Memories...

As this white man sits here in the house he grew up in for a decade or so, a house that now contains his office (which was once his brother's bedroom!), one thing that he cannot escape is an irrepressible infiltration of memories. Someone said to me recently, on the topic of being re-united with my old house, something to the effect of "if only the walls could talk..." My response was pretty candid - yes they would say some interesting things, most of them complimentary but other things perhaps not. In fact I think it would probably be just as well if these walls maintained their silent composure for the benefit of all!

One day last week I took a walk around the block - re-treading a well-worn path I used to tread on a daily basis to school and back. I stopped and looked at some of the houses and immediately had flashbacks from 25-30 years ago. One house, on the corner of Edward and Bowen St, quickly came to mind as I remembered it vividly. It was an old house and the owner had a bay window in the front with a bust of Beethoven or some other notable composer on a piano. As a child this used to scare the life out of me as I thought it was a ghost of some sort. In my childlike understanding I could not work out what a bust was - why would someone carve or shape a statue of someone with just their head and shoulders and not their whole body? Anyway as I neared that house on my walk I noticed that it was gone...replaced by a very modern looking townhouse. The ghosts of the past it seems have moved on...

I continued over to the Camberwell Sports Ground, an oval that I was intimately familiar with. I was a regular visitor there as a boy, whether taking my old dog "Honey" there for a run around during the week or going there on the weekends to watch the old VFA (Victoria Football Association)competition where my team, the Camberwell Cobras would routinely be getting thrashed by most other teams. There used to be large hedges that guarded the ground with broken decrepit wire fencing behind them. I knew exactly which areas could be accessed by anyone my size back then - therefore enabling me to never have to pay an entrance fee to watch the football! But the hedges and fences are all gone...and so are the Camberwell Cobras....

And then last week I revisited my old primary school, Camberwell South PS. A morning tea was put on by the CRE (Christian Religious Education) volunteers which now includes me as part of the team. I had a look around my old school and could not help but notice how different it looked now. New buildings, different layouts all reminded me that it is 28 years this year since I finished grade 6 back in 1983. I did see one thing there that sent a slight chill through my spine as I suddenly flashed back those 28 years. It is a long seat - a bit like a traditional wooden church pew. It was once located directly outside the teacher's staff room and it's job was punitive in nature - any pupil who misbehaved badly enough were sent to sit on this seat for an appointed period of time. We used to call it the"hot seat" and believe me, every teacher who would pass you in the corridor on their way into the staff room would always stop and ask you why you were sitting there. You would be worn down explaining your misdemeanors over and over, feeling more and more guilty and shameful before every teacher that stopped for their inquisition. Well that "hot seat" was still there, slightly away from it's old position. I asked the current principal of the school if she knew the history of that seat - she gave me a wry smile and asked me how intimately I knew the grainy contours of that seat. I could only smile wryly too....

Isn't the flow of memories an amazing thing when you are suddenly located in places you spent much time in. Memories that one would have thought would have faded (and some surely have disappeared forever into the ether of forgetfulness), yet can still come flooding back most unexpectedly. Memories that grab me and hold me spellbound, almost frozen in time between realities some three decades apart. Memories that are truly captivating, whether bitter or sweet.

And as I run my fingers over my old bedroom wall, feeling the familiarity of it's texture I'm inwardly content knowing that the best and worst memories I have are still kept preciously within. They are mine and mine to keep for as long as my mind and soul need them.

And as I hold the same old doorknob on my old bedroom door I'm happy that I can freely and willingly open the door to a world I grew up in and feel blessed to re-visit. For I have been blessed by God with good family and fine memories of those formative years of my life.

And yet I am very happy that these walls cannot talk because some memories are best kept secret and should remain right where they belong...