I was on my way out to a mate’s place the other day.
They were away for Easter, and I had gone out to feed their dogs.
One of them is a little Jack Russell terrier, and if you know Jack Russells, you know they are basically ADHD in a dog’s body.
Everywhere at once.
Looking for mice.
Looking for rats.
Looking for toads.
Looking for lizards.
Looking for anything that moves, really.
And if it does not move, they will give it a poke until it does.
So while the dogs were off doing whatever high-speed terrier business needed doing, I ran into someone I went to school with.
Same vintage as me, so we will call him Uncle S.
As you do when you bump into someone from school, we started talking about the good old days.
Funny thing about the good old days.
They were good because we remember the good bits.
The rest gets quietly edited out over time.
Somehow, as conversations do, we ended up talking about trains.
Back when we were younger, there was something called Motorail.
You could catch the train up towards the Gold Coast, and your car would go on the train too.
Then you would get off, your car would get off, and off you would go.
Seemed perfectly normal at the time.
Looking back, it feels like something from another world.
The carriages were different too.
Timber panelled.
A bit noisy.
A bit rattly.
Full of character.
I do not think they were the red rattlers, but something in my memory rings a bell there.
At the end of the carriage, there was always a little setup.
Toilet on one side.
Water fountain on the other.
And that water fountain was a thing of beauty.
As kids, that water fountain was brilliant.
It gave you cold water in these tiny little folded paper cups.
Not fancy.
Not large.
Not designed for long-term hydration.
But when you are eight or nine years old, that does not matter.
You could stand there, fill the little cup, drink it, fill it again, drink it again, and keep going like you had discovered some sort of luxury service.
Free chilled water.
On a train.
In a tiny paper cup.
What more could a child want?
Then, when you were finished, you could take the cup back to your little room in the carriage and pull it apart, because it was folded paper.
Endless entertainment.
Simple times.
Possibly too much water.
Which brings us to the other bit.
After drinking more chilled water than any sensible child should, the inevitable would happen.
You had to go next door.
Into the train toilet.
Now, this is where the good old days quietly become the other bits.
You would walk in and notice the floor was not exactly dry.
As a child, you did not think too deeply about it.
You just knew you did not want your shoes touching too much of anything.
The train was moving.
The carriage was rocking.
You were small.
The target was not always where you hoped it would be by the time you got organised.
And somewhere in your young mind, you probably blamed some old fella who had been in there before you.
That is the funny thing about getting older.
At the time, it was always “some old fella.”
These days, there is every chance we are the old fellas.
And suddenly you understand things you did not appreciate at eight years old.
Let’s just say accuracy is not always what it used to be.
Enough said.
Probably more than enough said, actually.
That is the trouble with the good old days.
We talk about them like they were perfect.
But they were not.
They were just days.
Some good bits.
Some ordinary bits.
Some bits that would never pass a modern safety inspection.
Some bits that are best remembered from a safe distance.
And some bits that become much funnier once enough time has passed.
The train was wonderful.
The timber carriages were wonderful.
The little folded paper cups were wonderful.
The toilet floor was NOT so wonderful.
And that is probably life, really.
A mixture.
The memory keeps the nice warm glow and quietly pushes the wet floor to the side.
Until you run into an old school mate on the way to feed a pair of dogs, and suddenly the whole thing comes back.
So that is what came from a quick chat on the side of the road.
The Jack Russell was still racing around like it had somewhere important to be.
The gumtrees were still standing there minding their own business.
And somehow we had gone from Easter dog feeding, to school mates, to trains, to paper cups, to the parts of nostalgia nobody puts on a postcard.
Not bad for an afternoon.
Funny thing about the good old days.
They were good.
Mostly.
But the other bits made better stories.
A lifelong storyteller, shaped by sheds, stories, and making things by hand.
This is where the ideas, the tinkering, and the occasional terrible joke all end up.
Uncle Grandad acknowledges the Bundjalung People as the Traditional Custodians of the land on which these stories are written and shared. We pay our respects to Elders past and present, and honour the rich culture, storytelling traditions, and deep connection to Country that continue to inspire.
