‘Language, girl.’
‘And do you ever think about me, Nan? How great it would be knowing I could cook a family treasure, ‘Nan Tilly’s famous Christmas Pudding’.’
‘Fuzzy, go away with you, Pop will cark it before me. I’ve been readin’ the old people’s magazine and it says the lads always go before the ladies, it’s God’s way.’
‘Once you’re dead, it will be trapped in your sweet little brain, safe in a box and buried six foot under.’
‘What type of box? Cedar or mahogany?’ she says wiping a handful of nutshells into the bin.
‘Don’t know really, but I was watching a documentary the other day. Apparently now you can buy cardboard coffins. They look real smart too, especially once family and friends paint deadly pictures on the outside.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Nan, if you don’t tell me the recipe it will never be passed down to my children, your gorgeous great grandchildren.’
‘Grandchildren you say?’ ‘Yep, good-looking great grandchildren, Nan, they’ll be smart and talented.’
‘You reckon?’
‘Too right, Nan, but just imagine those same children, your own flesh and blood, eating one of those puddings from IGA. You know, the ones in those bowl-shaped plastic containers?’
Nan puts her knife down and looks me fair in the eye, she breathes and in a voice strong and precise, pushing out the first sentence with a force greater than Darth Vaderm says:
‘No … great … grandchild of mine is gonna buy a fuckin’ Christmas puddin’. Stop right there, Fuzzy. Find me the scales. We also need a bit of paper and a good pen.’ Meaning a pen that works. ‘From now on we measure everything that goes in the bowl, and you can write it down. God forbid, girl, fancy you even entertainin’ the thought. Fuzzy, shame on you.
‘And just for the record, I’m more than happy to be crematoriumed. When me ashes are ready then you can pour me into the biscuit tin. I’ll be happy sittin’ up there on the top shelf watchin’ to see what you mob are gonna do in me kitchen.’
‘OK, Nan.’ I smile, reaching for the pen on the windowsill.
A Merry Little Christmas Time
Santas, holly, wrapping paper, decorations, snowflakes, candy canes and reindeer are jumbled across the kitchen table. Scissors, sticky tape and ribbon are also part of the Christmas show – three weeks and counting.
In our house, the celebration of Christmas rushes in like a bush turkey after kitchen scraps, pushing and thrusting its good cheer into every crevice and corner. Pop and Dad are always in fine voice during the holy month. One of their most favourite carols is ‘Oh Holy Night’, which we all sing together in sweet harmony. If Tui and her family are with us, they also join in. All of her family have fine Maori voices.
Christmas always tickles your senses and makes you smile for no reason. You sing along to Christmas carols regardless of how lame you think they are. It makes you want to talk a bit longer to people you meet up the street, maybe even give them a hug if you know they are going away on holiday. Buy a couple of tickets in the Boystown lottery. Throw a few coins in the blind dog tin at the town library. And you can’t help get excited when the shops are full of tinsel all glittery and cheerful. Townspeople will drop by our house for a cuppa and to taste Nan’s Christmas goodies: slices, lamingtons, mince pies, bickies and her deadly Christmas pudding.
Every second Christmas, Nan, Pop, Dad and me volunteer for the church luncheon. Nan is as organised and ruthless as an army general when it comes to cooking for the masses.
Heaps of families, couples and single people come along to our special Christmas lunch. Pop dresses up as Santa and Dad, Pop, Sister Bernadette and I sing Christmas carols. Like a little concert. Sister Bernadette is from Fiji, she looks a lot like us and she can sing real sweet. She knows her harmonies, fits right in like she was born to it. Someone always cries when we sing. Sister Bernadette is a deadly dancer too and she can swing a cricket bat like you wouldn’t believe.
There’s lots of tucker. There’s baked pumpkin, potato, onion, carrots and squash. There’s baked turkey, bully beef and Yorkshire pudding, baked lamb and chicken. Steamed beans fresh from the church garden, broccoli, peas and corn, all with Nan’s special gravy. Then for dessert it’s pudding, brandy custard and cream made by three different nans, all part of the church family. There’s also Grandad Joe, he cooks as well but he doesn’t do church, he doesn’t believe in it. ‘Got better things to do on a Sund’y than waste me time at church. It wears me out all that stand up, sit down, kneel down, stand up business.’
Apart from Nan’s pudding I reckon Grandad Joe’s cooking is the best. I don’t know who taught him but fair dinkum he can cook. One year he even beat Nan at the local show. Grandad Joe’s sponge came first, leaving poor Nan runner-up, the first time in seven years. Nan was pissed off alright but Pop reckoned it was a good thing. ‘A bit of competition keeps you on your toes,’ he reckons. Mind you he didn’t bother to tell Nan this.
If you’d like to try something a little different at Christmas, then helping people you don’t know is a good start. Not everyone wants a warm and fuzzy connection. For some, their predicament is only too real, hurtful and embarrassing. These people, like you and me, are very proud.
Like Nan says, ‘It won’t put holes in your bloomers or turn your fuzzy bits grey.’
For Auld Lang Syne, My Dear
Some friends at school have never bothered with New Year’s Eve and have never heard the song ‘Auld Lang Syne’. It’s a bit sad, I reckon. There is rarely a song that brings tears to my eyes, but this one does, probably because of the meaning. Wow, I’m sounding like Pop now. Every year since I can remember I have celebrated the beginning of the New Year with the rest of my mob. Nan and Pop won’t allow too much drinking or any type of drugs. If you see the New Year in at our place you gotta behave. As soon as the New Year starts we all hold hands together with relations and friends in a circle and sing along to the song ‘Auld Lang Syne.’ It’s Scottish if you didn’t know and I guess it basically reminds us to remember days and people from our past.
Nan said there would be a few extra for today’s New Year’s Eve celebrations. Her interpretation of a few extra is always dodgy. We’ve been preparing food for a week. Looking out the kitchen window I can’t help smiling at the muddle. Santa must have had a pretty good year because no bugger has gone without in this house. Little cousins are riding around on new bikes and playing with remote-controlled cars. Benny Boy and Harry are sitting on the lounge-room floor, their stubby brown fingers pointing at crumpled Lego instructions. Deep frustrated breaths, theatrical moans and the odd curse tell me I may be needed to help with translation. Bully, Shaunie and Rhonda are seated together, eyes focused and mouths fixed in a tense pose, fighting each other to the death on the PlayStation.
By six most people have arrived. Apart from the usual mob, cousins, aunts and uncles, even Old Uncle Tully from Queensland is here for a good time. Teddy has been helping us all day. Mrs M and Mrs Steiner arrive, both carrying cakes and bickies. The Morioka family come through the back door, depositing late Christmas presents under the tired tree. The presents have to be moved into Nan’s bedroom because Pete and Young Bluey think it’s Christmas again, they can’t help themselves and start to tear them open.
Yar and Jilly also come through the back. Yar is wearing a purple mooie with pink, green and yellow frangipanis scattered over it. He has tinsel wrapped like a crown on his head and a lovely yellow Ralph Lauren shirt. Both Jilly and Yar bring a large cane basket full of cherries, which all us kids clamber for.
Tui and her family picked up Sister Bernadette on their way. Lefty arrives with a bag of lollies for the kids. Sergeant Rose and his wife, Ling, roll up with lollies too. Ling also brings a baby kangaroo she is looking after through her work with WIRES. It lies in an old shirt sewn at the bottom and hung from a chair, so it resembles its mother’s pouch. Dad Sonny can’t help himself.
‘Not enough mea
t on him yet, Ling, but this time next year we’ll have dinner.’
The Buchanans, including Bruiser, walk up from down the street. Bruiser and his eldest son are pulling an esky on wheels, full of soft drink for the kids and soda water for Bruiser who has been off the grog for seven months. He also has a large bunch of yellow roses wrapped in newspaper with a red ribbon. He gives them to Nan who returns the gesture with a kiss. Bruiser goes red. Nan has been showing Bruiser how to grow roses ever since he came to his senses and said his goodbyes to the grog.
As the hours pass conversations get louder, everyone is busting to be heard. Sergeant Rose’s big hands engulf the beer he’s holding while trying to explain something to Aunt Nell and Sister Bernadette. Ling, Jilly and Nan have been talking for ages, they haven’t come up for air since dessert. Lolling around on chairs and over cushions spread on the floor of the marquee, everywhere kids are fighting to stay awake for the big occasion. Mrs Steiner has her reading glasses on, squinting one minute then big eyed the next. She frantically pushes buttons to the left and right trying to play cousin Rory’s PSP while Yar looks over her shoulder telling her what to do … or maybe Bruce is telling her. Special Girl Esther sits by my side holding on to Milka, mesmerised by Teddy showing Bruiser how to fold swans out of paper napkins. Tui, Lefty and Mr Morioka are deep in thought, trying to make a large Mac truck out of Lego, while chubby cousins Ben and Harry sleep on a large pillow beside them.
‘It’s time, you buggers, ten minutes to countdown,’ Aunt Nell yells before handing out poppers and trying to wake sleepy kids.
‘Where’s Old Uncle Tully?’
‘He’s asleep over there in the corner next to Cousin Ruth.’
‘He’ll miss out, wake ’im up, Ruthie.’
‘I’m a-bloody-wake, woman. I’m not dead yet,’ he yells, grabbing his walking stick. ‘Just was givin’ me eyes a rest, that’s all.’ Old Uncle Tully stands up with a little help from Pop and Ruthie. A chair is placed closer to the action so that he is part of the celebrations.
‘Ten . . . nine . . .
‘Where’s the video camera?’
‘Eight . . . seven
‘I’ve got it.’
‘Six . . . five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one . . . Happy New Year!’
Poppers bang through the air, streamers shoot up to the ceiling. Kisses and hugs all around. Old Uncle Tully stands up and receives good wishes from everyone in the room.
‘I’ve made another one,’ he yells with a toothy grin. Everyone cheers in agreement.
Eventually, we clear the room and make a big circle. Kids who were looking for beds only moments earlier are now running around like a dog after a bath. Dads look on laughing; mums run after them trying to slow them down and join the circle. Special Girl Esther holds my right hand while Teddy holds my left. His hand feels safe and warm.
And then … the sound of pipes. Fully kilted Pop, his brothers, Dad and cousins breathe life into the drones. Some kids shriek and cover their ears. The continual hum of the bass is powerful, Pop believes it grounds the soul and tunes the heart.
For auld lang syne my dear
For auld lang syne
Five generations of the one family and close friends all swing our hands back and forth to the music. In and out of the circle we swing, most in time while others have no idea. And then there are the boys who swing so quickly you wouldn’t be surprised if an arm was to fly off and hit the ceiling … little buggers.
We’ll take a cup of kindness yet
For auld lang syne.
A quiet moment at the end of the song invites cousins Simon and Bob into the middle of the circle to play the didge for a couple of extra minutes. It’s haunting and very emotional. I get goose bumps and feel teary. I am not the only one. Teddy gives me a big hug in front of everyone and I don’t even go red.
Old-fashioned? Well, maybe. The thing is, it’s all part of this here story. It makes me think back to the people we’ve met and know and friends who have sadly passed on. We can shake off all the shit from the past year, have a good wash down, then step forward and give it all another shot.
I still have lots of questions unanswered. But you know what? I’m OK with that. I figure time is my biggest friend when it comes to understanding the truth. I don’t need to know it all now; when the time is right, well, that’ll be fine by me.
If there is anything I have learnt this year it is the importance of perseverance. Tui explained it to me. It means to keep moving forward regardless of how small the step. Within us lies a great bundle of strength capable of surviving just about anything. We are so much stronger than we realise, that I know for sure. My message to you is simple.
We don’t need to worry about what everyone else thinks or likes. I dare you to sing your own song, do your own thing.
We don’t have to dislike someone just because they look, sound or come across different. I dare you to be tolerant and fair.
We don’t have to give up when things are buggered. I dare you to fight for what you want and what you believe. You have the strength.
I dare you to love yourself … because no matter what you think, you are deadly. And don’t you forget it.
Grace beside you always.
That’s it, have a good one and remember everyone’s got a story.
So, what’s yours?
Postscript
There are kids and parents out there who think our living arrangement is not normal. Well, guess what? I checked and it said over 30,000 children had grandparents as guardians. Trauma from death, mental illness or drugs and alcohol being the most common reason.
Just imagine you have worked hard all of your working life and are now retired or about to be retired. Your kids have had children of their own.You look forward to taking it easy. Doing a bit of travel.What happens when your child or their partner is killed in an accident, has developed a mental illness or has overdosed? What are you going to do about it? There are grandchildren here that need love, support and guidance.
I reckon grandparents as guardians, including my Nan and Pop, are all bloody brilliant.Without their love grandchildren like me would find life even tougher.
If there are grandparents reading my story who are in this very predicament, from deep within I say: thank you for wanting to help, thank you for adjusting your life to help your grandchildren and thank you so much for believing in us, guiding and loving us. Thank you.
Acknowledgements
Dear Steve, Jardi and Jye thanks for being my boys, patient, loving and helpful. Love yas To Lola who gave me life and the gift of daydreaming, to Fay and Ernie McPherson who gave me hope, strength and love, to sisters Carol,Vonda, Joe and brother Sam who gave me family, To sister Donna and Aunty Vilma for giving me faith, inspiration and closure. Without you, this book would never have happened.
To Julie and Ted Reynolds, thanks for being in my life.To all of my big family both black and white, you know who you are, love yas.To all of my friends, writing is so much easier with great mates, good coffee and chocolate bullets.
To George Stein, I spent only a morning with you, and in that time I learnt enough about forgiveness, love and hope to sustain me a lifetime.Toda Raba George.
To the Wagga Wagga and district historical society, Jimmy Swanborough, Forestry workers from Batlow, Adelong and Tumbarumba, Hewitt Whyman, June Schumer, Phyllis Clem and Mr Goldspink, thanks for your knowledge, kindness and support.
To the Tumut Local Aboriginal Land Council staff, Denise Williams and Peter Smith, community members, thanks for running after paperwork on my behalf. Your eagerness and tolerance to help a sister in need is awesome and very much appreciated.
To Indigenous people throughout Australia, we are never too old to learn. Stay safe, stay strong.
To all artists, thanks for using your gifts and having the courage to share your work with the masses.You are my inspiration.
To Rose Allan thanks for showing me the way, looks like we made it.
&nb
sp; To the Queensland State Library, the black&write! team especially Tom, Sue, Linda and Ellen thanks for the education, the laughs and the counseling.Your constant guidance has helped me create something I believe in. It has been an honour, thank you.
To Margaret and the mob at Magabala, thanks for taking this project on, you guys rock. I’m looking forward to the next one.
Grace was present when writing this book, so finally I would like to say thanks to those who have passed for sticking around and guiding my thoughts. And sorry I didn’t always listen.
SUE
The Author
Sue McPherson is a visual artist living in Eumundi, Queensland. She was born in Sydney to an Aboriginal mother, from Wiradjuri country. Sue was adopted into the McPherson family, landowners from the Batlow area in New South Wales, when she was very young.
Sue was inspired to write by her two teenage sons. She took a writing workshop in Coolum and, three months later, started writing Grace Beside Me.
Just a few years ago, Sue attended a weekend writing workshop in Cooroy with Rose Allan, and later joined her writers’ group. Initially the words didn’t come easily, Rose suggested she stop and write about what she knew.
The next day, Nan was ‘busting her belly’, ready to start.
black&write! Indigenous Writing and Editing Project
Established in 2010, and launched by author Boori Monty Pryor and actor Ernie Dingo at the 2010 Cairns Indigenous Arts Fair, black&write! is the first project of its kind. A national project, it is designed to foster Indigenous writing and writers in Australia through the recruitment, training and mentoring of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander editors in the development of Indigenous authored manuscripts.
Grace Beside Me Page 14
