School Gates: Where Our Stories Often Begin

Our stories often begin at school gates. For some, these gates swing open easily. For others - like myself on that verandah 56 years ago - they represent a threshold we're reluctant to cross. Walking back from an early morning swim in Kiama beach, I got caught up in back-to-school crowds and so I sat and took a moment, watching families navigate their first-day rituals under the ancient Norfolk pines.

Some of our earliest life chapters are written in these long ago half-remembered moments, much like watercolors left in the rain. I can still feel my hand gripping my mother's, that moment suspended in time until my name was called. Strange how these early chapters write themselves into our future pages, sometimes requiring years of therapy to fully understand.

This morning, I watched a little boy in oversized glasses shoulder a backpack almost his size. His mother stood ready with her camera, preserving this moment against the backdrop of these towering pines that have witnessed countless such beginnings. Nearby, a young couple cradled their newborn, already drafting the opening lines of their child's school story, five years yet unwritten.

We carry these school-gate stories forward. When my daughter Rachael started, I filled her backpack with Band-Aids and tissues - tangible expressions of a parent's need to protect even when letting go. Now, watching my grandson crawl toward his first birthday, I hear his parents contemplating different storylines altogether - perhaps homeschooling, a chapter unimaginable in my own childhood narrative.

Each school gate moment holds both beginnings and endings in perfect tension. While cameras capture smiling faces and new adventures, parents silently grieve the end of those precious early years spent wholly together. Joy mingles with loss - grandparents beam with pride while missing their own children's small days. The whole family gathers to celebrate, each carrying their own school gate stories to this moment.

Our life stories layer upon each other like sediment. This morning's seaside chat with my grandson's father about artificial intelligence mingles with memories of watching my older siblings disappear through those gates, leaving me to find my place with my younger sisters. Each memory builds on the last, weaving together past and present and creating patterns for life.

The uniforms are still too big, the hats still cover small faces, and parents still carry backpacks their children will grow into. Somewhere, a child's tears echo across the years, harmonising with the waves. These chapters we write at the school gate - they're not just about education. They're about separation, independence, fear, and growth. The same themes repeat across generations, yet each story remains uniquely our own.

Under these wise old pines, new chapters begin daily. As I gather my things to leave, a small hand waves from a classroom window. In that simple gesture, I see all the waves that have come before - my own tentative goodbye to my mother, my daughter's brave flutter of fingers, and now my grandson's future farewells yet to come. Each wave marks both an ending and a beginning, a step away from the school gate into the next chapter of our ever-unfolding story.

Where do your school gate memories take you?

The Lost Art of Card Sending

"Open the card first," my mother would always say, her blue eyes sparkling with that special wisdom she possessed for making ordinary moments sacred. We weren't allowed to touch a single present until we'd properly read and appreciated the cards that came with them. Like everything she did – from her gentle guidance to her thoughtful gestures – this ritual was her way of teaching us that the most precious gifts often come wrapped in simple paper, carrying words straight from the heart.

A5 drawers keep my cards & letters at hand

When I tell my girls now, "Don't worry about a gift, just the card," they understand what I mean. It's about taking time with your words, your sentiments, your feelings. My mother taught me that magic lies not just in grand gestures, but in the careful choosing of words that touch the heart. My daughters have watched me carefully preserve every card I've received over the years, tucking them away in my elaborate system of small drawers. Each drawer tells its own story: one for each of my daughters' heartfelt messages, another for my sister's witty notes, sections for siblings, friends, work colleagues, and, most precious of all, my parents.

That last drawer – the one holding my parents' cards – has become something of a sanctuary. I witnessed their gradual decline: my mother's bright eyes growing distant as dementia slowly claimed her memories, my father's world growing darker as his sight failed him. Even after their separation, Dad never forgot a single occasion, often going above and beyond with thoughtful additions like massage vouchers tucked into Mother's Day cards. It was his way of showing that love evolves but never truly ends.

After Mum passed, those cards became my lifeline to her voice, to that ge

Cards from Mum bring a tear every time I read them

ntle soul who always knew how to make moments matter. For months, I couldn't bring myself to look through them – the pain was too raw, too fresh. But when I finally found the courage, what a gift I discovered. There she was, alive in every stroke of her pen, that same thoughtful presence that had shaped so much of who I am. Though she could no longer share new thoughts with me, her written messages remained as powerful and relevant as ever, a bridge across time and loss.

In our current era of quick texts and emoji reactions, we've lost something profound. I find myself nostalgic for the rituals that once marked our connections: the carefully penned thank-you notes after dinner parties, the annual flurry of Christmas cards that kept us tethered to far-flung friends and family. These days, sending a physical card requires a follow-up text to make sure it doesn't languish unseen in a rarely-checked mailbox – a modern concession that somehow diminishes the magic of the surprise.

Yet I refuse to let this tradition fade away entirely. While daily card-writing might be ambitious in today's fast-paced world, I've made a commitment to myself: one card, every week, without fail. I'll start with the stack of Christmas cards gathering dust in my drawer, though tracking down physical addresses has become something of a detective game in this digital age. Each week, I'll choose someone who's been dancing at the edges of my thoughts, someone whose presence in my life deserves acknowledgment and celebration.

There's something deeply meaningful about preserving these physical tokens of connection in an increasingly virtual world.

Perhaps that's why I've always been a keeper of cards – they're tangible proof of the invisible threads that bind us together, little pieces of heart and history we can hold in our hands.

So here's my promise: one card, one connection, one week at a time. Because while instant messages may keep us connected, there's still nothing quite like the flutter of anticipation when opening an envelope and finding a piece of someone's soul carefully folded inside. In a world that moves at the speed of light, sometimes the slowest forms of communication carry the most weight.

Your Most Important Job: Curating Your Life's Photos

When I recently celebrated my 60th birthday, my family went all out with the party planning.

Not being a fan of surprises, I created the master plan and we largely agreed on all the elements, but the one thing I'd never wanted and eventually put my foot down on was the photo slideshow.

With a recent career change from TV producer to funeral director, a photo tribute has taken on a whole new perspective. But for a moment, I went along with it. My husband James asked for access to my pho

tos and I went to work on my album. When I got to 451, I knew I was in trouble.

You see, I'm often asked, how many photos does it take to tell a life story? While there are no fixed rules, it ends up being about time. Each photo needs 3-4 seconds to register in a slide show, that means 15 photos per minute.  Put to music, each song is about 3.30 (unless you choose Macarthur Park or American Pie) which makes about 52.  The sweet spot is generally 2 songs which means about 100 photos per life. At 60, that means I get less than two photos each year.  In some ways lucky for me that I was not born in the digital age, but still.

A sample

But where to begin getting things in order? During the bushfire evacuations in 2019, I sat glued to the rolling coverage and created order by filing all of my analogue family photos. Over the years, I've attempted to do the same with my digital photos and videos to reflect periods of time, people and interests.

My advice? Always start at the beginning. Fewer to choose from, and there are no new entries. Those early childhood photos are likely one of the few times in life you'll be happy to be photographed in swimmers. So lock those ones in. 

Now, all decades are not created equal and neither should your photo selection.  The best piece of advice I can give you is skip the teens. It's five years of awkwardness that doesn't need to be immortalized. No one's going to miss them. Lean into the sweet spot between 25 and 45, when it's likely that most people will have a career, a first marriage, some lovely kids and milestone memories.

Choose the photos that tell a story. Use the power of three. One photo might not tell the whole story, but three in a row can create a legend. "Oh, she loved being on the stage." "What an adventurer." You get to choose. 

Travel photos will always feature in a slideshow. But if you've been lucky enough to visit somewhere special multiple times, just choose your best shot.

Skip anything that doesn't serve your story. Those questionable fashion choices? The unflattering angles? Let them go. When it comes to group photos, choose the ones where you look good - your friends might disagree, but it's the ultimate “all about you” moment. 

If I left it up to anyone else, my life slideshow might be weighted with photos from my 35 years in television. But I get to choose, and it's the moments from my tree change that I want to be most remembered for. That impromptu celebration of my first homegrown harvest means more to me than any industry awards.

Channel your inner Marie Kondo. If a photo doesn't spark joy or tell your story, move it to the trash. Let the ugly ones go and make room for the new. As life brings new chapters and adventures, become ruthless. Review often. Like wardrobe advice: one in, one out. Pick your hero shot - the one photo you want to be remembered by. And make every one of those hundred or so images tell the story.

Your story of a life well lived.