MEMORIES – Part 1.

It is a mistake to go back to the scenes of your past, except in your memory.  In reality the houses are smaller, duller, in fact quite ordinary – while in memory they glow with personality, housing as they do the special events and special people that form the warp and weft of the fabric of life.

All the houses in which I’ve lived have revisited me in my dreams – some more than others.  In particular the ‘town’ house in Barmera, and the rented houses in Glenelg and Seaton Park loom large in my subconscious life.  For some reason the Barmera ‘town’ house, as opposed to the ‘block’ house, was crucial to my life – we did live there for eight years, the longest stay in any house.

I have visited most of the houses in my adult years, and apart from the houses in Seaton Park and in Rose Park in which I lived in my late teens, they all appeared to be much smaller and meaner than I remembered them.  They were huge houses, done up with great taste by my parents who could never leave a house as they found it.  Even the rental properties were not exempt from their renovations – floors were stripped and sanded, walls were knocked out (in the ones they owned), bathrooms renovated and kitchens over-hauled.  In later years, my father rather relied on my judgement, asking for my opinion on walls that needed removing and windows that needed widening.

My ealiest memories are of the stairs that led from the gate in the picket fence down deep into the garage at the back of Auntie Dot’s place.  We used to hang on the fence and peer down into the darkness at the bottom, imagining all sorts of creatures that were waiting to get us if we ventured below.  I recall that there were, in particular, a goblin and a dragon.  As we grew we discovered that there was a lane that ran along the back of the garage, in fact along the row of houses – a lane we were to use every day on our way home from Kindy and School.  Inevitably the day came when we had to go through the garage and up the stairs to Auntie Dot’s, where our mother was visiting.  We trembled, hesitated, gathered our courage and began the climb.  Halfway up, one of us saw a movement and heard a rustle.  A snake!!  We flew up those stairs in sheer terror and took quite a considerable amount of calming.

From this one incident evolved a spectacular nightmare that was to recur throughout my childhood and adolescence.  I was running along the back lane as fast as I could with a dragon pursuing me, slithering and scrambling up those steps to reach the safety of the yard.  But I was unable to get through the gate at the top, always kept locked to prevent little children from falling down the steps.  Of course, I always awoke at this point in the dream, sweating and shaking.  As I grew older and recognized the dream as it began I learnt to waken myself, tell myself that it was only a dream, and go back to sleep after an interval of intense concentration about something, anything else.

I remember climbing up a street towards Big Judy’s house in Pascoe Vale as a toddler.  There was a low brick wall outside her house which was two-storeyed, with a curved glass wall around the stairwell – very Art Deco.  She had a Scottish walking doll as tall as me, dressed in a kilt, with a tam on its head, and lovely long lashes.  My sister was very covetous of this doll, but I much prefered the house.

My father built a large Art Deco house in Henley Beach, South Australia, after we moved there from Victoria.  It was innovative, set up high on the hilly block with a double brick garage set below but in front, with a concrete slab roof that formed a balconied patio.  The drive went up beside it to the side of the house, plus there was a double drive into the garage below.  A rock garden bordered the property beside these constructions, and the back yard was big, lawned, with swings and a sand-pit for my sister, brother and I to play in.

The lounge room had a curved wall with large windows, the kitchen had the latest modern equipment, a new round-topped fridge, electric cooker, and black and white tiled floor.  The bathroom was amazing.  The bath and hand basin were pink, set into a black-tiled room – the ceramic wall tiles when wiped with a child’s wet soapy hand played rainbows of colours across its surface.  The bedrooms were lovely, and there was a utility room out the back where my mother held playgroup for local children.  We sat in a circle as she sang in her glorious voice:

           Good morning to you little boy/girl, little

          boy/girl, little boy/girl, good morning to

          you little boy/girl, what’s your name?

The child addressed would sing out their name.  When it came to our turns, my brother and I would answer : Hector and Georgina, which were not our names.  Then we’d all laugh.  I have no idea why we chose those names – it’s not a name I particularly liked.  I think it was really done to get a response from our mother who was sharing our time with all those other children.

I remember one Guy Fawke’s night when I hid in the bathroom from the bangers, with Pride, our Collie dog.  I watched the Catherine Wheels, and the Rockets, and the Roman Fountains, and played happily with Sparklers, but as soon as the Bangers and the Jumping Jacks came out I was off, with the dog close behind me.  I refused to come out until all the explosions had stopped.

My sister had a very bad accident at that house.  There was no railing around the top of the garage roof, and one day she fell off it, down onto the concrete drive below.  Dad was distraught and angry with himself – she was his favourite, and he’d caused her harm by not putting in a railing.  Of course, she shouldn’t have been messing around that close to the edge anyway, but she had spirit and was always pushing the boundaries.  He installed a rail after that.

My doll suffered a cracked skull in the garden bed there – I’d left her out accidentally overnight and the frost was so cold that it robbed her of all her colour and cracked the back of her head.  I painted pink cheeks, lips and nails on her with mother’s nail polish, but could do nothing with her head.  She was my favourite and I loved her dearly.  Even now, having had to replace her with an identical doll when she got plastic cancer – a condition where the plastic shrivelled and gave off a vinegar smell – I could not throw her away.  She is stored in a bag in a cupboard in the spare room.  And I can’t feel the same attachment to the replacement doll, no matter how identical it is.

My brother nearly ‘drownded’ in the estuary outlet nearby while we lived there, or perhaps when we were visiting Auntie Rite as we often did on trips down from Barmera.  We would roam along the waterway at the back to the estuary – the outlet had huge sloping concrete walls, with grooves for steps down its sides.  We loved to follow them playing at being giants, seeing who could step from one to another without slipping, or missing any.  My sister, by dint of her older age, was the best at it.  One day as we searched for tadpoles along the creek leading to the outlet, my brother slipped on the bank and fell in.

He couldn’t swim, and neither could I, but my sister had done some swimming.  Auntie Rite’s son was with us, and he jumped in and saved my brother as he gurgled and splashed about.  A man walking his dog came and helped us, and carried my brother home to my parents, who were horrified that we had been down at the outlet in the first place.  We weren’t exactly allowed to go there.  And, after that, we were strictly forbidden from going near the place ever again.  Auntie Rite’s son was a hero, while we were in disgrace.  The fact that he took us there was beside the point.

I remember on one of our visits to Auntie Rite’s that we were sent to the bakery at the end of the road to get bread for her.  It was quite a walk for children, past many houses including Auntire Dot’s and Anne and Charles’ place – they were named after the prince and princess, and were about the same age as them.  We teased a dog behind a big brush fence as we trudged to the corner shop.  There is no way children of today would be sent on such an errand.  We walked home hugging the warm bread to our chests.

When we reached Auntie Rite’s we sat inside her fence and picked at the rounded front surface of the loaf – just to level it with the crust.  We picked a bit more, tearing off strips of the warm bread and chewing it delicately.  Eventually we had hollowed the whole loaf out and were left with only the crust shell.  Horrors!  Now we had to go and tell Auntie Rite.  And what would Mother say?!

They were very angry with us, and we were immediately sent back to the bread shop with our pocket money to buy another loaf for Auntie Rite.  Mother was embarrassed, and Auntie Rite thought it was funny – we could hear her laughing as we hurried down her steep drive to her gate, on our way back to the Bakery.  We laughed as we walked along, picturing the empty loaf sitting, still wrapped around with tissue paper, on Auntie Rite’s kitchen table.

(C) Jud House  25/01/2013

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AO DREAMING

“Oh bed,” she sighed as, clad in her apricot satin pyjamas, she snuggled down under the bedclothes.  Having lifted up and spread out, princess-like, her long dark hair to avoid restricting her movements, she pulled the pillows down to support her neck, lowered her shoulders and placed her arms at her sides, elbows bent and hands resting lightly on her groin.  This ritual for relaxation allowed her to easily slip into daydreaming prior to sleep, and if she were lucky, would carry her selected daydream on into dreaming.

Her affectionate lilac Burmese cat trod up the bed, circled, settled its weight against her hip, curled up and began to purr.  She could hear her husband showering in the en-suite bathroom – he would be a while yet, so she was safe to start. Quite a lot of dreaming could be done before he eventually climbed into bed, and unless he actively wanted sex she knew he’d not disturb her.  Most of the time he didn’t even speak to her – not even to say ‘goodnight’.  Usually, her sense of loss and disappointment prompted her to murmur “Goodnight darling” just to evoke a response, to counter her feelings of invisibility.  Perversely, at the same time she wanted to preserve her isolation so as not to disturb her precious dreams.

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‘Where am I?  Oh, yes.  We are in Hawaii!  What a great place.  God, I wish I could go back there again – to live for a while.  This time I’m not with my husband – he won’t come so I am with my lover instead.  We arrive in Honolulu at one a.m., but by the time we get through Customs it is three a.m.  Then the drive in the transfer van to the hotel, up the escalator to the lobby to book in, and on to our room.  It’s the same hotel and the same room my husband and I stayed in – I guess I’m doing that because it’s easier, something I know, to add reality to this dream.

‘Out on the balcony I go to look at the view.  The streets are still lit, people still roam around and the disco downstairs still pounds out music – at this hour of the morning!  I am not tired despite the hour, but I know I should sleep so I won’t miss any of tomorrow – I mean today.  He steps out behind me, encircles me with his arms, and I lean back against him.  He’s warm and loving, so attentive.

‘“Let’s go to bed,” he murmurs in my ear.  I turn to kiss him, long and deep, our bodies pressed together.  I follow him into the room where I lie on the huge bed – king-size, with three great pillows banked along its headboard, flanked by tables with their shell-filled glass-jar lamps. (Just like before.)  He rolls the timber slatted shutters across the windows – we’re not sure if we’re overlooked by the surrounding tall hotels and shopping complexes.

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She felt her husband climb into bed, the waterbed tightening as his weight displaced the water. When he’d settled, and the waterbed waves had settled, she murmured “Goodnight darling”, waited for his mumbled reply, then slipped back and on with the dream creation.

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‘Where am I?  Oh, yes.  About to make love.  Lovingly, cradling me, he kisses me, long and passionately.  He wants to rush and so do I, but we are free to take all the time we want – at last.  I slow him down by alternating tender kisses with passionate ones.  He responds, and moves down kissing my throat and breasts as he goes.  I relax, sighing with delight, drifting with pleasure . . .

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You relax, sighing with delight, drifting with pleasure.  You lie there, yielding to him.  The passion builds, he enters and just as you begin to climax your husband opens the door and walks in.  But that’s okay, you aren’t doing anything, just talking.

You’re home in your lounge room having coffee with him.  Your son is there too with his girlfriend.  The conversation is about Hawaii.

“I’m not boring you with all this,” you say, as you indicate the photo album on the smoked-glass coffee table.

“No, it’s fascinating,” he says.  “I only wish I could go there too.”  He sighs, gives you a knowing look and continues.  “Maybe one day I’ll run away with you to Hawaii, and you can show me around.”

Everyone laughs, including your husband.  “I should be so lucky.  Another beer, mate?”

“No.  I must be going.”  He eases himself out of the deep chair and you stand reluctantly, then follow him out to his car which appears to be parked in a city street.

People are hurrying past, pushing and jostling you further apart from each other.  You call out to him and he thrusts through the crowd as you go under.  You are lying on the pavement looking fragile, a lot slimmer than you know you really are.  He lifts you gently into his arms, distressed by your unconscious state.  You watch him lift you, hold you, cradle you, caress your hair, speak your name, imploring you to revive.

Once more your husband is there, demanding that he sit you up and put your head between your knees.  How ungainly!  You wake to find them bending over you, but now you’re afraid.  Run!  Run!  Fly!  You must fly – thank God you know how to fly.  You grab their hands to help them fly, but they are too heavy – dead weights.

You soar into the sky, skimming past power lines, the main hazard, then swoop back to them.  You must save them, they’re just boys, your sons.  You snatch them up and fly across the fields, the lakes, towards your home and safety.  Your arms are getting very tired.  You feel exhausted.  You sink into softness . . .

                                                                         *

The alarm radio cut the silence.  Her husband grunted, moved, and clambered out of bed.  As the bed softened beneath her, she was aware of the morning, but felt exhausted.  She snuggled deeper under her feather quilt.

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‘I don’t want to let go of my dream.  What happened to my lover in Hawaii?  I seem to have got off the track.  I don’t have to get up yet.  Where am I?  Oh, yes.  About to make love with my lover in Hawaii.  He’s so wonderful the way he wants me, as if I am precious.  I don’t know what he sees in me.  I’m not exactly slim and beautiful.  I’m overweight.  But I do have lovely hair.  I wish he would tell me what he likes about me.  All he wants to do is screw me.  Talking about which . . . . .

(C) Jud House  25/09/2006

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EAST PERTH GRAVEYARD

The order was given – Go to an old graveyard in East Perth, with an open umbrella. Write about birth.  Observe what you see!

The wind was roaring through the graveyard on Sunday afternoon when my husband and I went there.  As there were fires in several places in the hills, this made the already gale-force wind gritty.  I needn’t have bothered opening the umbrella – what I expected to happen did happen.  The umbrella immediately blew inside out, and Peter laughed.  He already thought the whole incident humorous – but he also made me go, not allowing me to pop up to the cemetery in Mundaring instead.

The appearance of the graveyard is one of neglect – the grass was yellow and long, except for a few spots of green under trees, the headstones stood at odd angles, though some were still in place, while others were lying flat or missing altogether, the wrought iron railings were in need of maintenance, and the trees were overgrown and straggly.  There were huge Cypresses – four at the corners of one grave with their foliage merging over it – great Peppermint trees which the settlers planted in place of willows, and Cape Lilacs with yellowing leaves providing meagre shade.

The old church, St. Bartholomew’s, was built in the 1870’s to save the settlers from the long trudge to the cemetery with caskets at sunrise and sunset – it was too hot during the rest of the day.  From inside the roof showed spots of sky – no doubt the rain gets in in Winter – and the floorboards were worn and uneven.  But on the whole it was in a reasonable state of repair – due to the work of the Historical Trust people who were giving guided tours of the cemetery to any visitors.

I sat on a bench under a Cypress and thought about the transience of life and how that affects the topic on which I was to write – birth.  To sit and contemplate that, and all it entailed,  while gazing at the unkempt, almost forgotten graveyard, was a strange sensation.  The notion that the importance of a single life is irrelevant occurred to me – one is born, one lives, one dies.  One enters the world amidst pain, if not one’s own then definitely one’s mother’s.  One often leaves the world amidst pain, which those lucky few who slip away in their sleep can by-pass.  Then after death can come decay and neglect, as the East Perth Cemetery shows.  And to whom does it matter what mark we made while alive?  Only our family and friends.  The population of this planet is so vast that our lives are not noticed.  And this planet is miniscule in its Universe and the Cosmos beyond – we are nothing.

A birth is such a miraculous personal event to the participants, but it is just nature’s way of furthering the species – every day, every minute, and probably every second somewhere in the world.  While birth is the initial step, death is the final step in this sequence.  During birth there is no time to think about mortality – birth is too immediate, too violent, too all-consuming.  Every fibre of the mother is focussed on breathing and pushing to complete her nine months of creation.

It’s like writing a story – a writer creates a thing with a beginning, a middle and an end – there must be an end somewhere.  To hold a new-born baby is to feel an overwhelming sense of responsibility to protect that child, nuture it, and help it grow to adulthood.  That is as far as a new parent dares to think.  And the notion that the child could die before the parent is unthinkable.

Yet despite the apparent futility of life, specifically, births are vital for mankind’s future existence.  And sitting in the graveyard, with signs of neglect all around, with the wind howling through the trees and blowing rubbish across the ground, I felt curiously at peace, and unafraid of my own mortality.

(C) Jud House  19/08/2006 & 25/01/2013

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