Family Threads

The phone call had come about a week before Christmas, her brother had a serious accident at work, having managed to fall out of his truck, landing squarely on his head. 

No news is good news, his wife had said, however, as the hours went on, it seemed that he had indeed done himself serious damage.

As the days went on, it was found that the damage done to his head was not as bad as they had first thought, so she decided to make the trip back to the Old Queenslander to see not only her brother, but also to revisit the home where she grew up and where so many of her childhood memories originated from.

She had wonderful memories of growing up in the old Queenslander that was now her brother and his family’s home. Her dad had inherited the property from her grandfather; it had become her mum and dad’s “little piece of heaven”. There was sadness in their early life in the Old Queenslander, as their two little girls died when they very young. Her mother had found solace in the Old Queenslander. She was happy growing up within those walls.

As her dad aged, it was decided her brother should take over the running of the farm; she had no problems with this, as she had her own family to care for, and had no interest in running a dairy farm.

Her dad had passed away in the July, only six months after her mum had drawn her last breath. It is said he died of a broken heart, and she could understand this, her parents were devoted to each other, and she had witnessed their happiness and love that they shared over many years.

Her brother inherited the farm, quickly moving his family into the Old Queenslander. After her dad had died, she was invited back to her family home. As she walked into the house, she felt uncomfortable, an outsider not really welcome and unsure as to whether she should even be there.  

The old walnut dressing table and wardrobe which were in her room when she lived there were now converted by his daughter; the bedroom full of children’s paraphernalia untidily strewn everywhere. 

The blue willow dinner set and other china stored safely in her mother’s china cabinet, which were once her mother treasured possessions, were considered to be his inheritance now, and she was not invited to take any of it.  Her mother’s pride and joy, her beautiful china tea set, that should have been hers, was now squirreled away in a cupboard, ownership taken by her brother’s wife.

There had been bad blood between her and her brother for many years, but the Old Queenslander was the common thread that bound the family together. Her mother had told her many times that she was to inherit her mother’s “nest egg” when she passed away, and her brother would inherit the farm and whatever funds that was in the bank. However these words were never written in any paperwork that was found, and so there was no concrete evidence to substantiate her claim.   Although he said he would honor his mother’s wishes, there was always some excuse as to why he could not do it.

She tired of asking and bowed to the pressure of other family members who asked her to “forgive and forget” what her brother had done. She stayed silent, and kept the peace for her family’s sake, avoiding any arguments that might break the thread of family closeness between them, never mentioning it again.

It was something she found hard to forgive or forget, but she had accepted it. In her mind, the Old Queenslander and all its memories was still there, kept safe by her brother. She knew that if she did ever go back to her childhood home, the Old Queenslander would be there to keep her memories alive.

She arrived at the farmhouse, and knew at once what she was seeing was not even close to the memories she had of her childhood home. There were old car bodies littering the paddock next to the house, and the land around the house was unkept wastelands. 

When her parents were alive, the steps at the back of the house had led down to the old laundry where her mother filled the copper boiler with boiling water and the clothes boiled away till they were clean. They were then rinsed in the blue water before being wrung out in the old cement hand wringer. She has strong memories of watching her mother take on this onerous task, one which her mother did faithfully for many years. 

However, the lovely old laundry with its cement wash tubs and old cement hand wringer had been demolished, and the historical memorabilia which was encased in that building had been relegated to the rubbish dump.

When she arrived, she was instructed to go around to the front of the house, up the steps, onto the veranda and enter and through the front door.  She tentatively stepped onto the veranda, as several of the timber boards were rotten, and gaping holes appeared along the length of the veranda.

She walked through the house, down the long hallway, to the kitchen and dining room. 

The kitchen, where she had many memories of the family coming together, eating home baked cakes and hot roast dinners served on the big old table scrubbed clean every day, was now a jumbled mess, with paint peeling off cupboards and walls, showing years of neglect.   

The wood stove was still there, but the door was broken and now hanging off its hinges, the stove blackened with grime and soot. She remembered her mother scrubbing it daily, ensuring it was shiny and clean.

It is just as well that the wood stove was not working, as the chimney which was used to take the smoke from the stove and out of the house was now a crumbling mass of bricks and mortar.

The morning tea was to be held in the dining room, which was a shabby reminder of what was a stately sitting room in her parent’s day. All the furniture was still here, but the dust had taken hold, as if life had stopped when her mum and dad had passed away; they were the heart of this home and with them gone, the essence of the home had vanished. The photos of her two sisters, who passed away when they were very small, were still on the mantelpiece over the fireplace, as if waiting for a soft touch from her mother to chase the dust away.

Today her mother’s china tea set was bought out for the morning tea.   The tea burned her throat; she found it hard to swallow the food that appeared on the table.  She felt she could not breath, so escaped from the house, saying she wanted to wander around the farm, to reminisce about the old days. 

She wandered past the old chicken yard, now an overgrown wilderness where no chicken would ever be found dead in. She walked down past the tractor shed, empty now as this was just a hollow place where rubbish found its way to.

She ended up in the milking sheds. These were once a thriving place where her father sat on his old weathered stool in the daily grind of milking the cows.

Now, these sheds housed old washing machines and fridges, a dumping ground for old electrical appliances and other bits of cupboards and furniture which had become superfluous to his needs. The weeds had grown around them, making them seem like ghosts from the past. The fences, big slabs of wood bound together with strong wire, had fallen down.   There was only melancholy here, sad memories of what used to be. 

She wondered how could he have allowed this to happen, he inherited this historic farm, and with that, the responsibility that he would preserve the Old Queenslander and farm as her father did, to pass on to his son, safeguarding the thread that bound their family together.

She made her way back to the house, past the old chimney with the bricks and mortar left where they fell, said her goodbyes, and drove off, vowing never to return. 

She would never again cross that threshold that was once her home. And the thread which had bound their family together was now broken.