Memories of my grandmother
Writing poetry seems like a strange kind of family history but I am including poems in my family history records because, in representing my memories, they also become part of our family history. I also think investigating and presenting family history using a multi-faceted perspective brings life to it and I want to look at the past, not just as it was, but as it connects to us now.
One of the quintessential things about my grandmother Rose was that she knew how to spoil young children, which she did, shamelessly. The other thing about Rose was that she was a complicated person and not always easy to be around. Nonetheless she was loving to the core.
She made a lot of time to give me, my sister, and cousins experiences. Mostly simple experiences like picnics on her jetty, riding bikes with us for hours around Raymond Island, or just having me, my sister, and her partner shovelling cow dung from the back paddock into her vegetable garden — a hilarious and disgusting experience for children. But hey, those vegetables were the best we ever tasted!
When I was 14, Rose decided that I needed to get a holiday job, so she arranged a job for me in “her” factory making quilts on massive iron machines that looked like something designed by HG Wells himself. She saw that I loved plants so she gave me my first book of herbs. She knew that I loved writing so she gave me my first Brontë book, Wuthering Heights, I still have that book. So, it should be no surprise that when I dug into my poetry vault, that I found memories of Rose that relate to things we did together. Like the walks we took through an old and deserted country property that she owned.
A poem for Rose
In my memory, that old house
greyed by the weathered weight of time
sits solidly in silent communion
with its massive oak tree
Rose and I would walk this magic land among
the jonquils, the daffodils, and the snow drops
that ran riot amid great tufts of native grasses
The old world and the new world
merging, pell mell, in the gentle evening light
As a child I loved the house’s big old oak tree
with such passion that I’d throw my arms around it
but they never quite met on the other side
That big old tree at front and the gnarly old trees
with the sweetest peaches at back
were the heart and soul of this place
Walking through the house with its curiosities
an old kettle left on the stove — untouched for years
an iron bed in the front room — not slept in forever
All monuments to a past life
and like this memory, made soulful by time,
and thoughts of wild peaches sweet in my mouth