record memories

Retrospection can be a powerful tool by which we can trace our roots and the chronological lineage of our journey. Reflection acts as a mirror of our dreams, it holds us accountable to long-vowed resolutions and teaches us from its lengthy scroll the lessons learned from past decisions and adherence to long spoken statutes. The power of reflective observation is such that it can either inspire us to greatness or cast us into the lowly places of despondency.

I think however, it also possible to meditate too much on the history of our past… we can become so attuned to analysing and remembering days of old that we lose sight of our future. We recapture the times of yore in their most glorious light and try to model our lives upon those pivotal moments in time which, in actuality, are long gone. There are so many memories that have enriched and fashioned my life to where it is today. There are memories which evoke great delight in their remembrance and those that distill our hearts with sorrow even these many years on… yet I firmly believe that those that have the most lasting contribution to be made to our lives will forever be remembered in our hearts. They do not need to be inscribed on paper for they are forever etched in our memories.

Though only a few recollections have been penned, I have come to the realization that to record all the experiences that have shaped and enhanced my life would require a not-so-inconsequential sacrifice of my present future. Sometimes we need to leave things in the past so that when, in many years to come we recall them – the memories are richer and more vivid than they have ever been before.

I have mulled over this story many times thinking it was the classic tale to attribute to such a goal, yet its complexity and longevity have stalled me from ever beginning. And so begins the adapted and much abbreviated account of the lost key.

Our story begins one Queens Birthday Weekend in the Hunter Valley NSW. After ascertaining that our friend Kristy who had accompanied Sarah and I for the short break away ‘did not like vineyards’ we sought some other remedial form of relaxation which we found in no short supply walking through the beautiful Hunter Valley Gardens of Pokolbin. As the gardens were near closing and the strain of my torn Achilles tendon was proving to be a distraction, we concluded our visit, walked back to the car and it was then that we first discovered that I had lost the car key.

With fifteen minutes to closing we ran back into the gardens, re-traced our steps and re-enacted our actions with precise recollection yet were awarded no results. We had but one quarter of the gardens to scour but were prevented from doing so because closing time intervened with only the promise of tomorrow. Somewhat disheartened we ventured back to the hotel intending to revisit the gardens first thing the next morning but in the meantime, determined to devise a backup plan in case of the worst case scenario. As all three of us had pressing engagements the following Tuesday, any discharge taken necessitated our being back in Brisbane in two days time and so prompt action was mandatory.

56 phone calls and numerous scenarios were invented over the course of the next hour as we lay on our beds with the laptop, phone book and local directory spread out before us like maps, scouring over every word and article as though expecting them to lend us some clue to happen upon our treasure island. Hiring a car, cutting a new key, computer reprogramming a new alarm sensitive key, couriering or express freighting my spare key from Brisbane, flying someone down from Brisbane with the key in tow, buying flashlights and breaking and entering the gardens at midnight in search for the lost article… these and many other solutions were devised in our desperate reconciliation for an answer.

The obstacles faced however in light of these suggestions was a deterrent in every scenario… none of us were of legal age to hire a car, Holden was closed for the long weekend and the ignition key could not be replicated without the necessary computer equipment to stabilize the alarm, courier and express freight companies were closed until Tuesday morning, breaking and entering was considered an illegal act and the security of the gardens was made evident on our arrival, and the most likely candidates whom we would happen upon to fly down to us had made other arrangements for the three day holiday. The only viable option was for one of us to fly from Newcastle Airport to Brisbane, pick up the spare key and fly back before nightfall the following day so we could embark on the long drive back to Queensland.

Despite the prospect of our brilliant plan, there were still many unforeseeable obstacles to overcome… getting a flight, arranging for a taxi to chauffer one of us to the airport and back, arranging for late check-out and coordinating a recipient at the other end to pick up the key and meet us in the arrival lounge for a 15 minute turnaround. After much collaboration and more phone calls, we managed to organise for Sarah to fly out the next morning and providing all went to plan, return that evening with our ticket out of NSW.

The following day provided us with a litany of problems and potential obstacles. The taxi driver turned up an hour early, record fogs grounded planes in Newcastle for over four hours promising no early breakthrough, when the plane did take off it allowed only a 10 minute turnaround at the other end to allow for arrival and departure procedures and a series of irritable and regrettable events determined that Kristie and I did not get to the gardens until 10:00am, a full hour after the gardens had opened.

The consolation of our grievances was simply that by Tuesday morning we did arrive back in Brisbane. The circumstances which determined this are exasperating and slightly maddening for ironically, the moment the transaction was made in Brisbane, the very instant in fact that the key was handed over was the moment we were told that our key had been found. A patron had discovered the key first thing that morning in the very place that time had prevented us from looking the night before; and she had absentmindedly carried the key with her until a few minutes before 12:00 when she and her husband were concluding their visit. As communication with Sarah was made impossible by her immediate departure, Kristie and I were handed the task of checking out, discovering which Newcastle airport she was flying into and endeavoring to intercept her upon arrival to avoid further mishap. This we did with flukish effort and so ended the humorously exasperating tale of the missing key. The Hunter Valley was never seen again in quite the same light!

Perfection is a beautiful word; the oxford dictionary describes it as {the quality or condition of being perfect; flawlessness; an instance of excellence.} It is a seamless transition of life where for one brief moment we find ourselves at peace with the world; a moment where beauty inclines its face towards us, where peace inhabits our spirits and a state of happy contentedness settles itself like a delicate feather on the surface of our hearts. It is almost as though time stops if only for a brief moment, long enough to create a memory which will inspire us for a lifetime.

I have experienced only a few of these moments in my life, they were not moments that were orchestrated, planned or created for perfection – rather they alighted themselves upon me as if out of nowhere, like a summer breeze on a still afternoon. One of my most profound memories is the recollection of sitting beside a still blue lake in Switzerland late one afternoon. The sun was slowly setting on the horizon inspiring an infusion of gold and pink to softly illuminate the horizon, and there was not a sound to be heard apart from the mid afternoon sounding of the old brass church bells on a faraway hill.

Until the last colourful hues of the dying sun slowly dissipated, I sat on the water’s edge and pondered the course of my life with clarity and precision. There was no glorious moment of enlightenment, no voice spoke from heaven nor did the clouds part to sanction an instance of divine revelation… it was simply a peaceful snapshot of time that I will remember forever.

Life affords us many moments that will make us laugh for years to come. The story of the duck is one such tale that never ceases to amuse me. Sarah, Kristie (aka Fluffy) and I went to Melbourne for a few weeks in January 05. Over the course of our time there, Fluffy discovered a wooden duck which was bought as a present for her mother who possessed a great love for these feathery creatures.

The duck was neither ornate nor beautiful in any sense of the word. It had roots growing out of its back which gave one the imaginary impression of feathers and it stood slightly lop sighted when stationed on a level plane. Yet Fluffy regarded the unusual creature as unique and distinguished and therefore made every effort to ensure that the duck remained within sight constantly. When we awoke – there was the duck on the dresser, when we ate the duck watched us with its cold silent gaze from the kitchen bench, when we watched a movie the duck let off a slightly burnt aroma as the mantelpiece above the fireplace started to warm its thin wooden legs.

Needless to say by the time our trip reached its conclusion, Sarah and I were somewhat sick of the duck and made every effort to ignore its obtrusive presence. As we were packing the car, Sarah negotiated trying to maneuver the duck into the boot while I adamantly denied Fluffy’s pleas that the duck remain in the car with us. I lost the argument and in the interests of peace and harmony – the duck was permitted to ride in the back seat of the car nursed by the surrogate mother herself.

We were only four hours out of Melbourne when we stopped to fill up with petrol. As Sarah got out of the vehicle, she failed to realise that during transit the duck had fallen from its elevated position on the back seat and was wedged very close to the door opening. As the door was closed shut we heard an almighty crack as the beak of the duck was split in two and Sarah and I were left to survey the situation in shocked amusement. It was a tragic ending for the poor duck and I am sure both Sarah and I were unable to stop laughing for at least five minutes.

The irony of the situation was that the duck would most likely have been perfectly preserved in its rightful place in the boot however Fluffy’s insistence that the backseat was safer had been the instigator for its tragic demise. Whenever I see that duck with its super-glued beak, I cannot help but laugh at the incident and shake my head at the irony of life.

I was recollecting the other day a memory which had long been forgotten in the busyness of life. I realised then and there how volatile our memories can be; if we do not record, recite and bind them to heart – in many years time the most precious of moments may easily be forgotten.

In this forum, I hope to record some of the lighter and also the more meaningful moments of my life which have in some ways attributed to who I am and made the ride of life so much fun!