My wishing well thing can be traced back to the late 60s and one of those drear junction towns that exist only as truck stops on the highway of life.
Every year we’d stop at the same town and stay in the same motel.
The True Blue Motel was the newest in West Wyalong back then and ergo, mum believed, the cleanest.
I don’t know who first devised the fiction that disused mine shaft in the forecourt of the motel was a wishing well.
But, after eight hours in the car with two kids and a dog, my parents were probably hoping desperately for peace and quiet at very least.
And that steel mesh covered hole surrounded by concrete delivered. It was a well of enchantment.
I’d beg dozens of one, two and five cent pieces and toss them one after the other; each coin carrying the small aspirations of child.
The last time my husband was fit enough to leave his bed we sat in the hospital coffee shop next to the fountain.
Eyeing all the coins in the bottom of the pool, I reached for my purse.
“OK,” says he, before adding judiciously “but not a gold one.”
There wasn’t time to pack up his room before he was transferred to a bigger, noisier hospital with more machines that go ping.
After he was safely installed in a $57,000 bed in ICU, I went back to collect his belongings.
Passing the fountain I tipped the entire contents of my bulging coin purse into its waters.
What I wouldn’t give for my beautiful man so true blue.