Store Your Happy Memories Here:

[Croix]

Dear All~

What this place is for:
This thread is a tool, a resource, and also I guess a dash of entertainment.

I’ve found that when life is grim that sometimes thoughts of past happiness can create a chink of light in the grey overwhelming press of down. They can help occupy the mind with lighter reflections.

With that in view I invite people to set down a brief passage describing some happy event they look back to with fondness and peace.

They - and others too - can then return to it when they feel the need to glean a little warmth.

It is not a place for gloomy or dire tales, those can go elsewhere.

What to do:
Just set out, as simply as you like, your recollection of some past experience that means something good to you, something you enjoyed, something from safe times.

It can be, like my story below, anything – from an account of visiting grandparents to simply cooking and eating a melted-cheese sandwich in a favorite kitchen – you get to choose.

How to do it:
Write. Write enough so someone else can feel the mood, know what happened, find the goodness. (stop at 2,500 characters please!)

Grammar, syntax, spelling, punctuation are not compulsory, just write as you can – the only important thing is the content - not literary merit. Short or long - it does not matter.


I hope you enjoy, contribute and find a little distraction here when you need it.

Croix

[Croix]

Talking to Gruffydd about sideboards, reminded me of a blue and white striped milk jug which reminded me of ...

Llywelyn bach

Llywelyn could walk sideways and it always fascinated me. Whenever I visited Nain and Tide I’d be up early the next morning – in the almost-dark most often - and put on my plaid dressing gown and slippers and go down the two flights of stairs to the kitchen out the back. There I’d pick up a cabbage leaf from the middle of the table (there was always one there in the morning for some reason) and wait.

Before long I’d hear clopping and squeaking and clinking. Evans y llaeth was on his way up the street, with Llywelyn bach pulling the four-wheel cart from the Co-Op, he always wore a big shoulder collar with two pins on top – like crab’s eyes, to hold the reins.

He stopped outside each house without prompting for Evans to pick up the empties and put down the fresh square bottles.

When he reached our house, at the end of the cul-de-sac, Evans would deliver the milk then take a drink from his thermos (always with him – I though he must be thirsty and needed his tea) and say “Copi wrth gefn”.

Llewelyn would then walk sideways and back up until his rump was up against the cart, till the cart was almost touching our front door. I’d marvel at this precision. Llywelyn then continued sideways, but forward until the cart faced down the street, missing Uncle Arthur’s front door opposite by a hands-breadth.

I’d give Llywelyn the cabbage leaf, which he lipped up gently through his bit, and off down the street they’d go, stopping at each house.

One day I heard a wine, rattle and clinking, stopping and starting, again and again. On going out with my cabbage leaf I saw Evans y llaeth driving a brand new green electric milk float, stopping at each house, changing bottles and drinking from his thermos.

When he got up to me I said “Where’s Llewelyn?”

“He’s retired, the Co-Op wants me to use this, it’s modern you see”

After another drink Evans swung the trolley, which hit our front door with a thump and a scratch. He then drove it over in a circle, hitting Uncle Arthur’s door too.

Tide came out as the noise, as did Auntie Gladys. They talked to Evans in quiet voices I could not hear. Evans did not appear to say much but had more of his tea.

The next day I heard clopping and squeaking and clinking, and Llywelyn was back, eating cabbage and donating a deposit which Tide put on the garden.

[Guest_1055]

This memory came to me this morning. When I was possibly 8 or 9 years old I was sent away to camp. It was somewhere up in Lismore NSW. I did not like it. All strangers. Some kindness and attention was given to me by a tall man. Well he seemed tall at the time. He was either a teacher, camp dad or something similar. We as in a bunch of little girls were walking on some sand near water, it was a very long walk. My feet were hurting me in some way. They must have been pretty painful for me to either tell someone or cry. I say properly cry. Then this tall man picked me up and carried me on his shoulders. It was this kindness and attention that I treasure. I believe that is why I see it has a happy memory. Thankyou tall man, whoever you are...

[Just Sara]

Hey Croix! What a wonderful anecdote; a moreish page turner indeed. Llewellyn bach can have my cabbage leaf any day!

Dear Shelley belly...I went to camp there too! But my memories are mixed; frogs in toilets, mum forgot to pack my towel, I watched a boy being beaten with a wooden oar and I tried so hard to bounce a one-bob piece off my bed without success. I did however excel at archery and compass reading, who would'a thunk?!

<<<>>>

Today a new happy memory was made with my visiting sister. We laughed, got annoyed, high five'd each other, gossiped, lost track of what we were talking about a few times and drank ourselves silly with coffee.

As conversations go, we had it all. Two little girls in women's bodies reliving the good, bad and pretty average days of childhood and young motherhood.

Did I say we laughed? We busted our bums giggling! My sis ran to the loo holding her thighs together yelling; "Ahh...it's running out! I hope you have toilet paper!" (The moral to this dilemma? Do your Keigal abdomen exercises! Ah ha ha)

A big boisterous laugh goes a long way towards therapeutic relief, but giggles tickle like a face full of cotton candy at the Easter Show, with left over tomato sauce underneath from a gut busting hotdog at lunch...nothing compares!

Sigh...nice.

Sara

[Gruffudd]

Melbourne when I was younger had wooden tram cars. The W-class. They had big steps to climb up to get inside and would rock as people climbed up and down. The floor had little ridges of wood that formed channels for the water brought in by feet and umbrellas in winter. They had their own noises, rumbling, and groaning that made them more alive than any tram car since. Our line was a special one because the last bit was between elm trees alongside the river. Early morning or late afternoon there was no more beautiful place to be in the world.

Grandmother decided to take me into the city on the tram to visit the museum. We found our way to the imposing stone facade and dome of the State Library. We went in the doors and turned right to enter the Museum galleries. Grandmother explained to the attendant that we were there to see the conservation works. The attendant picked up the phone receiver on the desk and turned the dial, letting it go so that it could spin and make that special whiting sound.

A man in a white coat arrived and guided us through past glass cases and underneath the dinosaur skeletons to a spiral metal staircase. He unlocked the chan across the stair and we descended to the basement. Then he led the way through tunnels to a big red metal door.

The door was heavy. Grandmother had to help. It kicked up a cloud of dust as it retreated to the side.

As the dust cleared there was a large object at least twice the size of an elephant covered in white tarpolans. Grandmother moved forward and with a tug made the white fabric fall to the floor. In front of us was a stage coach. Painted in maroon with gold trim, emblazoned with cobb and co, and place names I knew from the family stories, Scarsdale and Allendale.

We all climbed up inside, the coach rocking like a tram. We sat on the leather couches. Grandmother complemented the museum for the conservation work. She answered lots of questions. Her great grandfather on her fathers side had constructed the coach in his works at Footscray from an American plan. Her great grandfather on her mothers side had bought it and run it through the goldfields. The man wrote furiously making sure not to miss a word.

Then we were finished. We made our way up into the hustle of the city and down to the tram terminus next to Princes bridge. Then up into a wooden tram which travelled through the elms, past the terrace houses to home.

[Croix]

Gruffudd's talking about Australia, I guess it's up to me to even the balance:

Cau'r drws!

Evans y llaeth, Evans the milk, and Pwy Yw Bachgen 'n Bert, Who's A Pretty Boy, were quite different really. Evans was short and wiry with a red face coming from bitter long pre-dawn hours delivering the milk. Pretty Boy was even shorter, plump, but south-sea island blue with banding – Pretty Boy was a budgie.

He lived in the apartment above the pub in Williams street, unlike Evans he never rose until breakfast time when his cover was lifted. Uncle Bob and Auntie Jinny ran the pub and lived in the apartment with their daughter Elfri, who was older, taller and more confident than I.

I remember visiting with Nain, she and Auntie Jinny sat in the kitchen and talked away as usual – far too fast for me to understand - with that typical pause to look in my direction every few minutes, as if to see the effect on me of what they’d said. Nain would say "Er mwyn popeth", For goodness sake, and the conversation would resume.

I was bored. I saw Pretty Boy. I opened the cage and put my hand in. Maybe I'd jiggle his mirror for him. I’m not sure Pretty Boy quite understood my friendly intention.

He shot out the cage, through the kitchen and down the stairs into the pub, settling on the bar before dour quiet earnest drinkers, still with their caps on. He stated to peck at spilled drink on the wooden bar top, his stumpy tongue going in and out.

“Cau'r drws!”, Close the door!, shouted Uncle Bob, coming from the cash draw. He reached for Pretty Boy, who waddled just out of reach.

Everyone at the bar tried, to be evaded each in turn – until Pretty Boy reached Evans, who put down the thermos he was filling and slowly extended just one finger. Pretty boy paused, then hopped on it, claws tight looking up at Evans.

There was a similarity after all, both had dark beady eyes peering out at the world. They stood transfixed in mutual appraisal.

Elfri walked into the bar – where she was never allowed to go - up behind Pretty Boy and gently closed him in her hand.

Back in his cage Pretty Boy tucked his head under his wing and slept. Elfri put over the cover.

Nain took me home.

[blondguy]

Hey Croix

This is a great thread! I dont speak Swahili as well as you and Mr Gruff do 😉

My happy memory is a slower and less complicated way of life as a kid.

Pie & Sauce 11cents

Can of Fanta 12fl.oz.... 8cents (metric was unheard of)

Razzamataz were Panty Hose

Graham Kennedy was popular (I have no idea why) and the 'King' of something....cant remember..lol

RC Cola was huge

Coke was the 'Real Thing'

3AK Promo "Where no wrinklies fly" (Heavy Rock am Radio)

'The Battle of Britain' 1969.......a disaster and a woefully made piece of crap best forgotten

'Butch Cassidy & the Sundance Kid'.....1969.....a perfect movie made in the USA 😉

More to come

Thanks Croix

Paul

[BenD]

I remember playing my first game of footy after 4 years of physio, rehab and training following a car accident that broke both my legs.

I remember getting to the ball first and kicking it from the middle of the ground down to our end of the field. Everything was in slow motion. I was eventually made captain and came 2nd in the best and fairest award.

Its one of my proudest moments making it back to play again.

[Gruffudd]

My ears are not well behaved. It made for some challenges in making friends because I couldn't always hear them.

My first trip to the ear specialist was when I was eight hours old. The specialist I grew up with was kind and always took an unfathomable interest in looking through his magnifying torch into my ears. He then got mother to have a look, after that it was off to the audiologist to listen to a series of beeps of which I could hear about half. I'm not entirely convinced that the other half exist. Then some pressure test. Then we would go back in with the specialist for the verdict. A new ringing noise, best to ignore them because nothing can be done. Hearing still at 40 percent, that is excellent. It will improve with age as his ears grow. It is probably time for another grommets operation and he will need some earplugs. By 8 this had become routine.

So I found myself on a hospital trolley lined up ready to go into see the anaesthetists. I was a bit worried because I don't like being in a room full of people I don't know. In the trolley next to me there was an old man with white hair. He told me he was scared because he was having an operation. I told him that I was having one too, and that we would both be ok. He asked my name, I told him it was Robbie, he told me his name was Robbie as well. I reached out and held his hand until it was time for us to go in.

When counting backwards from 10 I never seem to get past 8. Then I wake up, sort of...

I opened my eyes and in the trolley next to me was the man, still sleeping. A little while later he woke up too. The nurse came around and started talking at us. I have no idea what she said.

Then we went back to the ward in convoy. Mother was there waiting with my hearing aid ready, and I introduced her to my new friend, Robbie. Lunch was served, it was jelly for everyone.

Over the next few years I met Robbie a few more times in the waiting rooms of the ear specialist. He knew all about badly behaved ears too. He told me about his life, he worked in the docks when he was younger, had married a lady named Joy, and he loved to grow daisies from cuttings and sell them at the Sunday market.

I'm glad I learned that strangers can sometimes become friends when you talk to them and that I got to know someone special with the same name as me. Hearing is so much better now that I have grown up too.

[Guest_3072]

Some of my happy memories from this week are:

getting a nice long hug from a friend after a long day

successful group work cooperation at university

catching up with a friend and enjoying a movie at the cinema

running into a family friend on public transport during a peak hour rush

enjoying a nice cheesecake dessert with friends

And reading over all of these now just makes me even more happy!

Great thread!

[MsPurple]

Some of my happy memories are me just hanging with animals. I love dogs and I could just sit with them or hang with them and I'll be happy. I like to see them happy. I love sitting on the couch with them right next to me. I like to pat them and to see how much they enjoy the massage. If I am having a bad day or my anxiety is playing up a dog just knows how to help. By just being there. I hadn't seen my dogs for a few weeks and when they first say me I could see how excited they were. I almost cried. They were so happy to see me. I don't think I could top that feeling