​      We piled into the carriage at Central Station; three 16 year old girls heading North, our luggage bulging with frivolity.  There was me the little hippy girl from Darwin, they called ‘Herbal’ and two Ms, Maggie of the long limbs and lily white skin who would be constantly in fear of the sun on our sunny holiday and Melanie, a Slavic beauty with long blond curls and an aloof demeanour.  I had just broken up with my surfer boyfriend grown bored with the endless hours, sunbaking on the beach, watching him have fun riding the waves.  It hadn’t occurred to me that I too could be out there surfing too.   I was keen to get away and, while surfing was not on my radar, I anticipated lots of adventure in Byron Bay.  I had no inkling then just how much adventure would arise from this short trip.
        At the last minute another two more Ms crashed through the doors of the train, a tower of luggage tottering behind them.  Mirren and Margo had been grounded and only released at the last minute.  They had known each other since Kindergarten and were inseparable.  A favourite game of theirs was pretending to be exotic royalty, high class call girls or celebrities, speaking in French, Italian or posh English accents.  They were fun to be around as there were often comedic situations at some poor boy’s expense. 
          As the red rattler chugged out of the station, we settled into our seats.  The vinyl seats were scrawled with black texta and covered with slashes, leaking stuffing.  We didn’t care. We were free. So thrilled to be away from the confines of our home lives and parental interference, the 4 Ms and I.  We pulsed with excitement.  
We staggered back and forth through the carriages in a conga line scanning for potential entertainment.  It was a motley assortment of mums and kids, oldies and a few middle aged singles. Two pimply boys with a guitar were the only passengers of interest.  Resignedly, we nestled into our seats to go over our plans for the week.  That fizzled out pretty quickly as we didn’t really have any plans or ideas.  We did have great expectations though but were entirely unclear what these were.
            As darkness fell, there was the drift of guitar chords from a few seats down and murmurings of ‘Bobby McGee.’  We sang loudly in fake Texan drawls, falling over each other laughing hysterically, amused by our hilarity.  Eventually we took notice of the dark looks from the other passengers and began to quieten down and fell asleep.   I woke at dawn and watched the sunrise through the dirty windows. 
The train rattled to a stop and we bumbled sleepily into the sultry morning air.   I took a deep inhalation, feeling the slick of humidity and hot sun on my skin.  ‘Yes!’ I thought.  Here we are.’  We looked at each other and laughed. ‘Risk and adventure here we come.’   The unknown is a fine thing when it is unknown and in that innocent moment I could not know what the years ahead would be.
             The days rushed by in a haze.  Hitching in and out of town, hours baking in the sun, trips in panel vans with local boys to hidden beaches. On the third day I was sitting at the table in the hostel when he walked in.  I can still see myself. Skin brown and dry with salt, my hair a matted mess.  I was wearing a little embroidered white camisole and purple shorts with red roses.  I loved those shorts and had cut them down from a long pair of pants I’d bought at the hippy shop in Darwin.  I can still see him.  Light skinned with a sprinkling of freckles, a strong face framed by a halo of ginger hair.  He wore a cheesecloth striped shirt and an orange sarong wrapped around his hips.  He had a bright cotton bag slung over his shoulder   He scanned the room briefly, our eyes met and there was an immediate connection.   I thought his NZ accent was endearing and his free, hippy image was seductive. 
         I was only 16 years old and could not have imagined what lay ahead and the chain of turning points that this chance meeting would bring in only a few short years; a baby, an accident and permanent injury resulting in blindness, many moves across two states,  misplaced loyalty, betrayal, marriage and divorce. 
      In Adelaide for a time I found myself and my small child living unwittingly in a brothel with two heroin addicts and their illegal Armenian boyfriends.  Back in Sydney there were dark months and years that followed where I struggled to make sense of everything and I sought escape in drugs and alcohol and unhealthy sexual encounters. Fortuitously I also found yoga which became a lifelong  support and friend.
        Still only a child at twenty two years old I had already been through so much.  My family too dysfunctional to offer nurturing support or kindness. No wonder I was unravelling.  Even now Bobby McGee still pops into my head always with the Texan drawl and echoes of laughter.  

     






These are the turning points in your life - the events, experiences, or insights that shaped your life and its directions. They may have been big events such as marriage or divorce, war, moving to a new country, the death of a loved one, retirement etc.  Or they may have been small events that had big outcomes; like simply reading a book or going for a walk. 
 
 Think of your life as a branching tree.  New branches form, others may drop off for lack of sun or nourishment. Some flourish and bear fruit and others don't.

Or think of your life as a river winding its way to the sea. Where did it begin, widen and narrow, twist and turn, and add branches as it flowed?  Did storms, floods or droughts affect the course of the river? Were there wild torrents and quiet pools?

MY FRIEND RUTH PEARCE WROTE THIS PIECE ABOUT A BRANCHING POINT IN HER LIFE
Meeting Danny
(real names have been changed to respect privacy)
It wasn’t something I told everyone – just a few trusted friends.  There was some embarrassment, shame even, about this secret habit of mine, possibly addiction. 
I had an excuse of course – Louella, who lived in my house, was involved in it, and it seemed only polite for me to participate.  Every evening we would turn on the TV, eager for the start of our favourite show, a hospital soapie. Laughing at the improbably storyline, shrieking with excitement every time Louella made an appearance, bewitched by the handsome doctors, especially our favourite, Dr Mason!  With his perfect plum accent and his unflappable demeanour.
      Fast forward 3-4 years.  I am about to embark on a change of life direction with my decision to study horticulture.  Living in inner city Sydney with no car, no money and absolutely no idea about horticulture, I somehow had to find my way to the somewhat rural, miles away suburb of Ryde each day to study.
         I had spotted him when I sat the initial entrance exam, far away on the other side of the room.  I was almost hysterical with delight and mirth when I rang Louella that evening and exclaimed, “It’s Dr Mason – he’s going to study horticulture with me!”  We were weak with laughter at the prospect.
The day of our orientation to the course loomed close and I still had no conceivable way of finding transport to get me there.  Therefore, it was imperative that I find a buddy, a driver, on this day.  The morning dawned bright and clear, but alas I was sick.  I sent my then boyfriend instead, with the clear instruction – find me a driver!!!  Anyone – except Dr Mason!
So off he went in my absence.  And I know you can guess the outcome – the only person who lived anywhere near the inner city, with a car, was our beloved Dr Mason.  And so began my deep and life changing friendship with Danny Bolton.
        We spent hundreds of hours together in his little green car, laughing, crying, talking, speeding.  He introduced me to Krishna Murti, to the Spiritual Path, to the wonder of plants, to joy and the ridiculous, to the hilarity of farts, the depths of sadness.  He loved me in a way that I had never been loved – with total unconditional acceptance.  He adored me and wanted me to soar, to live the unexpected life, to be fully myself in all of my paradoxes and imperfections.  He absolutely revelled in my complete ignorance of all worldly facts and my inability to succeed in any worldly sense.  He was a Seeker of Absolute Truth.  He was a complex, tortured and joyous soul.  He was my friend, my protector, my teacher and mentor, my number 1 fan.
       Danny took his own life when he was not much older than 50.  He used to ask me if I was scared of pain.  I was not even 30, so I had no idea of the answers to such questions, no such knowledge of myself.  Now at 60 I know the answer intimately and it is yes, I am scared of pain.
Danny held so much love and joy in his beautiful, maverick heart, but also so much pain.  In the end that pain took him away from me.  I miss him to this day, sitting on his pink velvet lounge drinking tea, exploring the meaning of life, wandering thru his gorgeous garden, marvelling at life.  He was full of life, full of love. 
      His Spirit’s final communication to me was “none of it matters, all the stuff we worry about – none of it matters.  Only love, only love matters.”   Thank you Danny. 
​







A STORY OF A BRANCHING POINT IN MY LIFE

When I was three and a half we moved from Alice Springs to Darwin which was a big wrench for me but also signified the beginning of difficult times, struggles and changes to our family. Alice Springs was a place of safety and security and those early years were a happy time for our family. It is a town that sits low in the red dirt and silver grasses of the desert and is home to the Arrentre people who know it as Mparntwe. To the East and West the MacDonnell ranges stretch like fiery caterpillars protecting the town and its inhabitants.
       In 1965, the year I was born, it only had a population of around 6,000 people. My parents had moved from the genteel town of Katoomba in the Blue Mountains to the wild frontier of the outback. Dad was a young ambitious lawyer embarking on his career, taking on both the trivia and violence of this outback town. Mum was looking forward to a bright future with her handsome husband and creating the happy family she’d never had. They already had two small boys and would go onto have four girls in this desert town.
          Our house was on a corner, a small fibro and stone cottage with a large garden that fronted onto the dry bed of the Todd River. Several aboriginal families camped along the banks which were lined with huge River Red Gums. Across to the side of our house were the Mission Homes where  children whose parents worked on remote cattle stations, stayed to go to school. My older siblings went on adventures and I spent a lot of time at the perimeter of our garden, trailing after one or other of them. I’d watch as my sister skipped across the road and disappeared into the stands of gums on her way to visit one of the families on the river. or look longingly at my brother’s diminishing figure as he headed across to the Mission Homes where he’d eat a meal with the kids there before returning home to eat again. The boys would also scale the back fence to visit the camels tethered in the yard behind us.
          I waited patiently at the line where the safety of our garden stopped and the wild unknown began. I always had my beloved Koala toy, with its stiff sawdust body, beady black eyes and hard plastic claws. I loved to rub my cheek along its furry coat or clutch it close as I stomped up and down on the dusty piles of gum leaves, watching the particles spin in the air and the smells of smokey mint and honey waft up to my nostrils. Paddy melons were good to stomp on too, giving a satisfying pop, their noxious seeds spreading to take root and sprawl in the expanding carpet of vines.
         My sister was at kindergarten and at the Bangtail Muster Parade she rode on the Kindergarten truck throwing streamers at the crowd. That became my greatest ambition too, to go to Kindy and be in the parade throwing streamers. Before that could happen, we upped and moved to Darwin for my Father’s career opportunities.
          Although not even four years old I remember the leaving clearly as it was tainted with disappointment. I sulked the whole way, a sixteen hour drive. We children were all crammed into the back of the Green Holden station wagon, hot and sweaty, our thighs and bums sticking to the vinyl. Mum held the baby in the front seat.
         In Darwin we moved into a house on stilts with a flight of stairs up the front. I hated all the space under the house and found the staircase terrifying. I would crawl up slowly clinging to the bottom of the rail. I missed our sturdy little house so firmly planted in the ground, the red dust and grey spinifex of home. I missed the gigantic gums and the dry river bed.
      This was a green and verdant place of dense foliage, swamps and crocodiles, tidal beaches with black slimy slugs and sea wasps, pythons, green ants and  green frogs. A place of hot torrential rain and wild cyclones. A place of devastation and destruction, of alcoholism and affairs, madness, apocalyptic Gods and violence. A place of lost adults and lost children.
        As I grew older I stopped missing Alice Springs and forgot about all the things I had loved there but the years of safety and security I had known as a small child stayed with me and I never stopped missing the family that we were. 

​MPARNTWE
Arrentre, your land was my birthplace.  Mparntwe you call it, this place that sits low in the red dirt and silver grasses of the desert. Your secret spirit stories thread through the MacDonnell ranges that sprawl like fiery caterpillars to the East and the West, protecting the town and its people.  It was a safe and sturdy home for my family.

LARRAKEYAH
Larrakeyah mob, your land was my childhood.  A verdant green place of dense foliage, mangroves and crocodiles, tidal beaches with black slug sea cucumbers and sea wasps, gigantic lizards, green ants and green frogs.  A place of hot torrential rain and wild cyclones.  A place of pain and trauma in my family and some of your families; a place of lost adults and lost children.  You care for the land and water, your salve heals the wounds of your people, even as progress attempts to denude, destroy and dispossess.

CADI/DJUBUGULI
Eora people I traversed your lands as I sought adventure and risk, stomping over your hunting grounds, your middens, your places of pain and suffering, of anguish and misery.   I was propelled by impulse and desire with no ear to your voices deep within the earth.  I didn't know my own history so how could I know yours. 

WAGGA WAGGA
Wiradjuri, I spent the year of my first child in your company. I carried my baby along your broad streets in the place called Wagga Wagga.  The place of many crows.  A land of tall gums, wide river beds, rich dirt flats and wooded hills. My baby grew and thrived on your land.

COONAWARRA
So brief our time together, Bindjali.  On the Terra Rosa rust soil of your place of wild honeysuckle, Coonawarra. The vineyards hardly made a scratch on your ancestral lands which stretched across the Mosquito Plains into the Wimmera country.  Our relationship ended abruptly, cut short by a ute, a Stobie pole and a shattered windscreen.  This became a place of sadness and grief for me and a small reflection of your sadness and grief at land, people and culture lost.

KOORINGA
Ngadjuri I felt the weight of your grief in that circle of She-oaks Kooringa where three of my children were born.  The heaviness that hung over the town like a black cloud, spoke to the decimation of your land and your people massacred and struck down by smallpox and measles, the few survivors herded onto mission land at Point Pearce. I felt glad to escape.

GIMUY-WALUBARRA YID
Bama rainforest people, I was privileged to be in your presence for a time of endings and new beginnings.  My children had the important experience of an indigenous culture that still thrives and to feel the humility  of being a white person on black soil.
 
GAMOR
Kamu/Gamor people, we are connected by blood.  My nephews are your descendants. A history of such violence and loss, the 1883 massacre that spared no one, man woman or child.   Extinct they called you.  Just two people known to have your language in the 60s.  Still you survive today, your story documented in film, your language detailed on paper that you may grow and thrive in culture and connection.

MYPONGA 
Kaurna and Peramangke I live now on your flat plains, by your sprawling coastline.  Myponga meaning ‘high cliffs’.  There are so few of you left here.  In all the places I have lived on the Fleurieu, Willunga ‘place of green trees’, Aldinga ‘much water’, Mclaren Vale with no mention of you.   I have not found you here easily.  I have sought you out in the ways I am able, in my reading, in my listening, in my work. Through your art and through your music.  

COLONISATION and DECOLONISATION
I mourn the lost opportunities to know you in your fullness.  Even as we lived next door to each other, even as we played together, even as we went to school together, even as I visited your traditional lands, even as I heard the ancient sounds of your voices, of your singing. I was oblivious, ignorant, disinterested.  I am part of a culture that saw you as uncivilised, untamed, savage and wild.  I am part of a culture that tried to destroy you; that caused you disease, dispossession, destruction and death. I am part of a culture that raped and pillaged and maimed and incarcerated.  I am part of a culture that stole your land and your identity.  

I still belong to a culture that has little understanding or empathy; that does not seek knowledge or education; that continues to see you as less than; that allows you to live on the margins; that perpetuates your suffering.
I am thankful for the times I was in your presence and was touched by your culture.  I am thankful for the wisdom keepers who crossed my paths as a baby, a child, an adult.  I am thankful that, despite everything, you survive and are strong. Your voices are powerful and I hear your call.

Christmas is often not a fun time for people.  Family challenges, loneliness, financial pressure and alcohol  can all take their toll. People who have lost family members often struggle with this event.

Fictions on  ABC Radio National recently did a great episode based on singer Paul Kelly's classic 'How to make gravy.'  One example of the complexities for some families at Christmas.
www.abc.net.au/radionational/programs/radio-national-fictions/how-to-make-gravy-a-tribute-to-the-australian-classic/12923398

What was the worst Christmas you have had?
​
​I had a real doozy of a Christmas a few years back but  the  worst Christmas ever was when I was 9 years old and family tensions and Cyclone Tracy collided:

     The ‘build-up’ that year had been exhausting. Humidity reached 88% and the air was like soup. The sky heavy with angry clouds.  I was nine years old and a shy and watchful child, ever alert to any change in the atmosphere of the household.  Hysteria had been nibbling at the edges of our family for weeks.  Dad was bleary eyed and unsteady on his feet.  Mum slunk through the house silent and brooding.  My sisters and I sniped at each other if we bothered to connect. My brothers stayed away from the house.
     The local aboriginal people had known for days there was danger coming.  The ants were scurrying to higher ground, birds had taken flight and goannas and snakes lay in the sun on the same rock platforms in an uneasy truce. Later, warnings from the Bureau of Meteorology were issued.  Other things took priority in our household and the threat of Cyclone Tracy wasn't taken seriously.   While the rains pounded down, the tension in the house surged.
     On the morning of Christmas Eve my mother was winding up. I could hear her footsteps thumping up and down the hall.  I hid in the bedroom I shared with my sister and tried to read a book.   I was anxious and couldn’t concentrate.  I looked out at the sky, violent in shades of purple and green.  Rain pummelled the glass and I could feel the house vibrating in the wind.    
      I heard the rise of voices at the other end of the house. My eldest brother and mother were arguing loudly. I hurried to the kitchen, skidding to a stop in the doorway as a tomato sauce bottle smashed down over my brother's head.  Mum stood frozen, the stem of the bottle still in her hand.  My brother’s eyes widened and his mouth fell open.  Tears and sauce streamed down his stunned face in a sticky mess, slivers of glass fell from his hair.   He pushed past me and ran from the house. Over the radio the sirens began to wail.
      Through the afternoon the winds increased in ferocity and the rain hammered down relentlessly. Later my parents had friends over and were relaxing with drinks.  I hovered for a while watching them but soon went to bed, relieved that the day was over.  I lay awake and wondered if I would finally get a Barbie doll of my own for Christmas. My friend Karen across the road had a whole suitcase of Barbies and accessories which I had jealously coveted all year.  
        I tossed and turned listening to the clink of glass and the slur of conversation. My mother’s laughter sounded loud and duplicitous.  Someone put the Beatle’s White Album on the stereo.  In my head I sang along to ‘Oobladi, Ooblada’ and tuned out the barrage of noises inside and outside. Finally I fell asleep.
         I woke in alarm to my father shaking me.  ‘Get up. Hurry.’ His voice was urgent.  He gripped my hand and we stumbled into the hallway.  The banks of louvers were open and with each step the wind threw us against the wall.  Finally we reached the bathroom where my sisters and mother were piled together.  We lay awake terrified, feeling the house shake and listening to the crashing and banging outside.  Eventually everything stopped.   The silence was eerie.  ‘Is it over?’ I asked hesitantly.    ‘No’, my father said firmly.  ‘It’s the eye.’  The winds began again at full throttle, roaring with fury, exploding everything in their path. 
      Daylight was dawning and the wind had finally died down.  We huddled in stunned silence, our bodies frozen.  I felt  confused. Today was Christmas wasn't it? Why weren't we in bed?  Finally my father stood up.  ‘I think it’s over,’ he said.  Warily we began to unravel and move.  I stood on tiptoes to look through the broken frame of the bathroom window.  I shut my eyes tightly thinking I was imagining what my eyes had seen.  When I opened them again the vision was the same. 
     The lush garden my father had nurtured for so many years, with its tall majestic gums, tropical fruit trees and massive palms, was decimated.  The ground was covered with broken trunks and branches.  Beyond our back fence, our neighbour’s house had disappeared, only a few lonely stilts still standing.  The yard was strewn with the remnants of their belongings; the spinning top of a hills hoist upturned, a dented fridge tottering on a mound of rubbish.   Everywhere there were soggy piles of debris; glass, fibro, wood, clothes and toys. Their kitchen table lay askew like a wooden tantrum, legs in the air.   I could see their Christmas tree stunted and dishevelled, a ragged clump of tinsel still clinging to a branch.  I began to cry.
      Each day following the terror of that long, cold night was sensory overload; damp rotting smells, streets full of broken houses and household items, people wandering dazed and confused, queues of people for food and medical treatment.  Eventually my mother and five of my siblings were evacuated to Sydney.  My father and eldest brother stayed behind to help with the clean up efforts. 
     A couple of months later we returned to an apocalyptic landscape; streets empty of houses and trees empty of leaves, no birdsong or barking dogs. There were  soldiers  everywhere but few faces that looked familiar.  The handful of houses still standing had been searched and cleared of bodies, rotting food, dead animals and were spray painted with messy pink S &Cs.  Back at school vacant desks and chairs were ghostly reminders of classmates absent.
     As the years passed, the intensity of the cyclone dissipated and it became a vague and distant memory. I didn't think about it any more.  Until in my 30s, I visited the Cyclone Room at the Darwin Museum. I was blasé but as the lights dimmed into blackness and the winds roared through the speakers, a tingling spread over my body.  It felt like every nerve ending in my skin was on fire. I began to hyperventilate and gasping for air I ran from the room.  My mind may have forgotten but every cell in my body still held the memories of that fateful Christmas.
 

        ‘We’re descended from Royalty.’ My Father told me once. As a Darwin girl this seemed improbable and I didn’t believe him. It did turn out there was a seed of truth in that story way, way, way back. Often family myths do turn out to have a grain of truth, handed down orally from generation to generation. 
             Skeletons and secrets are an important and potentially treacherous area for researching your family history. All sorts of ‘hidden’ information about ancestors can be revealed. The further back in time the less traumatic the secrets are likely to be.  Bringing minor misdemeanours and misbehaviours to light can really help us to connect to our ancestors as interesting and flawed people.  Just like us.  However, sometimes what is uncovered can have more serious repercussions. 

Cultural Lineage, Parentage, Illegitimacy, Addictions, Violence, Mental Illness, Crimes, Atrocities, Sexuality, Identity

There are many great memoirs and biographies written dealing with secrets, skeletons and myths and the impact of how discovering and uncovering can deeply affect those still living.
​
Here are a few of my favourites:

What are your family myths?  Is there a seed of truth or is it completely fabricated or are you yet to find out?  I’d love to read your experiences so please share.

My family has its share of secrets, skeletons and myths.  I have written about one of them that precipitated my foray into genealogy. Read on.