CATHARSIS CHRONICLES | JULY COMPETITION

When The Land Remembers

About the place I grew up, seen through the eyes of the land

Home © Photo by the author

For hundreds of thousands of years I was land, an unspecified part of a tree-lined ridge, facing west, about twenty miles from the sea. Kookaburras and Currawongs nested in my trees, families of possums played at night, while a snuffling wombat dug a burrow.

Without maps or compass, but possessing a deep understanding of the natural world, the Darramurragal people were the custodians of this high ridge country. The land was their mother. Hunting marsupials and gathering native honey, they roamed freely here for forty thousand years, treading lightly, watching the stars, and sharing ancient song and stories around fires.

Then came the white man with his paper and pencils, marking invisible boundaries across the sacred land. Quickly taking it for themselves, men widened ancient foot tracks into roads for bullock trains, giant Blue Gums cut down and carted away. Worse, the first people who had so diligently tended this land were brutally murdered or pushed elsewhere.

When all my useful timber was felled, the ridge was planted with plums and China Pear trees and became part of Brown’s orchard. Thomas Brown was also an early environmentalist and declared sections of his property off limits for logging, happily the last stands of original Blue Gum forest remain not far from here, in almost pre-colonial condition.

In 1913 the contrary orchardist was involved in an altercation regarding child support and allegedly murdered a policeman. He was captured, sentenced to death but afterward declared insane, and the crown assumed the property. Afterward the orchard was carved into smaller sections, his old homestead demolished and land sold for housing.

I was largely cleared but for two or three blue gums, then sat empty for several years. But I was not to be left alone. Other men arrived in cars, bringing string lines, papers, pegs and a theodolite.

Months later, bricks were piled up, lengths of oregon lumber and hardwood were delivered from a mill only a few miles away. There were bags of concrete piled into small mounds, a small mixer making ‘mud’ for the brick layers. Men scurried over the land, busy and purposeful. Concrete footings were poured into freshly dug holes.

There were days of rain. The building site emptied as workers took cover. As if the sky was crying for the loss of habitat.

Then a house rose from the ground. Now the land could never be the same.

Slowly but irreversibly, blockwork, bricks, frames, floors, roof, tiles, windows, plumbing, electrical wiring, walls and doors are added.

After several months, it was declared finished, done, complete.

A new house.

Neighbours, disliking modern architecture, found its split level design, tall ceilings, large windows and ornamental block walls offensive, and declared the house to be unliveable.

But a woman thought it perfect. One day in 1961, a family of five moved in. Two parents, two boys and a little girl.

They settled into their first new home. Parents at one end, children at the other.

The boys shared a bedroom, but fought frequently. The living room often looked like a war zone of toys as the parents fought to maintain order amongst the sparring pair while decorating and establishing a garden. The outdoor areas were paved, wisteria grew over a trellice. Someone built an unsteady treehouse in the tree on the back fence. The older boy would often climb up, just to be alone. The girl had tea parties with her dolls.

Smoke would pour from the iron incinerator on Sunday as leaves and garden cuttings were burned.

Trying to keep out of the way, the smaller boy planted a vegetable garden, before going inside to read or draw. One day, he and his sister found small parts from an old oil lamp while digging in the garden and wondered what had stood here before.

There were days of laughter and joy. The three kids would delight at the awful stench of the overfilled grease trap, wake early in anticipation of Father Christmas’s visit, and marvel at the colourful fireworks set off from the front yard on Guy Fawkes Night. Each summer they would pack themselves into a car and go on summer holiday.

Eight years later, a forth child, a baby sister arrived, and with her, more renovating. Two more bedrooms, and a play room are added to the house.

A swimming pool is also constructed, its arrival making the house more liveable in summer. The fierce western sun tempered by water eight feet deep. The children shriek as they find increasingly dangerous ways to enter the water, leaping from garden beds and the roof of the garage.

Years pass.

The boys are now teenagers. One sits in his untidy room on the window sill, smoking a cigarette. He hates the way his mother changes his room around while he is at school, but dislikes conflict. He has always loved being with girls and enjoys playing the guitar. He paints and has set up a photographic lab in his room.

The other sits at his desk, trying to understand the mysteries of algebra. He is troubled by this and many other things he cannot name. Dark thoughts and anger issues plot to steal his happiness. His is the smallest room, but it is always tidy and organised. He knows how to work hard, and plans on entering business as soon as he is able.

The older sister is twelve, she keeps to herself, reading, sewing, dreaming of horses, and perhaps, another life. She keeps a small group of girlfriends, and often spends weekends away.

The youngest girl wants to spend time with her big sister, but finds her still angry at the blonde arrival. Upset at losing her position and leaving her stranded as another middle child, they rarely play together.

So the youngest daughter spends time with the younger brother. It’s a strange symmetry. But he is kind, gentle and despite the eleven year age difference, doesn’t seem to mind having her around. She follows him around and often accompanies him on dates with his girlfriend.

The father spends hours on the roof, supposedly fixing leaks caused by the many renovations. On Saturdays he leaves the house at eleven thirty to go and play cricket for the afternoon. He comes back sweaty and smelling of beer.

The woman dreams of her next renovation or redecorating project and wishes her husband would talk to her, or at least listen to her. She tries to be a good mother, but is troubled by her eldest’s anger issues, and is terrified her middle son is homosexual. She feels guilty about the way she treats her mother, and finds it easier to be with the youngest daughter who is even tempered and amenable.

Buying a car as soon as he is able, the eldest boy moves out, the house becomes calmer, but quiet. After the unexpected shrinkage, the family retreat further into their own spaces. The father gets a new job, spending more time away from the family. The eldest daughter begins university, the middle son drops out of art school but tells no-one. The woman moves her mother to a nursing home and takes up painting.

But although things appear quiet, change is imminent. Almost twenty years since their arrival, moving trucks arrive, paintings are removed from walls, possessions are packed into crates, the house emptied of furniture, and without ceremony or farewell, the first family to occupy this house depart, never to return.

I wonder where they are today?

One of my therapists told me it was important to formally say goodbye to a place one has occupied for many years, in order to properly separate. He encouraged holding some kind of ceremony of thanks and farewell. We never did, and I have felt the tug of my childhood home at my sleeve ever since.

Thanks for reading, and to Chrysa and the editing team at CC for another interesting prompt.

[embed]Competition: July 1st-July 31st When the House Remembersmedium.com