Almanac Life: Share a memory

 

Mortality is the bane of every living soul!

 

During our recent Poets’ Lunch Paul Noonan mentioned a conversation at his table raised by Robyn Black regarding the issue of the power of family stories and how knowledge and stories are lost when someone dies.

 

This remark made me consider the point raised in that conversation. Nearing my 75^th birthday, and like many of my contemporaries, I’m becoming more, and more aware of my mortality as I enter and contemplate the twilight of my years. In particular, which of my memories and knowledge do I wish to forward on to my family that will otherwise be lost when I pass on if I do not make an effort about it? And how reliable are those memories?

 

Therefore, I would like to encourage readers to join me and share a memory or two or some specific knowledge to pass on for publication on the website.

 

To start the ball rolling here is a piece I wrote after my 60^th birthday. As I approach my 75^thbirthday I’ve added a postscript at the end to clarify some of the points I mentioned in the piece.

 

 

“Whatcha dad do in the war?”

 

“Whatcha dad do in the war?”  This commonly posed question was asked during my beginning  primary school years in the middle 1950s. I had no idea how to answer the question. To be truthful, what a war was, or for that matter what the question actually inferred completely baffled me. Though, I do remember somebody claiming his father was shot in the stomach and had a big hole there. I wondered at the time if my dad had a big hole in his stomach being somewhat disappointed to discover he didn’t! My father’s responses to further probing questions from an inquisitive 5 or 6 year old was one of, not really wanting to answer my questions. So I basically left it at that. I gathered dad didn’t want to talk about the past.

 

Many years later I celebrated my 60th birthday, one that was shared with love, joy and happiness with my family and friends. As the evening rolled on to its eventuality, a mellowness began to creep into my inner feelings and thoughts. Questions I had asked my dad long ago sprung back to mind.

 

Silently I reflected  upon all the stages over many years leading up to this point in my life. It was such a strange feeling, to the extent I was overcome by a slow build-up of emotion as tears silently welled up and slowly slipped down my face. I hoped nobody noticed them but  the reality had hit me. And it hit me with a bang. I was no longer young, I was becoming older. In fact I was old!  And that was frightening. Thankfully I was sipping a glass of good red at that moment.

 

Time slips by quickly, as we so often hear, and, as I enter ‘the so called autumn of my life’, family and friends, especially family are now beginning to engage me more and more with questions and discussions about my life – its highlights, the special events, the funny, the sad, and of course, everything else in between. They want to know all about me. And I also want to know about myself as well.

 

But what do I remember – is it the important things, the life changing ones; or is it just the superficial? What do I actually remember?  Can I actually recall everything stored and locked away in my memory? Experience indicates a vagueness in this respect. However, it needs to be recalled, clarified and confirmed if possible so the stories can be passed on.

 

Spending more time with my elderly father of late forced me to ponder these questions. Dad loves to reminisce about the past but those reminiscences are often, to my dismay, disjointed and somewhat confused at times. Events converge into one another, dates, times, personnel are mixed up or it just never occurred. Dad reflects upon things he believes he, or we as a family had done in the past though obviously to me a lot of it never eventuated except happening in dad’s mind. This is frustrating to me. Questions I asked long ago and others I never did will not be reliably answered by dad. I want to answer questions my children ask me about my past, and with confidence so all can be validated. I would start my memoirs. But where do I start?

 

So what do I remember? Sitting down to ponder these thoughts I was confronted with my own questions. What are my earliest thoughts and memories? The task was going to be a lot more difficult than I anticipated. Where do I begin? For me it had to be memories from the beginning and in a sequential order. So what are my first memories?

 

My earliest memory I believe I recall accurately occurred when I must have been about 18 months old. And that memory was embedded in me because of a sound – the sound of an aeroplane flying over the house. Of course I did not know it was an aeroplane at the time or what an aeroplane was except the sound intrigued me and I had to find out for myself what it was, and where it was coming from. That was the difficult part! But how was I to get out of the cot I was in? I don’t remember a lot about the room except the cot was up against the wall and near the door. The room was probably of a medium size, a single window placed centrally in the far wall and a single shaded light globe hanging from the ceiling.  As for flooring I don’t remember but probably carpet or rugs over lino.

 

As for the cot I do have some recall;  I cannot adequately explain why, except to suggest as a lot of my early life was spent there so it must have been ingrained in my memory. The cot was typical of the time; made of wood with a thickish horsehair mattress, a smallish pillow, lots of colourful woollen blankets, it had a very ricketty frame but with a bouncy, spring base, and white in colour. Whether I called out to mum or not, or made some attempt to get her attention to come and get me out of the cot, I don’t recall but if I did it failed. My eagerness to resolve the issue meant I had no option but to use my own devices to get out of the cot. I just had to find the source of the noise and what it was!

 

Well, I did get out and I’m proud of the fact I had the intellect to figure out a resolution to my dilemma.  I did so by tossing all my blankets and pillow over the side of the cot and onto the floor to cushion my landing to drop to.  I knew I had to climb out somehow and from my position in the cot it was a considerable height to drop to the floor safely. Some protection from hurting myself dropping from that height was essential.  How I eventually pulled myself up to the height of the railing then let alone eventually clamber over  the rail and drop to the floor is completely beyond me. I have no recollection of doing so. But doing it I did. Next I was crawling along the hallway to an open door leading to the front porch. Why the door was open I have no idea.

 

The house was a double fronted weatherboard dwelling with the door centrally placed, probably Victorian era. From the doorstep it was a short drop to a concrete porch and I think there were wicker chairs either side of the door. Pausing, I was intrigued by the blueness of the sky and the warmth of the air as I surveyed the area around me. Probably explaining why the door was open. That is what people did in those days when it was hot, open the doors and windows to create a draft to flow through the house. No air-conditioners then! Of the garden I remember low hedges on either boundary line and I think also along the front fence but perhaps not as thick and entwined within a wire fence. There was some grass with patches of dirt showing through but I cannot recall any flowers. A concrete pathway separated the front yard in two. It was on this pathway I see a picture of myself standing happily, my cot blankets, or some of them caught up around me, possibly a thumb in my mouth, and thoroughly contented with my existence in this, my small world. I don’t remember being a thumbsucker, mum has passed on so I can’t ask her and I don’t think dad would know. My attention was drawn again to the throbbing, dull rumble of the aircraft flying overhead. On reflection why the plane was still overhead? I can only assume it was circling awaiting a flight path into Essendon Airport a few suburbs away. Sunlight glinted and reflected off the silver, shiny machine as the image was firmly embedded in my brain.

 

At this stage I notice mum, and I think, a couple of older ladies at the gate smiling, chatting away in a friendly banter I believe about me and directed at me. Obviously my exploits had amused and amazed them. Were they neighbours or passing strangers who had stopped at the gate for a chat with mum, or  perhaps visitors even? I don’t know, but I have a feeling mum was there throughout my adventure and was fully aware of what I was up to. Maybe a proud mother realising her first child was growing up and was developing his beginning independence. I remember mum picking me up, but that ,unfortunately, is where that memory ends.

 

Post Script:

Reading this many years after I wrote it, I am amazed and confused by this memory.

 

Reality and memory are two different things. I wrote this circa 2011 not long after I’d retired from teaching. I now have difficulty believing I could actually remember anything at all when I was 18 months old, let alone yesterday! I suspect the event occurred when I was older.

 

However, I wrote of climbing out of a cot. I have myself crawling at one stage then standing later, and I assume walking. I would have thought an 18month old child would be well and truly walking by then. The unreliability of memory at play!

 

Let’s say the memory occurred when I was 3 or 4 years old, then what was I doing in a cot? My only explanation for this is mum and dad shared the house with friends during the time both families were having houses built. I can only assume it was not long before moving in, some furniture had already been transferred and set up in our new house in Noble Park, and we had to adapt and make do with whatever furniture remained.  For whatever reason, little Col was sleeping in a cot for a short time. Was I small enough to sleep in a cot? I must have been! Or was it simply that young Col had not graduated to a child’s bed? We moved to Noble Park in December 1953 when I was about to turn 4.

 

 

This me at the back of the house mentioned above. 2 years old?

 

I was shocked when last year I visited my earliest home to discover it was not as I descibed it.

 

In the fourteen years since obviously many things have changed. Dad passed away in 2016. At that time his state of mind had diminished significantly as he rapidly descended into dementia, and I never really heard the stories I was hoping to hear from him. I strongly regret I did not make more of an effort earlier but like us all, I thought time was endless and one day we would get around to it.

 

I mentioned in the piece I felt old at 60 and entering the twilight of my years but at nearly 75 I wish could go back to my ‘younger self at 60’! It seems only yesterday I was having those thoughts.

 

Enjoying the delights of a good red wine is now but a fading memory for me. My last alcoholic drink was mid 2012 when I decided for health and fitness reasons I would forgo the urge.

 

Listening to a podcast discussing memoirs and autobiographies while out walking the commentator referred to memory as being ‘very elusive and slippery’. I must say concur with that statement wholeheartedly.

 

 

OK Almanackers, over to you. I’ve opened the batting, let’s score plenty of runs as you let your memories come into play.

 

 

More from Col Ritchie can be read Here

 

 

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