the scent of home. But cancer returned, that same uninvited visitor. In late 2022, she whispered the news like she didn’t want to break me. “It’s cancer,” she said. And my heart cracked again.
Even through chemo, radiation, side effects, Ann wrote. She checked on me. She read my drafts. She asked me questions no one else dared to. In those last few months, she carried her illness like a secret she didn’t want to burden anyone with. But I saw. I felt it in every slow reply. Every delayed plan. Every long pause between our messages.
She passed on April 24, 2025. The night before Anzac Day. The day before the weekend we had hoped to meet again. She left quietly. But her words echo like bells.
Ann’s pen should never have stopped. But it didn’t—not really. It now lives in my fingers, in my voice, in every page I finish, every story I dare to tell. Her name is not just in the Acknowledgements. It is in the air I breathe when I write.Ann. You are not just memories. You are architecture. You helped build me. You saw me before I had the courage to see myself. And now I carry you—not like weight, but like wings.
This chapter is yours.
And every chapter after this, too.AcknowledgementsWith deep gratitude to those who saw me before I was ready to be seen.My co-writer, soul reader, light keeper. You read my gender, my pauses, my language before I ever spoke. You didn’t just edit my book. You excavated it—from my body, my breath, my being. Even when illness came, you wrote. Even when time thinned, you gave more of it to me. Your pen didn’t stop. It just moved into my hand. I will finish this book for you. With every chapter, I’ll remember how you once said, “Some books aren’t written alone. They’re born in shared breath.” Yours still breathes here.
Chapter 5: Between the Lines – Tribute to Geoffrey and Ann
“Some souls don’t write books—but they write on our lives.”
There are people whose names never make it to bestseller lists. People whose faces may never grace the back cover of a novel. But they write in deeper ink—in the quiet folds of another’s life, in the hidden spaces between heartbreak and hope. Geoffrey and Ann were such people.
Geoffrey never published a book. But his words were lightning—quiet, deliberate, and unforgettable. He didn’t need a printed spine to prove his brilliance. His life was the manuscript. Every time he opened his mouth, truth walked in. He would joke, “I’m slow. Babi’s already writing, I’m still thinking.” But the truth is—he saw what others missed. He looked at me not as a curiosity or symbol, but as a human. Not brown. Not trans. Not ‘other.’ Just human.
To Geoffrey, race was a distraction from the soul. He believed in one race—the human race. No borders. No caste. No color lines. He didn’t write books because he lived them. He didn’t need to explain empathy. He practiced it. He made space without noise. And when I told him I was beginning to transition, he didn’t blink. He smiled and said, “Ah, so she finally arrived.”
He passed in 2020. Esophageal cancer. A quiet thief. But Geoffrey left behind something cancer could never touch: his grace. He lives in my memory like a sentence I will never stop rereading. A comma of calm in a world full of storms.
And then, there was Ann Bolch.
Ann, whose pen was a prayer. Whose eyes read me before I ever spoke. She didn’t just read my drafts—she read my pauses, my silences, my shifts. She read my eye, my body, my gender, my brain. She wrote like fire in a soft breeze—gentle, but with the power to reshape the land.
She wasn’t just an editor or collaborator. She was a mirror. And sometimes, a map. In our sessions, words weren’t just corrected—they were healed. She never tried to change my voice. She tuned it. Amplified it. Let it cry when it needed to. Let it roar.
We were planning a journey—Nepal, India, the temples, the slums, the songs of street vendors, the scent of home. But cancer returned, that same uninvited visitor. In late 2022, she whispered the news like she didn’t want to break me. “It’s cancer,” she said. And my heart cracked again.
Even through chemo, radiation, side effects, Ann wrote. She checked on me. She read my drafts. She asked me questions no one else dared to. In those last few months, she carried her illness like a secret she didn’t want to burden anyone with. But I saw. I felt it in every slow reply. Every delayed plan. Every long pause between our messages.
She passed on April 24, 2025. The night before Anzac Day. The day before the weekend we had hoped to meet again. She left quietly. But her words echo like bells.
Ann’s pen should never have stopped. But it didn’t—not really. It now lives in my fingers, in my voice, in every page I finish, every story I dare to tell. Her name is not just in the Acknowledgements. It is in the air I breathe when I write.
Geoffrey. Ann. You are not just memories. You are architecture. You helped build me. You saw me before I had the courage to see myself. And now I carry you—not like weight, but like wings.
This chapter is yours.
And every chapter after this, too.
AcknowledgementsWith deep gratitude to those who saw me before I was ready to be seen.
To Geoffrey,
Your brilliance was quiet, but seismic. You never needed to finish a book—because you finished people. You shaped them, lifted them, made them more themselves. You believed there is no white, black, brown—just human. You were proof that humanity can be a faith, a compass, a home. You called me brilliant when I barely believed in my light. You were right. I carry your laugh, your wisdom, your patience. Rest easy. You wrote on my life.
To Ann Bolch,
My co-writer, soul reader, light keeper. You read my gender, my pauses, my language before I ever spoke. You didn’t just edit my book. You excavated it—from my body, my breath, my being. Even when illness came, you wrote. Even when time thinned, you gave more of it to me. Your pen didn’t stop. It just moved into my hand. I will finish this book for you. With every chapter, I’ll remember how you once said, “Some books aren’t written alone. They’re born in shared breath.” Yours still breathes here.
Ann, we were so lucky to know you. You were the definition of neighbourly, bringing everyone together and looking out for them. We will cherish the cups of tea and glasses of wine, having a yarn about the issues of the day, or an upcoming trip. Your love for Tim and Harry has always shone through and we will always be looking out for them from across the fence xo
Ann, Uncle and I missed so much of your growing up and adult life – but we had such a special time in Canada visiting my family and holidaying in Hawaii. You were just 10 and we occupied ourselves on the long haul flight colouring !!! I haven’t coloured so much since!
What beautiful messages written about you Ann! You would be amazed! Fly high Ann ❤️
Dearest Ann….It was one of my greatest pleasures to have taught you for the first three years of primary school at Branxholm. I remember you so well as that bright, clever little girl who endeared herself to both Steve and I. Your positivity and upbeat personality, your strong sense of justice, your caring for your classmates and nature – wonderful qualities which endeared you to us and your peers.
I treasure the fact that we corresponded with letters after Steve was promoted to St Helens District High on the east coast of Tasmania, and I resigned from teaching to raise a family. Your nine years old letters which continued into your teenage years and then matured into your adulthood. We maintained a written relationship for nigh on 50 years Ann, as well as a couple of visits to our home in Launceston. How privileged am I…
Thankyou for sharing your life in writing with me Ann..I will miss our correspondence so very much.
Go gently now and be at peace and know how very much loved you are because you helped make this world a better place. Sincerely, June Watts
Have not seen Ann for many years now. You were a young girl who came to Canada with your folks. Wonderful to hear what a super adult you were who contributed lots to others. Rest in peace Ann. 💖
Ann, we shared many great times together in work and play. Outdoor Education at Bendigo, then as a colleague at Chum Creek, Healesville. You met Tim at Chum Creek and we were invited to your beautiful wedding. You, supported me as a new Mum and loved spending time with Jack. I will remember you as a truly genuine, caring, funny, extremely talented friend. My heart is sad for Tim and your family.. you will be sorely missed 🫶
Ann, you have always been fabulous, wicked and talented! Thank-you for bringing your light into this world. You and uniqueness will be missed. RIP beautiful. ❤️Liz xxoo
Ann, I will always remember your beautiful, witty and contagious energy. I really appreciated your generous heart and kindness in donating your time to help me with media and marketing work for my refugee films. You are deeply missed. Rest in peace. Heather Kirkpatrick
When I think of you Ann, I see a huge smile, eyes sparkling with enthusiasm at the thoughts of your next venture, whether it be on the ride on mower or walking Harry and Tim!
A beautiful girl now gone from this world. You will be so missed.
My heart breaks for all your family,
A huge hug surrounds you all.
Barb xxx♥️
Ann, I always admired your kindness and concern for the marginalised, and your willingness to help others even though you were going through such difficult times yourself. You were always so encouraging, especially with my initial attempts at novel writing. I am missing you greatly, David.
RIP you beautiful woman Bolchie 💔 My most outstanding memory is of your huge smile. May those who love you, and are now grieving, be wrapped in warmth and care 💕
Ann, I will always remember you fondly from your outdoor education days at Bendigo. You brought fun, laughter, vibrancy and a wicked sense of humour that we all revelled in. You will be missed by those that loved and cherished you.
RIP Ann.
Monc (Monica Green) xxxxz