My mother was a city girl.
If there’s one story I heard when I was growing up, oh, let me see, perhaps three hundred and sixty thousand times? It was the story of my mothers first trip to Renmark. It’s not so much a story, but a moment. The moment when the bus made its way out of the city, and headed north to the top of Accommodation Hill, which is about an hour or so into what would have been a four hour journey.
“We came over the top of Accommodation Hill and there was just nothing, NOTHING! And I thought my lord, where am I going? There’s nothing here!”
“Now I can’t wait to get over the top of Accommodation Hill – it means I’m nearly home.”
I feel exactly the same way.
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