Dusk and summer

The smell of flowers, fresh and new, pervades the air; summer whispers on the breeze as it envelopes my face when I venture outside.

Spring has definitely sprung. I’ve heard that smell is the strongest sense in evoking memories. This week, as I wipe my weeping eyes and fight off hayfever, I’ve been bombarded by memories of my childhood summers, spent in the splendid sunny warmth.

I grew up in the 1980s in a restored federation style home in the Blue Mountains. The original house had been done up in the 1950s with two back rooms being added on, as well as an internal bathroom and laundry. My bedroom was once the original sitting room, at the front out the house, complete with a large front-facing window and a door to the side veranda. Its walls were a brilliant green, neither institutional green nor royal, more of a bright emerald. The curtains were deep blue with trains pictures of trains. At the height of summer, sun beamed into the room through the window and the external door, flooding the room with mottled light and sweeping it with the sweet smell of the azaleas in the side garden.

Some things tie your life together
With slender threads of things to treasure
Days like that should last and last and last

The front yard was home to two ancient liquidambars that shaded my room. The back yard was large—half an acre—with two large weeping willows and lots of gardens, full of flowers. It was a magical garden, a kaleidoscope of colour, smell and sound. Tiny birds, I don’t remember what kind they were, twittered from flower to flower, tree to tree, singing songs of joy as the heat radiated from the dry earth beneath. The garden was full of hiding places, places to explore. The garden near the laundry was full of lavender; azaleas populated the garden near my bedroom. At the back of the garden there was a tall oak tree that shaded the swing-set.

Summer days were spent playing in the garden—hide-and-seek or in the sandpit—soaking in the warm sunshine. On the hot days we played under the sprinkler, back when it wasn’t illegal to do that this is, followed by a lazy evening barbecue dinner with friends. At night, Mum or Dad tucked me into bed and kissed me goodnight, the cool breeze from the open door tickling my face, as I descended into dreams of wonderful adventure.

But you’ve already lost
When you only have barely enough of it to hang on

Life was so innocent back then, before the days of identity crises, pain killers and walking sticks. Such beautiful childhood memories—too soon forgotten and replaced by the drudgery of adulthood.