Abstract

This is the story of a woman, now long dead and almost forgotten, but for a crumbling gravesite overlooking the ocean at Bronte in Sydney and some small acts of remembrance that functioned to restore her voice ever so partially. The hint of her voice allowed genealogical traces to emerge and help heal the wounds of not only the individual family genealogy to which this woman was almost lost but also for the monumental primordial forgetting of women. The story of this woman whose life seems exceptionally different from my own, whom I never met, is re-told a hundred years after she lived and breathed, to heal deep ancestral wounds and give voice to the struggles of the living and in particular to us—their grand-daughters.