- Heirloom Hours journal entry -

Where Stories Were Told

Special memories from the much-loved stool 
that side beside my Nanna's kitchen bench.

"

Some memories stay with us so clearly..  
they almost feel like rooms we can still walk back into.

One of those special rooms was my Nanna's kitchen.

I can still see myself sitting at the end of the kitchen bench, perched on the stool while she cooked or washed the dishes at the sink. I was only a small child when I first sat there, so small that I could not climb onto the stool properly by myself.

There were little steps that Nanna would pull out from underneath, and with her help, I would climb up and settle myself at the top.

It felt like the best seat in the house.

From that stool, I could see everything.

My Nanna's hands moving through the work of the kitchen.

The bench where she prepared food.
The sink beneath the window.
The soft morning light.

And outside, the little garden with the navel orange tree standing proudly in the middle.

That kitchen was full of ordinary things, but to me, nothing about it felt ordinary.
It felt safe, warm, and full of love.

In season, the orange tree felt like part of the kitchen itself.

My Nanna would bring the oranges inside, cut them open, and squeeze them fresh. I can still remember the taste of that juice. Sweet, bright, beautiful, and full of sunshine.

It was not just orange juice. It was homemade orange juice, straight from the tree outside the kitchen window.

.. made by her hands 
.. made in the quiet rhythm of the day

I would sit on the stool and watch her make all sorts of things. Homemade stews. Soups that filled the house with warmth.

Scones that came out of the oven smelling so beautiful that the whole kitchen seemed to pause for them.

.. but it was more than the cooking I remember
.. it was the stories.

"

While she worked, my Nanna would tell me stories.
Stories about her childhood. 
Stories full of details that mattered to her.

Sometimes she told me the same story again and again.

I never minded. I loved it.

There was something comforting about hearing those stories repeat. I knew the shape of them. I knew the turns they would take. I knew the parts where she might laugh, or pause, or remember something she had nearly forgotten.

Each time she told them, it felt as though she was giving me another small piece of her life.

In these moments, it felt warm and precious.
I simply knew that I was happy there.

Happy to sit there.
Happy to listen.
Happy to be near her.

As I grew older, I no longer needed the little steps to climb onto the stool. I could simply lift myself up and sit there at the end of the bench
... just as I always had...

But the feeling never changed.

It was still my place.

The place where I watched, listened, and learned the quiet language of care.

Looking back now, I realise that so much of what I received from my Nanna was not handed to me as a lesson.

It was simply lived in front of me.

The way she cooked.

The way she made room for me beside her.

The way she shared her stories.

The way ordinary moments became something I would remember for the rest of my life.

In life, we often inherit much more
than objects from the people we love.

We inherit gestures.
Recipes.
Phrases.
Small rituals.

Ways of making people feel welcome...

Ways of turning an ordinary afternoon into a memory...

My Nanna gave me many things.

But one of the gifts I cherish most
is the memory of sitting beside her,
watching her hands move through the work of the day,
and listening to stories I never grew tired of hearing.

Even now, I can still see it..
the stool by the bench,
the morning light at the window,
my Nanna's hands at work,
and me beside her, listening... 

 Ï