I have been wondering what to write in this my January blog. It’s not that my life isn’t an exciting package of daily surprises. It is, even in these times. I could write a blog called Daily Surprises, but today I picked up a book called ‘Paradise is a Place’ by Gillian Mears. It didn’t take long for an absolute volcano of inspiration to start rising in me – firstly and mainly for Gillian’s prose and then around Sandy Edwards’ photography. Gillian writes of memories of her childhood – camping in the bush by the sea. As I’m reading I’m thinking – will I ever rise to this calibre of writing. Every now and then I will be filled with a sudden burst of what turns out to be a page or two of something I am pleased with, but a whole book? Page after page?
I have received accolades by people who have read my memoir and some of my prose and poetry but I guess it’s normal to compare oneself with those we consider higher up the scale, and to feel inferior.
What this book has done for me also is instantly remind me of my own affinity with the natural world. Like Gillian’s, our seaside holidays weren’t at urban beaches but remote ones. Lower Yorke Peninsula’s great stretches of blinding white sand, strewn with waves of shells – varieties enough that, walking step by slow step, scanning the colourful mass for sometimes hours, I never tired of it. Kaleidoscopic colours, intricate markings, a myriad different shapes and sizes. Finding a cowrie or a pink frilled cockle or a paper nautilus … well I might as well have found a diamond.
Most times we had to descend steep escarpments to get down to the beach – picnic rugs and baskets over our arms, the umbrella for shade. Always in the back of my mind was the price we had to pay for this day which was the pain of having to climb the long hard track back to the top.
There were no eskys, therefore no ice. No plastic freezer packs. No plastic anything in the early fifties. I think our cucumber sandwiches were packed in Bakelite containers and eaten early, before they became warm and soggy, and to satisfy our raging hunger from the rigors of swimming and fighting our way through the Southern Ocean’s pounding waves. The rock pools were havens we wallowed in when exhausted. Crystal clear warm relief – startled silvery fishes flashing past us.
It was about an hour’s drive home along the hot, dusty country road – we kids still in our salty, sandy bathers, wrapped in towels and soporific by now from energy spent. On our return to the farm-house Aunty Roma would boost the fire in the woodstove to heat the perpetually simmering kettles of water.
Sandy bathers stepped out of, my sister and I would climb into the blue bath of heavenly warm water from the stove, and then the sensuous comfort of wrapping myself in a towel – tired, warm and free of sand. Holiday dress over my head, and with the most delicious feeling of freedom, I’d climb onto my bed with a book, before the evening meal.
Before having built this large, comfortable farm-house, my aunt and uncle had lived in a tiny stone hut on their broad arable acres by the sea, so as younger children, whenever we went to holiday there, my parents would pitch an army tent for us to sleep in. It was always summer and always hot. There were five camp stretchers in the tent and the shelter we were afforded by the shade of its cool canvas and the sea breeze whispering through the open flaps was pure heaven after the relentless heat of the day.
My aunt was a petite, attractive woman. Already interested in the nuts and bolts of the human spirit, I admired her quiet intelligence and subtle strength of character in dealing with her dominant husband. Uncle Vern was a dyed-in-the-wool farmer – imposingly tall, strong, assertive, and in control of everything, including his wife, or so he thought. She would take his orders –
‘I’ll have a coffee Roma.’
She’d leave her chair. He’d ask his guests (us) what we’d like, and issue the orders from his place at the head of the table, to his wife, by now at the stove. But there was a line he sensed he should not step over, or he would be humiliated in the most succinct way by a stinging but subtle putting-back-in-his-box remark from my aunt.
My sister and I were joined at the hip. I am a little over two years older, and Erica was my shadow. We shared a love of the natural world – the wonders of the bush, the sea, the creeks, trees to be climbed, grass to lie down on, wild flowers to be picked.
We loved to run, fast.
‘Beat you to the gate.’
Into the bush.
‘This will be my tree. That one can be yours.’
Bare feet. Tea-tree branches low enough to get a foot up. Their beautiful camphor odour. And seaweed just over the dunes. A caressing breeze on our tree-sitting summer bodies.
Thank you Gillian Mears for prompting these memories. I will now be reading as many of your books as I can find.
I recently heard about another gem of a book – ‘The Boy, The Mole, The Fox and The Horse’ by Charlie Mackesy. It was spoken about so glowingly that I had to get it. My wonderful local book shop had it in store. I will give it to my grand-daughter for her birthday. Again a beautifully written compilation of prose, with exquisite pen and wash drawings. These times must be so scary for kids, and restrictive. Fear is colouring (or dulling) lives. This book is filled with the most positive, reassuring and gentle thoughts about life. My grand-daughter is a reader, and an artist. It will make me smile to think of this book being beside her bed. I am thankful for Charlie Mackesy’s beautiful soul.
I have a friend who is going through the hideousness of losing a child.
Sometimes everything that seemed important or big in your life shrinks when something like this happens. You realise that love is bigger than anything.
Take care and be safe
Sue