MARCH 18 2011: Day no 77 : My nana opens windows. Weaving songs. And gently tells. Real myths. Ali Cobby Eckermann.




Sun shining and warm. Yesterday’s storms have passed and I am going out into the Bush for the Day.

I have done some of the Googling for you re ALI COBBY ECKERMAN


There doesn’t seem to be much there for such a Poet.

For me today, its these few lines I am interested in.

My nana opens windows.

Weaving songs.

And gently tells.

Real myths.

Ali Cobby Eckermann.

I am thinking of Nanas and Myth Tellers. I have Nana tattooed on my left ankle. I had it done in South Grafton for my 60th Birthday. One for my membership of NA and one for my Nana position in life today. 

My own mother talked a lot. They called her Nan. She talked and talked and I am told that the last thing she said before they intubated her into a coma before she died, was “TELL EVERYONE “. At periods of my life, I found it difficult to listen to her circuitous tales and would sometimes put the phone down on the table and attend to something else while she was speaking and then come back and insert appropriate comments.  Then, a friend told me how lucky I was to have a StoryTeller as Mother. From then on, I listened differently to her. Nowadays, I try to recall all the old stories she passed on to me.

TELL EVERYONE – she said. She loved People and loved to have a huge network of contacts. She had all the dates of significance recorded in her books and photographs of all manner of people. And their babies. And the babies of the babies.

Her mother was a Nanna. Nanna Bell. I have a picture of her at Currumbin Wildlife Sanctuary and she has a lorikeet sitting on her head. She too me to see Pollyanna at the movies in ‘Town” when I was little. We went in a cab and something crashed into it. She also took me to the Manchester Unity Health Fund. I don’t know why that has impressed me even more than Pollyanna, but it has.

I would like to be able to hear the Myths again and ask for more but time betrays me on that.


My nana opens windows.


Weaving songs.


And gently tells.

nana saf wc

Real myths.


It’s the real myths that are shimmering around me these days.  The ones they told me had more layers to them than I have seen before. Old Auntie Flora and her herbalism. The family that came from the Tweed. Uncle Jim and his patched shirt. The Bell Boys and their fishing boats. Granny Bell and her bush nursing. Arriving at an accident not long after it had happened or at a birth she hadn’t been called out to. Grandmother Julia standing at a window in the middle of the night, seeing and hearing things the others didn’t. She died a little younger than she should have done. So they tell me.

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