One Distant Summer..

It's cold here in the Valley on The Mountain, now that the first snowfall has chilled the soil and left the door open for the Antarctic winds to sweep through the bare trees and search out every draughty chink in the house, so I will warm myself by taking a trip down memory's winding track to a warmer, older place, decades and miles away.......

One hot, dry, dusty Wollombi afternoon I was working behind the bar at the Tavern - apart from the Post Office, the only business then functioning in the village.  A dozen or so locals - blue singlets, tattered denim, old sleeveless flannelette shirts, battered Akubras or greasy John Deere caps - had been perched on stools along the bar for a couple of hours, steadily sinking schooners of Tooheys, or tumblers of bourbon and coke.

They had settled into a monotonous, repetitive, mutual gripe session on the many faults and general uselessness of the Wollombi Valley Progress Association, its past efforts, its current members, and its announced policies.

The policies had been announced recently because this was the afternoon of the WVPA Annual General Meeting, and all seven of its long serving, stalwart members were across the road and up the hill, in the Wollombi Community Hall,  poring over minutes, proposals, scotch finger biscuits and cups of tea.

Almost all of those stalwarts came from the old local families - the ones whose surnames adorned road signs and map locations - and had been the backbone not only of the Progress Association since its founding, but also the local P&C Associations for decades, and the Country Party for what seemed like centuries, not to mention being the mainstay of the monthly cattle sales at the Wollombi Saleyards.  Most of them were now well into their seventies, and had long since seen kids and grandkids grow to adulthood and move away from the Valley in search of better paid work.

As I poured another round of beers for the group holding court at the centre of the long bar, I realised that I was hearing for at least the third time the gripes and complaints that had commenced the session, almost two hours earlier - possibly the fifth or sixth time, but it hadn't occurred to me to keep count, until then. I realised that fleeing the turmoil and venality of the big smoke for a quiet life in the bush had not actually taken me away from the annoyance of politics after all.  The stage was smaller, the issues more parochial, and the style and costumes a lot dustier than I had known in the slick eateries of The City, or the glitzy, dingy streets of The Cross, but it was still the same old script.

I asked if any of them knew how many people were at the AGM.  The response was a mix of blank looks and shrugs, so I pressed on.  Had any of them been members, or attended meetings?  A few of the blank looks took on a resentful edge, as some of the soberer minds began to discern the course I was plotting.

The current members have been there for a very long time, I pointed out - which drew wry smiles and nods of agreement.  Words like "fossils" and "old farts" entered the conversation, and someone said "tired"

Yep - "tired" is what I had heard some of the old people in that hall say, too.  A few of the drinkers looked surprised.  In fact, I told my captive audience, some of those tired old timers have told me that they would love new members to take over the Progress Association so they could relax, or even give it away altogether.

Shoulders dropped, eyes were cast downwards, and chins tucked in as every beer glass at or near the bar was raised to pursed lips.  I pointed out the numerical advantage held by the group of drinkers.

"If you all walked up the hill to the community hall now and paid your membership" I said "there would be five more of you than there are of them - you could take charge, and make the Association do what you want"

There was a sour silence that was broken only by the scraping of boot soles on the slate floor or the footrail of the bar.  At last, one voice spoke, causing a ripple of nodding heads.

"It's too hot today - maybe next year" said one voice while another said "too busy" and a general chorus of assent was muttered into glasses as they were raised again

"Another round" was the final verdict, and the revolution was over before it began.

That was the better part of forty years ago, but Australian voters seem to have taken that tavern meeting for a template - I wonder if we will ever change.

We need to put down our glasses, or our screens, and head up the hill to take a grip on our system, because, unlike that Progress Association, with its tired crew of well intentioned old-timers, our political scene seems now to be firmly in the grip of an entirely opposite type of character, driven more by ruthless self interest than ethical principle or benevolence - and they are not tired of the power they are wielding, or the benefits they are taking for themselves and their mates.

Stories lost, and found.

In the galaxy of stories that is humanity, each of us orbits among the other stars of our home constellations, spinning our yarns into the thread of our story and weaving it into the vast, complex spiral.  Some weave tightly, close to other stars, warming each other, bending each others trajectories - some soar alone through the gaps and along the rim.

When a story-teller ends, when the flame sputters to its end, the constellation changes shape, and memories begin to fade and fragment.  The once tightly ordered solar system becomes a debris field to be swept up by others - or ignored and forgotten.

Though the once bright fire has been extinguished, there are still sparks and embers to be found that can tell of the glories that were, and keep some chapters, paragraphs, or even just a few phrases of the story, alive in other orbits.

Sifting through such a debris field can be joyful and utterly melancholy in the same minutes.  A dusty hoard of old cards and letters will reveal traces of dreams and nightmares, and hopes fulfilled or dashed, or even a squirrel-cache of notes or coins. A hidden diary or box of letters may reveal a surprising, even shocking, turn of events or emotions that had never been revealed before.

Carefully ordered craft cupboards, work-benches, and garden sheds have changed from places of purposeful resources to mere piles of souvenirs, as the family archaeologists assess, evaluate, allocate, or discard.

Yet, as we sort, each object still carries faint vibrations or echoes of its original task in the long story that has now ended.   A single photograph can bring all work to a stop, as the memories awaken, and a part of the story is called forth and handed around to be savoured and cherished at least one last time.  A special cup or teapot from childhood visits, long ago, or the hand-made apron that allowed the visitor to join in the work at the kitchen table, and the searcher is back in the early days of their own story.

And so the severed threads can be woven into another part of the great tapestry, continuing a weave and weft that may have been handed on over many generations. Souvenirs are often found that tell of lives generations past - artefacts that have been gathered in other long ago expeditions to other darkened stars.  We are fortunate, who can sit with friends and family, amid the tears and the laughter, and dwell again in the golden age of childhood that such fragments evoke.

As well as nostalgia, there is the carefully preserved evidence of a world that no longer exists, and we remember how much has changed even in the course of our own lifetimes, let alone in the lives of those who came not so many decades before us. It often yields clues that allow the investigator to chart and date the beginning of the decline that precedes most ends, and offers all sorts of little lessons in ways that life can be lived, and enjoyed, and managed, and endured.  Those of us who can embark on such expeditions are fortunate, for so many stories end suddenly, catastrophically, or even intentionally, and final chapters are left unwritten, or erased.

Look around your constellation - cherish your stories and theirs; they can so easily be lost forever.