The Mists of Memory

How's your memory?  Cluttered?  Neatly organised and cross-referenced?  More or less absent?

Do you know how your memory works?  Are you one of those people who digs and searches in vain, only to have the answer appear sometime during the early hours of the next morning?  Or, are you one of those who have constructed an elaborate "palace of memory" that allows you to locate and examine a vast array of carefully stored facts and figures?

How do they do it?  My grandmother seemed able, whenever recounting even the most minor of incidents, and without losing the thread of the story, to digress into the relationships, address, employment status, character flaws, and personal life of each new character as they entered the story - taking twenty minutes to relate an event that my grandfather would have told in two.

My mother in law has a similar skill, and is able to apply it to stories dating back almost eight decades.  My father had a phenomenal memory for names and faces, and the histories, addresses, and vehicles associated therewith - a handy skill in his case, as he spent decades as a police detective.  It was nothing for him to recite from memory - accurately - the contents of a thirty page statement of evidence.
 
I have several friends who have the ability to remember not only the names of everyone in their extended families, but most or all of the people with whom they worked, or went to school, church, and university with.  If that were not bad enough, they also seem able to remember their birthdays and marital status, as well as the names and birthdays of their children and grandchildren, and the birthdays of all the spouses of the people they know.

I have enough trouble remembering the names of all the grandkids in my family, let alone their birthdays, and as for the spouses or partners of children and step-children and siblings, well, for that I would need to do some sort of undergraduate course.  There are other things - facts, figures, events, scientific equations, and all sorts of interesting incidents of both dramatic and humorous nature - that have stuck; don't ask me why, I really don't know.

Moments of great embarrassment dating back to my first decade of life seem to have clung to existence in my memory banks, no matter how much I wish they would just fade away.  And, of course, the moments of crisis - fire, flood, disaster - all lurk to trip me up at unexpected moments.

And yet, on one occasion recently, I decided to draw up a list of people I had known when I lived in The Valley (as its residents call it) during a period between forty and twenty years ago. I had been thinking about doing a small essay on an aspect of the history of the place, but could only recall a few faces, and fewer names.

Once I began typing, each name called up others that would otherwise have escaped memory, and before I knew it, ten pages of two line entries - a name, and the reason I knew them - had been filled.  Many of those names were ones I would not have been able to reach directly, if someone had asked me "Who was that person that........?" but associations helped build a web of relationships and stories.  Memory - truly strange.

Remembering and forgetting are such crucial aspects of not only our daily lives, but of our development from childhood, onwards, and of vital importance to our education system, medical science, and politics, and yet we do not have anywhere near a complete understanding as to how memories are formed, stored, and retrieved.  As a field of science, memory is one of constant conflict and debate, as is the field of consciousness, with which is it is so closely intertwined.

We do know that there are all sorts of triggers that can invoke memory at unexpected moments - scents, sights, sounds, music, emotions - and those invocations can be wonderful, or poignant, or traumatic.

As writers, we rely on our memory to hand us a flow of interesting words, facts, scenarios, and emotions that we can use to create our stories.  It's a wonderful feeling when the pen is gliding across the page, racing to keep up with the flow of interesting words that have bubbled up to the level of consciousness.  One idea leads on to the next, and another, and before you know it, a story has spread from the top of the first page to halfway down the twentieth.  People, places and incidents you might otherwise have struggled to recall have galloped back into view, vying for a place - even if disguised - in your latest literary effort.

And then there are your characters - what sort of memory do they have?  Sharp and detailed? Fading?  Or even that sad patchiness of recall that can come with the onset of dementia?  Is their memory accurate?  Are they telling the reader, or the detective, or their spouse, or their children, the truth?  Do they believe it to be the truth, or do they understand that they are playing someone false? Have they even created false memories for themselves, in denial of painful reality?  How does their memory compare to that of the other characters, or to the facts known to the omniscient narrator?  Such disparities can trip a writer very badly, or be intentionally used to keep the reader guessing right up to a final, satisfying ending.

In short - no matter how good you think your memory is or isn't, and no matter how low an opinion you may have of your writing skills, it is all in there, somewhere, waiting for the opportunity to dance across the stage of memory or the page of creativity.  It will have that opportunity if you only start writing or typing. Go for it - you will surprise yourself.

The Wishing Well

Have you ever driven down the Castlereagh Highway, from Mudgee towards Lithgow and wondered, as you sailed by, at the Wishing Well sign that stands near the top of Cherry Tree Hill?  Next time you are heading south up the steep climb to the top of the hill, pull over (there is safe parking) and put your walking shoes on.

 The final version of the well.

The walk from the side of the modern highway is short - only a couple of minutes - and takes you down the embankment onto the old highway.  Not far down, you will come to the well mentioned in the sign.  Said to have been first built in 1848, on the site of a soak beside the road, and improved at various times over the next century, it was finally bypassed when the Castlereagh was enlarged and upgraded.

 The line of the old highway, down which visitors can walk to the well.

 There are so many little pieces of history like this one - once a part of the daily lives of those who came before us, but now relegated to hidden nooks or corners, as the need for speed re-aligns the highways, and even the byways, that take us from point A to point Z in ever shorter times.

 The railing above the well shows where the new highway climbs Cherry Tree Hill

Those quicker trips mean, though, that we miss out on points B through Y.  Perhaps it might be worthwhile, on your next trip, to check the map, and leave an hour or two earlier.  Having chosen a route with potential, hop onto the internet and search out the local historical societies or museums - most places have these wonderful, volunteer run organisations that are dedicated to preserving the stories of their area and their forebears.

 Despite the re-alignments and associated drainage on the top side of the highway, clear water still seeps from the well.

Take one of the byways that was built for horse or bullock team, and drive slowly.  The old highway from Buladelah to Coolongolook is one such road, as are the old roads that lead north from various parts of the Hawkesbury river to converge on the old villages of Laguna and Wollombi.  In a land that could become as dry as Australia does, any permanent source of water was highly valued.

On other roads I have come across such soaks that have been improved so as to offer a watering point for the bullocks and horses and humans who plodded their way through the wilderness.  Few of them were as ornate as the well on Cherry Tree Hill - one on the steep hill between Fernances Crossing and Bucketty is merely a horizontal gouge chiseled across the face of the sandstone, catching the water seeping from the cliff above.

The Gulf is Wide

Animals form an important part of the life and history of the human race.  Our relationships with them have taken many forms, and one of the most complex and interesting variations has been that of our relationship with pets.

Many people think that the earliest of those pet/helpers/companions were dogs - and yes, I know that some will say that cats were worshiped in certain places, long ago, but offering a feline deity food to appease it is different to sharing the table scraps with your canine friend.  Dogs turn up in human history in many ways, for good or ill, and our influence on dogs has been complex and far-ranging; just look at how many breeds of dogs now exist around the planet - between 200 and 400 'recognized breeds' depending who you ask, plus around 36 different species of wild dog.

Of course, people's attitude to animals - and in this case, let us specifically consider dogs - can vary from complete infatuation, through utalitarian, on to disdain, and, finally, phobic.  It would be fair to say that people from one group do not really understand people from the other groups.

The doting dog lover cannot understand how anyone could not love as they do, while the non dog lover cannot understand how anyone could let one inside their clean house, let alone on their bed, and as for kissing the dog, or letting it lick one's face - the shudder of horror that such a thought brings about would register on a seismograph.

It is one of the great divides that runs through the human race.  On one side are those people who cannot imagine living without the joy and pleasures brought to them by their pet.  On the other, are those who can live quite well without animal companions, and though happy to admire other people's dogs or cats or canarys, and even pat them, cannot imagine sharing their living quarters with any sort of animal - the gulf is wide.

Richard Glover's recent article about his past and present dogs lauded and waxed sentimental about the dogs in his life - past and present - as well as examining such feelings in other dog owners and their dogs, as far afield as Odysseus and Argo in The Odyssey.  There is no doubt that the company of a beloved dog is of great value to the owner, and the dog seems to gain much from the company of its human.  Likewise, companion and therapy dogs - not to mention guide dogs - are of great benefit to the humans in their lives.

There are times when dog and owner are not in the same place.  When the owner has gone to the office, or the shops, or on holidays, and the dog is left home, alone.  Some dogs seem to view this time as an opportunity to catch up on their sleep, to sunbake in peace, or, if they are young, to find all the things left outside that might need a good chewing.  Do they care that their owner is absent?  Are they happy to have some time to themselves?  Do they understand the daily routine of their masters, so that they are able to abide secure in the knowledge of the inevitable return of their human companions?

Many dogs, though, do not seem to understand their human's daily routine, and mark the absence of their master by howling, barking, or yapping constantly, beginning shortly their after departure, and ceasing just prior to their return - calling for their missing owner to come home and deal with all the threats the dog feels beset by during that absence.

Domestic bliss and neighbourhood peace returns with those absent owners, and the evenings pass routinely into the quiet of night, as the last blue flickers vanish from windows across the town, and sleep descends on the populace - two legs and four legs alike.

As the hours of darkness flow across the roof tops and swirl round the houses, nature is taking its course.  Sooner or later, bladders fill, dreams become restless, and people awake.  The four legged one may wake first and come snuffling and whimpering to their owner's bedside at 3am.  The beneficiary of all that canine affection will stumble from bed to door, let the dog out, and close the door behind it, before shuffling back to the bedroom.

The dog, having done its business, is now at leisure to notice all the little sounds and scents that inhabit the wee small hours of the night, as the possums, foxes, cats, bats, insects, frogs, and night birds go about their nocturnal duties.  Having noticed all those things happening out there in the darkness, in territory that, by daylight, belongs to them, the dog has no choice but to sound the alarm - loudly, urgently, even hysterically.

The owners seem oblivious to the cacophony, or are trying to ignore it by diving deeper into the depths of their doona, or clamping pillows to their ears.  It won't work, and they must know it, but they keep trying, until the dog begins scratching at the door that it knows must eventually open and admit it to the warm security of its owner's presence.

As the flakes of paint fall to the veranda boards, the gouges in the timber work grow deeper, and the dog's complaints grow ever more urgent, the owner finally admits that sleep will only be possible if the dog is allowed back inside. That chore done, he or she returns to the warm depths of slumber, secure in the knowledge that their dog is snoring at the foot of, side of, or even on top of, the bed - or the owner.

But the dogless people living nearby cannot be certain that is the case, and, while trying desperately to snatch another couple of hours sleep before the alarm calls them to breakfast and the morning commute, wait in a state of alert tension for the next explosion of canine angst - if not from that dog, then from the one across the road that, woken by the first dog, is even now prevailing upon its owner to let it out for walkies, and its own encounter with the terrors of the night.

The dogless person knows that there is no malice in the heart of the dog, and feels that it is most likely that the same can be said of the dog owner, and so will most likely operate on the principle of  "least said, soonest mended" while fervently hoping that one day the owner will break down only a few blocks from home and have to walk back to the house, thus learning first hand what their dog really thinks of their absence. 

The gulf truly is wide, and unlikely ever to be bridged.

An Unintended Consequence of Steam Power.

In a country that is so often as dry as large swathes of Australia can be, a swimmable, fishable lake is a wonderful thing.  I am fortunate to live only five minutes walk from such a place - the only one of its kind that is open to the public across the width of the Blue Mountains.

 The wall of the dam is visible at the end of the leafy tunnel.

If you Google-Map-cruise along the Great Western Highway as it traverses the Blue Mountains - 60 kms from Lapstone to Mount Victoria - you will see a number of lakes wedged into the upper reaches of the valleys that cut across the great plateau.  Only one - the Glenbrook Lagoon - is natural, the rest were constructed at various times during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries for water supply purposes.  Several, including Woodford Lake, Wentworth Falls Lake, and another at Lawson that was later replaced by the public swimming pool, were built for the railway as it traversed the Mountains. The line reached the hamlet of Weatherboard (now Wentworth Falls) in 1867.

The dam across the upper reaches of Jamison Creek, Wentworth Falls, was brought into service in 1908 as a replacement for a smaller, unreliable reservoir on the north side of Lawson.  Wentworth Falls Lake was intended as a reliable source of water for the steam locomotives on the Blue Mountains line, that were, at the time, the fastest and most reliable mode of transport from Sydney to the agricultural lands beyond the ranges.  In the late eighties or early nineties, substantial work was done to the wall and spillway to improve the safety of the dam, and, in recent years, the local council has carried out improvements and additions to the picnic areas.

 The 150th anniversary of the arrival of the railway at Wentworth Falls

The steam locomotives are almost gone from the Mountains line now, though occasional historical operations, mainly using the locomotives from the Valley Heights Rail Museum, still puff past the lake on their way to Katoomba or Mount Victoria, to the delight of the many locals and visitors who throng to the 10.5 hectare lake for picnics, kayaking, sailing, swimming, and fishing. A couple of times each year, the navies of the world also come to visit the lake. Do the visitors ever wonder at the way the level of the lake varies so little?

The lake sits in a basin that is fed by several small streams and some of those particular marvels of the Blue Mountains, the hanging swamp.  Sometimes, in long dry spells, Jamison Creek downstream from the lake slows to a silent trickle, and the lake level drops by several centimetres, but those wonderful natural sponges that are formed by the hanging swamps continue their measured release of water into the streams, keeping the lake alive. In the same way, they provided the Darug people with water, food, and other resources, across the millenia, and made easier the westward journey of Blaxland, Lawson, and Wentworth, when they searched for a road to the western plains.

While the tourists frolic, and the locals seek relief from the heat, a great variety of life also thrives in the cool depths of the lake, or among the reeds and forest around its margins.  Its surface is constantly disturbed by the ducks, water hens, fish, long necked turtles, and insects, that live there.  Around its shores can be seen possums, wallabies, and a fascinating variety of reptiles and frogs - and there is almost always blossom to be seen, if you look carefully.  If you can't see it, watch the honey-eaters and crimson rosellas - they know.


Further reading:  

[PDF]Jamison Creek Catchment Floodplain Risk Management Study and Plan

www.bmcc.nsw.gov.au/download.cfm?f=13B3A74E-423B-CE58...

Who knows where the words will take you?

Here is another little offering from a prompt-based session of our library writer's group.  This is the prompt that was offered to us for inspiration..................

 Someone throws a coin in a wishing well, what is their story?

I had no idea where this story was going at first.  It seemed important to establish an observer and a setting to be observed, so, after a few moments wondering where I might find an interesting wishing well, fragments of old stories and movies gave me the idea of a small square somewhere in Rome. I have tidied it up a little, and added a paragraph to round it out - it may yet act as the core of a longer story, or a scene in some larger work.  I keep all these little pieces - I often don't know from what dark corner of my mind they have emerged, and can never be certain that they may not come in handy one day.

We work to a time limit - from ten to twenty minutes is typical - so the pen needs to hit the paper fairly quickly.  During my first session at a writing group, the time limit seemed like a choke-collar around my neck, but it soon turned into a useful spur - I learned to start scribbling and see what words flowed onto the page.  

It is one of the most useful lessons I have thus far been given.  When the ink is not flowing, the story is not moving.  The following story was my response to this prompt -

The Well.

I normally take my lunch in a small piazza behind the Palazzo Grimaldi.  It's quieter, and more sheltered from the hot winds, than the larger, more popular spots.  There is an ancient bougainvillea that reaches out of a tiny garden to stretch its thick shade across a little stone bench.

It's comfortable, private, and peaceful - away from my co-workers and clients alike.  Almost no one else ever comes here, which is why I was so surprised to see a young woman from an adjacent office appear in the little square.  She had entered the piazza from the narrow lane that once allowed covert access to the Palazzo.

She paused and looked around.  I waited for her to greet me – Suzanna, I remembered her name at last – but the bright sunlight must have dazzled her.  I remained unseen in my little patch of shadow as she slowly advanced across the hot paving towards the ancient well.  Her eyes were lowered, and hands were clasped, as if in prayer.  A tiny gem crawled down her cheek, and I realised that she was crying.

She stopped a pace short of the ancient stonework, with its time-worn carvings that might have been satyrs and fauns.  There was a legend associated with that well, I knew – but what was it?  I ransacked my aging memory in search of the story.  The fountain that trickled from the mouth of what might have been a wolf had been filling that well since before the Emperors usurped the Roman Republic.

Healing, that was it – there was some legend of healing.  Very good, I thought, my memory is not yet completely washed away by the ebbing tide of years.  Though I felt that did not fully answer my query, and I dug deeper into my memory.   

Suzanna took two short steps and stopped again at the lip of the well.  Her lips were moving, as if in speech.  She unclasped her hands, reached into her purse, and, with a small gesture, cast three gold coins into the well.

They were gold, most certainly.  I have seen gold sparkle in the sunlight, more than once during my long years, and the splashes as they entered the water were heavy – far heavier than any splash our shoddy, modern, aluminium coins would have made.  Not just healing, I remembered, but childbirth in particular – that was the story around this well.   

Speak a wish, offer a gift, and the boon would be granted.  But not by any god known to modern man – this well was truly ancient.  Even the Roman historians spoke of it as old beyond measure, and claimed that its waters flowed from the hands of the nymph Egeria.

Favourite Trees

One of my favourite trees is the Narrow Leaf Ironbark – it looks as strong as it is.  The Narrow Leaf Ironbark was a mainstay of my farming days in the ranges behind the Central Coast.  Disliked by the local termites, its dark red timber gave me fence posts, stockyards, barns, chook-runs, two houses (one of which survived a side-swipe by a tornado - the weight of the ironbark frame probably helped keep it on its ironbark stumps), cattle grids, a TV antenna, retaining walls, firewood, and a ute tailgate.

When living, the camopy of its blue-green leaves gave shelter to my live-stock, and the small, creamy blossoms gave abundant nectar for my bees - making some of the finest, palest honey around. A mature Ironbark would house different species of ants at different heights along its trunk – as well as a range of frogs and insects, small birds, possums, koalas, and epiphytic orchids, including one variety peculiar to the Ironbark tree.

A healthy stand of Ironbark would shelter the birds and wallabies from patrolling Wedgetails, and give cover to the Black Cockatoos who darted through the canopy crying warning of the Eagles approach.

The Ironbark was a good mannered tree – rarely shedding limbs to the hazard of stock or farmer; its deep-furrowed bark clung tight during the fire storm and declined to hurl the flaming streamers that 

Blue Gums, Messmates and Stringybarks so often do – nor would it explode into a pillar of searing red and black, as the Turpentine is wont to do.  The corky looking bark would cling tight to the tree, forming deep fissures as the tree expanded.  Each season's new growth would show, for a while, long red fissures where the new layer of bark had formed.

That tough, corky looking bark would, when bush fires came through the forest, char on the outside, and protect the inner bark and sapwood from the heat - yet, when taken from the tree and dried, was sometimes used by blacksmiths and wheelwrights to make an extra hot, circular fire on which to heat and expand the iron tyres that were placed over the rim of wooden wagon wheels.  The tyre would shrink tightly onto the wood as it cooled, protecting the wooden rim and clamping the wheel tightly together.

To build with Ironbark timber brought harder work than lesser timbers asked of the tradesman – the  tools needed constant care; nail-holes had to be pre-drilled and the nail-points dipped in soap – but the job, once done, was good for generations to come.  A nail, once in, would never pull out.

And, if you wanted wood for the stove, it was best cut green – aged Ironbark would strike an angle-grinder style shower of sparks from the chainsaw, and the wood ate away at the teeth almost as fast as the teeth chewed up the wood.