Avatar and that tree

John, and all others who may read this, your post about the man in the tree has triggered thought processes in me that I cannot get rid of unless I write them down. I apologise for hi-jacking the thread, but the thought has occurred to me in recent weeks that I really should travel out to Hume Road in Thornlie and offer my support to this principled man and his cause, even if it only takes the form of words of encouragement.

However, there are personal reasons for why I have not done so. I'm now going to make those reasons public in an effort to garner some courage of my own...and, again, I apologise for the convoluted nature of my story's telling.

In 1966 our little family had outgrown the weatherboard house in Monger Street, Perth (the area that the 1980s trend-setters decided should now be called 'Northbridge'), and my young parents put a downpayment on a block of land out in the bush...at Lennox Road in Thornlie. My father had served a building apprenticeship and took it upon himself to design our new house in red clinker brick, well back from the street and retaining as many of the gums, banksias, sheoaks and kangaroo-paws as possible. The builders cursed him for making their job so difficult...damned trees everywhere, in the way of their trucks! There was to be a large, open fireplace...and the builders hated that too. "You're mad, mate!" they said, 'Oil heating's the way of the future!"

But Dad...and Mum, were adamant. They didn't WANT everybody else's idea of the perfect modern home. They got their open fireplace...and their antique back door salvaged from one of the offices in the now demolished Perth Barracks. "Bloody old junk!" said the builders, "These people are crack-pots! Why can't they have aluminium doors like everyone else?"

Eventually the house was finished and we moved in early in '67. For us kids it was a wonderland. Surrounded by bush and with no fences, kangaroos bounded about in absolute freedom and if you didn't watch out you'd be knocked over by them. Curious bandicoots came to the back door, where we fed them on food scraps and so they kept on coming. I took it upon myself to rid the local goanna population of ticks...doing my bit to help, while not realising that they'd simply scurry away into the bush and immediately collect more of the nasty little parasites. I roamed far and wide through the surrounding bush...and I loved it.

And then, only about three months later, my Dad was promoted and transferred to Sydney with his job. We packed up, rented out our new house and went there for three years.

When we came back to Thornlie early in 1970, we were horrified at the transformation of our bush wonderland. All the trees and bush were gone all along the street, replaced by featureless lawns and soulless cream-brick store-bought houses, all in perfect alignment like naval officers on parade in their pristine whites. Our dark red house, set further back on the block, was like a missing tooth in Donny Osmond's otherwise perfect smile. We were shunned as 'Johnny-come-lateleys', the odd ones out.

My mother died in that house on Thursday the 11th of November, 1971, at the pitifully young age of thirty-one. I walked home from Thornlie High School that afternoon, from Ovens Road, along Hume Road and left into Lennox road...and found her there, gazing up at the ceiling through half-closed eyelids and her mouth open with her last, desperate gasp. It was the worst day of my life.

I escaped from Thornlie and its awful memories in 1975 when I joined the RAAF. My poor, struggling father eventually lost the house in 1980. Now...he's dead too, just three years ago. I've since stood in front of that house, that somebody else owns now, and I'm not ashamed to admit that I shed a few tears on the long walk back to the new railway station. I decided then that I would NEVER set foot in Thornlie again. The place that my beautiful young parents thought would provide such a healthy and happy future for us all...only brought sorrow instead. Now it's altered out of all recognition. The bush that we loved so much...is gone.

But now, there is a man trying to save one last vestige of it, and he's doing so against powerful odds. It may not be one of the original gum trees...indeed it may even have been planted there after his house was built on Hume Road...but it's still a gum tree and it belongs there. Can I now put aside my fear of returning to Thornlie, to go there, climb that tree and shake that man's hand?

Can I enlist an army of supporters, perhaps from this website, to come with me?

Thanks for reading this far.

Tim.

Per Ardua Ad Astra