There is this thing called the march of progress.
It can be good, or it can be bad.
But the inevitability of it means that we have to destroy our past in order to build for the future. It’s a pity no one back around a hundred years ago worked out that a certain amount of land needed to be set aside for future infrastructure, and then build around it.
The pity of it is that those same practices are with us now, and unfortunately either the infrastructure is too costly to build because of the necessity to buy back, and it will never change. No one, sadly, is thinking of the future.
So, all I have of my childhood years, some fifty to sixty years ago is memories, and when I go, they will be lost forever.
I remember, a long time ago now, the many holidays I spent at my grandmother’s place in the ‘country’. Back then it was.
Now it is just another suburb of Melbourne.
I remember the drive, and it used to take about half an hour, perhaps longer, and as we travelled, it was mostly the countryside we saw. Little towns like Beaconsfield, Officer, Berwick, oases in the middle of farming land.
The last time I went for that same drive, there was endless houses.
My grandmother’s house was very large, and the land it was built on, extensive. There used to be gardens, several garages, a number of old cars, and a huge workshop.
My brother and I used to spend our Christmases exploring, and on a particular one, found some tools and decided to recover some of it.
We found a huge fountain buried beneath the overgrowth, the centrepiece a statue part of what must have been a remarkable display.
It was like we had our own secret garden.
There was also a fernery, also overgrown.
Now, sadly, all of it is gone, and in its place a multilane highway that follows an alternate coastal route between Melbourne and Sydney.
All I have left is the memories of a time that will never return.
Perhaps it’s time to write it all down, and preserve it for future generations.