Still in her sleeping gown under a silky floor-length floral robe, short silvery curled hair still undone. Rae, a welcoming Australian in her mid 60’s was standing behind a counter stood in the midst of a small country kitchen, busy making a healthy breakfast I would certainly have in my twenty-eight years of existence. She was making a fruit salad topped with yogurt. She peeled a banana and cut it in bite slices, which she did exactly to other three tropical fruits laying on the table. Back home, I normally had fruit salad with calorie-rich milk only after meal, its called dessert. Though eating dessert as breakfast, and nothing else but main course, was unusual, I nibbled it, swallowed it, and the most interesting was, I felt stuffed. “Not a bad way to shed some pounds!” I said to myself.
It was summer in Australia when I went two years ago. I was invited by a friend, a former classmate, who offered a free board and lodging. Without much persuasion and no more thinking twice, I packed my things and bought a ticket. There I met an old lady who became good acquaintance and invited me to stay to her house for a couple of days which extended to a couple more.
We sat around a maple-colored wooden table in the back porch while having tea (very Aussie, I thought). We exchanged delightful chats like places she and her husband visited, places they still ought to visit, her country, my country, which she pronounced the last syllable as “pine” like pine tree. I didn’t make a fuss out of it nor did I bother to correct her. Coming from her seemed like there was nothing wrong. Maybe because I was fascinated by her accent, or maybe hearing it from a foreign lip sounded sweeter than any fruit dessert. It makes me smile writing about it now. It was a simple phonetic flaw which reminded me of two diverse cultures that once converged over a cup of tea.
She excused herself for seconds, and came back with an atlas which she laid open on the table. She told me she and her husband had been to Vietnam, China and other Asian countries, but not yet to Philippine. She leaned forward on the table, and the world became flat and equal under our noses. It took only an imagination to be in one continent to another. I pointed Luzon and said “I live somewhere here, the place is called Cavite”. Then she asked if there are nice beaches in the Philippines. My fingers moved down to Visayas, and said “Boracay is a famous white sand beach among tourists and locals alike, but the best surfing point is in Siargao”, my index finger encircled Mindanao as if we just made a round trip of the island.
Her whole family enjoys water activity – canoeing, swimming, rowing, kayaking, surfing – name it, and they all good at it. Roy, Rae’s husband, still joins competition and still winning. Once, she showed me a picture of the competition where Roy and his partner were paddling immensely for the win. “I will put this on frame”, she said, her eyes filled with glint of amazement and pride. After many years of being together I could tell she is still charmed with her old man’s undying appeal. She animatedly walked me through her other photo album collection. Each page was brightened up with stories, from her black and white wedding picture to the birth of four wonderful children up to her six grandchildren. She introduced them one by one, who smiled back at me on the pages.
Every afternoon at exactly 5 o’clock, Rae and I would walk down to Copacabana Beach (10 minutes walk from her house/90mins drive from Sydney) where her husband was (and still is) a volunteer life saver. It became our afternoon routine. She would take Tiger (half Jack Russell and half Terrier) on leash and she would let me hold it until we reached a rock platform very close to the beach. I was amazed that at her age she still managed a very balance gait, stepping from rock to rock. She endured a long walk going down and up on a ladder brimful of sand (maybe that’s what healthy salad breakfast does). We strode through the heart of the rocky side of the beach. There I unleashed Tiger and Rae would throw a piece of stick for the little dog to catch. We chose to settle on a particularly smooth giant rock, offering a steady and safe hold not to mention giving our arse a bit of comfort as my bare feet dipped into salt water. There she told me about her tales of Fiji Island, where she was born, and where she learned to cook Fiji curry. She moved to Sydney, dreaming of a better life, and worked in a bank, where she met her husband. Now, both retired and living on annuity, they enjoyed the luxury of travelling from time to time. She also related to me how she used to take her grandchildren to the exact place we were sitting.
“When they were much younger, I always take them here to play, hop from rock to rock and catch sea shells” she rekindled.
“When they get tired they will gather up and sit still. They will stop whatever they’re doing and drop whatever they’re holding the moment they hear me say...One day, Nana Rae ....”, she uninterruptedly continues.
When my mother told me my grandmother died before I was born, my imagination of sitting upon knees of a bespectacled, grey-haired on a rocking chair died that instant. Since then, I only hear stories from book of “Lola Basyang” who could make prince, princess, dwarf, mermaid, and other mythical creature so real they even crept to my bedside. Listening to Rae felt like I was transported back to my childhood. However, she told me real and not made up stories with an Australian lilt that could put a little child to sleep.
Sun was still up at 6 o’clock as days were longer during summer plus daylight saving time was being applied. We decided to go back and as we walked I asked her how she managed not to feel bored in her retired days. “You have to find something to do when you reach 60 (and never ran out of it)”, she said. Later, I learned that she also writes stories for her grandchildren, concocts her own recipe, restores old picture by scrap booking, walks Tiger every afternoon, plants basil and rosemary in her garden and many other activities that a lola still manage to do.
Rae made many beautiful things out of her bony and wrinkled hands. Once home, she showed me a cushion that has a flower design neatly embroidered in the center. I automatically picked it up and ran my fingers on its knots and stitches. I got so thrilled “I have lots of cross-stitch projects but I never tried my hands on embroidery”, I said, my eyes round with excitement.
It surprised me when she brought me to Lindy’s handicraft store the next day. She bought me my own set of material and taught me how to make my first colonial knot, trellis and stem stitch the moment we got home. While engrossed to my new learned skill, she was starting a large quilt for the kids of Ronald McDonald’s House. “This should be finish by winter”, she said while trying to put thread on a needle.
I looked at her, I thought that she might be a bit tired, although she seemed like she didn’t want to rest. I asked her if she wants a cup of tea, it’s the only way I could think of to repay her generosity. She smiled as if saying “you’re my guest let me make you a cup of tea”, but said “yes please”, instead.
Quietly, while having tea and doing our own pieces of art, I glanced at her and felt how lucky I am to be at that moment. It was a wonderful experience of kindness and sincere human relation which crossed beyond nationality, language, or culture. Our brief connection weaved its own story and meaning. It was as if I am stitching the best memento of my life with a lola I never had.
Two years past, there’s no inkling that we will see each other again (well, who knows?), but her tales will be remembered, her memories, stitched to my heart.
