Windows of Time - Part One (a short story in 3 parts)

                                            

Part One

The wooden plank gave way with a bang. Kelly pulled it out from the floor completely, set it aside, and shone her torch down into the hole now created in the baltic-pine floor.  

She had just begun the renovations on her 1925  bungalow and, with the removal of the old carpets,  the floor boards were now exposed for the first time in many decades.  

Kelly and her husband, David, had bought the old house three years earlier, in 2001.  They had moved in, then, with their two young children - Edward now six,  and Liam now three.  They'd planned to renovate as soon as possible, however, with two full-time jobs - Kelly in paediatrics, and David in general practice -  spare time was something they could only dream about.  Renovating the house was therefore relegated to the bottom of their long list of priorities.  And, from there, it had been forgotten.

Life, for Kelly and her family, was hectic - to say the least.  Days never seemed to be quite long enough to squeeze in all of the demands that  life pressed down on them.  Long hours  at work were followed by exhausting evenings: kids to pick up from after-school care and child-care centres, before 6.30pm;  a long drive home through peak-hour traffic; dinner to cook - although the reality of dinner was usually  a packet of frozen food tossed from the freezer into the microwave, or a fast-food take-away picked up on the way home; children to feed and bath and put to bed; housework to catch up on;  a load or two of laundry to put through the washing-machine and the dryer;  paperwork brought home from work to finish;  and, finally, at around 11.30pm or 12 am - mercifully sleep!   

Six hours later, the shrill cry from an alarm clock  would admonish the young couple for their frivolous relaxation - and the  whole frantic chaos that was their lives would start up again.  In an endless cycle.  Weekends were much the same - rushing, catching up on housework, hospital ward rounds and, sometimes, a few minutes to sit with the children … and reconnect. Sometimes.

So, in the pressure cooker that was her existence, the house had remained as neglected and ramshackle - as  Kelly's life … and her marriage.  She sometimes dreamed of a simpler life for herself and her family.  She didn't know what that would look like.  She didn't know how that  could be achieved.  It was, as yet, still just a nebulous but wonderful concept.

However,  the six weeks that she had arranged to be away from her job was a good start.  Six weeks to get started on the house, and to reconnect with her children, and, hopefully, to reconnect with her husband - if it wasn't already too late. 

In recent years Kelly felt that she and David had grown apart.  They had loved each other very much … once.  Long ago. Years ago.  But their arguments had become more frequent, as they had become more busy and more exhausted in their lives.  And somewhere, through all of this, they had begun to say hurtful things to each other.  Words which couldn't be unsaid.  Words which couldn't be forgotten easily.  Cruel words which had begun to erode the foundations of their marriage… and their friendship.  And, worsening the already bad situation, they had no time or energy to fix any of it.  The problems between them had grown like weeds in their marriage and gradually they had begun to resent each other and even avoid one another.

Kelly sighed as she thought about her life and what a mess it all seemed to be. However, she reminded herself that she could only do 'one thing at a time'  in fixing the many problems that she had.  So, with this thought, she refocused on the torchlight and the hole in the floor.  

The hole was situated in a corner of the main bedroom.  The loose floorboard had been conspicuous because it was a different color to the other boards and it didn't fit snugly like the others. 

Peering into the hole, Kelly could see the torch-light reflecting off a shiny object about the size and shape of a shoe box.  It was sitting directly on the dirt of the ground under the house.  

Crouching down, from a kneeling position, Kelly put her entire arm in through the hole and, pressing her shoulder against the other floorboards, she felt around until her hand found its target: a cold, smooth covering around a solid block of some sort.  She grasped it and pulled it toward the opening of the hole and, from there, she lifted the block out  and onto the floor. 

Carefully, she brushed the dirt off the clear, brittle plastic, and, looking through it, she could see three note-books.  Unfolding the plastic,  she pulled the books out and placed them gently onto her lap.  Their soft grey cardboard covers were creased and dusty and partially torn.  Without any hesitation, Kelly opened the cover of the first book - on top of the pile. Her heart raced.  She wondered what the old books might contain.

The pages  were slightly yellowed and worn.  The first page contained a few sentences - handwritten in slightly smudged black ink - all very old-fashioned cursive with lots of loops and swirls; unlike the print and scrawls of more contemporary writing.  Kelly read the words staring at her from the page:   Journal  Hilda Miller   1925

She hesitated.  She wondered whether it would it be wrong to read the diary of someone else.  Maybe, she reasoned, it would be different and therefore OK  if the owner of the diary was a person now dead, as in this case; and the words written were from a time so long ago that the events and the people mentioned  would  be completely unrelated to anyone now living.  She still wasn't sure what to do.

She flicked through the pages of the notebooks - all filled with the same beautiful looped penmanship.  As she did, an old photo fell  from the first book and onto her lap.  It was a small creased black-and-white photo of a tall and handsome young man with short dark hair, olive skin, kind intelligent eyes and dressed in a WWI uniform.   He looked so young.  Early 20's at the most, she thought.  With the picture another object also fell from the book.   It was a dried and pressed flower:  a faded and brittle pink geranium.  

Looking at the photo and the flower - the stakes had been raised.  Kelly had questions now that demanded answers.  She decided that she would read the diary.  Rightly or wrongly.  She took the bundle, got up from the floor and walked out to the kitchen.  She made a cup of tea, sat down at the small kitchen table and opened the first of the notebooks:   Journal Hilda Miller 1925.  She took a deep breath, turned the page, and read on.

Wednesday August 12th  1925

I have decided to write a journal.  I think moving into a new house is like starting a new life.  So, within these pages  I will record some of that new life here.  In a quiet moment of my day I will record little thoughts that I have.  Maybe a little story about my new neighbours - not that I know many yet.  Also, I will write about my boys - Edward - now six and Tommy now three.  Oh, and John of course.  He's still driving the electric trams in the city.

I'm sitting in my lovely modern kitchen. We moved into our new bungalow only 4 weeks ago.  It is one of  hundreds of bungalows being built around Adelaide - mostly for returned soldiers. 

In my lovely bungalow I have a gas stove and hot water from a tap inside the house.  In fact I have two taps giving hot water in the house. One in the kitchen and one in a room called the bath-room which has a bath in it and a handbasin and shaving mirror on the wall.   We have a flush toilet and electric lights as well !  

It is all so different from when I was a child growing up on the farm in Bowhill.  Not that long ago really.  We had the wood stove and no plumbing in the house at all - let alone a bath-room with a tap supplying hot water!  

I have my gramophone player and some music records as well. Oh, and I have a telephone!  My neighbours come in sometimes to use the telephone.  That is one way I'm getting to meet them.  I feel thoroughly spoiled here.  And so very modern.  

We have fireplaces in the front sitting-room, the dining room and our bedroom.  Since we moved in - we have had a cosy fire in the front room every night.  It's still winter and the nights have been quite cold. John likes to sit in his chair in the front room and read the paper and smoke his pipe after tea.  Once I've done the dishes and tidied up the rest of the house - I sit with him, and the children play next to the fire near us until it's time for bed.  Sometimes John or I will read to them from books which we get from the library in the city.  I travel to the city once a week for a treat and I do a little shopping and go to the  library on North Terrace. I go in on the train from Brighton.

Edward is in school at Glenelg.  It's a very easy 3 mile walk for him.  He stops and plays down in the creek on his way home from school most nights.  He catches tadpoles, which he brings home in his billy tin, or he's climbing trees with his  friends.  Tommy is so lonely now that Edward is in school.  He follows me around the house all day - under my feet and asking me constantly when Edward will be home.  He waits at the gate for Eddy from about 2 o'clock in the afternoon and - when he sees him far away up the street  - he's out the gate and running bare foot up the dirt road until he reaches his brother.  Edward pretends to be annoyed when Tommy runs to meet him and he hugs him.  He tells Tommy to stop being 'mushy' and a 'duffer'.  But they walk home hand in hand all the same.

I am sitting here with the lovely afternoon sun shining into my kitchen.  I have my cup of tea and a piece of freshly baked bread, which I made this morning, with the butter I churned yesterday and which  I put directly into the ice chest.  I can hear the chooks in the yard now.  They always remind me of my childhood on the farm.  We get a good supply of eggs and I have given some to Mrs Winter, my neighbour  across the road.  She gave me some of  her peaches - which I have preserved and I've also made some jam.  I gave her a jar and she asked me for the recipe.  How do you like that?  My recipe!  I will grow some fruit trees and plant a vegetable garden - once we are more settled.

Sitting here thinking about things - still makes me sad.  I think that is why I try to stay busy most of the time.  To forget about the past.  

I feel lonely and sad - when I'm home alone in a quiet part of the day.  Alone with my memories. I shouldn't let myself look back.  But sometimes I can't help imagining that Edward is still with me - instead of John.  I imagine, sometimes, that  I am married to Edward and we built this house together.  He is still so deeply embedded in my heart and in my memories. I wish I could let him go - and forget.

 I can still see you Edward.  I can see you on the day you proposed marriage to me - before you left.  It was the day that you had your photo taken in your uniform.  You looked so handsome that day. I am looking at your photo now.  I keep it with me always.  Even on the day I married John - I carried your photo with me.   I wonder so many things about how you died, Edward.  I know it was on the battlefield at Somme in France - Wednesday  6th September 1916.  I know that much but beyond that I don't want to know any more.   I can't bear to imagine it.  My heart breaks when I even start to think -

I'll put your photo into this journal with the flower you gave me on the day you proposed.  I will keep them forever. 

I sometimes wish that we didn't agree to wait to get married until after the war.  We didn't think the fighting would take so very long.  Six months - maybe.  We would marry when you got back - we decided.  I promised you that I would wait.  I didn't think that I would wait for an eternity -

I sit and talk to you like this often, Edward.  As if you are still with me.  I show you interesting stories in the newspaper and I discuss politics and philosophy with you - like we used to do. I feel that you are still with me and I see you in my dreams, sometimes.  You walk with me and we talk about my boys - Edward and Tom.  You tell me that I'm a good mother.  And then I wake up … and I'm alone again.  I hide my tears from John.  I try to look happy.  Especially for my boys.  They don't want a sad old mother!  Silly me!  I get so annoyed at myself sometimes.

I remember, Edward, the day that we met.    It was 12 years ago now - 1913.  But I see it like it was yesterday - in my memories. You were 21 years old then and in your 3rd year of medicine at the Adelaide University.  You had a briefcase full of books and you looked so studious sitting there near the window of the tram reading a newspaper.  I can see you now with your short dark hair and your tall athletic figure in a neat grey suit.  So handsome.  I remember your kind green eyes.  I was sitting opposite  you on the tram that day.  I was 17 and I wore my good white lace shirt with my  long, grey ankle length wool skirt, laced boots, my hair up in a chignon with curls falling around my neck and face. I used to like my hair like that; before I had it all cut short in the modern Eton style that I have now. 

I was reading my novel.  I'm not sure exactly which book it was - as I didn't read much of it that day.  Almost immediately we found ourselves engaged in a wonderful conversation. You spoke to me first - about my book.  You asked me if I liked the author. It was a Thomas Hardy!  I remember now - the book was Far From The Madding Crowd!  I remember.  From that moment we never ran out of things to talk about.  Politics, philosophy, literature …  

John and I don't talk a lot.   But he is a good and decent man.  And I am quite fond of him.  He's a good father and a reliable husband. He built Edward a billy cart.  He's very good like that.  I am fond of him.  One day I might grow to love him.

Well, enough of this wishing and sadness.  Everyone lost someone in the war.  I see so many wounded returned-soldiers when I go in to the city.  It is so sad.  They have lost limbs and they are blinded or injured in other ways.  They are all so young too.  So, I shouldn't feel sorry for myself.  I will stop being silly and selfish and stupid!  Right this minute.  I will dry my eyes with my apron - and I will smile.  I will stop remembering the past - and I will get busy again.

I've just looked at the time and it's half past three.  Eddy will be home soon and he'll want something to eat.  I made a jubilee cake this morning with our eggs from the chooks. It's in the cake tin ready for him.  

I can hear Tommy waking up now from his afternoon nap. He was very tired today as he has a nasty cold and he isn't sleeping as well at night with his sore throat. I'm keeping the fire going all day while he's sick.  I don't want him to catch pneumonia.

So back to work for me. I'll be getting John's tea on soon.  Lamb chops with boiled potatoes and my preserved peaches with custard.  He likes that.  The grocer , Mr Williams, came by this morning with his horse and cart and I gave him a big order for the week.  My cupboards are now full.  I am very lucky in my life.  I must remember that.

Kelly looked at her watch.  Coincidently, it was also 3.30pm and she needed to go and pick up her own Edward, also six year old, from the Glenelg primary school.  She realised that it would have been the same school that Hilda's Edward attended almost 90 years earlier.  Not surprising, she thought,  as she was living in the same house as Hilda and the school at Glenelg was the oldest in the area. In fact it was over 125 years old and it was the local school for the suburb. 

Kelly had promised  Edward that while she was on leave from her job at the hospital, for the six weeks, she would pick him up from school everyday at 3.30pm -instead of the much later time that she usually picked him up from the after school-hours care.  She knew that such long days at the school were not ideal for such a little boy and he did get very tired.  However, her long work-days meant that there was currently no other options for them.

Kelly lifted Liam up off the couch, where he had been quietly watching cartoons on television. He also was staying home from child-care while she took leave from work.  She grabbed her car-keys and she raced out the front door.  Maybe they could all go to Macca's on the way home, she thought.  Kelly felt like an espresso coffee - and maybe she could have a little time with her sons - just having a chat and spending some time together - over burgers, fries and soft-serves.

The rest of the week raced by - and Kelly managed to paint out four rooms.  As she did,  she imagined how Hilda and John and their boys would have walked through these very same rooms almost 90 years earlier - in such a different world - technologically and socially.  

Kelly also managed to actually cook a cake. Something she hadn't done for years.  A jubilee cake.  She was now curious about what this cake would taste like. It was the cake Hilda had mentioned in her diary.  Kelly googled the recipe.  It was a nice teacake with dried fruit and icing on top with a sprinkle of coconut.  

Somehow cooking for her boys, and for David, she felt more like a mother for the first time in many years.  The boys helped her to cook and, during the process,  they managed to fit in a little 'flour food-fight.' And they had fun - together.  The boys seemed to really enjoy this fun side to their mum.  They had rarely seen this side to her in their short lives. They hugged her tightly and brought her little flowers and flowery-weeds from the garden every day.  And she kissed them both on their foreheads and she hugged them both - before putting all of their lovely 'flowers' into vases and glass jars - which began to fill up mantles and cupboard tops throughout the house.

During her break from work, Kelly felt more relaxed and happier than she had in a long time.  She started to remember who she used to be - before duty and responsibility and expectations from the world, and from herself, buried that person.  She had often felt that she was 'dying inside'.  She began to understand what that feeling meant now.

Her life as a Paediatrician dominated her life.  The status of the job did not make her happy. It simply robbed her of the life that she truly wanted. It allowed no time for anything else.  It was an absolute  vocation - not to be shared with anything or anyone else.  If she had been questioned  she would say that her family came first as a priority in her life.  But, she knew that if she wrote down the hours that she spent at work  and the hours that she spent with her family - the results would  belie this assertion.  

For the first time in a long time - she and David shared a coffee and some time together.  They sat outside on a garden bench in the late afternoon sunshine.  Like they used to.  Kelly tried to think of something to talk to David about.  It used to be so easy.  They could talk for hours about anything and everything. But that was a long time ago.  Years ago.  Now, somehow, she felt that she was sitting next to a stranger.  And, disturbingly, she wasn't sure if she wanted to be close to him anymore.  The silence was deafening.  They drank their coffee.

Monday came around in the third week of Kelly's leave from work.  Her curiosity about Hilda flared again and, on a quiet afternoon, sitting in the kitchen once more with a hot cup of tea,  she placed the plastic parcel on the table in front of  her.  This time she decided to start with the second note-book.  

She opened the book.  The first page read:  Hilda Miller.   Journal   1945

                                                 *                        *                        *

I will write part 2 of this short story next week.

Have a lovely week everyone and remember to enjoy the sunshine on your face, the wind in your hair … and a lovely coffee (or tea) with a good laugh and interesting conversation.  I got to do that this afternoon - with my two teenage children in the city - while my other two children went to a birthday party.  It was lovely.  David is arranging moving house - so he stayed home (poor lamb - but someone has to do it.  I volunteered him.)

Death of a Bungalow

                                    

We are arranging the demolition of our home: a stately 1925 Californian, gentlemen's-bungalow near  a lovely beach in Adelaide.  

We plan to replace the old house with a larger, two-story home to accomodate our  family of six.  However, my feelings about destroying this house, brimming with character and  infused with the memories of  generations of families who have lived here before us, are conflicted.  

I imagine, at this time, that a scarlet letter 'T' - for traitor - is emblazoned on my forehead.  I am the final custodian of this house: the protector, the conservator, the guardian. Yet, this week, I will sign the papers to have the house destroyed. I think that warrants a scarlet letter 'T' ... maybe on my heart.  

I wish we had another choice.  But I don't think that we do.  

We first came to this house 13 years ago - in 2001. At that time we were a young family with two pre-school children.  The house was then one of the worst houses in a lovely beachside, tree-lined street. 

The street contained an eclectic assortment of housing styles: late 1800's villas,1920's Californian bunglows, 1930's  Dutch gable and art deco houses, and a range of more contemporary houses -  from small 1950's cottages  through to modern McMansions.  

Our  bungalow was described by the realtor, then, as  a 'fixer-upper' and  'a renovator's delight'.  But, euphemisms aside,  it was  actually a 'run-down dilapidated mess'.  Although, the asking-price was only $255,000, which was quite good value for an Adelaide beachside property in a 'good' suburb.  

The house had been a 'rental'  over the preceding 20 years and, in that time, it had progressively fallen into an ever-worsening state of disrepair.  Until eventually, when it was put on the market seven months earlier, no-one had wanted it.  The open inspections petered out, and the marketing campaign had gradually wound down until all that remained was a small photo of the house, with a price attached, stuck to the realtor's window. And that was where we found it. 

On the day that we arranged to look at the house, the agent  seemed bored and tired of the property.  He gave us the house key and the address and sent us off to look at the place by ourselves.  As we left his office he gave us a withered look - as if he expected us to return in 20 minutes, throw the key onto his desk, and then run out the door never to be seen by him or the house again.  He'd likely see it all before.

So, filled with excited anticipation, we drove to the address and our first impression of the house was …  that  we couldn't  see it !  It was completely hidden behind a  2 meter high red brick wall with a large old wooden-gate.  

Undeterred, we jumped from the car, marched over to the large splintered gate, turned its old metal handle and pushed.  But  it was stuck.  A foreshadowing - possibly. We tried again - gently-but-firmly this time.  It wouldn't budge.   Our efforts to open the gate incrementally intensified until, some minutes later, with our excitement rapidly turning into exasperation -   we both  took a running leap at our wooden nemesis - and hit it with the full force of our bodies.   The gate budged a little, at first,  and then it burst open, with a loud bang, sending us both stumbling onto the uneven and brocken paving-bricks of the  driveway within.  Success!

Regaining our footing and our composure - we looked about us and gained our first impression of the place, which was  …  horror!  Our high spirits shifted down many notches.  Our enthusiasm almost completely evaporated.  

The front yard was a mess!  Straggly overgrown bushes cluttered the 'garden' (a term used extremely loosely here),  knee-high grass and weeds covered most of the remaining ground, and all vegetation  pushed desperately up through mountains of bark chips.  In amongst all this, strewn all about, was a stack of rubbish: broken plastic buckets and pots, up-turned cracked bird-baths, old papers and cardboard.  And, as if that wasn't all quite bad enough, sitting obtrusively and bizzarrely,  slap bang in the centre of it all, directly in front of the house, was  a  large old rusty garden-shed!  Presumably, the shed had been  dumped there as the back-yard no longer existed. We  could see, as we looked down the side of the property, an old fence sitting bang up against the back of the house. A subdivision from long ago.  Beyond the fence, the roof of another house could be seen.  

Recovering from the shock of the yard, our attention turned to the bungalow.  It was set well back from the road and it was a typical 1920's Californian gentlemen's bungalow:  red brick and stucco finished walls, low pitch gabled corrogated iron roof, large gabled verandah, faded and peeling bottle-green timber joinery and front door, double-hung sash windows with lead light glazing to the upper sections. The house looked run down but it managed to retain  an air of dignity and grandeur. It had the appearance of a large and stately home from a by-gone era. Our hopes lifted… a little.

Tentatively, we walked 'houseward' (yes, I did 'invent' that word).  We were unsure  what we might find inside.  Reaching the verandah, David pulled the large old-fashioned house-key from the pocket of his jeans.  He placed it into the aged lock of the front door - and turned it.  The door opened … and immediately we were hit by a blast of musty, stale  air which escaped from the dark  interior. We hesitated, momentarily,  braced ourselves again, and continued on inside.   

The house was dark. We managed to find an old light switch, and flicked it on.  The electricity was connected.   A lightbulb, dangling from the ceiling by a rope-like cord and covered in cob webs, sprang to life.  We had light. We could see. 

The  hallway was spacious and the ceilings were incredibly high.  The feeling of the place was one of  faded grandeur.  There was a lovely sense of space and charm - not found anymore in newer houses. 

Venturing deeper into the bowels of the house we found that the beautiful original character features were still intact:  fret work in the hallway, ornate plaster ceilings, 1920's glazed-brick fireplaces, solid western red-cedar hallway cupboards, doors and other timberwork.  Although, time and neglect had also left their mark: cob webs stretched from every corner;  the previously pale carpets were now a yellow-brown  and full of sand which crunched under our feet as we walked;  the walls were cracked and pockmarked with holes the size of golf balls, and the paint on the walls was stained a brownish color from water damage and presumably the smoke from  fireplaces over the decades; the solid timber doors had been partially stripped, revealing their dark wood, but then left  half finished and with peeling strips of white/yellow paint; the kitchen contained only an old  sink, a tap and  an old peeling wood-laminate wardrobe, presumably used as a pantry by tenants;  brocken and torn plastic blinds covered the dirty windows through the house. 

David and I wandered through the house silently.  Just looking.  Speechless.  We drifted in and out of the various rooms and finally, when  we found each other again in the hallway, after about 10 minutes, we had made up our minds about the house. We were both absolutely sure.  We loved it!  We wanted buy it!  The full asking price, of course!

We drove directly to the realtor's office, signed the papers to purchase the house (once we'd convinced him that we weren't joking … and we were of sound mind) and, within a couple of weeks, we had moved in - with our children.  

Over the ensuing 13 years we never stopped loving the house.  In fact, I can say that I've never had a house that I've loved so much.   And I've lived in nine houses during my life. The house is sunny and friendly.  Yes, friendly.  It is possible for a house to feel 'friendly'.   I'm not sure how that happens.  It just does.  And it has long ago changed from a lovely house to a lovely home for us.

We renovated the house, over the years: landscaped the gardens;  painted  inside and out; polished the baltic-pine floorboards; installed a cosy 'simulated wood-burning' gas-heater, and reverse-cycle air-conditioning; furnished the house in a style sympathetic to the 1920's era;  rewired and replumbed.   We restored the old house - into a beautiful  home.  Eventually, our own stories and memories and  secrets (mostly related to 'failed-budgeting' - by me) melded into the fabric of the house - along with all of the memories and stories of the generations  before us.

However, with time, we grew as a family - with two more children. We became a family of six. And  those children grew older and we all found that we needed  more space than our two-bedroom, one bathroom bungalow could give us.  We considered lots of options: but with a fence against the back of the house, we couldn't extend; and we couldn't afford another larger house in the area - as prices had skyrocketed over the past decade; and we didn't want to move from the suburb.  

So, we did what all mature and sensible people would do: we ignored the problem, pretended that it didn't exist, and hoped that, in some magical way, the predicament would sort itself out.  That kind of worked ... for a while. Although, our three children (two teens) had to share one small bedroom, and our four year old had to sleep in the dining room.  As we all sit at the dining-table for breakfast each morning, Ollie sometimes yells at us:  'Get out of my bedroom! I'm still sleeping.'  He's still not aware that he doesn't actually have a bedroom, per se. But I know that I can't get away with that forever!

Finally, one day, not long ago, a  wise and sweet friend of mine delicately broached the subject of the dearth of bedrooms in our bungalow relative to the number of occupants in our house.  She delicately suggested that we might consider bulldozing the house and rebuilding a larger house on the block - if we didn't want to move suburbs.  

What?! I was shocked.  I was insulted. I was speechless.  That idea had truly never crossed my mind. That was never an option we'd considered.  We couldn't do that! With all of the work we'd done renovating the house and our history in it - we felt very emotional about our bungalow! The house felt more than just a house  to us.

   

But, over the next few months, as I watched property developers in our suburb bulldoze character houses and subdivide blocks - I realised that if we didn't do this  - then someone else probably would.  The house isn't heritage listed, so if we moved, we couldn't protect it anyway.  

Finally, we let ourselves begin to seriously consider the idea of bulldozing  and rebuilding.  At least we could  stay in our lovely street in a suburb we've grown to really like.

The decision was made.  We would pull the plug on the house.  We would relegate it to history and memories where people may one day point to our McMansion and say sadly - I remember when there used to be a beautiful and elegant Californian gentlemen's-bungalow there.  It was lovely.  It had been there since 1925 when the suburb was first established with the returned WW1 soldiers.  When people knew how to build a solid house that would last forever - unless some heartless person tore it down, of course.  And then my name might be mentioned.  And these unknown future-people would shake there heads sadly and comment about the heartlessness of some people.

I've told myself, and others, that a house is 'just a house'.  It is just an object.   It is only through the eyes and the hearts of people that the house comes to life.  People see historical eras in brightly hued sentiments - and these feelings are simply projected onto the house.

But, I think that I protest too much.  I don't really believe all that.  My bungalow holds the memories and the magic of  the eras that have lived within its walls.  At least I feel  it does.  

However, the house will be demolished within a month.

My friend advised me to take lots of photos of my  Californian gentlemen's bungalow.  Then, the memories of the house will live on in pictures on my walls, as well as in my memories, and in my heart.  

And then, she said, just blow it up, Robyn.  And move on.  That's progress.

                                  *                                 *                               *

A funny sign I bought this week, while out enjoying a Gloria Jean's,  to hang on the wall of  my study-to-be (when we build the new house):

         'A wise man once said:  I don't know. Ask a woman!'

I offered my lovely wooden sign to David - to hang on his study wall.  But, for some reason he rolled his eyes to the ceiling, made some comment about women and 'acting superior' and men - or some such thing.  I wasn't really listening.  But, the up-shot was that he thinks the sign would  look better in my study.  Which was very thoughtful of him, I think.

But to any men reading this blog - the sign is, of course, a little joke.  To any women reading this - I'm winking discretely at you - and smiling.

                                         *                              *                           *          

Also, to bulldoze a house that we love - reminds me of a joke:

A farmer is showing another man around his farm and the man notices a pig with only three legs.  He asks the farmer how the pig came to have only three legs.  The farmer replies that there is a story to that.

'Oh I'd love to hear it,' the man says.

'Well,' says the farmer, 'that there pig is a pretty special pig.  He's done all sorts of amazing things in his life.  Like there was the time that there was a fire in the house.  We were all asleep and about to be burned to death in our beds.  Then along comes our pig, he jumps through the window and drags us all to safety.  Saved the whole family!'

'Wow!' says the man. 'Is that how he injured himself and came to have only three legs?'

'Oh, no!' says the farmer. 'It wasn't then.  But, there was another time little Jimmy fell down the well.  We didn't know what to do.  But our pig here, he runs to the barn and comes back with a rope in his mouth. He ties the rope around a tree, over yonder, and he lowers himself down the well - holding onto the rope with his teeth.  His teeth, I tell you!  He goes right in there and saves our boy, Jimmy!'

'Wow!' says the man again.'That's amazing! Is that when he lost his leg?'

'Oh,no!' says the farmer. 'You haven't heard the half of it, with our wonderful pig, here.  There was the time the car was rolling down the hill, about to fall off a cliff nearby.  Wife and kids were in the car.  Screaming.  I was in shock.  Our pig runs as fast as he can, jumps through the window of the moving car and slams his leg down onto the car brake.  Stops the car and saves the family … again.'

'Is that when he lost his leg?' the man asks.

'Oh, no' says the farmer.

'Actually, I get the idea about how special this pig is,' says the man. 'But how exactly did he lose his leg?'

'Well', says the farmer,'when you've got a pig as special as this one  … you don't want to eat him all at once!'

                           *                     *                      *                                      

I hope everyone has a lovely week.  I'll write a short story of fiction about  a bungalow and its inhabitants - next week.

Weekly family-outings: worth the effort!

My family and I have just returned from our ‘Sunday family-outing' which this week was hiking along trails at Waterfall Gully, in the Adelaide foothills.


We are a busy family of six - four children (aged 4 - 17 years), my husband, David, and me - and I've found that if we don't plan a regular outing of together-time each week - then it usually doesn't happen. Ad hoc doesn't work for us. Laziness and ‘next week' excuses - work more naturally, unfortunately.


However, with discipline, has come routine - and with our weekly family outings have come many happy times and lovely memories of Sundays together.


Family outings are something completely different from the routine of daily life. They push us out of our comfort zones and, as D. H. Lawrence once wrote, out from the ‘suffocating comfort' of our homes. We throw ourselves out the front door , every Sunday, and into adventures and excitement and challenges: on long hikes up hilly terrains with glorious views; into beach adventures on surf-mats and in kayaks; on bike rides along river-side bikeways or beside the ocean; on  boardwalks along cliff-tops overlooking the sea; to great new playgrounds (a wonderful playground for anyone in Adelaide - discovered last Sunday on a family outing - is the 'Bonython Playground' in the north-west parklands adjacent to the river Torrens. Fantastic fun for young and older children! And great coffee!).



Another great consequence of our family-outings has been that they have helped bring our children closer together as friends - more than just being siblings. Siblings don't always get-along and, in our family, my older two children are now closer and fight less than they used to - since we began our weekly family-outings about three years ago. Maybe helping each other, while on our excursions, and experiencing many great times together, has had the effect of helping them to see each other in a new light, and maybe they've learned to appreciate each other more. Either way, they're really good friends now - and that wasn't always the case.


Modern family life is often busy and leisure times can be quite solitary.  With this combination - there is the potential for  family members to become relatively  detached from each other - not only by walls and doors - but by the isolation that comes with modern recreational activities:  computer games, television, smart phones,  iPads,  iPods, and so forth.  


In times long past - before computers and televisions and even radios - families would more often sit together, at the end of their long working days, and talk beside the fireplace, play the piano and sing songs together, go down to the beach or into the backyard and sleep under the stars on hot nights, or engage in lively discussions over nightly family dinners around large dining-tables. These things rarely happen today for many families - and thus the importance of scheduling 'quality-time' together on a regular basis.  To reconnect and have fun together.



Alas, in my family, we don't use fireplaces (well only occasionally when we feel like toasting marshmellows on long sticks), we don't play pianos (although we do play guitars - just not that well) and, thank God, we don't sing songs together (as we are all tone-deaf), we don't sleep under the stars (I hate the mozzies), and, unfortunately, meals are usually dashed-together ‘frozen packet-food’affairs - thrown into the microwave as I exclaim: '5 minutes to reheat this?!! Who's got that sort of time?!'    At other times, in my house, similar frozen packet-food is thrown into my gas-oven and then it is usually forgotten - until the smoke detector reminds me that it's still in there.

'What’s that noise?' is usually my first response, as I hear the smoke detector screaming at me from the kitchen. I sit for a while, wondering if the noise is coming from next door or up the street … and then it all comes back to me … and I race up the passage to the kitchen, throw open the oven door, get hit in the face with a cloud of grey smoke and the smell of burning charcoal as I desperately pull from the oven the blackened remains of whatever it was that I tossed in there ... so long ago. 

I can usually scrape off the burnt bits and save some of the remains - sort of! Cooking is not my favourite sport (It is a sort-of sport for me - as it usually involves running as fast as I can to the kitchen at some stage in the process).

I’m also ashamed to admit that sitting around a large family dinner-table every night is not something my family have made a habit of doing. We usually sit in front of the lounge room television, with plates on our knees, to eat our meals. About once or twice a week (on a good week) we sit at the dining-table for dinner and eat spaghetti bolognese. (Roast chicken with vege's - at Christmas).


So, our Sunday outings are extra special for us, as a family, because we have no other time each week when we are together for a number of hours - just being together, and really talking and having fun ... together.


A recent Australian study, reported in the Daily Mail - Australia (July 15th 2013) - showed that my busy family are similar to many other Australian families who are also  finding it hard to spend significant quality time together.  


In the study  2000 Australian families were surveyed.  The results  showed  that  families spend a total of only 8 hours each week together with their children - 2hours and 20 minutes each day on weekends, and only an average of 36 minutes each day on week days.


Even then, 70% of the families surveyed said that the time they spent with their children was in silence in front of the television, or reading, or playing computer games, or they had been just too tired to talk.


More than 50% said that the only real time that they got to spend quality-time together was when they were away from the house on a holiday - far from the distractions at home. Some 56% of those surveyed said that they booked a holiday purely to get some real quality-time with their family without the demands of daily life.


The top 10 reasons that parents gave for not getting enough quality family time was:

1. My partner and I work long hours

2. We spend our evenings and weekends busy with house-hold chores

3. The children are at school when I'm not working

4. The children are often watching television

5. My partner and I work anti-social hours

6. The children are often playing computer games

7. The children are at an age where they don't really want to spend time with us

8. The children are often out with their friends

9. The children spend their evenings studying

10. We spend a lot of time at various sports/after school clubs separately


I can relate to these situations - as my husband and I, between us, work 6 days per week. Our only full-day off, where we the whole family are all together at home, is Sunday. And this is why we chose Sundays for family-outings.


Also, our older two children are now teenagers (14 and 17 years old) - but I've found that they still really enjoy our family-outings together, and they schedule their other activities around them. Maybe, starting the family-outings when they were  pre-teens has helped them to want to continue these family activities as teenagers.  Something for others to consider.



Later, when our children become adults, I hope that we can morph our ‘family-Sunday outings’ into something else: 'Sunday bar-b-ques' with their families over, or drop-in coffee morning-teas or lunches on week-ends, or Sunday lunch roasts (if I take cooking lessons - or buy a cooked chicken - maybe). We'll see. We'll adapt. 


But I think it would be lovely for us to always make time for each other - together - somehow.  We'll just need to remember to stay mindful of how important that is.  


I think anyone considering organising weekly or fortnightly family-outings - will also find them well worth the effort.




* * *


Now for a little description (and hopefully a little inspiration for anyone reading this to get out and about) of our walk in Waterfall Gully in the beautiful Adelaide foothills today:



                                              Waterfall Gully (in the Adelaide foothills):


We last came to Waterfall Gully a few weeks ago. The gully was then orange and red and yellow with autumn leaves flaming on laden branches . Dry grass painted the gully floor and the steep hillsides with a golden brush - the last vestige of the summer before the advancing winter swept it away completely in a wash of green. The weather was warm then: 23C. It was our Indian summer. Butterflies still danced along the trails, birds darted between the tree tops or sang a constant chorus, and the creek trickled peacefully between dry boulders and rocks.

Our children sat at the water's edge, and threw pebbles into the glassy pools. They hung their legs over rocky embankments and they swished their bare feet in the cool water. Ripples expanded lazily from myriad epicentres as each missile reached its target with a loud ‘plonk’. Sunshine filled the gully with a soft golden light or, in other areas, it filtered between a fluttering canopy of leaves, in streaks of brightness which dissolved before reaching the ground. Looking directly overhead we admired the azure sky which stretched endlessly upward, beyond the towering walls of the gully.

Back then, we wandered along the dusty trails in sandles and t-shirts and cotton shorts and floaty summer-skirts. This place was warm and peaceful and beautiful ... when we last came here.


Now, returning once more, it is something different. It is cold and still and sleeping. Although, in its wintery way ... it is still beautiful. The quiet creek has become a torrent: swollen, gushing, thunderous. It roars and bubbles as it races between rocks and attacks the boundaries of its muddy confines. Frogs croak loudly above the noise from the wild water, and only occasionally birds can be heard calling from the tree-tops high above our heads. The gully is in shadow now - as the northern sun hides behind the cliff-tops. The sky has now only the pretence of a summer day - with its clear blue face providing no substantial warmth. The air is biting-cold. It burns our nostrils as we breath. It freezes our finger-tips and our noses. It tingles on our cheeks and it invigorates our souls - which had felt stale and smothered from long periods indoors.

Thick jumpers and scarves are pulled high around our necks. Woollen hats, long pants, thick socks, and leather shoes stave off the cold and protect us from this unforgiving weather.

The deciduous trees are now mostly bare with their black gnarled branches twisting and reaching upward into the empty sky . The Australian eucalypts have retained their olive-green folliage and, along with the dense expanse of ferns, the tangled web of blackberry bushes, and the thick long grass, the gully is washed a lush wintery-green. This verdant monochrome is only interupted by a sprinkling of tiny yellow sour-sobs, which hint at a promise of spring, and the ghostly-white of eucalypt tree-trunks and branches rising elegantly from the hillsides - like fine oil-painting brush-strokes in a green watercolour landscape.

Hiking higher into the hills, we come to an impasse where the trail crosses the swollen rushing creek. We accept the challenge presented to us, and, balancing on loose rocks and dead, blackened tree branches, we manage to hop and balance and wobble and leap to the trail on the other side. Less sturdy folk turn back - athough most don't. David carries our four year old son across. Ollie waves and squeals with delight at the adventure of it all.

Finally, after forty minutes of trekking up into the hills of the gully, we turn around and walk back down toward our car - now far away - beyond the forest in which we find ourselves. The middle two children, 14 year old Ethan and 11 year old Liana, have run back down the path and we don’t see them again until we get back to the car, half an hour later.

David and Bella, our 17 year old, chat about politics and physics and movies … They laugh and create happy memories to be recalled years from now. Four year old Ollie holds my hand. I don't want him to fall over - partly because he's wearing my good new jumper - with the long sleeves rolled right up (he was cold) - and he's chatting all the way down the hillside trail- as only a four year old would: 
'Mum, do you know what can break metal?' 
'No, Ollie'. 
'Lava could, mummy!' (like lava is the obvious answer). 'Mummy, do you know what would break material?' 
'Scissors?' 
'Yes - but also lava would!' he says.  'Mum, do you know what would break a house?' 
'Lava?' I ask. 
'YES! Good mum! Lava would'. 

He’s thrilled that he is teaching me something this time. I mustn't laugh. He hates it when we laugh at him. Although, I do tell him that if I need to cut some material in the future - I must remember to get some 'lava'. 
'Yes!' he says quite seriously, and pleased that he’s been able to help me with this potential conundrum.

We get back to our car, at the bottom of the hill, parked along the roadside.The missing two  children are waiting there for us - happy and red-cheeked and excited. We get into the warm car and remove scarves and hats and jackets. We all agree on our next stop. Macca's. Hot coffee. A late lunch. Laughter and conversations and some more serious discussions about ... whatever the children, or we, think is important.

Ollie's out in the playground after making 'scary-creatures’ with his chicken-nuggets, chips and tomato-sauce painted onto their ‘scary-nugget faces' .

A lovely winter afternoon for the six of us. Another lovely ‘Sunday family-outing’.



I hope I may have inspired even one person to venture out into the world and try something new and fun and invigorating and challenging ... and then finish up with a lovely hot coffee and some lovely conversations and ... another happy memory to add to your collection... of happy memories ... and maybe a few jokes.


Have a nice week - whatever you choose to do.