My maternal grandmother would have been 95 today. Her name was Ranka, meaning dawn, or early in the morning, in Serbian.

Looking out into the ocean this morning, I wondered how she would’ve felt, on the ship all those decades ago, floating her way across the seas to a new life in a new land.

After the second world war, my grandfather, Bogdan, who had already arrived and was working in various infrastructure projects including the South Australian railway, wrote home seeking a wife. Ranka assented and arrangements were made for her passage. The deal was, if she didn’t like him, she had the option of returning home. But stayed she did, and willingly.

Bogdan and Ranka grew up within cooee of each other in a verdant village, nestled in a valley of mountains where wolves and bears dwell in thick forests of oak. He was a few years older and they knew of each other, from community gatherings as well as school.

Imagining them as adolescents destined to be together sets off a touch of frisson. These youngsters, yet innocent of the horrors that humans could germinate and abide, would in a handful of years end up marrying in a small newly built Orthodox church in Flemington, Sydney in a country so very far away; there was no promise of ever returning, and indeed, neither of them did. The courage of that undertaking on Ranka’s part impresses me no end.

Ranka was a take-no-prisoners type of woman. What she thought, she said. Always straight-up, there was never any doubt of her opinions, and if you’d put on a few kilos, she’d tell you so in her opening line.

Never was there a harder worker nor a more capable and multi-skilled individual. Her mother died when she was 5 years old, throwing into tumult the harbour of childhood more quickly than for most. Her food was the most delicious, her table the most laden, her pantry the fullest. Abundant sums her up in a word. And love, fierce and loyal.

She had fixed ideas of woman’s role, and I wonder how she’d have accepted my lack of interest in being married and having children. She died when I had just turned 20. I’m sure she’d have been vocal about it, and doggedly committed to finding me a husband, keen for me to produce great-grandchildren for her. It’d have been a constant topic of conversation and arguments, no doubt. Would I have let that cause a rift between us? No, I don’t think so. I’d have been eager to feel her loving embrace and brush her thick strong hair, reaching down to her waist at times, and inhale the aroma of her, and cook and laugh with her, enjoy her wicked sense of humour. She got me onto ‘The Golden Girls’, how she loved that show; she recognised a kindred spirit in Sophia, having just as much chutzpah herself.

Although she’s been gone now for more of my life than she was in it, I’m glad to remember her and smile, and feel the strength in her soft hands that kneaded a thousand loaves of bread, killed, feathered and dressed a thousand chickens for her renowned and life-affirming soup (and prepared those feathers for the inside of her toasty warm heavy doonas and comfy pillows – nothing went to waste), feel the safety of sleeping in her home – in her presence, there was always safety and protection – and see the mischievous light in her eyes and the lifting of the corners of her mouth.

In her, womanhood was towering strength, loving care of kin and strangers alike, and fitting more tasks into a 24-hour period than seems possible, all completed to an exemplary standard. What good strong shoulders to stand on. Happy birthday, Baba.