20 years ago, my precious Aunty Pat died of cancer far too young. I was in Grade 12 and and deeply sad. They had four boys and I fancied myself as a daughter to her, someone who would talk about fabrics and sewing and clothes. She would pass her old patterns on to me.
I don't know how it came about really, but Uncle John said I could have her piano. The piano was the first thing you saw as you came into their house. It has ivory keys, though some of the tops have been prised off and on the middle octave the notes are written in black marker.
It must have been some years later because I had a house of my own to bring it to. I learnt the basics of scales and some simple tunes with my grandma when I was young but never had another lesson. Hopes of getting further along with my playing never materialised into lessons or the magical and late ability to play-by-ear so it just sat there.
Many, many years later and I finally realised there was never going to be room 'upstairs', never going to be the money for repairs and tuning and lessons and no time like now for letting it go.
The piano went solidly and gracefully out into the sunlight and across the way to my brother's house. There are fingers there that know the ways of notes that dance and treble across the page in sharp leaps and minor pauses.
The piano is my favourite instrument, but it has to be played.
About a year ago, I had morning tea with some old school friends, one who was at school with me from Grade One, circa 1977. That year, we made lovely singing choir boys with ping pong ball heads and yes, bodies made out of beer bottles colloquially referred to as 'stubbies'. On top was red crepe paper and a white doily to make the lace surplus of the choir boy's uniform.
I showed this little fellow (only sans clothes due to my children and their inquisitive fingers) to her. Her response was to laugh out loud, "Oh Nikki, you HAVE to throw that out!". So I did.
It was hard. I mean, vintage beer bottle you know, they don't make them like that anymore.
I had a wonderful Grade One teacher who made our first year of school a very happy one. Sr Carmel was a Presentation nun and full of love and kindness. Our classroom was an old house up on stilts. The main living area housed our desks. We did our painting and artwork on the enclosed verandah and she read to us from Gulliver's Travels in the afternoons round the side, in the sleep-out. If you got to school before the bell you could play in the dirt under the house but since I could do that any time at home, it didn't hold any appeal for me.
We put on the Nativity play for our families. One of the girls in our class had a new baby brother, so she was Mary. By the time it got to me there weren't any major roles left so I got to wear pyjamas and bring in my favourite toy for baby Jesus. I brought in my squeaky, rubber, peg.
Each year, I send Sr Carmel a Christmas card. Each year, she sends me one in return.
I first remember having this little, mouse, coin purse when I was about six. As you can see, it didn't fit a lot of money in it, but 50 cents was big bickies in those days. Icy cups at tuckshop were 5 cents and a packet of fonzies chips 20c. I had a bit of an obsession with tuckshop, given that we were not allowed to buy our lunch.
We made our own lunch each day but I used to sneak some of my pocket money to school in my mouse purse to buy myself a treat. If my older brother busted me at the tuckshop I would whine something about forgetting my lunch.
I feel a little sad about letting this little fellow go, busted zip and all.
eeeeek!
Amongst one of many boxes of 'paperwork' I found this paragraph I wrote in Grade Eight.
(1985) My bunnykins bowl was a baptism gift from my godparents. My brother had the cup and someone else the egg cup, or perhaps they came as a set and I shared them by default, I don't know.
I did manage to hold on to it long enough to get it out for my children to use. I had it not "for the rest of my life" but until this year, when one of my children broke it. At first I was devastated, but then I realised it was a moment when I could change direction. Instead of making a big deal out of i I very bravely swept it up and put it straight in the bin. "Don't worry, it's only a plate" said the new me!
I could hardly believe it when I was digging through boxes looking for things to send on their way and this page was there. I thought it another fitting object for my year of living dangerously, bin lid poised.
I hold things in my memory.
This piece of lace belonged to my great grandmother, Kate Sumner. It came from a bag of nd trimmings that mum and her siblings were allowed to play with when they visited their grandmother's house.
My mum taught me to sew when I was quite young. I tried many times to work out a way of using this lace for a collar or an insert into a dress. It was difficult as the lace was not quite long enough or the wrong texture or colour or too precious in my mind.
This year, I bundled it up with a picture of Kate and sent it to her 19th great grandchild who is studying fashion. I know that it is probably not Claire's favourite 'vintage' but she will have enough respect for what it is to give it a blessing as she tosses it into the rag bag.
I love well made objects that travel through time to reveal themselves again to someone new.
I am appreciative.
I was about eleven years old when I did up this daily schedule on an old piece of card and carefully covered it in contact. I like very much that I had "Rest" for ten minutes between making my lunch and collecting my lunch and hat. I like that I have a "Make lunch" time slot at 7.20pm in the evening on the same day that I have "Make Lunch" at 7.55am in the morning.
When I was teaching, I bought the purpose- made Teacher's diary but I always ended up making myself a timetable based schedule with all sorts of colour coding and symbols that made perfect sense to me alone. It was a stapled stack of photocopied pages but I could fit a whole term's worth of school weeks in my bag. I would cross the weeks off - sometimes day by day and sometimes, lesson by lesson.
It feels right to have things pinned down on paper, neatly separated into boxes, coded and logical and promising.
It makes me happy to know what's coming. I don't like surprises.
I used to take this bag to church on Sundays with a toy, a book and something to eat. We used to sit fairly close to the front, so I had to pick the moment I broke out the biscuits.
It made me feel grown up. I loved the picture of the duck on it that I thought was Donald Duck. I loved the rough, woollen texture and the simple, subdued colours. When the strap broke, I fixed it with a silver, safety pin.
I don't know when I put it away or even if I had the thought that 'one day' I would pass it on to my children. I do know that when I finally brought it back out into the light of day that my daughter was underwhelmed.
I appreciate a beautiful handbag but I hate carrying them. I usually continue the habit I had as a teenager, jamming money or a keycard into my pocket and travelling light. Handbags aren't good for hoarders. In mine at the moment I have:
a flyer for a video store
a menu for an Indian restaurant
a crumpled review for a restaurant I want to visit
a tampon
Friday's mail
a bank statement and my daughter's bank passbook
one lipgloss and two containers of blistex
a highlighter, one permanent marker, a biro and two colouring pens
a purse with our library cards in it ( to travel light, but not lose the cards from my pocket)
my daughter's purse
my wallet that won't shut because it is full of receipts, cards and business cards
go cards for the bus
a nappy for Jed
two bus timetables
an emerald green ribbon that comes out once a year for St Patrick's day
a flat, rough rock from Currumbin beach
swim centre brochure
a necklace
new house numbers
doctor's scripts
empty toblerone wrapper
menu for a burger restaurant
discount vouchers for a book store
I like to be prepared.
