Chapter One

Young Wizards

ofthe Airwaves

about l920—when we moved to our house on Bayfield Street. Not

long ago I went there one evening. The house was shabby. Even the dusk could not hide the peeling paint and broken steps. Some rungs were missing from the verandah railing, giving it an odd gapped-tooth appearance. It had a foolish lopsidedness that even two postage-stamp rectangles of balding lawn on either side of the walk failed to balance. As I stood there in the twilight looking up at the window that once was mine, an unspeakable yearning filled me. Somewhere across the street a child banged a screen door. Suddenly I was back in time, and the memories of childhood came flooding in.

Mother loved to garden. Hardy dahlias lined the front of the house and pink cosmos lined the walk. Window boxes overflowed with bright geraniums. It was a street of children and dogs. All of them, when it came to her garden, were Mother’s natural enemy.

The house had seemed so large when I was young. On that now decaying verandah a massive green and white canvas swing, hung by sturdy chains from hooks in the rafters, would hold my sister Marianne who was three, Bill the baby of the family and at least six other children as we played our favourite game of “going somewhere by train”. We squabbled noisily over whose turn it was to be conductor and collect the tickets.

Our home seemed the same as almost every other home on the

Iremember a time—I couldn’t have been more than seven years old

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