Sunday, April 24

This Day

This day, I stopped to admire the Free Treat of my lovely, soft pink, single petalled Camellia. Not a raving beauty, but somehow a simple soft, and complete flower that brings me much joy. It reminds me of the delicate Briar roses, that grew wild in the dusty little streets, close to the Railway line, in the small country town where I grew up. We used to pick the roses, in those dusty roads, and admire their simple beauty, the hint of perfume. They were best left to their prickly traling branches, as they soon wilted, once picked.

We have an extra Long Weekend, here in Oz, and also New Zealand, because of Anzac Day, 25th April,  falling so close to Easter.

I have blogged of Anzac Day before. It is to commemorate the fallen, who fought in World War 1 and World War 2, and also, all the other Wars which have claimed the lives of valiant Soldiers, Sailors and Air force personnel,  not least being the hideous, (and I believe wrong,)  Vietnam War. Service men and women, were altered irrevocably by these Wars, and indeed, any War, and perhaps, it was the 'lucky' whose bodies died.
Many survived, to spend a living hell, for the remainder of their 'lives'.

Their shattered bodies may have healed, but the mental scars and the long term health issues haunted them, and their families, forever.

I did not intend a dark post.

Here is Honey, absolutely refusing to look at the camera. She badly needs a grooming, and a haircut- or wool clip, to be more exact! She reads me just thinking about the scissors, and she scarpers!

Here is Gom, sitting in his chair, with his beloved Leo at his side.
Gom is not travelling too well, these days. He is very tired and very weak at times. He needs regular transfusions of blood every week.

He does get a lot of comfort from his little Leo, being so loyal. There are mornings when I fear to look at Gom, but when I see Leo there, I know he is looking after him.

Yes, yes, the socks... Gom refuses to wear slippers. He says only 'Old Men' wear slippers, and when I gently suggest he has become an 'Old Man' he scowls.

I am managing better now, with support from our new GP. I still have rough days and sad days, but Gom is calm now, and I can better cope with the highs and lows of our lives.

Some folk suggest I pour a little too much 'personal' into the blog. Perhaps I do, but I have learnt my blog ~friends can be a very supportive and comforting bunch, in times of dark despair!

Oh to be Morty, who can abandon himself with utter ease. Here, he is so relaxed as to be almost limp! What a great art.

We have had mixed weather for the Long Weekend. It has been very warm, then quite cool, and we have had a few cold mornings, Cold early evenings, humid midnights, and a few sprinkles of showers. Four Seasons in one weekend! 

Quilts on, quilts tossed aside! I had a sleepless night last night, so I read a lovely book, and this morning, I finished it!  It is 'Jacaranda Blue', by Joy Dettman, who is an Australian author, and I recommend it to anyone who loves an Aussie story, with true colour. To me, her stories rank up there with Tim Winton, who is a fantastic Aussie Author.

Reading has become a luxury, a stolen pleasure.

Roy Orbison, Blue Bayou

Monday, April 18

The Last Summer of Childhood.

Do you remember your 'Last Summer of Childhood"?

I think I do.

It was that last Summer, when you felt goofy enough to still be childish, but knew you were about to be expected to begin to behave, as an Adult, with 'decorum' and 'maturity'.

Though, really, what did those terms mean, in the REAL world, as you knew it??

It seemed to mean, you could no longer wade through mud, in creeks and gullies, where you had spent time, frittering away hours, as you built a dam, to stop the full flow of the creek. Then, when you released the dam, you watched with fascination, as the water gushed to rush free of all restriction.

You pulled clay, from the banks of the creek, and fashioned it into models. Ducks, bowls, and various weird looking creatures.

You waited, naively,  for the clay figurines to dry, in the hot Summer sun, then you painted them, and glazed them, with domestic varnish, you stole from your best friend's Brother-in law's shed, in the hope they might prevail, in some space and time, in the future. Some little portion of this last, magical, childish Summer may exist, long after all had changed.

Your observations of the sun, gleaming through the delicate spider webs. The beautiful silver strands so delicate, yet so strong, but ultimately,  so very fragile. Swept away, with the sweep of a hand, or the rush of an insect, too strong to be captured, in that fine web.

Your fondness for the moss, the delicate ferns, that grew on the side stones of the creek.

How beautiful they all seemed, as if viewed through an exaggerated magnifying glass, a type of 'diamond view',of perfection,  to last the rest of your days of living memory. How precious the memories were, to be stored, and savoured, as a milestone in your  life.

The trips to the Beach, which was a local "Resort", of the day, which were so exciting., and so intimidating, as the promenading young men, swaggered and strutted up to the Milk bar. The songs on the Jukebox, which made the heart ache, and seemed to offer an adult world, filled with romance, and 'love' everlasting.

The final 'School Holiday', spent at an Aunt and Uncle's farm. The secret excitement of the invitation for a 'date' after the holidays, when you would have officially 'left School' and become, somehow, an Adult!

The secret Admirer, someone a little older. How daring. How exciting to think, you might finally enter the realm of Adulthood. How exciting to think he might consider 'dating' an ex school girl!

The music all seemed to poignant, the dew on the grass seemed to cast such gems of light, in the early morning sun. Like the shades of your best friend's mother's cut crystal, in the light of the sun, through the afternoon rays, of the open curtains.

Or, your Aunt's diamonds, in her ring, that shed such beautiful shafts of light, in the sunshine, at the shearing shed.

After all, it was all Illusion. It was the Last Summer of My Childhood.

Sunday, April 17

Tussles with..".Bastards Inc"

I suspect, we have all had our tussles, with 'Bastards Inc'. You know the ones. They seal the tops on the small plastic pots/jars of "Fruit Jellies" ~ supposedly for children to take to school, to use as snacks at Recess, or whatever they currently call the morning/afternoon  tea break.
It seems to me, no person with average intelligence, or strength, can open these sealed treasures, without the aid of a blowtorch, or a superhuman thumb!!

'Bastards Inc' design the seal for the tops of 'Child Proof' bottles of pills, that must be accessed by the aged to keep their lives in continuity, and prevent the 'children' from access to same. If the Elderly could only open them, that is!! I am sure the young could open them as easily as a hot knife might cut butter!!

One of the worst 'Bastard's Inc" inventions, is the telephonic system that uses 'Voice Recognition'.  You get asked questions, and you are asked to reply, (" I will understand your answers"  the disembodied automated voice intones,) with a choice of several 'responses'. Too bad, if your answer does not tally with one they expect to 'hear'. The stupid machine keeps saying "I am sorry, I did not hear your answer" and the stupid question will be repeated. Finally, when you are screaming into the phone, ~always remembering not to utter obscenities~ you may, if you are lucky, be transferred to a 'live' person.
I use 'live' here with quotations, because they, also, may be automated. They claim to be 'live' but the truth of this is often doubtful. The responses seem so far removed from human understanding.

Oh Yes! 'Bastards Inc' are very much alive, and, I suspect, hoping we will all give up, and Abandon All Hope.

'Bastards Inc' inhabit our daily lives, with increasing prevalence. I suspect they are hoping their stealth and silent takeover tactics will not be recognized.
How sad I feel at the realization that this must be true.

The false lulling into acceptance of their infiltration. The meek acceptance of statements, that,  upon later analysis, seem to be nonsensical, and totally irrational.
All the work of insidious 'Bastards Inc".

Here, is the disdainful Morty, who would choose to lie about, in seemingly carefree ~ or should that be, arrogant~ abandonment.

He is one very strange animal, and is not in the least inclined to be affectionate, or cuddly. Should one attempt any type of closeness, he is just as likely to attack, with bites, and scratches, as purrs, or even acceptance of attentions.

He has adopted our Son's stored Leather chair as his preferred daytime hideaway.
As our son says, he has "Mortified" the chair, with a nest of shed hairs, and his daily slumber.

Ah, the Mortification of an adopted feline, who is so affiliated with 'Bastards Inc'.!!

However, I still love him, unconditionally, and will continue dialogue with him, and the feeding of him, upon his loud demands.
There is no doubt that cats command their own agendas and their own proud indifference to the wishes of their 'staff'!

Wednesday, April 6


She watched the plume of the dust, travelling up the long, dusty road. It seemed to melt into the smokey-leaved Eucalyptus's, to be absorbed by their branches, and mottled, peeling , trunks.

When his Ute screeched to a halt in her front yard, she was standing, defensively, on the front veranda, her body stiff with anger, and a little, hesitant, expectancy.

She watched him leap from the Ute, his dusty jeans faded and torn. His shabby boots and faded shirt, some sort of defence, or a vulnerability, to her eyes.

Her heart went weak, at the familiar shabbiness, but she had a sudden stab of strength, and she faced him defiantly.

"What are you doing here?"

Not so much a question, as a statement.

"I thought we might talk."

"Talk seems little,... a little, a lot too late?"

She shifted her weight from one leg to the other, and felt a sudden surge of angry power, as if, she was in charge of this encounter.
She crossed her arms in a protective gesture, and glared at him, as he stood, a little indecisively, with one foot on the bottom step of the veranda.

"There is nothing to talk about." She swayed a little when she said this.

Her body, surely, seemed about to betray her. She thought 'I refuse to cry, or break down! No one is to see the depth of my grief! Not even his father!'

Their marriage had seemed to gradually sink into nothingness.She could not define any moment or time when it had begun to fray, unravel, and fall apart.
They had just seemed to become separate entities, with silent feelings and sole thoughts, emotions, ideas, and perhaps, even dreams.

Their son was the only cement, which had kept them together. He was a bright light for both of them, and he could bring them together for a time, when he broke into animated discussion of his school achievements, or his running victories.

His face would light up, and he would recount his running  triumphs, and make them both laugh, to hear how he planned the strategy of his races. He was so swift and true to his passion for running, they both stopped to listen and applaud. They did their best to attend every race he was in, to watch his triumphs, together.

When he drowned, aged Fourteen, in the Damn on their property, no one in the community could believe it. He had been such a strong swimmer. Such a strong Athlete.
How could this have happened? Where had his  parents been? Had they not known he was swimming in the damn?

The self recriminations for both of them had haunted them. There was no coming back from this tragedy. They both blamed each other. They both blamed themselves.

There was no road back from this.

There were no returns.