Being a grandmother is a gift but it’s not one I’ve put as much time into as I’d hoped to, simply because time has ever been my enemy. But I’m working on it.
They say history repeats itself, and that’s certainly true for my husband, Colin, and me. We both had parents who ran small businesses. As is the case for many who own their own businesses, we have always felt too ‘outside the mould’ to work for anyone else. And, as it so often happens, the work is never finished—it’s the 24/7 model of life—so, although we have revelled in shaping our own destinies, I wish I could have done it better for the sake of our children.
I can’t talk about my feelings as a grandmother without acknowledging this regret I live with: when our daughters, Saskia and Elli, were born, we were working so hard to survive we just didn’t spend enough time with them, truly focused on them. We tried our best to make decisions that would help to compensate for the amount of time we spent working: we didn’t have a television until the girls were ten and twelve years of age, respectively; we didn’t open our restaurant at night; and we always ate breakfast and dinner together as a family. I do believe there is a difference between regret and guilt, and while my daughters have worked hard at releasing me from the guilt, the regret remains. I should say, however, that for all of this we managed to raise two incredibly strong, intelligent, creative and caring women.
Our wonderful daughters each have three children: my eldest grandchild, Zoe, almost twenty-three, followed closely by Max, twenty-two, Lilly, twenty, Rory, sixteen, Ben, eleven and Darby the latecomer, four years old. Each is totally different, and how wonderful that is. Despite always being time-poor, there is one thing Colin and I took to like ducks to water, and that’s loving our children, and now our six grandchildren. We love them all unequivocally and will continue to forever.
When I became a grandmother, I had no family role model I wanted to follow. My mother had the most amazing spirit and zest for life and she had an older, unmarried sister, Gladys. Unmarried women were known as ‘maiden aunts’ within families and they often held a useful place. Aunt Gladys was very special to me. She was the person who educated me in many ways. My mother’s mother died before I was born, and my father’s mother kept herself withdrawn from us when we were children. Her own children, particularly my father, were important to her, but my mother was not, so there was no warmth shown to my brothers and me. Never once do I remember a kiss or a hug or any sort of affection. When we visited her, we were simply there to be seen and not heard, nor taken account of in any way.
Now that I am a grandmother, I realise more and more what complex creatures we are, and how childhood experiences have lasting impacts—children can be hurt, without even realising it at the time, by omission. I’m sure my grandmother’s attitude was informed by a mixture of the mores of the time and perhaps the feeling that no one was good enough for her youngest son. But the absence of any connection with her has left a gap in the lives of her grandchildren, and I sometimes feel sad for the loss of it. My logical brain says I should leave aside the hurt caused by my grandmother’s seeming indifference and accept that she has nevertheless been a big part of my life. Within the family she was a renowned cook, though more of the sweet kind. When we visited on a Sunday, we would see all manner of beautiful cakes ready for the rest of the family. They were always ‘for after’. I’m absolutely certain that the cooking gene came directly from her to my father, to me and then to my oldest daughter. There has never been any doubt that the lineage began with my grandmother. For that, I am grateful to her.
My father’s family were also incredibly musical; they all had such beautiful voices and a true love of music. The few times the whole family were around the piano singing, I can only remember my grandmother sitting in a chair, not joining in. I might be doing her an injustice, but it is what I remember. My father and his brothers would sing anywhere, and the youngest girl, my auntie Gwen, sang professionally with big bands in places like Petersham Town Hall. I heard her sing just once; I was ten and allowed to sneak upstairs to listen. I will never forget the atmosphere and the sultry sound of her voice. This love of music is so much a part of me, and now of my grandchildren too, that I have to acknowledge its source in my grandmother and her family.
When our first grandchild was born nearly twenty-three years ago, I was both full of apprehension—was I really ready to be a grandmother?—and determined that things would be different from my own experience with my grandmother. I’ll never forget the joy of each grandchild’s birth and the emotional bonds we forged with them, which still remain today.
I really did want to be different with my grandchildren: this was my chance not only to be a better grandmother than mine had been to me, but also to be a better grandmother than I had been as a mother. I believe this sentiment guides many of us from one generation to the next. I am thankful that in some ways I’ve succeeded in being marginally better as a grandmother than as a mother. While I’m just as busy, I think I really have taken the chance to foster the individual spark in each child. There is such joy in that.
Not for a moment, though, is it plain sailing. My grandchildren are growing up in a much more difficult world than we did, or even than our children, their parents, did, and at times it distresses me. I certainly worry for them. I can’t always understand the complexities of their issues, nor can I always help guide them to solutions, but I hope that their knowing we love them unconditionally will go some way to helping them in their lives.
My mother was a person who, no matter how hard things were, found such joy in life, and every time I glimpsed the kind, smiling face of her mother in photographs, I knew I had missed out on someone important in my life. Some ten years ago, I met a man who had been my mother’s boyfriend when she was in her late teens. He had been part of not only Mum’s life at that time, but also that of her parents and her brothers. That meeting gave me such happiness because, even at his age, over ninety, he could recall spending time at my mother’s home: he told me how he had played bridge with my grandmother, and how warm and generous she was, and how there were always young people coming and going in the house. She never lived to know her grandchildren. How I would love to have known her.
Life was different for us as a family with the first four of our grandchildren. Our way of being with them then was to gather, always on a Sunday afternoon, for what the family still calls ‘late lunch/early dinner’. By eating at four p.m. the littlest child didn’t become overtired and cranky and the cousins could enjoy playing around our dam in the ‘bamboos of doom’, as they called them, or playing cricket, or swimming in the pool, while we ate outside—under the huge wisteria if it was summer, or by a firebox if it was winter. Our favourite time as a family is still Sunday afternoon, sharing a meal. Almost without exception it is eating outside in the courtyard, even in winter. All our family celebrations are around a meal.
When Zoe was about four she said to me: ‘Nonna, can I have a proper job? Not just plucking parsley!’ When Lilly was about seven, she came with me to a cooking class on the banks of the river in Adelaide. It was a class for children aged seven to ten and Lilly really wanted to be the one to show them what to do. This caused some mirth among the families watching on. After it was over, a journalist interviewed Lilly and asked when she’d started cooking. I’ll never forget her pausing, then saying: ‘All my life, really.’ It is true. Lilly loved to cook from an early age: when we all came together for a meal, Lilly would have baked bread or been the one to make the birthday cake. Lilly was often like a mother hen to her siblings and could produce a meal in the blink of an eye. I love that at nineteen she took herself off to Europe on a working holiday and straight into a job at the Dorchester. This love of food, the work ethic she gained as a child, helping her mum cook and sell food at the Barossa Markets, getting up at five a.m. on weekends as a teenager, all stood her in good stead for her future.
Our daughters have, in their own ways, followed our footsteps into the commercial food world, and they too came to a stage in their growing businesses where they worked every weekend, just as we had when they were children. So, while our Sunday meals can’t happen as often now, we are still in their lives every day in some small way, and every family occasion is celebrated by sharing beautiful food around the table. I might never have been the grandmother who babysat at the drop of a hat, but I would roll pasta with them when they were young, or have them help me pick herbs from the garden, or read poetry to them while they cuddled into me, waiting for their parents to collect them.
Together, Colin and I have had a part in developing in each grandchild something very individual. With Zoe the love of reading and poetry defines her in many ways, but she also loves music. We took Zoe and Max to their first opera when they were young. They absorbed it like sponges and now Zoe takes herself and doesn’t mind going alone. Max is and always has been artistic. At primary school, when there were no ‘rules’ about art, his large works were breathtaking. When the right time comes he’ll pick up art again but music is his fundamental love. Classical music was always a natural part of my daily life when I was growing up and Max is the same. I always loved it when Max would be listening to ‘his music’ on headphones and pass them over to me to listen, saying: ‘Nonna, you’ll love this one.’ And he was always right. It is a strong link between us.
Sixteen-year-old Rory, the enigma, the thinker of big thoughts, with the humour of a stand-up comedian, is also creative, always drawing or painting, but doesn’t like to be defined by that. I was so chuffed when, just recently, knowing it was something I so want to do, he suggested we could enrol in a sculpture course together.
Ben, twelve, is the sportsman of the family, following his grandad and mum’s sporting prowess—and totally unlike his nonna, I have to say. Earlier this year, I gained so many brownie points when I was invited to a Port Power football game by the chairman of the board, Kochie, and took Ben along. I enjoyed a beautiful lunch, the best seats in the house at an action-packed game, and I had Ben next to me, explaining the intricacies of the game. I don’t get to watch Ben play sport as often as I would like, but I love that he will run up to me and give me a big hug in front of his mates without any embarrassment. None of the grandchildren has ever been embarrassed by public displays of affection.
Darby, the youngest, now four, is full of life and so cheeky. Her love of music is innate: as soon as she hears it, she moves to the beat. Somehow, being the youngest, she can also hold court. When all the grandchildren are around the table, the eldest having cooked the dinner, their parents not in sight, Darby makes sure she has her say, whichever way the conversation is going.
How lucky I am that we live in the Barossa, that we farm for ourselves and can be part of looking after our own environment. By having a country lifestyle, my grandchildren are closer to the earth, closer to the source of our food, and have an understanding of the importance of looking after the land. Yes, they do worry about the future. Yet I see in the young such passionate advocates of change and I know they will do everything in their power to be part of the awareness and action for a sustainable future. I have faith that we are in good hands.
I remain ‘Nonna’ to all my grandchildren, not because of any Italian heritage, but because of a love of the Italian sensibility and the softness of the sound of ‘Nonna’, rather than the harsher-sounding ‘Grandma’ we used in my childhood. My life, our family’s lives, are so much richer thanks to our grandchildren. I am a hugely lucky person and an even luckier Nonna.