WONDERINGS

Reading Heather’s writing about wonder led me to me recall childhood moments I have not thought for years.

When I was eight my family moved to a new housing estate in one of Melbourne’s south eastern suburbs.  Row after row of identical brick veneer houses stretched across the grey sandy flat land baking in the sun.   A cluster of grand old homes from an earlier, more gracious time, clustered around the railway station.  Auntie Vicky, an old aunt of my father’s lived in one.  From time to time my father would suggest that he and I go and visit her.  He would get out his clapped old bicycle and I would clamber onto a huge old three wheeler bike that was rusting out behind the shed and we’d pedal off.

Auntie Vicky was always delighted to see us when we arrived.  She was a tiny old lady who lived on her own in a two storey box like house made from red brick.  She would usher us into the sitting room.  My memories of that dusty, darkened room are fragmentary. As Dad and Auntie Vicky conversed in muted tones my eyes roamed around soaking up the visual feast.  Overstuffed armchairs covered in faded  chintz were flanked by decorative side tables where object d’art and old photographs jostled for space.  Sometimes I was permitted to peer into a large glass box that rested on a pedestal.  Inside it were giant sea shells and curios collected during the Victorian ear.  It was a true cabinet of curiosities.

My favourite objects in the room were the glass fronted wooden bookcases that lined the walls.  I loved books and would gaze into the depths of those cupboards deciphering the titles and wondering as to their contents.  Auntie Vicky must have noticed my fascination for on one visit she presented me with a book she had selected for me.  It was an 1897 copy of Alice in Wonderland that belonged to her son William who was killed in World War 1.

That book had been with me ever since.  Through all life has thrown at me I’ve clung on it.  It is always one of the first things to be packed when I move house (something I’ve done more times than I care to recall) and I don’t feel I’ve truly moved in until it, and a handful of other old books I’ve collected over the years are placed in their new home.

posted  by Suzanne