July 2024, 2nd: Places

Is it Déjà vu? I’m for just a moment back there again, standing in the clear running water and smelling the wet sand. Pulled back to the places of my childhood.

Back to a time when place names were a lexicon based on often obscure, long passed events, foreign to those outside the family,

Who but the family would know that The Rock at The Creek was unique among the many sandstone outcrops that lined both the meandering creeks that ran through the property?

We all understood the short hand and could pinpoint the destination that was being discussed.  The Tree Where the Cow Died was specific to a particular tree, despite numerous dead cows that had no memorial to note their passing.

Speak of The Sand Hill or Where the Colt Threw Dad and we could all identify the location.

Mention The Gum Tree and we all knew which tree was the topic of conversation out of thousands that grew on the property. It was the large old tree near the house that dropped bark and twigs that became The Morning Wood, gathered dry of an afternoon for dad to start the fuel fire in the morning before he left for work. If we forgot the kindling when it was our turn we would be roused out of our warm bed. In our bare feet we would hurriedly scratch around under the tree for enough dry bark and twigs to start the fire. We didn’t forget often.

The Poison Rock was half a mile from the house and dad had used a small cave at its base to store his poisons. Strychnine and cyanide were placed there in the fond hope that they would be safe from curious children.

It was, however, on this tall rock that we spent many happy hours. From the top we could watch in the twilight for the kangaroos to emerge from the scrub to feed on the wheat. We often sat there and sang as the night closed in till mum called us home for dinner.

The Snake Pit aptly described one of our more dangerous venues. The deep abandoned well would often have some water in the bottom and usually a hapless frog or two. We would lie on our bellies around the crumbling edge of the well and, with the aid of a mirror, spotlight the snakes that had tried for an easy meal and ended up trapped down below.

The Rock Crossing was on the back creek, an alternate route to the main road when the regular black soil vehicle road over the front creek was wet and un-passable.

This route was crossed by a barbed wire fence which meant the trip was not doable on horseback.  Instead, we crossed the creek on foot and trudged across ploughed paddocks and along the sandhill to the main road. I recall mum making the trek with a sick baby and small children in tow in order to secure a lift with a neighbour to reach the nearest doctor.

Across the front creek was Betty’s Crossing.  Long after Betty married and moved away her name was indelibly linked to this part of the creek.

Others must have crossed at that point but it was our neighbour Betty who most often used the rough track down the steep black soil bank and across the sandy creek bottom.

I remember Betty as a chubby young girl wearing a floppy white hat and riding a small bay pony. She would appear on the far bank of the creek and we would all gather to watch her pause at the top of the bank. Holding tightly to the pommel of the saddle and leaning back precariously she would disappear down the steep bank.

We would wait anxiously for her head to reappear over the crest of the near bank and then with a wide relieved grin she would trot up to the house.

It was Betty who braved her flooded crossing to bring us the news we had been anxiously waiting for. Baby number eight had arrived safely but mum was stuck in town till the roads dried. Mum later confessed that she had prayed for enough rain to keep her resting happily in the hospital for at least a month.

One by one we moved away to make new memories of our own. Family reunions became less common and the property is now a national park.

The house is derelict and erosion has changed the creek crossings and landmarks almost beyond recognition.   The family place names have slowly lost their relevance.

Still, just occasionally a sound or smell triggers a memory and I am back there once again. Back running bare foot in the places that I loved.

© Tropical Writers Inc 2025

Website created by RJ New Designs