A collection of short stories and poems written by members of the Writers’ Group at U3A Box Hill.
Contents
A Close Shave
We decided to go to Canberra, partly to visit children and grandchildren and also to have a look around. We usually go there by car when we take take two days and stay over for a night at Holbrook. On this occasion time was of the essence, tied in with school holidays and work commitments. Flying meant we gained an extra bit of time there. We had to be back by the following Saturday. It was a good trip, Qantas was, as usual efficient and helpful, The quick round of a snack and drink in the short flying time and then the whipping away of the remnants in time for landing is rather breathtaking. We had booked in at our usual place, Olims Hotel which is close to the Canberra Centre. We know our way around from there. We had a loan of a spare car from one of the relatives. The National Library had an exhibition entitled “Treasures”, being the forerunner of a proposed new segment including many very interesting exhibits such as original manuscripts, paintings and Frank Hurley photographs. Another visit to old Parliament House was worth while as usual. On this occasion they were doing role playing with visiting students from Wangaratta West Primary School, where, with a very competent educationalist using clothes and articles such as a mace and wig, they acted out the parts of a Parliamentary sitting in both the House of Representatives and the Senate.
A day visit to the township of Boorawa to see a friend and a day at Yass all ensured an interesting time and a chance to spend time with the family. Saturday arrived. The day for our departure. It had been arranged for a large family luncheon in one the their houses. We purchased some cooked chooks, rolls and other delights. It was most convivial and enjoyable. Getting towards time to leave for the airport. Megan was to drive us in their car. Two of the girls wanted to come along for the ride. Megan said, “What time is your flight and when do you need to be at the airport?” Wendy said., “Our flight is 5.10 they say half an hour before for domestic but I think we should make it an hour” So it was arranged and after saying our goodbyes we set off, making quite good time, sad at parting but happy and relaxed. We were well on the way, probably about half way there when the car started to give warning signs. The radiator water was boiling. We stopped. “Has anyone got water?” Only a small bottle of drinking water and anyway we could not open the radiator immediately. We needed to call for help. I was the only one with a mobile phone. Trouble was that I had forgotten the charger so some doubt whether it would last out. Twilight was Approaching and we were concerned about the children, also about being in time to catch the plane. We contacted NRMA who eventually sent out a tow truck but they could not take Megan and the children. Then a taxi, the ‘phone still lasted. A taxi mini bus arrived eventually, we loaded our luggage but very concerned about how Megan and the children would manage. Before leaving them gave strict instructions to the tow truck man, who was only contracted by NRMA “Look after my beautiful daughter and grandchildren” Then off in a cloud of worry. The Taxi driver very co-operative, said he was sure we would just make it but no time to spare. Airlines nowadays do not allow even a few seconds delay. The baggage handlers turn off the automatic conveyor.
Arriving at the departure door we paid the driver, rushed in with our cases to the self booking machine entering numbers and details but kept getting the message. “Do not recognize this number” until somehow miraculously we got boarding passes, rushed to the bags desk and were able to get our bags through with just under one minute to spare. Then through the camera check. I had put everything metallic into my bag and went through without a beep. But when I went to collect the bag the man said “Have you an umbrella and a nail file?” I replied “I have a folding umbrella” and turned out my bag and showed him everything in it. He put it through the camera again and said, “You have a nail file” I was feeling desperate, we still had very little time to get to the gate. Started searching through everything I had, then opened a shall zip bag in which I keep keys and similar things. No nail file but then pulling back the whole things to reveal the lining, there, in the lining, were two small nail files which must have been there for years and I forgotten about. He said, “Well. What do you want to do with these? We both said, “Just keep them, bin them or whatever. We have no time to waste” Funny thing is that I had been through airport cameras many times before with that little bag. We caught our plane, but know of others being just seconds, late have had to lose their flight and purchase another ticket. The NRMA driver who had replaced the tow truck driver had fixed Megan’s car sufficiently for her to drive home, and had followed her most of the way to ensure she would be alright until she could, later, have the car fixed properly.
Charles Dickeson
A Nice Bit of Stick
Joe’s walking stick was listening very intently to what the doctor was saying. The prognosis wasn’t good. He’d remembered when Joe’s wife Mary had been relegated to a wheelchair. He’d had a good relationship with Mary’s walking stick, happily sharing the brass stand with each other over the years, going shopping and enjoying the outings that the happy couple had indulged in. Then his life changed. “You won’t be needing the stick now.” said Joe. “We’ll drop it off at the opportunity shop. I’m sure someone will be happy to have it.” “You’re right,” she said sadly. How different her life would be now. It was different for Joe’s stick too. He wasn’t needed as much either, as when Joe took Mary out, he had her wheelchair for support. That was two years ago. Joe had looked after her and tended to her every need. When she suffered the slight stroke, it became hard for him, but in spite of his family’s insistence he refused to put her in a home. Every day became harder but a year later Mary suffered an aneurysm. For her, death had been mercifully quick. Joe was devastated as they’d been childhood sweethearts. As time went on he found himself talking to the walking stick. “It’s just you and me now,” he said one day. Little did he know how happy the stick was that his life had returned to normal. This particular morning the walking stick noticed that the doctor had his bad news face on. Over the years he’d acquired a collection of different faces to suit the kind of news he had for his patients. He was an old style doctor, slightly eccentric, and much loved by his patients. A dying breed in these days of greed and expediency. Joe was in trouble. “I’m sorry, ” he said. “it’s bad news. The back will not improve. Of course you could have the operation, but it’s possible you could end up in a wheelchair like Mary.” Joe knew this to be true. He still had her wheelchair. He looked the doctor straight in the eye, and said, “you know what happened to Mary, so you’ll understand that I won’t be going there.” The doctor agreed, gave him a prescription for pain – killers and said he’d see him in a few weeks. He left the surgery and made his way home. The first thing he did was ring a well known charity and offer the wheelchair to them. This was good news for walking stick. It was good to be needed. Mary’s stick had told him what a terrible feeling it was not to be useful any more. He’d assured her that somewhere there would be a good home for her. He hoped it had made her feel better. Joe had hung onto the chair for sentimental reasons after Mary died, but now it depressed him and he knew it would have to go. He felt better now. He’d made the first move. It was time to get on with his life. Next thing he did was ring his sister- in-law Joan and told her the news. “Jack’ll be pleased,” she said. “He thought you were getting maudlin, and said you should have got rid of it straight away. Maybe now you’ll be ready to go through Mary’s things. We both realize that there will be some stuff you’ll want to keep. We all hang on to memories, but there are plenty of people that are in need and Mary had some beautiful clothes. If you like we’ll come round and help you sort everything out.” “That’ll be good. Give me a buzz and let me know when you’re free and we’ll get it done.” When Joan told Jack the news he was pleased, and said. “Next thing we’ll do is get him out and about again. There’s a Christmas party organized at the Senior Cits next week. That’ll be the shot. Get him back into circulation again.” “Couldn’t be better,” said Joan. “We can pick him up to save him driving.” Joe wasn’t sure he was ready for this but made a special effort to look nice and after taking his old walking stick out of the stand, waited by the front door till they arrived. He fondled the stick and said, ” We’re starting a new life now. From now on it’s just you and me.” He’d got used to talking to it after Mary had died, and couldn’t see anything wrong with that. He would have been staggered if it had answered back. That was not possible. Sticks could listen and converse with each other but talking to humans was strictly forbidden. The walking stick of course had other ideas. Things were moving along nicely. Who knows what the future holds he thought. Joe heard the car pull up, locked the door and went out. “I hope you don’t mind sharing the back seat,” said Jack “This is Elaine. She lives three doors up from us and has only just moved in and doesn’t know anyone yet. We thought it would be a great chance for her to meet people.” When they arrived Joe, like the gentleman he was, helped Elaine out of the car.” “Could you get my stick, it’s on the seat.” She said. Joe’s stick had already introduced itself to Elaine’s. When they entered the hall, Joan said, “my goodness someone’s been busy.” The large room was hung with beautiful Christmas decorations. Tables had been set up in rows and were decorated with bright Christmas cloths. Imitation poinsettas jostled for places with bowls of nuts, potato chips and jugs of soft drink. Everyone had been given a place and Jack soon found the seat allocations. Old friends that Joe had lost touch with, greeted him with enthusiasm. Jack had been busy spreading the word. I could get used to all this Joe thought. They sat down and he said. “Give me your stick Elaine I’ll hang it next to mine on the back of my chair.” As he put them together on the chair, he must have forgotten where he was as he said, “there you are old friend. Someone to keep you company again.” Jack stared at him in embarrassed amazement. Fortunately most people were still finding their seats and didn’t hear. Elaine looked at him with a sparkle in her eye and said. “How wonderful. I talk to mine too.” Looking at Jack she said, “You’ll only need to worry if they start answering back.” Jack began to wonder if he’d done the right thing, getting these two together. One clown in the family was bad enough but the thought that it might progress to two wasn’t to be contemplated. Soon the food was being served. Roast turkey, pork and all the trimmings. The hall was buzzing with chatter and everyone tucked in with gusto. Some of the people on their table were strangers. The Rotary volunteers had consulted the Senior Citizens committee and both had thought it a good idea to mix people up so that strangers could get to know one another. After the sweets, crackers were pulled and laughter ensued as the silly jokes were read out. Everyone wore a paper hat and joined in the fun. A small children’s choir had been organized and all were encouraged to join in the carols. Then came the inevitable speech by the chairman of the group. He hoped they were all having a good time and thanked the wonderful contribution of the local Rotary for putting on such a fine meal. He had one more surprise. Santa would be arriving soon with a gift for everyone. A hush fell over the room as everyone looked to the door and suddenly to the accompaniment of Jingle Bells, the rotund jolly man in red came into the room with a gigantic sack on his back. “Gets better and better,” said Jack’s stick. “Have you seen the looks that mine keeps giving yours. I haven’t seen him like this for a long while.” “You’ve got an evil mind,” said Elaine’s “Who knows what the future may bring. It might be the start of a beautiful friendship for all of us.” He even described the beautiful brass umbrella stand that he’d led his lonely life in. He had dreams of being able to share the empty space with her. Soon the volunteers were moving around with Santa, helping to distribute the gifts. The local Body Shop had graciously donated a small gift of soap or shower gel for everyone there. When they opened their presents Joe found he had been given the shower gel and looked a bit dismayed. Elaine came to his rescue and said she’d change with him as she had soap. He was quite surprised when she said, “shower gel is nice to use when you’ve got someone else to shower with. Don’t you agree?” Joe was almost tongue-tied as he tried to reply. Stammering he said, ” I’ve never tried that before.” And wondering if there might be a lucky fellow that joined her in the shower said. ” I thought you said your husband had gone to God.” “That’s one of the things that I miss since he died. We used to shower together all the time. It’s particularly wise now, as we are all trying to conserve water. Well that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.” By this time the two walking sticks were in hysterics. They could see lots of good times ahead for both of them. Soon it was time to leave. Joe and Elaine grabbed their sticks and made their way to the door with Joan and Jack. “Well I must say that was a great party.” Said Joan. “We’ll have to get together more often now.” “Thank you so much for taking me,” said Elaine, and turning to Joe winked and whispered, “I’ll hold on to the shower gel. You never know when I might find someone to share it with.” After they’d dropped Elaine off Joe went in and joined them for a nightcap. “What was all that stuff Elaine was talking about?” said Jack “Nothing much.” Joe replied laughing. After all there are some things that you just have to keep to yourself. Unless of course it’s sweet scented shower gel.
Pam Carpenter.
A Promise Fulfilled
“Come on old love. We’ll get you into bed,” said John as he gently guided his wife up the stairs to the bedroom that they had shared for over sixty years. Leading her by the hand he sat her in the old padded armchair that stood by the window overlooking the garden. She sat patiently while he slowly undressed her, taking his time, so as not to frighten her.
She touched his cheek with her withered hand and smiled. He knew by now that it was her way of letting him know that she recognized him. It wasn’t always like that. Sometimes he saw a vacant look as if nothing registered at all. It broke his heart. “
Opening the top drawer of the dressing chest he took out the prettiest nightie that he could find and slipped it over her head. Gently picking her up he laid her in the already opened bed. The sheets had that lovely crisp fresh smell about them, that only comes from being dried in the open air. Looking down at her he thought with gratitude, about the wonderful times they had shared during their sixty years of marriage. Pulling the covers over her he bent and kissed her. She smiled and closed her eyes.
” It’s all right dear,” he said. “you’re safe now.” She would soon be asleep. He went slowly downstairs and found his son David, head in hands in the big armchair. He looked up and said.
“We have to talk Dad. You must see that it’s time to make a decision about Mum. It’s impossible for you to go on looking after her. She needs care and attention, twenty four hours a day. Aside from anything else, it’s not fair on you. The longer you leave it the harder it will become. Soon it will wear you down and what happens then, if you need care. Suppose you decide to do some gardening. You might only be outside for a short while, but she could pop out through the front door again, like she did today. We were lucky this time that the neighbours saw her at the end of the street and brought her home.”
” I’m sorry Ben, I just can’t do it.” He was adamant. ” I know it doesn’t mean much nowadays, but when we got married it was for better or worse, in sickness and in health. We both promised those things.”
” Look I had a talk to the doctor while you were upstairs. He’s coming to see you tomorrow. He has lots of information about some really wonderful places that can care for her. Some of them are quite expensive, but Jean and I both agreed that we will be only too happy to help out.”
Dad looked up and said grumpily, ” I don’t know why you and Jean can’t have us there when I think of all that we’ve done for you over the years. It’s not fair.”
David had been through this before and knew that his Father didn’t really expect or even really want to move in with them. It was something that he clung to, a sort of last resort when there was nothing else to say. It was heartbreaking for all of them. He realized his father was trying against all odds to stave off the inevitable.
” It’s impossible Dad. The problem would remain the same. You’d be there with Mum on your own until we came home from work. You can’t expect Jean to give up her job to stay home with you all day. Apart from that, we have to consider the children. You know how noisy these days young one’s are, and it wouldn’t be fair to disrupt their lives. You would hate it.”
After his son had left, he sat for a while reminiscing. Had they come to this after all the happy years together? He knew his son was right, but couldn’t bear the thought of being separated from his wife. He went into the bedroom. Janet stirred and smiled. It was tragic really. She didn’t even know him half of the time. Sitting in the old armchair he thought about their life together. He remembered being separated from her during the war and coming home and planning a family. How happy they were when Ben was born, and how they’d cried together when their little daughter had been stillborn. They’d shared happiness and sadness but through it all their love for each other had sustained them. Gently stroking her cheek he said, “It’s going to be all right dear. I’ll keep our promise never to be separated.” He went downstairs and made a pot of tea. * * * The sun was shining as another new day dawned. A few people passing the old house on the corner on their way to work, remarked on how beautiful the garden was. Blackbirds were singing as they dug for worms and somewhere a dog barked. There were sounds of children at play in the house next door. Suddenly, the shrill ringing of the telephone broke the silence in the old house. It was David ringing to tell his father that the doctor would be round for a talk at eleven-o-clock. He heard the click of the answering machine. “We’re sorry that we’re not able to take your call. Janet and I have gone on a trip together, as we promised we would before we became too old.” Please leave a message after the tone”.
Pam Carpenter
A Special Game
I grew up in the town of Ilford Essex within commuter distance of London City Atttending Loxford Central School I was an average student. I was not a sportsperson as such but did enjoy games and participated when opportunity arose. This included soccer and baseball, some boxing and as I grew older tennis.
One boy at my school with whom I became very friendly later was in the year after mine and he brought great credit to the school by becoming an international soccer player, His trophy was in proud display in the assembly hall. Eddie Chapman and I became friends after we left school when we met up to spearhead the founding of an old boys club which we called the Adastra Sports Club. With my brother and others I frequently went to the local park to kick a football around and remember how proud I was to get my first soccer ball though in those days it was just called football. Balls then were made of leather with an inner tube, which had to be blown up with a bicycle pump and the leather had to be vigorously rubbed with tallow. I loved all that.
The Second World War started which affected many of our activities but we struggled on nevertheless. When the blitz hit London and suburbs it placed many restrictions on our ability to keep these things going but we did manage quite well. Meantime my friend Eddie Chapman was endeavouring to progress his career as a professional soccer player and to this end was given job in the office and later became secretary of the West Ham United Football Club, The “Hammers’, which was the popular local team to which the males in my family attended regularly on Saturday afternoons.
Charles Dickeson
Boxing Day
That makes four in a row, y’know. Four. Every one of them spoilt. You just wouldn’t believe it could happen. It’s real Guinness Book of Records stuff.
This year was the last gasp. It was all over by Boxing night and I was out sitting on the porch. I wouldn’t have thought it possible. Not another Christmas cock-up.
Last year was bad enough.. I’ll never forgive him. The glass was crystal. One of the set. A wedding present from my boss, Mr Phillips. He was the manager where I worked at the time. A lovely man, a widower. Always nice to us girls, very friendly he was. Later on he married Rita, one of the clerks. What is it they say, “Gentlemen prefer blondes.” Mr Phillips certainly preferred Rita. And she was certainly blonde, thanks to Napro. They called the baby Jeremy. A bit upmarket if you ask me. But that was all a long time ago and I just knew I had no hope of replacing that glass.
He said he was sorry. It was an accident. Gross carelessness if you ask me.
I washed the remaining glasses and put them in the crystal cabinet like I always do. They looked terrible. I tried to re-arrange them so I wouldn’t notice the space but, some-how the space leapt out at me. Then I hit upon the idea of moving the glasses down a shelf, and moving my teaspoon collection up, and if I fanned the teaspoons out it might disguise the fact that my set of glasses was incomplete.
It sort of worked. And my afternoon tea set on the lower shelves, still complete thank goodness, drew the eye away from the glasses. Whoever heard of a set of five glasses. I decided that next year he could have a tooth glass even if it did spoil the Christmas table. As it happened, he didn’t even need a tooth glass.
The year before last, it was the pudding. I know we decided early on in our marriage that I would see to everything in the house and he would see to the outside. But the wash-house is outside. The copper is outside. Fire is man’s work and usually they delight in lighting fires and burning stuff and controlling the elements. I wasn’t asking a lot. All he had to do was light the fire under the copper and keep it going and check that there was enough water in the copper. Child’s play.
The fire brigade was very quick off the mark. Only one wall of the wash-house was destroyed. They even fished the pudding out of the copper for me.
My white basin, the one which had belonged to mother was now a crazed brown affair. I shuddered to think what the contents were like. “Can’t hang about love,” one of them said. “We’ve got to get back to the station for our pudding. Happy Christmas.”
Well, they may be hot shots at putting out fires but they didn’t get my vote for sensitivity.
We didn’t speak until Australia Day. By then he’d finished rebuilding the laundry and had installed a gas copper. – – – Then there year the year before that. His mother was still with us. You have to do the right thing, whether you want to or not. A nursing home would’ve been the shot. But we couldn’t afford it. In any case she would’ve refused to go. The things I did for that woman. Waited on her hand and foot. Well it was better than having her under my feet.
She was a tiny little thing with a voice that penetrated like a power drill. An appetite a navvy would’ve been proud of. And Christmas was her favourite time of the year, both foodwise and appetite-wise. Not present-wise though. “I’m only a pensioner.” she’d whine. Well what did she think we were, eccentric millionaires.
He always bought her a box of chocolates, one of those large flat boxes all ribbons and flowers. And she always gushed, “You’re so good to your old Mum. You know what she likes.” And clasping the cheap chocolates in her old claws she’d scuttle to her room and that’d be the last we’d see of her, for an hour, or even longer. Certainly the last we ever saw of the chocolates.
Well, this particular year I was getting ready to serve up. I prefer to do it all myself. I know where I am. Everyone except Grandmother was at table so I sent him off to get her. After all, she was his mother.
The big white dinner plates were warm and spread out on the kitchen table. I put slices of pork and ham on each plate. I know it was overkill pig-wise but his brother had brought along the ham so it had to appear. Then I doled out the stuffing, roast potatoes, pumpkin, carrots, parsnips, onions, green peas and beans, reflecting as I did so that she would probably ask for cauliflower. Then I popped a roasted chicken leg on each plate, just to set off a really festive look.
The last touch was the gravy. I’m very proud of my gravy. In fact I’m known for it and that’s no idle boast. I’d poured some over every drumstick when he came back into the kitchen.
“Let me help you.” he said. To this day I don’t know what got into him. He’d not been any help to me for thirty-two years. “No. I’ll do it. You go in.”
But no. He picked up a plate and balanced it on his left arm, put another plate in his left hand and picked up a third plate with his right hand and dropped the lot.
Now my gravy is quite a heavy brew yet remarkably it splattered the ceiling. The meat and vegetables hit the floor where they made a sort of relief map. And shards of my white dinner plates stood out like snow-capped peaks. At that moment his mother walked in and whined, “Where’s my dinner?” I couldn’t stop myself. I shouted. “You’re standing in it.” She looked down and whether it was shock or something else I’ll never know, but suddenly, she was sitting in it.
Only two of my plates were broken and as she passed on in the following year I was really only one plate short for our next festive occasion.
It’s always such a drag between Christmas and New Year. I’ve been sitting on the porch a lot. People are kind. Well-meaning I suppose. They’ve brought flowers. There aren’t many cards. Well the post is always a bit hay-wire at this time of year isn’t it?
It would have cost more to bury him this week. I really didn’t want to have him hanging about but in the long run, it was cheaper to wait. After all, I’m only a pensioner.
His cousin Henry won’t be welcome in my home after the funeral’s over. My neighbour, Mavis Prendergast, a very enthusiastic sportswoman, told me that Henry was spreading it all around the bowling club. She said, that he said, “The old boy died in his dinner he did, face down in her fantastic, bloody gravy.”
Well. That wasn’t such a bad way to go. Was it?
J Morcom.
Changing Lifestyles
Rosemary had been a theatre sister in one of the large hospitals in Melbourne. She had worked in that capacity for several years, and she loved her profession, but she worked long hours and was “on call” very frequently. Rosemary had previously worked in a small suburban hospital but her career had flourished when she took over her role as theatre sister. Many times she had heard the ambulance siren screeching as it approached the hospital and knew her expertise would be required.
As Rosemary was nearly sixty, her thoughts naturally turned to retirement. She was married with one son and felt she deserved some free time for herself, and family. So she eventually resigned and became a retiree.
Rosemary had not thought too much about her future life, but becoming a volunteer was something that had passed through her mind. She had a girl friend who was a driver for Meals on Wheels and suggested Rosemary could assist with the deliveries once each week. So Rosemary applied to be a volunteer, and was immediately accepted.
On her allocated day she had met her friend at the centre, collected her three meals which included hot soup, hot main meal, dessert, a bottle of fruit juice, plus a piece of fresh fruit.
Her first call had been a very attractive and well maintained home in an Eastern suburb of Melbourne, and Rosemary rang the bell and to her amazement she had been confronted by an elderly gentleman who only had on a pair of undies and one sock. He had invited her inside to the kitchen, where she had placed the meal on the bench. She had seen many near naked patients in her nursing career, but she did not know what to think on her first home delivery. The gentleman explained that he had been getting dressed when Rosemary had rung the bell. When she got back into her friend’s car they thought the situation was hilarious.
The next home call had been very different from the previous one, as she was confronted by a dilapidated and untidy home. The front door had been ajar and as she rang the bell she could see many cats and a couple of dogs inside the house. Newspaper was strewn over the floor as a toilet for the cats, and the smell of urine was very evident. The owner asked her inside and she placed the meal on the bench in the kitchen. Rosemary could not retreat fast enough as she was feeling nauseous.
The third call was a real delight. This house was old, but beautifully maintained, and it was owned by an affable and well dressed lady who had invited Rosemary inside. Everything was so tidy and neat it was a pleasure to be there. This lady had done some beautiful cross stitch and needlework and she was delighted when Rosemary showed interest in her work. They sat down for five minutes or so and Rosemary enjoyed it immensely. Elderly lonely people love to share their interests with anyone that has a few moments to spare.
Driving home after her first Meals on Wheels visits she felt comforted to know she had given some pleasure to three different lonely people. Rosemary reflected on her past nursing profession, and considered her decision to retire, was timely. Her focus had now shifted from the practical to the therapeutic, but she was still assisting those in need…
Ann Ready
Christmas Blues or Jangle Bells
Christmas is coming. I can feel that concoction of anxiety nostalgia and dread building in the pit of my stomach. I’m a worrier so Christmas is feast time for my anxieties. In the early twenty-first century Christmas is an intriguing mix of contradictions.
For a start there is the usual riffling through of memories as nostalgia takes up residence for the duration. Wistful childhood reminiscences, evoked by Silent night style music, ambush you in shopping centers. Recollections of long ago school Christmas concerts, normally tucked neatly away in your mind’s furthest, dustiest corner, come into full focus. Each class singing a Christmas carol with exuberant gusto substituted for talent. Dressed in our “best” we all waited for “Santa” and our gift. A bottle of 4711 cologne or a gift pack of Bromley lemon soaps. Then there’s the santa memories. The exciting early awakening, the pillow case lumpy with gifts. A new dress chosen from the Myer catalogue, all frills and blue polka dots and delivered by mail. An excitingly modern aluminum tea-set. My various dolls: Patsy, the baby doll who cried, Judith, the walking doll and Genette my best doll who had a blue polka dot dress just like mine. The maroon vinyl, (another very modern material), dolls’ pram. I blush to think how pleased I was with these toys so oriented to preparing me for motherhood. Fortunately, sometimes there was a new bike or a hoola hoop. It was a shame that we all too soon outgrew Santa. I have no recollection of post Santa presents. The mystique of Christmas had gone.
Our memory can also be jolted into action by our sense of smell; suggestive aromas speak of childhood Christmases. Our northern-Victoria-hot house would be bursting with the succulent fragrance of roasting chooks at Christmas. Before frozen chicken made poultry common everyday food, this was the scent of luxury. Days before the doomed birds would be selected and beheaded. Bodies awaiting plucking and gutting would be soaked overnight in the concrete laundry troughs. The gizzards the Christmas feast for the pigs. From the slow combustion stove rose the burnt flesh smell as the last tiny downy feathers were singed off. No chicken since has tasted as good.
These memories compete with anxieties. Christmas is a time of exasperating enforced jolliness. Donning the red/green hues of the season, long jangling rather tacky earrings dangling, I apprehensively join in the anxious rush to buy in supplies for two large sit down dinners. These banquets are the culmination of weeks of nerve wracking planning and preparation. Gathering recipes, making large plum puddings, ensuring I have a table that will seat at least twenty. This is not really a joyous time. These Christmas feasts are more about fulfilling filial duties than hospitality. They involve a high degree of unsubtle sibling rivalry. Many hundreds of dollars are spent on turkeys, ducks, smoked salmon, oysters, rolled pork, ham and the very best wines and champagne and napery. Relaxation comes only when the last intoxicated relative, clutching his/her $30 Kris Kringle, has stumbled out to the taxi, the table is cleared and the dishwasher is chugging away.
So as I shovel myself into a seasonally appropriate dress for the boxing day trip to Congupna and a repeat of all this extravagance, I have time to ponder the contradictions of the festive season. All this intemperance sits awkwardly. I am aware of those for whom this is a time of loneliness and deprivation. A time of alcohol fuelled domestic violence. A time when one’s plenty contrasts with another’s paucity. Sobriety and addiction jostle for a place, company and loneliness, childhood and old age, spiritual and materialistic, over indulgence and restraint. Giving and taking. Joyfulness and depression. All these contrasting states of mind are heightened at Christmas.
Happy New Year
Valerie Bourke
Does Anyone Have an Ear Trumpet for Sale?
“Anything good on the telly tonight love?”
“Hang on a minute and I’ll have a look”
“I don’t want to see people cooking. You know I hate those shows.”
“I didn’t say cook. I said I’d have a look”
He tells me to come closer. He still can’t understand what I’m saying. I’m afraid if I get too close irreparable damage to his life and limb might ensue. You see the whole problem is that he won’t wear his hearing aids. Not only does it cause problems with conversation, but when he is watching telly at night we have to have it so loud that it almost blows the rest of the family out of the room. Fortunately he doesn’t ever sit down to watch till eight thirty and by this time the two chaps are doing other things, so I’m the bunny left to contend with him.
The worst part of it is, that even then he can’t understand what’s going on. He almost needs a blow -by -blow description of the whole programme. Michael wonders if he’s losing it a bit up top but I don’t think so. He always seems to hear something if you don’t want him to.
The worst scenario is when the cricket is on. He’s got so used to asking about the scores that even when they show them he still wants audio confirmation. The other day I asked him if he was going blind as well as deaf and he didn’t even get the joke.
It all makes the day-by-day running of the house quite bizarre sometimes. He’s almost eighty six now and so I try to cut him a certain amount of slack. He doesn’t get up till after ten most mornings. By this time I’ve had breakfast, done chores and fed the birds. I gave him a shout yesterday when I came in and said, “the magpies all came down today dear.”
“Come in the room. I can’t hear you.”
I feel like saying, that’s because you haven’t got your bloody hearing aids in, but I keep my big mouth shut. He would only say it’s because he’s not yet out of bed. I can’t win can I?
Before he broke his hip he used to feed the birds and it was something that he really loved doing, that’s why I feed him bits of bird gossip from time to time. I must admit that lately I have become almost paranoid about the whole business. The boys have got to the stage where they don’t say too much to him anymore to avoid the frustration, as everything has to be repeated two or three times. If he speaks to them they engage in conversation close up. My daughter used to come to tea every Friday after work, but now I see her at the weekend when we sometimes go out together. You see, she is not like the rest of us. If something annoys her she gets stuck in, so as soon as he starts asking what’s going on she hoes into him about the aids. This only causes more trouble for me, trying to separate them. In the end she gave up and stopped coming. I tried to explain to her that having a go at him is a fruitless exercise as it only erupts into a gigantic row and the hearing aids still remain in their little box. Then she goes home and I have to deal with the aftermath.
Dr Harris tried to get him to wear them, to no avail, and now the new lady doctor said something about it last time we were there. I just shrugged my shoulders. Sometimes I conjour up pictures of him with an ear trumpet. Maybe I could get one on E bay. It would be a bit of light relief.
However I have become very cunning. Sometimes when he asks who’s doing what and to whom I give the wrong information. It is lovely to see how confused he gets and has become like a sort of game I play. I don’t do it all the time only now and again when I’m tired and overwrought. The other night we were watching a murder mystery and I completely mislead him. He told me who he thought the murderer was from my false information and bugger me dead he was proved right. He even capped it off by saying he thought I had totally misunderstood the whole show. I can’t win can I?
I hope this kind of thing doesn’t become a habit as I’m not really like that, and I know many other people have the same problem. Strangely enough after researching it among friends I found that it ‘s nearly always the man that won’t wear them. It gives me great heart to know I’m not alone.
The saddest part of the whole thing really is that he is missing out on so much.
Pam Carpenter
Dream On
There’s magic in the air. I can feel it. A tingling from the bottom of my feet to the top of my head. I’m in our room getting ready to go out and I’m really excited. Bill and I have stayed here before; the cottages in Warrandyte are owned by friends of ours. This time Cheeky, our Chihuahua, is with us. I don’t know where Bill is; he’s probably gone for a walk. He’ll be a while, so I won’t have to hurry. I sit on the side of the bed and find myself daydreaming.
I’ve got lots of things planned for this long weekend. There is so much you can do in Warrandyte. I remember last time we were here; we walked along the Yarra river to the Pound Bend Reserve. We saw a couple of koalas that time, along with lorikeets, galahs and gang gang cockatoos. It was summer then and there were people swimming in the river, and a canoe race was taking place. We’d had lunch at one of the cafes in the main part of town, and afterwards bought ice-creams to enjoy as we strolled along. One of my favourite places is Ratty and Mole’s, crammed with a huge range of antiques. I especially love the jewellery and bought an old-style topaz ring on my last visit. It’s now my lucky ring and I’m going to wear it today.
Suddenly Cheeky leaves her perch on the pillow and pounces onto my knee. She needs to go outside. I shake myself back to the moment, throw on my dressing gown and open the door. I look into the distance through the trees and think Bill might be coming back, but there seems to be a sort of backlit fog making it hard to see clearly. Cheeky finishes and nips back inside; it’s cold so I do too. I finish dressing and put Cheeky in her carry-bag ready to go. Bill hasn’t returned yet, so I lay on the bed to wait. When I hear the door knob rattle, I sit up, wondering if I’ve dozed off, but I look at the clock and know I haven’t. Then Bill says “it’s nearly ten are you ready to go?” Immediately I feel recharged and can’t wait to setoff. We’re going to a special spot down by the river to try panning for gold. Lots of rain over the last months has greatly improved our chance of success.
We leave the cottage and the fog swirls around us as we make our way to the river. We tramp along beside the water for about a kilometre, until we find the rocky outcrop where we’d been told to try our luck. The atmosphere is moist, but it feels warmer as I bend down to the water. A calm feeling has replaced my former state of excitement. As I swish my hand through the water. I sense it. There’s gold here.
I watch as Bill heads off a short distance downstream, with Cheeky in her special pouch across his back. All at once I feel a sense of urgency, and get to work with my trowel. Having memorized the technique, I put several scoops of dirt and gravel into my pan, make sure it’s covered with water, and swirl it around with a counterclockwise motion to allow any gold to settle at the bottom. I then tip the pan into the water and the current rinses off the top layer of dirt and gravel. I keep on swirling and rinsing until I get down to the last little bit, which I rake through looking for gold. Nothing yet.
I continue panning for a while, my optimism still high. Across the river shafts of sunlight pierce the trees and I hear a flapping of wings. I watch as a kookaburra swoops from a nearby branch, and when my gaze returns to the sediment in my pan I see it, a small piece of gold, shining. I can’t believe my eyes. My heart starts dancing with delight. I reach into extract my treasure and yell out to Bill. My voice is almost drowned out by the kookaburra’s vibrato which sets off a chorus of staccato laughter all around me. I see Bill coming and wave my arms, anxious to show him my find. “Look! Look!” I yell. He seems to be taking forever to reach me but eventually I hear him say “What is it, what’s up?” and then I feel him shaking me vigorously.
I have the gold pressed between my thumb and forefinger, but the next minute the fog lifts and as it does, I see I’m holding Cheeky’s name tag which hangs from her collar, as she lies wedged in bed between Bill and I. He’s raised up on one arm, with a surprised expression on his face. “You dreaming?” he asks. “We’re gonna pan for gold today aren’t we? – better get up now, eh.”
Goldie Fox
Frivolous Nonsense
The fish are falling from the sky. They are being watched greedily by slinky cats, frolicking on fairy floss clouds. Dogs are somersaulting over liquorice rainbows. Emus in their Sunday best are flying by. Colourful Kiwis, wearing fluorescent gumboots, fly in the wake of the Emus. Heavily laden money trees glisten and shimmer, weighted down by their golden fruit. I reach out to touch the fruit. The gold turns into fairy dust in my eager fingers. Spotted unicorns are enjoying a tea party, hosted by grinning chimpanzees, resplendent in their glittering outfits. A leopard is plucking off his spots, watching as they change into carefree butterflies, winging their way heavenwards. Blossom is filling the sky, pirouetting on the breeze, as it makes its way towards me. I lift my face and await its gentle kiss as it settles. I am floating. I am free. I love this life. I hear voices. What are they saying? They are very distant and I try to pretend they are not there. I want to remain in my euphoric state but the voices are buzzing in my ears. They are telling me to wake up. I stir. I wish I had glue on my eyelids. Go away people with the voices. Change planets please!!! What has happened to my lovely animals? Where have they gone? What is this place I am in? My eye lids flicker open and I see fish above me, swinging in the breeze. Why are they not falling now? Reality tugs at my senses. I am lying in a chair. I am at the dentist’s. A very pretty fish mobile hovers above me. The fish are secure, they are not falling now. What a surreal time I have just had on drugs. Give me more!!! I can’t wait for my next appointment!!!!
Pam Galbraith
Holidays
A few weeks ago Penny and Peter flew overseas for an eight week’s holiday, using business class, a real holiday. Despite the excess expense they still didn’t manage to sleep, but happily accepted all the other indulgences. They took themselves off to the airport and no one farewelled them; they keep in touch with family and friends every night through e mail and skype. The whole trip has been pre-booked and prepaid and with a bank card for extras, tucked safely away, finances are little worry.
Ross came home from England at the end of his stay there in 1970, soon after the first flights for passengers had begun. Two years before, they had gone there by boat which took six weeks, through the Panama Canal: not the customary route. In that short space of time, no one would ever think of going by boat again.
While I was teaching at Greythorn High School in the early sixties, the young music teacher holidayed in the UK over the Christmas holidays. It was still a thing that normal people did not do. She had stinted herself for several years to save up the money and set off, full of expectations. The reality of that experience was grim. A trip by boat on the lower decks is something to be endured. She was poor and, on arriving, her accommodation was an unheated basement in the depth of an English winter; however she had seen something of the world, which, none of the rest of us had.
In the 1950’s, while living in Canberra, our holidays involved travelling around Australia. With little money to squander, I made our sleeping bags; a double one for Roger and me. With an old carpet for a ground cover and a tent fly for a roof we set off, with a picnic basket and a supply of food in the boot. Time to stop, meant finding a fence on which to fix one side of the tent fly, while the other was tied to the car roof. Out came our carpet and we had a home. Once, there was a hasty departure when dawn revealed that we were camped outside someone’s front door.
We travelled extensively and ate well, feasting on the best in the towns we passed through. Once, Roger made a cage, containing hens, which he attached to the boot, so that we ate roast chicken, along the way. You would never get away with this type of behaviour these days. We enjoyed being gypsies and saw so much. How the world has changed! My earliest memories of a holiday are at the age of seven, when we went camping at Lake Illawarra, south of Wollongong. We needed to catch the steam train to Albian Park, where a man with a horse and dray, picked us up and trundled out along sandy tracks, through the bush to the lake. Mum and Dad sat up- front with the driver, while the three children perched on top of the luggage in the back of then dray, all embraced in a cloud of flies. This was aborigine country and their cooking middens stretched along the coast, hence the flies. Christmas bells and flannel flowers grew far as we could see on either side, while waratahs bloomed like the guardians of the bush.
The train trip was the great excitement; the steam engine delighting every child, puffing out its steam and blowing its whistle. Travelling behind it was not always so pleasant, when smoke and cinders bothered our eyes. It always happened; we could not resist putting our heads out the window.
This was real camping, where Dad built stretchers out of the bush timber for the parents, while we children slept on the ground. We fished and swam, caught prawns in a net, walked along a sandy track to the next town and climbed the sand hills, over and over, over and over. Such happy days with no rules to bother us! Could there be any better?
Mim Egan
In a Spin
“Mavis, we’re going to need someone to look at our washing machine. I can hear the noise it makes at the other end of the house.”
“Don’t worry Joe – it’s a bit of fun. Sometimes I sit on it when it’s pulsating or spinning.”
“Good God Mavis! What on earth for?”
“Well, it gives me a nice feeling down there.” “Down where? Be specific.” “In my special place.”
“Do you mean to tell me I don’t satisfy you?” “To be truthful toe – no!” “Well, we’d better spice things up a bit.” “Do we have to wait until tonight? NO!” “You’re keen dear.”
“Shut the curtains Joe and leave the light on. I’ve got something to show you.”
“Right, I’ll undress you and slowly. Bloody hell Mavis -what’ve you done to yourself? Where’s my glasses?”
“It’s a pink strip dear. Do you like it?”
“Well, I must say it’s different.”
“It cost fifty five dollars and I feel decadent. Joyce had hers done too.”
“So Mavis, here we go. After I’m finished with you, you won’t be relying on a washing machine for pleasure!”
“How are you Joyce? It’s Mave.”
“Free for coffee tomorrow afternoon?” “Yep, same place, same time.”
“Well, did he like it Mave? The pink strip I mean.”
“I think so, but he had a few ideas of his own. He’s been reading those books that everyone’s talking about. They’re full of sex. With his pace maker he should be reading Tom Sawyer or The Bible. Anyway, I’ve told him not to worry about the washing machine. To be truthful Joyce, I’d be left high and dry without it!”
Marcia Evans
In the Company of Friends
“I’m not gunna be your friend anymore”, she said. “Why not”? I asked, tears puddling in my eyes. “Coz”, she replied, and ran off. When I went home and told my mother, I remember crying my eyes out. “She was my best friend”, I said. “Ever, ever”, I continued, to make sure she knew how important this was. “Why was she so nasty”? I was about eight years old, and the future without Wendy seemed bleak. My mother tried her best to explain the vagaries of friendship, but I was too distraught to take on board her assurances that I would find another best friend before too long.
It turned out to be quite awhile, actually. Something must have happened in my brain after that event, or maybe I was just destined to be a bit solitary as a child. I did have friends, but they came and went. Either they didn’t have Wendy’s magic or I wasn’t willing to put my heart and soul on the line again. Eventually, my simplistic child-like view of things, matured, so making friends and keeping them was less of a problem.
Now, that’s not to say I haven’t had some issues with friends, or so-called friends. And the question that follows is -what is a friend? Someone you like to talk with, spend time with, usually a person you have known for awhile? Well that’s what I think, but others might disagree – more of that later. Because I have to tell you, I did find another best friend, although she wouldn’t like that term, so I always say she’s my closest friend. We met at University: both of us being mature-age students, drew us together, but we are very different. So why are we such good friends? I suspect most of it is down to her tolerance of my idiosyncrasies, much more than any charity on my part. Nevertheless, as long as it works I’ll be happy and grateful for the blessing of a really good friend.
On a different note I guess I’ve been lucky that there has been only one person whom I, and she, regarded as a best friend, but who turned out to be a Wendy. It happened years ago, but I can’t forget it and I didn’t have a mother to run and cry to. It wasn’t as if I’d said or done anything to bring on the chill in her voice and her reluctance to meet as we had once done. I did question the incredible change in her behaviour. “Tell me what’s wrong, please”, I said, a number of times, and always got the same answer -“Nothing”. I suppose that was the adult version of “Coz”. Having seen her through divorce, cancer and other major and minor calamities, I was devastated.
We do get over our losses in life, and move on, thankfully. And this brings me back to the question posed before -what is a friend? For me the most important aspect of friendship is the wonderful sense of wellbeing when in the company of that friend. Hence I was absolutely horrified to read an article in the Herald Sun newspaper the other day. The female reporter was writing about social networking and iphones. She noted she was a lover of Twitter and said one of its benefits was “It’s company”.
What a sad indictment of modern society it is when somebody can refer to, and obviously consider, an inanimate object as “company”. The way is now open for some enterprising inventor to come up with a phone that feels like human flesh, or maybe one with synthetic dog or cat fur. That one could perhaps bark or purr when it’s touched.
Goldie Fox
It Catches Up with One
Though age is obviously caching up on me I do not usually think about it. Active and healthy plenty of stamina, I used to go about active and busy.
Then I started to get an ache in one of my knees. I did not register concern and still walked a lot and got around, however, over some weeks it definitely got worse. Finally I thought I should see the doctor. He said, “No worries just a bit of arthritis, it can be fixed quickly with key-hole surgery” he gave me a referral for x-rays and a specialist surgeon.
After examining me for some time the surgeon advised that I did not need surgery but some special physiotherapy for which he gave me another referral. The physio did help for a while. For some months I walked easier and seemed to be back to my old self.
Then the pain came back and worse than before. I walked less until eventually I was forced to use a walking stick. After putting up with it for some time I went back to the doctor and asked for another referral.
This time a knee replacement was arranged. “After a few months you will be walking again” I was promised. I was booked into Epworth Eastern private and had the operation. It was very painful. After some weeks I was transferred to Donvale rehab. centre for a few more weeks.
Continued exercises and more walking at home and brought me pretty much back to normal though my knee remains painful, walking around is difficult and the stick is still a necessity.
“Hope springs eternal in the human breast” So, I remain optimistic But, getting old is not easy.
by Charles Dickeson
Life
Sure as weeds follow rain, if you are feeling pleased with yourself, things will go wrong. I’d had such a good weekend. I’d been feeling rather down and looking seriously at the prospect of a nursing home, because of lack of energy; it’s such a struggle to make any effort. I keep falling asleep; can sleep all day and all night, without any effort. Out, I was, both days at the weekend with no problems about dozing off. Then out to dine in the evenings, able to join in the spirited discussions that go on whenever the family gather. So is this simply boredom, that envelopes me whenever I’m confined to the routine life. Is it adrenalin that fuels me whenever I’m away from my four walls. Am I a robot getting my power from being wound up, or am I like a performing monkey doing my tricks? I’m no miracle. It does take me ten minutes to totter, with the support of two sticks, to a spot, normally two minutes away. One hour and more, comes out of my day, simply to exercise shower and dress. Except for my short excursions on my scooter I do need someone to take me. So, much gratitude to all! Back to my tale! This morning, feeling so pleased with the world, exercises accomplished and warmly clad, I fronted up at the fridge to get the necessaries. Out came the yoghurt, a just opened container. What did I do? What did I not do? There it was lying on the floor with a great pattern of yoghurt splayed across the floor. And the cleaners had only been last week! Kneeling on the floor is such an effort. Getting up is even a greater effort. I need a dog or a cat. A first class procrastinator, I’ll have my breakfast and then think about it.
How many times through life does this sort of thing happen, not just to the aged, but to everyone. There’s the quotation. “There’s many a slip” So it’s nothing new. Is it like the learning curve, no matter how clever you are, there are ups and downs? One of those ancient philosophers told us, “Every action has an equal and opposite reaction.” So I’d had a good day. Must I now pay for it? Is this life’s way of humbling us? We mustn’t feel too smart! It’s okay to be smart but just don’t feel smart. That’s the danger! None of which will clean up the yoghurt! But you never know your luck! Just how lucky can you be? It was a Monday! Three times a week a girl comes from Southern Cross Care, to spend an hour doing my chores; ensuring that I live in a reasonably civilized state. And Monday is one of them. My dedicated Eli, took one look and had the mess cleaned up in no time.
Mim Egan
Manny Sarsaparilla
My name is Manila Sarsaparilla.
Yes sir it is an unusual name but I am being prepared for a stage career if that should occur. And my mother thought it would be nice if I were to take the name of my birth place. Do you know Manila sir? A very busy place. Here is much quieter.
I live with my uncle and his family. They have been here many years. They all work very hard and I have been working too but now I must branch out. Yes I have the permit to work because my father was from this country. His name is the same as mine, Sarsaparilla, and that is the name of his birthplace. In the country. But it is a very big country and I haven’t found Sarsaparilla yet.
My last job sir was with my uncle. We made pork buns, lots and lots of pork buns. It was hard to keep up with deliveries. We had to move fast because the refrigeration in the truck wasn’t working. Then some men from the local council came and uncle closed the business, very suddenly. His picture was in the paper, in all the papers but it was hard to see that it was him because somehow his hand was always in front of his face. I think the family is going into the import business but uncle wants me to strike out on my own. So here I am.
I had thought of minding young people. It would suit me to be near the sea. I am good at building with sand. Although there was the unfortunate business of Uncle Jaime. But that was a long time ago.
Well, he wasn’t a real blood uncle. When my father travelled into the country to see to the special crops he grew, Uncle Jaime would arrive to look after us. He was especially nice to our mother and even stayed at night in case we were frightened.
Then one day when our mother was at work we all went to the beach. We dug a big hole near the water and Uncle Jaime climbed in and shouted to us to cover him up, so just his head was sticking out. Then we had to bring him a beer and feed him some crisps. He had us running. Then he said to cover his head as he was getting sunburnt so we put a towel over him. We left him and went into the water further down the beach. We never knew who put the bucket over his head. It must have been a joke. The tide came in and then it went out and we think Uncle Jaime went with it.
All that was left was his towel and the bucket. But I think I would be good minding children at the beach
You don’t think so? Perhaps I could work in a cabaret. We Filipinos have good voices.
J. Morcom
Melbourne — The City I Love
Of course I am biased, Melbourne is the only city I have lived in, all my life. I was born in 1933 in Kew and was also educated here too. Even as a young girl I was always excited at the prospect of going into the city with my parents. In those days in the 40’s we all had to dress nicely as it was quite an occasion. We were so proud of our lovely city. Even today visit there, I still feel compelled to dress well.
Melbourne today, is vastly different from when it was established in 1835 by John Batman and John Pascoe Fawkner, and it was a city not founded as a convict colony. Our current population is approx. 4 million and 36% of the people come from many diverse backgrounds, these different cultures have enabled us to understand and enjoy a vast variety of food, and I love to dine out at Thai, Chinese, Indian, or Vietnamese restaurants.
Another aspect of beautiful Melbourne that I love is the Arts and Culture scene in St Kilda road. Music and ballet concerts are always special events to be enjoyed, and when the spire was erected as part of the Art centre, Melbournians were overjoyed. These days the spire is illuminated at night with a spectacular light show.
As I am a keen gardener, I love visiting our magnificent Botanical Gardens. I used to marvel at how the lawns and plants looked so lush and green during our severe drought. A couple of years ago, American friends from South Carolina visited us. We took them to the Gardens for coffee and cake. They were so impressed and said they even surpassed Central Park in New York. We have many other lovely parks and gardens around Melbourne and suburbs, but I particularly love the floral clock in St. Kilda road.
The murky, grey/brown Yarra River also provides entertainment for many thousands of people, particularly at Moomba when the river and banks are used for waterskiing, boating and sightseeing. I enjoy walking along the banks of the Yarra on a cool day.
Melbourne is classed the sports capital of Australia, and many people are very supportive of Australian rules football, soccer, basketball and cricket. The sport I particularly love to see is the Australian Open Tennis Championships each January, at the Rod Laver Arena. It is a real spectacle! During March the Grand Prix is held at another lovely venue, around Albert Park Lake; I enjoy watching it. I also love the Melbourne Cup, held on the first Tuesday of November each year at the beautiful Flemington Race course. I have attended there on a few occasions in my younger days and enjoyed it immensely, but now all our family come together to watch the race on our large T.V screen. We all admire the lovely clothes and the spectacular display of roses. A truly wonderful sight!
Melbourne’s diverse architecture is another plus for the city. I have mixed views, some edifices I love, but the Federation Square is not one of my favourites. (I know that many people do not agree) In my opinion, the Exhibition Building and surrounds are very elegant and appealing. I also love St Paul’s Cathedral in Swanston street, with its beautiful interior and lovely organ. When I occasionally attended services there I loved the peaceful and serene atmosphere.
Our newest building is the Eureka Tower, it is 300 metres high and the tallest residential structure in the world. I have been to the top and marvelled at the wonderful views of our lovely city and surrounds the huge windows afford.
These are just a few charms of the Melbourne I love, the most liveable city in the world! But the most important reason for loving Melbourne is having my wonderful family and good friends here. Melbourne has a very special place in my heart.
Ann Ready
Memory Paths
She sits crocheting up the pile of coloured squares she has knitted. This is a favourite way for legacy to raise funds. Elderly war widows fashion rugs from the small squares they have knitted. Edna also helps do the rosemary sprigs for poppy day. She chooses the sunny corner in the morning. If you crane your neck, and its not too misty, you can see across the bay to the city buildings. She doesn’t really like the tan coloured wool, well not really wool, wool days are gone. It’s polywool, made in China, not Cleckheaton mills near Shepparton. The white fluffy cat lies at her feet.
The TV is on, its Hewie, [an Hewitson, with his cooking show. She half attends. Her mind rambles. She remembers cooking a chicken dish like that. Pineapple and condensed milk, a casserole. When casseroles were so modern. Her sister had given her the recipe. Her sister was a real socialite, she’d “married well”. She suffers the usual pang of regret that this well-trod memory trail always delivers. She had been on bad terms with her sister when a terrible car accident had killed her and Jack. Oh, Elsie had wrapped herself in self-righteousness for years, but the shivers of guilt now found their way through her shabby cover of piety. Why had I been so stubborn? Oh yes, she could still, even here sitting in the sun more than forty years later, whip herself into indignation over her sister’s interference. But the years have muted her pique.
She had left Brian on the first of January, the day after he had admitted his infidelity. A commercial sales rep. for Arnott-Brockoff, yes remember when we made biscuits, he’d had plenty of opportunities for dalliance. He stayed over in country locations four nights a week. But Gina had not offered sympathy, she had told her to go back at the end of the week. “You’ve made your bed, now lie on it”. Eventually, her youngest son, Bruce, then 16 had prevailed on her to return home. As she thinks back over this time, she regrets that she had returned home. She wishes she stayed in her flat. Unusual for the times, she had always earned more than her husband. She had looked after the money and given Brian his “allowance” each week.
The chicken casserole, now what was it? Chicken Letticia, yes. That had been one of the casseroles she would leave cooked up at the weekend in the fridge ready for Bruce to place in the oven at 6 pm. Edna had run factories, clothing factories, yes we made clothes then. She would come home from Carlton on the bus. The house would, all going well, be warm with the aroma of one of her casseroles or pasties gently reheating.
She gazed again across the bay. Unseeing, she thought what the future might bring, not for her, that took no imagination! No for her granddaughter, Trevor’s eldest. Always her favourite, despite them having little in common, Elsie feared for her. Karina had been going out with a Sri lankan boy for three years now since they had met in America at College. He was from a wealthy background and Elsie was sure the parents would not want a western girl, of no particular standing, as their eldest son’s wife. Elsie dreaded that he might want to marry Karina to gain permanent residence status.
Nearly all the squares were used up as she found herself on another memory pathway, or rather rut. Why had she married Brian? It was the war, they were young, he was handsome, was that it? Her sister, already engaged to a thoroughly suitable business man, was frank. “He’s a no hoper Elsie, ditch him!’ Gina had been right. Oh, at first they were insanely happy; he was posted to Western Australia. For him it was an easy war, with regular leave back with his new wife. They had had a happy war. Brian would always cite this as the best time of his life. By the end of the war, Trevor was born, then Luke and lastly in 1948, Bruce. Why had it all gone wrong?
Valerie Bourke
More Deadly Than the Male
Elaine was spooning the last of Jack’s lunch into his mouth, when the doorbell rang. “Just coming.” She sang out. It was her next door neighbour, Jean. “The taxi’s on its way love. I’ll leave you a back door key in case of emergencies.” “Oh ta. I’ll pick up the mail and keep an eye on the house as usual. Have a great time in Tassie, the pair of you and give my regards to Josie. I’ll bet the baby will have grown since you last saw her.” Jean felt like saying, “I would be more surprised if it hadn’t.” But knowing that Elaine had a habit of stating the obvious, kept her mouth shut. After all she was lucky to have such a good hearted woman living next door, so she said she’d have to run or Jack would start yelling for her. Elaine went back to finishing her chore. After the soup was finished, she gently cleaned around Jack’s mouth and wheeled him out into the back garden. She looked around and thought how sad Jack would be if he could realize what it was like now. Before his illness he had kept it in tip-top condition. It had been his pride and joy. A gardener had been brought in and had changed most of the lovely flowerbeds to grass so it would be easier for Elaine to maintain. She positioned his wheelchair under the large gum tree. When the sun came up it would give him some shade. Tucking his blanket round him she said the sun would soon take care of the slight chill in the air. As usual there was no noticeable response, but she still talked to him always wondering if any of it got through. That was the problem with an insidious illness like Alzheimers. She knew that things would only get worse and had wondered for a long time now what the eventual outcome would be, but it was no use worrying about the complexities of life. Noticing that a few autumn leaves on the liquid amber tree were trying to hang on she marvelled at the cycle of life that would see the sap rise again in the spring, when new growth would burgeon forth to dress the tree in its spring splendour. The shrill noise of the phone broke into her reflections and she hurried to answer it. “It’s Harry. All set for tonight?” “It’s all going according to plan so far. Jean just called in with the spare key. They’ll be gone for four weeks.” “Good. I’ll meet you at the boathouse around seven. It should be getting dark by then. You won’t lose your nerve will you? I’ll be there for you, so don’t worry.” “I’ll just be glad when it’s all over,” Elaine remarked before she put down the phone. She thought what a pity it was, not to be able to do her usual stint at the opportunity shop. It would have taken her mind off things. Helping out two afternoons a week had given her a welcome break, as she was able to leave Jack next door with Jean when it was convenient. It was there that she had met Harry. He seemed to take an interest in her, which was flattering to a seventy year old. He was ten years younger than her and a widower. One afternoon the shop had been obliged to close early due to some unforeseen electrical work and he had offered to drive her home. “Better still,” he’d said, “Why not come to my place for a cuppa. Your friend isn’t expecting you back just yet.” She’d found the freedom exhilarating and they enjoyed each others company so much that they’d both given up one of the afternoons at the shop to be together for a few stolen hours. His excuse to the shop had been that he was moving away from the area, and needed a bit of time to check out new houses. Elaine told the woman in charge that it had become inconvenient for her friend to have Jack for two afternoons. She must have fallen asleep, as the clock showed half past four. Racing outside she needn’t have worried. Jack was fast asleep too. She brought him in and put on the T.V. He seemed to like the pictures. He didn’t understand what it was about, but that didn’t matter. It kept him amused for a while. The doctors told her that his dementia would get progressively worse and then he would need twenty-four hour care. They’d been through the alternatives with her, but she dreaded the thought that she would have to put him into permanent care. However she knew that something would have to be decided for him. She made some corned beef sandwiches. She always found it easier to feed Jack these and tried to get a cup of tea into him without spilling it. She’d put some sleeping pills in the tea so he would remain docile. Whilst wiping the corner of his mouth he stared at her. She thought he looked like a melancholy spaniel with those soft brown eyes and it startled her for a minute. Surely he hadn’t sensed what was going to happen. It unnerved her momentarily. The plan was fool proof and she mustn’t even think about not going through with it. It would spoil everything. Looking at the clock, she saw that it was just gone six. Better get started. She took Jack’s old cap and a warm scarf from the hat stand and put on her winter coat. “We’re going for a nice walk dear. I’ll get your thick woollen cardigan.” She wrapped him up warm, put on his cap and scarf, locking the front door as they went out. Looking down the street she was pleased that no one was about. When they came to the end of her street she turned into the main road. Still a way to go. Eventually they came to the park. It had been made on the site of the old Quarry and was quite large with paths and seats and was a popular place for picnics in the summer. The council had turned the empty quarry into a small lake that was popular with model boat enthusiasts. There was a small building at the side of the lake that was used as a clubroom for their monthly meetings. Someone had said that it looked like a boathouse, and so the name had stuck. It was here that Elaine had agreed to meet Harry. v She pushed the wheelchair round the back and found him anxiously waiting. “Thank God they’ve all gone home,” he said. “Is there anyone about in the park?” She replied in the negative. “Well we’d better get on with it then. We must both do it together as arranged. You can see that can’t you. It wouldn’t be fair otherwise.” They pushed the chair out near the edge of the lake and Harry unbuckled the safety strap. He lifted Jack out of the chair and laid him on the bank. Harry had brought a sandbag and he tied it securely round Jack’s ankles. Together they pushed him over the edge into the lake. There was a loud splash and as the poor old devil sank to the bottom a few bubbles came to the surface. They stared at the water, which had closed over. There was no sign that such a violent and merciless act had taken place. Elaine showed no feeling of remorse, and there was too much still to be done to become complacent. Harry picked up lack’s cap and scarf that they had remembered to keep and put them on. Climbing into the chair he let Elaine pull the blanket up under his chin. Soon she was on her way home. Turning the corner of her street and seeing the coast was clear she hurried along. She had almost reached her house when Mrs Nosey parker from three doors down sang out. “Fancy taking Jack for a walk this time of the night.” She was having a smoke in the front garden as her husband had banned cigarettes from inside the house. She approached the pair and Elaine quickly pulled the blanket a bit higher up so it almost covered Harry’s face. “I couldn’t get out earlier but thought a bit of fresh air would help him to have a good night’s sleep.” “You’d better hurry and get him home before he catches his death.” Elaine could have done without a remark so close to the truth and was relieved to get the chair and Harry inside the house. Nosey parker went in and told her husband what she’d just seen. “Mind you” she said, “It must be very difficult for her.” She was right of course. Not only had it been a physical and mental strain on Elaine, but she had forgotten what it was like to be thought of as a woman. When she and Harry became friends, it wasn’t only the small gifts he surprised her with, it was the way that he made her feel. She had discovered that it was not nearly soon enough to give up on the physical pleasures that she’d been without for so long. He wasn’t exactly a ‘Toy Boy’ and she was definitely no `Cougar’ but they’d both discovered that life wasn’t finished for either of them yet. Harry would have to keep under cover for a week and then it would all be over. He’d sold his house and car in readiness and bought a property in Queensland. Elaine was only renting so that was no problem. It just remained to put Jean’s spare key in her letterbox with a note to say that her and Jack had decided to move to Queensland. She explained that an aunt had died and left them a house. It had all been done in a hurry. Early in the morning, one week later a removal van arrived. Elaine had been spending the previous weeks offloading small stuff to the op shop. What remained was soon loaded and the van was on its way. The taxi arrived soon after, to take them to the airport. Harry was wheeled out in the chair in case any neighbours were about, and they were on their way. Elaine thought it had all gone well. She would still claim Jack’s pension to be on the safe side. Harry had private means. She would keep the chair. You never knew when it might come in handy again.
Pam Carpenter
Oh No, Not Again!
“What’s wrong with pissing in the park? If you’ve got to go, you’ve got to go”, spat out the angry father, hands turned up to me to emphasize his reasonableness. Like his son, he is short and stocky, has piecing blue eyes and blondish hair. Jarrod, the son has almost white blond hair and a neck less build. I have had Mr Erickson in my office before. My mind trawls back through these unwelcome encounters as I watch the father’s face put on its well practised mock incredulity mask. He must have successfully used this look of hurt disbelief many times and probably is betting on it to currying favour with a woman. Previously there had been the contretemps over Jarrod’s slamming of a laptop lid onto its owner’s wrist; the call up to discuss Jarrod’s educational future after he had seen fit to super glue up a bank of year 11 lockers and too many other occasions.
I sat behind my desk, (supposedly large enough to give me an air of authority), my middle-school manager at my right hand and the school councillor beside him, forming a phalanx of authority, reminiscent of the thin blue line, facing Jarrod and his long suffering and extremely defensive dad. This time the issue is about Jarrod urinating in Macleay Park on his way home from school. A flood of calls from indignant parents had made the level office well aware of this incident.
This is my third parent interview today. Only cases very likely to lead to a suspension arrive in my office. The preceding parental interviews related to complaints about a teacher and an appeal by an out of zoner to enter the school. Then there was a parental request to change of class teachers is not that uncommon and invariably meets with a polite hearing and a firm refusal, but this was an Accelerated Learning Program, ALP, student and I had some sympathy for her argument. The teacher taking this class of very able students for Mathematics was a poor choice. When the mother had gone, I called up the time-tabler and made a swap. I ruminated briefly that I would now have the unpleasant task of informing the displaced teacher that she would be transferred a normal class. The teacher concerned is not at all easy going; she will resent this change and see it as a lack of faith in her abilities.
Before my dissatisfied ALP parent, an overexcited father who wanted the school to ensure that his daughter is delivered to him, and not to her mother, afterschool had presented at reception. It is Friday of the long weekend and this is sometimes a trigger time for custody battles. Parents will dispute whose turn it is to have the child. It is not my role to interpret complex custody documents, especially ones being flapped at me by a manic father. I have already logged a call with Ministry legal to get exact advice. It is important not to allow the school to be drawn into a legal quagmire.
After such an inauspicious start this day can only get better. Then comes a phone call from the principal of the BelleVue Primary School. Her voice is rather strained and impatient. There’s a dog in her office. Oh no, not again! Beau our RSPCA rescued Jack Russell has been escaping since we bought him home six months ago. We have put up new fences but he always finds his way out Worse still, he always heads off to the local primary school. At first the principal was quite jolly about his appearances, but the last few times, her voice has taken on a censorial tone, even to a Ministry colleague. And it’s an interruption I can do without.
So my personal life intersects with my professional life. Vivien is luckily able to contact my son and have him retrieve Beau and lock him in the house. It would be a few more, Oh no, not again s, before Beau’s escape route was fully diagnosed and his school visits curtailed.
Valerie Bourke
Out on a Limb
The sun is out today and I feel wonderful. I live out the back of a pub which nestles in a beautiful fern gully at the foot of a mountain range. On a clear day I can seethe township not far away. I can’t remember how long I’ve been here; it seems like forever. The air is always crisp and cool, even in summer, and I will never leave my home; I have too many friends here.
After all this time, I’m still amazed at how many different birds live up this way. My favourite is the Australian King Parrot, with its brilliant scarlet underside and beautiful green back. But I also love the Kookaburras with their cheeky laugh and the Rainbow Lorikeets, who are always screeching and chattering. The other day I had a visit from a possum, but the publican’s dog, Maisie, frightened it away before I could have a chat. I was all prepared to offer it a home with me, but I doubt it’ll come back now.
Matt is the publican and a better bloke you couldn’t hope to meet. He is fond of me too, in fact he loves me, I know because I heard him say so not long ago. He’s a real sweetie, and he’d be quite embarrassed if he found out I knew what he said. He takes care of me too. When they have a big do at the pub and a lot of people are expected, he puts up a big fence to keep them in, so they don’t trample all over my carpet of native violets.
Something happened recently that made me chuckle, and Maisie was the culprit again. I was having a bit of shuteye, when I heard a scratching noise and felt a bit of a breeze. I glimpsed a furry thing whizzing by, but thought nothing of it until the next day, when I heard Matt on the phone to the fire brigade. “Paul,” he said “can you come over with your extension ladder; it’s the damn cat again. Maisie must have been chasing it, and you know what that means.” So that was it, I thought, Woosie’s out on a limb again. I couldn’t see him, but I knew Paul would get him down, and he did, eventually. Nobody seems to own Woosie, but Matt keeps an eye out for him. I heard someone ask Matt once why they called him Woosie, and he said it was because he liked his grog too much. But it’s actually because he’s got a gammy leg and walks with a bit of a wobble.
I know I’ve implied it already, but I do love living here. I used to think it would have been nicer higher upon the hill, where you’d get a panoramic view. At my age though, I’m glad I’m snug down here, as I’m getting a little creaky now. Anyway, things have changed. Once there was bushland as far you could see, but now that vista has gone. Clumps of buildings have sprung up all over the place, and the habitat has been destroyed to make way for their coming.
It’s a pity people are so short-sighted. Look at what’s happening now; they’re going to have a carbon tax. Don’t they know that we love carbon dioxide, and if they hadn’t decimated our numbers in the past, the problem (here I acknowledge there is some debate about this) might not be of so much apparent concern. But that’s humans for you. It seems to me most of them are pretty self-centred, they don’t know how to share, or perhaps they don’t even know that we care too.
Matt, of course, is not one of them; he’s a good bloke, who treats everyone and everything with respect. To show you exactly what I mean I’m going to let you in on something that he would probably prefer you don’t know. I’m sure he thinks I’m asleep when he does his nightly rounds after the pub has shut, but I’m not. I stay awake especially, and every night, he looks up at me, gives a wave and says “Goodnight your Majesty,” and I whisper “Sleep tight.”
© Goldie Fox
Red Zone Boots
After a great deal of discussion, between themselves and with their families, both young women made the decision to avail themselves of the opportunity of touring the Red Zone of their once beautiful city. They needed to see for themselves what had been lost forever, not only to all those who lived in and around Christchurch, but also to the thousands of tourists who visited each year. Since the major quake, nobody other than authorised emergency workers had been permitted to enter the very dangerous Red Zone area of their city. The authorities were now giving people the opportunity to see for themselves the reality of the impact of the devastating earthquake. Specially re-enforced buses were being made available for those brave enough to risk entering the Red Zone.
At the time of their booking, they were warned they would be entering a very dangerous area with the possibility they could die there. It was very confronting, especially when they were informed there would be ten ambulances on standby.
For one of them, re-entering the city on the bus would, she hoped, help her to conquer her fear of returning. Up until the earthquakes and aftershocks had started happening, her life had been centred around beautiful Christchurch city. Sadly, all the activities she had pursued in the city, had stopped on the day of the big quake, when many people had lost their lives. She knew she needed to be brave and get on that bus. She felt sure being there with her friend as support, it would help alleviate some of her anxiety associated with going back.
For the other young woman, her need was to see for herself the destruction and loss of so many wonderful amenities. They were the amenities she and her husband had assessed as being very important to their family when they had made their decision, two years previously, to emigrate from the United Kingdom. They had only been living in Canterbury for eleven months when the first big quake struck. They were living in Darfield, right on the epicentre. From that time on, they had experienced thousands upon thousands of frightening aftershocks and further big quakes. She and her husband were fast coming to the realisation they needed to remove their family from what was once a great place to live, but was now one that carried a feeling of fear, sadness and hopelessness. They were fast coming to the realisation they needed to pack up and take their family to a safer place. This tour she felt, could help in confirming the decision they were about to make, would be the right one for them all.
Once seated on the bus they were again given a serious warning, this time by the tour guide. She told them they were about to enter a very dangerous area where they needed to understand there was a possibility they could die. They were told the area was still considered an active earthquake zone and an active demolition site, therefore it was a possibility they could be trapped by falling debris. They were further instructed that under no circumstances were they to leave the bus. Both women wondered yet again at the sense of their decision to do the tour. Were they doing the right thing? Should they be doing this? Should they alight from the bus now? One look between them confirmed that “yes” it was the right thing to do and they would stay, even though they knew what they were about to see would be very confronting and very sad.
They looked around the bus at all the different people who were there. The only person under twenty five was a little baby. This puzzled them. They wondered why the parents were taking such a little person into such a potentially dangerous area. Although most of the passengers were strangers to one another, the unique circumstances of their presence on the bus, united them as they talked to one another about their reasons for doing the tour. There were people there for the same reasons as the two young women, but many had different reasons. Some people, in fact probably most, were there to honour the dead; some of them were people who had been present when the big quake of February 23rd struck; some were there simply out of curiosity; some to take photos and one couple who just happened to be in the area as the bus was leaving. The young women could feel the intensity of the atmosphere on board, as the tour began. They noticed that literally every emotion possible in a human being was being displayed as the tour proceeded. There was no narration by the tour guide. The only commentary was when the bus pulled up at the sites of the CTV and PGG buildings. They were told this was where the two buildings had once stood. The sites were now completely cleared. All the people on the bus came together and there was total silence. Everybody was thinking about those who had gone to work on the day of the quake and had never made it home that night.
The bus passed through a total of about twenty streets. Many people exclaimed over old landmarks that were now gone. It was obvious they were very distressed at their loss. There were some people who had known the city intimately and for them every inch of the tour was a painful memory. Even these people, who had known the city so well, were often disorientated and unable to identify many areas. There was just so much of what they remembered, now lying in piles of rubble, making former buildings and landmarks unrecognisable. There were some people, who as they passed by a fallen building, described how they had managed to climb to safety from under the debris.
The two young women had taken their cameras, but kept them in their bags. They felt it would be too distracting to take any photos. They wanted to absorb the full impact without having to stop and deal with technology. Besides, there was just too much to take in. The devastation was everywhere, left, right, up, down and all around them.
As they passed by wrecked building after building, they were both shocked at the number still awaiting demolition. They passed an office building and saw jackets still left hanging over the backs of chairs. They had been left there by office workers as they had fled to safety. For a moment, for one of the women, the scene came alive in her head and she could hear the screams and she felt the terror those people would have experienced, as they ran for their lives.
After the tour ended, on the drive home, both women feeling very upset at what they had witnessed, agreed doing the tour was a very healing experience. The woman, who hadn’t wanted to go back to her beloved city, said she now felt stronger and could face returning in the future. The other woman, who had gone to confirm her decision to leave was the right one, now felt that yes, she and her family would leave this city, this country. They had come to Christchurch with such hopes and dreams. She felt such abject sorrow she and her family would be leaving this once beautiful city.
As they drove, they talked about the devastation they had seen, and the sadness they felt at what had been lost forever. They agreed, one of the saddest and most puzzling things, was the scene at a cafe. The cafe was on the ground floor of the office building where they had seen the jackets left behind. In the cafe, tables still had the clutter of wine glasses, plates, cutlery, salt and pepper shakers left scattered on them. Everything on the tables was covered in dust and fallen debris. The thing they found puzzling was the pair of boots. They were an ordinary pair of work boots left sitting on the ripped up pavement, outside the cafe. One of the boots had fallen over but it was obvious they had been placed there as a pair. Who had put them there? Did the owner of the boots survive? Was it just that he had gone into the cafe bootless, as was the custom of many farmers who went into town, to enjoy a relaxing coffee? Had he, when the deadly quake struck, run for his life, leaving the boots behind? The answer to these questions will never be known. The two women both felt, for them, the boots were very symbolic of the tragedy and utter devastation caused by the Christchurch earthquake.
Pam Galbraith
Say Hello to Geri
I had a passing acquaintance with Geri a good while ago now. I didn’t think much about it at the time, and the memory faded quickly. I was having a shower and something interrupted the process of washing. When my attention returned to the task, I didn’t know where I was up to. Over the last few years Geri has made more frequent visits and I’ve been forced to develop a range of strategies to deal with the meddling ways of this character.
I can remember, probably thirty years ago, visiting my mother in her unit and seeing an array of little notes on her kitchen bench. Things like ‘pay gas bill by Friday’, ‘put the bins out’, and of course, shopping lists. On close inspection one or two would be for a more distant event, such as ‘buy card for John’s birthday’, and one I never deciphered ‘find man in library’. It’s hard to imagine what she meant, but the vision of mum with a loud hailer calling out “is there a man in the library”, brought a smile to my lips at the time. I would not, of course, have dared to ask what it meant, for then she would have considered I was snooping. The notes were always there. You could tell at a distance the ones with a longer lead time, as they were a bit dusty. I would always smile benevolently as I passed by, and I wonder now if my kids do the same when they see similar notes proliferating in my kitchen.
There are so many ways in which Geri catches you out. Drop something transparent on the floor and try to find it – can be difficult. The other day I was looking for the very small top of the nasal spray bottle. Only found it a bit later when I stood on it. Rushing to go out, need to put you watch on quickly. No, can’t do it. Need to take time so one end of the band doesn’t fall away before you can fasten it to the other. The newest problem for me is what I call object displacement. Cleaning up after breakfast, butter dish in hand, open fridge, deposit butter. Wrong! Butter’s been living in the pantry for some time now. Geri’s at work again getting the brain to override your wishes. Works the other way too. Look in the wardrobe for your old black jacket. Would be good to put on and do the gardening, won’t matter if it gets dirty. Not there -must be in the cupboard in the spare room. Not there either – oh yes you threw it out!
There are many other examples of how Geri teases us, but there are things we can do. Firstly, I think we have to acknowledge that, just like the body, the brain doesn’t react the way it used to as we get older. Concentration and memory are central to most things we do and it’s a decline in these areas that gets us into trouble. But never fear, just as we have strength training for our bodies, there is also brain training for our minds. A regular workout should keep our muscles and our synapses in good firing order, for some time to come. But we do have to make a commitment to help ourselves. There is abundant evidence that the ‘use it or lose it’ principle applies at all ages, to both body and brain. So don’t let Geri Atric mess with your mind – make a pre-emptive strike and start training now!
Goldie Fox.
Seven Weeks
Seven weeks!!!! Forever!!!!? Oh how I wish it were so.
Seven weeks have been filled with hugging, laughter, tears, pandemonium, noise, tantrums, outings and oh so much loving. Emotions have been swirling, moving up and down like a seesaw.
Seven weeks sadly, are not forever. How quickly the weeks have passed. They have gone. All that is left, are days filled with silence and our tears.
Pam Galbraith
Snapshots
When leaving home in an emergency the first thing everyone reaches for is the photograph album. We all treasure those precious memories of times past and experience great pleasure in reminiscing. First baby photos are so special, capturing those moments at the beginning of life’s journey, followed by memorable milestones along the way. “Did I really look like that?” “Isn’t she like her father!”
Preparing to move to another house, especially a smaller one, is a bit like looking through a photo album. Hesitantly I begin delving into cupboards and drawers determined to make a ruthless cull. Before long good intentions are put aside as I uncover things that haven’t seen the light of day for many a moon. “I’d completely forgotten that” “My mother embroidered that tablecloth before she was married. I can’t throw that out.” “I really loved that tea-cosy, but it will have to go.Its too big for my teapot.” ” I brought those table mats back from Bali. I can’t imagine why I ever bought them. Yes they can go.” Then there is that bag of really old lace that belonged to my mother-in-law in the days when she made all the underwear and nightwear for her trousseau. “I must see if our girls want to keep it”.
Then I move to the bookshelves where the collection calls out. “Keep me”. How difficult it is to choose. Unfortunately some will have to go. I console myself with the thought that I’m giving someone else the opportunity to love these books. That’s a good thought. Several hours later I emerge thinking “I might go through the box again tomorrow”.
One Sunday afternoon I uncovered my scrapbook. I had forgotten it existed. Begun in my mid twenties it covered the decade before our children were born when surprisingly my life became more domestic. I did continue making entries when the children were older. Wow! So many memories! A very special letter from my Dad after the family had waved me goodbye at Station Pier aboard the P& O liner “Stratheden”. It brought tears to my eyes when I re-read it. There were other letters from people who were special to me along life’s journey, fascinating snippets from newspapers, obituaries and reminders of so much of my past. “I can’t possibly throw all this out.” I look forward to having more time to read it and reflect.
A lifetime collection of photos stored in albums and boxes are definitely in the too hard basket. “I can’t make decisions on these precious memories right now. Into a bigger box they all must go.” I wonder how families will deal with photos in the future now that the digital age has come. Photos, photos everywhere, but scarcely a hard copy for anyone to actually look at.
Our elder daughter, her husband and three boys have been living in California for the past 5 years. It became obvious at the end of 2012 that they wanted to return home to Melbourne, but the financial mountain was too steep to climb and it seemed that they were stuck. Barry and I decided to make our house available to them and we would move to something smaller. In many ways it seemed that the time was right for us to make this move. We are not big movers, having moved only once before in 43 years. Nevertheless we set about the task of finding a new home. This new stage in our journey has been accompanied with a great feeling of satisfaction that we would be instrumental in helping our family to come home. It has been somewhat easier not having the emotional trauma of selling our home and downsizing at the same time.
The time frame for all this has been interesting. We thought we would have a year to eighteen months but earlier this year the family said they wanted to come earlier which was very exciting. They arrived a fortnight ago and we are all in together before we move in another fortnight. Our ears are becoming tuned to the delightful American accents of our three grandsons. The twelve year old is particularly delighted to be back in Australia.
Margaret Dimelow
The Cemetery
Baz was disappointed. He’d hoped Robbo would move in with him. Robbo’d told him that he was fed up with hostel life. The bloke he shared a room with wasn’t too fragrant “If you get my drift.” he’d said. Robbo wasn’t one to badmouth anyone, even someone who was a stranger to soap and water. But, when he’d learned that the old place Baz was care- taking was next to the cemetery, he’d dug his heels in. “Not on your life. I keep away from places like that. I don’t go to funerals neither. They’re morbid. I don’t mind having a drink or two when a mate shuffles off, but you won’t find me withinn a bull’s roar of a – of a place like that. You never know what could happen.”
“Well, “said Baz, “what could happen?”
“Well, something could.”
“Like what?”
“I dunno. But I’m not going to try and find out. That’s your problem.”
“Ar you’re nuts.” And with that friendly observation the friends parted.
A few weeks later it was a different story. Robbo’s job had folded and the part timer he’d found, wasn’t paying the bills, not even his modest outgoings. Luckily, he bumped into Baz outside the op shop. The offer was repeated and this time misgivings were abandoned in favour of reality. Robbo moved in.
Actually, it was pretty good. The house had a high vine-covered fence separating it from the graves so you couldn’t see anything. And the lane along the side of the house led to a back gate which was used by the stonemasons from over the road. It was sort of like a light industrial area.
At first, both men had been disconcerted by the cemetery bell. Baz hadn’t let on to Robbo that he didn’t like it. He’d turn the radio up loud before five o’clock, or else make sure he got home after five. But when Robbo came to live he had to get around it somehow, so on the first day, when Robbo nearly cacked himself when it went off, Baz made a huge joke of it saying it was just like their old school bell, and then he went on about school days and the moment passed.
So they got used to the bell which summoned the living to leave the dead. And things started to turnaround. Robbo got a better job. In a second-hand bookshop of all things. And he started to read. Well, to read more than just the sports’ pages. Pretty soon he had quite a collection of paperbacks and not to be left out, Baz started dipping into them as well.
Baz liked science fiction. As a kid he’d gone around wearing pointed plastic ears he’d got from a showbag, pretending he was Mr Spock, and when it was time to help with the dishes he’d disappear under the table yelling, “Beam me up Scottie.” But now, he was getting into cyberspace with the occasional vampire thrown in. Surprisingly, considering his dislike of all things funereal, Robbo was also into some vampirish stuff, the antique sort. He’d drawn the line at reading about Vlad the Impaler but he’d got stuck into Dracula. And Frankenstein. Maybe living so close to the cemetery had cured his squeamishness. He’d also liked The Picture of Dorian Grey. He’d been mystified by the way the picture had changed. “And no-one had touched it, Baz. Not even the bloke who painted it.” But he wasn’t sure whether he was really ready for Edgar Alan Poe. The owner of the shop told him his stuff could be pretty gruesome. And, one of the stories was called The Premature Burial and that was a real put-off.
The boys had now acquired a tele from the next door nature strip. They’d got in first before the Council collection van. All it needed was an aerial and with some old rabbit ears donated by Robbo’s boss they were able to watch Channel Two. This was a bit limiting but as it was a freebie they felt they couldn’t complain.
What intrigued them both were the black robes worn by the women in the Middle East. Admirers of the female form, they couldn’t understand the big cover up as they called it. They sometimes watched the news, but most of the programs they watched didn’t have anything to do with religious taboos. They knew that older Greeks and Italians wore black after their hubbies died, but not the young good-looking sorts. In fact Robbo became something of an expert on black, who wore it, and where and when they wore it. Maybe it was the stuff he was reading. Black was big in the old days and usually meant something nasty was going to happen.
Then, it was winter and Baz got a raise, so a slap- up do was in order. The local pub was within walking distance and the lads celebrated in style, getting stuck into the three courses on offer, plus plenty to wash it down with. It was more booze than they were used to but by the end of the night they were still standing and began the walk home. It had been raining and the pavement was slippery with fallen leaves.
They’d just reached the stonemasons’ corner when there was a blinding flash of light. They stumbled to a halt. Ahead of them, coming down the lane from the cemetery was a woman dressed in black. She carried a basket covered with a stark white cloth. She was coming towards them, moving fast. They stood together in the gloom, speechless and wavering when there was another flash. And another woman appeared from the graveyard, dressed identically to the first. She seemed to be moving even faster.
Robbo was making choking sounds as he clutched at Baz who was transfixed, hardly able to breath when a third figure in black appeared. Their legs gave way and they subsided to the ground not wanting to look yet compelled to watch as the three women, leaning forward in haste, turned into the street and ran, one after the other, until they were out of sight.
There was silence. Then a voice, which seemed to come from the sky called out “Cut and print.” And the night came alive with people. A camera crane in the stonemason’s yard carried the owner of the voice down to earth and the rest of the film crew appeared from various parts of the yard. “You were nearly in the picture boys. Just as well you decided to sit this one out.” And chuckling, the director walked off.
The lads got themselves up and very casually and carefully walked over to their gate. A surreptitious glance to the right revealed the three women in black, now carrying their shoes and chatting as they headed for a camper van parked down the street. They stood for a few minutes watching the film crew dismantling the arc lights and packing up the equipment. Then when the rain started again they went inside.
“How about a cuppa?” Tea was Baz’s cure-all. “I reckon I’d throw up. Gawd that was weird wasn’t it?” “Yair. I reckon. Are you gonna tell them at the shop?” “Well, maybe. Perhaps some of it. I don’t think I’ll mention the bit when we fell down though.” “Nah. Nobody needs to know that bit.” “It was pretty weird though.” “Yeah. Pretty weird.” With that, the lads went to bed and despite the excitement of the night fell heavily asleep. Outside, the rain had stopped. It was windless and the air was chilled. The temperature was dropping.
They neither saw nor heard the figure in black emerging from the cemetery. It was a woman, moving quickly, almost running, carrying a basket covered with a pristine white cloth. A few yards behind her, a second figure, dressed identically, appeared and scurried after her. Then a third woman, gliding over the ground, came in the wake of the others. As though on an unseen signal, they all picked up speed and sped faster and faster. They passed the house where the lads were sleeping and floated on down the hill, away from the cemetery.
J. Morcom
The Dreamer
I am a typical Farmer, no money, just Dreams
Conjuring up my next challenge, yet another Scheme
Build your house upon a rock, not upon the sand
I am here today to testify, I need a helping Hand
Depression is not a word, that friends or family like to hear
People suffer in silence, Sheel’ be right mate, have another beer
Now if I have struck a cord, with those that misunderstand
If you need a shoulder to cry on, I am here to hold your hand
The revelation of what has been going on in your mind
You worry about your friends, family, those left behind
Before you cross the line, think about those who love you
May’be a wake up call, have the courage to see it thru.!!!!
Brian J Dickinson
The Girl from Croatia
Such a pleasant and interesting day, when the girl, Ivona, came from RMIT to interview me about aged care. Delightfully gentle, aged nineteen, she’d come from Croatia, with her parents when she was five. Their house had been burnt to the ground in the war with Serbia and her father, a returned prisoner of war, weighed just thirty kilograms, with his health greatly impaired.
They lived in one room in Reservoir, with an aunt, who had come here some years earlier. It was not a happy situation, but they endured. Her mother had a PhD from Croatia, which was not recognised, so she did a poorly paid job until she was able to complete two years at university to re-establish her qualifications. The mother was their only support until the father’s health improved and he became a transport driver. He is far from well, but they are a happy family, with two more children, aged twelve and fifteen. They have recently been able to buy their own home and own a car.
I was horrified at the tales of her years in the state school in the area. With no English whatever, she was terrified, a situation greatly exacerbated by the bullying that went on. Unable to plead her cause, the teachers were less than helpful. The stress caused her to lose all her hair. Pushed from playground equipment, her head was split open. Only after her arm was broken was any attention given to her plight. When she commenced high school, life became happier. She was able to graduate with honours, especially in English and so pleased to be able to study Journalism where she would be able to make a mark in the world, make it a better place. She feels that her hard times have not damaged her, only equipped her more ably to deal with life.
I was somewhat apprehensive when she rang, in her cultured voice, asking to interview me on the topic of aged care. With my strong views, I thought I might open my big mouth and get myself into trouble. I feel the service is vital for keeping people out of nursing home and able to stay in their own homes. The disruption, the distress and the ridiculous cost, (selling your home to cover the cost of a room with ensuite) is something surely to be avoided. But there is need for so much improvement; it is far from satisfactory and so much money is being poured into it, not only by the care services, but by all the local councils. I need not have worried.
She came wanting to know exactly what I thought. She has taken up this project because the government is providing so much money, but she wonders, is it being spent to the best advantage? The helpers are fine caring people, but they come from so many different cultures and the help they give is not always efficient by our standards. One of my helpers washed up under the running hot water tap, with a squeeze of detergent on to each article she washed. Half a bottle of detergent disappeared! Perhaps lack of training/knowledge is one problem. Once, the schools taught home economics. Now we get, ‘spray and wipe’ shown us on the TV ads. and we learn how to put detergent into a toilet. My thought was to make DVD’s of the different tasks, if possible without involving language. These could be done in the TAFE colleges, where films are being made, as part of their course, so saving cost. She jumped at that “I will do it.” She said.
Ivona confided, at the end of our meeting, that she has no intention of becoming a journalist. She wants to have a family and a happy life. Journalists need to be on call twenty four hours a day and the stress is great. The training has been wonderfully broad and given her a fine background to become a teacher, where she there hopes to do her bit for the world.
Mim Egan
The Little Red Dress
“Jason. Hurry up. Your breakfast’s getting cold.” “Just coming.” He comes into the kitchen and notices the boiled eggs have covers on. “Where on earth did you find those? They’re absolutely, dare I say quaint?” “I found them when I was sorting out some things of Mum’s and decided to keep them, as I recall how she loved knitting. It was just something to remember her by. I’m glad you like them.” Jason lifts off the first cover with a flourish, and says, “I’m sure she would be thrilled if she could see how her works of art have been saved for posterity.” “Why are you always so sarcastic? You seem to have a spiteful propensity to belittle what you consider to be mundane. I’ve told you before, the world is full of different kinds of people and they all have their part to play, no matter how humble they are.” ” I wish I could be more like you. It doesn’t take much to please you. But I need something a bit more intellectually stimulating than a couple of knitted egg covers. Now, what are we doing today?” “I have to find a dress to go with the new shoes I bought last year. I haven’t worn them yet. The big night is on Saturday so I thought we’d go shopping and maybe find something suitable to go with them.” Jason stifles a yawn and says, “We can go to Chadstone if you like. I’m sure Myer or David Jones will have something suitable.” They do the washing up between them and get ready to leave.
* * * Once inside the large department store, they make their way to the ladies gown department. They are immediately accosted by a salesperson. She was very young and obviously eager to please. “Can I be of assistance? “she says with a smile. Jason fixes her with a basilisk stare and she immediately moves away. Meanwhile his partner has seen a beautiful dress, on display. “It’s exactly what I’m looking for. I’ve always wanted a red dress. What about the feathers and the sequins, don’t you think they finish it off well? Which reminds me. You haven’t told me yet what you’re wearing.” Jason replied with a cunning smile, “seeing as you’ll be looking like Cinderella, what with your diamonte shoes and all, I’ve decided to go as one of the ugly sisters.” Suddenly smirking with machiavellion anticipation, he said “You’ll need to try the dress on won’t you?” “Must I? I’m sure it’s the right size. We’ll have to go through all that palaver about which change room to go in. You know what a fuss it caused last time. They were going to call the police. I can’t go through all that again.” “You’re too sensitive, that’s the biggest problem. Me, I love to make a scene. Imagine the look on that stupid assistant’s face when she sees you go into the ladies room. Go on lets have a laugh. She’ll probably run for the manager.”
That’s exactly what she did, and when he arrived he said, “What seems to be the trouble?” Jason as usual took control of the situation. “My partner here wishes to try on this little red item. He’s hoping to wear it on Saturday to a ball we’ve been invited to and needs to make sure it fits. It really is such a bore. There seems to be a problem about which change room he should use. We always have this fuss. One would think people would be used to it by now,” he said scowling at the poor girl, who was by now quite mortified. The manager took the girl to one side and pointed out the commission she would receive, as the dress was very expensive. He explained that it was quite permissible for “Sir” to use the ladies rooms, as there was one vacant at the moment. It would appear now that all would be well that ended well. Jeremy bought the dress and they left the shop well pleased. After they had gone the manager turned to the assistant and said. “I’m absolutely devastated. I was hoping no one would buy that particular number. I’m just going to have to look for something else to wear on Saturday.”
Pam Carpenter ©
The New Life
Her head ached, she ached all over, as she sat at her machine in the darkened factory. What would she do without her fags and her coffee? She’d been there since early morning and must keep on. The deadline was next Monday, when the reps needed her new designs. Competition was tough and you had to get in early: only she could design and make the first garments. There was a wonderful market out there for embroidered children’s garments and she had been so lucky to have learned to use these newly invented machines, when she did. Money to be made, if only she had the strength! To-night was the dead-line; to-morrow the samples must be ready for the machinists to make the colour range. Her machine roared into action as she stitched yet another forget-me-not on the bodice of a wee garment.
No wonder she had a headache. What was she going to do about Jenny? Poor little Jenny! Well she was not so little, ten years old. “She has been my whole world for as long as ever she can remember” she mused,” and now I have married John. I’ve let her down. I’ve not handled it well. But I needed to work to keep us and I was so tired. Now she’s torn upstairs to bed, refusing to eat her tea and sobbing herself to sleep. John had made some perfectly normal remark, but she saw it as telling her what to do. Out she burst. “He was not her father, he couldn’t tell her what to do. He should mind his own business.” John of course reacted, this brat shouting at him and that hadn’t helped. Off Jenny had flounced in great distress. What was a mother to do? She should go and comfort her and she had for a while, but the work had to be done. John was upset, Jenny was upset and she was upset! She wiped the tears from her eyes and got on with her job.
What a mess she had made of her life when she had married Jenny’s father! Everyone had told her not to, but she was so smitten by him, she just couldn’t see. Her sister had just married and it had all been so exciting, she had to try it too. But just as they had said, Len was no good and had been out with another woman, the night Jenny was born. He’d promised to reform, but of course that hadn’t happened. Life had been so distressing and she’d gone back home. Her parents had been wonderful, caring for Jenny, while she earned a living and they loved the little girl dearly. She’d tried several differ ways of making money, but the children’s frocks seemed to be the most lucrative and she did have some skill in that direction. May as well use it! But there was so much more to it. The book work, the marketing, the need to employ people, to train and supervise them; it was all far more than any one body could achieve. When John had come on the scene it seemed the answer to her prayers. He was happy to take on all these extras and he had the expertise.
It was well past midnight before she was able to leave the factory in darkness and drag herself upstairs to bed, with the job at last completed. She’d need to be up at seven to get Jenny off to school, lest any further upset occur. Last night’s episode was not the first of its kind; these incidents were becoming far too frequent. Now she was pregnant. Something would have to be done and fast. John had suggested boarding school; with their business doing so well, they could easily afford it. There was a vacancy at the girls’ grammar and it was easily one of the best schools in the city. Jenny would be a very lucky girl. But convincing her would be difficult. She would see it as bring got rid of. However, she would make new friends and get a very good education; surely it would work out eventually. The shrill clatter of the alarm woke her and she struggled up to face the new day.
Mim Egan
The Secret
As I put my father’s clothes into the drawer, I felt what I thought was a box. Carefully moving clothes I saw it was a gun, to my amazement.
I was terrified and for some reason – I wasn’t able to tell Mum. It never occurred to me she may already know.
I had difficulty sleeping and that gun haunted me.
Perhaps three weeks later Mum suggested we go for a walk. She wanted to post letters and show me the new fish pond at the golf club.
As we walked down the hill to the bridge we saw children throwing stones into the water.
When they left, Mum fumbled in her bag and showed me the hand gun and said, “Here – do you want to throw it into the water?”
Shocked -1 wanted to cry. Mum had known.
As I watched the gun sink in deep water, she said quite brightly, “Well -that’s that. We’ll see the fish another time.”
To this day I’ve never known the story behind that hand gun.
I do know if my father had found out about Mum’s man friend – Oh well – he was capable of anything.
Marcia Evans
The Wedding
She fell backwards into the fountain.
People were trying not to laugh. It was the funniest thing I had seen in years.
The bridegroom’s mother rose out of the water with her hair hanging down over her face, and that expensive hat we had all heard so much about, was floating on the surface of the water. She had lost one of her hand made Italian sandals and her two piece outfit was clinging to her body and seemed to be shrinking by the minute.
Was that the same outfit she had bought from a Paris boutique? What a shame.
Well that was the end of the photographs. It was the photographer’s fault. He said he would like a group photo. You’ve heard it all before. A little this way, a little closer together, now, back a little, and into the fountain she went.
It happened so quietly, nobody heard a splash. She was quickly driven home to change.
That will teach her to boast about her expensive clothes. She will never live this down. Everyone was beginning to enjoy themselves.
She arrived back in time for the wedding breakfast with a long face and wearing a dress she had been seen in many times before.
After the celebrations were over, the newlyweds left for their honeymoon.
It had been a lovely wedding. The wedding of the year in fact, with a little light entertainment thrown in.
By A G Frost
The Windfall
“Where is it?” she said. “Have you seen it anywhere, Jim?” “What?” he said. “My handbag. I put it down when I came in this morning. The phone was ringing so I rushed to answer it and now I can’t find it.” Silence. Jim had switched off. Marj sat down and tried to retrace her movements. She remembered emptying her big black bag and putting all the stuff into the smaller brown one. So that’s what I’m looking for. Where the hell is it? I shouldn’t have swapped bags, as the black one is so big you can’t miss it, she thought. Trying to force a picture to her mind, she saw herself talking to Betty on the phone. She noticed the time; 11.10 am, and the rain being flung against the window. She just couldn’t see what she was doing before it rang. She came through the front door, and then what? She had the bag with her at the time, didn’t she? She took her keys out of her pocket to open the door, and she had her old shopping bag. Did she leave her handbag in a shop? This is happening to me all the time now, she thought. How many times a day do I say “I can’t remember” or “I’ve forgotten?” Memory is something you take for granted, but it trips you up in lots of different ways, as you get older. The other day, she remembered her friend Anna asked her if she would like to go to a concert. “When is it on?” she had asked. Anna gave her the date and time and then went on – “They’re having a harpist to accompany the soprano, as well as the pianist. It should be really good, so, can you come?” In that short space of time she’d forgotten what day it was on, but covered up, saying “I’ll just have to check the diary, now it was….”, and Anna filled in the rest. Marj continued searching for her brown bag, and eventually found it in the guests’ powder room. She’d popped in for a quick visit because the family toilet was at the other end of the house. To her chagrin, when located, the bag had changed colour – it was green! Of course, she remembered then that the brown one had not been quite large enough. Since entering the portals of seniority, Marj felt she had developed a sense of humour tailored to the vagaries of her changeling memory. Naturally enough, frustration makes you want to cry sometimes, but there are many things that make you laugh – if you let yourself. Marj had always thought that putting the sugar in the fridge and the milk in the pantry was an exaggerated example of a lapse in memory, made up for comedic relief. Yet, on one occasion not so long ago, she’d caught herself in a similar act. She also discovered that sometimes, even in the absence of any distractions, it is impossible to remember something for even a few seconds. It happened last Monday when Jim asked where she would like to go for their morning walk. “How about that place in Blackburn where we took Rachel and William (their grandchildren) the Sunday before last.” “Okay,” said Jim. “Will you look up the map reference in the Melways for me? Perhaps we can call in to the chocolate shop on the way home? You know the one where you get a free chocolate. I’ll go and get the car out.” As Jim headed off to the garage, Marj got out the Melways and duly found the correct map. She decided it best to write it down, so she wouldn’t have to remember it. The park was located on Map 35 E2 but she wrote Map 32 E5. Fortunately, she immediately noticed what she had done and laughed to herself, although later admitted she found it puzzling and “a bit of a worry”. She didn’t tell Jim because she knew what he’d make of it. He always maintains he doesn’t have any problems with his memory. “I can still remember lots of things I did when I was a kid”, was his frequent response to those who dare to question. Marj used to say “But can you remember what you did last week?” Of course she never got an answer. The next week it was Jim’s birthday; on the Wednesday. Marj had planned to get him a DVD he’d previously said he wouldn’t mind watching, but at the last minute changed her mind. She decided instead she would take him out for a special dinner, because she’d had a bit of a financial windfall. This is how it happened. She’d been aware of the accumulation of fluff and dust at the bottom of their wardrobe for quite a while; some of the shoes were covered in it. On the spur of the moment she decided to tidy up the shoes and vacuum the dust. Loose carpet had been placed on the concrete floor; disturbing it to vacuum revealed the envelope. Marj was surprised to discover it contained $200. Before they retired, she and Jim had kept some money tucked away for emergencies, but she thought they’d used it all long ago. Marj felt it only right that Jim should share in the windfall. She was quite disappointed though with his reaction; he did not seem at all thrilled at the prospect of a night out. However, the day after, he thanked her and gave her a lovely bunch of flowers; her favourites, Singapore Orchids. So he must have been happy. Poor Marj would have been disappointed all over again, if she’d heard Jim, talking over the back fence to his mate, a few days later. “I’m telling you Bruce, I nearly flipped when Marj said she’d found two hundred bucks in the wardrobe.” “So, she didn’t know it was yours?” “Nah, we used to keep a bit of money there when we were working. She thought it was left over from then.” “Why did you put your money in the same place?” “I didn’t really, it was in an envelope, but I put it under the piece of carpet on the wardrobe floor. I didn’t think she’d take it up to clean!” Bruce shrugged “At least you had a night out and got a present. The missus told me you gave Marj some flowers to thank her for the night.” “Yeah, well, I guess I felt a bit guilty initially. Marj saw the money as her windfall, and here she was going to spend it on my birthday. But, really, I was just relieved that she didn’t come across my other stash instead; wouldn’t have wanted to lose five hundred bucks.”
© Goldie Fox
Through Another’s Eyes
The worst part is not the constant trickle of phlegm from my nose. Though at first I found this as embarrassing as it is annoying. It’s not the shaking of my permanently gnarled and clawed hands. Nor is it the permanent stoop from my spinal curvature that renders me constantly straining my neck to look upwards just to see in front of me. Surely, you are thinking, it is the loss of bladder and bowel control and the untold humiliations that come in the wake of such a tide of incontinence. Or perhaps you have singled-out my short-term memory loss to be the very worst of my symptoms. The fact that you can come here each week and tell me things, and have to repeat them all next week without me registering any recognition, that might seem to you to be the greatest hardship. But it is not.
So you must by now have come to the conclusion that If this loss of my immediate past is not the greatest of my calamities, then my greatest affliction day in day out must be my stutter. This impediment is so severe that it renders speech all but impossible. Despite the exhortation to speak loudly and breathe deeply, l can rarely make myself understood. I can feel your embarrassed sympathy as you watch me try again and again to articulate a word. The faltering finger of my twisted claw edging towards the first letter of the desired word on the alphabet card. You strain to pick up a clue from my incoherent articulations. You guess at a word, its not right, I slump, as much as a wheelchair bound hunchback can, further into my chair, exhausted.
No these degradations pale into insignificance against the greatest frustration and hurt of all. The constant waiting. Waiting for someone to turn on my radio or television, to bring the paper, to get me a book, to feed me, to wash me to take me, to the toilet. To get me up and to put me to bed. Eighty to ninety percent of everyday is spent enduring frustration as I WAIT in the hope someone will come, someone will notice my head slumped down so far I can barely breathe, waiting for them to notice I am drowning In my spittle. Waiting, waiting, waiting. That total lack of independence. My life, such as it is, at someone else’s whim.
That is the worst part. I’m just one more ABI needing total care in a world where there are far too few carers or people to care, or people who do care. Or in my case a person who would prefer not to be cared for at all. But I can’t even make this decision. I must just WAIT.
Valerie Bourke
Wake in Fright
Dead of night
The scream.
Wake. Beautiful dream.
Gone.
Fear. Always.
Mouth. Froth.
Tube. Sugar.
Useless. 000?
Ambos. Earthly gods.
Drip, life giving
Scrub. Wipe. Bench tops gleam.
Hide fear. Always fear.
Tennis anyone Tea coffee?
Spasms stop.
Soon quiet. Softly.
Sleep precious one.
Please no more.
Pam Carpenter
(mother of a diabetic son who sometimes has fits in the night)
Wotta Day
The day was starting later now, with the kids more or less grown up and out all hours, doing God knows what.
Edie had brought him his usual cuppa and a mince pie to keep the wolf from the door. Really it was to keep him out of her way while she got the copper going for the pud. She was a stubborn old tart. Only the copper would do for the pudding. Never mind that she got herself in a sweat in the old wash-house that he’d wanted to pull down when they got the new washing machine. Nevermind that he had to chop enough wood and kindling to keep the bloody thing going.
“It keeps the steam outa the kitchen.” she’d say. Well, that was true enough. Instead the kitchen held the dry heat from the oven working overtime on the turkey and the spuds and all. And God help anyone who dared to dip a finger in the custard, curdling in Gran’s best jug on the sideboard, covered with the beaded jug cover that the old bat was supposed to have crocheted on her honeymoon. If that was all she did on her honeymoon it was a wonder that they’d had a kid at all. He cackled quietly. His Edie was a good sort. Thank God she didn’t take after her mother. And on that happy thought, he turned over, broke wind and went back to sleep.
Edie had everything under control. Stan was out of the way in bed. The copper was nearly ready for the pud and the kids were still sleeping off whatever they’d got stuck into last night. The top of the stove was loaded with saucepans of spuds and pumpkin and peas and beans. Inside the labouring fridge the turkey was stuffed and ready for action. She poured herself a cup of strong stewed tea and went into the lounge for a bit of a sit and a look at the Christmas tree.
“Shut that bloody door.” Edie’s cup leapt in a graceful arc, the tea trailing behind like the tail on a comet till it landed on the floral Axminster. The house stirred to life, like a farmyard after first cock crow. Voices rose from bedroom and sleep-out, a rising hubbub varying from the subdued roar of Stan the man, to adolescent giggles and stifled snorts from the offspring.
“Who said that?” Stan stood in the doorway wearing his concession to Christmas morning, the honeymoon terry towel shaving jacket now stretched to its limits in both strength and life expectancy. “Not me.” replied Edie crossly, mopping the tea up with her apron. Stan surveyed the room and finding no explanation turned and headed for the twins’ sleepout. That was where he usually found the family problems originated. And today he was again on target. As he moved down the hall the voice shrieked, “And get that bloody hair cut.” Edie scuttled back to the kitchen. Nothing, especially anything the twins stirred up was going to ruin her day and her Christmas dinner. She hurried out to the wash house to stoke the fire.
A subdued roar (Stan), plaintive noises (the twins) and a maniacal cackle (unknown) brought the house to full alert. “But Dad, he was a bargain and we thought we’d get you something interesting for Christmas.” She heard the twins in their usual tandem. When Stan was on the warpath they were united, at other times, chalk and cheese.
Stan re-appeared in the kitchen doorway. “It’s a parrot. It’s a bloody parrot they got lumbered with last night and they’ve got the cheek to tell me it’s me Christmas present.” “I can’t worry about that now Stan. I’ve got too much to do. Call the girls. They’ve got to set the table.” Edie wasn’t going to be distracted by a parrot at this stage of the day. Mumbling indecipherable obscenities, Stan shuffled down the hall, duly thumping on the girls’ door and continued on to the bathroom. Maybe a shave would restore his good humour. “Shut that bloody door”, pierced the fibro walls. Stan obliged.
Now, closer to kick-off, everything was under control. Stan was sitting on the veranda with a tinny, keeping an eye out for Uncle Ned and Auntie Peg, a Christmas institution. The twins had gone in next door to checkout presents with the Johnson kids and the girls were trying out the make-up they’d given each other.
Mind you, there’d been a hiccough mid-morning when Stan overheard Angela telling Edie that she couldn’t find the dress she’d worn last night. He calmed down when assured that the dress was only a small part of the layered look which Angie was currently favouring. Luckily he didn’t hear Edie whisper to Angie to check out the back of the boyfriend’s car. “Mum, how would you know?” and Edie giggled, “Do you think your father and I went to the drive-in to look at the pictures?” Ned and Peg chose that moment to appear so Edie was saved by the bell, literally, as Ned, an Edinburgh tattoo man, always liked to beat out a little ” Dump diddlee ah dah, dum dum.”
The cooking was reaching the required crescendo and Joycie was dispatched to summon the twins from next door.
In time honoured fashion she stuck her head out the back door and screeched,
“Twins, you gotta come home.”
“Shut that bloody door.” She’d woken the parrot.
“Christ! What was that?” said Ned.
“Would you believe me Christmas present from the boys.”
“Never mind that now,” snapped Edie “we’re ready to go.”
This year Edie had decided that everyone would queue past the counter and help themselves. The girls hopped in first as they knew Auntie Peg would hold back in a genteel way not wishing to appear greedy, although the amount ladled on her plate gave the lie to her annual protest, that she had the appetite of a bird. The twins reckoned the bird in question had to be a pelican. Privately, Stan favoured a vulture.
Peg began to dish up two plates. A former waitress, she took great pride in the fact that she could hold two dinner plates in one hand. Edie said, “Peg, let Ned dish up his own dinner. Just you worry about your own.” “No dear, I can manage perfectly well. I used to be a waitress you know, and besides, I know what Ned likes.”
The slam of the back door heralded the arrival of the twins. “G’day Auntie. Happy Christmas.” they chorused. Peg looked up. The plates went down, landing with a crash on the floor splattering her stockings and new white courts. ” My God, what have you done to yourself?” “Yes,” came the grim voice of their father, “What have you done to yourself?” Terry, the baby-faced beanpole and Peg’s favourite, had been converted into a black leather-clad punk, sporting an assortment of lavatory chains, padlocks, studs and nails. His long blonde hair had been shaved, giving a whole new meaning to short back and sides. “It’s just a bit of fun Dad. If you think I look odd you should see the Johnson kids.”
An anguished scream from next door added veracity to this statement. And to cap it all, Stan’s Christmas present disturbed by the excitement shouted once more, “Get that bloody hair cut.” And Stan replied, “He bloody has.”
Eventually, mayhem was replaced with calm and an uneasy truce between father and son. Peg was placated and restored by some careful sponging by Edie, and a loaded plate, a bit of role reversal, served with TLC by Ned. Stan provided strong spiritual support with gin squashes and soon the normal Christmas clashing of cutlery, the snap of crackers and groans and laughter of the terrible jokes in the latter restored law and order, if not peace and goodwill.
The pudding was magnificent as per usual and Edie glowed with pride and sweat. Another good one chalked up.
Later, Ned and Peg had been packed into a taxi, Peg singing “We’ll meet again…” another Christmas institution. Terry had promised Stan that he’d start growing his hair. “First thing in the morning, Dad.” No-one stayed cross with Terry. The dishes were done. The gift wrapping scrunched up in the laundry basket. And now he and Edie were flaked out side by side on the couch drowsing, whilst “Miracle On 34th Street” flickered soundlessly on the tele.
A cajoling voice whispered, “Give us a kiss.” Stan puckered and turned. Edie was fast asleep. Puzzled, he looked around. A beady eye winked at him. That bloody parrot.
Joy Morcom
Yesterday
Some one said to me the other day,
You appear strange, are you OK?
Do you have Alzheimer’s ? ————-What’s that, I say?
Do you suffer from Dyslexia?——What’s that I say?
Maybe you suffer from Dementia?——Would you repeat that I say?
Perhaps your Anorexic?————Why, am I fading Away?
Can you explain Depression?—–Was that after the War, I Say?
No, that was the Recession,——I pray about that, to this day!
OK, lets discuss it,——NOT NOW,— some other day!
Lets have this conversation, NOW, don’t turn away!
On each occasion, I was told, help is on the way!
But we men are to proud to say,—–That, we’re not OK!
Finally,—–I realised,——-I should have told you,
Yesterday!!!!
Brian J Dickinson
Your Gift
We have waited months for this moment
Waited for the death of your little one
How could we want this?
The end of a life
To preserve another
We didn’t know it would be you
Who would have to say goodbye
To your loved little one
Knowing his death will give life
You committed and gave us hope.
Without your gift
Our little one won’t have life
Your gift will be a part of him
Beating, beating
How can we ever thank you?
No gift can compare to
A beating heart
Taken from your little one
Given by you in deepest grief
To us, a gift so precious and rare
Beating, beating
How can we ever thank you?
For you, there are now only memories
No more warmth when you hold him close
No more secret murmurs from his lips
We promise you, as he lives on with us
To honour him, always
Beating, beating, beating
In truth, we can never thank you enough
Pam Galbraith