The Preedys have gone. The Wearys have gone. So too, the Smiths, the Greens, the Northeys and the Cramers.
Now, with the sale of the home I grew up in, the Casserlys have gone too. I have been both witness and unconscious participant to this fascinating toil of urban renewal.
After Mum died, I’d sit with Dad having a cup of coffee at the kitchen table, looking out through our lofty kitchen window at the young, nameless Mums and Dads in their active wear, pushing their prams with a Labrador at heel. I’d see the single people determinedly jogging along with earbuds unfathomably and firmly in-situ and young kids going to school in their modern Sunsmart clobber. Young fellows with the world at their feet would fleetingly contemplate ending theirs as they pondered the reality of commencing a skateboard ride from the top of Thorn Street. And I’d see the BMW X5s, Toyota Klugers and KIA Carnivals all slowing down as the driveways to their new narrow-block 2-storey homes approached.
I knew all along these people weren’t strangers. They’re us. The circle is complete. This place is now theirs. What of the old ‘us’? We and our memories of backyard hand tennis, Mercurichrome, Sunday roasts and trifles, and the Kingswoods, Belmonts, Falcons and Toranas that ferried us all about have all moved on.
50 Coleman Crescent has been sold to Someone New. This street will never be the same, but I suspect I’ll be marvelling at whatever is there in three years’ time. I will always be interested and happy to see it.