Childhood Treasures

I was getting desperate.

I need some kind of clue, I thought. There has to be something here, something from my past that I’ve forgotten. My daily routine had crumbled, my finances in a shambles… I turned to my thoughts with conviction, as if I could think my way back to a normal life. No, maybe I can find the answer itself here. Why not? 

Sunlight gripped my eyes, stealing me from my cycling thoughts. I grabbed my sunglasses and gazed out the window. It was the light from the morning sun, aggressively bright on the aeroplane wing. Beyond, Auckland city reached out to the horizon and beyond, as if someone had taken a giant knife and spread suburbia across the land. The plane swerved, and the sunlight slipped from the wing; the pilot’s calm voice welcomed us to Auckland City. I kept my sunglasses pressed against the window, eyes scanning my original home with fascination. It looked so different from last time I returned. Maybe it was because I was in the sky…

I was returning to Auckland because Mum and Dad needed help with some of the “preparations”. They knew I was in a drain-pipe en route to the sewers, financially speaking, and offered to help me get a foothold. Luckily for me, there was plenty of work to do around the house - garden maintenance, painting, deck oiling. It was a fortuitous chance to earn some money and see the family in one swoop. But in the mess that I was in in Dunedin, I sought a solution wherever I could, and I was silently hoping that I could find some kind of answer in my old home, as I believe that one's childhood holds treasures we may have forgotten. The plane descended for the landing strip, and rumbled as we touched base. Home again.

I proceeded through the airport passageways. Being short and nimble, I can manoeuvre through public spaces like this with ease and secrecy. The ‘problems’ that plagued my life were becoming distant with each step. I had left them in Dunedin - there was no more space in my luggage. Now that I was on the other side of the country, they were like dusty old memories. And when I walked through those automatic gates to see my mother, waving her arms and almost wailing through the crowds, those ‘problems’ ceased to exist. Only family remained.

And my hunt for an answer.

It was strange being in the old house again. It was all mostly unchanged - the couches hadn't moved, the paintings and the ornaments were as they always were, save for an extra triplet of flying ducks on the wall (mum loves her flying ducks). It was the house I'd always known, and yet, the magic wasn’t there anymore - the intangible giddiness of childhood, it had already been and gone. I suppose that’s just what happens in the passage of time. I’m sure that feeling had died with Nessie, our family dog. This house would never be the same without Nessie trotting through with dirty paws and a summersaulting tail. This was likely the last time I would get to spend in this house, I realised, with the preparations and all. It was the last chance to soak in all the good times, to reminisce and get drunk on the memories. Oh, and collect my childhood treasures - maybe the magic was still stored in those.

But that first night back, it wasn’t memories we got drunk on. Mum sat on the opposite couch sipping Saint Clair Sauvignon Blanc, lobbing questions at me as though they were pebbles. Questions about Dunedin. I reflected her excitement with my responses. It was official - my parents had decided to move to Dunedin. They had arrived at the realisation that there was nothing more for them in Auckland - it was a similar feeling I had at the end of high school - and now they wanted to orchestrate their escape. To Dunedin. And so, the preparations were underway, doing up the house for a carelessly hungry market. I felt like some kind of emissary sent from Dunedin, to sell them of how special it is there. Dad rambled on about his ‘genius’ business ideas, and I just sipped my drink, listening. Perhaps this is the answer, I mused. My family. Maybe I could hold on out, keep working on my Quest, and wait for them to swoop in and save the day? Dad’s idea to start a live music bar sounded like just the ticket. I retreated to my room, playing with the thought. No. I can’t just rely on my parents. That’s not the answer. It seemed no better than the dole, that.

My old room was tidy beyond recognition. The bed, unruffled. No clothing on the floor. It looked nothing like how it used to when I was living in it, 3 or 4 years before. Some of my knick-knacks were still in their places though: my two bongos, rising above a collection of lighthouses and figurines. A collection of shot glasses I had completely forgotten about, decorating the mantelpiece like a little family. Homely warmth filled my chest at the sight of those old things, and I could have collapsed into the bed and slept, content. But then I noticed the box pushed against the corner. That was what I was looking for: the childhood treasure chest!

The box was a chaotic jumble of stuff - notepads, journals, drawings of my favourite Naruto characters, magic cards, old CD’s, and a hoard of other miscellaneous things I had collected throughout my childhood and teenage years. I eagerly began rummaging through, picking out some items and reminiscing. Drawing was definitely NOT the answer. Somewhere near the centre of the box, I found a pair of sleek black Kung Fu shoes with a golden cloud-like emblem on the side. Beyond excited to find them, I slipped them on and tied the laces. They wrapped around my feet like shields off myth and silk. Determination and hope rippled through me. These shoes were more than just rubber and lace stashed away in a box. They were remnants from my earlier chapters as a Kung Fu kid - I had bought them in Shanghai, during my trip to China to compete in a Kung Fu competition. With shoes like these, I felt like I could walk my life back on track. Maybe Kung Fu was the answer.

The next item of interest I found was a stack of CD’s. I brushed the dust off the top one with my thumb, suddenly inundated with the hectic memories that lay behind that CD. I recalled an inner-city hall, a sweaty mass of people pulsing to the raw music, everybody smashing and tumbling over each other. I remembered the late nights at our practice den behind the Mt Albert shops, writing music, jamming, recording music, jamming, getting high, jamming, eating chocolate, jamming. The CD was called Backslam - it was SHEEP’s first EP. What a wild ride it had been. We were still going strong, in a whole new phase. It was no longer the underage gig scene we were playing our tunes to. We had levelled up to the Dunedin Sound, and we had a lot of energy to give. Perhaps Tommy and I could still really do this - maybe SHEEP was still the answer after all.

Right at the bottom of the box, I found a red and white striped book, still in mint condition. When I wrapped my fingers around it to reel it out of the memorabilia jungle, I immediately recalled the very Christmas I was gifted that book. Lonely Planet’s Guide to Travel Writing. It brought a big smile to my face - and I was reminded of my first ever dream. To be a writer. For years upon years, I dreamed of being a writer. At first I dreamed of being a novelist, writing Epic Fantasy books, and then I wanted to be a Travel Writer, travelling the world in search of stories! I almost chuckled - it wasn’t a far-fetched dream after all. Writing was quickly becoming a key part of my life. It was heart and soul to everything I was doing. Writing… Of course. Was writing the answer? 

Writing is always the answer.

I spent the next few days working: shovelling dirt, painting, oiling the deck, helping with the preparations, imagining the day when my folks finally got to enjoy Dunedin as I did. I soaked in the memories as much as I could, appreciating my Auckland home, honouring my childhood, and missing Nessie. The answers I came to were all legitimate - in fact, all together they amounted to one over-arching answer, which was to honour my childhood.

And that, I could do.