Nanna's House
In honour of my Dad’s 70th birthday tomorrow … here’s a tiny snapshot of his childhood:
There’s some really great tools and techniques out there to help manage stress and anxiety. But what I’ve found works best for me, are those uniquely personal stories or images. The things that nestle into your memory bank and keep making appearances, nudging you to take notice. So many of the answers we seek are hidden in our own stories. Often in our delights and interests and questions and curiosities.
One of these for me, is Nanna’s house.
My Dad grew up in a tiny town in the Snowy Valleys called Tumbarumba. My Nanna and Pop had nine children and lived in a small three bedroom cottage. The toilet was up the back of the property and there was no septic until Dad was about 11 (1965). The place was heated by a wood stove, open fireplace and a chip heater in the bathroom to heat the water. There wasn’t enough bedroom space for everyone, so Dad and his brother slept on the back porch. They only had fruit when it was available from their Grandparent’s fruit trees, sometimes from a travelling fruit seller, and an orange in their stockings at Christmas. Dad owned two or three pairs of socks which were made by Nanna, and received one or two presents at Christmas.
This house stayed in the family until my Nanna passed away a few years back. It’s become somewhat of a touchstone for me. A place I keep returning to in my most worrisome moments. A place that helps me to steady the wobbles in my mind. This home helps me to zoom out and observe that I’ve grown up in a time of red tape and regulations. In a time where people carelessly destroy each other on the internet when we make mistakes or fail to know every piece of information on every topic that has ever existed. In an increasingly ‘safe’ environment.
I was born in the last breaths of the ‘She’ll be right,’ era and came of age in the ‘Has that been sterilised?’ era. I live in a time where all our decisions are micromanaged.
We don’t decide which toys are appropriate for our kids - we look to the manufacturer’s ‘Ages 3+’ sticker.
We don’t decide which foods are safe for our toddlers to eat - we look up lists from the Department of Health.
We make decisions based off videos we’ve seen on social media-
‘Why I will NEVER ride my bike without a helmet again.’
‘Why I ALWAYS keep a pocket knife in my purse.’
‘Why I never answer the door on a Sunday after 3pm without my slippers on.’
There’s always something to be panicking about it seems.
We’ve got the worries of the entire world in our pocket at all times. It’s not hard to tell why we’re becoming increasingly uneasy.
So when I’m concerned that the kids haven’t had enough organic berries of late and the subsequent destruction of their microbiome is all my fault…I think of Dad receiving an orange in his stocking and being so ecstatic about it that he gobbled it down, peel and all. I think of him living a robust childhood despite this lack of unlimited daily fruit options.
When I worry about postnatal depletion and how hard it feels to eat enough of all the things we’re told we need - the protein and the good fats and the antioxidants and the zinc and the whatnot…I think of Nanna and her nine postnatal seasons, and how little access she had to the same variety we have now. I think of how she lived vibrantly until the ripe old age of 94.
When I check on the girls in winter whilst they’re asleep, and they’re curled up in a ball shivering and I start to worry that I’ve frozen their brains into dormancy because I neglected to give them enough blankets and the room was most certainly not set at a comfortable 22 degrees…I think of Dad and his brother sleeping on the back porch in an area where winter temperatures dropped to below zero and miraculously surviving (probably with the help of those hand knit woollen socks.)
When I worry about the ferocity with which the girls are playing, I remember how Dad says they used to wrap each other in layers and layers of blankets and mattresses and then shoot each other with a .22 before asking, ‘Did you feel that?’ If the answer was no, a layer was taken off and another round was fired. I remind myself - the girls are alright - physically and mentally.
When I hear that it’s recommended to read your child 5-6 books per day before they start to school, and I try to remember the last time we even picked one up…I think of the fact that there is no chance Nanna’s house contained anything resembling the micro libraries our homes have now. And I know the kids will be ok.
We live in a time of such rampant excess, that we’ve lost the ability to discern between this and healthy, seasonal abundance.
Whether it’s the berries, the books, the amount we think the kids should be able to recite, the possessions, the extra curricular activities, or the endless energy supply we think we should have to navigate it all…Nanna’s house reminds me of the peace of simplicity. Helps me to see the tiny milieu we’re all existing in and how there is so much more. More than the worry and the panic. More than the unyielding pursuit of excellence and the obedient checking of boxes. More to life than eternal comfort. More meaning beyond these arbitrary and excessive recommendations and expectations.
Nanna’s house is a feeling of calm and a vision of stillness.
A reassuring touchstone for my parenting journey.
A welcome spanner in the unforgiving cogs.
I still frequent the place often in my mind.
I sit in front of the wood stove with a cup of tea, and remember some kind of ancestral, visceral peace that seems to still be in my DNA somewhere. And I know that everything is going to be ok, even if I rest for a moment. Even if I trust my own knowing. Even if I ‘chill,’ as Lumi (3) has now taken to instructing us.
x
Lysette