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