The Door to.....
Acting entirely on impulse, I turned off the main road, drove a short distance down the
side-street and stopped in front of a once-familiar home. The road was now tarred,
while kerbing and guttering bordered the narrow grassed footpath. The house was
recently painted and the once large vegetable gardens had been converted to wellmaintained
lawns on which there was children’s climbing equipment beneath large
sunshades.
Although my knock was quickly answered by a young woman with a toddler following
closely behind, I had time to look at the partially enclosed verandah where my bed had
been. In its place were children’s toys, a small tricycle and a kiddy-car. I introduced
myself and explained that my grandparents had lived in this house when I was a young
child and would she mind if I strolled around in the yard to see how things had changed.
She was extremely pleasant and invited me inside but I said that I really didn’t want to
impose, so she told me to wander around as much as I liked provided that I came in
later to chat about old times.
The yard was as large as I had remembered it, but Pop’s prized vegetable garden was
now much smaller and flowers replaced the abundant vegies that he’d cultivated. The
grapevines still bordered the brick path that led to the back of the yard and I walked
slowly down the path, enjoying the shade and plucking a couple of grapes as I went.
Then I stopped. There to the left of the path was a short narrow concrete strip leading
up to the door. I turned and stood in front of it.
It was ajar, as it always was when there was no-one inside. Multi-coloured brittle layers
of paint had peeled in shards and lay scattered in the doorway. Layer upon layer of
paint marked the years when Pop painted that door. No other part of the building was
painted, but each year Pop applied another layer, usually of a different colour. Bright
yellow had replaced a dull brown, which in turn was covered with brilliant green or fire engine
red – it all depended on what small pot he discovered in his shed.
I pushed the door wider and a sharp snap indicated that a long-rusted hinge had given
way. The wide bench seat still had some newspapers on one side. As I picked up the
dust-laden topmost one, it was so brittle that it crumbled in my hands, so I simply stood
and looked at the remaining magazine with its date over seventy years long past.
Sticking out beneath the pile was the corner of a comic. The coloured pages were
faded, so I gingerly pulled the comic from the pile and the memories came flooding back
of a little five year old sitting in the dunny and looking at the pictures. As I looked
around, I could once again visualise the small squares of newsprint hanging from the
nail during the War years and the occasional softer wrappers that used to wrap the
apples before finally, coarse toilet paper in rolls appeared towards the end of the war.
I recalled the pungent smell of the phenol which marked the early morning delivery of
the weekly replacement sanitary can while the “sanno-man” departed with the used can
hoisted onto his thick leather shoulder pad. A much more pleasant smell was after Pop
had been there. The sweet smell of his pipe always lingered and I remember watching
enthralled as he pared his plug of tobacco and mixed it with the crushed tobacco leaves,
grapevine leaves and molasses to make his own special blend during the war years
when rationing forced him to grow his own tobacco and hang the leaves to dry in his
shed. Pop’s cardigan always had that comforting aroma of tobacco as I’d snuggle into
his chest while he sat and talked to me in the shed.
Although his hands were work-hardened and calloused, they were always gentle as
he’d pat me on the head or gently extract a splinter with his razor-sharp pocket knife.
His hand was always readily extended to grasp mine as we walked around the yard or
when he’d say, “Come away laddie and gi’ me a hand to feed the chooks.” I always had
Grandma’s egg basket to collect the eggs but I didn’t dare venture into the huge fowl yard
without Pop because there was one rooster that regularly chased me, but Pop
always picked me up and shooed the bird away.
On one of those special occasions when we had chicken to eat, Pop removed that
rooster from the fowl-yard and, after watching him lop off its head with the axe, we all
enjoyed our Christmas chicken dinner but I’m sure that no-one enjoyed it more than I
did. Always his tools were honed to the sharpest edges and I had the job of turning the
huge sandstone grinding wheel as sparks flew from his axe, mattock or scythe.
Because of the grating sound of the stone against the steel this was one time when we
didn’t talk.
As I turned to leave, I had a sudden, vivid vision of a young boy and his old grandfather
standing in the garden and crunching on freshly pulled young carrots. Rubbed against
the trousers to remove the worst of the dirt, the occasional grit passed almost unnoticed,
the taste was so enjoyable. Another glimpse of the past revealed the two grubbing for
new potatoes. Taken inside, cooked and smothered with butter, there was only one
things more delicious, and that was the plateful of hot chips, fried as only Grandma
could make them.
Outside, I turned towards the door and closed it. Looking at the peeling paint, I realised
that I was seeing through a haze of tears. Turning away, I realised that the old dunny
door was one that opened a doorway, a doorway to memories long forgotten.
© Bruce Deitz