My Grandmother’s Wisdom

My grandmother died twenty years ago last week. As a small boy, it always seemed to me that my grandmother was wiser than my parents.  I had no objective facts to prove that, but intuitively I believed it.  I knew that my grandmother wasn’t as educated as my parents.  She had finished her formal schooling at grade four.  But that didn’t matter there was something in the way she treated me that seemed to communicate that she was a very wise woman.

My sister and I spent school holidays with my grandmother, while my mother cared for my three younger brothers at home.  I never realized at the time what a privilege it was to have the undivided attention of my grandmother for six weeks each year.  She would do the usual things one does with school aged children - trips to the pictures, visits to the Myer toy department and my favourite, dinner in the Myer cafeteria.  As a child I couldn’t imagine a more mouth watering meal than a meat pie with sauce, mashed potatoes and peas served on a plate with the Myer emblem at the top and accompanied by a strawberry milkshake with double ice cream.

My grandmother would walk everywhere.  She never owned a car and buses were only for long distances.  When my parents insisted that I walk to the local shops rather than being driven, I would complain.  But strangely, walking with my grandmother was not an imposition, but rather an adventure.  Her wisdom was what I would call “kitchen table wisdom.”  She had little time for the sophisticated discussions that happened between my mother and her children.  For my grandmother, the centre of life was care for and service to those she loved. And she was a woman of routine.  The washing was done on Monday, Thursday and Saturday; the carpets vacuumed no more than once a week for fear of wearing them out; Breakfast at seven, lunch at twelve and dinner on the table at five-thirty. 

Meals were times for conversation and stories.  Her stories, as she emptied her second pot of tea, told us who we were and where we had come from.  They were liberally spiced with family faults and failures, but equally they recounted the triumphs and small victories of our forebears and relatives.  Through my grandmother’s stories I heard the deeper voice of identity and integrity.  She never preached, moralized or criticized and yet I knew what she regarded as important in life and what she valued for her grandchildren. I am sure that it was from her that I gained my appreciation of stories, not primarily as entertainment, but as access into the real world - the world of hope and despair and the world of courage and failure.

My grandmother probably wasn’t that much wiser than my parents.  It just seemed to me as a small boy that her simple love for me and her uncomplicated view or the world was a goal that I wanted for my life.  From my innocent perspective she never seemed to be unhappy, angry or sad.  But the truth is she probably was, but she never showed it to me.  Perhaps all of us can seem wise to other people when we only have a little knowledge them.

The wonderful thing about my grandmother was that even in her last years she never tired of telling family stories.  And remarkably she could tell the same story over and over again and never change a word.  We sat, listened and treasured those moments with her - waiting with glee for the often heard punch line and the glorious laughter that followed.

Christopher