Chefprefers BLOG

This year, my 89-year-old mother and I took a trip to the state of Victoria so she could reconnect with her childhood memories. During our stay in Melbourne, we drove to Marysville for the day. Marysville is a small elevated village, about a 2-hour drive from central Melbourne. The 1865-established village no longer has the vintage look due to the 2009 Black Saturday fires. The fires destroyed the township, with only a few lucky establishments standing. It has now recovered with newly built shops and cafes along the main streets. As we arrived, the roads were littered with the Autumn foliage. The fast-growing liquid ambers lined the main street. We parked and entered the town’s only bakery. Australian bakeries are known to provide lots of bread, sweets, made sandwiches and of course, the iconic meat pies.

Steak pie, steak and onion pie, egg and bacon, Shepherd’s pie, etc. The large establishment was set up for tourism, allowing enough tables for both inside and outside. It was a Tuesday, and the town was tranquil. The bakery was attended by a single Asian lady who did not have much to offer. I looked forward to a Shepherd’s pie, but they were all sold out. I looked around the shop and thought, “By whom?” Mum and I sat near the window and enjoyed a chicken avocado sandwich. The flickering autumn leaves shadowed the sunlight shining through the windows. The sepia colours were broadcast to provide a pleasant setting. Mum and I had been travelling for a week, so our conversation became repetitive.

She recalls her adventure in Marysville 77 years earlier, in 1947, a story she has mentioned in her memoir. 

Her family had stayed at a guesthouse near where we sat. The Inn would have perished in the 2009 fire. Most of the dwellings were new, although the bakery had somehow survived. Guesthouses were popular in the early century, providing guests with entertainment (games and activities). Mum’s family, with uncles, aunties, and cousins, were holidaying together as they had been yearly for as long as she could remember. One late afternoon,  her cousins and three other girls from the guesthouse decided to walk along a track near the village which enter the mountain ash filled forest. The tall grey gums towered over the forest floor, providing a dark shadowing canapé.

Not being prepared for the journey, the young ladies giggled and chatted for some time, then they noticed the path was becoming hard to see from the disappearing twilight. They decided to turn back. With no flashlight, the path vanished due to the approaching darkness. With the lack of light, no water, adequate clothing, or matches for lighting a fire. The outcome looked grim. The girls called for help, but were too far to be heard. They turned off the path and followed the river down to the village, hoping to be guided by the sound of the water. The bush was too thick to continue. Concern turned to panic, and the girls fretted over their stupidity. They huddled together and waited. Whatever came first, the sunlight or assistance. Surely their families would have noticed they were missing.

In mid-May, a breath away from winter, the night temperatures plummeted to below zero. The bush noises turned their heads; the stars were faint and not enough to see one another. The nearby river trickled and churned endlessly. Their knee-length dresses were their only protection. One sobbed and the other comforted. The warmth was extracted, and chills were taking over. Shivering was contagious. The crescent moon rose after midnight, providing very little light. Surely their parents would notice, perhaps coming to look for them.  

The town alarm had spread to alert of the girls lost in the forest. Search parties were gathered. Cowbells were rung, hoping to attract attention. Their families were in front, pushing the groups along; urgency was paramount. Parents were concerned and angry at their disposition. 

At three in the morning, a flickering light appeared in the darkness, a sound of rustling from the brush, and the sight of help was here, confirmed by a voice. “Hello, are you there?” The girls were elated but cold. They were assisted back to safety, and all was well again. 

Sitting across the table from me, my mother laughed at the story. So many years ago, I had so many questions, but I left it at that. Next, we drove up to Steavenson Falls, where our portable electric scooter took her to the base of the falls. The 89-year-old is mobility restricted to that. She sat on the platform, listening to the soothing water pass by into the pool at the base. She turns to me and says,” I would like my ashes placed here.” There you have it, one of lifes prevaledges She captures a connection to that time, so long ago, where she could have perished, allowing the forest to claim a victim, to settle a score and letting her spirit to roam the bushland high in the mountains, not far from the city where she was born.  

Our souls can roam the earth for our entire lives, but our home is where we belong.