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Just a dot on the map

5/29/2018

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I found it quite by accident. Just a dot on the map on the road from Orange to Forbes, one of those incidental places you pass through without even noticing, but to my surprise it’s a town with a fascinating history.
 
Eugowra is a pretty little town consisting of just a handful of shops, a pub, museum and general store. It has a total population of 530, but as I discovered it wasn’t always like that. Dotted around the town are significant buildings that give a hint to its much larger past and on the walls are murals telling their history. Other murals are painted on billboards that stand at important historical sights where buildings once stood, long gone but not forgotten.
 
As I wandered around the town, enticed by murals beckoning from every corner, I realised that this sleepy little town was once a thriving community of sheep farmers, timber getters and granite miners. It throbbed with families whose Saturday afternoons were spent watching The Wizard of Oz at the local theatre, men who went to war and young couples who married and created homes. But then came economic downturn and people moved to larger regional cities to find jobs and the town slowly died.

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The story of Eugowra began way back in 1834 when a bush station was established on what was then the route taken by bullock drays on their way to the Lachlan goldfields, and Cobb and Co coaches carrying gold back to Orange and Bathurst. In June 1862 Eugowra suddenly became front page news when the infamous Frank Gardiner and his gang of bushrangers, including Ben Hall, staged Australia’s largest ever gold robbery. They held up and robbed a stagecoach carrying 84.56kg of gold and 3,700 pounds in cash. ​ Only a portion was ever recovered. 
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A few years ago Jodie Greenhalgh became part of the story of Eugowra. She is a graphic designer with a heart to bring life back into the town and she had a wild idea. Jodie suggested a series of murals telling the story of Eugowra’s past. They set about finding sponsors, paint, and artists, sign writers and graphic designers from across Australia willing to be part of the project.
 
In the first year 30 artists began to tell the story with brushstrokes on bricks, metal and wood. From bushrangers to rusty cars and the click of the shearers shears, the story unfolded. Two years later there were 65 artists, each one becoming part of the bigger story, and it isn't finished yet. Now tourist coaches stop and people like me are coaxed from their cars, and the town is breathing again. I love the power of a small idea!
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I drove home wondering what the gallery of my life would look like, what would be included and how would the artist depict it?  

We each have an individual story that's unique and we each contribute that story to others in our life ... to siblings and parents, life partners, children and friends. We enlarge each other's story and ours in the process. But in the upcloseness of immediacy, within the parameters of our own world, it's hard to see the bigger picture. 

Just last week a friend reminded me that about 35 years ago I introduced her to the author, George MacDonald and began for her a love affair with his books. Now she is watching her children come to love his stories too. Day by day we throw pebbles into a pond unaware of where the ripples will lead. We don't just cook a meal for our family, create a home or have coffee and a conversation with a friend, we are investing in people's lives and trust that God will take our small investments and paint them into the bigger picture we don't yet see.

My life and yours probably won't ever be depicted in a gallery but can I encourage you to record it in some way so those who follow after you might see the bigger picture ... will understand how your life was a part of who they are ... maybe catch a glimpse of the ripples on the pond you set in motion. 

I was privileged to write the history of the suburb where I live. Over four years, I sat and talked with folk who'd lived the history. By the time the book was launched, some of those people had died and their story would have died with them but thankfully it is now recorded for generations to come.

You don't have to write a book, you can narrate it in your own voice and record it - what I would give to hear my father's voice today! It could be just a series of photos and captions and maybe you get the whole family involved because it's their story too, but whatever you do, leave a witness to your life for those who follow and a testimony to the hand of God in your life.
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Escaped

5/1/2018

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Six months ago I broke my ankle. In six months I've learnt the skill of moon boot walking, got to know my physiotherapist very well and discovered the frustration of life with limitations.

But probably the most valuable part of those months is coming to understand a little more about the power of acceptance ... a response that receives rather than resists what is happening ... it changes everything. I've now graduated to a sports ankle brace and while I've been told it will be another six months before the bone is back to full strength, I'm beginning to feel the wind beneath my wings.

One of the things I missed most was getting out with my camera into big wide-open spaces and finding unexpected beauty. Last weekend I escaped! It was a great feeling, like the much awaited school holidays had arrived after the long winter term.

I headed for the village of Hill End to soak myself in the history and drink in the beauty of a bygone era. I'd made the bold decision to book into the Royal Hotel, despite reading many less than flattering reviews. I wanted the authentic Hill End experience and there was no better way to do that than to stay in the last remaining hotel which dates back to 1872.
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At the height of the Gold Rush there were 29 hotels in town ... now the Royal stands as the last sentinel of the history, and alive with character ... creaking stairs, sloping floors and wallpaper from another century. Now just a faithful few frequent the bar and dining room but it wasn't hard to imagine the hustle and bustle that rang through the walls over its 145 year life and the din from the stamper batteries in the streets beyond.
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Now there are just remnants ... reminders of an era that made Australia great. I marvelled at the tenacity and ingenuity it must have taken to survive life on those harsh mining fields. It's a testimony to man's indomitable spirit. But where there's a will there's a way and slowly a town grew. There was a draper's shop, an oyster bar attached to the newsagency, (oysters sent from Sydney - I think I'd have passed!), a dispensary, tobacco and fancy goods store and so much more ... it became a thriving metropolis.
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The miners have long gone but their fingerprints are still evident ... in the handmade bricks that once put walls around a family's life, now scattered ... in the century old trees that offer shade from the summer heat, once seedlings planted long ago in anticipation ... and the hand hewn stones that grace the church that still remains today.
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The road to Hill End is steep in parts and twists and turns frequently, much like the last six months of my life. I'm glad I've learnt over the years to focus on the journey and not just the end of the road. It's easy to rush to the destination and miss all the good things along the way.

Life is about the journey not the destination and often the detours and byways are more important.

In every twist and turn there's a discovery to be made and I never know what will be just around the corner but there's bound to be another gem if I have the eyes and time to find it.

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    I love exploring new places and discovering beauty along the way.

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