Burnt Toast, Vegemite & Honey

Lorna Gwendolyn Bell | My Grandmother

Something happens in life when the people you love the most pass away. An imperceptible shift between what was, what is, and what is still to be.

I’ll never forget the moments the grief hit me. Sometimes little by little, sometimes all at once.

It could be a coffee order in a takeaway cup, because she believed it was never served hot enough in ceramic. It could be the hem of my pants dropping and remembering that I’d need to fix it myself. Or it could be the smell of burnt toast — the tang of smeared Vegemite paired with sweet, creamed honey.

But the one truth that remained constant is this: it hurt.

The memories burned the corners of my eyes when the tears threatened to spill, and that hollow in my stomach grew larger without her worn hands to hold.

It becomes so easy to get caught up in the what ifs, the could have beens, and the it’s not fairs. It’s much harder to sit in grief, acknowledge it for what it is, and then slowly learn to let it go.

It’s been four years since we lost her. Four years since I held her hands and promised her that I would make my life worth living again.

Four years since I shared the words below — each one tripping over the next in my throat. Because even though I’ve never struggled to throw together a word or ten, these felt the heaviest. Deeply meaningful, yet sorrowfully empty and insignificant in the impossible task of summing up a life.

Love. It’s not always the beautiful fairytales, or the people we choose to walk beside us in life. Sometimes, in its purest form, it’s the watery eyes and crinkled smiles we see whenever we close our eyes and wish that things were different.

Four years ago today, my hands shook and my tears fell. These are the words I used to say goodbye.

—-

For those who don’t know me, or don’t recognise me yet, my name is Jordan Auld Mataio, and I am Lornie and Sonny’s granddaughter. The baby one. As I’m sure you’ll hear from my sister and my cousins, we all shared a unique and beautiful relationship with our grandma; this is mine.

I can’t tell you how many times I have sat down to try and write something about Lornie. How many times I’ve put pen to paper and tried to do her justice. But never once have I come close.

So, to start, who was Lornie to me? By way of who she wasn’t:
She wasn’t cruel.
She wasn’t pretentious.
She wasn’t condescending or judgemental.
She wasn’t impatient or easily frustrated.
She wasn’t unfair, unjust, unkind, or unequal.
She wasn’t unsupportive.
And she definitely wasn’t ordinary.

She was:
A baker, a sewer, a musterer, a gardener, a good, humble, genuine country woman.
She was her grandchildren’s greatest supporter and biggest motivator.
She was the silver lining when the storms came around.
She was a helping hand when the world felt lonely.
She was the love she had for her husband.
She was the faith she had in God.
She was the handmade bed for every animal she came across.
She was ‘the old woman.’
She was your favourite recipe that she had ready when she knew you were coming.
She was a comforting piece of honey and vegemite toast.
She was an hour-long conversation on the phone when you rang to ask a simple question.
She was the clearing of her throat in a conversation.
She was the hand hold when there were no words left.
She was never forgetting your birthday and making sure there was always a card in the mail.
She was those sausage rolls. THOSE sausage rolls.
She was a smile and a nod whenever you had a story to tell.
She was ‘it’s perfect, dear,’ when you sewed crooked.
She was ‘I prefer it crunchy anyway,’ when you burnt the pie.
She was spiked aloe vera rubbed on your sunburnt back when you thought you could keep up fencing with Uncle John.
She was a sneaky finger in the condensed milk tin.
She was Wednesday night dinners at Mt Storey, followed by Wednesday night stories.
She was open garden days at Heatherlea and Mt Storey Lane in her later years.
She was a proud member of the CWA.
She was a woman of her church, both in Dulacca and at Glencoe.
She was the gathering of the people, at parties, show jumping reunions, and anniversary parties.
She was, ‘John, let’s go for a look at the gardens.’
She was, ‘The Chinese from the shop up the road is lovely,’ and those cheesy Red Rooster nuggets are so delicious, they must be gourmet.
She was occupying my Friday days off with cooking lessons, shopping trips, and lunches all around Toowoomba.
She was one of my best friends.
And she was the truth and all-powerful knowledge down to my bones that regardless of the paths I could have chosen, I was always loved, I was always believed in, and I was always supported.

If you were lucky enough to sit back and watch this woman love her family, then you witnessed the greatest gift she ever gave. If you didn’t get the privilege, one day just open the Dulacca Cookbook from her drawer, where the front cover will have notes like, “Jordii’s favourite carrot cake, page 9. Mikki’s melting moments (lovely with jam).” Or “Try this one with John.” Lornie put her love into every little thing she did, and no move, no word, no thought was uncalculated or unconsidered.

Lornie, I will treasure these last beautiful years together, particularly these most recent ones where I was adult enough to appreciate every part of you as a person and a woman, not just a grandma.

For the last few weeks, I’ve laid in bed at night trying to think of you. Trying to sum you up in my mind and wrap a nice little bow around your memory and label it as “at rest.”

But the truth is, Lornie, I can’t.

Because you are not just one memory.

You are a thousand tiny ones.

And they live in the places and moments
I find myself missing most.

I miss the way the kitchen smelt like burnt toast from an old toaster that should have been thrown out years ago.
I miss a cup of instant coffee at a table still sticky from that morning’s remnants of honey on toast served at 5am to the men ready to work the land.
I miss the way 9am felt like midday.
And how 4am felt completely normal.
I miss the way I’d always trip on the one stair to the toilet —
the stair that hadn’t always existed.
I miss using the fax machine to photocopy old handwritten recipes that were fraying at the edges.
The words
“good”
or
“Jordii’s favourite”
written in scrawled cursive along the top.
I miss her handwriting.
I miss her phone calls.
I miss her voice.
Her farmer’s wife hands.
Her unwavering, unending, unconditional support.

I miss the way the grass felt between my toes when she would send me outside to feed the dogs.
I miss the way that one tree felt when I climbed it — like it was grown just for me.
I miss the way she’d send me for eggs, and how brave I felt being the only grandchild not afraid to go.
I miss the way the mulberry trees stained my fingers, my toes, my clothes — and how it never angered her. She was just glad we were there.

I miss the way she cleared her throat.
I miss her terrible driving.
I miss that she wasn’t scared of anything… except my grandfather catching her in the yards.

I miss the dinners served on the table.
The plates piled high with fruit and custard and ice cream.
The TV that got no channels.
And not missing the TV at all.

I miss watching Sister Act over and over and over — because it was the only movie there.
I miss the Bobby house.
The endless Enid Blyton books.
The cold room.
Climbing on the roof to watch the sunset.
The cold wooden floors.
The pink bathtub.

I miss spiky aloe vera rubbed into your back because you thought you were tough enough to go fencing.
I miss not being afraid.
I miss knowing she was right there.

I miss coming home to her.

I miss corned meat sandwiches because she knew they were my favourite.
I miss sausage rolls, melting moments, scones, and stealing condensed milk from the tin.

And more than anything —
I miss her.

So while today we lay your body to rest with God, your memory will never need a resting place.

Because you are stitched into every story we tell, every recipe we cook, every garden we plant, and every piece of love we give to one another.

And if I know anything for certain, it’s this:

The world is gentler because you were in it.
And we are better because we were loved by you.

You’ve gotten us this far, Lornie.

So we’ve got it from here.