Every year in Merrimba the conditions were just right for something to flourish and come to the forefront. Something would go right over the top and tip into triumphant superabundance. I could never tell what it would be, I suppose the influences were subtle and complex, but I would look for it. And then I would hook my memories to it. Oh yes, that was the year of the pumpkins. No matter what we planted, pumpkins grew. Or, that was the year of wild blackberries. The children would pick them, very willingly, they would run away down the back paddock…