Words stir the air around the table; interjections, rebuttals, brave hypotheses launched amid the mirth and chuckle of individuals, the babble of voices echoing around the room accompanied by the occasional scrape of a chair, triggers a thought.
The idea of celebrations floats to the surface of my consciousness splintering into pieces of light illuminating forgotten recesses, exposing childish memories of balloons, hot dogs, lollies, streamers, the pushing and shoving to get to the food, the admonishing voice of parents. But these are ephemeral images. They cloud the essence. They are the colour, taste and noise but not the substance of celebrations. Celebrations provide individuals the opportunity to acknowledge a humanity which has more questions then answers but finds its meaning and enjoyment through sharing.
Being an only child living in one of the outer suburbs of Perth, as Scarborough was in those days, celebrations at home tended to be on a small scale which highlighted, even more, those bigger occasions when the larger family came together. Occasionally it was prawning on the Swan River as the last light deserted the water leaving the warmth of the summer evening to linger on young shoulders. Firelight stretched its fingers towards the water's edge as my cousins and I ate watermelon, got wet and waited for the first haul of prawns to hit the boiling water.
Sometimes it was during school holidays at my Grandfather's farm in Pithara. In my mind's eye I can still see the dam near the front gate, the shearing shed on the left with its lingering smell of sheep. The dirt road curving slightly as it beckoned the way past the stately peppermint trees kindly offering their shade to chooks and vehicles, leading to what I remember as the welcoming house of my grandparents. It was here my mother and her many siblings grew up. The wide concrete veranda around three sides of the house screamed out for boyhood fun. The geraniums that filled the three garden beds at the front of the homestead loudly proclaimed their colour against the surrounding dull red paths, dusty in summer but treacherously slippery in winter; for a young boy they were frustrating obstacles that stood in the way of balls and bikes. Staying at the farm during school holidays was to become a part of the medley of aunts, uncles and cousins.
In the mornings the long kitchen table was a hive of activity. The large wood stove with its two doors, big cook top and twenty four hour fire offered itself for the cooking of bread, cakes, eggs and, in season, mushrooms freshly cut from the paddock out the back. A large pot of porridge usually stood ready for plundering accompanied by a kettle of hot water for cups of tea or Milo. The rich yellow butter on the table was homemade, as was the jam; if cream was wanted that too was fresh from a recent milking.
Kids would come and go, parents would sit and talk while Grandma she went on with her cooking and other daily chores. The wide verandahs provided ample opportunity for running, while the open space upside allowed for the more serious games - chasing each other, throwing a ball, looking for eggs under the peppermint tree or climbing over any tractors or trucks that were in the adjoining shed.
The evening meal on the farm was a little more formal with my Irish grandfather presiding over the dinner table which could seat at least sixteen people, if not more. Here the chatter was about families, the current weather, the crops, Australian sport - especially cricket, tennis and golf. If it was winter time the fire of Malle roots, brought in from the large pile at the back of the house sang songs to us as it danced it way across, under and around the gnarled grey logs. The Mallee root pile at the top of the backyard, a four-metre-high grey monument bearing testimony to the back-breaking work of clearing new land with limited help from machines was, however, a prohibited area for kids given that it was a favourite haunt for snakes.
The ripple of conversation, sometimes rising to loudness, interspersed with parent admonitions, interrupted by the arrival and passing around of food was the circling web that held everyone together around the table. No doubt there were undercurrents, with flotsam sometimes rising to surface and past disagreements were occasionally aired but language despite, its potential for destruction, is the stuff of life, the thread that weaves its magic, bringing the past, the present and the future into a narrative with meaning.
Since those days of childhood and adolescence, that wonderful procession of family rituals winding its way through the calendar year has been the source of deepest enjoyment. Birthdays, anniversaries, graduations, 'send-offs' followed by 'welcome home', significant milestones and more recently, grandsons - yes, balloons, lollies and streamers do often feature but the substance behind them can now be more easily discerned.
Let us be grateful to people who make us happy: They are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom. (Marcel Proust, 1871 - 1922)
