WORDS Helen Maher

The world might turn, but grandparents will always love their grandchildren.

My grandmother was a small, weather-worn lady with piercing blue eyes. She and my mother were widowed about the same time; so when I was five and my sister three, Mum took us to Bathurst to live with Nana in a big brick house.

I remember following Nana around while she did her early morning chores: feeding the chooks, chopping the kindling and lighting the fuel stove for breakfast. Nana showed me how to warm my hands and slowly reach under a broody hen on the nest to remove an egg, how to start a fire, preserve eggs, make plum jam and hoe the garden.

My mother’s relationship with my children was different. Because of work and study I had to rely on her for help to raise them (as she had with her mother). My five were close in age and a wild bunch. Poor Mum didn’t have much choice in the matter—from peace to bedlam in one generation.

My children married and most moved interstate. Looking back now, I can see the gap between generations begin to widen. Chooks and fuel stoves were out and streamlined kitchens were in. Young mothers worked to help pay for the mod cons, a car, the rent or a housing loan. One couldn’t blame one aspect of life more than the other for the trend; life was evolving and Australians were moving on.

Occasional visits and remembering birthdays is a far cry from earlier years when grandmothers were on hand to greet a child after school. A few of my peers still help out with childcare, but none live with their children or grandchildren. There’s a closeness that’s missing.

Not long ago, I decided I wanted to bridge that gap somehow. Just as my grandmother passed her wisdom onto me in the backyard, I wanted to pass something onto my grandchildren using my own gifts.

I decided to write each of my 16 grandchildren a story. I made each of them the main character in an adventure meant to encourage, inspire and entertain them. One grandson lacked confidence, so I sent him to Spain to run with the bulls. Science fiction with weird professors and flying cows introduced environmental issues to another. One unfinished adventure was sent to a budding young writer for completion and return for printing and binding.

I felt good about doing it, and had great fun. The best was when my oldest granddaughter turned the tables by writing me into a fractured fairy story.

Love is about small gestures, as much as it is about big ones. Modern life might mean I’m not able to live as closely with my grandchildren as I did with my own Nana, but I love my grandchildren just as she did, and I try to be there when love and wisdom are needed most.

Often, that love and wisdom comes from their direction as well.

Lachlan, aged six, is my first great-grandchild. Last year his father was killed in a motorbike accident. The day after the funeral I took Lachlan to the beach with my little dog. We played around in the water for a while, then sat on the sand to have a rest. I looked at his fair hair and sad little face and put my arm around him.

‘Nana’, he said, patting my hand for attention, ‘my Daddy’s in heaven, you know.’

I gave his shoulders a squeeze. ’Yes, I know.’

‘But it’s all right Nana, he can still ride his bike; but this time God’s got his finger on the remote control.’

I turned my head so he wouldn’t see me crying.

Then another pat on the hand. ‘Look, Nana,’ he said, pointing to the sky where a thin vapour trail arched overhead. ‘There he is riding his bike!’

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