A
Public Memory Project
by
Chris Lee

About

History

Places
Essex Evans Memorial
Essex Evans Grave
Groom Memorial
Mothers Memorial
Rudd Memorial
Rudd Selection
Toowoomba Ladies Literary Society Display

Writers

Places of Literary Significance

'… Golden lights touched the pale-iced cream-piled splendour of the cakes, and the little green jade tea-cups gave an odd clear note to the dim brown-gold gloom. But strangest of all were the little old ladies themselves. The light brushed heavy coiled white hair, sparse grey locks, tight-screwed, little decorous black frills, little tightly held black hand-bags, little bowed shoulders, and old shoulders rigidly straight. It lit withered lips and sharpley gleaming black eyes and more gentle glances of faded blue; and they chirruped together like so many strange small birds, preparing for migratory flight; which after all they were; for all the long pageant of life was behind them, with its fruit blossom of youth, its storms, its agony, its splendor of noon, and they were left just a little while to chirrup in the gold sunset.' ‘The Singing Gold’ Dorothy Cottrell

The Mothers' Memorial The Mothers' Memorial was funded by a subscription organized by the mothers of the fallen in the Great War of 1914-1918. It was originally erected on an island in the middle of Margaret Street on the site where many young Toowoombans first enlisted although it has since been moved to a nearby memorial park in Margaret street across from Queens Park.

In dusk of Eve the city lay-
And Life's dark pall lay o'er my heart;
My feet, by instinct took the way
To that Grey Altar, set apart,
And, sobbing in the dark alone,
I kissed his name upon the stone.

No light had I-But mother heart
Needs no poor earthly light as guide:
My soul rebelled against the part
Fate portioned me … 'My son that died
Has died in vain, and he and they
Forgotten … save when women pray."

Just then the city lights shone out:
Each name shone forth as brightest gold;
A strange, sweet perfume played about
And in my heart crept peace, untold…
I felt …warm hands …upon my own …
My son kept tryst … at the Grey Stone.

What tales he told … of high emprise-
Of fuller life beyond the Veil;
How shone the deeds of sacrifice,
As jewels on the Holy Grail.
He blessed me thrice … I knelt alone,
Shriven and healed … by the Grey Stone.

The monument, the lights of the city, the evening perfume, patriotism and religious faith are all brought together in an experience of place which consoles the mother for her loss and redeems the son's sacrifice.

Another poet, Bruce Dawe wrote a dissenting letter to the local paper when plans to move the monument from its original site were announced.

'A memorial, like many another public tribute to those we honour, should be where the greatest possible number of citizens may be confronted with it-a part of the past which we forget at our peril. Shunting off significant elements of our past to beautiful, out-of-the-way settings is like getting rid of our old folk … It deserves to be where the present cannot ignore it, part of our daily communal vision as we walk the streets, a visually public thing, not just for the few for whom caring and remembering comes easy, but most importantly also for the many (and that is all of us, at times) for whom it doesn't. It deserves to be, in fact, right where it is.' [i]

Further Reading

[i] Bruce Dawe, 'History is Not Transferable!' Toowoomba Chronicle, 21 June 1983, p. 30. Reprinted in Ken Goodwin, ed. Bruce Dawe: Essays and Opinions, Melbourne: Longman Cheshire, 1990. p.99.

Submissions and suggestions for places not yet included can be sent to leec@usq.edu.au