Desert father

My grandfather visited with me yesterday. He died 25 years ago.

My medium friend, who was connecting with him, described images to me of my grandfather in his Akubra hat driving way way out past the last gas station into the desert. Yes, I confirmed, he travelled from the Eastern Goldfields out into the desert; it was the Great Victoria Desert - a desert bordered by other deserts. My grandfather loved the desert and sleeping under the stars.

He was a member of parliament in the 50s and 60s and during that time, part of his constituency was Ernabella Mission. This mission was not, in fact, part of the push to exterminate the Aboriginal people. At a time when most white people thought of the First Australians as animals to be exterminated, my grandfather loved and respected and learned from his Aboriginal friends. Even as a Christian pastor, he understood God as nature and told me the songlines his Aboriginal friends had told him.

One year, an Aboriginal man, who became known as Toby, walked out of the desert and to the Mission. There was a long long drought happening and Toby’s people needed water. He’d come for help. My grandfather and another man loaded up a ute with 40-gallon drums of water and followed Toby back into the desert, dropping the drums along the way. Toby’s clan then walked back out.

My Medium friend also told me that my grandfather in spirit was sharing an image of him dropping little rocks in my backpack! Yes, I confirmed, my grandfather collected small rocks from his desert wanderings all over the country, mounted them, labelled them, and taught me all about them. He then gave me his collection.

My grandfather, John Michael Adrenne Cunningham

As I graduated high school, I thought I might become a geologist, and later I imagined that with my Australian law degree I would get a job negotiating agreements between the white man and the traditional land owners that my '“poppa” respected so much. But I was actively discouraged by most of the remainder of the family from choosing such a life; a life in the desert wasn’t appropriate for a nice little white girl.

As my grandfather aged, he suffered from Alzheimer’s. For nearly a decade, I watched him decline into a nonverbal state; his body shaking and shivering as it wasted away. In the beginning I was confused and angry and scared and avoided him, but in the later years, I’d settle myself next to his wheelchair and just stay there until I felt him calm down. Then I’d be able to look into his eyes and share love with his spirit. He always had a nice clean soapy smell. He was well looked after.

He died when I was in my early 20s. He asked for me at the end and the Christian Minster and I would trade off - the minister performing last rites and me just sort of meditating and connecting silently (this was before I had any mediumship training). I spoke at his funeral and barely got through it for the tears. My family exclaimed, “Stephanie really loved Poppa!”.

Yes, I did love Poppa. He gently connected me to the red dirt. And here he was, my Poppa, communicating with me through my Medium friend, and asking me to remember him in the happy times, before I was even born, when he had that “peaceful, easy feeling” and watched the moon rise over the desert horizon. I felt such warmth and such a connection to my homeland and my family lineage in that moment, and I’ve been enjoying it all day.