EMMA│SEMMA│NETTA

For as long as I can remember my parents have been obsessed with death. Not death in the sense that they enjoy it, that they revel in horror movies or have a macabre longing for Hollywood style blood and gore. But death in the sense of searching for knowledge of those who came before us. Of what dead relative belonged to whom, where were they buried, who were they buried on top of and why was that particular plot chosen.

For as long as I can remember almost every conversation with my mother and father inevitably comes around to a dead relative, the cemetery they were buried in, details about the grave-site and those buried with them.

In the beginning these conversations irritated and infuriated me. Slowly though, I have been worn down, my fortitude eroded away and I now find myself trapped, wrapped up in their veil of death. I find myself, after all these years of resistance, becoming curious about these dead people, these dead relatives.

Emma Simonetta Croal

I confess I have been less than patient with my parents on this subject. My sister and I have swapped countless eye rolls each time this subject comes up at family gatherings. Almost certainly because the subject comes up at every family gathering. My parents will happily discuss for hours people we have never heard of, aunts, uncles, cousins, people so foreign to us that they are no more than strangers on the street. People I feel no connection to, they are only names. Only faded photos. Only grave stones in a cemetery somewhere. No  flesh and bone. No history. No story. They mean nothing to me. They meant nothing to me, until now.

   

Quite some time ago my grandmother’s family on my mother’s side had a family reunion, held here, in Canungra. I thought nothing of it at the time. I thought nothing of it twenty five years later when we moved here. It was a family reunion with a lot of people I didn’t know, in a nice park, a chance to have a picnic. Nothing more, nothing less. The significance of that family reunion was lost on me. The significance of that family reunion continued to be lost on me even as we signed a contract for a property, this property, in Canungra.

“Your grandmother was born in Canungra” my mother informed me after I shared the news of our purchase.

What? 

How did I not know this? 

Too much eye rolling, I suspect.

Unwittingly, I found myself located in the midst of my, my mother’s, and my grandmother’s family history. Within walking distance of the very graves and dead relatives that have ‘haunted’ me all these years. Their names are in the streets and the parks and are known by the locals. Adams, George, Rieser. There is no escaping them. And I’m not sure I want to.

The one dead relative I have always resisted is my great great grandmother, Emma Simonetta Croal. Her name has been at the centre of many of these interminable conversations on dead relatives. She has been mentioned, talked about and threshed over to a point where I never considered her as a person.

But she was someone. She was a woman who was buried in the cemetery just outside of our little village, in an unmarked grave. Her marker, for reasons know only by those also long dead, is located in another cemetery located on the other side of village. What a curious thing to do. Why would someone do that? 

Now I am curious. Damn it. Now I need to know. Suddenly Emma has flesh, Emma has history, Emma has a story.

Suddenly, I need to know her story. 

EASTER @ GOODNIGHT

Close your eyes. Cast your mind back. I'm about to tell you a story. A story of Easter past. 

It’s the mid 1990’s. It’s April or March. I don’t remember. But it’s Easter and that means a four day weekend. That means a weekend at Goodnight Scrub.

Good Friday

Early morning, three thirty to be exact. We were all in bed by nine o’clock the previous night, because we knew we had early start. We tried to sleep. We kind of did sleep. But the alarm was set to go off at three thirty and at three o’clock we were lying in bed, wide awake, waiting for it. After ten minutes we decide that waiting was ridiculous and got up.

By four we have had our morning caffeine hit and packed the car, full, up to the roof. This trip has been made so many times we are able to pack the car in our sleep. It’s four in the morning; technically we are packing the car in our sleep. We have a list. It’s not written down, it's in our heads. Inevitably we always forgot something. Usually something important, like toilet paper or scissors or lip balm, but we are practiced in the art of packing. What we forget we can make do without it. Except toilet paper, we can't do without toilet paper. 

Into the car goes the pillows and sleeping bags, an esky full of food and cold drinks, a radio, the chainsaw, beer, some bananas, a packet or two or three of marshmallows, the whipper snipper, a bottle of rum, chocolate bilbies, matches, plenty of matches, Easter eggs, books, don’t forget the books and the obligatory bacon and egg pie. The car groans under the weight. It is so full we can no longer see out of the back window. That’s okay, we’ll just used the mirrors.

The dog is sulking. He always sulkes at Easter. He knows that we will be gone for the weekend. He knows the cues; early morning preparations, whispered conversations so as not to disturb our neighbours sleeping only meters away, the gift of a nice big juicy bone. But not even a juicy bone will coax him from the dog box. He has retreated so far in only his rump is visible. He knows that he will be alone for the next couple of days and he is not happy.

Four thirty. Finally we are ready to go. Finally the car pulls out of the driveway and heads silently down the street.

At six thirty we are at our usual breakfast stop. The Mobil Roadhouse at Torbanlea. The place buzzing, full of people like us, escaping for the long weekend. Cars towing boats, cars like ours, packed to the roof with blankets and pillows, cars with trailers full of motor bikes, camping gear, fishing rods, kids’ stuff and motor mowers. The roadhouse is the place to be for those who want to stretch their legs, fill their cars with petrol and partake in a greasy roadhouse breakfast of  bacon, eggs and bad coffee, before setting off on the next leg of the journey to god knows where.

Eight thirty, we arrive at our destination. Goodnight Scrub. It always looks exactly the same as when we left it, six months earlier. Except for the grass, it has grown so high we can no longer find the track to the shed. And there is a tree which has fallen over, we will have to move it before we can enter the property. And there is a cow standing in the middle of the paddock staring at us, no amount of yelling will make it move. Apart from that, it looks exactly the same.

There was always a million things to do before we can settle in for a weekend of doing nothing. The kero fridge needs to be cleaned and lit. Wood needs to be collected for the wood burning stove and the ash box has to be emptied and the fountain filled with water. The table needs a clean and the floor needs sweeping. There are beds to be made, the outside shower to be set up and the pump connected to the battery of the car. The toilet hole has filled in again so it needs to be re-dug and the tarp has to be hung up around it, for privacy. It's always hot and we are always tired after the drive but these things need to be done. The promise of a cold drink waiting for us in the esky helps to get it all done quickly.

We're finished by lunch time and celebrate with cold bacon and egg pie and even colder orange cordial or a beer in the shade of the shed. Because we are all tired from the early start, the long drive, the heat of the day and the stillness of the afternoon we are all sleepy. So we nap or read or just sit and contemplate the colour of our belly button fluff.

The afternoon turns slowly into evening, it is time now to get the outside fireplace prepared. The old ashes are dug out and a new fire is built. It's not long before there is enough coals to roast pork and potatoes in the dutch oven. The smell of the meat cooking is intoxicating. It sizzles and crackles and pops. We all agree there is nothing like a meal cooked over an open fire.

After dinner the search is on to find the best marshmallow toasting stick. The stick of all sticks, one that will withstand the heat of the fire. One that was long and strong and green. We eat our way through the first bag of marshmallows while the billy boils on the fire, ready for hot chocolate.

Saturday

We wake early, gently roused by the sun, the sound of the birds and the smell of the bush. The crows are noisiest but the parrots, kookaburras and the magpies provide some stiff competition.

The roller door on the shed is thrown up and we lie in bed and watch the morning come alive. We are so close to the outside it feels like our bed is in the paddock. We laze in our sleeping bags for the longest time, drinking hot, sweet tea, listening to the radio, basically doing nothing. Until eventually it's time to get up.The wood stove is stoked up again. Our breakfast of bacon, eggs and fried bread is prepared. The slow start to the morning is replaced with noise and movement.

We make good use of the coolness of the morning to tidy the shed, collect wood, and clear the track so that we can find our way back to the road. We go exploring, to discover any changes that we missed on the first day. The dam down the back is full. The neighbour on the left has clear some trees and now has cows. One of which we met yesterday. There is a massive forest of prickly pear emerging from the ground over by the fence. A large orchid has been flowering in a tree stump but we have missed its bloom.

In the afternoon the activity of the morning, a food coma brought on from lunch and the stillness of the place takes its toll on us. It is easier to sit or sleep than to move or work. So we choose to sit or more accurately, sleep. Outside the shed even the birds doze in the trees and the insects buzz lazily and then one car, the one car for the weekend, drives down the road past our place. We can hear it but we can't see it; we can't see the road from where we are. The afternoon floats by and we sleep through it.

Later, the afternoon cools, the light softens and the cicada’s song becomes so loud we can barely hear the radio over it. So we turn it off and listen to a silence that is only found in the bush. A silence that isn't really a silence.

The fire needs to be re-built so that we can cook the evening meal. It's a much slower affair tonight. It might be us or it might be the beer. Whatever it is, it makes everything much slower. The impatience of the previous evening has disappeared. Even finding the perfect stick for the second bag of marshmallows no longer holds the same appeal.

Tomorrow is Easter Sunday. The day of chocolate eggs and bilbies. This year, before heading off to bed we decide it would be fun to have an Easter egg hunt in the morning. So we take turns hiding some eggs. We chose to hide only the little solid ones, just in case.

Easter Sunday

Sunday morning begins with the same laziness as the previous day. Even though we know that we will be heading home today. 

There is excitement though, because there is chocolate. But the Easter egg hunt is a bust. The neighbour’s cows have visited during the night, their curiosity getting the better of them. Eggs that survived the onslaught from the ants and bugs were squashed into the ground by an unsuspecting cow. One is even half buried in poop. We had anticipated the possibility of this disaster and had smartly sacrificed only a small portion of our chocolate stash. Our morning cups of hot tea wash down smashed eggs, bilby ears and left over marshmallows. Easter Sunday, the holiday of inappropriate breakfast foods. 

We had made the decision before we left to only stay two nights. Easter weekend traffic is legendary. Monday is always a nightmare on the road. Slowly we start to pack.

By ten thirty we have locked the shed up and are getting ready to leave. The kero fridge has been emptied and turned off. The tarp around the outside toilet has been pulled down and the chair, with the dunny seat taped to it, put away. The fire in the wood stove has gone out and the last of the hot water from the fountain has been used for long luxurious showers before the shower is unplugged from the car battery. We do one last check, the windows, the roller doors, the tap on the tank. The shed is locked up and the place looks like we had never even been here. We drive back down the track, pleased that it is easier to find on the way out.

The drive home is uneventful. It rains. There is usual pit stops to buy ice-creams, bottles of soft drink, packets of twisties and snakes. 

Late Sunday afternoon we pull into the our driveway to a dog so happy to see us you would think that it had been three years not three days. His tail wags his whole fat body and I swear he is actually smiling at us. The big juicy bone is no where to be found. He sighs a big sigh, goes back to his dog box and falls asleep, still smiling.

Monday

The last day of the long weekend. Work tomorrow. Drat.

Monday is the day of unpacking, cleaning and washing. A sudden, sharp dose of reality. Back to suburbia where mowers are mowing, kids are screaming and cars, more that one, are driving up and down the street. No bird song. No wind in the trees. No quiet still. Just noise, the noise of suburbia. 

We would do this for many Easters, for many years. Drive almost five hours to get there. Be there for barely three days. Live with facilities only the most basic of facilities, a long drop toilet, an outside shower, a wood fired stove, no electricity or phone. But an Easter weekend at our bush block, for us, was heaven on a stick.

We don’t do the Easter thing anymore. We don’t feel the need too. Where we live, it’s not quite the bush block, but its damn close. 

And the bonus is, it has a shower inside and a toilet that flushes.

Have a happy and safe Easter weekend.