Asleep in a foreign house, I’ll half wake thinking I’m in my childhood room with the adjoining terracotta tiled veranda just outside. After a moment I realise I am not there at all. Nor am I at my current home with the leaning eucalypts that seem to peer inside the bedroom.

This fuzzy, disconnecting feeling happened a lot recently during a week away, maybe because the flowering gardens of the holiday rental reminded me of my original family home, which was full of assorted pink and white azaleas and the green brown leaves of the magnolia tree. My subconscious mind began to go back in time. I’d wander along the silent neighbourhood streets full of opulent park-like gardens full of spring colour. I have not ridden my pushbike or run with my dog along these streets for 32 years. My memories were forged during thirteen years of living in a heritage house set on a leafy suburban quarter-acre block. Memories that are spiced rich with smell, colour, textures and feelings.

Somehow, just a few days after that first trip away since months of covid, I ended up driving by the house I grew up in on my way home from a trip to Sydney. What happened next squashed that disconnected, fuzzy feeling but has also given me a mind-bending riddle that I’m just now figuring out.

As I drove by my childhood home, I noticed a yellow development sign pinned to the low green and cream brick wall. This is the border wall that’s framed by a massive, native Lillipilly tree that the stingy caterpillars love. Parking the car, I walked over and read that the development is for another dwelling. As I was trying to figure out where exactly this would be, a young bloke carrying stuff for a council pickup walked down the gravel driveway to the grass near me. I asked him if he lives here and he said yes. Without thinking, I quickly said “I did too”. Then I asked him about the development. We ended up swapping stories about living there and I bombarded the poor guy with a bunch of questions, although he didn’t seem to mind.

No, he hadn’t noticed the ghost of Australian artist Lionel Lindsay who lived there too but his mum may have.

Yes, he’s seen the statue commemorating Lionel up at the park.

Yes, it is a really cool house in a heat wave (I felt that cool dry air relief as I whooshed in the door after walking home from school on a hot summer’s day)

Yes, the view from the top of the two 120 year old magnolia trees is pretty good. (I now saw into the hidden garden across the road and felt that exhilaration of climbing up high).

The pool is a lot of upkeep, and the little pond is still there. (I could see the light blue ripples as the sunlight sparked into the pool and I smelt the earthy dark waters of the tiny pond).

Yes, he’s seen lots of the funnel webs too.

As we talked, I could look right up the orange gravel drive to the far porch and apart from a flowering white climber stretching to the roof, and a BMW parked in the drive, the scene looked unchanged since my childhood. I kept noticing the wrong car and the image kept pulling me back to the present. But then I’d be remembering standing right there as a kid, talking about how my cattle dog bailed up a Funnel Webb spider under the flowering wisteria that draped over the pergola out the back. His dog did the same thing and he was worried, but I said I was worried too but then found out dogs are immune to the spider’s venom. Then I pointed to the gutter nearest us and told the guy that there was a funnel web spider there one night. While I was on a roll talking about spiders, I pointed to the gravel drive and recast how I had trodden barefoot on a huntsman spider in the dark that bit me.  We talked about the neighbours and how the bushy creek at the end of the road is gone now and how I used to cut the lawn edges along the gutter with a manual rotor tool and how just this month I bought one for my place after all these years.

I think what really helped me consolidate my childhood memories of living in that house, was the easy flowing conversation with a young man who was gathering his own happy memories of living there. Every ten years or so I have driven past my childhood house, and I’m afraid to admit, it jarred me to look at the ‘new’ tasteful steel fence and the different orange plants and neat hedges. Now, this sensation dissolved thanks to a short but powerful story-swapping conversation with a stranger.

After leaving the house, I drove the exact route I’d taken as a kid, threading through the streets where I’d take off on my bike or with the dog. My choice of streets meant I avoided the steep hills and traffic and the route took me past my favourite gardens. I noticed during the slow drive that the real estate looked more polished than I remember. What I found interesting, was as I instinctively turned into the various streets and recognised the scenery, it felt easy and okay. Just like during that conversation. I expected it to feel familiar, but the discomfort was gone. This surprised me. Remembering the free-flowing bike rides here felt good. This remembering may be the past, but the past is as real as the present as I drove my same childhood route decades later. I’m still not sure how to describe this but it feels like some sort of validation of my past and childhood and all that good stuff that goes with it. Not something to forget but rather to remember and cherish.

The final layer I discovered when delving into this concept of shared memories is how we share connections to special things. One of those special things for me I share with Lionel Lindsay. A man I never met but nonetheless, as a kid, I had felt his somewhat judgmental vibe whilst growing up in his old house. One thing I didn’t divulge during the conversation with the current inhabitant, is that once or twice in the last few decades I drove past the house around Christmas time and I’d stop and snap off a monster sized magnolia flower from one of the two old trees, to take home. These are one of my favourite flowers. They are the size of a dinner plate and emit a heavy heady scent. The petals are thick and smooth and shine with a regal ivory colour.

I planted a magnolia tree in the garden where I currently live. It signifies home and is grounding to look at even if I feel a twinge of discord. I don’t think I’ll feel that twinge anymore.

Like me, Lionel admired the very same two magnolia trees and their repeated flux of flowers every year. The blooms inspired him to create beautiful artwork. They may also have become an anchor for him as they are for me. One of his magnolia works is entitled “Lionel’s Place”.

The young fella told me that after the recent big storms, the arborists said how they are amazed at how solid and strong those two huge Magnolia trees are. I love that. I’d say Lionel would too.

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