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The move from Foxground to Gerringong was one from a secluded mountain hideaway to an Oceanside township. Having lived on the farm since I was four years old, leaving was a dramatic and emotionally difficult change.
At the New House, I am no longer surrounded by nature. Instead of a huge expanse of grass and shrubs, the backyard is a paved area hemmed in by wooden fences. No more sprawling house flanked by wide paddocks and unexplored bush. The New House seems like a cramped little box encircled by the static, squatting shapes of other houses. Worst of all, there is no rainforest – just the tangled jungle of civilization.
During the physical move itself, I just felt… well, hollow. I watched with both a strange detachment and a morbid fascination as our belongings were packed up and loaded onto a truck. It was a shock to see how easily my life and my memories could be crammed into so many generic cardboard boxes.
I could remember helping Dad to make the bricks to build that house. I can remember seeing it rise up, layer by layer, to be crowned by a pitched roof. I didn’t want to see my home empty. Void of furniture, of the usual clutter, of life. The past had been ripped out of it and all that remained was a hollow shell, waiting to be filled with someone else’s things, with someone else’s life. I felt much the same as the house looked.
After the first few chaotic weeks, we’ve finally settled in at the New House in Gerringong. All the boxes are now out of sight (thank God). My family has done its best to fill this new place with whatever it was that made the Foxground house home. While it’s pretty much bursting at the brickwork with everything else, it still lacks that something, that special, indefinable feel that you don’t even notice until it’s gone. For me this New House holds no emotion, no history.
The familiar furniture and belongings still conjure memories of home. The smell of mangoes in the kitchen inevitably reminds me of Christmas in the playroom at Foxground. My younger brothers’ shouts still resonate off the walls (and half the time, off the neighbours’ walls too). My family’s bizarre humour hasn’t changed a bit. And all the love is always there.
But at night, in dreams of home, “home” is still at Foxground. I think it always will be.
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Mots-clés
Debes ingresar al sitio con usuario y contraseña para agregar etiquetas.
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Profil de l'auteur
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L'usager n'a encore rien écrit dans son profil de Panorama.
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Commentaires
Laura, the poet... Julie Baker | Oct 15th, 2001
To my dearest, cleverest friend Laura.
You never cease to amaze me with the way you write so clearly and beautifully on topics that your obviously passionate about. Love you heaps matey, Gerringong may not be Foxground, but hey? Its still a great place, and if I may say in totally selfish terms, your now easier to visit and easier to distract *evil smile* :)
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