Remembering The Log Cabin

A section of the Log Cabin Motel

Bricks and mortar are the stuff that buildings are made out of. Throw in a few sticks of wood, some glass for the windows and there you have it; a shelter of sorts. Everyone know that’s what a building is, right?

I believe the above description is missing something, and that is the soul of the building.

To me, all buildings have a soul, which is developed over time and becomes a part of the building through the love and memories shared within the walls. Perhaps that is the reason why I have been drawn to old buildings for as long as I can remember. The older the building, the longer the memories have had the opportunity to embed themselves within every pore of the bricks and mortar with which the buildings have been erected, thus creating the soul of the building.

A touch of the personality of each individual who spends regular time within a building radiates through the walls, creating a melting-pot of humanity, enriching the structure with a character all of its own.

Back in the days of my childhood, growing up in the beautiful Blue Mountains of New South Wales, our closest large town was Penrith. In those days, with only one main road existing by which to enter or leave the mountains, we travelled to, and through, Penrith regularly.

My favourite part of the trip, every time we travelled that road, was crossing over the river. I would peer out of the old station-wagon window as we drove across Victoria Bridge, crossing the Nepean River, enjoying the glistening sun shining across the water and looking down at the wonderful old building just beyond the bridge, sitting beside the banks of the river.

Victoria Bridge, Penrith.

As a child, I had no idea what the building was, just that the building looked old and inviting and that’s all I cared about. The name of the building appealed to me as well ~ “The Log Cabin”.

When I was twelve years of age, my cousin was married at an old church in Emu Plains (the first town in the Blue Mountains) at an old stone church which was built by convicts, (another building of character). Her wedding reception would be held at The Log Cabin.

To this day I can still remember clearly the details of the day of my cousins wedding; the brand new “grown up” outfit Mum had bought for me to wear, the pea and ham soup we ate for lunch and how my hair (as usual) had a mind of its own, with my unruly curls flying hither and yon, when all I wanted them to do was to sit flat!

Mum complained of a bad headache at the church and decided against going to the reception at The Log Cabin.

Poor Mum. At the reception I thanked the God of all Almost Teenagers for giving her the headache that day, as ultimately it allowed me to enjoy my first “teenager’s night out” with my thirteen year old cousin!

Early on in the night Dad became happily ensconced in enjoying a pint or two and catching up with old friends and family.

With a hefty supply of twenty-cent coins in our hands, gratefully donated by my darling Dad and uncle (as it kept me and my cousin out of their hair for a few hours!) and music blaring in the background, we headed off to play on the row of pin-ball machines, lined up in the far corner, against the wall.

Whatever would Mum think???

Here I was, twelve years of age, with money, playing pin-ball machines, unsupervised ~ and loving every minute of it! Mum would have been horrified!

I always knew there was a reason why I liked the Log Cabin!

Although many moons passed and there were plenty more opportunities along the way for independence, the Log Cabin has always held treasured memories of my first taste of freedom.

Looking up towards the back of the Log Cabin from the river walk.

In April last year, when I returned to Penrith for the first time in around fifteen years, I spent a night at the Log Cabin Motel, giving me the opportunity to see the building of my childhood memories through the eyes of an adult.

Late in the afternoon I took a walk along the pathway beside the river. Rather than the bridge taking me across the river, for the first time in my life I walked under Victoria Bridge, alongside the Nepean River.

The pounding and roar of traffic travelling across the bridge, as I stood directly beneath the roadway, looking up at the underside of the bridge, could have been unsettling.

It wasn’t.

Standing below, with the roaring thunder of traffic overhead, I felt protected and cocooned by the spirits of my father and uncle, and all of the other family members with whom I had shared that night with, so long ago, who are no longer with us.

Directly under the bridge. Road to the left; railway line to the right.

Post Script ~ Last weekend, much to the dismay of me and hundreds of Penrith locals, a fire destroyed much of the beautiful Log Cabin buildings. Originally built in 1837, over the years the Log Cabin has undergone many extensions and name changes. Starting its life as an inn, the Log Cabin progressed in 1939, after further extensions, to becoming the Log Cabin Hotel, when a licence to sell alcohol was first issued.

I look forward to the day when The Log Cabin begins its next entity, when the restoration of the remaining buildings are completed, or when the Log Cabin II is built.

Surrounded by the love of my family. I'm the one with the unruly hair...but where's my camera-shy cousin?

This is the only photo I can find of the two of us, taken when I was three. Yes, I'm the one with the crazy hair!

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Searching for Love

My Wedding Day

There was always a man in Anne’s life.

Even before my birth, my sister had been engaged and later called off the engagement without any explanation to the family.

I loved and adored the man she married. To this day, I keep in touch with him and in my eyes he will always be my brother. I have no memory of any time in my life when he wasn’t there; he’s simply part of my family, a member who I hold very dear to my heart.

Unfortunately Anne didn’t feel the same way about her first husband. Who knows why she chose to marry him and to continue living for fifteen years in a marriage that was hardly to her liking.

But that was the way Anne lived her life. She made her choices for her own reasons. Nothing swayed her to think otherwise.

Anne’s delightful, flirtatious personality drew men to her like bees to a honey pot. She was never short of admirers.

And as Anne prepared to leave her husband, I prepared myself for marriage.

To cut a long and complicated story short and also to divert from a story long gone and best forgotten, I married a Catholic. I’m a Protestant. Even during the late 1970’s my marriage was regarded as a mixed marriage.

My staunch Protestant mother refused to attend my marriage as it would take place in a Catholic Church. My Dad followed her lead, as did my two younger sisters.

But true to form, Anne was there. Anne was always there for me, as I was always there for her. Anne followed her own advice, the same advice she had instilled into me for a number of years ~ do what is right for you. And for Anne, the right thing to do was to be my Matron-of-Honour at my wedding.

Accompanying Anne to my wedding was her latest love, although this love did not last for long. Soon after my wedding day he had been replaced by an old flame from years gone by.

Just three months after my first child was born Anne and her old flame were married.

For a period of time he seemed to be the ideal choice of husband for my sister. But he couldn’t keep up the pretence forever and before long his true colours were showing.

He resented anyone close to Anne and Anne and I were as close as any two sisters could be.

Being a man with an extremely dominant personality, he didn’t appreciate Anne’s independent streak. While he enjoyed the playful, witty banter which he and Anne engaged in, he could not, and did not, tolerate her strength of will, to rival his own.

Anne only stayed with husband number two for financial reasons. Bottom line, he provided a roof over her head. By complaining profusely about his nightly snoring, Anne managed to manoeuvre her way out of his bed and into a separate bedroom of her own.

Anne’s husband was nothing short of rude toward my husband and me, as was the case with most members of our family. I don’t wish to dwell on his unpleasant personality, but future posts will explain my reasons for emphasising his dominant, controlling, arrogant personality.

My sister made her choices of the men in her life for reasons I’m sure were best known to her alone. She rarely seemed to be happy. Always searching for something else; something more than what she already had.

I strongly doubt that the perfect partner for my sister actually existed.

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The Ice Princess

Anne and me.

The “Ice Princess” lived in the house next door.

I believed her to be the most beautiful woman in the world, but I never spoke to her. She had no time for me. But that didn’t bother me at all.

I wanted to be just like her when I grew up. To my child’s mind, she epitomised beauty, elegance, wisdom, wit and knowledge.

Her husband always spoke to me though. If I had a question, he was the approachable one. When Mum and Dad were invited over to play cards after dinner, he asked me to join in the game, and helped me to win.

He offered me a sip from his glass of beer and shared the bowls of chips and lollies with me. He even allowed me to strike the match to light his cigarette.

As for the “Ice Princess” though, she didn’t seem to realise that I existed, unless I got in her way and she told me to move. Or she wanted me to watch out for her little son for a few minutes, while she had some important chore to do.

Sometimes on a Saturday afternoon I would sit out the front of our house and watch the two of them play tennis on the street. They were great tennis players.

And to see them dance together was pure magic! She had some old records that they loved to dance to, and she would sing to the songs as they danced. Of course, she knew all of the words to the songs and she never sang out of tune.

When she baked a cake, she didn’t even need to follow a recipe! But I never tasted a single thing from her kitchen that didn’t immediately melt in my mouth.

As for knitting, she could whip up a jumper for her son within a couple of days! She laughed at my stunned awe at her expertise in knitting, telling me it really was quite easy, anyone could do it. “Well, Mum can’t”, I’d tell her, and she’d laugh her light-hearted laugh. Conversation over.

Many days, I would hear her and Mum argue, although I never knew what about, nor did I have any opinions on their matters of dissention. I loved my Mum and idolised the “Ice Princess”. Case closed.

My parents and I moved to another house while I was still very young, by which time the “Ice Princess” had given birth to her second and last child, a daughter.

Why did she ever become a mother? Perhaps she felt it was the “done thing” back in those days, just as she seemed to believe getting married the appropriate thing to do. She played the role of wife and mother very well for a number of years, although her heart was never in either role.

With my fifteenth birthday approaching, it was with great excitement that I received the news of the “Ice Princesses” upcoming visit. We now lived about one thousand kilometres away from where I had spent the early years of my life and I couldn’t wait for their visit. She would have the two children with her, but her husband would not be accompanying them.

Now in her thirties, to me she was still as beautiful and poised as she had always been.

Suddenly, the “Ice Princess” began regarding me as a human being! We talked for hours, but not just idle, menial chatter about the latest fashions. It became apparent that we had a number of common interests.

She realised that I had become more than just an annoying child, hanging around her feet. I realised that the “Ice Princess” had become my strongest ally.

And so began my relationship with my sister, Anne, a relationship that at times would mean more to me than any other.

The ice on the princess had melted, and in doing so had revealed a simply amazing friend.

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Happy Birthday, Anne. xxxxxx

Anne, aged 2 years and 10 months.

The pages of my musty old family photo albums are dotted throughout with photos of Anne, whilst she was still a baby.

After both of my parents had died I was nominated as the designated keeper of all of the family albums for two reasons ~ I’m the youngest family member by a number of years, but most importantly, I have the interest in family history. In fact, I’m really the only family member interested in our history, apart from Anne.

Even then, Anne only had an interest up to a certain point. She would have liked to have known more about our more immediate family members, whereas my interest extended back to researching as far back as centuries ago, by which time Anne had lost interest!

She had been the first born child, grandchild and niece in the family, born during the war years when news of any happy event was cherished.

Anne was a cute, pretty, sweet, adorable child, immediately wrapping all family members around her tiny little finger.

According to my Mum, Anne was spoiled rotten! But who could blame my family for loving this little princess, who had arrived at a time when joy was needed? Anne was the little ray of sunshine in their lives that they had longed for.

On the winter’s morning of Anne’s birth there were only two people present, my Mum and her sister, who was still just a teenager. Hospital births were unheard of during the war years in far northern England, where Anne made her entry into the world.

The midwife had been sent for, but didn’t arrive before Anne’s birth. My Mum was one of a very rare breed of women who did not experience labour pains!

So, on the morning of the 16^th of February, in the same house, the same room and even the very same bed in which my Mum had been born herself twenty years earlier, Anne arrived in this world with a minimum of fuss or fanfare.

For the next three years, Mum cared for Anne alone, whilst working herself on the local buses, selling tickets and collecting bus fares. Dad was away, a soldier in the army, with Mum not knowing, usually for weeks at a time, whether he had survived the latest battle he had been sent to, or even what country he was in, for that matter.

As Anne grew, Mum explained to her that the man in the army uniform in the big photo on the sideboard was her daddy, and Anne would climb up to the photo each night to kiss her daddy goodnight.

When Dad finally returned home from fighting in the war, Anne still kissed the photo each night, not understanding who the stranger in the house was!

I cannot imagine myself the reality of the hardships these first three members of my birth family must have endured and I have only the strongest sense of admiration for their collective strength and courage, during a time of incredible struggle and hardship.

Yet, despite all of the grief surrounding their lives during these years, when Mum and Dad told me their stories from many years before my birth, whilst beginning their family on the other side of the world from where I myself was born, they spoke with genuine affection and love.

Perhaps their struggles in those very early days of their married life together instilled in them the ability to never give up, to strive for their goals, believing nothing in this world was impossible if you set your mind to it.

These early year shaped Anne’s life also, but not always in a positive way. Anne held on to resentment for some of the choices my parents made, resentment which would eat away at her soul as the years progressed.

If only she could have given up wishing for a life other than the one she had been born to. Perhaps she would still be here today.

Happy Birthday, my Dearest Anne. Wherever you are now, I wish with all of my heart that you are reading these words and can feel the love I have for you and have always had for you.

I send all of my love to you, my sister, for as long as time.

With love always from your Baby Sister. xxxxxx

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The Etiquette of Grieving

“You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view, until you climb into his skin and walk around in it”. ~ Atticus Finch ~ To Kill a Mockingbird.

It would help if people in general would consider that other people do have their own point of view. I wonder how often a person will actually take the time to at least attempt to climb into another person’s skin.

Harsh judgements are often made, based on the assumption that all people think and feel the same. If only people could show more tolerance, before passing judgement on another.

Just recently, I read an article written by a lady who pondered what the correct way to grieve is. She didn’t know how she should be acting or feeling.

Her story got me to thinking…Is there an etiquette for grieving? If there is, exactly who wrote the rules? How much research did they do on the subject? Did they spend time in other people’s skin before specifying the appropriate actions?

I think not!

During my lifetime, I have been advised not to cry when in the presence of the terminally ill. I’ve been informed that I have not acted “appropriately” during the impending deaths of both my best friend and my mother.

Three years ago, I was criticised for not attending my sister’s funeral.

My sister has been popping in and out of my thoughts lately, ever since December. She died in December. Christmas follows shortly after. And then there’s her birthday, coming up this week.

By not wishing to hurt anyone’s feelings and always trying my darnedest to “act appropriately”, I have kept many of my feelings about my sister to myself.

When all’s said and done, I wasn’t the only significant person in her life. She had other sisters besides me; she had not only a husband but also an ex-husband; she was a grandmother, daughter, niece, god-daughter, cousin and friend to many.

My thought process towards my sister has been such that I have regarded my feelings towards her as, yes, significant, although other people in her life may have been affected by her existence in this world more strongly than me.

That has been “appropriate me” talking. The time just hasn’t seemed right to speak of my sister in any other way than “appropriate”.

“Consider others first” has been my motto.

Well, the truth is, I’m through with considering others! My sister had a huge impact on my life. Her life and her death, have affected me greatly.

Next to my parents, or even perhaps along with my parents, she played the most significant of roles in my life. I am largely the person I am today as a direct result of her influence on me during my life, especially during my teenage years.

Who’s to say who misses her the most, now she’s gone? Who can judge who loved her the most? Who has the right to proclaim whose feelings matter the most?

The answer to all three of these questions is ~ NO ONE!

I’m entitled to “feel” as I do about my sister, just as much as the next person, without the need to ask permission if that’s okay with them! And the time now feels right to write about my sister.

This is my blog. These are my memoirs. I make no apologies for having strong feelings regarding my sister.

All of my upcoming posts will involve my sister. I have no idea yet how many times I will write about her. I’ll just keep writing until I have run out of words. I’ll write about her until it feels right to change the subject.

Three years after my sister has gone, I still grieve when I think of her. I probably always will feel grief over losing her.

And I lost her twice, but that’s another story.

Memories of her ~ the good, the bad and the ugly ~ will most likely always bring a knot to my heart.

My first story of my sister will appear here tomorrow and the next after that on Wednesday this week. Her birthday.

Then I’ll see which road the words take me along from there.

 

(Photo from Google Images)

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2011 ~ The Dawning of a Cool Day

Misty Morning

With the dawning of a brand new day, and a brand new year, it became instantly obvious that we would not have our usual hot summer’s day, which we have grown accustomed to in this part of the world.

In the morning’s silence, the only sound to be heard was the soft pattering of rain, as I snuggled under the cosy blankets on my bed.

Who would have thought that the weather could ever be so pleasantly cool at this time of the year?

Outside, the unseasonal coolness also provided me with an unexpected photo session…

The mist around our house had almost an eerie feel to it. Could this really be January 1^st, almost the middle of summer?

Wet Web

Just outside the front door resides a spider. He’s not much trouble at all as he has provided his own little home, which looks just amazing when the rain has beaded upon the silky strands.

I often admire the complexity of a spider’s web, so cleverly constructed by natures own ingenuity.

Meanwhile…

As the day progressed, I have taken the opportunity to bake a Lemon Meringue Pie and a Lemon Tea Loaf, both family favourites and not often enjoyed at this time of year; it is usually too hot to use the oven!

What Next?….

Life’s happenings have prevented me from blogging over the last couple of months, what with this and that occurrence. However, I am totally convinced that the planets can never, ever align again to create such chaos a second time around!

I’ve missed writing and plan on writing down all of the words that have spent the last few months spinning around in my head.

So I’ve committed myself to writing regularly. More about these plans can be read by clicking here…

And, most importantly….

Happy New Year, 2011! May the Gods of Good Wishes bring the best of Everything You Can Imagine for yourself, into your life, making this year The Most Magical Year….Ever.

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