Ask me to lose myself in memories of childhood and the
backdrop that springs into place like a theatre prop is the garden of our
family home. My childhood is set mostly
in summer, with brilliant sunshine dappling through large shady trees. If I listen to the memory, I
hear nothing but birdsong and, if the lawn’s just been mowed, perhaps the gentle shwp shwp of a sprinkler. The scent of moist, freshly-cut lawn touches
my heart more than the high notes of a fine French perfume. In this memory, the blunted blades of grass tickle my bare feet but I
revel in the cooling dampness, as the sun warms my back.
I know it’s morning if there’s the clatter of the metal rubbish bin as my brother drags it into place to use as the wicket for our game of backyard cricket. I kneel under the hibiscus bush, rummaging for a soggy tennis ball (I know, I know, but they were less likely than 'real' cricket balls to break windows or noses). I crawl through to the other side, triumphantly holding the ball aloft as huge orange flowers drop pollen, like fairy dust, on my tanned shoulder.
I know it’s morning if there’s the clatter of the metal rubbish bin as my brother drags it into place to use as the wicket for our game of backyard cricket. I kneel under the hibiscus bush, rummaging for a soggy tennis ball (I know, I know, but they were less likely than 'real' cricket balls to break windows or noses). I crawl through to the other side, triumphantly holding the ball aloft as huge orange flowers drop pollen, like fairy dust, on my tanned shoulder.
I know it’s evening if I’m simply outstretched on the lawn, watching the sky
colour change through the branches of the Virgilia tree, mesmerised as the pretty pea-flowers mute from pink to grey when
the sun dips. My trusty ‘tranny’ lies
somewhere nearby, playing a commercial for Woodie’s Lemonade, and then a bit of T-Rex or Sherbet … just loud enough for me to
hear, just quiet enough to avoid music judgement from Mum.
In 1970s Australia, big gardens weren’t just the province of
the rich. And everybody had a nice front
yard - all the better to add prestige to our humble homes, where neighbours vied against each other in
an unspoken war of the (best) roses. Oleanders
clustered along paved edges. Poplar
trees lined the driveways.
Today, the Poplars are skinny Pencil Pines. And Pencil Pines are about the only tree any new home seems to boast. How many suburban children still grow up in a home with a proper shade tree? For that matter, how many have daily access to a real garden, rather than a tiled courtyard? Their suburban home might have just a couple of square metres of instant lawn at the front, and even then, it never plays host to a frolicking child and dog.
I’m a fan of balance and order, but the symmetry of modern gardens leaves me cold. Straight lines of English Box Hedge are one thing, but a row of Iceberg Roses by the window, or six Agapanthus in a tiny front yard, does not a garden make. Our parents and grandparents would always have a large clear lawned area, but that was surrounded by a delicious array of (mostly) non-matching plants that made everyone’s garden - no matter the size – unique. Most importantly, they had trees. Many were shade trees and yes, many were introduced species – but it was colour; it was Nature.
Today, the Poplars are skinny Pencil Pines. And Pencil Pines are about the only tree any new home seems to boast. How many suburban children still grow up in a home with a proper shade tree? For that matter, how many have daily access to a real garden, rather than a tiled courtyard? Their suburban home might have just a couple of square metres of instant lawn at the front, and even then, it never plays host to a frolicking child and dog.
I’m a fan of balance and order, but the symmetry of modern gardens leaves me cold. Straight lines of English Box Hedge are one thing, but a row of Iceberg Roses by the window, or six Agapanthus in a tiny front yard, does not a garden make. Our parents and grandparents would always have a large clear lawned area, but that was surrounded by a delicious array of (mostly) non-matching plants that made everyone’s garden - no matter the size – unique. Most importantly, they had trees. Many were shade trees and yes, many were introduced species – but it was colour; it was Nature.
Backyards of the era generally featured fruit trees – gnarly, ugly beings in the winter,
but a delight of pink blossom at spring-time, and shady, bountiful friends in
the summer. Keeping chooks (hens)
wasn’t uncommon. My home never had any, but the
memory of the soft bok bok bok from
the neighbour’s coop brings instant comfort.
I fear Generation Y's childhood recollections will be hard-edged, in beige or grey. Likely they’ll feature lots of screens. Screens are quite simply a huge part of modern life for children. For those of us from the 1960s and 1970s, the TV was a box in just one room. Fewer shows were aimed at children, and even then, rationed out by Mum. The phone in the hallway (on its own special table) was rarely used and most certainly didn’t have a screen. Computers didn’t exist for the masses. Even the ones we saw in science-fiction movies didn’t have screens, just lots of blinking lights and a suspicious resemblance to giant tape-decks.
Back when trees were more common than screens, we had a half-holiday in celebration of trees, called Arbour Day (later renamed Conservation Day, before disappearing right off the calendar, along with proper front gardens and backyard trees).
I reject the idea that trees consume too much water. In any case, a shaded garden needs less water, not more. Deciduous Trees also create summer shade which ever-so-slightly reduces ambient temperature, which should reduce summer cooling costs at some nano-level. Most importantly, trees bring the tranquility of green-ness. Unlike fleeting annuals, or trendy drought-tolerant agaves, trees become old friends.
I fear Generation Y's childhood recollections will be hard-edged, in beige or grey. Likely they’ll feature lots of screens. Screens are quite simply a huge part of modern life for children. For those of us from the 1960s and 1970s, the TV was a box in just one room. Fewer shows were aimed at children, and even then, rationed out by Mum. The phone in the hallway (on its own special table) was rarely used and most certainly didn’t have a screen. Computers didn’t exist for the masses. Even the ones we saw in science-fiction movies didn’t have screens, just lots of blinking lights and a suspicious resemblance to giant tape-decks.
Back when trees were more common than screens, we had a half-holiday in celebration of trees, called Arbour Day (later renamed Conservation Day, before disappearing right off the calendar, along with proper front gardens and backyard trees).
I reject the idea that trees consume too much water. In any case, a shaded garden needs less water, not more. Deciduous Trees also create summer shade which ever-so-slightly reduces ambient temperature, which should reduce summer cooling costs at some nano-level. Most importantly, trees bring the tranquility of green-ness. Unlike fleeting annuals, or trendy drought-tolerant agaves, trees become old friends.
When a person dies, people sometimes plant a tree ‘in their memory.’ Why wait until they die? I wish everybody would plant a tree now, for a lifetime of memories, not posthumous ones.
Is Nature missing from the lives of ‘modern’ kids?
Are weekend visits to the park a good enough substitute?
Do you remember the half-holiday of Conservation Day?
Will staring at all those TV/computer/phone screens eventually cause the evolution of square eyeballs?
I'd love to hear your comments.
