The peels of laughter from the kitchen threatened to bubble over, incandescent in mirth. But Waru’s voice lifted above it all telling the children their Grandma wanted to see them on the porch. Three kids tumbled out to where Grandma was sitting, in her ancient rocking chair. She told them she couldn’t tell them a story until they were sitting down.

“Tonight,” grandma said, “I will tell you the story of how your mother and father met.” She had a wide grin. 

“Not this one again, mom! —” Waru called from the kitchen. “You told them that story last week!”

“We don’t remember!” the kids said in unison, giggling.

“Well if you don’t remember, I had better tell you” grandma whispered to the kids with a wink.

“This story, like so many others, is about transformation. When one thing changes into another. Transformation is something our people have experience with. Your father’s ancestors have seen their homelands transformed, as have my ancestors. For my ancestors dwelt on the ocean, far far from here. We lived by the water — on the water — eating fish everyday from our coral reefs, and falling asleep to waves crashing on our beach. But the ocean transformed us, when it rose over our beaches, our homes, our land, and our world.”

The children were quiet now, the somber story of grandma’s quieting their laughter.

“And your father’s family has been transformed, too. His ancestor’s dwelt in these deserts, nearly where we are right now, but so much has changed, those same ancestors might not know it as home. Once upon a time, you would need the wisdom of generations to travel safely across this place we now call home, wisdom to find water, to find shade, to find food. But all that has changed.”

“We now live in a new ocean — not with waves of water, nor waves of dust — but one of waves of grass. An ocean of green as far as we can see.” Grandma gestured toward the switchgrass fields.

“Why did things change?” the youngest, Jiemba, asked.

“People, mostly people very far away in North America and Europe, thought they could use up the Earth — and not experience the consequences. Mostly because of them, the oceans rose, the whole world is hotter, and my people found themselves in this place — the place of your father’s ancestors.”

“I remember this part,” said Yindi, the eldest, “the seas rose, and many people from the Pacific Islands had to find new places to live. Some went to other Pacific Islands like Fiji or Samoa. Some went to North America and some went to New Zealand. But most came here. To Australia.” 

“That’s correct, Yindi,” said grandma. Yindi looked proudly at her siblings — who collectively rolled their eyes. “I was among those people who came here. I was a young girl, barely older than your five years, Jiemba. And we came and stayed in camps — enormous camps of too many people, with not enough food, not enough water.”

“But tonight’s story, is not about those times — so I will move past the past. When the government began planting the switchgrass fields, there were more jobs, and that meant more food, more water, and better lives for my people. And through this, we met the local communities — including your father’s community — who shared what they knew about life in this unfamiliar place. We have made it our home.”

“So, now, our story is about a world that is very close to the one you know — fields of switchgrass — oceans of grass — are now spread across the outback. The fields of switchgrass provide a bridge of moisture so that it helps the clouds that come from the Indian ocean in the north to bring rain to the Outback on its way southward. And this story finds your father, a man named Waru, who was working in the switchgrass fields near Jigalong.”

“Now Waru, well, he was an expert at his work. No one was better at managing the switchgrass harvesters, or had better production in the fields he oversaw. If a harvester brokedown in the morning, he could take it apart, rewrite the computer programs, and have it working again before the lunch bell.” The kids smiled hearing about their father’s work.

“Because Waru was so good at his craft, he was assigned to host a visiting delegation —”

“What’s a delegation? I can’t remember that word.” asked Minjarra, the middle child.

Grandma smiled, “Delegation means an important group of people from important places. In this case, the delegation was a group of visitors from outside Australia. Important scientists and politicians from elsewhere. These people were coming to visit the transpiration fields of Jigalong to learn more about the way our people were helping improve and strengthen the moisture flow across our home. This delegation wanted to learn from us, borrow our ideas, and take them back to their homes.”

Waru called through the open window, “Technically, the Indo-Pacific Wind Survey doesn’t implement policy. They’re just a UN monitoring agency —” 

“Thank you son-in-law, that will be all,” said grandma. She turned back to the kids, “When the delegation showed up, and these people from the Indo-Pacific Wind Survey, as your dad called them, wanted to know how the whole switchgrass farm worked. How was transpiration monitored? How did the fields get enough moisture to sustain themselves? Was there irrigation? How did the robotic harvesters work?”

Waru stepped out of the door, and addressed the kids, “Just to jump in here — since it never hurts to learn how this actually works — back when your grandma was a young kid, maybe before she was born, it was discovered that droughts can propagate across big dry areas. This was a major problem in Australia, and it was getting worse with climate change. So, scientists from CSIRO worked with First Nations communities across Western Australia to plan some experiments. The transpiration from the switchgrass fields provided moisture to other places to the south of us. And the plan is to continue planting these fields across the desert to help avoid droughts in the future.”

“Thank you Waru”, grandma said in a patronizing tone. Turning to the children, she said “Is your daddy’s explanation interesting to you all?”

“Noooo,” they said in unison. 

“Do you want me to get back to telling the story about how your mother met your father?”

“Yes!” the kids all sang in unison.

Waru sighed, shaking his head, and went back inside to finish the dishes. 

Grandma continued, “So. Your father is busy impressing this delegation with all the wonderful things he knows. When in the middle of his speech, someone comes running into his field,  chasing a harvester robot. The delegation hushed, looking out at the field.... Your father, embarrassed, runs down into the field to intercept the robot before it tramples all the grass. And as the robot comes to a clattering halt, the robot’s container of fertilizer powder flaps open and spills its contents onto the ground. And that is when your father decides to trip and fall into the fertilizer.”

On cue, the kids all started laughing.

“As your father goes to pick himself up, who is waiting over him, with a hand out?” said grandma.

“Mom!” the kids all said together.

“Yes, your mother,” said grandma, who is laughing now, too, “Your mother, one hand over her mouth, so he can’t see her laughing, used her other hand to help your father stand up. His whole body was covered in a layer of bright green switchgrass fertilizer powder. Then your mom couldn’t help it and she started to laugh even harder, but she tried to help brush him off. Now, your father is ready to get quite angry at this rogue robot, and the careless interruption of his meeting with the delegation. But he is struck silent by this woman in front of him. Dark hair, intelligent eyes. Now — with the sun beating down on Waru — he has started to sweat. It doesn’t help that an interesting woman is standing before him. And so, the sweat mixed with the fertilizer powder to form a mushy, green sticky paste.” 

The kids were laying on their sides, doubled over in laughter now. 

Grandma continued, “Your father quickly excused himself from your mother, making sure the robot could get back to its home field. Then, as he looked back at the woman scooting the robot back to the other fields, he ran back to the delegation. He apologized to the visitors, but they said not to worry about it, and that they appreciated the entertainment.“

“After Waru cleaned up, and exited the company washrooms, he was blocked by a young woman. ‘Ioane’ said your mother. And I think your father, who was so dumbstruck by the person in front of him, that he just repeated “Ioane”, then snapped out of it, and said “Hi, I’m Waru.” Your mother then demanded that Waru join her for dinner — her treat — so that she can properly apologize for the fertilizer paste incident. Waru tried to decline, saying it wasn’t necessary, but Ioane was insistent. So Waru agreed, and they went out on their first of many dates. The rest is history.” Grandma smiled.

At this, the front gate closed, and everyone looked up to see Ioane walking through their small courtyard to the front porch. 

“Hi Mom,” Ioane said to grandma, “Have you been telling them stories again?”

“The Fertilizer Incident,” said Waru, throwing the dish towel over his shoulder, and giving Ioane a big hug. 

“Ah, that one is my favorite,” Ioane said. And in an instant, all the kids had encircled them both in a big hug. 

From inside the hug, Jiemba said “It’s our favorite, too!” 

Grandma laughed, closing her eyes. The warm moist breeze blowing off the fields had picked up some salt from the nearby dry creeks and saltpans. It smelled like home.