My Grandma

Grandma could high kick the tea towel off the kitchen door rack while singing knees up Mrs Brown. My Grandma was never grey. Her hair was white and shone like a waving halo around her face. My Grandma smelt fresh, crisp and clean and subtly sweet like the gardenias in her garden. Her skin was soft from the regular use of oil of Ulan. She would claim the pink stuff in the square glass bottle kept her skin well.

I loved the smell of naphalene on the linen which made up our beds; the stored linen from the blanket box. Safe and clean and loved at Grandma’s. At Grandma’s we weren’t those Angers. In Hiedelberg we were the Beuthin grandchildren from the country. We were fed and well dressed and not invisible or unimportant or those Angers.

My Grandma

Juliana Warne

Gympie, Australia

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  • burntblue
  • Juliana Warne
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