'Maybe you're just not tanned because you've never tried to tan,' she said to me as we bounced along in the bus towards Henley Beach, circa summer 2004, the air conditioning struggling against the 39 degree heat that lashed against the windows.
'Maybe...' I mused, slathering myself in the standard inch-thick layer of SPF30+ waterproof sunscreen that had been a beach companion since before I was a foeutus. I'd only recently escaped the knee-to-neck sun suits that zipped up in the middle and came in invasive fluroescent colours (my sister and I had matching ones, of course). I was the kid who wore a hat when she went swimming - not a cool bucket hat either, with the tidy little brim, but the broad-brimmed cricket-player equivelant hats, which, combined with the coating of zinc smeared across my nose and lips, was all I needed to be a serious contender for the Australian cricket team. I've had freckles since before I could walk, known what melanoma was before I could talk. Growing up on the Eyre Peninsula means I've always loved the beach; it's just sad that the beach has never loved me in quite the same way.
'I'm sure it's that,' she said. 'You just have to turn over ever 20 minutes and you won't get burnt. Trust me.'
I eyed her dubiously, her dark olive skin bearing apparent evidence of her foolproof suntanning theory. I wish I'd been able to fast-forward to the moment where I would be standing in front of my bathroom mirror, the whites of my eyes glowing extra white because my face was so red, skin so tight it felt like it was about to split open, radiating positively purple heat with blisters quickly forming on my back.
We trekked down onto the hot sand, hurtling towards the shallow tide pools that had been left there overnight. It was the middle of the day, the sun high in the sky. We'd commented on how deliciously deserted the beach was (at 1pm on a 39-degree day, how funny!) and threw down our towels in the middle of the sand, making tracks towards the water.
After a lengthy hour bobbing around in the shallows, making sure all of my sunscreen had completely evaporated from my poor desperately-seeking-protection skin, we basked in the shallow pools of water - 'just to warm up.' I'm surprised that my memory didn't jog the last time I had lain in the sun 'just to warm up' - Dad had taken us to Victor, sans Mum - aka the inflictor of the sun suits, reapplication of sunscreen every half hour and hats so big you could make a parachute out of them - and let us take off our sun tops for twenty minutes after we'd been in the water. My eyes still water at the memory of the sting of the sunburn on my calves, my back, the not-so-gentle slap of moisturiser that had been furiously rubbed into my poor cooked skin.
We crept back onto the concrete after lying in the sun for a substantial 2-hours. We were both flushed and pink; utterly dehydrated from the salt and the fact no water had passed our lips since the moment we'd schlepped across Henley Square from the bus stop. Everything was too bright and loud, the subsiding heat brought white spots in front of my eyes.
Because of the ways of the world, and the variables that always seem to stack up in the wrong direction, the worst sunburn I've ever had coincided with the start of the new school year - even after the fiery, unstoppable pain stopped lashing at every inch of skin that hadn't been covered by bathers, there was the subsequent peeling of skin - a wrath that I not only suffered but she did as well; the 20 minute rule was thrown to the wind as we held our breaths and waited for it all to be over - because there's no amount of makeup that can cover the torment, and even if you might've managed it -
'Is your earlobe peeling?'
Friday, December 25, 2009
Thursday, December 24, 2009
The Tower
'You won't do it.'
'What do you mean I won't do it? Yes I will.'
'I'll bet you anything you won't.'
'How much?'
'I'm just saying, I don't think you'll do it.'
'Well I'm definitely going to now that you've said that.'
She hadn't surveyed her options at all, just tilted her chin defiantly and crossed her arms insistently in the muggy morning heat. Muggy morning heat that smelt of beer. The table was littered with bottles and other remnants of the previous night's activities. She washed the dishes, dropping a glass in the process, smashing splinters of glass across the sticky kitchen floor.
It felt like Sunday. She had wrung the sand out of unwashed bathers and was the last one to climb into the rusted red Camry ('Why do you get to sit in the front? My legs are clearly longer').
She was already nervously assessing her decision. She'd been doing so before they swung into the car park of the beach, before he navigated the car uneasily along the outcrop of rocks to avoid the hefty swim from the beach to the Tower. She'd seen it before, joked that she would leap from it before, face lifted to the sky, full of carefree energy with no fear. But that was before, and as they piled out of the car and began clambering down the rocks, the fear ebbed through her, starting with her feet, which were already being gnarled at by the pointed rock edges. She attempted to propel herself forward faster, not wanting to be left behind by the lengthy steps and ruthlessness of those in front of her. They'd reached the edge; wasted no time in leaping forward into the sea that lapped at the tide line etched onto the rocks.
The cold water had hit her with a smack, and she frantically doggy-paddled against what she couldn't see, writhing against the unknown that could be lurking beneath her. She was breathing in panicky gasps, partly due to the unexpected chill of the water and partly due to the overwhelming panic at being left behind. 'Wait for me!' she wanted to shout out. Don't leave me behind, the littlest sister had said. She tried to swim in long lunges, tried to calm herself before grasping onto the rusted ladder at the base of the Tower.
They called out to her as she clambered up the first half of the ladder, before reaching the tangled mess of barbed wire and cage that was meant to prevent people from doing exactly what they were now.
She attempted to wedge herself through the gap, cursing feeble arm muscles and white bread and chocolate cake and everything that was making it difficult to spring with ease onto the top platform of the Tower. He grabbed her arms and relayed encouragement as she grappled against the wire that clung onto her ankles.
'I've got you!'
She felt as though she was flapping in the wind as her feet failed to grip at anything, a flag bearing a warning to the beach goers that watched them, with gazes that were a mixture of disapproval, amusement and curiosity. Would they jump? She'd watched others stand at the top of the Tower for hours as they tried to rally up the courage to plummet into the ocean below.
'The longer you stay up here the worse it gets.'
The barbed wire shredded at her feet and ankles (the moment she nearly fell would serve a reminder in the form of a purple scar on her heel). He finally wrenched her over the railings and the three of them stood closely together, the iron platform that had been heated by the sun's persistent rays warming the bottoms of their feet.
'I'm scared!' she shook, as they assessed the scene surrounding them. Were they a part of the sky? Is that what it felt like? Could she reach over and swipe at the wisp of cloud that seemed to float past? Not quite. Countless jellyfish dotted the sea beneath them, pummelling back and forth in that strange synchronised motion that only jellyfish do.
He climbed swiftly over the railing, eager to demonstrate to her what she had to do.
'...then you look to the sky, hold out your arms...and JUMP!'
The last word stretched out like a bungee cord as he rocketed into the water, emerging after a few moments with a grin stretched from ear to ear.
Now there were two.
'I'm not going until you do,' he said to her, assessing her shivery frame and knowing full well that if he left her up there by herself they would spend hours coaxing her down, cooking on the rocks as they waited for her to stem the fear that would keep oozing steadily, like the blood out of her cut feet.
She burbled a string of irrationality, making him laugh.
'Come on! Live a little.'
She remembered his surity of the fact that she wouldn't do it, allowing her to find the ability to climb through the railing and grip her toes over the edge.
She screamed as she shot through the air, her fear vanishing as adrenalin flooded through her veins; the powerful rush enveloping her as she sunk like a stone deep under the water, subsiding only slightly as she had to kick her legs to rush to the surface, lungs bursting for air.
'I told you I would do it!' she smiled, proud, exhausted. They tactfully made no mention of the doubt that had danced around her when it was just the three of them standing in the piece of springtime sky. They gave no congratulations either, nor sympathy as she limped to the car, muttering at the blood shed. There was just a silent sense of achievement, and they let her have her pride.
'What do you mean I won't do it? Yes I will.'
'I'll bet you anything you won't.'
'How much?'
'I'm just saying, I don't think you'll do it.'
'Well I'm definitely going to now that you've said that.'
She hadn't surveyed her options at all, just tilted her chin defiantly and crossed her arms insistently in the muggy morning heat. Muggy morning heat that smelt of beer. The table was littered with bottles and other remnants of the previous night's activities. She washed the dishes, dropping a glass in the process, smashing splinters of glass across the sticky kitchen floor.
It felt like Sunday. She had wrung the sand out of unwashed bathers and was the last one to climb into the rusted red Camry ('Why do you get to sit in the front? My legs are clearly longer').
She was already nervously assessing her decision. She'd been doing so before they swung into the car park of the beach, before he navigated the car uneasily along the outcrop of rocks to avoid the hefty swim from the beach to the Tower. She'd seen it before, joked that she would leap from it before, face lifted to the sky, full of carefree energy with no fear. But that was before, and as they piled out of the car and began clambering down the rocks, the fear ebbed through her, starting with her feet, which were already being gnarled at by the pointed rock edges. She attempted to propel herself forward faster, not wanting to be left behind by the lengthy steps and ruthlessness of those in front of her. They'd reached the edge; wasted no time in leaping forward into the sea that lapped at the tide line etched onto the rocks.
The cold water had hit her with a smack, and she frantically doggy-paddled against what she couldn't see, writhing against the unknown that could be lurking beneath her. She was breathing in panicky gasps, partly due to the unexpected chill of the water and partly due to the overwhelming panic at being left behind. 'Wait for me!' she wanted to shout out. Don't leave me behind, the littlest sister had said. She tried to swim in long lunges, tried to calm herself before grasping onto the rusted ladder at the base of the Tower.
They called out to her as she clambered up the first half of the ladder, before reaching the tangled mess of barbed wire and cage that was meant to prevent people from doing exactly what they were now.
She attempted to wedge herself through the gap, cursing feeble arm muscles and white bread and chocolate cake and everything that was making it difficult to spring with ease onto the top platform of the Tower. He grabbed her arms and relayed encouragement as she grappled against the wire that clung onto her ankles.
'I've got you!'
She felt as though she was flapping in the wind as her feet failed to grip at anything, a flag bearing a warning to the beach goers that watched them, with gazes that were a mixture of disapproval, amusement and curiosity. Would they jump? She'd watched others stand at the top of the Tower for hours as they tried to rally up the courage to plummet into the ocean below.
'The longer you stay up here the worse it gets.'
The barbed wire shredded at her feet and ankles (the moment she nearly fell would serve a reminder in the form of a purple scar on her heel). He finally wrenched her over the railings and the three of them stood closely together, the iron platform that had been heated by the sun's persistent rays warming the bottoms of their feet.
'I'm scared!' she shook, as they assessed the scene surrounding them. Were they a part of the sky? Is that what it felt like? Could she reach over and swipe at the wisp of cloud that seemed to float past? Not quite. Countless jellyfish dotted the sea beneath them, pummelling back and forth in that strange synchronised motion that only jellyfish do.
He climbed swiftly over the railing, eager to demonstrate to her what she had to do.
'...then you look to the sky, hold out your arms...and JUMP!'
The last word stretched out like a bungee cord as he rocketed into the water, emerging after a few moments with a grin stretched from ear to ear.
Now there were two.
'I'm not going until you do,' he said to her, assessing her shivery frame and knowing full well that if he left her up there by herself they would spend hours coaxing her down, cooking on the rocks as they waited for her to stem the fear that would keep oozing steadily, like the blood out of her cut feet.
She burbled a string of irrationality, making him laugh.
'Come on! Live a little.'
She remembered his surity of the fact that she wouldn't do it, allowing her to find the ability to climb through the railing and grip her toes over the edge.
She screamed as she shot through the air, her fear vanishing as adrenalin flooded through her veins; the powerful rush enveloping her as she sunk like a stone deep under the water, subsiding only slightly as she had to kick her legs to rush to the surface, lungs bursting for air.
'I told you I would do it!' she smiled, proud, exhausted. They tactfully made no mention of the doubt that had danced around her when it was just the three of them standing in the piece of springtime sky. They gave no congratulations either, nor sympathy as she limped to the car, muttering at the blood shed. There was just a silent sense of achievement, and they let her have her pride.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
I have a pen, thankyou.
How many people will we meet in our lifetimes? Most of them are these slight, split-second interactions that could take place over a shop counter; through a telephone line; that happen only because you happened to cross the road and intersected the path of somebody else; resulting in that awkward side-step and mumbled 'sorry' before you returned to your intended path, the uninterrupted one. The number of people we'll associate with ever so briefly, whether it be on a single occasion or as a result of the routine you fall into without realising (wake-walk-train-work-walk-shop-eat-sleep), must soar into the thousands, whereas the people we hold close and dear to our hearts can be counted on fingers and toes.
There are those interactions that happen regularly; a rapport is built up between you and the other person. You may greet each other in the same way; the same conversation topics are generally breached and the same outcome results each time (if there is an occasion where this doesn't happen, it leaves you both feeling slightly strange, lost). The 9-5 working week is a guaranteed way to build up this type of continued encounter.
1. The Afternoon Postman - arrives between 3.30pm-4.30pm to collect the mail that needs to be sent out that evening. This exchange is longer than that with The Morning Postman because there's the awkward offering of a pen, signing of the form and tearing off the adjacent slip. There seems to be a rotation with The Afternoon Postman - I certainly have my preferred favourites.
One of these likes to surprise me with his attention to detail - he commented when I was away for two days sick, has abbreviated 'Rachael' to 'Rach' and may make statements like 'You wear a lot of black.' He always wishes me a good afternoon/evening/weekend and our conversations are said in bold - when he leaves I realise I have been animatedly shouting about not-much-really.
A close second favourite is the postman who falls into my classification of being a Weather Person. I'm a secret weather person myself, probably as a result of my Dad, who frequents the Beaureau of Meterology website tracking the satellite movement of rain, comments on wind direction and humidity and makes regular estimations of the current temperature (Oh no, won't be 42 yet. Barely 36 I would think.) Weather People have a perverse fascination for discussing the climate, not just as a conversation filler but through genuine interest. Second Favourite Postman will usually come in with a comment like 'Phew it's hot/cold out there' which provides the opening for me to question things like how much rain has fallen and whether his truck has air conditioning and how good it is. I look forward to these conversations as it provides evidence to me as to whether what outside looks like through my office window is actually what outside feels like.
2. Gary Bell the guy from Canon - is a bristly-moustached gentleman with a bumbly nasal voice who provides our company with toner and printer servicing and who has the exact same conversation with me every single time he calls to speak to the IT Manager. This type of encounter is an example of situations that always stay the same, no matter how much time passes. I know Gary's voice to a tee, know exactly who he wants to speak to every time he phones but without fail, we go through the rapport of him telling me who it is and me asking who he needs to speak with. This is another example of interactions that can exist solely through the phone; when actual physical visits occur, it's almost surreal and neither of you know what to do.
3. The Express Post delivery man - and I do not have a good relationship. This is an example of a forced interaction that I resent with every fibre of my being from the moment I see his truck pull up in front to the moment he dumps the parcels on my desk, asks me to spell my last name and then makes me sign his digital notepad as 'R Humphers' instead of 'R Humphris.' I used to make the effort with the standard boring greetings and 'how-are-you-don't-respond-honestly' queries but now we don't speak. I have a magic buzzer underneath my desk that allows me to unlock the door when there's someone waiting; meaning I'm alerted to his arrival and have time to prepare my stony expression. But if he manages to slip in as other people leave, the only way I realise he's standing directly behind me is when I hear the barcode beep as he scans the package I'm about to take, in which case I'm taken off guard and might accidently exchange pleasantries.
Consequently it's easy to pass off these short and slight encounters as nothing-really; every now and again there might be a conversation or an exchange of eye contact or a witnessing of actions that might take place and you think it holds a lot of significance until the following week when a similar scenario plays out and you forget about the other one, letting it get lost amongst the messy fillings of short term memories.
There are those interactions that happen regularly; a rapport is built up between you and the other person. You may greet each other in the same way; the same conversation topics are generally breached and the same outcome results each time (if there is an occasion where this doesn't happen, it leaves you both feeling slightly strange, lost). The 9-5 working week is a guaranteed way to build up this type of continued encounter.
1. The Afternoon Postman - arrives between 3.30pm-4.30pm to collect the mail that needs to be sent out that evening. This exchange is longer than that with The Morning Postman because there's the awkward offering of a pen, signing of the form and tearing off the adjacent slip. There seems to be a rotation with The Afternoon Postman - I certainly have my preferred favourites.
One of these likes to surprise me with his attention to detail - he commented when I was away for two days sick, has abbreviated 'Rachael' to 'Rach' and may make statements like 'You wear a lot of black.' He always wishes me a good afternoon/evening/weekend and our conversations are said in bold - when he leaves I realise I have been animatedly shouting about not-much-really.
A close second favourite is the postman who falls into my classification of being a Weather Person. I'm a secret weather person myself, probably as a result of my Dad, who frequents the Beaureau of Meterology website tracking the satellite movement of rain, comments on wind direction and humidity and makes regular estimations of the current temperature (Oh no, won't be 42 yet. Barely 36 I would think.) Weather People have a perverse fascination for discussing the climate, not just as a conversation filler but through genuine interest. Second Favourite Postman will usually come in with a comment like 'Phew it's hot/cold out there' which provides the opening for me to question things like how much rain has fallen and whether his truck has air conditioning and how good it is. I look forward to these conversations as it provides evidence to me as to whether what outside looks like through my office window is actually what outside feels like.
2. Gary Bell the guy from Canon - is a bristly-moustached gentleman with a bumbly nasal voice who provides our company with toner and printer servicing and who has the exact same conversation with me every single time he calls to speak to the IT Manager. This type of encounter is an example of situations that always stay the same, no matter how much time passes. I know Gary's voice to a tee, know exactly who he wants to speak to every time he phones but without fail, we go through the rapport of him telling me who it is and me asking who he needs to speak with. This is another example of interactions that can exist solely through the phone; when actual physical visits occur, it's almost surreal and neither of you know what to do.
3. The Express Post delivery man - and I do not have a good relationship. This is an example of a forced interaction that I resent with every fibre of my being from the moment I see his truck pull up in front to the moment he dumps the parcels on my desk, asks me to spell my last name and then makes me sign his digital notepad as 'R Humphers' instead of 'R Humphris.' I used to make the effort with the standard boring greetings and 'how-are-you-don't-respond-honestly' queries but now we don't speak. I have a magic buzzer underneath my desk that allows me to unlock the door when there's someone waiting; meaning I'm alerted to his arrival and have time to prepare my stony expression. But if he manages to slip in as other people leave, the only way I realise he's standing directly behind me is when I hear the barcode beep as he scans the package I'm about to take, in which case I'm taken off guard and might accidently exchange pleasantries.
Consequently it's easy to pass off these short and slight encounters as nothing-really; every now and again there might be a conversation or an exchange of eye contact or a witnessing of actions that might take place and you think it holds a lot of significance until the following week when a similar scenario plays out and you forget about the other one, letting it get lost amongst the messy fillings of short term memories.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Why do these things only seem to happen to you?
Are some people born with a particular magnetism for ridiculous or unfortunate circumstances? How are there certain individuals who manage to attract situations that others almost never find themselves in? Is there a certain clashing of chromosomes, life lessons that were never taught, an aversion to a green vegetable that contains a special vitamin that possesses us with the ability to join the dots?
This is not to say it's a negative trait, though you can't really classify it as something you wished you were capable of. Each time such a situation arises, I remain unconvinced that surely, no, not really? This can't really happen - too many variables all leaning in one direction, normally it's only one or another. The dominoes topple over in a heap and never fit back in the box on the first go.
Here is a compiled list that I thought of because it was a type of evening that was too hot for a doona but too cold for a sheet; and also because being here leads to remaniscence of types, bringing all of it back again.
1. Dislocated knee in the middle of service at Jolleys Boathouse Restaurant, complete with being carried outside by two patrons, vomiting in a wine cooler and being zipped to the Royal Adelaide still wearing my apron.
2. Neville.
3. The events prior and following the midnight October swim in Nitschke's unchlorinated pool in 2006.
4. Missing the metro in Paris in the wee hours of the morning - my companions managed to get on alright, I just struggled a little with the motor skills needed to do the same.
5. Catching a cab from Brussels to Amsterdam with two strangers.
6. In the same weekend, getting lost in Amsterdam whilst clutching my broken suitcase (tied it together with a belt, innovative, no?) and being convinced I could hear Dutch men talking about how much I would like anal sex.
7. Shredding half my knee avoiding a 'car' that was roaring down a street near Daniel's house.
8. With the aforemention scab still fresh, got my shoe stuck in an escalator at Target, managed to fall over (not delicately, amidst the Christmas shoppers) henceforth breaking open the scab and bleeding through my work pants ('What can I get for you today? A nice bloody coffee?')
9. Having an allergic reaction to sunscreen the week before starting highschool. Year 8 kicked off with a bang, me looking like a half-cooked, pimply, pink marshmallow.
This is the shortlisted version - I'm a unique individual. Though I'm starting to see the validity in Mum saying things like - 'You'll be lucky to reach your twentieth birthday.'
This is not to say it's a negative trait, though you can't really classify it as something you wished you were capable of. Each time such a situation arises, I remain unconvinced that surely, no, not really? This can't really happen - too many variables all leaning in one direction, normally it's only one or another. The dominoes topple over in a heap and never fit back in the box on the first go.
Here is a compiled list that I thought of because it was a type of evening that was too hot for a doona but too cold for a sheet; and also because being here leads to remaniscence of types, bringing all of it back again.
1. Dislocated knee in the middle of service at Jolleys Boathouse Restaurant, complete with being carried outside by two patrons, vomiting in a wine cooler and being zipped to the Royal Adelaide still wearing my apron.
2. Neville.
3. The events prior and following the midnight October swim in Nitschke's unchlorinated pool in 2006.
4. Missing the metro in Paris in the wee hours of the morning - my companions managed to get on alright, I just struggled a little with the motor skills needed to do the same.
5. Catching a cab from Brussels to Amsterdam with two strangers.
6. In the same weekend, getting lost in Amsterdam whilst clutching my broken suitcase (tied it together with a belt, innovative, no?) and being convinced I could hear Dutch men talking about how much I would like anal sex.
7. Shredding half my knee avoiding a 'car' that was roaring down a street near Daniel's house.
8. With the aforemention scab still fresh, got my shoe stuck in an escalator at Target, managed to fall over (not delicately, amidst the Christmas shoppers) henceforth breaking open the scab and bleeding through my work pants ('What can I get for you today? A nice bloody coffee?')
9. Having an allergic reaction to sunscreen the week before starting highschool. Year 8 kicked off with a bang, me looking like a half-cooked, pimply, pink marshmallow.
This is the shortlisted version - I'm a unique individual. Though I'm starting to see the validity in Mum saying things like - 'You'll be lucky to reach your twentieth birthday.'
For Melissa Ashleigh White
I enjoy the fact there are no street lights in my street; the sky is an inky black instead of the usual mottled suburban purple with the orange ring around the moon, formed as a result of too many glittering city lights. There are less foothpaths, more cows, a general comfortable aura of leafy green trees and unsuspecting dirt roads. Everything is familiar because I've spent too long here for it not to be; everything holds recollection or has some kind of significance.
The faux German pub on the corner of the street that leads to my house; headquarters of my first job at 14 (dish pig turned waitress). Even driving past with the air-conditioner roaring and the windows of the car sealed, I can smell the pots of sauerkraut waiting to be washed and hear the drone of the accordian that tormented lunch shift after lunch shift, all summer long. The German Arms has since changed hands; the giant moulded chair no longer sits out the front near the outdoor tables. When we were littler (my brother was still in a stroller) there was a man name Paul (?) who used to perform some kind of leiderhosen-slapping dance upon request; he would stand out the front beckoning to passers-by. Said pub is where my famed arm-burn occured, my dad and his friends still frequent the front bar; there's still someone there who remembers me and how I used to wear pink dishwashing gloves during my shifts in the kitchen.
Hunt Road. My family managed to spread itself over the 10-house street fairly comfortably - the dead-end road that is still off John's Lane holds host to numerous childhood injuries. These included but aren't limited to; toes and new socks being wrapped around gates courtesy of a bike with no brakes, rollerblades and colliding with a garage door, being convinced by older and unknown neighbourhood boys that it would be a good idea to put my leg in a muddy dam on a building site, gravel rash and its agonising removal, and the various aches-and-pains that resulted thanks to the homemade 'Slip & Slide' (giant sheet of orange plastic tent-pegged to our front lawn, slathered in dishwashing liquid, leading a slippery slope to the bottom of the garden where a delicious collision with dirt and a rusty hose-reel took place) and the pine tree that dangerously intersected the power lines at the front of the yard. The most famed incident was the 1998 'Magna plummets down two driveways at rocket speed into neighbouring house with 2-year old inside.' Of course my brother emerged unscathed and of course it's still a source of amusement between the residents of Hunt Road.
John's Lane was painted with a yellow strip on one side to prevent the tourists (or anyone I suppose) that flocked there on sunny Sundays from parking on both sides of the street. The street is barely 300 metres long but I remember how that yellow line used to shimmer in the heat, wobble and slither like a snake and seem positively endless on the days I had to drag myself home. It was always a blessed relief to hear the roar of a car behind you and know that there was about a 80% chance that the person driving would know you, feel sorry for your slumped and sweaty frame buckling under the weight of a schoolbag and slow down to give you a lift the remaining 50 metres home.
There was a paddock in the street that backed onto ours; my younger brother managed to develop a fascination with cows at a young age and Mum used to take him to view them in all their glory on her days off. I remember glowing green with jealously as I bore witness to him describing how one of them had given birth to a baby calf and they'd seen the entire thing. Housing developments popped up in that street, leaving behind fabulous remnants of building materials that provided momentary enjoyment; I remember playing with glee in a pile of still-warm mulch that was about to be spread on a painstakingly landscaped garden before the owner opened her newly installed window and screamed at us to get off. Our street was a dead-end and was great for bikes - there were a few non-child-friendly neighbours who used to screech around the corner at some ridiculous speed, cutting the corner and basically providing a countdown to how long it would be before there was a kid on a bike smeared all over the front of a shiny silver 4WD. When it had rained, puddles would accumulate at certain spots on the road and gave me endless amounts of delight in riding through them and spattering everywhere. Amd before the days of water restrictions, the summer evenings meant running through the sprinklers on the lush green front lawn of Number 4.
'I think being back here is good for you; it's grounding,' muses Mum as we roar up a dirt road, dust in our wake, because there's a stall selling mangoes - $10 for 10 - that are better than the ones at the fruit & veg.
The faux German pub on the corner of the street that leads to my house; headquarters of my first job at 14 (dish pig turned waitress). Even driving past with the air-conditioner roaring and the windows of the car sealed, I can smell the pots of sauerkraut waiting to be washed and hear the drone of the accordian that tormented lunch shift after lunch shift, all summer long. The German Arms has since changed hands; the giant moulded chair no longer sits out the front near the outdoor tables. When we were littler (my brother was still in a stroller) there was a man name Paul (?) who used to perform some kind of leiderhosen-slapping dance upon request; he would stand out the front beckoning to passers-by. Said pub is where my famed arm-burn occured, my dad and his friends still frequent the front bar; there's still someone there who remembers me and how I used to wear pink dishwashing gloves during my shifts in the kitchen.
Hunt Road. My family managed to spread itself over the 10-house street fairly comfortably - the dead-end road that is still off John's Lane holds host to numerous childhood injuries. These included but aren't limited to; toes and new socks being wrapped around gates courtesy of a bike with no brakes, rollerblades and colliding with a garage door, being convinced by older and unknown neighbourhood boys that it would be a good idea to put my leg in a muddy dam on a building site, gravel rash and its agonising removal, and the various aches-and-pains that resulted thanks to the homemade 'Slip & Slide' (giant sheet of orange plastic tent-pegged to our front lawn, slathered in dishwashing liquid, leading a slippery slope to the bottom of the garden where a delicious collision with dirt and a rusty hose-reel took place) and the pine tree that dangerously intersected the power lines at the front of the yard. The most famed incident was the 1998 'Magna plummets down two driveways at rocket speed into neighbouring house with 2-year old inside.' Of course my brother emerged unscathed and of course it's still a source of amusement between the residents of Hunt Road.
John's Lane was painted with a yellow strip on one side to prevent the tourists (or anyone I suppose) that flocked there on sunny Sundays from parking on both sides of the street. The street is barely 300 metres long but I remember how that yellow line used to shimmer in the heat, wobble and slither like a snake and seem positively endless on the days I had to drag myself home. It was always a blessed relief to hear the roar of a car behind you and know that there was about a 80% chance that the person driving would know you, feel sorry for your slumped and sweaty frame buckling under the weight of a schoolbag and slow down to give you a lift the remaining 50 metres home.
There was a paddock in the street that backed onto ours; my younger brother managed to develop a fascination with cows at a young age and Mum used to take him to view them in all their glory on her days off. I remember glowing green with jealously as I bore witness to him describing how one of them had given birth to a baby calf and they'd seen the entire thing. Housing developments popped up in that street, leaving behind fabulous remnants of building materials that provided momentary enjoyment; I remember playing with glee in a pile of still-warm mulch that was about to be spread on a painstakingly landscaped garden before the owner opened her newly installed window and screamed at us to get off. Our street was a dead-end and was great for bikes - there were a few non-child-friendly neighbours who used to screech around the corner at some ridiculous speed, cutting the corner and basically providing a countdown to how long it would be before there was a kid on a bike smeared all over the front of a shiny silver 4WD. When it had rained, puddles would accumulate at certain spots on the road and gave me endless amounts of delight in riding through them and spattering everywhere. Amd before the days of water restrictions, the summer evenings meant running through the sprinklers on the lush green front lawn of Number 4.
'I think being back here is good for you; it's grounding,' muses Mum as we roar up a dirt road, dust in our wake, because there's a stall selling mangoes - $10 for 10 - that are better than the ones at the fruit & veg.
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