LAST weekend, I spent time fighting fires. Not real fires, of course. I speak metaphorically, of fires of generosity, conflagrations of kindness. The people of Australia opened their wardrobes and dressers and have given millions of wearable items to the bushfire relief effort. In a dusty warehouse in Clayton (pictured), some of us went to work sorting them.
The Linfox company lent its facilities and workforce to the cause. A company warehouse in the Clayton Business Park was pressed into service on the Tuesday after Black Saturday, receiving the goods that had begun arriving from all over Australia.
Along with a fluorescent yellow vest, a name tag and a bottle of water, we were given our instructions upon arrival at the depot: "If you would not use it, the fire survivors won't — THROW IT!"
Like many city dwellers, I've been feeling divorced from the bushfire tragedy — powerless and guilty.
For me, Black Saturday was extremely unpleasant but I got through it indoors, oblivious to the disaster. The only physical signs of something wrong were the blood-red sunset and the odour of smoke.
I have lost nothing; whole families have lost their lives. How lucky was I in my cosy, city bubble?
So I gave money, though it was laughably little. I gave my nice hiking boots that I had worn only twice. What else could I give? The answer it seemed was plenty.
In Clayton last weekend, I gave my time and my energy, my commitment and my morale. Along with 40 others in the hangar-sized warehouse, I donned a safety vest and name tag and suddenly felt that I could help.
Whatever people needed was here in staggering numbers, from TVs to bicycles, toiletries to toys. There was everything that people with no homes would need; everything you would need if your home was obliterated by fire.
Our task was to sort the clothing into men's and women's, girls', boys' and babies' sizes. There was also underwear, socks, accessories and even hats. The larger the number of items, the more numerous the categories — women's clothing was divided further into half-a-dozen types.
The best and the worst impulses were evident. People gave beautiful garments: an Alannah Hill silk skirt with hand-sewn sequins; a box full of frilly bras.
There were also torn and stained items that were dispatched to the rubbish, raising the puzzle of why some people donate.
Donations were moving, thoughtful and odd: two low-flow shower heads (for bathrooms unbuilt?). A child's vinyl wallet, complete with pretend paper money. Pot holders for people with no pots.
I came upon a child's dressing gown labelled, poignantly, "Low Fire Danger".
It's easy to forget how cold it gets in the mountains, but there were jumpers and coats, woolly scarves and beanies. So much warm clothing going to the scenes of an inferno …
A black, lacy suspender belt appears. "Do you think we should keep this?" asks Caroline and everybody laughs.
A cockroach skitters from a bag and there is hysteria until it is caught.
The work is daunting. We face a Great Pyramid of boxes, an Everest of garbage bags, and the piles never seem to shrink.
Who are we? We're retirees and students; gardeners and office workers. We're here because we've given money but we want to give more.
Strangers when we met, we bonded over boxes of men's socks, kids' pyjamas and women's coats.
Betty, a middle-aged woman, says she's given money and now she's giving her time. Her face is shiny with bubbles of sweat.
Meredith holds back a tear and says: "It's really moving, seeing all this stuff."
At the end of the tables on which we sort clothes, odds and ends accumulate. There's a watch, an earring, a cake of soap, a few coins. Before going home, I count the money. There's $1.90 — the same as at lunchtime and not a cent less.
A lot has been said about this relief effort bringing out the best in people. To me, those coins said it all.
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