She was a country girl. And I never met a more hardworking woman. Strong. A survivor. Generous, too.
When she headed back east she left me with a gift: my first car. The Major. I didn't have a licence, but I began taking lessons with Frank. My brother stapled some tin over the holes in the floor and I was off and running.
The long and winding road
that leads to your door
Not so Lynne. Bugger me (nothing but the old Australianism will suffice), to my astonishment and delight Lynne told me she was going to attend in person. Thus ensued an epic journey that might have come straight from our shared youth in the seventies. Talk about back to the future.
Lynne and her mate (nicknamed "Tigger") drove an old Ford postal van converted to a camper all the way from the mid-north coast of New South Wales to my home in Fremantle. What's more, owing to the limitations of the van, they drove the entire way in third gear. Pure hippie gothic. And in a reprise of her own arrival all those years before, Lynne brought a stranger trusting there would be an open welcome, and so there was. Tigger became a new friend.
. . . owing to the limitations of the van,
they drove the entire way in third gear.
For some months, I had been admiring her latest artwork on line, and was deeply touched when she presented me with my birthday gift.
These memories have a life of their own. Lynne with music, art, pottery; me with writing and dance. In a larger sense we have both lived in the artist's house all our lives.
Through strange back roads, through dreams, through the ongoing creative life, our conversation continues.