While I was sorting my stash of childhood memories, by chance I came upon a book that contained some whispers of yesterday. It is a cream photo album, a collection I compiled of pressed flowers and leaves. I started this hobby of preserving flowers when I was eleven years old. Coached by my late mother, every time my family were driven off for exploring free bushland and nearby hills, I added some flora.
Have you ever done this too? These days, there are probably more modern methods used for keepsakes that whisper of yesterday. I carefully placed my specimens of botany between pages of heavy books, after I had wrapped the flowers in tissue paper. Other books were piled on top of the ones containing the flowers and leaves. After a suitable time span, I could meticulously add the preserved flowers and pressed leaves to my photo album, with a note of the date and location where each sample was sourced. I wrote so carefully.
These epic adventures my long enduring father drove his loved ones on usually took place on a Saturday, after he had filled his Holden Special sedan at the petrol station across the road from the end of our street. There was full driveway service then. The petrol was pumped by the staff, tyres were checked, along with the oil and radiator, then the windscreen was washed. Took more than a few minutes of today, when we seniors fill up at a self-service station with one console operator. Some still take cash, or we can swipe our debit cards.
In this reminiscence of yesterday, there was no automated GPS for navigation, or even a mobile phone. But the potential to be stranded on a lonesome bush road never seemed to worry my parents. It would have been a long walk home if the ever-reliable car had stopped functioning so well.
Most of these family field trips, as ‘we’re going for a drive’ took place in the midst of summer. My hardworking father would have his annual leave from his office job in town. It was hot, very hot, the car seats were sticky, we had skirts or shorts. Our legs glued to the seat after taking off in the family wheels, the battle had been waged over which sisters had the window seats.
All this made a change from playing in the back yard. My younger sister or I could be relied on to have a swollen arm from a bee sting. I am very allergic, so is she. My mother would calmy apply a sling, and slather limbs with calomine lotion. This was messy, gooey pink and thick. The bee sting added to the general sweltering discomfort, gazing at our great Australian bushland, baking on each side of a gravel road. Dust clouds flew everywhere, especially if there was occasionally a passing truck or motorist.
In these whispers of yesterday, my father would lift his hand as cars drove by. The driver slowed down, to see past our dust cloud, and so did my father. It is the casual Australian wave, a salute to another old time. Our parents took us to simple, free places. At a local creek over a river bridge, they would collect free clippings of plants to grow Australian flora, and rocks to decorate their garden.
To encourage this hobby of collecting, my dad had given me a small hammer. My sisters and I would chip rocks apart, seeing if we could find fossils of ancient plants. Yes. I have long since misplaced these remnants of ferns of yesterday. We tried to find gold nuggets, but all we had was quartz with fake gold. We always got dad to check if the flash of gold was real.
All that area is now submerged by a dam, vital for the water supply for the citizens and farms. While I am reading these notes and specimens I compiled, I can still hold dear those whispers of yesterday. Simple but sweet, probably cannot be beat.
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