POTTS HILL

We veer off the wide concrete freeway, onto the old tarmac road I remembered vividly from my
childhood.There was always a sense of excitement and anticipation whenever we drove to my
grandparent’s farmhouse in the hills. The trip down the old highway that weaved and meandered
through the valley was always an exciting adventure.

The road still dips down through rising granite and rock. The afternoon sun is diluted by the
approach of twilight and dappled by towering gumtrees. We speed down through the valley until
the road begins to wind back up, mums engine whining with the steep climb.
The sun has dropped behind the towering trees that rise up like silent sentinels, blurring past in
greens and greys. We drive on through the late afternoon; my mother and I are both lost in
thought, into the violet blue stillness of twilight.

Mum almost misses the turnoff, the old sign that still reads “Potts Hill”.

I always loved this moment as a child, when the old highway became an even less distinct dirt
track that wound up towards the gazing grain and sweeping grasses that thrived on the outskirts
of the old homestead.
My grandparents loved coming up to Sydney, but they never spent much time away from their
homestead; their home. It was their place, distinct and filled with their own quirks and
eccentricities.

We pull up behind the sagging wire fence, stepping out into the chill of dusk. My mother
disappears into the house, but I remain outside, amazed by the way the past intrudes on the
present. The gentle breeze of the late afternoon fuses into the ebbing warmth of the disappearing
sun. These moments where the sun set on crisp afternoons, were always filled with a sense of loss.
It was a presence I always remembered, like an unwelcome friend that interrupted the frivolity
and joy of every game and adventure.

I stand outside the tired farmhouse, reluctant to join my mother yet.

A cool breeze outside blows past me, a soft whisper that chills the skin on my arms and cheeks.
The sun’s warmth has dwindled and there is a bite of winter chill in the air.

We had come up to the old place to settle the sale, and find any remnants of the past that
mattered. We don’t have a lot of time; we need to search through everything in the house,
anything worth remembering, anything of value, anything worth saving. The old cottage is to be
demolished. The whole hillside has been sold off to a property developer who intends to build a
luxury retreat for city workers attracted by the charm of the country.

The farmhouse lurchs in from the chill of twilight. The once pristine shutters that I remember my
grandfather painting and putting up with pride are now askew, like an eyelid that won’t close. The
granite path that my grandmother had perfectly manicured and cared for, is now overgrown with
wild meandering bush, vines and wild weeds that dance, weave and bob in the crisp twilight
breeze.

I wander around the property, skipping and turning and capture a panoramic view of it. It is nine
acres, including the rolling hillsides that plunge down a meandering stream. I always loved this
place as a child. I loved the freedom and space to be myself. Mum was different here as well. she
would forget the tension that simmered with her and dad. Somewhere she could remember the
child she was.

Untamed vines have spread, relentless in their pursuit of every inch of soil. Old ash trees have
fallen down the slope, crooked branches reach out and over the water. I loved discovering every
inch of the property as a child, fishing, catching tadpoles and chasing butterflies. The sense of
freedom and time is something I have never had since; it still resonates within my heart and mind;
it is a part of my fabric, woven into my identity.

Cool moonlight rises up, bleeding into the violet dusk, and the afternoon chill shifts into an arctic
wind, I realise I should get inside and help mum, but there is something I have to see first.

I step away from the house, I shuffle my way down the steep slope, almost losing my footing at
least twice. I slide down the incline next to “Potts Stream”. It is named after the original owner of
the land, a farmer who had sold the property to my grandfather.

The stream has now slowed, choked by the unattended weeds that only allow a small amount of
water through. I know it is at the brink of its end.It seems to me now that its death is inevitable;
everything dies. I sigh out loud and turn to climb back up the hill.

Inside, I gather photographs, an old ashtray I made for my grandfather when I was ten, board
games, blankets, everything and anything, we are taking it all. We leave nothing behind, taking
with us the remnants of two lives that will remain entwined in ours forever.

Outside, we take one last look at the old cottage. Mum is still quiet, but I can hear the weight of
her breathing. I know she is close to tears.
Everything seems smaller and more dilapidated in the gathering gloom. Shadows lengthen and
grow, creeping forward into the twilight.

REFLECTION
My short memoir ‘Potts Hill’ is a response to the stimulus which focuses on … utilising the
conventions of a memoir including narrative structure, the juxtaposition between the past and
present and the significant personal voice. My piece was also influenced by Fyodor Dostoevsky’s
‘Notes From Underground’ particularly the present tense motifs and images ]threaded through his
piece.

I was inspired by Dostoevsky’s use of evocative sensory imagery through figurative language and
active verbs. In my memoir, I also use layers of imagery to evoke a sense of nostalgia and the
momentum of the trip back. I developed the significant motif of the journey and the deeper more
underlying symbol of transition with twilight. I captured the movement in the present tense,
active verbs in “the road still dips down through the rising granite and rocks” using the alliteration
to create the momentum. The visual image of sunlight “dappled by towering gumtrees” and the
“trees that rise up like silent sentinels” uses the simile to evoke the significance of the moment
and the transition back into potts hill. The motif and momentum of the journey is further
developed in the visual image of the green bush “blurring past in greens and greys” as well as the
underlying image of the “violent blue stillness of twilight”. I developed the significant image of this
moment in time at the homestead where the “gentle breeze of the late afternoon fused into the
ebbing warmth of the disappearing sun.” The personification of the breeze and the blurring of the
afternoon into twilight reinforces the sense of the moment.

Aligning with one of the most significant conventions of my memoir, I tried to develop a sense of
place using the farmhouse. I wanted to show a sense of the passing of time with the
personification “the farmhouse lurches into the chill of twilight”, reinforced with the simile that
evokes the shutter that “stayed open like an eyelid that won't close”. The sense of the emotional
impact of the moment on the persona and her mother is reinforced with the wild image of the
“meandering bush, vines and wild weeds that dance”. The personification and alliteration capture
the movement and draw the audience in. I also focused on the convection of a first person voice
deepening the narrative through the use of ‘we’ to include the mother in the moment and to
intensify the transformative emotional response to the moment.

I successfully developed a motif and structure that drew the audience into the significant present
tense moment but also how the past intrudes on the present very similarly to Dostoevsky.