|Random woman looking out to sea on the rocks near the Bogey Hole, South Bondi|
My grandmother moved to Blair Street, North Bondi, in August 1956, six weeks after her youngest son died in London, and the same month as my father upped-stumps and moved his protesting family onto a farm out the back of nowhere. We stayed with her for holidays every summer for well-nigh ten years after our diaspora.
Aye, I remember it well – and fondly.
The walk down past the ‘stink pipe’ to the terminus where ancient green and gold trams spewed forth their loud day-trippers. Hopping gingerly along the uneven expanse of hot concrete, down past the pavilion, until reaching the cool of the slowly withering Norfolk pines along Campbell Parade, being killed by the southerly busters, laden with salt.
Running back along the hard, wet sand from the Bogey Hole to the mermaids below Ben Buckler - mermaids that were ‘stolen’ regularly. Getting Grandpa’s prescriptions filled by the chemist, Mr Roper, and the interminable wait for the Kodak 400 ASA film to be developed.
The mind is selective, and does not ‘do’ perspective. My grandmother had a cabinet television in her dingy lounge-room where there was ample latitude to watch Fred and Ginger in a ‘bigger than Ben Hur’ spectacular crafted all the way back in 1938, before the beginning of time, even. How could she fawn over films that were so old and dated?
Yet, I travel in the blink of an eye back to the summer of 1963.
|Dad and I on top of the brand spanking new AMP building in CQ, December 1963|
|I have researched the term 'bogey hole' and there is information in a comment.|
This is my contribution to the Weekend Reflections community.