Backyard Childhood

On the terrace at the old house in Claremont, we really lived. Looking back it seemed like it was one big party or buzz after another.

The bee hives needed raiding, or Dad's hand built 40-foot Hartley Fijian Ferro-Cement cruising yacht was getting sprayed with concrete. Big Gargett Christmas parties where everyone drank and smoked too much (or just enough, as through these eyes, today, it was perfect) and then the laughter and the mock arguments, the chiding and the story telling began.

Way back Pam held court. The Grande Dame. The matriarch to end all matriarchs. The one perhaps still living through the women, and men, that followed. She never quite had it all - and somehow we are all still searching for it - whatever it is…!

The terrace was home to so many spiders - their webs always ended up on your face -and Japanese tuna boat floats like the one we have now.

There was a jacaranda tree, sweeping out across the sky in a blaze of purple - it's flowers scattering so beautifully across the terrace and the lawn, it's tiny leaves providing endless work for us kids (but mostly Mum).

Matilda McCloud's puppies lair-ed in the ivy at the base of the Jacaranda, pouncing out to pin feet to the ground with razor-sharp baby fangs.

And Fang the cat, who's sister Claw ran away during an expedition to the Golf Course and was never seen again. Who's stomach got ripped open so wide on the tin from the cyclone that his guts fell out and had to be stitched back in again.

Mickey Moto the Siamese lived to be 100 and was buried under the oleander. The poison from the tree would have pickled her for sure.

We inherited Dulcie from Pam. Her breath was rancid and her voice box rattled, but she had a lovely nature. She still got lots of hugs.

And the umbrella tree. There was a time when I would fearless climb it. Not now though.

Such a happy place. Such a happy childhood.

I wonder what will happen around our terrace.

Libby Davy
2001