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Diary April 16 2019 Time 6:21am WILD HERBS.
MOTHER OF HERBS.
‘It was the first most wonderful evocative transportive fragrance I can recall.’

SATURDAY morning- Much longed for rain drips audibly from the eaves to the earth.

The dusky dawn is drenched, sated.

The air is still and as invisible and quiet as God. I have awoken with the familiar childlike yearning for HOME.

Rain…sigh..

Padding barefoot into the kitchen , I turn on the gas stove, set the old Cordie family kettle on the blue flame and also put some flame beneath a lovely scented candle I have standing in a small pot of water.

Perhaps there was a problem with the wick, perhaps the reason behind purchasing the soy candle at an irresistable price and I was not about to waste the glorious fragrance.

Keeping in mind, that back in 2015, I almost burned the cottage down doing a similar thing, but this time..well..forearmed, so to speak.
I slip on my rubber thongs , head down the rain soaked wooden ramp on a mission. Croaching down I pluck off one leaf and crush it in my hand. Deeply, lovingly, I inhale the fragrance. A portal to the past opens wide and I am transported down the hall of time, almost 60 years, to an unfamiliar but exciting new place. Dewy grass..dawn. The toddler explores the area around the old fibro shed, long grass and discovers a peculiar aromatic wild herb. I believe it is called mother of herbs. Perhaps I walked, barefoot upon her leaves, perhaps curiously, I took and crushed a handful but the strange but wonderful fragrance has never left me. Perhaps it was a comfort in a time I needed comfort and here from my perch decades later, it is comfort that touches me as I inhale the aromatic goodness from the herb in my old friends garden.
I love this leaf, I do.

This bush, this fragrance reminds me just how far I have come. From there to now. I have lived a whole life. I have survived.
I can’t say I recall the actual house but I know it was in Hervey Bay where my father relocated his new lady and her children, my brother and I. Years later I am made aware of the trauma , excitement, sadness and also a blotting out of what was too painful. But I have NEVER forgotten the scent of the magical herb.

I was about three years old with a one year old brother. My father and I assume my mother ran Bas’s Fish and Chip Shop on the corner of Albert and Lennox Street. We, my family lived on the premises adjoining the store. I do recall walking barefoot on the wooden floor, reaching high to steal Juicy Fruit chewing gums. I believe I recall the rattle of tall softdrink bottles in the cases. I wish I could remember more. Remember my mother. But she fell out of love with my father, fell in love with the publican and together with the publicans daughter, the blinded ‘in love’ trio took off for the big city. Ripping a family apart, inadvertantly creating a messy situation that was to entangle me lifelong.
“I want my mummy! I want my Mummy!” I screamed.
‘It was heartbreaking to have to leave you sitting on the back stairs screaming for your Mother,’ my Aunty Nola told me decades later. It was not only my mother I was wrenched from on that day, but my mother’s family, who , multiple black and white photos show, to this day, just how much I was adored, albeit for the shortest time. Apparently she left her wedding ring, her watch on the window sill in the small apartment, her children in ignorance then slipped quietly away.

It took a miracle , over 50 years later, that enabled me to forgive her and let it go.

But that was it. That was then. And Mother was blotted from my heart. But not from a wee corner in my mind. Not entirely. Cards, photos, wedding photos, all prompts of a life, a former life that for most of my childhood puzzled me.
The fish and chip venture in Maryborough crashed and Father went back to work as a wharfie and a fisherman in Hervey Bay. Dad had advertised for help and an attractive woman named Veronica Smith with her two little boys, the same age as my brother and myself became family. I have a feeling the first house, the house with the old shed and the wild herbs, was in Pialba.
Then there was the small stucco cottage in Churchill Street Urangan, it stands there pretty much unchanged today. Memories from there – a green radio, throwing flour about the room with two new naughty friends, a trellis, geckoes. swallowing pebbles and eating the heads of matches. That was Me. Wandering around the new yard, wondering.
That was the time, the ring finger on my left hand was jammed , almost severed in the car door. I do recall the pain when my little hand was put beneath a running tap. It was night.
The mother of herbs..a comforting motherlike memory, still enchants.
Today as I look at the thick velveteen pungent leaf, crushing the crispness, forcing exhalation from the spirit of the plant, it is not sadness I feel but a stirring of innocence, of endurance, of love and long life. The Mother of Herbs, so aptly named, afforded me a kind of resonating comfort and whisper of enjoyment. Like a drug.
When I moved into this current address, almost 6 decades later, following the decease of my dear friend, I was delighted to be reaquainted with my old friend, Mother Herb.
What surrounds this time, this time into which I have been planted, is difficult and I feel this place, like the first place is only temporary.
Outside these beautiful old windows, the view is splendid. Rain drips from the gutters, the trees stand silent but clean after last night’s much longed for downpour.
And everything is still- calm- I stare and take in the wonder before me. The ticking of the clocks, the dripping of raindrops, the soft hum of the fan, the tapdance of my fingers on these keys, the only sounds. Aside from that, for the briefest time, like the the space between breaths, there is perfect peace.
And I quitely ponder the power of aromatherapy.
Whereto from here.
One thing I know, is that I will take a special potted plant along with me. And even if I don’t , I believe the wild herb will be there, somewhere for me. And The whiff of that one leaf will be enough to transport me to a place of familiarity and wonder.

This image of 4 generations was taken by my Aunty Nola on the day I was reunited with my mother

August 2021

The Mother of Herbs continues to enchant scenting my highways and byways.

This year 2021 still trying hard to come to terms with this difficult chapter ( globally) the wonderfully scented herb persists in having a role .

I was honoured to gift a 99 year old man with a potted plant. O how he savoured and relished the clean sharp fragrance that filled his lonely room.

‘If people keep crushing the leaves, there’ll be nothing left!’ He would moan. This dear man truly enjoyed the herb as much as I did. What a joy to share this experience with a kindred spirit .

Sadly as he succumbed to his end, the plant too withered.

I have retrieved it and hope with hope that the herb will revive.

Wonderfully, the place that I have been provided with affordable shelter, my dear landlady led me to her garden beneath the mango tree.

There growing healthily and happily is that very Mother of Herbs.

Delighted.

The comforting scent goes on.