Hometown Glory

This morning started like many others, driving one of my little boys to daycare.

It just so happens that we drive past my old primary school, usually several times a day and usually without thinking about it.

Photo of one of my childhood friends and I at Primary school- He's still one of my best mates today.

Today I pointed it out to him again, explaining that it's where I went to school, and told him I'm considering when and where he will go to 'big school'. There's lots of maybes; maybe he'll go there, but possibly elsewhere. Maybe he'll go next year or maybe the year after.

As I was looking at the buildings, I felt a surge of memories flood over me. When you live in your hometown, that sometimes happens, catching you unaware as you're driving to get groceries or heading to the very same bank where you opened your first dollarmite account.

The feelings were quite vivid, like it wasn't that long ago. They took me straight back to being a little girl in year one, sitting in a long line of kids in the corridor watching rain splatter down creaky old windows.

Unsurprisingly, I'm waiting for a lunch order. The brown paper bag, handwritten order scrawled on the front, would arrive grease streaked containing some crumbed chicken pieces and a cheese roll or a salad cup(margarine container) - no egg. There’d also be a 'purple lid orchy' - and the grand total would be less than $2.50. So familiar yet so far away. Lifetimes within a lifetime.

I've had a similar flood of memories wash over me when I'm at the park closest to my childhood house (still also the closest park to me).

It's my childhood bestie and I walking to the shop, pockets jingling with money 'borrowed' from her parents money tin. We buy bags of way too many strawberry and creams and lie in the middle of the park, philosophising about life- you know, all consuming girl talk. We'd eventually weave our way home through familiar streets to microwave 'healthy not-burgers' with cheese and bbq sauce for dinner, the epitome of a woke 90's vegetarian meal.

The years blur but the feelings don't. Time felt like it was pulsing, everything was exciting and pivotal. Like we were standing on the edge of something, ready to take in all the possibility. And I guess we were. The whole wide world was waiting for us- we just had to bide our time until 10.00pm, turn off MTV, sneak out the backdoor and run into the cool night air- back to the park. Free from parental eyes and unburdened by sensible decision making for a few hours.

Years later, here I am in my hometown; somewhere I swore I'd never return to, raising two little boys, something I never imagined I'd do. And neither of these things feel entirely natural to me; I haven't quite found my place. I am not a mama duck who took gracefully to the water. Instead, I'm paddling furiously, feathers flying everywhere with no clue what direction I'm supposed to be swimming. I also don't feel completely settled at 'home' in my old neck of the woods.

After having a life away for a time, returning home and deciding to put roots here is very much a double edged sword. Of course, there's fondness for my connection to the land and community. There's family nearby and the people who know your name and where your grandmother lived and in different forms, weave in and out of your life over the decades. Year 3 bestie, year 9 enemy, pal to go to the pub with, mum of another preschool kid- all one and the same person.

There's familiar streets and avoiding your teenage boyfriend's dad at the shops, but there's also the undeniable longing for new streets, new experiences, new places, new foods.

Will I feel that pulsing excitement again? Is 35 the time when you resign yourself to a revolving menu of meals that satisfy and nourish your belly but don't leave your taste buds jumping for joy or expose you to new worlds?

It's like I'm stuck somewhere between Empire State of Mind, Flame Trees, Elderly Woman behind the counter in a small Town and Darius Rucker's Alright. Do I want a house complete with veggie garden a block from my Mum and Dad or a cramped Brownstone apartment next to a deli -oceans from home- or something in between? All I'm certain is that it would be nice to have regular yum cha that doesn't come from my freezer.

So, as I sit watching the rain splashing down my windows, just two blocks from where I was doing the same thing 30 years ago, I'm pondering what to make for lunch and wishing for some warming Pho or zingy agedashi tofu.

Instead, I'll head to the kitchen, turn on the grill and make a cheese and olive melt, you know, just like I used to.

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