Hushabye Mountain: A Farewell Ride into the Dawn

Introduction by Julie Andrews:

Once upon a quieter time, when bedtime was sacred and songs could still lift us to the stars, there lived a father who built castles out of cogs and lullabies. His name was Caractacus Potts.

He didn’t have riches or fame. But he had something far more enduring: the ability to wrap his children in dreams when the world felt too big.

You may remember the car that flew, the villains they escaped, the sweets that sparkled. But what stayed with them, even as time moved on, was something softer…

A song. A whisper.
A place in the heart called Hushabye Mountain.

This is the story of his final journey—not with wheels in the sky, but with memory as his wings.

 (Note: This is an imaginary conversation, a creative exploration of an idea, and not a real speech or event.)

Scene 1: The Letter

The attic workshop had grown quiet over the years.

Where once there had been the cheerful chaos of clanking gears, half-finished inventions, and children’s laughter echoing between wooden beams, now there was stillness. Dust floated gently through the morning light that filtered in through the single round window. The air smelled of time—old paper, wood shavings, and the faintest trace of machine oil.

Caractacus Potts sat at his desk.

His back was slightly hunched, his once unruly hair now a crown of white wisps that caught the golden light like a halo. His hands, once so quick to turn ideas into toys and wonder, now trembled slightly as he held the letter.

It had arrived that morning. Jeremy had posted it from Southampton before boarding the ship. It wasn’t long, and it wasn’t flowery. But it carried the weight of goodbye in its lines.

*“We made it, Dad. We’re going to America. They’ve accepted my sustainable invention proposal. Jemima got a teaching job too. She says it feels right. We’ll be starting over. I wish you were coming with us. But I know you’d rather stay. Please say you’re proud of us.

We love you. Always. —Jeremy”*

Caractacus didn’t cry. Not yet.

He set the letter down beside a small, framed photograph of the children—taken on a summer afternoon long ago, when Jeremy still had jam on his cheeks and Jemima wore a daisy crown in her hair. The photo sat beside a little wooden airplane that never flew but made them laugh every time it didn’t.

Across the room, shelves overflowed with forgotten marvels—clockwork rabbits, candy-making contraptions, a tea kettle that sang lullabies instead of whistles. They were relics of a life lived in between magic and survival.

He looked up at the window.

Outside, the sky was shifting—brightening just slightly. Morning was coming, whether he was ready for it or not.

Caractacus stood slowly, knees crackling, and moved toward the old steamer trunk beneath the workbench. He opened it carefully, as though disturbing an old friend. Inside lay memories: drawings, folded crafts, a crumpled paper crown, and a sketch Jemima once made of “Hushabye Mountain.” She couldn’t have been more than six.

She’d drawn it with stars above and music notes in the sky. There was a little house at the top of the hill. A man stood beside it, holding hands with two children. She had written, in childish, blocky letters: “When we are sad, we go here.”

Caractacus held it to his chest. His breathing grew shallow.

He whispered, “You still do, don’t you?”

He walked slowly to the old rocking chair in the corner, the one Truly had insisted he keep even after the children grew up. As he sat down, the letter crinkled in his hand. He read it again—every word a farewell, every sentence a door closing gently.

He closed his eyes.

And just then, the music began.

From across the room, the old gramophone sputtered softly to life. It wasn’t magic. It was memory.

“A gentle breeze from Hushabye Mountain
Softly blows o’er Lullaby Bay…”

The song spilled into the attic like mist. It wasn’t loud. It didn’t have to be.

Tears welled up in his eyes, not all at once, but gradually—like a tide he could no longer hold back. He wasn’t sad, not exactly. He was full.

Full of love. Of days gone by. Of bedtime stories, and scraped knees, and the sight of their sleeping faces beside candlelight. Of lullabies sung not just to comfort them, but to hold himself together.

He had always feared this day would come—the day when his children no longer needed his stories to fall asleep.

But he had never dared to imagine that he would be so proud.

“I’m proud of you,” he said aloud, voice breaking on the word proud. He hoped the wind would carry it to them. Across the ocean. Across the years.

The attic grew warmer as sunlight finally broke through the window.

Caractacus Potts, still holding Jemima’s drawing, stood and looked once more around the room. The shelves no longer looked dusty. They looked sacred. Like a shrine built out of love and cardboard and laughter.

He knew now what he had to do.

He walked to the barn where the old car still rested under a sheet, untouched for years. He would take one more ride—not to chase villains or to escape danger, but to remember.

To say goodbye.

To go, finally, to the mountain they had dreamed of.

Scene 2: A Visit from Truly

The fire crackled low in the hearth, its golden light casting slow-moving shadows that danced across the worn wooden floor. Outside, the wind stirred the trees in soft sighs, and a fine mist of evening rain tapped gently against the windows. The cottage was still—peaceful in that way only places touched by years of love and silence can be.

Truly Scrumptious let herself in quietly, carrying a cloth-covered basket of tea biscuits and preserves. She knew the door wouldn’t be locked. It never had been—not to her. Not here.

The house smelled just the same: a mix of woodsmoke, old paper, and a hint of lemon polish he always claimed made things “feel fresher even if they weren’t.” She smiled softly at the memory.

“Caractacus?” she called gently.

No answer. Only the low hum of the gramophone in the sitting room, and a familiar tune playing faintly.

She followed it.

There, in his favorite chair by the fire, was Caractacus Potts, fast asleep—or at least resting with his eyes closed, hands folded gently on his chest. The flames illuminated the lines in his face—etched not by time alone, but by worry, invention, heartbreak, and love.

In front of him on the side table sat a folded piece of paper: a child’s drawing. Jemima’s handwriting still unmistakable, even decades later. “For Daddy.”

Truly picked it up, her fingers shaking slightly, not from cold but from the sudden ache in her heart. It was a drawing of Hushabye Mountain. Again. The same one she remembered from the workshop years ago. The house, the stars, the notes in the sky. The father and the children standing hand in hand.

Caractacus stirred, eyes fluttering open.

He smiled when he saw her.

“I must’ve dozed off,” he said quietly.

She sat beside him on the little stool, still holding the drawing. “That’s a beautiful place,” she said, studying it.

“It always was,” he said. “She used to tell me that when the world got too loud, that’s where she went in her head.”

He took a long breath, staring into the fire. “I didn’t know what else to give them back then. Just stories. Songs. Little machines that didn’t always work.”

“They didn’t need anything more,” Truly said gently.

There was a long pause. The record on the gramophone hit the soft refrain again:

“Far away from lullaby bay…”

Caractacus blinked away something in his eye. “They’re gone, you know. Off to America. Jeremy got his proposal accepted. Jemima’s going too.”

Truly took his hand.

“I know.”

He turned to her. “They’re doing everything right. Everything I wanted for them. But I…” His voice broke for the first time.

“I wasn’t ready to let them go.”

The silence between them was filled with so much that didn’t need saying: years of shared history, quiet admiration, near-confessions that hovered but never quite landed.

“I think,” Truly said carefully, “that Hushabye Mountain… it wasn’t just for them.”

He looked at her.

“You built it for yourself too, Caractacus. A place you could hold them safe. In songs. In bedtime stories. In that flying car. You always knew you couldn’t stop the world from spinning… but you gave them a soft place to land.”

He laughed quietly through a tear. “Even if it was only for a little while.”

She reached over and brushed a strand of white hair from his forehead, just as she had once done long ago, when the children had fallen asleep in the back of the car after a long adventure.

“You gave them a world where dreams mattered,” she said. “Not many people can say that.”

The fire popped. He stared into it as if seeing his entire life flickering there.

“I want to go there one more time,” he said at last, almost in a whisper. “To the mountain.”

“You don’t need to go anywhere,” she said, pressing his hand. “You’ve always been there. Every time you loved them. Every time you sang to them. That was the mountain.”

He nodded slowly, tears now freely sliding down his cheeks.

She stood and walked to the gramophone, gently lifting the needle. The room fell into a quiet hush. The firelight dimmed as the logs settled into glowing embers.

Then she turned back and kissed him gently on the forehead.

“When you go,” she whispered, “don’t be afraid.”

“I’m not,” he said. “Because I’ll hear the music.”

Scene 3: One Last Ride

The barn creaked with the weight of years. Its beams, once sturdy and proud, now leaned slightly inward as if bowing to time. Ivy crawled up the sides, and cobwebs spun lazy constellations in the corners. Dust danced in the moonlight that filtered through the high windows. It was quiet—reverent, almost. As though the space remembered everything.

Caractacus Potts stood at the threshold, hand resting lightly on the frame.

He hadn’t entered this place in years.

But tonight… tonight felt different.

The chill in the air didn’t bother him. The moon was full—round and soft and kind, lighting the path in silvery grace. He stepped inside, his cane tapping softly on the worn wooden floor.

There, under a large canvas sheet, waited his old companion.

The car.

No one had driven it in over a decade. The children had long grown out of it, and the magic—well, the magic had gone quiet. But it was still there. Somehow, he knew it.

He tugged at the sheet slowly, reverently, like unveiling an old memory.

Chrome glinted beneath the dust. The red paint, though faded, still held warmth. The headlights, dormant and dull, faced forward as if waiting for instruction.

“Old friend,” he whispered, brushing his hand across the hood. “One more trip?”

As if answering, a faint hum passed through the chassis.

He chuckled under his breath—half in disbelief, half in quiet joy. There it was. The flicker. The heartbeat of the impossible.

He opened the door and climbed in slowly, groaning as his knees protested.

The seat was cold and familiar.

He rested both hands on the wheel. The leather was cracked but strong, like his own skin.

And then—he turned the key.

It started.

Not with a roar, but a hum. Like the low chord of a lullaby remembered. The headlights flickered on, golden and soft, like fireflies blinking in the night.

He smiled.

He pulled out of the barn slowly, the tires crunching softly over gravel and leaves.

The village was asleep.

He drove through the narrow lanes, past the sweet shop where the children used to press their noses against the window. Past the schoolhouse where Jeremy once brought home a lopsided paper bird and Jemima had cried when her drawing was misunderstood.

The wind rushed through the open window. It kissed his cheeks and fluttered his silver hair.

The stars above blinked, twinkling like they remembered him too.

As he turned down the lane that curved toward the field, he passed the old windmill—his old workshop. Its sails creaked softly in the breeze, like they were waving him on.

The road opened up into the hills. Mist rolled low across the grass like a silver sea. He guided the car up the familiar path—the same one they’d taken long ago when bedtime stories needed scenery and adventure had no rules.

At the top of the hill, the sky widened. The moon hung directly above, casting a wide, pearly glow over everything.

He turned off the engine.

Silence.

But not empty silence—full silence. Like a pause at the end of a perfect song.

He stepped out of the car and walked toward the old bench—the one he had placed here years ago when the children first drew their map of Hushabye Mountain.

The same bench where they had once all sat, watching the stars and pretending the moon was a lantern to guide dreams home.

He sat slowly, breath catching slightly in his chest.

From here, he could see everything: the path they’d traveled, the lives they had lived, the love that had carried them.

He looked at the seat beside him. Empty.

But not really.

In his heart, he saw Jemima holding her daisy crown, legs swinging off the edge. Jeremy curled up in a blanket, blinking sleepily as he asked for one more story.

And Truly… standing behind them, smiling at him in that way that told him she’d always known he was more than just an inventor.

He closed his eyes.

The wind picked up slightly, and he could almost hear it.

Music.

“Hushabye Mountain… softly blows o’er Lullaby Bay…”

The stars shimmered. The grass whispered.

And for the first time in a long, long while, Caractacus Potts let go of the weight.

Not because he had nothing left to give.

But because he had given everything.

And love—love had never left him.

He smiled.

“I’m home,” he whispered.

Scene 4: The Discovery

The morning was unusually still.

The sun had only just begun to climb above the distant hills, casting soft pinks and faded golds across the dew-covered grass. The breeze, cool and quiet, wove gently through the wildflowers that grew freely along the winding path up the hill. Birds were silent. Even the earth seemed to be holding its breath.

Truly Scrumptious stood near the summit, her boots damp from the morning grass, her gloved hands cradling a folded slip of parchment. She hadn’t meant to come this early. But something had stirred her from sleep—something deeper than a worry, softer than a whisper.

She had known. Somehow, she had known.

The magical car sat a short distance behind her, motionless and respectful, its headlights now dim like closing eyes. Its presence wasn’t grand. It didn’t sparkle or glow. It simply was—a witness.

And beside the bench, where the hill curved just slightly toward the rising sun, sat Caractacus Potts.

Still.

Peaceful.

He looked like he was sleeping, head tilted back, hands resting gently in his lap. The wind brushed his silver hair, and the corners of his mouth still held the faintest echo of a smile.

Truly did not cry.

Not at first.

She sat down slowly beside him, her heart heavy and full, the note still pressed against her chest. She didn’t want to open it. Not yet. Not while he was still here, in this sacred in-between moment—between dream and memory, between presence and farewell.

The bench creaked softly under her.

“Hello, my dear,” she whispered, her voice breaking on the last word.

She glanced down at his hands. In one of them, loosely held, was Jemima’s old drawing—creased from years of folding, but still intact. The mountain. The stars. The man and the two children holding hands.

She couldn’t stop the tears now.

“You waited,” she said. “You waited to come back to this place… to the mountain you built in their hearts.”

Behind her, footsteps approached.

Jeremy and Jemima climbed the hill slowly, hand in hand. They hadn’t said much on the way up—grief had tightened their throats like winter air.

They stopped when they saw her, just a few paces behind.

Truly turned.

Their faces crumpled in unison.

She stood and opened her arms, and they fell into her, wordless. The three of them—woven together by loss and love—stood in silence as the sun continued its slow rise.

After a while, Jeremy walked over and knelt beside his father.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

Instead, he gently removed the drawing from his father’s hand and held it up to the light. A breeze caught the edges and lifted it slightly before he folded it and slipped it into his coat pocket.

Jemima sat on the bench, right where she used to as a child. She looked out over the view—the village rooftops in the distance, the schoolyard, the trees where they’d once built a swing with him.

“I always wondered,” she said quietly. “If he really believed in Hushabye Mountain… or if it was just something he said to make us feel safe.”

Truly stepped closer, placing her hand on Jemima’s shoulder.

“Oh, he believed in it. With every breath.”

She finally unfolded the parchment note in her hand. Jeremy came to her side. Jemima leaned in.

It was handwritten, in his familiar script—still clear, though a little shaky.

*“If you’re reading this, then I’ve made it.

I didn’t take the car to chase villains or fly above danger this time.

I just wanted to ride quietly to the place where your voices always lived inside me.

You gave me a reason to sing when I didn’t think I had one.

Don’t cry for me—I’m not far.

I’m wherever the music is. Wherever you love each other.

Hushabye Mountain was never a place.
It was a lullaby made of all the things I couldn’t say aloud.

I’m proud of you.
I always have been.
I always will be.”*

Truly folded the note slowly, reverently.

They all stood for a while, no one speaking, the breeze winding around them like a song without words.

And then, Jeremy stepped back to the car.

He opened the door. Inside, the old gramophone had been placed on the passenger seat.

He wound the crank gently.

The first notes of Hushabye Mountain played softly into the morning.

They didn’t cry loudly. They didn’t wail.

But the tears came anyway—quietly, like rain falling into still water.

As the song played, the sunlight broke fully over the hilltop, casting the three of them in gold.

Caractacus Potts had gone.

But the mountain remained.

Scene 5: The Final Lullaby

Night fell softly over the hills.

It had been days since the morning of his passing. The village had already begun to speak in hushed voices about the man who once made candy that sang and a car that flew. But the stories weren’t sad. They were tender. Reverent. As though Caractacus Potts had become something more than a man—a melody left behind.

Jemima stood in the attic workshop now, holding a candle.

She had returned alone. Jeremy had gone back to begin his new job in America, promising to honor their father’s dreams in every bolt and blueprint. Truly had offered to come, but Jemima said no. She needed one evening. One last lullaby.

She stepped over creaky floorboards, past scattered inventions and quiet tools. The gramophone sat in the corner like a sleeping cat. She didn’t wind it.

Instead, she walked to the steamer trunk.

Inside, everything was exactly as he had left it: sketches, toy pieces, letters he never sent, little scraps of rhyme. She touched them gently, running her fingers over old plans titled “Mechanical Kite with Whistle-Fins” and “Toothbrush That Sings When You’re Done.”

But then she found a leather-bound notebook tucked beneath a stack of folded clothes. On the cover: “For When I’m Gone.”

She opened it.

“To Jemima and Jeremy,

By the time you read this, I imagine I’ll be off humming lullabies somewhere above the clouds. I wrote this down not because I feared death, but because I wanted you to know… I heard everything.

Your laughter on the stairs. Your whispered secrets. The times you called out for me in the night, even when you thought I couldn’t hear. I always did.

And when the world hurt you, I wished I could build a machine to make it all better. But instead, I gave you something better: a song. A place. A mountain.

Don’t let anyone tell you that Hushabye Mountain isn’t real. It is. It lives wherever love outlasts goodbye.”

Jemima pressed the notebook to her chest and sat down in her father’s rocking chair. The candle flickered beside her. Outside the attic window, fireflies had begun to glow.

She could almost hear him humming. Not loudly. Just under his breath, the way he did when working on something delicate.

The song rose in her throat before she realized she was singing.

“A gentle breeze from Hushabye Mountain…”

Her voice cracked, but she kept going.

“…softly blows o’er Lullaby Bay…”

The tears came, freely and without shame.

And just then, she felt it—not with her hands, but in her heart.

The room grew warm, as though someone had just stepped in from the cold. The candlelight shimmered, then steadied.

She turned toward the doorway.

No one was there.

And yet, she smiled.

Meanwhile...

Above the clouds, where stars hung low and moonlight hummed like a harp, a silhouette stood at the edge of a glowing hill.

Caractacus Potts.

Not younger, not older—just whole.

Beside him, the outline of a familiar car gleamed faintly in silver-blue. The sky above him shimmered with soft, glowing notes—each one rising like mist.

He looked out over the landscape of dreams—rolling hills, floating islands, a swing swaying beneath a golden tree.

He reached into his pocket and unfolded the old drawing. It fluttered, caught on the wind, and dissolved into stardust.

Then he heard it—her voice.

“Far away from Lullaby Bay…”

He closed his eyes.

He wasn’t alone.

Not ever.

Final Visual

The screen fades to black.

White letters appear, gently typed across the dark.

“A gentle breeze from Hushabye Mountain…”

Music swells softly—the lullaby one last time.

The final note lingers.

And fades.

Final Thoughts by Julie Andrews

And so, as the first light kissed the hilltop, and the car stood silent in the morning dew, the children returned—not to rescue, but to remember.

Caractacus Potts had always known that dreams weren’t just for sleep. They were bridges—between fathers and children, past and future, silence and song.

Hushabye Mountain wasn’t just a lullaby.
It was a promise: that even when we go, love remains.

So listen closely tonight.

You just might hear the wind hum softly…
A melody carrying a father home.

Short Bios:

Caractacus Potts

A widowed father and whimsical inventor, Caractacus Potts is a man whose heart always led the way. Through bedtime stories, broken contraptions, and a single lullaby, he gave his children not just safety—but wonder. In his final days, he returns to the mountain of dreams he once promised them, leaving behind a legacy of love that outlasts goodbye.

Truly Scrumptious

Compassionate, steady, and quietly courageous, Truly stood by Caractacus not for his inventions, but for the heart beneath them. In his final chapter, she becomes both witness and comforter, helping him find peace and guiding his children through the quiet ache of farewell.

Jeremy Potts

Now an adult, Jeremy carries his father’s inventive spirit into the world. Logical yet tender, he steps into his own future with the same quiet strength he saw modeled every day. His love for his father never left the hill where the stories began.

Jemima Potts

Gentle and imaginative, Jemima holds the memory of childhood closest to her heart. It’s her drawing of Hushabye Mountain that becomes the emotional map for the entire story. She reminds us that even grown children still long for lullabies when saying goodbye.

Julie Andrews (Narrator)

Beloved for her iconic roles in Mary Poppins and The Sound of Music, Julie Andrews lends her voice to this story with timeless grace. Her narration brings depth, warmth, and emotional resonance to Caractacus Potts' final journey, as if singing a lullaby directly to the heart.