Picture a theatre performance about words at risk, in a space once occupied by hidden women, during a time of heightened historical, political and cultural conflict. Read more
Every year, two tender thoughts about Spring flourish faithfully in my mind.* Like the perennial seeds they are, they blossom from my memory into a quiet smile every time I see the promise of Spring, and I treasure these memories.
Undated letter from John S. Meagher to Dr Frank Meagher
I came across a photo my cousin posted of herself with another cousin of ours on Instagram captioned, ‘Sticks and Squid’. I smiled as I instinctively knew which one was which. The nickname Sticks is new to me, whereas Squid is not too far removed from the nickname we used back in the day, Squiff or Squiffy. Sobriquets are an interesting form of family code, and to be honest, I’ve had a lot of fun unravelling who’s who. Now that I know about Sticks, it’s only right that Sticks’ name should stick, right?
What do you do when your sock has a hole? Do you (a) throw it out; (b) shove it to the back of your sock drawer; (c) mend it?
I bought a packet of “hidden” socks to fit in with a trend of wearing low cut socks with sneakers. At the time, I thought these socks were disproportionately expensive for the little amount of fabric (and sewing) used to make the sock. It wasn’t long before I had worn a hole in all three pairs, so I purchased another packet, only to result in six pairs of socks, all with holes. Exasperated by the perceived waste and unwilling to buy any more, I set about crudely mending them.
It was the last weeks of February 2023 when I noticed the tinge of autumnal colours whispering the end of summer. The late ripening and first harvesting of red tomatoes after Valentine’s Day confirmed just how lukewarm the summer had been. Read more
Two open water swims taking place 145 km apart on Victoria’s coast on one of the hottest days in January 2023, heralded an unexpected communion of intergenerational Meagher family swimming. My late grandfather Jack – an ardent sporting enthusiast and proud patriarch – would have been tickled pink by this family conjunction. Read more
The November Spring morning shone through the stained-glass windows in the clerestory, bathing the congregation in a yellow light as they gathered in St Dominic’s Church, Camberwell. My uncle David spoke briefly prior to his sons’ eulogy for their mother Cindy, his wife, and my aunt. David reflected on a conversation he had with his mother-in-law, my grandmother, Dot Meagher, twenty-four years prior.
Amid the first winter of the COVID-19 pandemic, I mailed two drawings of a garden scene to my seven-year-old niece (one coloured in, the other black and white). I asked her to add to a story I started about fairies in the garden and requested that she colour the black and white picture and return it. We exchanged a few drawings and developed the fairy story before our collective effort fizzled out.
During the second winter of the pandemic, in-between lockdowns four and five, I unexpectedly received an email from my niece (via her mother’s inbox) with a word document attached and a simple message.
When was the last time you did a jigsaw puzzle? The family archive in my spare room is the ultimate games room to me. Boxes upon boxes of various pieces waiting to be put together to create a new understanding of my family's collective history.
What Will Be looks back at people, places and travel and uncovers stories hidden in diaries, letters, and photos. It pieces together obvious clues and obscure details; reveals the personalities of people we used to know and those we could not have known; and re-tells the stories that have been forgotten or hidden. Tell me your thoughts and put a piece or two in the puzzle while you're at it.
