Shack

​Shack
At last a word from the dictionary that does not send me scurrying.  I feel like, “I’ve got this.”  Though thinking about it, perhaps my confidence is unfounded.
The word is “shack.”
My mind went immediately to my time in Townville.  There are creeks near there where the fishing was really good.  One of dad’s clients had a shack down at one of the creeks and they had a boat.  I have no idea why I was invited along.  The fishing was so good it was scary.  I remember the sharks and Yankee whiting (they are big whiting) but most of all I remember dad’s barramundi.  That is the only fish I have ever seen scaled with a saw.
The thing is, people who had those “shacks” knew something.  The places were prime locations.  Too good to last really. Like most places along the coast with ocean or creek views they have become the domain of the rich.  Once upon a time these places were thought of, if they were thought of at all, as undesirable.  That changed.
We used to holiday at Mooloolaba.  The place we stayed was a rambling two story joint on the sea.  I loved it there.  Though I must admit it was the allure of the backyard cricket that I looked forward to.  And the beach.  And the fishing.
Now where we stayed has long gone.  There are high rises there now.  Others have discovered it.  To stay there now needs more brass than it did.  Things were not perfect, but they were good for everyone, rather than just some.
It really is only since moving to Brisbane I have grown to appreciate what we had in Townsville back then.  There were swimming holes nearby, we used regularly.  I went back a few years back and it has changed.  Now places we used to go are all manicured and treated as special.  They were special to us, in their wild state.
These swimming holes were off the beaten track.  The sort of place a shack would go.  Somewhere just to bed down for the night as a prelude to the activities that were readily available.  Now they are the sort of places with million-dollar homes.  The sort of place where keep out signs dominate.
The days of the shack are not over, but, if they are in a good location, their days are numbered.
The place I grew up in in Townsville was a prime example.  We were not rich.  We did not have $70,000 cheques lying around that if someone found we would say “keep it” (like the golf professional in Caddyshack).  But what we had is now worth a million dollars.  Castle Hill was our back yard.  We had an uninterrupted view of Magnetic Island.  Someone from Sydney bought the place when we moved.  They knew.  They have moved on now.  Well I hope they have as the place is no longer there.
Where we holidayed one time calling the place a shack would be to overstate its grandeur.  Yet that did not matter to us.  I guess it is true all the time.  Sometimes I want to be pampered and to live the life of luxury.  Sometimes that does not matter, as where I stay is just a place for the night.  Shacks are perfect for that.