The Last Furlong

Comments on the race of life.

Bringing our treasure “home”

Leave a comment

I grew up in a town strangely nicknamed “the last Outpost of the British Empire” because of its very Britishness. I used to stand under the statue of Queen Victoria and study the intricate decoration of her gown and the orb and sceptre in her hands. She seemed so regal. I used to admire the green copper dome of the old Parliament Buildings. It seemed so solid, standing there. These experiences introduced me to a feeling of pride in my history and the idea that my ancestors had struggled and worked in the past so that I could have a future better than theirs.

The clock that stood on my Nan’s mantelpiece is now on mine – I brought it back to its home – England. My ancestors took it out in 1820 as part of their very special luggage for their African adventure. I wonder if it stood in the corner of the tent as they listened to the sounds of the bush or if it stayed packed in a trunk waiting for their first wattle and daub home to be built? It seems far too elegant for that. Sometime soon after they arrived someone shot a small buck and the back of the dried hooves were stuffed with silk as a pincushion. The little hooves were placed on top of the clock. It became a family tradition that they should never be separated –– and they never have.

IMG_00000350

Advertisements

Author: thelastfurlong

I'm someone also pounding the Path, just like you.. I'm retired, going into Old Age and loving my life. I'm hoping to remain happy and well for as long as possible. Old Age is not SO bad - yet!

Please do comment! That's part of the fun...

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s