Warrnambool, September 2021

It’s Thursday January 16, 2025, the second anniversary of Mum’s passing, and this morning I woke with Ed Shereen’s Castle On The Hill on auto-repeat; In my mind, in that strange semi-conscious state between sleep and wake, this world and the next.

Mum reaches out, takes my hand, pulls me back to September 2021. I know I’m dreaming because that’s something Mum never would have done.

Mum was a practical woman. She expressed her love through deeds. Tender words and demonstrative affection weren’t her strong suit. Particularly at home.

As my brother said at her funeral:

“Mum and Dad formed a strong partnership and supported each other on the farm, through the ups and downs of farming and life in general.  You often saw her on the back of the spud planter, helping to bucket feed orphaned calves or doing other farming jobs.  Mum was always a hard worker and was well known for it.  Her reserves of energy often appeared to be endless.”

My brother’s words nailed her salt of the earth approach.

An approach she carried with her through Covid.

When regional Victorians (with the exception of Greater Shepparton which was still managing a serious Covid outbreak) were given the freedom to travel from country town to country town, circumnavigating the ring of steel separating us from our less fortunate Melbourne cousins, I planned a break away.

With an immeasurable sense of relief, tinged with regret for those trapped in metro Melbourne, I drove my twin daughters to my parents’ farm outside Daylesford to pick Mum up for a girls’ road trip to Warrnambool.

Mum was so happy to be able to spend some quality time with us.

Something unlocked inside Mum with the arrival of her first grandchild.

She was able to communicate a love language previously unseen.

An otherwise elusive stream of affection, coupled with hands-on support that never wavered, no matter how tough things got.

On the home front Mum loved her five grandchildren, as she loved her garden.

She fed and watered each new addition, whenever she could.

She individually watched them grow.

Now my children were teens it was my turn to whisk Mum away from the nightmare that was Covid to breathe in the salty, sea air.

The soundtrack to that trip was Ed Sheeran’s aptly named Divide CD.

As we motored around the divide between city and country the girls and I sang at the top of our lungs…

“I’m on my way

Drivin’ at ninety down those country lanes

Singin’ to Tiny Dancer…”

For five blissful days we followed wild south-western coastal winds wherever they blew.

No plans.

No restrictions.

Freedom.

Pure and simple.

Windy Warrnambool was a slice of heaven on earth.

In Mum, I saw seldom seen, genuine unbridled joy.

My heart swelled with happiness watching the girls spread their wings as they flew from sand to sea.

From one micro trip to the next, Ed Sheeran was the soundtrack to our special seaside escape.

Ed played on as we travelled home.

We were about halfway home when I suddenly heard a different tone chip in.

It was Mum, “… down those country lanes, singin’ to Tiny Dancer…”

Something clicked.

I smiled.

I listened.

Content.

Then came a question, “Who is this? It’s good music”.

“Ed Sheeran,” three of us answered in unison.

“Yes, it’s the best.,” I added. “Love you, Mum.”

Silence.

I wait.

“I said I love you, Mum”

Silence.

I wait.

“I said I love you, Mum. Why can’t you just say it? You say it to the grandkids all the time!”

Nothing.

Silence.

A long shadow cast over our trip to windy Warrnambool.

Those wild westerly winds have a way of messing with us.

The girls were silent the rest of the trip.

I dropped Mum off at the farm pretty much in dead silence.

As always, time passed, and things went back to the normal run of events at home.

Mum’s endless reserves of energy and chirpy demeanour around about town also, doubtless, returned.

It wasn’t until about a week before Mum died that she answered “I love you” with “I love you too.”

Then, “I love you, I love you, I love you…,” a million times over until breath was too hard to muster.

I understand she always did.

Love us, that is.

She loved those grandkids because she loved us.

Death breaks the great divide.

 

Stereo Story 831

Kate’s debut children’s book, ‘Grumps and the green fishing rod’, will be published later this year.

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Kate Foulds is a Central Victorian short fiction/memoir writer who grew up on the family farm in Musk. She completed a post-graduate journalism cadetship at Kyneton’s Midland Express and cultivated her craft at The Bendigo Advertiser. ‘Grandma’s gift’ was published in Mother – Memories, Moments & Stories, as part of the 2020 Bendigo Writers Festival Programme. ‘Acorn’ was shortlisted in the inaugural Minds Shine Bright writing competition and was published in the 2022 Confidence anthology. Kate’s debut children’s book, 'Grumps and the green fishing rod', will be published in May.