Dedicated to my Mother – Marlene Rosalie Clarice Holt (née Henry) 8/08/1945 – 22/07/2019
The grandfather clock on the wall promises me that it is 2:40 p.m. (Australian Central Standard Time). In ten to fifteen minutes or so my grannies will be bowling through the double front gates of our home out here in Larapinta, a western outskirts suburb of Alice Springs stencilled in the colours of ancient sienna and terracotta canvas. School ports will be abandoned somewhere along the lawn-less pebbly path between the driveway and front porch. I will juggle their ports with open arms before our family dog Kele (pronounced colour) —half-bullmastiff, half-dingo—decides to do some collecting of her own, using those elongated toothy-pegs. Larapinta lies between the world-famous Larapinta Trails and the pristine cradling caterpillar-like mountains of the glorious Yeperenye (MacDonnell Ranges). From our home, you could throw a frisbee to trails that lead you to the historic Telegraph Station north-east, Desert Park south-west, Simpsons Gap to the west, or Mount Gillen directly adjacent to Larapinta.
Transitioning from a mother to a grandmother left very few margins distinguishing the two chapters; I was twenty-four when I had my only child, my daughter, Cheyenne, and then by the age of thirty-nine I had become a grandmother. Suddenly, astonishingly, and surprisingly to all who knew me, I had been inducted into the Grandmother Hall of Fame. As course coordinator, lecturer and researcher in the fields of Creative Writing, Aboriginal Women’s Studies, and Australian Indigenous Studies, I went from organising the babysitter to being the babysitter. I will leave you to do the maths.
Writing about our roles as grandmothers is deeply anchored in both what has preceded and what has succeeded our roles as mothers—this is truth-telling at its finest. As a First Nation Aboriginal grandmother, I would also like to think that my intergenerational memory of landscape, while it does not conform me, does, however, inform me.
Albert Einstein once said, ‘You don’t really understand something unless you can explain it to your grandmother.’ I relate to this, particularly because of the immersive relationship that I hold so dearly with my own trio of grandchildren. Over time I have learnt that being a grandmother is one thing. Becoming a grandmother is entirely different.
When I am home in Alice Springs, around two p.m., I wrap everything up in my makeshift writing studio—that is, the kitchen dining table. Paperwork stacked away, laptop, tablet, books, journals, sticky notes, editorials, pens and highlighters all magically vanish into G’andma’s secret closet. Wrapping things up means responding to a freight train of emails, winding up telephone conferences, gathering the washing, folding uniforms, clearing the dish stack, vacuuming, ensuring beds are made, emptying the trash, emptying the mailbox and emptying my psyche for a clean slate of grandchildren afternoon delight. There, now I am prepared for the flowing indoor foot-stomps of my little people and their excitable rising voices. This routine is not sometimes; it is not every now and then; it is not maybe it will happen, maybe it won’t—when I am home it happens daily.
Journal Entry: May, 2019, 6:38 a.m. I woke up this morning cursing my iPhone for not being fully charged. Today of all days I slept in. Bugger! Duvet thrown off like a wretched sixteenth-century heretic curse. Making a marathon run into the bathroom, brushing my teeth, I look around from tap to tile for three more toothbrushes. Then I realised I was no longer in Larapinta but in my dear friend’s home, in Brunswick, Melbourne. Such is the endearing emotional and psychological template of grandmotherhood that, whenever I go away, wherever I may hang my beret, I am still involved with the daily activities of my grandchildren. I miss them dreadfully. Especially first thing in the morning. I have been in Melbourne now for almost a whole month. No matter how incidental a toothbrush may seem, in my chaotic world of check-ins and departures, the ‘toothbrush’ is more than just symbolic; it is a statement that says ‘G’andma is here with us’!
As noted by the clock on the wall, Bailey, Harper-Yvette and Arnica are arriving home from school fashionably on time. The school shirts have fluttered out of their waists, their hair shows no signs of being pinned seven hours earlier by a layering of don’t move me unless you can smooth me gel. The art work of stick figures and finger paintings that they’re waving in the air will be magnetised onto whatever side of the refrigerator or freezer chest remains unclaimed. I have within my grasp a Picasso, a Van Gogh and a Namatjira. That is why G’andma is the writer of the family and not the painter.
After-school home-time usually signals one of two pressing matters which will swiftly need addressing before their mother arrives home from work: either their tummies will churn for an afternoon school snack (the kind their mother would frown upon) or they are bored before they have even clapped eyes on the treats I have hidden for them under their pillows. Interestingly enough, all electronic mobile devices, excluding the remote for the television, will now be on a mission to seek and enjoy. Well, that is at least until their mother gets home, and then from that time all handheld devices will return to the hide-and-seek domain of the linen cupboard. If grandmotherhood carries any authority for surpassing motherhood, I can concur that if mother says ‘no’, ask G’andma. The answer will usually be a resounding yes!
The first rule of home-time, before anyone is allowed to enter the kitchen, is to scrub your hands clean all the way up to the elbows and then go into the bedrooms and change into your yard clothes (as my mother used to call them). I whisk through the hallway picking up the deposits of navy-blue school socks strewn halfway down the corridor like a sandpit runway. Nobody cares to watch the Smart TV anymore—I look at it sitting up all alone in the living room like a dark submarine caisson ready to submerge into the void. Since when did afternoon television become so passé among Generation Z?
G’andma did you charge my phone? G’andma I can’t find my Ipad—can you help me pleeeeeease? Smart TV—not so smart anymore!
Before I introduce you to my grandchildren, it would be almost entirely remiss of me not to present my mother, the woman who provided me with lifelong examples of words and actions enveloped in wisdom, thus forming my foundation of protection, nurture and above all unconditional love. My mother, a most beloved wife, a loving and most cherished mum, grandmother and great-grandmother. Mum knew an encyclopaedic thing or two about motherhood and grandmotherhood and great-grandmotherhood.
Mum was raised by her paternal Aboriginal-Afghan grandmother (Cecelia Henry, 1891–1962, Taroom Lower Dawson River, Yiman Nation Queensland) on Woorabinda Settlement in the 1950s and 1960s. Mum’s mum (Agnes Henry, 1917–1949 (née Thomas) Chillagoe, Wakaman Nation, Queensland) died suddenly from a mysterious illness—ovarian cancer was presumed.
The dilemma was this: my mum, along with her two younger sisters, Rosina (two), Jemima (six months) – three sisters born of the same mother and father could equate to being sent off to three separate missions throughout the state of Queensland, never to be in contact or know of each other again. This was oh-so-easily achievable with a quick name change at the stroke of a missionary’s pen. Mum’s father (Marshall Henry, 1904–1976, Taroom, Lower Dawson River, Yiman Nation Queensland), a well-known cattle stockman, needed to travel wherever the work called in order for him to provide for his family. Rather than orphan out the three girls, Mum’s grandmother approached the government authorities of that time (under the Aboriginal Protection and Restrictions of the Sale of Opium Act 1897 Queensland), stating that she would be best suited as the sole caregiver for her three granddaughters.
The relationship that developed between my mother and her grandmother is something I had only dreamed of reading in fairytales. Instead of Little Red Riding Hood or There Was an Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe, my childhood picture book would be illustrated with members of my own family from start to finish. The loyalty, the devotion, the admiration my mother and her grandmother held for each other was consecrated within its own cultural framework and language, heralding from the Yiman Nation. Regardless of your ethnic or cultural background, there just do not seem to be enough stories or verse memoirs written about intergenerational matrilineal relationships, stories that should pass on from one grandmother to another. I am most fortunate that my great-grandmother left such an indelible impression on my mother that it has carried into the generations who have succeeded her. An infinite source of survival and love.
I would not be the woman I am today had it not been for the indomitable matriarchal lineage that runs broadly through my veins. And even though I did not meet my great-grandmother, Cecelia (Sissy) Henry, still I miss her. Still I whisper her name to the towering ghost gums scattered along the dry riverbeds and walkways of Alice Springs. I imagine her and my mother sitting atop the branches, the dry winds flowing through their stories, and even though I am living more than some 2060 kilometres from home, I am reminded of this saying by Chief Seattle: ‘There is no death. Only a change of worlds.’ I thank my great-grandmother for responding to the call to raise my mother and her two younger sisters as her own children in an era when it would have been much easier to remain undetected under the prying government eyes of the Australian Assimilation Policy (1951–1962), if you were clever enough to succeed—and my great-grandmother was clever.
Journal Entry: August, 2019: 4:30 a.m. I am vigorously running my thumb through cartons of moleskin journals of last year and last decade to extract memories of birthing, birthdays, tooth-fairy itineraries, potty-training, first days of school, family anecdotes and endless scribbles of Peppa Pig (oink, oink) to name a few snippets. I tell you truthfully, I want to write for this anthology, Grandmothers, but in all sincerity, I have no idea where to begin. My tummy has been somersaulting over what the other cohort of Australian grandmothers must be writing about. I don’t possess a green thumb—gardens are for succulents competing with the weeds. I don’t bake blueberry muffins or apple pie—that’s what the microwave is for. And the only thing I can sew is a suite of poems ready to hit ‘send’ for submission. Okay, just breathe, Yvette, just breathe, take it one day at a time. Just string your memories of childhood and motherhood together and then plough into grandmotherhood. You can do this, you know you can. I believe in you!
My grannies.
Kevin Bailey Holt (b. November 2010)—out of the three grandchildren, his was the birth I was present for. I was more than present for his impending birth; I sang Bailey out of his young mother’s womb with tears of fear, heartache, joy and a love that flowed through every fibre of my being. I birthed him through songlines of spirit from journey to arrival. In the private birthing suite of the Mater Misercordiae Mothers’ Hospital, Brisbane, I drew on a strength within my core that I never knew existed. It was a moment of empowerment through matriarchal forces. Those songlines continue.
Many times, throughout the labour of Bailey, I thought I would pass out from fear of the unknown. I held my daughter’s hand through her every breath. When the midwife said, ‘Congratulations. Here you are, Grandma—a beautiful, healthy baby boy,’ I was speechless. A nurse then handed me the steel surgical scissors so I could cut the umbilical cord. I looked at this rope of life entwining my child and my grandchild and was overcome with seasons of mixed emotions. I burst into tears and cried.
To this day, my eyes fill with tears when I think about how blessed I was to be there to welcome my grandson into this universe. I counted ten little fingers, ten tiny toes and marvelled at the knitting frown, which funnily enough resembles my Dad’s furrows. For seven of the nine months my daughter carried my first grandchild, she slept by my side every night. Every night, I felt this little being growing inside my daughter’s body. On the night of Bailey’s arrival, I went home, exhaled, and walked into our kitchen; the first thing I saw was a Frida Kahlo fridge magnet, with the words: At the end of the day, we can endure so much more than we think we can. Truth!
My Bailey, a voracious bookworm, a backyard golfing caddy to his Poppy, an explorer of science, maths and Australian history. Bailey is the quietly spoken, gentle boy who feels deeply about the world around him. I am called G’andma by my grandchildren because Bailey could not curl his toddler tongue around the ‘r’ in grandma—and so G’andma I am.
Harper-Yvette Holt (b. October 2012) —my first-born granddaughter, the butterfly whisperer. Harps is one of the most astute, caring and sensitive six-year-old girls you could ever hope to meet. She is the nurturer of her little nestling family. Out of the three grandchildren, Miss Harper walks in the footprints of my mother even more so than my daughter and I do. Family albums of my childhood are her private windows into the world she says surrounds her playtime. Inquisitive beyond belief, Harps will question every corner of every page in my album of memories. She is the deep thinker and storyteller of our family. Protective of her older brother and younger sister, Harps will hold you when you cry, tickle you when you laugh and love you back tenfold when you hug her. When Harper was four years old, she would insist that I grab a chair, that we sit in the backyard with our eyes shut, in total silence. I would ask: ‘Why do I have to be silent? Why can’t I move? Why do I have to shut my eyes?’ Harps would respond: ‘Because the butterflies will come to us if we’re sitting still, and then they’ll sit on our hands and play with our fingers. No peeking out of your eyes, G’andma. Butterflies don’t have ears, they listen with their wings, so you can’t move ’cause that will scare them, and they don’t like people staring at them, so eyes shut, please. Don’t you know anything, G’andma? I thought you were s’posed to know everything, G’andma?’ Apparently not. Mischievous, adventurous, fun-loving and a fabulous little chef to boot, Harper is a second daughter to her G’andma. Faces, hair, one’s stride, the colouring of one’s skin may differ from one generation to the next, but memories remain. Harper-Yvette, an old soul living in a young body.
Arnica Scout Holt Appo (b. February 2016)—the baby of the family. Out of my three grandchildren, Arnica is more like the actual granny, the little granddaughter; whereas Bailey and Harper, I feel, are an extension of my motherhood. Arnica, with her shock of dark, thick, curly hair, throws back to my mother. Arnica, the glamour princess who loves to play with dress-ups, can turn from an Elsa to a Moana in minutes, even with a loungeroom wardrobe malfunction. Arnica is a walker and talker just like her G’andma; she sits at the helm of the dining table with gusto and manners and loves to tell her brother and sister what to eat first and when they may leave the table. A keen astronomer, nail beautician, bathroom mermaid and architect of doll-houses made solely from paddle-pop sticks, Arnica is also the logical thinker, the gracious peacemaker of our family. We await to see her personality and dreams blossom before us.
Am I not triply blessed to have two granddaughters and a grandson to comb my hair, to scratch my back, to trace their handprints inside my favourite poetry books with permanent markers (aaargh), to lounge across my lap at storytime? Giggling our way through almost an entire packet of arrowroot biscuits, dunking into our teacups—I feel as if I am the grandmother who refuses to age in the company of greatness.
Journal Entry: June, 2019, 10:37 p.m. Today was a good day with my psychoanalyst. I told her that I rode my pushbike all the way from Alice Springs to Fitzroy North and on the way I stopped at Oodnadatta to pick scrambled eggs out of my hair—Arnica had fed them to me the morning before, so I would not go hungry along the way. She rubbed the break fast delight all over my head and said: ‘G’andma, you have mouths all over your brains, here is more eggs for you to eat on your bike.’ As soon as I arrived in Melbourne, I changed from my designer R.M. Williams, belt-buckled corduroy shorts and fishnet stockings into a pair of sunflower aquatic coveralls that someone had packed with a little note that read: ‘just in case it rains in norf fishroy. Your legs are very muscly G’andma, you don’t want to ruin your legs with a lot of water.’ Signed Harper.
I am sitting lightning-bolt-upright in ‘the chair’, going one-on-one with my analyst, the relief in the air is palpable; Bailey whispers into my ear: ‘G’andma, when you are finished with Melbourne, don’t forget to come home. If your bike is too tired to ride, I will save up for a new one when I am twenty. We love you. PS could you please buy me a new toothbrush?’
and so, the stories
the memories
the dream-cycles
the laughter
the language
and the love continues to grow
flowing from one generation to the next
truly, I am blessed
past, present and future