When I think of heritage, I think of my family.
I think about that church in tiny town in the middle of Devon where the gravestones bear the names of my ancestors.
I think of that small town in the middle of England where one of my great great grandmothers was born.
I think about how just down the road from that small town is another one small town where her husband lived on Monk Street as a child.
I think about that time I drove around Sheffield in England for more than 2 hours just to get a photo of a street name that my ancestors lived on but bears no resemblance to what it would have been like back in their day.
I think about Melbourne and wonder why my great great grandparents on my dad’s side decided to move with their 10 or so children to a city so far removed from London as you could get.
I think about Christchurch and the house I lived in for nearly 30 years and how there is now nothing left because in the aftermath of the Canterbury earthquakes, the street I grew up on was razed to the ground.
I think about the ratty old letterbox that use to stand at attention at the bottom of our driveway and how my brother & sister-in-law ‘rescued’ it before could also be destroyed.. even though the family hadn’t lived at the property for over 2 years.
And I think about how all these people met despite living in different cities & towns (and even countries) just so I could be born.. like my great-grandmother, who was born in Glasgow and my great-grandfather. who was born in London but they managed to meet in Melbourne, marry and have my grandfather.