Читать книгу MOSAIC - Boroondara Writers Inc - Страница 3

Weekends were made for long runs through the eucalypts and ever-changing foot tracks in the bushlands on our doorstep. Laurie and I believed (and still do) that there was no greater pleasure in life than running through the bush together after the rain, the crisp smell of clean air and renewal cleansing the mind and soul. In spring, the gum trees played second fiddle to the striking golden wattle blossoms. In summer, it was the somewhat unwanted arrival of spider webs which were inconveniently constructed across popular running tracks that always made an interesting addition to our long runs. And winter? Well, it was marked by frozen grass and the smell of log fires from the surrounding houses.

I’d grown up with the bush around Bendigo. Many a foot, hoof and bike tyre had carried my five siblings and I across the tracks and through the scrub at Lightning Hill in Eaglehawk. I’m sure the remnants of our cubby huts, hideouts and bases (always with a spyhole in case of danger) are still dotted throughout the bush today. In my adult life, various trail-running shoes lugged me, usually struggling for breath, up the appropriately named ‘Heartbreak Hill’ in the bushland of Strathfieldsaye. Whenever my life had lost its rhythm, the eucalypts and muddy trails always acted as defibrillators, getting me and my life back into our proper pattern.

I had to wonder then if we were crazy to be giving up gum trees and golden wattle and replacing them with a life of concrete and car fumes in Melbourne? Could I ever find rhythm and pattern in a place so far removed from the heart and soul of the bush?

The list of requirements for a new house included: a shed for all our bikes and sporting equipment, an extra loungeroom to hold my many hundreds of books and a backyard for our two cavoodles, Georgie and Lola. We looked at many houses that fit the criteria, but none of them seemed right. The final requirement was only realised when I saw it across the road from our new place: wide-open space and trees. The winning house looked out on to Macleay Park, with its ovals and walking track and, most reassuring of all, its eucalypts.

The backyard of the house was modest, and it was the first time in many years we’d been surrounded by neighbours on all three sides of our yard. Another novelty for us took the form of a relic standing in the backyard: a Hills Hoist. After 15 years of ‘clotheslinelessness’ (due to an unfortunate ‘kids-swinging-on-the-clothesline’ incident back in our old house) an outside line was something to look forward to in this house. (Our daughter had grown up so it was unlikely the clothesline swinging incident would ever be repeated.)

As I sat on the backstep on one of those first evenings in the house, I was startled to hear a loud, slow and rhythmic whoosh, whoosh, whoosh belonging to a set of giant bat wings flapping over me in close proximity. Looking up, I could see that as the summer sun was setting, the sky was filling with hundreds of silhouetted bats flying out from the city, across Balwyn and onwards to the outer suburbs. The sight of bats wasn’t new to me, there was an entire unwanted colony of them living in Bendigo. (They’d moved into the gardens before Easter one year, ‘temporarily’ the council had said, ‘permanently’ the bats had decided.) I hadn’t seen them in such numbers though, nor so large! Our Bendigo bats were small and insignificant. Flying rodents. These bats, these Balwyn bats, were awe-inspiring. Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh! They came back each night in summer, always reminding me that despite what may have happened in my day or in my life, the bats would return, and the world would continue to turn. And then Autumn came, and the bats unfortunately started thinning out.

Burnt orange leaves in the surrounding streets announced autumn’s arrival, and they brought the game of baseball with them. The Macleay Park ovals were flooded with light as teams practised pitching and batting, balls going every which way in the night. A stray ball was a novelty find at first, but soon became an expectation on my nightly walks with Laurie and the dogs. The floodlit ovals, the feel of the crisply fresh air and the smell of slightly damp grass at this time of year, reminded me of the many evenings I spent training as a teenage boundary football umpire in Bendigo. One of my older brothers had introduced me to football umpiring, ‘you get paid for running around and staying fit’ is what he’d said. It never crossed his mind that 99% of the umpires were males; he thought that if he could do it, so could I. About four years of stinky men’s change rooms, white maggot jokes and requests for a date from the sidelines had followed. The crowds were always shocked when they realised it was a girl walking on to the field to umpire. “What’s she doing there?” “What would she know about football?”

The men I umpired with were the loveliest and most protective group ever, they always looked after me and they pushed me to run further and harder than I ever knew I could. Training with those boys and men is what started my relationship with running (albeit a love/hate relationship at times).

Autumn also provided glorious dog walking weather. Deciduous trees in various states of undress provided the perfect backdrop for daily dog play for Georgie and Lola. I’m sure they missed their regular runs through the Bendigo bushland as much as I did by this stage, but they seemed to think this daily off-the-lead gig was proving to be an ok replacement. Maybe city life could be achievable?

Winter’s frosts plastered themselves thick across the grass in early June. Her cool mists blanketed the Macleay ovals at the start of each day; a breathtaking sight as I reversed out of my driveway every morning. The oval’s morning activities and routines slowed at this time of the year as New Year’s resolutions slid deep underneath warm doonas. Football season. My walks with Georgie and Lola were now punctuated with the alluring smells of hot pies and sausage rolls and the less alluring smells of Deep Heat and sweaty bodies. I noticed that unlike the summer cricket season on these ovals, the rain didn’t halt the football, rather, it brought a tide of puffer jackets, umbrellas and closely huddled bodies. The cold wet winter days in my umpiring career were always the ones when I questioned if the money was worth it (they were also the ones that taught me about the dangers of wearing coloured underwear beneath white clothing - you only make that mistake once!)

Winter running was always my favourite (once I got past the drawn-out process of convincing myself to brave the cold and just get started). I’d always loved the feeling of the warmth in my lungs and my heart when running through the bitterly cold air. Now, as I ran around the ovals each night, the tingly feeling of my nose and hands was the same as every other year’s winter running, however the smoky warmth emanating from the surrounding houses was missing. (As were the stares from the wallabies and the roos who would look at me, surely wondering why I had chosen to be out there in those temperatures.)

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.

Summer was also hot nights, late dog dates and even later walkers. It was Christmas Carols; a whole community coming together to celebrate. The intersecting patterns of different backgrounds, religious beliefs (and indeed singing abilities), weaving together with the same goal of peace and joy for all. January was new puppies and new dog owners to meet, the re-emergence of the resolution runners (always more after New Year’s) and the bats. The Balwyn bats. They’d come back. A warm flush of familiarity arrived when the silhouettes returned crossing the suburbs in various formations, wings flapping down and up, down and up, down and up, eyes searching for the last of spring’s goodness in the trees of Boroondara’s suburbia.

Sitting on the back step watching the bats fly over again, I reflected on the fact that I’d survived a year of my new city life. And, just like the bats, I realised that I too will cycle through another. And as I do, I will slip deeper into the ongoing rhythm and mosaic of Boroondara and its people- our new home.