Dear Mum,


(and now I’m going to have to give you this blog address, – was going to wait till it was set up properly, but what the hell, we’re all a work in progress…)

I’m doing a blog writing course (yes dear? I hear you say, while privately you are thinking Oh heavens, what’s that and what now?) and for my fourth assignment I’ve been asked to write to my ideal reader.  I’ve picked you.  Not because you’re not critical but because you love me anyway.

We’ve had our moments, you and I, as mothers and daughters do.  I’m even now too ashamed to think much about some of the trials I’ve put you through over the years, and I certainly don’t feel the need to give details in a forum like this (what was that you used to say about washing dirty linen in public?)  Instead, I’d like to say thank you.  I don’t know a fraction of your griefs and joys (and your pile of diaries is too overwhelming to even contemplate, – though with your blessing I will make the time eventually), but here are a few memories of pure gold.

Do you know, that every time I climb a mountain or go on a scary trip I carry Miss Kellaway’s silk scarf that you passed on to me, the one that came from India, the one I had wrapped around my neck when we were trudging through the snow on the Cradle Mountain – Lake St. Clair track in Tasmania?  You were 70, I was around half your age and we were not prepared for the change in the weather (it was only that morning we were on top of Mt. Ossa in 30°C).  You were  walking ahead of me, and I kept slipping over on the icy boardwalk, flat on my backpack.  You knew that you just had to keep going, so you did, (so I had to stop falling over and catch up) and we were almost hyperthermic, chilled through to the core by the time we got to the next hut.  And when we finally managed to get out of our wet clothes and warm up, there was a little wallaby with snow all over his fur outside the window.  Nearly all of the other hikers were Europeans (with proper coats) for whom snow was not such an unusual, magical occurrence, (although a wallaby covered in the stuff must have been, surely!) and soon went back to their dinners.  We shared some moments of enchantment, – and gave thanks for being alive.  I have since discovered Gortex and the scarf is shredded and raggy now but I wear it anyway.  It’s my talisman, it reminds me of your strength, and also, quite illogically, I feel as if I am sharing my journey with you.  (It is also soft and comforting; good for wiping off sweat, keeping out drafts, and covering grotty pillows).  I still really enjoy travelling with you.

Do you know that another of the many gifts you’ve passed on to me is a love of nature?  Do you know that I don’t have to be told to stop and smell the roses, because you showed me by example, hundreds of times? I can’t pass them without pausing for a sniff, and a marvel at their velvet petals. Do you know that I still joyfully hug a tree if the mood takes me?  It’s thanks to you I’m at peace in the bush, on the sea, in the outback: you taught me our world is there to be loved, not feared. Do you know that I turn my face up to drink in the rain and push forward with a smile against the wind? Once, riding my bicycle in Kuwait, dodging cars and racing across patches of desert in wild and woolly weather on my way to work,  I remember reflecting, (with a maniacal grin on my face) that you were probably the only person I know who would also appreciate that particular moment.

I could be wrong of course.  We are still a mystery to each other in so many ways. How did you grow from a little bush urchin who left school at 14 into a teacher of literacy, – who finished high school and learnt to drive a car at age 50? Who pitched a tent in the most far-flung parts of your own country as well as major forays into South-East Asia, India and China, crossing Russia by train, and seeing the midnight sun in Scandinavia. Could you ever have imagined such a future?

I’ve missed big parts of your life, but truly admire the bits I know about.  Growing up as the youngest of 10, walking the 3 miles home from school and having bread and dripping in the bark kitchen, meeting Dad over the wires while you were both telephonists (you must’ve been the earliest network daters, – finally meeting face-to-face under the Flinders St. clocks, the height of romance!), catching a ship to England with your girlfriends, working there under the bridge, hitchhiking around Europe and cycling  with your little Aussie flags on the back of your bikes, writing your journals and sending rolls of film home to Dad to develop.  He eventually married you; you were worth the wait.

Then came running the shop, children and miscarriages, raising a family, working for charities, teaching people who were new new to Australia or who had fallen through the cracks in the eduction system, singing in a choir and entertaining the old people in nursing homes, taking us on holidays, making our clothes and bread, growing the flowers in-between Dad’s veggies, filling the house with books and newspapers and music and the smells of flowers and home cooking, making sure we were schooled and had sports and religion and could swim and play a musical instrument and write a thank-you letter and be kind to other people.  Thank you for letting us play, and grow up in our own sweet time.  For our pets, for learning to understand loyalty and loss. For looking after Nanna and the odd uncles and cousins and for making sure we knew them; for keeping up the contacts with our extended family.

Thank you for the tin that is still always full of Munchies and for the toast in bed when I was sick.  For teaching me to sew a dress and for finishing it for me.  For showing me how to knit a scarf and crochet a square and bake shortbread and make a compost heap and save string and rubber-bands and newspaper, and make jam, and wash out plastic bags, and cover tins with magazine pictures. To turn on the TV only when there was something worth watching and to turn it off when people are talking.  Thank you for providing a home that welcomed our friends, and still does, for the doors that are always open.

Thank you for mowing the lawn and chopping wood and changing the light globes and painting the walls and paying the bills and doing all the stuff that Dad used to do.  And for your courage, for continuing to fill your life after losing your mate.  Thank you both for staying together for all that time, and providing the sense of security and stability that has enabled me to be independent, and to travel.  For supporting me in whatever I do, whether you understand it or agree with it or not.  Thank you for not making me feel guilty for being always away or for not having babies.  For wishing me well when I leave and being happy to see me back. Thank you for staying healthy, for keeping fit and exercising your mind.  For nurturing friendships and making new friends, even as you continue to lose old ones.  For being more and more of a friend to me as the years go by.

For being my Mum.

You are awesome beyond words.

From your very lucky daughter,

With love.

18 thoughts on “Dear Mum,

  1. That’s a heart touching one ! I wish everyone feels this way and be as lucky and sweet a daughter as you are 🙂
    You might like ‘Krishna, my Friend’ in my blog. It’s a fiction of contrasting idea though…a tad bit old post, so scroll down a little, if you get time to visit my blog anyway.
    Take care…

  2. This is so beautiful that it made me cry. Mothers deserve thoughtful thanks like this – it’s about time I wrote to mine! What is so touching about this is that it is so personal and individual and yet I think so many mothers and daughters will recognise the universal threads within it. Your writing is stunning – all power to your new project.

    • Thanks Adix! I think the other comment ended up on a different part of the blog, – I still got it. You’re brilliant at saying things in words, I feel more comfortable writing them. I remember at Mum’s 80th you gave a really lovely speech – and I agreed so much with you that we shouldn’t wait till funerals to say how much we appreciate our loved ones, – but I couldn’t make any words of my own come out. I suppose this is a catch-up, – so glad it’s not too late. x

  3. HI Sandy. What love you express in “Dear Mum”. It truly reveals who you are, like the expression “Like Mother, Like Daughter” I follow your blog with delight.
    Really, the youngest of 10!

    • Oh thank you so much. Yes, youngest of ten and the only one left 😦 so lonely in some ways. I’m glad you are following, (I am also a fan of your 60!) – I must write some more, but have not yet found a dedicated time each day. It tends to get pushed down the list of priorities, – a situation I must change. Any hints?

      • I set aside 30 minutes each day to read. Sometimes it’s early morning or just before bed, but I try to squeeze it in there. Blogging is addicting, you always want to see what is around the corner, who’s done what or said something. I’m trying to apply the same plan to blogging. After supper when everything is done instead of watching TV

  4. Sandra, how did you remember those parts of my life which I had almost forgotten.Glad I am still around for you;your writing is great.

  5. Wow! what an amazing woman your mum is. I hope my daughter will say such things about me one day. Gortex is a most wonderful invention. I can cope with all kinds of weather if I am warm and reasonably dry.

    • Yes, Mum’s grand, – and luckily she’s lived long enough for me to get to know her better. The mother/daughter connection is not always smooth sailing, for either 🙂 I want her to know that she is truly loved and appreciated (if she’s in any doubt). Gortex is also light,- so important when you have to carry everything on your back.

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