In addition to being a significant element of our family history, past places are an integral part of our identity. The places of our past are the keepers of a wealth of memories of our own lives and life stories. Our memories and stories are important sources of our history.
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| My father and myself at my first home at 24 Crescent Avenue Enoggera, Brisbane |
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| 24 Crescent Avenue in 2011- and a new generation of father and child.. |
24 Crescent Avenue, Enoggera in Brisbane, was the home of my earliest childhood memories until the age of seven years. I can remember my sister being born there, the large sandpit my grandfather built for me and the cubby house complete with coloured timber louvre windows which my father lovingly constructed. The house was a green colour and my cubby house was painted to match it. This was where I, as a determined four year old, dragged a wobbly bench to the fence, to climb upon so that I could chat to the neighbours. I did this, of course despite my mother's warnings and fell backwards hitting my head on the concrete exactly as she had predicted. The memory of the pain has long since vanished but my mother's patience and concern as I was rushed to hospital to have my head stitched, remains with me. It was in this home that my father made a table and two small chairs for my sister and myself. In the kitchen of this home I laughed until my sides ached, as my mother sang the song 'On top of Spagetti' to me. In this wonderful family garden I picked grapes from a home grown vine and bananas from the trees which shaded my sandpit. I ate fresh tomato sandwiches on backyard picnics with my mother. I peered through my backyard fence to watch in wonderment, the military drills at the Enoggera Army Barracks onto which my yard backed. Every Saturday I watched marching girls who competed at an oval near my home and dreamed longingly of joining them in their shining buttons, white boots and tall hats. I climbed trees and played happily on my twin swing. Our first television arrived in the home at Crescent Avenue, amidst great excitement and took pride of place in the lounge room; the room at the top of the steps behind my father in the picture above. My memory tells me that these were good days. I was afforded great freedom to roam the street in which I lived. The baker delivered fresh bread and delicious fat cream buns, the Soft Drink Truck delivered Creaming Soda and Sarsparilla and children raced noisily into the street in response to the sound of the icecream van's bell.
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| Swinging with my sister, left and cousin, right. My bedroom window pictured. |
Those were the halcyon days when children were 'safe'. I often walked alone to the local shops aged only five years, to buy items for my mother. I recall clearly a day on which I purchased sweets with the money my mother had given my to buy something else. Punishment was 'dealt' by my father who chased me round and around the house in Crescent Avenue, never once catching me although looking back now, I have no doubt that he could easily have done so. The past, often holds memories which are not so happy, and this is a part of who we are, equally as much as those which are sanguine. Crescent Avenue was the place where I first encountered danger. Afternoons were spent playing with local children, in a park at the end of the street, until a tragedy occurred. A council trench in which we were excitedly digging a 'cave' collapsed, burying and killing one of the local boys I was playing with. I was five years of age. When I was six years old, my best friend was hit by a car and killed crossing a road on her way to play at my home at Crescent Avenue.. As I gazed at my old home, on my visit, I could almost see myself aged six, standing at the gate awaiting my friend's arrival and hearing from a neighbour of her accident.
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| My Fourth Birthday at 24 Crescent Avenue Enoggera. |
I have far too many memories to relate them all. Many childhood memories have only re-established themselves since my visit to my old home. Some of the momentous events of my childhood occurred when I lived at Crescent Avenue. I began my education at the Ashgrove Memorial Pre-School at the age of three years. When I revisited my old Pre-School, I suddenly recalled that the treacher's name was Miss Lightner. Memories flooded back, of jumping on the jumping board, of the smell of home made glue and of sitting at small tables and chairs for lunch - always a choice of Vegemite or Peanut Paste (outside Queensland called peanut butter). I started Primary School from this home, walking the very long walk which took me past the tennis courts where I began tennis lessons at the age of four years, to Oakleigh State School. This was the same school my father had attended until he went to Brisbane Boy's Grammar School. I re-visited Oakleigh State School on the same day that I went back to Crescent Avenue.
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| Oakleigh State School |
Walking around the grounds of the Oakleigh State School some long forgotten memories returned. I had won an art competition at the age of six years and my prize was a much treasured stamp album which I have to this day. I remembered the swimming lessons which I dreaded in the school swimming pool. Not because I hated swimming. I loved it but my mother loved to sew, and I was the only child in the class wearing a particularly floral and very frilly two piece swimsuit rather than the standard blue school swimsuit. As I stood looking at the swimming pool I could remember the feelings of that small five year old wanting desperately to stay in the change rooms. As I reached the play area, I could physically feel the same sense of humiliation which had long ago gripped me whilst playing on the see-saw in the playground when I was in grade 1. On that particular day, I had taken to school, my precious walkie-talkie doll. She was named Florence, for my paternal grandmother, (even at the tender age of 5 I was introduced to the traditional Scottish naming patterns!). Florence's hair had previously fallen out, (no doubt from excess brushing), and my mother had replaced her long blonde hair (to my disappointment) with a short curly (completely unbrushable) orange wig. As I soared gloriously high into the air, on the see-saw, Florence's wig detached itself from her head and flew across the playground. I may as well have lost my own hair, such was the complete embarrassment I felt as I was lowered to the ground, a very bald doll clutched to my heaving bosom and sobbing loudly while a group of older boys ran around the playground laughing and waving Florence's flaming curls wildly. The awkwardness of some moments seem to have a perturbing way of rebounding to disturb our tranquil memories!
[Postscrip: Florence's wig was firmly adhered with super glue that very night and I still have her, complete with orange hair.]
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| Oakleigh State School. |
At the age of 7 years, my family built a house in a newer suburb of Brisbane, called The Gap. While our home was under construction, we lived with my paternal grandparents at 16 Garfield Drive, Paddington Heights. From this lovely old home high on a hill with a view all over the city, I entered a new world of catching trams to the Bardon State School where I was one year ahead of well known Genealogist Shauna Hicks.
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| My Grandparent's Home at 16 Garfield Drive, Paddington 2011. |
I cannot possibly recount all of my childhood memories here, as there are so many, however, I do record them. Each time I revisit my past homes and other places from my past, more memories are triggered and I write them down. By recording my stories, I am ensuring their reliability as a primary source. If my stories are passed on orally to my children and they later recount my anecdotes, they become secondary sources and will be less reliable.
When I visited the Garfield Drive house pictured above, it was undergoing a renovation and was vacant. I took the liberty of taking a cutting from the large Frangipani tree which I remembered my grandmother planting and it is now growing in my garden in Sydney. Every time I look at the pink and white flowers on my Frangipani tree, I think of childhood days spent playing hide and seek amongst the plentiful purple Hydrangeas in my grandmother's wonderful garden, swinging in the big old hammock, picking rosellas and persimmons to make jam, and climbing the huge mango tree growing in my grandparent's garden.
Standing outside the Paddington house, I recalled an event which I had long forgotten. Next door to my grandparents, lived a policeman by the name of Terry Lewis. Late one night a burglary occurred across the street from my grandparent's home. My grandfather heard much yelling and screaming and he took it upon himself to chase the burglar right down the hill and around the block with no thought to his own safety. The next morning I accompanied my grandfather as he knocked on the door of Constable Lewis's house to report the incident, believing that his neighbour must have slept through the event. The policeman laughed and told us that he had a policy 'never to get involved in such things'. Some years later the same policeman, Terry Lewis became Police Commissioner of Queensland. I only recalled this memory though when revisiting the house in Garfield Drive.
