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INTRODUCTION
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
SEASONS FOR CHANGE Narissa Leung
A NEW COUNTRY Greta Walker
A LIFE PUNCTUATED BY DANCE Pamela Stewart
WHAT REALLY MATTERS Elizabeth Pittman
MOUNTJOY Virginia Phillips
PAIN AND PREJUDICE Armita Zarnega
BALLOONING Kentaro Utsugi (assisted by Kanna)
SCHOOL DAYS Cameron Algie
BEAUTIFUL ONE DAY – GLOOMY THE NEXT Robin Aldridge
THE FAMILY HOME David Frith
ME AND THE NIGHT AND THE MUSIC Beverley Walsh
SUMMER HOLIDAY Yu Hua Wang
A JOURNEY TO THE ARTS WORLD John Nguyen Thanh Thuy
THE REVOLUTION WON’T BE TELEVISED Aurelia Satcau
A WINDOW ON THE WORLD Christine Major
MIGRATING TO MELBOURNE Mulyadi Cahyono
MY DOG’S STORY Xiuling Qiang
SHEPHERDS AND SHEPHERDESSES Giulia Campo
THE BIKE RIDE Mardi Spencer
A TALE OF TWO CHICKENS Michelle Thorne
GERMAN HERITAGE REMEMBERED - 1950’S-60’S Rosemary Chapple
ON THE SLIPPERY SLOPE Yvonne Mc Bean
NOT A TRACE Marie Jimenez
ELEVEN-YEAR-OLD INTUITION Rebecca Maxwell
VIOLON D’INGRES Radu Satcau
SWIMMING Trissyana Chang
A CLEARING, A LIFE Carolyn Ingvarson
LOLEK Alfreda Stressac
THIS TIME WITH MOANING Melanie Rashleigh
BENJI, THE KANGAROO DOG Bob Leschen
GUILT TRIP Caroline Carruthers
On behalf of Boroondara Writers I must thank both the City of Boroondara and the Rotary Club of Balwyn for their finanacial support through the community grants scheme, and also Grill'd Camberwell for a grant from their Local Matters program.
I must give my personal thanks to Tracey Martin, manager of Canterbury Neighbourhood Centre for supporting my suggestion some three years ago that we should produce a collection of life writing.
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Flames blowing hot air into colourful patterned balloons above Macleay Park marked one of the first signs of Boroondara’s spring. Protruding through the last of winter’s foggy blankets, the balloons rose high into the warming skies. [3]At the ovals, I noticed people’s routines picked up pace again at this time of the year; walkers returned with their dogs and evening play dates became more regular. Runners started afresh with new resolutions. Hands on park benches slid closer together as nature itself modelled fresh starts and new possibilities (albeit with a lack of golden wattle blossoms). Delighting in the naive misconception of the swooplessness of city bike riding, I was crushed to learn (through vicious attack) that magpies can quite happily adapt to a life of concrete and car fumes. Unfortunately for me, it appeared my long-standing enemy would continue to stalk me, irrespective of the landscape. (What a shame, it would have been such a selling point for ongoing life in the big smoke.)
Next up was cricket season. Summer. The initial team meeting was followed by ‘the burning’, a ceremony of sorts that apparently signalled the birth of a new season’s pitch. An exclusion zone popped up around the newly marked hallowed turf. And then the tending began. Oh, the tending! The cutting, the watering, the air rating, the unconditional love and care. I[4] was oblivious to the nurturing relationship that existed between a club and its cricket pitch, until we moved to Boroondara. (Coming back in my next life as a cricket pitch is now something I look upon favourably- there are certainly worse fates!) A pattern for the cricket games emerged- the quiet arrival, the nervous start, the chatter, the crack of bat on ball, the vocal mind games and the celebration of falling wickets. Cheers from the top oval followed by cheers from the bottom. I listened to all of this unfold as I lay in my bed across the road, predicting the next line in the repetitive script of weekend cricket.
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