Botanica Dreaming | Christmas Eve
The table was set for four. Aunt Ruby, Mum, Dad and me. It would seem that Tilda wasn’t going to be here tonight. Her absence took up more space than her presence, if that was possible. Rick and Peter and their rowdy rumble tumble families will be here tomorrow for the wind-down, thank goodness this is almost over, Christmas barbeque where everyone breathes a sigh of relief and no one really feels like eating. It has been this way for a few years - the boys get busy with their in-laws and rush helter-skelter up and down the highway before seeking refuge here where the kids don’t have to be on their best behavior. And don’t they just love it, running amok outside, somersaulting across the lawn and wading in the creek catching tadpoles? Their favorite game is one they inherited from us - pretending they’re pirates guarding the Bridge to Tiperiel, the make-believe world on the other side of the creek. Oh the fights we had about what to call that magical land. I can hear us now – yelling and jumping up and down, sooking and sighing at the unfairness of it all. Eventually we decided to put together the first two letters of all our names and came up with Tiperiel. Tilda, Peter, Rick and Elizabeth. Of course, each of us wanted our name to be first because it felt like that person had a greater right to rule. Tilda won.
Aunt Ruby had sent Dad to the shed to rustle up the old cricket set and asked him to clean the barbeque so it was ready for tomorrow. Now she was busy trying to give Mum meaningful jobs to do. Top and tailing beans or stirring the gravy are hazardous tasks for Mum these days. “How about popping the bonbons out on the table Maidie? That’s right, there, next to the napkins. Yes, aren’t the hydrangeas beautiful this year?” The little squat crystal vase brimming with fat lacey blue and pink hydrangea flowers sat plum in the middle of the table. “It must be going to be a hot summer this year, they flowered very early”. The good silver, no longer shiny but brushed and pale with time, lay expectantly on the crisp linen tablecloth. The scalloped edged plates with their pale red and yellow floral pattern sat waiting to receive. I wondered halfheartedly about how many people still have two sets of tableware, one for everyday and one for special occasions?
My mind drifts off, back to days of childhood when time existed in another dimension and everyday lasted forever. I remember watching Tilda plonk herself on the floor in front of the sideboard on rainy days. Sitting on her bottom with her legs bent backwards at the knees and splayed out behind her in that way that only small children can do, she would reach into the back of the cupboard and carefully withdraw the precious cardboard packages that held their treasure neatly partitioned inside. She laid the boxes side-by-side according to size before opening each in wonder. The silver gleamed in those days, polished to within an inch of its life, the ivory knife handles creamy white and unblemished. She looked at them for hours, slowly turning, caressing their smooth, cool surface. Strange, thinking about it now. I wonder if it was right to let a child play with cutlery? I can’t imagine it happening these days. It was different then though. Life was different. Sunday roasts, teapots and tea cosies. I remember putting them on our heads, wearing them like wooly hats with our ears sticking through the holes. And then there were the sugar cubes in the silver tea set that sat on the side table. I am sure Grandma didn’t know that we would stuff our pockets full of them as we ran outside to play. Or more likely she did and that was part of the game.
Mum clattering the cutlery together breaks my reverie. The sudden noise brings me back to here, away from there. Funny how we can time travel and not be aware of it. She was not happy with the way the napkins were folded and wanted to reset the places. “Can I help Mum?” I ask, knowing what the answer will be. “No, it’s fine dear. I’m okay. Tell me though, what have you been doing? How’s work?” she asks as she fusses with different folds, not quite remembering how she used to make the Christmas ones. She looks flustered; her brow furrowed in concentration, her fingers fumbling with the linen. Tilda would have known what to do, how to help without making Mum feel silly. She would also have known how to help Aunt Ruby who was twirling from stove to bench to fridge and back again like a whirlwind. As gentle and kind as Aunt Ruby was, she was a force to be reckoned with when she cooked, especially at Christmas time and I felt much safer staying on this side of the bench.
I watched Mum slowly win the war with the napkins. In my minds eye I see her bustling around the old kitchen up at the big house. How did she manifest a delicious dinner from next-to-nothing, prepare lunches, sign school excursion forms, save scraps for the chooks, listen to spelling words and feed the cat while calmly answering our incessant questions and making sure we finished our homework to her satisfaction before going outside to play?
When, I wonder, did she grow old? When did those lines begin to track around her eyes? How long have they been part of her landscape, etched into existence by years of work and worry and love? They are lines connected to her heart, born through smiles and tears, laughter and pain. Lines of life. Lifelines. I consider telling her about my work. I want to tell her, want her to understand my life, to know me; to know what I am passionate about, what makes me smile and my heart sing, what hurts me and makes me cry. But sometimes, often, it feels too hard. When did she stop knowing me? Or do I only think she doesn’t know me? Do I know me? Do I know her? Who is she beyond being my mother? Here I am having an existential argument in my head when I should be helping her with the blasted napkins. I figure there is no point in even going there. The heart of the matter, the juicy stuff, kind of gets lost in translation. The detail is lost on her; she’s so vague and forgetful that there’s really no point. I tell her something and she doesn’t even hear what I have said.
My impatience and meanness sits hot and sharp and tight in my chest, closing me off to this peaceful place that I dream about when life gets too hard; shutting me down to the kindness and love that surrounds me. I sigh deeply and close my eyes. Here I go again. Why do I have to make it about me all the time? This is dear Mum, and it’s Christmas. I thought I had decided to leave my oversized baggage behind in the city this time. Seems it’s easier said than done. Come on. Take another deep breath. Breathe in. Further, further. Hold it. Stay with it. Release. Exhale until there is nothing left. I place my hand on my belly and breathe again, deep into my centre. Stay. Stay and then release. As my lungs empty I feel the chair, cool and firm beneath my legs. On my next breath in I smell the rich aroma of the roast dinner and it sears itself into my memory. The tightness in my chest begins to ease. I hear the crickets chirruping outside, their evening song loud and persistent, caroling in harmony with the frogs in Piccaninny Creek. Breathe. The heat in my heart begins to waver at the edges, cooling and leaking into my limbs until they are soft and relaxed. The warm zephyr wind rustles through the willow fronds leading them in a twilight dance. I feel my heart rate slowing. The half-light is expectant, weighted with children’s dreams and adult hopes for a well-earned summer break. The magic of the holidays and promises of a lazy, hazy hot summer hover in the air. Christmas. A time when we all take a collective deep breath and stay, even for just a moment before sighing in repose. Christmas: a breath between the years. A time of celebration, tradition, reflection, remembrance, lament, forgiveness, reconciliation. Or not. As the plates accept the bounty, I ground myself in the present, in this moment in time. I forgive myself for my humanness, and give thanks for this place of comfort and nurture, for the peace and shelter it offers from my harried, hurried life. I give thanks for the gift of today and for those with whom I share this meal. And I miss her more than I can say.
Words: Katrin Oliver - Yarra Valley Author
Photography:
Botanica Dreaming
Katrin Oliver brings the spirit of Botanica Editions: The Willow House to life through the Story of Telling and a series of bedtime stories, as she shares the subtleties of this land and place in the Yarra Valley.
