The garden in which I grew up was a child's delight. It was full of big trees for climbing and hidey-holes for secret kid's business. There were fruit trees to raid, berry patches in which to gorge and tender young vegies to snaffle by the handful. There were mines of rock hard clay, eminently suitable for mud pie making. There were sandy bits, ideal for growing loquat forests for elaborate games (usually involving dolls). There was a cubby-house and a sand pit and a home-made tyre swing on the pepper tree.
For the zoologically inclined, there was a never lack of things to see. There were blue tongues to capture and skinks to torment. Cabbage moths to net in the vegie garden and fuzzy caterpillars on the grape vines. There was always at least two dogs to tumble with and a cat to annoy. There were magpies and kookaburras that tamely came to feed and beetles and worms by the score. If all else failed, there was always an ants' nest to disturb.
It was a paradise of getting dirty, tearing my clothes and skinning my knees. I was an expert in all three.
When Mum and Dad moved to there new place, thirty odd years ago, they started off in the same vein. Dad ensured that the builders cleared the minimum of trees before building. A huge grove of ancient gnarled teatree filled most of their front yard. They added a manna gum and a daughter of the desert ash I had climbed as a kid. A red flowering gum and a row of pittosporum. It was all in-filled with a riot of vines, creepers and perennials. It was a grandchild's paradise in the making.
Then Dad died.
And Mum started pruning.
And she just kept right on going. When it was too much for her aging body, she employed fit young men to do it for her.
The trees disappeared one by one. The creepers got tamed and then uprooted. Gradually, limb by limb, tendril by tendril, she hacked that paradise into neatness.
By the time she left a single teatree and the lone ash were all that were left. The rest was a tidy display of geraniums, lavenders and daisies in a thick bed of tan bark. There was nothing over 3 feet tall. It was so neat and tidy it was painful.
When she arrived here, she was thrilled with the little courtyard we had made for her. She busily set about mulching and planting her beloved geraniums.
And then she set her sights on the rest of the garden. Our bit. There was (and is) and endless stream of not so subtle hints about our lack of neatness. There are lots of suggestions for pruning, lopping, and razing to the ground. Everything, it seems, is too big, too overgrown, too rampant, too messy. We need to cut back, tidy up, neaten. We should pave and fence and make things more accessible, more usable.
She just doesn't get it. We have spent 20 years encouraging a garden where blue wrens will happily breed. Where frogs and water rats visit. Where honey-eaters can rely on a feed and lizards and snakes don't fear for their lives. Twenty years to build a wildlife friendly habitat and it is condemned as needing a good tidy up. It si our choice. We like it like this.
Yesterday we had an unexpected visitor. Isn't he just fine?
I introduced him to Mum. Maybe he would help her understand that neat is not our priority.
*sigh*
It seems our frog was interesting and that our pond would look so much better if I cleared it all out. Mozzies, you know.
Before I was married, I was lumbered with one of those appalling surnames that was not only easy to ridicule, it was not pronounced the way it was spelt. Dad was quite anal about it being pronounced properly (there were occasional long tirades about Celtic pride, last of his line, Culloden etc). I really didn't care how anyone said it, as long as they weren't making hay with the "hogg" part of it, or calling me Fifi, I was happy.
All that aside, in those days, names were usually easy. Apart from the odd Sidebottom that had to (pretentiously) be pronounced Siddie-bot-tom (and was usually turned into something much more earthy), everyone had a name we could read and say properly.
But, it went even further than that. We could tell an awful lot from a name without even meeting the person.
For a start, in those days, names were gender specific. There were not names like Courtney that could be either. Even when there was a name that applied to both, it was spelled differently. Lesley for a man and Leslie or a woman, Frances for a girl and Francis for a boy. Other than Kim, you could read someone's name and know their anatomy.
You could tell lots of other stuff too. Age, ethnic origins, religion, class, even place of birth. It was not always reliable but there were some pretty good rules of thumb that worked most of the time.
Any woman named after a stone, a flower, a city or a virtue was someone's grandma. Violets and Florence were never young people. Brendans and Pauls (and any other saints name) were always catholic. People named after the royal family were CofE and dated from the birth or coronation of the name. (There were dozens of girls named Liz in my age group because of her enthronement.) People were inclined to stick to names with in their ethnic origins so a Patrick was not only catholic, he had Irish ancestors and an Edward had pommie forebears and was CofE. Kids with double-barrelled names or surnames (as given names) were usually Americans.
Fashions in names were also evident and assisted in classifying people. Kids named after film stars were usually from working class parents and born during the height of a star's career. Not many boys were named after actors because they had funny names like Rock, Duke and Clark and we all knew that these were not appropriate names for Aussie kids.
We knew the rules and we stuck to them. Surnames and given names were never confused. Names were always spelt the same way. Ethnic lines were never crossed.
Then came the hippie era.
Oh boy.
Suddenly all the rules changed. Not just for the hippies, but for everyone.
Kids started to be saddled with names like Sunshine. No gender. No religion. No ethnic origins.
Then even the "normal" people went berserk. Names were dug up from eons past or strange ethnic groups.Surnames became given names and parents crossed all sorts of religious and ethnic barriers. Everyone wanted to be different and exotic.
Of course, it didn't really work very well. A name that was outlandish when we first heard it became commonplace when it was given to every third kid. No-one had ever heard the name Kylie and Jason had been dug up from antiquity. Now there were a couple in every kindergarten class.
So, names were made up or spelt creatively or random word adopted from other cultures. Names were snaffled from comic books and fantasy and popular novels. There were no holes barred.
As a result, kids got tortured with some appalling names. (Zowie Bowie and River Phoenix spring immediately to mind.)
In my extended family there are some classic examples. We have an OrangeMoon, a Raku and an Eiler amongst my kids cousins. My sister used a Greek name for her daughter and her stepkids all have exotic names too.
My kids, on the other hand, have very ordinary names. They all reflect our British heritage and are spelled the"right" way. They are all gender specific.
When my kids have discussed names that they intend to use for their own offspring, the same can be said.
The tide has turned somewhat in the name game (as tides are wont to do). There are still the odd smattering of exotica but most kids now have a more classic name. (Interestingly, Jack is both the most popular baby boy's name in our state AND the most popular dog's name!)
Which would all go to prove my point. If I had one. Which I don't.
I was reading gossip columns in the paper this morning and a mention of a kid called Zuma (poor kid) got me thinking.
I thought I'd share.
I'll go away now.
Most men get up in the morning and chew the whiskers off their face with some sort of electrical device. A Ronson or a Philishave that well meaning wives have given them for Christmas.
A few old-fashioned blokes will squirt some foam out of a can and scrape away with a twin or triple bladed Gillette.
In the evenings, most men watch some sport or news on TV. They might read a book or get the laptop out to do some strange work-related things. Perhaps they will play Spider on the PC or even talk to their wives.
It is after midnight.
What is my husband doing?
He is melting cakes of shaving soap in the top of my double boiler so that they can be poured into his hand-crafted teak shaving soap bowl.
*sigh*
My husband is not most men.
Last night we were trying to work out when Australia won the America's Cup (as you do). We could have got off our arses and gone and looked it up.
We didn't.
We spent about a quarter of an hour working it out. First we tried to remember where we were living at the time (NSW wheatbelt). Then we worked out how many kids we had (3) and how old they were (4, 2 and a wee babe). We knew where we lived because we listened to the final race in bed in the front room of that house and we knew we didn't have the fourth because the girls moved into that room before the youngest was born. And the second daughter was still in the cot in our room so she was still having night feeds.
So, it had to be the second half of 1983.
Then we tried to narrow it down even more.
Hmmm
Max could remember that the racing was all over before his annual shutdown in the first week in October (it was the main topic of conversation in the cribroom during breaks) and I could remember having the telly on during dinner on my birhday (telly during dinner is an absolute no-no in our house so it was kind of significant) to listen to the weather for NY.
We ended up with a date of 25th September, 1983.
We were out by one day.
Then I began to wonder. Do other people work out dates that way? The whole "where were you when you heard about Kennedy?" theory.
Our first calculations are always based on where we were living followed by how many kids and how old. It is a pretty accurate method for the early years of our marriage. It gets less reliable as we get closer to present time. We have to rely more on where the kids were living and who their partners were. Much fuzzier dates in our mental calendars.
Are we alone in this obscure method?
And, now, a brief update.
I haven't killed my Mum yet. Tempting but I've been brave and strong (although, I have wondered if the flare up in my eye problems has got less to do with my crappy body and more to do with the fact that I spend a lot of time rolling my eyes behind her back).
She's a pushy old thing and VERY set in her ways. When she decides she wants something, she wants it NOW and she wants it HER WAY. They are usually small things and not worth making a fuss about but they niggle.
The main thing I miss is alone time. She is (mostly) not too intrusive. She is just there. All the time. It's a bit like that single blowfly that just hangs around and annoys you but not enough to get up and find the swat.
It isn't a huge problem and will (I hope) become less with time.
My beautiful granddaughter has left us for warmer climes. Her dad took a job in Brisbane and they all moved over there a month ago. I have missed her first time sitting up, her first crawl and her first word (all in the same week at just 5 months). I miss her like all hell. I can see the frequent fliers building up rapidly.
There will be more than one reason for those points accumulating. We have the first ultrasound of the new grandchild and a due date of June 4th. Hopefully, the babe will wait until after the wedding on May 30 so I can fly up to Townsville and be there for the birth. If not, bugger! I can't be in two places at once but I wish I could.
Family-wise, there isn't much other news. Bron and Jads are in the final stages of packing up for their move to WA. They are driving across (with the Harley on a trailer because the boy doesn't trust the Army to move it carefully enough). They are coming via Brizzy to meet the Alice and should get here a week before Christmas. I'm busting.
Health-wise, I'm in a flare-up stage of my eye problems. I got some quite significant side effects from the steroids (post menopausal bleeding and raging hypertension) so they had to be stopped. I am waiting on some enzyme level results so a decision can be made about the next course of treatment. It looks like either radiation or immuno-suppressants or a combination of both. Max is doing all the research and I'm just letting fate (and MDs) set the course.
And that (as they say) is that. I shall sign off with some grandchild pics (because she is, after all, the most photogenic grandbaby ever).
Didn't I tell you she was gorgeous!!
In the thirty odd years since I got married, the rules seem to have changed.
In those days the guidelines were simple. There were two kinds of weddings. There were the "society" weddings, which we all read about in magazines and tabloids and there were ordinary weddings, the sort normal people attended. The sort I had.
Society weddings were held in cathedrals and officiated over by archbishops.
Ordinary weddings were held in the local church (or someone's garden) and conducted by the local vicar.
Society brides arrived in limousines wearing designer gowns.
Ordinary brides arrived in well polished FJs wearing meringue dresses sewn by the local Italian dressmaker (or bought second hand from an ad in the Trading Post "cream organza, size 12, never worn").
Society receptions were held at exclusive hotels or yacht clubs or on enormous (but privately owned) motor cruisers. The guests were served delicacies created by white hatted chefs.
Ordinary receptions were held at the local CWA or Masonic hall or in a hired marque in Mum and Dad's backyard. The food was either some sort of chicken thing (served half cold) or a smorgasbord whipped up by the local catholic mother's club.
Society brides had a huge retinue of designer clad attendants and carried enormous tropical bouquets.
Ordinary brides had their bestie and their sister in matching frocks that they had made themselves from Butterick #2876) and carried carnations and baby's breathe.
Society brides had towering profiterole wedding cakes.
Ordinary brides had a three tier fruit cakes decorated with thick white roll-on icing and pink tinged flowers (often made by Auntie Florrie, who'd done a class at TAFE).
Society wedding were attended by hundreds of VIP guests wearing outfits that cost more than a new car.
Ordinary weddings were attended by a few dozen family and friends wearing their best going-to-court suit or a new dress from Portmans.
Society brides recieved professionally wrapped gifts chosen from a registry at Harrods or David Jones.
Ordinary couples got presents wrapped in paper sporting welling bells, crossed off a list kept next to the bride's Mum's phone.
Society wedding caused oohs and aahs. We all avidly read the accounts and scanned the fuzzy pictures and tsked at the expense. We knew it was fantasy.
Ordinary weddings didn't make anything more classy than the local rag but they were fun. They were about love and family. And they were affordable.
So, what happened? Why is it that brides these days aspire to (and have) a society wedding? Why is it that weddings now cost more than a deposit on a house?
There has been a lot of talk of weddings in our house lately. The organisation for our son's big day is well under way. My youngest is contemplating hers. My middle daughter is just waiting for her fella to cough up the ring and my eldest daughter spent the last weekend poncing around in matron-of-honour mode. Weddings are definitely the flavour of the season around here.
When my eldest daughter got married, it was a fun time. The ceremony, and the reception, exactly fitted their life style. The reception was a giant piss-up at the local pub (with yummy finger food) and the ceremony was held in a pretty garden. They had an icecream cake and cut it with a sword my SIL had made himself. The suits were hired and the frocks simple and they were surrounded by good mates and immediate family. It was a good day.
My son's wedding, scheduled for next May, will be bigger than Ben Hur. The bride is is spending more on her imported frock than Bronwen spent on her honeymoon. She's have four attendants carrying specially grown orchids. The reception is at a very exclusive (and expensive) restaurant and the toasts will be drunk in Moet. There will be limos and ushers and photograph sessions at a dozen locations and chairs draped in white tulle for the bridal party of enthrone themselves.
From my point of view it is all totally over the top.
Trouble is, from accounts of other wedding my kids have recently attended, it is becoming pretty much the norm.
Posh has YSL design her frock. So can I. Katie Holmes has a 10m train. Mine can be 11. JLo had a ten tier wedding cake in 15 different flavours. Mine is can be too.
What was once just fantasy has become the demand of the modern bride. Every wedding seems to be bigger and better(?) than the one before. Every bride seems to feel a need to go one up on her already married friends. They are not just trying to keep up (or exceed) the Joneses, they are trying to outdo the Packers! Thousands and thousands and tens of thousands of dollars are spent on an event that will last six or so hours.
I wonder if the brides actually enjoy their day.
Call me old-fashioned but I find it all rather repugnant.
But I would never say that to my (almost) daughter-in-law.
On a totally different note....
If any of you have any influence over an interventionist deity of any kind, can you ask for some support for young Sam. His wee mite, Kloey, is having an MRI this week to find out about a lump on her spine and possible surgery. They need all the good vibes and blessings they can get.
Three weeks ago she got the diamond ring.
Ten days ago they got their first home together.
Today she had two blue lines on the Predictor.
My baby doesn't do anything by halves.
I'm sure once I get over being totally gob smacked (and the doctor confirms it), I will be enormously thrilled. Right now I'm sticking with the gob smacked.
I am usually a pretty even tempered sort of person. It takes a lot to get my wild up. In most circumstances I just shrug things off.
Water. Duck's back.
My second line of defence is bottling and escape. I hold it all in until I can get away from a situation and then hide until the anger settles (or, more usually, have a good blubber under the doona and cry it out).
On the rare occasion that all of that fails, I have a back-up plan. I ring/drop in on/email a mate and have a bloody good vent.
Today started off badly. I've had a fairly steady increase in my eyeball symptoms as my doses of steroids have been decreased. This morning I woke up almost back to square one.
It was a wet miserable day and no chance of doing anything outside (my customary reaction to bad eye days). I couldn't read or play on the computer or do the crosswords in the paper. Telly was out. I couldn't drive. All I wanted to do was crawl back into bed and make it all better. I know from experience that this is not an option. I have to stay wake and vertical until drugs and gravity work their magic. In the interim, my only viable options were housework (bah humbug) or sitting and contemplating my navel. I was predisposed to becoming shirty.
Whether Mum knew something was awry and was trying to be supportive or she was just feeling needy herself, she was far more clingy than usual (or I was more sensitive to her presence). She followed me everywhere and kept me company. She walked over newly mopped floors to be at my side. She sat in chairs I needed to move to be close. She shuffled through dust piles as she trailed the path of my broom.
When she wasn't being a limpet, she was sticking to her routine. Regardless of my activities. She dangled dripping teabags across freshly cleaned kitchen benches and floors and munched biscuit crumbs over newly dusted tables. She let banished dogs (and their muddy paws) back inside so that they wouldn't drool over her morning tea on the verandah. She spread her knitting (another one of a seemingly endless series of multi-coloured rugs) all over the floor in the room I was cleaning.
All this would, under normal circumstances, have been enough to get me irritated but not unduly upset. If it hadn't been accompanied by an almost constant stream of helpful comments and advice, my feathers would have remained unruffled (and waterproof).
"This is a dreadful mess, dear. Can't it go somewhere else?"
"You could replace these ugly chairs with some nice recliners to match mine."
"You don't need this big old table now that the kids are gone."
"Have you ever thought of replacing these pelmets with something lighter"
"Blue really wasn't a very sensible choice here."
"This is such an unattractive corner. Why don't you get rid of that?"
"You'll never see Michael again. He'd never know if you threw out his paintings."
"You don't still wear these do you? I'll put them in the rag bag."
And on it went.
I was aware of my answers getting shorter and shorter. I started to get an achy jaw from clenching. I knew I was losing it. I should have gone and locked myself in the dunny or the bedroom or taken a long shower. Anything to give me a break to calm down. I chose, instead, to check emails.
She followed me in.
Then she suggested, in her usual diplomatic manner, that I should think about cutting my Wednesday night dinner mate down to once a month because "I think she's a bit of a user, dear."
I could have gone in many directions. I chose that tried and true response, that pinnacle of debating technique, that most mature and sensible of options. Yep. I went with snide sarcasm.
My response was so childish, it still amazes me. "Perhaps I could just order a rubbish skip and you can toss out everything of ours that you find untidy or ugly or offensive and then we can throw my friends on the top." And then I stormed out of the room.
How's that for a dummy spit?
To give her credit, her initial stunned silence was not followed by a tantrum or weeping or rage. She, instead, turned it into a joke and defused a pretty volatile situation. "I don't think I'm strong enough to lift your friends, dear." I acknowledged her efforts with a feeble half laugh and we both headed into different rooms.
She was polite and unobtrusive for the rest of the day (but not in a false way). I acted pretty much the same.
I think we both realised a line had been crossed in both directions. It had to happen eventually. I suppose it could have been a lot worse.
Age doesn't necessarily bring wisdom. I well and truly proved that today.
I guess we all deserve the right to, on occasion, make a total fuckwit of ourselves. I reckon have have just used up about ten years allocation.
Since Mum has moved in, I have noticed that some quite strange things get on her wick.
At 84, it is expected (and even forgivable) that she be somewhat set in her ways. And, she is. With cement.
There has been give and take on both sides and, in the main, it has been a successful transition. We are prepared to accept having ugly tartan placemats at dinner and a tacky fake crystal decanter on the sideboard. She is prepared to suffer through later dinners and a lack of fluffy mats in the dunny. Give and take.
Trouble is, every time I am about to give her snaps for her adaptability, something arises that sets off her neatness gene or her routine requirements. It is usually without any prior warning and, almost always, without obvious trigger.
She suddenly decided that our sideboard was a waste of space and that I didn't need any of the contents. She got slightly obsessed over the fact that I have two knitting needle boxes and that they should be justified into one single unit. For several days it was my over supply of recipe books which offended her. Another time, the fact that I had tupperware that she considered redundant.
There have also been some ongoing campaigns.
She has a passionate desire to prune our garden (well, strictly speaking, for someone else to prune it). The unpaved state of our driveway offends her (it looks so untidy, dear), as do the vertical blinds on our windows (curtains are so much nicer, Fiona). It annoys her (vocally, every time) that my Wednesday dinner mate doesn't offer to do the dishes (or the kids when they visit) and no matter how often we restate that house rules that dishes are never ever done at night, she still bemoans their lack of manners.
There has been one thing, however, that caught her eye in the first few days of her residency and has been a continuing (and continuous) cause of friction ever since. Everyday, without fail, it rates a good whinge session. It has well and truly got on her goat and she has no intention of leaving it alone. It is a heinous sin that my husband commits every morning. That wicked wicked man is the trigger to a daily tirade.
He leaves his breakfast dishes on the table.
Yep. You read that correctly. This master of evil fails to move his used breakfast crockery from the diningroom to the kitchen sink.
Oh, that such wickedness could be.
Just ask her about it. She'll tell you. She can expound on the reasons that such an act is beyond forgiveness for hours at a stretch. She can tsk and tut and sigh about it at enormous length. Not a morning goes by that she doesn't comment upon it and it is a rare afternoon when it isn't mentioned again, at least once.
This is a sin far beyond not putting a pile of pulled weeds into the compost. It exceeds public nail cleaning and belching in social unacceptability. It is more uncouth than failure to use a dinner napkin and more slovenly than cobwebs in the corner.
That small collection of a glass, a coffee cup, a knife and a plate are a still life of evil.
My husband is the constant offender.
Tonight, it came to a head. (Please note that it occurred in the evening, many hours after the offense was committed.) Instead of her muttered self-whinging or her louder moans to me, she actually tackled the sinner himself.
Had she been direct, the effect would have been different. Max responds well to direct. A simple "can you put your breakfast dishes in the sink in the morning please" would have got a pretty positive reaction. The snide "why do you leave your coffee cup for me to clean up?" got a very different response.
It nearly came to blows. (Well, no, it didn't, but it was reasonably ugly.) She was very much put in her place. She didn't like it. A HUGE sulk ensued.
Hopefully, tomorrow it will be back to business as usual. He'll leave his dishes and she'll tsk and complain to me.
*sigh*
Folks is weird.
A very charming gentleman, as old as old could be,
Stared a while, and glared a while, and then he said to me:
"Read your books, and heed your books, and put your books away,
For you will surely need your books upon a later day."
And then he wheezed and then he sneezed, and gave me such a look.
And he said, "Mark--ME--boy! Be careful of your book."
A very charming gentleman, indeed, he seemed to be.
He heaved a sigh and wiped his eye, and then he said to me:
"Take your books and make your books companions--never toys;
For they who so forsake their books grow into gawky boys."
I don't know who he was. Do you? he snuffled at the end;
And he said, "Mark--ME--boy! Your book should be your friend."
This very charming gentleman, extremely old and gruff,
He slowly shook his head and took a great big pinch of snuff,
Then he spluttered and he muttered and he loudly shouted "Fie!
To tear your books is wicked sir! and likewise all my eye!"
I don't know what he meant by that. He had such piercing eyes.
And, he said, "Mark--ME--boy! Books will make you wise."
This very charming gentleman said, "Hum," and "Hoity, Toit!
A book is not a building block, a cushion or a quoit.
Soil your books and spoil your books? Is that the thing to do?
Gammon, sir! and Spinach, sir! And Fiddle-faddle, too!"
He blinked so quick, and thumped his stick, then gave me such a stare.
And he said, "Mark--ME--boy! BOOKS--NEED--CARE!"
CJ Dennis
That poem appears in "A Book for Kids" by CJ Dennis. The book was given to me for my 6th birthday and read to me (over and over again) by my father. My children had it read to them by their father.
When they reached adulthood, I tracked down four copies of the original black and white edition and gave one to each kid.
Last time Alice was visiting, she was initiated into the family tradition.
She may be a little young yet but her Opa will ensure that books really do become her friends.
I think he is giving her a wonderful gift.
I grew up in a household caught in a time warp.
In an era when Jean Shrimpton was scandalizing Melbourne society by displaying her knees at The Cup (to say nothing of the horror of her going bare headed), Carnaby Street was exploding with colour and anybody who was anyone was wearing the shift dress, our family was just a tad behind the times. My mother was still getting her money's worth out of her Dior "new look" patterns. My Dad insisted that the tweed sports jacket he bought with his demob pay would never go out of style and jeans were working man's clothes. My sister and I owned going-to-town hats and matching gloves and gabardine coats. Our underwear was voluminous and white (only trollops wore colour under their clothes), our hair was long and braided and we always, always wore a singlet.
One of the joyous memories of that time (and I have few memories at all) was the visits of Mum's brother, my a favourite uncle. (He was actually the only uncle with whom we had much contact. The others were on Dad's side and were Christmas card relatives.)
Uncle Alan was an extremely handsome and charismatic man. And he knew it. Indulged by his parents, well educated at private school and in a high paid job, he was very different from the usual academic frusties Dad invited home.
Uncle Alan blew in and out of our stodgy engineer's household like a tornado of fresh air (and hope).
Arriving at erratic intervals, he never came alone. About half the time he brought along his friend, Maurice (was Maurice a special friend?) and the rest of the time he was accompanied by a succession of ladies. Pretty ladies. To my childish eyes, exotic pretty ladies.
They wore mini-skirts and blue eyeshadow and red nail polish. They carried handbags stuffed with foreign treasures such as chewing gum and make-up purses and teasing combs. They curled their hair, never wore gloves and smelled of perfume other than Ashes of Violets or 4711.
They had modern and abbreviated names like Barb and Jenny and Kitty and they distributed forbidden largess (Freddo Frogs and Stimerol) and painted our toenails. They had jobs like Personal Assistant, model or pharmacy girl.
All very exotic stuff to a kid in Cottontails and a tartan pinafore.
Occasionally, we saw them more than once. Even more rarely, they came a number of times. A privileged couple hung around for many months and sported a diamond ring. One of those was a lady called Margie and the other was my uncle's eventual wife.
Uncle Alan drifted in and out of our lives until I left home. The marriage ended (but not the friendship with Maurice). There were more pretty ladies and long periods of no contact. Until my last visit to Melbourne, I had not seen him for 30 years and knew, only vaguely, about his doings.
Yesterday Mum had a letter from him. He is getting married. He's 79.
And here is the twist in the tale.
He is marrying Margie. One of those pretty ladies. The first wearer of the diamond ring. Nearly 50 years after he first proposed (and three marriages between them later), he is marrying his first real love.
Maurice is to be best man.
Now, tell me that isn't worthy of a Mills&Boon!
The lord and master (in his own mind, if nowhere else) is away at the moment. Three nights of just Mum for company. It has been surprisingly easy.
She is slowly getting used to living in our organised chaos and I am slowly getting used to her desire for neatness and routine. Compromise is happening all round.
Not much other news so I will put in a cutesy grandchild pic...
and, one of the lovebirds....
Last Monday morning (at the airport, in the very wee smalls), I met my baby's boyfriend for the first time. I brought him home and over the next day we got to know him.
We liked him.
This is a good thing. It is a very good thing.
Because, on Wednesday, he did this.....
He put a smile on her face and a ring on her finger.
*squeal*
My baby is getting married!!
In other news....
We made the presentation of the Antarctic trip to the old fart on Father's Day. (For him) there was a HUGE positive reaction. He smiled and said "this is excellent". He has spent almost all the time since doing research (the trip, the vessel, the history, the geography etc etc).
We did good.
I'm sure there are lots of other things I could be writing about but my mind is blank. Diamonds on my kids' fingers do that to me.
A lot has happened in my life since I wrote here last. Some trivial, some quite momentous.
Probably the first thing I should mention is that my wonderful (and exquisitely handsome) ophthalmologist has put me on steroids and I can now see again (hence the entry). It will take me forever to catch up on all my blog reading (if ever) so I ask for some leeway if dramatic stuff has happened in your lives and I've missed it.
Other happenings. Hmmm. Mum has, at long last, moved in. She arrived about a month ago and is slowly settling in. It has meant HUGE adaptations on both sides but we are plugging along and coping with each problem as it arises.
Small thins are driving me up the wall (like her insistence on putting toilet lids down and her appalling dish-washing skills) and, I am sure, things about our household are getting on her goat (who's name is probably Ulrick). I know our lack of neatness and (what she sees as) order is a sticking point, as are our hours of eating. These troubles will iron out over time. She is one ballsy lady for making such a massive transition so late in life. We'll, together, make it work.
Medically, things have moved along. I had the surgery to remove my thyroid (and was most displeased to get a very neat discrete scar below my collar line having anticipated the old-style cut throat). I've healed well but the quacks are still playing around with my thyroxine dosage. Apparently it can take up to 12 months to get it settled into a routine. In the meantime I will just have to learn to cope with drowsiness and weight gain (because dieting is definitely not my forte).
The brain tumour is currently quiescent and just being watched. It may come to action at some time in the future but, for now at least, it is wait and see.
My beautiful granddaughter is doing all the right things and growing into a bonnie child. *inserts gratuitous grandbaby pic*
Tegz is a wonderful Mum. She's had a few hurdles (such as her milk supply going to crap) but she has blossomed in her chosen role. I am inordinately proud of her. Being a full-time mum isn't a popular choice these days. Snaps to her for sticking to her guns and putting her kids before materialism.
Other big news is that two of my kids are heading back home to live. B and her gorgeous hubby have both been posted to Perth. YAY. It is quite an unexpected (and prestigious) posting. We get three full years (and the planned grandbabies) before we have to think about losing them to the military relocation treadmill again. Double YAY.
My baby has also had some pretty big events in her life. We caught up in Sydney recently when we were both witnesses at a court marshal. Although the circumstances were crappy, it was wonderful catch-up time. She spoke (at great length) about the new (and, she says, permanent) love in her life. My "I'll never marry or have babies" daughter is talking white frocks and layettes in the near future!! Yikes! We have yet to meet this paragon of manly virtue but that will be rectified next week when they come over for a visit. The eldest two (and their partners) have met him and approve (phew) so it should be all good.
My son has set a date for his long awaited wedding. We shall all gather in KIng's Park on May 30 next year and celebrate the newest member joining our family (although, she's been around so long it feels like she already is a member). It will be bigger than Ben Hur and cost the earth but her dad is insisting on doing the whole father-of-the-bride bit so we just have to sit back and enjoy. I just have fun suggesting that Mum and I will wear matching purple lace and watching the panic set into the happy couple's faces. I'm bad.
OK, that will have to do you. Mum is getting angsty about me being secreted in here so long.
There will be more.
My granddaughter arrived yesterday by emergency caesarean. She was 3916g (8lb 10oz) and 54cm. She was a bit bruised from her rough entry into the world. I may be biased but I think she's pretty bloody okay.
Meet Alice Elizabeth.
The brand new family is doing just fine.
She may have been a week or so late but she is most welcome.
The new Nona gets the next lot of biopsy results tomorrow. It's a good news week. I'm not worried.
Hello all
Long time, no write, eh.
First, I need a disclaimer for what is to follow. This is one of my not-so-good eyesight days so the spelling/typing may well deteriorate toward the end. If so, my apologies.
News.
Well, actually, my news seems to be as much about haven't happeneds as haves.
I haven't got a grandbundle yet -ten days to go. Tegan has dropped but still waiting.
I haven't got a diagnosis for my fat eye yet - waiting on various test results and a biopsy under GA scheduled for the 19th.
Mum hasn't sold her house and moved over here yet.
I haven't got my new specs yet so my eyesight is still iffy for a lot of the time (hence the lousy typing).
Haves-wise....
My meningioma "doesn't have the appearance of being malignant", which is very good news indeed. The neurosurgeon doesn't want to burrow into my head yet, for two reasons. Firstly because my thyroid is not yet under control and an anaesthetic that big is iffy until it is and, secondly, because of the position. It has grown snuggly between my optic nerves and the nerves that control smell, tucked into thwe underside of my frontal lobe. He will watch it with regular MRIs and go in only if it starts to spread rapidly or interfere with nerves.
Progress is happening with my thyroid treatment. I'm on some (shitty) drugs to bring my levels down. The palpitations have gone and the excessive sweating has damped right down. He's pleased with how things are going and hopes to have me under the knife in a few months (assuming the biopsy results come back as benign).
My SIL is safely back from the war zone. Still settling back in but home and safe. The rerst will come.
My eldest daughter greeted her hubby home with a nice case of shingles. It is confined to her bum, which, apparently, is one of the better less painful places to have it. As long as it doesn't interfere with their efforts to conceive (yep, I'm going to be a double nona if all goes as planned), once posting orders come out.
My youngest has fallen in love. Her big sister and BIL seem to thinks he's a nice enough bloke. I won't be meeting him until they come over in September but, if he makes my baby happy, he's OK by me.
And, that's about it. Not much news really, for a two month absence.
Once I get this bloody bung eye fixed up and get my etyesight back I can do a proper update. Until that happens, I'll puddle along doing those things I still can do. I garden a lot, catch up with my kids on Faecbook (my addy is here if you want to add me/leave messages/stickybeak) and knit for the Graygan.
Last of all, many many many thanks for all your messages of support. They are truly appreciated.
First I have to thank all of you for all your good wishes, kind words, prayers and thoughts. They seem to be working because I'm still handing in there.
I'm waiting on an appointment with a neurosurgeon at the mo. It seems to be the consensus that I have three separate problems. My thyroid is going berserk, I have something called sarcoidosis in my lacrimal glands (as well as the thyroid eye effects like my right eye trying to pop out of my head) and a growth on the dura behind my eye. I have been told that the surgeon will most probably remove the growth. I'm hoping that is all that needs doing. Fingers crossed.
My main gripe, apart from the whole up-in-the-air lack of diagnosis, is that my eyesight is no longer reliable. Some days, some hours, I'm fine. Other times I have great difficulty seeing anything much for any period. I think I fear losing my sight more than facing a malignancy. I have been assured that these effects are only temporary and will settle down once my treatment for the thyroid and eye problems begins. In the mean while, it is just bloody frustrating.
This too shall pass.
I'm hanging in there, trusting the medical wisdom. It's just bloody hard to fight something when you still don't know what you're facing. But, I shall prevail.
I hope all my mates out there in journalling world are doing fine (I might have a good enough eye day soon to catch up with all your writings). And, thanks again for all your support. It means more than I can say.
Yesterday started off not too bad. Actually, it wasn't yesterday. Midnight has come around again and it's another day. So, let me begin that anew.
Friday started off not too bad. I had a reasonable night's sleep and a bit of a sleep-in. I had to go back to the GP but I had done a heap of research and Grave's Disease wasn't looking like an insurmountable problem. A pain in the arse and, probably, a lifetime on medication but doable. Liveable.
Then the doc shot my new-found optimism down in flames.
It seems the CT scan, (which Mr I'm-a-total-prick Ophthalmologist hadn't thought necessary to confirm his diagnosis), had shown a problem unrelated to any thyroid condition. The scan indicated that I have (in their own words) an "intraconal soft tissue mass of the right orbit between the superior rectus muscle and the eye globe".
Suddenly, from being a routine consult to get a referral and a script or two, it went to being a roller-coaster of phone calls and appointments and scary words. For the first time words such as carcinoma, tumour and malignant were used. The possibility of lymphoma was raised as was melanoma.
I didn't even have time to be scared. I was given two hours to organise things and get myself to the city for an MRI.
I went home, made umpteen phone calls to reschedule the rest of my day and then fought my way through the long weekend traffic up to Subiaco. MRIs are not pleasant. Even for someone not normally claustrophobic, being strapped down and motionless in a loud plastic tube is nerve wracking. The technician pranged two veins before he managed to get the dye in (I guess my fear was making them less than accessible) which didn't help my state of mind. All in all, the middle part of my day was pretty bloody ploppy.
All I wanted to do was go home, curl up in a ball and feel sorry for myself. What I actually had to do was put on a party dress and mingle with 70 odd people, most of whom were strangers, to celebrate my son's engagement. I was definitely not in a party mood.
But, needs must.
I went from the hospital to my son's flat. He wasn't yet home from work and S was at the hairdressers. I let myself in and, in an effort to not sink into misery, found his iron and pressed the frock I had stuffed into a bag at home. I discovered that, in my haste, I had brought my husband's suit but not a shirt and that I had forgotten to pack knickers for myself. Ruing the fact that he wouldn't fit into one of his son's shirts, I got back in the car and headed into Cottesloe to get a shirt and some grundies.
By the time I got back my son had got home and his father had arrived in response to the mangled message I had left on his phone. The bruising on my arms was blatant in summer clothes so I had to make an explanation to the boy. I told him about the Grave's Disease. He didn't need to know the rest before his special night.
I waited until Bo and Sar were busy occupying the bathroom to quietly share my fears with my husband. We smoked a cigarette on the balcony and didn't say very much after the bald facts were given. There was really nothing much to say.
I put on my pretty dress and my manager's wife's smile and we headed off to the party. No matter what my misgivings, it was probably the best thing I could have done. T and Gray were there, glowing with impending parenthood. The grin on S's face rivalled the sparkle of her diamond. All my son's mates were there, full of joy for their friend and warm welcoming hugs for me. The father of the bride-to-be made a emotional speech and glowed with pride at the couple. My son spoke of his joy at the prospect of a life spent at his fiancée's side.
I know when it happened. Gordy came up behind me and wrapped his huge tattooed arms around me and rested his chin on my head. He didn't say a word, just enveloped me.
I stood there in his arms, arms scarred by needle marks from the addiction he fought so bloody hard to beat. I saw my son dancing with the woman he will marry in a few short months. I saw him stare into her eyes and kiss her nose. I saw my daughter laughing with the father of her baby. I saw his hand reach down and caress her belly. I saw their father sharing a beer with the boy's mates, part of an intimate circle established years ago. I stood there, wrapped in Gordy's arms, and I knew.
It doesn't matter what the quack says on Wednesday. It doesn't matter because, whatever it is, I'll bloody well beat it. I will swallow drugs, be cut open, lose my hair, whatever it takes.
My kids have a future. And so do their kids. And I am going to be part of it.
Whatever it takes.
Time for moping, brooding and self pity is over. Now's the time to fight. And win.
Thanks Gordy.
After much piss-farting around, poking, prodding, drops and lights (and a fairly spectacular fight over me refusing to sign a Medicare claim form before I saw the quack), the poncy little ophthalmologist decided that my eyes did not have a problem (despite not having received the results of my hugely expensive CT scan). They were healthy and normal and had an accurate prescription for visual correction.
He instructed me to return to my GP and get a referral to a surgical endocrinologist (quite why he couldn't give me said referral was never made clear). Based on his examination (and my blood tests), he has decided that all my eye and eyelid symptoms are a side effect of a failing thyroid gland, something called Grave's Disease.
He said there was a palpable mass (don't you just hate that word, mass, so innocent, so scary). He said that the swelling would decrease once the the goitre was treated but, in the mean time, I should sleep sitting up (!!!!!!), apply heat packs (shouldn't I use ice packs for swelling?) and use artificial tears (like I need more bloody lubrication on this constantly lacrimating puffball).
The man was a complete knob. Probably quite good at his job but, after I offended him by not pre-signing his bloody form, he was not exactly personable.
So, tomorrow, it is back to the GP and then on to another specialist. And, still no answers.
Just that bloody word.
Mass.
I should be reading buddy journals, commenting and writing updates here. I should be. But it is probably best that I don't. I am broody and I know I am best keeping out of everybody's way when I am like this.
I can't think past my appointment tomorrow and what the outcome might be. I am trying to convince myself that it will be something simple and easily fixed. My darker half refuses to believe. My darker half is convinced the news will be dire.
So, if you'll excuse me, I'll just quietly brood in solitude.
For the last few weeks I have had an annoying puffy eyelid. At first I didn't realise. All I was aware of was my glasses not feeling "proper" on my nose. It was a girlfriend that first noted the eyelid (when you have a face like mine, you don't spend a lot of time looking in the mirror so you can miss these sorts of things).
It isn't sore or itchy or inflamed or evil looking, it's just puffy. It comes up over night and slowly goes away during the day.
I did all the usual things you do with self-diagnosis. I tried heat packs and ice packs and cucumber slices and eye baths. I did the eye drops in case it was something in my eye. I did the pseudo-ephedrine in case it was a snot thing. I did antihistamines in case it was an allergy. I changed the bedding and bought a new pillow. (I even tried sleeping in another bed in case I was allergic to the spouse!).
To no avail.
It just got puffier and slower to deflate over the day.
*sigh* Time to fork out for a quack. But it seemed like such a silly thing about which to consult a doctor. *sigh*
Yesterday I girded my loins and went to see the expert. He shone lights and poked and prodded and asked umpteen questions. He then dragged the senior GP in and repeated the exercise. They then rang a "specialist" and conferred with him.
There were more tests. My eye was dyed with flouro drops and numbed with others. There were lights and huge magnifying lenses and darkened rooms. The ophthalmologist was rung again and more conversation ensued.
After a wait, I was shuffled off to have my head X-rayed and a million gallons of my blood (well, that's what it felt like) decanted into assorted vials. Then back to the quack for a referral for more tests and an appointment with the big bloke next week.
The GP was a really nice bloke and very straight forward with me. He did, however, ever so slightly freak me out with his talk of CT scans to look for "masses". I did what every mass-fearing patient does. I came home (several hundred dollars poorer) and hit the net.
I put my symptoms into Google and came up with lots of nice medical type pages to browse through.
Not a good plan.
My vague fright from the innocuous word "mass" grew exponentially with each page. The words "sarcoma" (and variation of) and "tumour" seemed to be the flavour of the month on pages dealing with supra-orbital swelling. "Metastases" also loomed large, as did "loss of vision". After 11 pages I decided to stop reading.
This afternoon I am having a CT scan.
Next Wednesday I see the ophthalmologist.
I have decided that, until then, I will not worry about all the scary possibilities. I shall be optimistic. I shall believe it's just something simple like a blocked duct or bruising or the like.
That gives me time to worry about my blood pressure which seems to have gone through the roof in the last 12 months.
I lose weight and get fit and my bloody body falls to pieces on me. Bloody old age.
Life isn't always a bed of roses. Mostly it's more like an onion patch - useful, productive and pretty boring.
And sometimes life is pretty shitful. Sometimes life just plain stinks.
And, then, there are days like today. Days when your life stinks up everybody else's life.
Yep. It's the day you have the septic tanks pumped out.
My whole house smells like poo.
My neighbour's houses smell like poo.
The whole bloody street smells like poo.
And it's MY poo.
God less the leaky hose on the Dunny Doctor's truck!
Just two more sleeps.
Then my girl with be safe back on home soil.
Two more sleeps.
and I can untie that knot in my stomach.
So. It begins.
Mum told my (totally appalling) sister that she had put her house on the market.
My sister was on the phone to me within moments of hanging up from Mum's call. Her nose is thoroughly out of joint. She said so very nasty derogatory things about Mum and her lack of fiscal abilities and questioned me about Mum's will. I struggled to remain polite and inoffensive (and, thankfully, succeeded) but the call ended with her hanging up. She is pissed off at Mum for her independence and pissed off at me for supporting that.
How can this bitter, narcissistic shrew be my blood?
She is going to play dirty.
Game on.
All countries have parts of their history in which they can take no pride. Regardless of race or religion, none of us are perfect and nor were our ancestors. We all have a background that includes actions that, by today's standards, are reprehensible.
And there lies the most important point.
By today's standards.
More specifically, by today's western standards.
It used to be acceptable practice to punish criminals with whipping, brutalisation, mutilation and even death. We are all appalled when this is done today but, in our not too distant past, our forebears gathered at the town common to witness and cheer whilst this took place.
With right on their side, past generations invaded, annexed and colonised countries peopled by primitive (i.e. lest powerful in battle) races. If it happened these days were would march in the streets in protest but, at the time it happened it was perfectly acceptable, even praiseworthy.
There are still millions of slaves throughout our modern world but we are horrified when we hear stories of people smugglers and their victims. Yet it is not all that far in the past when some of the greatest nations on earth supported (and profited by) the capture and sale of human beings. In fact, name me one successful society in all of history that have not been based on slavery of some sort. Even if we don't come from a country that pillaged the Ivory Coast to the strong muscles to man our farms, we have (and in many cases still do) supported Asian sweatshops, serfdom, bonded servants, convict labour and heinous class and caste systems. In the slavery arena, no nation is pure.
History is full of appalling and heinous acts of one man, one race or one nation against another.
My country is no different.
Australia's first modern immigrants arrived in chains. Convicted of crimes that, these days, would incur no more than a slap on the wrist, these men and women were sent to see out their sentence (of 7years, 14 or life) as slave labour to open up a newly acquired British colony. They lived foul and miserable lives but were treated in accordance with the mores and ethics of the day.
So too with the indigenous population. They were hunted and slaughtered, their lands taken, cleared, ploughed and fenced and their humanity denied. They didn't share our colour, our heritage, our language, our morals and ethics or our religion. Their only option was to accept and change or disappear.
And disappear they did. Whether through the deliberate genocide in Tasmania or through the diseases we spread or through privation because of loss of land and livelihood, they died in their thousands.
Some integrated, not many, but some. Or as much as their appearance and heritage allowed. Some compromised and accepted our laws and our religion in exchange for other benefits. But most just disappeared.
It wasn't until the middle of last century that we admitted their humanity at all. They were not even citizens of their own country. It was still possible, right up until the 1930s, to purchase a feral pig and aborigine shooting license!
Their lives were appalling and a condemnation of our culture.
But, only in retrospect.
In an historical context, nothing was done in an immoral or illegal manner or against the social conscience. In fact, our early colonist had right on their side. By force of arms, it was their duty to expand the empire and convert the heathen. Even God was on their side.
The buzzword in our papers, at the moment, is a concept called "The Stolen Generation". In the late 1800/1900s, acts of law were introduced into our country governing the treatment and condition of "the aboriginal race". Parts of these acts covered the handling of children of mixed blood. The main aim of these regulations was to promote the non-aboriginal part of these children's heritage. The laws provided for (and insisted upon) the removal of these children from their indigenous environment and a process of preparing them to a white way of life.
The laws were enforced rigorously. Any child suspected of having white blood was removed from his parents, sometimes by quite brutal means, and placed in a white environment. This was usually a children's home, either state run or controlled by religious groups. Some of these homes were rules by loving and caring folk who tried their very best to foster the kids, some where horrific hell-holes. Most fell somewhere in between.
All were run in accordance to the accepted religious and scientific dogma of the era. It was well understood that black people were of lesser intelligence than their white superiors. It was beyond question that their only redemption was through a Christian god. The children were reared with these two tenets in mind. They had religion drummed into them, Christian morals instilled and were trained to accept their lesser place. Education was limited to the very basics (if at all) but the girls received training in domestic skills and the boys in farm labouring.
Once competent in their allotted vocation, they were sent out to assigned jobs. The only requirement for a prospective employer was to be white. Work was rewarded with room and board and compulsory church attendance. No effort was made to monitor the treatment these children received once they left the homes.
With all the right arrogant colonial reasoning, and with the best of intentions, these laws enabled whole generations of indigenous children to be taken from their families and forced into bonded labour. In some cases, this was a blessing. Sometimes they were taken from a home that was less than loving or caring and found a new start through good people. Some went from one kind of privation to another. Most were pulled away from good mums and handed to people who didn't care.
Looking back we are appalled. Rightly so.
But it must be viewed in the historical frame in which it occurred. This was the era when it was acceptable for a teacher to beat a child until he was black with bruises and parents approved. It was the time when mothers, declared unfit for an immoral lifestyle, had their children taken with no recourse. Women were still considered chattels in marriage and had few legal rights. Prisoners were hanged. Children went to work from an early age and where bonded into apprenticeships for half their lives. The orphanages were overflowing with abandoned, unwanted, bastard or orphaned white children in little better condition than their indigenous compatriots. We even shipped them out from Britain.
This was an era blighted by two world wars and a crippling depression. Social reform, even social conscience, perforce, takes a back seat under those conditions. Even if people had begun to see the wrong, they were too centred on feeding their own brood than worrying about children that were given food and shelter by the law.
Yes, what happened to "The stolen Generation" was a lousy lousy thing. But, in retrospect, it was just one more lousy thing happening in that time. Yes, we were slow to raise our voices against it. But, we were equally slow with many other social reforms. It was a nasty thing happen to anyone but, just because it was done for racial reasons, doesn't make it any worse than what happened to any other person who suffered under the laws, morals and beliefs of that time.
Today our Prime Minister made an apology to "The Stolen Generation". It was a very popular move. It was supported by the media and many sections of the community.
Yes, I am appalled at what happened to these kids. I am appalled at the disastrous effect it had on many of their adult lives.
I am equally appalled at many other things that happened during that time. I am appalled at the women who lost their children because they were unmarried or living in sin. I'm appalled that children had to work 10 hour days at 12. I'm appalled that we shipped children out to our orphanages without bothering to make sure that they were, in fact, orphans. I'm appalled that we abused and raped our country. There are many many things from both my country's history and of the history of mankind that appal me. And appal others.
I think we should acknowledge the mistakes of the past. They are many.
But sorry?
No.
For a start, it would open a floodgate. Will the Italians now have to apologise for invading Germany and Britain two millennia ago? The Egyptians for enslaving the Jews? The Spanish for giving measles to the Incas? Once you start with this kind of self-flagellation, there is no end.
Shit happened. It's past. Today is a new start.
I acknowledge that previous generations suffered, black, white or brindle. I acknowledge that my ancestors were the cause of some of that suffering. I acknowledge that, by today's standards, that suffering was unacceptable.
But sorry?
No.
Everything we are, both individually and as a group, is the result of what has happened in the past. Without any single event, what we are would be different. The butterfly effect. The country I live in and the person I am is a direct result of the things that went before. Had those laws never been introduced and enforced, had we, as a nation, not had to fight against those laws, what sort of people who we now be?
Those laws represent a part of our growing as a nation, albeit a dark part. Awareness of those laws has been part of my personal growth as a human being.
Living under the effects of those laws has also been a part of the growth of our indigenous people. Would they have been safer, happier, without those laws? Would they still even exist without those laws? Would they have banded together across tribal boundaries unless they had found the common cause presented by those laws and practices? We will never know.
I am not sorry that part of our history occurred. I am not sorry any part of our history occurred, good or bad. It is all part of who and what we are, both individually and nationally.
I acknowledge that it happened and that individuals feel they were hurt by it. There, and there alone, is where my sorry lies.
I am sorry that some individuals have carried ill effects into their lives from their past. And I am sorry that they are not strong enough to move past it.
The lovely hot and windy weather is ideal for drying washing. I loaded the line to it's limit and then stripped it bared and loaded it again. Everything but the thickest towels were dry, off and in the basket in the 20 minutes it took for the next load to be done. Brilliant. Washing all up to date.
Then comes the problem.
Having ruthlessly sorted through everything, folded and put to the bottom of the pile any item that I can vaguely get away with not ironing, I am still left with a mammoth amount. Two full baskets of shirts, trousers, frocks, hankies and tablecloths. Add to that the other basket of un-ironed stuff I hid in the study and the pile is past mammoth. It's Himalayan!
It was time.
It's not like I never do ironing. I do. It's just that I do it as rarely as possible. I will dig a frock out of the bottom of the basket 10 minutes before going out and give it a quick press with the iron already hot from M doing the same to his shirt. Random ironing and hanging of mass clothes in the wardrobe is a rare and special event but it is not unknown.
I woke up this morning already behind the eight ball (as a matter of interest, what the hell does that actually mean?) I had slept poorly (bless those bloody hot flushes and itches) and it was nearly 8 when I emerged. And there, sitting accusingly in my lounge-room, were those three overflowing baskets.
They stared at me while I ate breakfast and when I fed the fish. They glared when I shuffled off to the shower. They were still there, lurking, when I put the stereo on.
Sigh
I caved.
I went and got a bundle of coat-hangers out of the wardrobe. I collected the iron from the laundry (covered in dust) (the iron, not the laundry). I got the ironing-board out of the study (and brushed off the accumulation of cat hair that Skank had left after sleeping on it). I set it all up in front of the telly, tuned into Silent Witness, filled the iron and turned it on.
Then my mate walked through my back door.
Visitor.
A reprieve.
After nearly 7 hours of weeping, sobbing, yelling, silent misery and kicking of my lemon tree, I think we got her angst sorted (god I'd love to wring that man's bloody neck).
It was better than doing the ironing.
I'm one of those (annoying) people who constantly changes her desktop background. Sometimes I have totally random things (like cartoons or slogans), sometimes it is pretty stuff that I snap around the place or I find online but, mostly, it's my kids.
I've had kids all dolled up for school balls, weddings or the races. I have had drunken playing of air guitars and snoozing heads on pillows. I've shown ancient captures of long-grown babes and fuzzy images in wombs. Kids on horseback and wrestling dogs, hugging guinea pigs and shearing alpacas. Alone or in groups, happy, sad, pensive, angry, loving and asleep.
At the moment I have a picture I found in my documents files. It is a cam-whore shot my baby took of herself over the Christmas break. She is there in front of me every time I switch on my monitor and lurks behind every page I browse.
None of my kids will set the world on fire with their looks. They are far from ugly, they are just not stunners. It isn't like I had the looks to pass on and the poor buggers all inherited my enormous nose!
But, when my husband and I were allocating genes to them, somehow we lost the plot with their eyes. Sure, they all got the family's appalling eyesight and my husband's hooded lids but, when it came to colour, well...
My eyes are a washed out bluey grey, my husband's are a flecked hazel. Yet, with those genes on board, this is what stares out of my computer screen each day.....
Green. Not greenish. Not fleckled. Just green. With the blackest of black lashes.
My son, on the other hand, has the deepest of chocolate brown. Not the hazel of his father, thick dark chocolate. Cow's eyes. Fringed with thick thick dark-blonde lashes.
My middle daughter also has green eyes. But not the green of her baby sister. Hers is the green of cats, such a pale green that it is almost yellow. If it wasn't for the surround of almost invisible platinum blonde lashes, they would be feral eyes.
And then there is my oldest daughter. How the hell do I describe her windows to the world?
Remember that fashion, years ago, for mood rings? They sold them at cheapo stores and put them in showbags. They were supposed to change colour according to your mood. Well, my eldest daughter's eyes are mood eyes.
When she is angry they shoot green sparks. When she is tired, they are a washed out blue. When she is concentrating, they mirror her father's hazel. When she laughs they turn Elizabeth Taylor violet. And, rarely seen by anyone other than her husband, passion sends her eyes to the deep chocolate worn by her brother.
We call them chameleon eyes.
In school, like everyone else, I learned all about the Mendelian laws of inheritance. We did all the sweet pea stuff in the lab and watched the proof of dominance and segregation. All that red and pink and white, dwarfed or tall, it all made sense.
I have blue eyes. Every member of my family that I have met has blue eyes. Solid Celtic blood doesn't have the opportunity to change.
My husband's family are a mixture. On his mother's side the Norse blood has blue. His father's side are all hazel or blue.
On neither side is there green. No ancestor (within our knowledge) has purple or chocolate. And any artist will tell you that blue and brown can't make any of them.
I reckon my kids prove the law of independent assortment.
Or the bloody milkman got his bib in somehow!!
by Golf Widow, she of the Ministry of Silly Walks.
I always get confused when I pop in on Fi. She says things like "The thermometer hasn't managed to get over 23. It is cool and wonderful."
And I'm thinking, our thermometer hasn't managed to get over 23, either, but it's cold and miserable.
I have to remember that she's down under, where it's summer and we're in winter. She's using a centigrade thermometer; mine is Fahrenheit.
I wish I could bottle up some of our winter, pack it in a box, and ship it to her. I'm sure Tegan could use it, right about now.
And I'd happily take some of her summer off of her hands, in return. I'm fair like that.
My Mum put her house on the market today.
The price seems ridiculously huge to me ($575K), especially for a wee little house like hers, but the agent said it should sell quickly. The area is in high demand and she has a large block.
It is all starting to happen. I feel happy. And relieved.
Mum will be with us soon.
It has drizzled rain most of the day. The thermometer hasn't managed to get over 23. It is cool and wonderful.
The break has given me the chance to fill the house with curry smells. A change from the never-ending salads of summer is a bonus.
The rain does have one drawback.
I am not one to use the word "hate" often. I don't use it because I find very little to raise such a strong and damaging emotion in me. Perhaps it is just laziness. Hating takes a great deal of effort and concentration. I am quite relaxed with dislike, revulsion, irritation, annoyance but hate? It isn't a comfortable or discomfiting thing. It eats at the soul.
If I did manage to raise a little hatred in my laziness, it would be directed at snails. They slime around the garden, eating fresh young shoot, damaging bark and roots and leaving gooey trails all over the windows. No matter how many you squish or bait or collect into buckets of brine, the buggers are eternal. They are a gardener's bane.
If I could hate, I would hate snails.
But how can I stay mad, even at snails, when my house is cool and fragrant with bubbling cardamom and cumin and sweet garlic?
Besides, I have something nicer to talk about.....
Liz (she of the little pink house) has awarded me a prize (and said some extremely nice things about me).
Thanks Liz
It is now my duty to nominate three of my buddies to receive the award. It is hard to pick because all my favourites are classy in some way (which is why I read them). Some of them have already (deservedly) been nominated but there are way more of you that deserve than just three. So I am going to take the chicken's way out and nominate the first three on my Google reader that I think haven't yet recieved a guernsey.
My first name is Moshe. Husband, father, migrant, thinker, he writes in a way that captures my imagination and yet is quite unfamiliar. Intelligently opinionated, he is definitely classy.
Next is Deb. A journal brimming with joy and honesty, she shares her busy life with us all in a brief but very classy manner.
And finally the lazy wench. I had a RL peek into her world when I met her husband long before he met her. Passionate, capable, versatile, intelligent and brutally honest, her class keeps me coming back.
And, as a final note, because you asked (and because Liz said I did it!)...
Petrichor is the smell you get when rain falls on dry soil. (Not an Australianism, just a word.)
Last night it rained.
There was thunder. There was lightning. There was petrichor.
It was good.
Today it is hot and humid. But the memory of last night, and the promise of more from the clouds rolling in, keeps the goodness alive.
Today is good.
And that's all I have to say about that.
Many moons ago (a very big many), we had a summer which I will never forget.
It was the year we had Tegan and, with my usual haphazard thinking, I had planned another April birth, another season of being large and lumpy through the summer.
This was before the time of air conditioning. No-one had anything more than fans in their homes. A few odd (posh) places were cooled mechanically but most of us just copped it sweet.
We were living in the NSW wheat belt, that huge flat expanse west of the Great Divide. The summer days were scorching hot but, with nothing to hold the heat in, the nights were cool and refreshing.
Until that year.
That was the year the enormous, immovable high got stuck off the east coast in late February.
The days were blistering, well over 40 every day. And, to add to the joy of an enormously pregnant mum, the jetstream stuck on our side of the divide brought thin high-level cloud in every evening. The sun boiled the land and then nature kindly put a cirrus lid on it to keep it at a simmer.
It lasted for 32 days.
Thirty two days of the mercury soaring over 40 every day. Thirty two days when the overnight temperature didn't get below 30.
The local shops sold out of fans, paddle pools, ice, sun hats. People slept (or attempted to) on their verandahs, trampolines, roofs or just out on the back lawn. Gardens singed and died, crops withered, water tanks were perilously empty and dams cracked and crazed around their muddy pools.
The birds began to disappear (dead or gone I don't know). Roads melted and stuck to our shoes (or burnt our feet). Children stopped playing and lay in rare shade.
No-one slept. Tempers frayed. Teachers yelled at kids and kids yelled back. Bosses sacked workers and they didn't care. Accidents increased and no-one showed any sympathy. Violence became apparent. Pub brawls, domestic stouches, playground biffs, shouting matches. The local blueys were run off their feet (and gave out more than the odd spanking).
Babies were draped in damp sheets and old ladies dozed in cold bathes. The banks of the local river were crowded with people just sitting up to their necks in the shallows, a sea of unmoving Greg Chappell hats in the murky water.
By the 22nd day I had had enough (more than enough). Even my usually dour husband had raised his voice at me and the kids.
We went to the bank and took out a loan.
We bought a rare and exotic air-conditioner (we drove a 860km round trip to get it) and installed it in the lounge room window.
We spent the last 9 days of that heatwave wallowing in the cool of our new acquisition. We slept in that room and ate in that room and hosted an almost endless stream of visitors seeking to share our bounty.
We survived.
I've been remembering that summer a lot in the last week or so. I look at the synoptic charts on the weather reports and see the huge high stuck over the Indian ocean and remember.
The thermometer on our verandah tells me it isn't nearly so hot (high 30s) and it gets cooler at night (low 20s) but the cloud rolling in each evening and the teasing sight of lightning out to sea makes me recall. As our cooler thunders along on our roof and its' gentle zephyrs waft over me, I remember.
And whisper a pray of thanks at the altar of the god BreezeAir that it is now Tegan's time to be pregnant.
And I resist the urge to ner ner ner!
Our family has a few rather significant dates on the calendar for this year.
The first to come up is in just 16 days. That is the day that my eldest daughter will arrive back on home soil after her deployment to the not-very-nice place. To see her safely back is always a relief.
We won't actually see her until after the next date marked in red. In April her other half will be getting home from the even nastier part of the not-very-nice place.
Once they are both back, safe and sound, I can breathe out. I seem to hold my breath the whole time they are gone. I hate that they are sent to these places. I know it is the life they have chosen but it doesn't make it any easier to be the mum fretting thousands of miles away.
Once they are both home, we will get to see the two of them for a couple of days (as they pass through here on the way to their holiday of a lifetime. In May they are heading off for an African safari holiday. My girl will be able to real live hippos instead of the hundreds of stone, wood, and metal ones that adorn her home.
The next mark on the calendar is a more flexible one but sometime in May we should be celebrating the birth of our first grandchild (gender, as yet, unknown). All we can do in preparation of that date (other than knitting until I go blind and haunting Pumpkin Patch sales) is to keep our fingers crossed for an uncomplicated birth and a whole and health Graygan.
In November we get to the last of our "big" dates for the year (so far). On the 25th, my husband turns 60.
It's the biggie. It requires significant recognition. And therein lay the problem.
M is notoriously difficult as far as birthdays are concerned. Almost impossible to buy for and with a thorough dislike of anything resembling a party, we were at a loss.
Even if he liked parties, he has very few friends (although, a lot of acquaintances). If we threw him a celebratory gathering, it would be our mates, not his.
Gifts are a nightmare. Occasionally we get it right (as we did this Christmas with a selection of weather measuring tools) but, more often than not, we get it totally wrong. He read copiously but with very specific and esoteric taste. Book are out. He enjoys woodwork but has inherited both his and my father's collection of tool and needs (and wants) no more. His fascination with the night sky is covered by the whiz bang telescope (and all accessories) he bought himself a few years ago. He loves sailing and the sea but a yacht was way beyond our finances.
We were stumped.
And, then, my son had a brainwave.
When I first met my husband (whilst sailing), he had recently applied, and been passed over, for a position in an Antarctic expedition. Shackleton and Mawson were two of his all time favourite heroes and he longed to follow in their footsteps. Unfortunately, inorganic chemists aren't high on the staff lists in the deep south and he knew he would never see the great white continent.
Well, now he will.
The family are all combining and, for his 60th birthday, are sending him to Antarctica.
We have booked him a berth on a Russian research vessel and he will spend 10 days exploring the peninsula of the continent. Camping on the ice, sailing an icebreaker in and out of the inlets and bays, scudding around the icy waters in a Zodiac and climbing some of the smaller peaks in the area.
He will leave Australia in early December to join the ship in Ushuaia (in Argentina) and will spend Christmas on the ice.
Because he has to have medicals, buy equipment and undergo a fitness routine before he leaves, we will have to give him all the details early. We have decided on Father's Day (in September) as an appropriate time to make the presentation. It gives him plenty of time to do all the pre-sail preparations.
I sincerely hope we have got the whole prezzie thing right this time. Even with Mum and the kids throwing in, it is costing me one hell of a lot of money.
Fingers crossed that I haven't bought him a 12K dud.
Due to a total lack of inspiration I shall bore you all with the meme that everyone seems to be doing (and looks like fun).
Google the answers and post the first images that come up..JPG)
the first I owned... a Monaro
Where did you grow up? Ferntree Gully
Where do you live now? That would be telling but I googled the name and came up with ....
What is your real name? Fiona ( I sooooo know this is going to be a shrek thing. GRRR)
What was your grandmother's name? Unlike most people, I had three grandmothers. Valetta...
Helen...
and Edie.
What is your favourite food? Why, yes, I do like food
What is your favourite beverage? I'm a bit of a Diet Coke addict.
What is your favourite song? This is very much a mood thing but "Annie Laurie" is a perennial
What is your favorite smell or aroma? It has to be cinnamon, especially when it's cooking
What are your favorite shoes? Thongs. Or bare feet
What was your first pet? My parents bred dachshunds when I was a kid, from before I was born. We always had a least four.
What is your favourite colour? No real favourite. It's a mood and purpose thing. I guess the more natural colours, like ochre or sage, would top the list in most circumstances.
What is your least favorite smell? That would have to be rotting whale meat. I only ever smelt it once and, Jesus, was it appalling. I chundered horrendously.
What do you fear the most? Pain. And being wrong.
And last but not least.....What do you like to do in your spare time? Anything to do with words. Language fascinates me. Crosswords, reading, writing, thinking, arguing. If it is about words, I am there.
