the first thousand

A chance visit to where-I-did-some-of-my-growing-up prompted a drive-by ”Mama’s old house” today. But any pleasant memories for which I am thankful were overshadowed by the fact that the house was not there. Gone. Demolished. Made way for brand spanking new big pretentious plaster houses.
All of it gone. Including my name scribbled with a carpenter’s pencil. I remember writing it and thinking it would remain etched there on the framing forever. It lasted a mere 27 years.

Thank You for the reminder, God, that this life is temporal. (312)
That things don’t matter. (313)
That memories last. (314)

I remember the pot belly stove with shining copper flue belching heat into winter.
I remember learning to play the piano.
I remember Grandma and Grandpa living in the attached flat.
I remember cycling round the section, and the little mud ramp.
I remember the vege garden.
I remember board games at the dining room table.
I remember drawing house plans.
I remember lying in my sister’s bed and watching Tenko through the almost-closed door to the lounge.
I remember neighbours.
I remember after-dinner walks.
I remember sketching the cabbage tree.
I remember Dad listening to the horses on his transistor radio.
I remember the tamarillo tree. I still don’t like tamarillos
I remember trips to the beach after checking the tide chart.
I remember the assault on the bamboo.
I remember sleeping in Grandma and Grandpa’s garage…
and my sister giving me a stolen peppermint….
only it wasn’t a peppermint; it was a quick-eze….
and it was stolen…..
and it tasted like it. (315-327)

Some things you don’t forget.
Memories last.
But things don’t.

So we popped round the corner to see the other house we lived in, only a matter of sections away from that now-disappeared one.
And that one was gone too.
Well, maybe it’s still there….underneath. But I didn’t see it. There used to be a modest family home nestled on the site. Now a big dark brown brick building has swallowed the garden.
Gone.
Things don’t last.

The hill where I took my first poorly-timed risk is still there. So is the scar on my ankle from the collision with the lady pushing a pram, who crossed the street at exactly the same moment I hurtled down on my red two-wheeler-bike. I really thought I’d make it first.
Thanks, God, for adventure. (328 )
I still have a scar on my hand too. Cut on the rusty wire fence as I tottered nervously on roller blades. I declined Dad’s offer to buy me a lemonade iceblock on the way home from the tetanus shot, and regretted my decision for years to come! The fence has gone now. Thanks, God, for my Dad. (329)

Houses. Homes. Family. Memories. Gardens. Life.
Thanks.