Introduction: a memory that travels with you
In the mid-1960s, our family packed the essentials for a life on the move. My father’s construction work for a sprawling aluminium plant meant temporary, sometimes shifting roofs over hundreds of families who had relocated to build something bigger than themselves. The caravan park in Gladstone, central Queensland, became a temporary home that didn’t quite feel temporary at all. It was a place where we learned to adapt, to share, and to dream beyond the next job order. Years later, when my siblings and I—now in our 60s—reconnected, I understood the true meaning of home in a way I never could have imagined as a child.
The caravan park as cradle and compass
The caravan park was more than a row of tin-walled cabins and shady eucalypts. It was a community hub where friendships were formed on the back of long, hot days and the anticipation of a weekend visit from a parent who might be working late, or a shared dinner eaten on a plastic table under a string of unfamiliar lights.
My father’s work tethered us to Gladstone for stretches, and yet the park gave us something steadier: a sense of belonging. The people we met—other families chasing a future built from steel, sweat, and the stubborn hope of better days—became the map of our early life. Even then, I began to sense that “home” wasn’t a fixed place, but a pattern of kindness, routine, and memory that followed us wherever we went.
Reunion in our 60s: coming home without leaving home
Decades later, after the years of tides and turns that life tends to take, my siblings and I found ourselves in our 60s. The invitation to reunite carried a different weight than the ones we’d passed along the caravan park fences. It wasn’t a mere gathering; it was a return to a shared origin, a place where we learned to hold ourselves when the world offered chaos. When we finally stood in the same room again, the air felt familiar—like stepping through a door you’ve learned to keep open, even when you’ve moved far away.
In that moment, the years dissolved. We spoke in the language of pauses and glances, the shorthand of a childhood that refused to be left behind. The jokes we’d once whispered across a crowded table resurfaced with the same warmth, the same imperfect rhythm that defines family. The reunion wasn’t just about seeing each other; it was about recognizing the core of who we were when we were most malleable—when home could be a caravan park, a worksite, a shared meal, or simply a quiet moment after a long day’s work.
What home really means, now and then
Home, I learned, is not a static address but a resonance—the memory of care and the people who held you steady. The Gladstone chapter of our lives gave us a compass: when the map kept changing, our family kept returning to what felt like home, to the people who saw us, not just as we were at work, but as who we were becoming. The reunion in our 60s was less about nostalgia and more about acknowledgment: we were still growing, still choosing to come back to each other, again and again.
Conclusion: a shared home ahead
As we move forward, the memory of that caravan park—and the reunion that followed—remains a guiding light. Home isn’t a single moment or a single place; it’s the enduring likelihood of coming back to the people who know your story and still want to hear it. In Gladstone, central Queensland, we found that truth: home is where your family gathers, where you remember who you are, and where the future always holds a door you can walk back through.
