Reflections and Nightmares- Irene A Waters (writer and memoirist)

I do not remember the house I went to from the hospital after my birth. It was in Tamworth, a country town on the western side of the Great Dividing Range. We weren’t there long.  My father was awarded a scholarship to study in New York and I’m not sure how my mother got the money to go with him taking us two children (maybe she won it on a quiz show) so the house in Tamworth isn’t even a blur in my brain.

The manse we then went to in Casino on the north coast of NSW is bright in my memory. It was a brand new house. We were the first to live in it. The old house sat beside it. It looked lonely with its paint peeling and floor boards on the verandah rotting. Timber piers built it up off the ground protecting its occupants from the flood waters which were not uncommon.  On higher ground, our new house  needed only slight elevation for its protection.

The blonde brick and tile house was built in a T shape.  The majority  being in  the vertical section of the T. The front door was situated where horizontal meets vertical in the T analogy, the kitchen and my father’s office forming the horizontal sections not in contact with the vertical.  The huge lounge and equally large dining rooms  would be found in that part of the T which was both vertical and horizontal. The lounge opened to two (the dining room to one)  verandahs overlooking the park which made our border.  In the vertical of the T was a central hallway with bedrooms – my brothers on the left, spare on the right. My bedroom was next  opposite the bathroom and toilet (which was its own separate little room). At the end was a door out to a courtyard with the garage beyond. My parent’s bedroom was behind mine.

The first night we stayed in the house for some reason, my brother and I had no furniture. I have no idea whether my parents had any or whether they had to sleep on the floor.  I think the removalist had already delivered our meagre belongings but mine and my brother’s furniture was not there. The spare bedroom however was fully built-in. It had two single beds against the wall on either side. A built-in wardrobe followed by a built-in dressing table, then another wardrobe. My brother and I shared this room for the first night and the next day we went with my mother to the shops and we were each bought a bed.

Both beds had a wooden head with a bookcase built-in. My brother had a blue mattress and I had a pink mattress. This mattress survived many years and was sold at a garage sale that I held just before moving to Queensland, nearly fifty-five years later. Despite my excitement at having a new bed, although only there for one night I found it devastating to be leaving the spare room. I had fallen in love with the dressing table which had its own fluorescent light above the mirror. My room did not have this luxury and I begged to be allowed to have this room as my own. I rarely stepped foot in the spare room again.

Obviously the church had set this room up for the visiting dignitaries that my parents would have to entertain so I was choofed out. My brother’s favourite story from the spare room was on the occasion of a visit from an ecclesiastical gentleman who exited the spare room towards the toilet, just as I was coming from the bathroom in my birthday suit. I fronted him full on before continuing my dash to my bedroom. Impersonating a fish he opened and shut his mouth, finally shaking his head from side to side muttering ” Oh my! Oh my!” 

A place that you lived is a good place to start with memoir writing. Once you have the setting mapped out it is surprising what recollections will come unbidden.  It is even better if you can visit the place of your childhood. If not possible photos can help for detail. I think this is where having a map in a book can help. Trying to describe where things are in relation to something else I have to admit I find difficult. Any hints?