It was back in the early 80's that Redhead and her late husband bought their small plot of Australia. Just 604 sq m of the greatest land in the world. There were no aboriginal artifacts, no unexploded bombs ( as was the case in so many places along the Sunshine Coast of Australia at that time.) No, it was just a home built on a block of land a sparrows fart from the beach.
They had moved from another country: migrants in truth. They started a new life in a new country and found a home that suited them very nicely. Ineligible for a pension in those days, they worked selling products at a market place on Saturday mornings and embraced the Australian life that they had decided to accept with gratitude.
Over the years, their home has become one of warmth, welcome and love.
You see, we are a family that actually loves one another. We are very loyal. Very patriotic to Australia. We love our heritage. Our ceremonies and our secret codes and sayings that only the family understand. Like every family, there are things that make sense only to us.
Dad, who sadly left us some years ago, is captured in our hearts with his wonderful sayings. His smile, his lilt of voice. His teasing Manx sense of humour. His wisdom. His simple ability to get to the crux of a problem.
When Dad passed away, my son in law told a story about Dad at his gathering in Redhead's garden. Neighbours, friends and family had gathered to share memories of him and his part of their lives.
( We don't do funerals,,, we do gatherings. We do " I remember when "... )
He spoke from his heart and with such love, it made me grateful for his presence in our lives. An Australian man, from the bush. I recollect thinking how proud I was to have a young Australian speak with such fondness about my Kiwi Manx Dad in Australia. How inclusive was that?
Since Mum and Dad moved to this great Southern Land, they had many animal companions. As each has passed away due to snake bite, road accident, old age or bullets from cat hating neighbours, they were buried in the 604 sq metre block that is my parent's home.
My own dear cat Bridget lies there. Buried beside the dear cat Billy who I have written about before. Redhead's beloved Jack Russell.
There are cats and dogs that mean and meant so much to us. My little poodle Toby who has been gone for nearly 30 years. All there. In Redhead's backyard.
If someone was to take over Redhead's home in future years, they would no doubt bulldoze it and dig up the equivalent of an archeological dig. We often smile and laugh thinking that they would call in a forensic crime team when the first scoop of earth hit the excavator.
The bones and flowers that we placed on the top of graves that house the souls of those we loved and still love so much.
As the anniversary of Bridget's passing 3 years ago approaches, I cannot help but wonder why it is that the place that means so much to me and my family will one day be bulldozed and leveled to the ground and all those bones will go to landfill that no one gives a shit about. All because they are not aboriginal bones. Or aboriginal memories.
Should Redhead's home be a sacred site?
No. Obviously not. But I have to ask why it is that the time bones have been at rest in a site suddenly makes a difference?
Certainly, from an archeological point of view, yes. But from the point of view that it is a place of cultural heritage?
Should Redhead's home be designated a place of protected cultural heritage because it contains the bones of her spirit animals, her history, her life here in Australia?
We are not allowed to bury our human loved ones in our home plots. If we could, every home on a quarter-acre plot would be up to question for redevelopment.
I have to say that Redhead 's home is a place of cultural significance. It contains the bones of those who were part of her life. Those that enriched her life.
Just because they are not aboriginal bones and she is not aboriginal to this land, why is her small plot in Australia unworthy?
My point is that many people bury their dead. Thank goodness we did not scatter Dad's ashes over the home he loved so much. He is still safely with us. Dad is still with Redhead and we acknowledge him when we arrive. My daughter still says " Hi Granpa " when she visits and passes his ashes so carefully and lovingly placed in the entry hall..... it just seems natural.
But why do we have this situation where the only bones that matter are aboriginal and the only land that matters is aboriginal?
For me, Redhead's home is a sacred burial ground and I suspect that many animal lovers would agree.
The only difference is that we didn't bury a rainbow serpent.
Now, if only we could find a pet snake that Redhead once had.....
