IT'S INTOLERABLE!

It’s extremely rare to actually enjoy

Travelling to your place of employ

(Whether by bus, tram, car or train),

Since common courtesy began to wane.

It’s people who snuffle with whom I take issue.

Surely to goodness they could carry a tissue?

And malodorous people should surely desist

From travel with others. I really insist!

How I curse the man who invented the MP3;

Just an invasive, pervasive musical tin can to me.

Putting up with their racket is only for mugs

So I praise the woman who invented ear plugs.

Driving myself is not the preferred mode

Because of the plethora of idiots using the road.

It seems lack of road courtesy presents no bar

To their having a licence or driving a car.

Rudeness it seems is not confined to transport.

Lack of respect for others is now a national sport.

Those queue jumpers are a right royal pain too
While you’re patiently waiting for food or the loo.

What about those who dial the wrong number?

Especially at night, disturbing your slumber.

Perhaps not so bad if they’re apologetic;

But no; they get abusive and you get apoplectic.

If they insist they have dialled correctly

And it’s you at fault, just tell them politely

They lack the IQ to use a phone at all!

Then hang up noisily to end the call.

Many’s the time though you’ll probably find,

You can’t sleep; you’re going out of your mind

Because your neighbours are loudly celebrating.

They don’t care that your walls are vibrating.

So after much thought, I’ve the perfect solution.

I’ve moved to a cave; no more noise pollution.

No more smelly, snuffling, musical travellers.

No more rude callers or late night revellers.

The roar of the surf is my constant companion;

Squeaking bats and wildlife live in the next canyon.

I do have one request now I live like a hermit…

Please bring me some earplugs on your next visit.

SMG © 2008

DEADLY RAIN...

   Whenever I see a news report of volcanic eruptions anywhere, I relive vivid memories of the terror my (now ex-) husband, Paul, and I suffered in 1979 in Indonesia, although it would seem our experience was mild in comparison to most reported eruptions.  That weekend in August promised to be an adventure; we had no idea just how close to death we would come.

Along with three other Australian expatriates living in Jakarta, we signed up for a trip to Krakatoa, west of Java (the film title is wrong), arranged by the Diplomatic Club.  There were groups from all over the world on the tour, including Canada, France, Britain, USA, Germany and elsewhere and we were all eager to get a close look at the famous volcano.

Krakatau, as it is known in Indonesia, erupted in August 1883 after 200 years of slumber, killing approximately 36,000 people.  It was a blast that “shook the world”, sending shock waves around the world more than seven times and debris 80km into the atmosphere, blotting out the sun.  Pumice stone rained on Alice Springs.  We intrepid adventurers couldn’t help but feel a tingle of excitement as we drew closer to our destination.

From the beach at Cerita on the western shore of Java, our departure point, we had seen a plume of smoke marking the spot and as the boat drew closer, were treated to a remarkable sight.  The force of the 1883 eruption had split the crater into several small islands and in the middle was the crater now known as “Child of Krakatau”.  As our boat circled the island, we jostled for position, cameras clicking madly trying to get the best possible shots of the eruptions. A French vulcanologist in our party told us that the volcano became active around August every year.

The crater island itself was breathtaking.  Everything was black and shades of grey.  Even the water surrounding the island appeared black because of the thick layer of ash below.  One small stand of straggly pines on a peninsular furthest from the crater offered the only colour in this inhospitable landscape.  Sulphur fumes reached us on the breeze but were not overpowering.  Soon the boat had beached and we were swimming in the “black sea” then eating our lunch, preparing for the trek up for a better view of the “show”.

A high ridge that had probably been the crater rim some years ago circled the active crater.  Each eruption sent fiery projectiles hurtling into the valley formed between the crater and the ridge.  After watching for a while, we realised there was a small eruption every five minutes or so for a period of half an hour or so, then a larger outburst before the cycle started again.

Groups started forging their way to the top of the ridge to watch Mother Nature’s fireworks.  Impatient to be off, Paul started without me accompanying two other Australians, Annette and Steve.  Annette’s husband, Gary and I found the water too inviting and decided to prolong our swim, promising to join them shortly, maybe.  We watched our mates follow a shorter path to the top of the ridge than the rest of the group, and seeing that the climb didn’t look too strenuous after all, we set off after them.

A spectacular view of the spewing crater was our reward as we joined our partners.  After watching the show for a while, we took turns have our photographs taken, capturing an eruption as a splendid backdrop in each snap shot. 

We were waiting for the big explosion when an almighty roar from the crater sent us scurrying back down the slope, running for our lives.  The large eruption we had been expecting was far stronger than any we had previously witnessed and we could see it was about to fire rocks over the ridge and down the slope we had just climbed.  Someone yelled, “Run!” and we turned and ran as one, trying desperately to get to the beach and safety.

I remember concentrating on pumping my arms and legs as hard as I could and being amazed that I was keeping pace with Steve who was renowned for his running prowess.  I can still remember the sound of the rocks whizzing through the air and the noise of one particularly large one landing with a loud “Whump!” beside my left leg.  I know I was terrified and the feeling of relief when I realised the deadly rain had stopped, was unforgettable.  We stopped short of the beach to recoup and count our blessings. 

The Canadians in an approaching group told us that we had looked like we were reenacting a scene from a war movie, running frantically, zigzagging and ducking enemy bombs.  I doubt our nervous laughter fooled anyone.  The French vulcanologists told us we should have faced the eruption, stood our ground and dodged any rocks that came our way.  Easy, if you know how, we supposed.

How all five of us managed to avoid being hit by one of those deadly missiles is anyone’s guess.  Volcanic rock when flung from the crater is so hot that even a tiny piece would have burnt a hole through our bodies.  A larger piece could have sheared off limbs.  Death would have been almost certain in that unfriendly place so far from adequate medical assistance.  Despite our shock at such a close call, we all put on brave faces, making light of our torrid time.  We were pleased when it was time to leave for the mainland.

The voyage back was probably the worst boat trip Paul and I had ever endured because of an extremely uncomfortable journey in mountainous seas caused by an approaching storm.  We looked back towards the island and in the darkness, enjoyed one of Nature’s best pyrotechnic displays.  The extraordinary sight of brilliant, red lava slowing boiling from the crater was a vision we will remember for the rest of our lives.

We didn’t succumb to the effects of seasickness felt by most of our fellow passengers, arriving back on Java with our lunch intact.  Ironically, I found I would feel sick later whenever I tried to talk about our experience.  The thought of being so close to death was hard to come to terms with.  I used to dream about the noise of that big rock landing near my leg and it was many months before I felt comfortable discussing the trip at all.

Later, we discovered that the boat owners had broken the law by allowing us to land on the island.  Boats were not allowed within two kilometres of the smoking volcano.  Even so, we have no regrets about that trip now, and consider it an unforgettable part of our life tapestry. 

©SMG 2008 – Originally published in Take 5 magazine #28.  

BEE THE WONDER CAT....

    My husband was very proud of his Christmas gift to me but I'm afraid I was not very happy about having a kitten in the house, pedigreed blue Burmese or not.  I had a new baby and a toddler so this cute ball of grey fluff seemed like too much hard work.  It occurred to me that she was going to be more trouble than the baby.  She had to be fed 4 times a day at first and came complete with suggested menu for those meals.  We named her Misty but that was gradually changed to Bee because our toddler, Kara, couldn’t pronounce “Misty” properly.

     She was as cute as a button and wonderful fun but there were times we could have cheerfully strangled her.  However, she turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to our family because if not for her we might all be dead!   The children were three and four when one winter night she woke me making a hell of a racket at our closed bedroom door.  She was scratching at the door, yowling and leaping up at the door handle.  I got up to chastise her and found to my horror that the kitchen was on fire!

     I "alerted" my husband, Paul (Wake up!! The house is on fire!!!!) and let the cat out the front door.  Then we evacuated the children and their grandmother, who was visiting for the weekend. After I ran up to the back neighbours, through the bush, they kindly opened their home to us.  Bee sat on the top step until everyone was out safely, only then taking to the bush.  We lived in the country and had very poor water pressure so it wasn’t long before our dear old weatherboard home had burned to the ground despite the best efforts of our rural fire brigade.  We managed to save only a few items of clothing and bedding.

     Without Bee to sound the alarm, we may have succumbed to smoke inhalation, even if we had been woken by the sound of the fire, smoke alarms being a thing of the future.  Certainly, the children would have had less chance, as their bedroom was closest to the seat of the fire.  We still shudder to think of what might have been had it not been for that brave puss.

     In her final days at the age of twelve (that’s 84 in cat years!), she was frail and thin and spent her days sleeping in the sun, no doubt dreaming of the sleek, action cat she used to be.  She lived and died a heroine.

     Thanks a million Bee, we still miss you.

© SMG 2008 - originally published (with much poetic licence) by that's life! Issue #38

THE LOST LEGEND

Wind breathes softly through deserted halls;

Sighs and whispers echo on vacant walls.

I wonder who was it abandoned this place,

Ruins of a long ago home of a now dead race?

Half open doors hang on hinges, wrecked and rusty,

Dank dungeons below smell mouldy and musty.

What horrors occurred in these rooms so ghastly?

The mournful wind reminds us of those gone lastly.

Once did these rooms ring with the voices and laughter

Of elves, dwarves and fairies and all who came after.

They told of trolls and goblins fought in battles, glorious

Of great Kingdoms lost and won in wars, victorious.

Skies above these towers built by those mere mortals

Teemed with dragons and griffins as sculpted on portals.

The moat below was filled with dolphins and mermaids

Swimming through mysterious grottos and cascades.

Sorcerers and witches brewing cauldrons of trickery,

Tempted those noble folk from the path of honesty;

And once in the depths of disgrace and depravity

That chivalrous race was reduced to awful ignobility.

There are times you may hear soft murmuring on the breeze,

Of names long forgotten, now only seen carved into trees.

Legend says they'll return some day when the time is right,

To reclaim their Kingdom, and rule us with their former might.

© SMG

TWISTER

        

A gang of us was workin’ at “Ruther Glen”

But Bill drew the short straw to clean the pig pen.

Ned and me was just watchin’, side by side

When Bill chucked a shovel load; said we was snide!

All I could say was “Bloody bloomin’ heck!”

‘Cause Ned was standin’ there with nary a speck

While I was covered head to toe in muck.

There’s just no explainin’ that kind of luck.

“Bluey, why don’t you just throw young Ned in?”

Said Big Sid Reilly with a lopsided grin.

“No, I couldn’t do that,” answered I with a wink.

“Whatever would me dear departed Mother think?

‘Sides, Ned’s me mate and mates don’t do fer each other,

It’s not his fault Bill’s got no sense of humour.”

All this time Bill was lookin’ perplexed,

Convinced as he was that he’d cop it next.

See, I’m well known for me fiery red thatch

And people expect a temper to match.

But I’m an easy going’ bloke, as a matter of fact

And always make a point to think before I act.

  

It was a few days later, out at the old dunny

Somethin’ occurred that turned out to be funny.

The walls fell down, with a crash and a clatter.

Everyone came runnin’ to see what was the matter.

When the dust had settled, there was poor old Bill

Lookin’ shocked and shaken and more than a little ill;

Half standin’, pants down, he was a sight to see,

‘Specially since the Missus had the ladies to tea!

The Boss decreed it must’ve been a freak kinda twister.

Nevertheless, Ned and me left urgent, to visit me sister.

 © SMG 

SUMMER MEANT EXCITEMENT...

             

           My favourite, summer holiday-spot in Queensland has been Caloundra on the Sunshine Coast, for as long as I can remember.  More particularly, Golden Beach, where my grandparents owned a beach shack.

          Every Christmas we would pack up, along with various aunts, uncles and cousins, not forgetting of course grandad and grandma, meet up with more aunts, uncles and cousins and proceed to have a whale of a time.  At least, we kids had a whale of a time.  Apparently, that’s not quite how the adults remember it. Sometimes we’d go at Easter time but Christmas and those hot summers, complete with Christmas beetles and the buzz of cicadas, are the memories I recall most fondly.

          It seems it was only we children who thoroughly enjoyed sleeping on the floor or camping downstairs; trooping off for another glorious day at the beach; counting the hours till Santa (or the Easter Bunny) delivered the goods; thinking up some new trick on play on the adults or just generally having a great time. Isn't that what kids are supposed to do?  Today, I might think kids like we were, a tiny bit.... well, feral, not to put too fine a point on it.

          To our parents it was just another hectic time and hardly a holiday for them. No doubt, they dreaded the bath time hysteria and bedtime scramble; feared the times it was their turn to watch the brats at the beach; slaved away in a hot kitchen feeding the hungry hoards; counted the hours till said brats finally went to sleep before falling into their own beds, girding their loins to get ready to do it all over again the next day.  I don’t remember the Mothers having any fun but surely they must have. Why else would they turn up year after year? The Dads got to go fishing and escape the rabble. I believe one year the record was set at 19 adults and 23 children – not bad for a two bedroom, high-set house with sleep-out, wood chip hot water heater and one outside toilet! 

          Fifty years on, the house was long ago sold and our holidays at dear old Golden Beach are just memories. Whenever I am over that way though, I am almost overcome by those memories - whether it was trying to stay awake to surprise Santa; building huge sandcastles; hiding from the designated adult behind moored dinghies waiting for their hysterical calls when they realised they couldn't see us; planning how to booby trap our sandcastles to stop other kids kicking them down or happily walking into town, if we were very lucky, to see a movie.  Summer meant excitement.

          Two things I'm aware of as an adult is that despite our lack of technology or even transport while we were there, none of us ever said, “I'm bored” and, nowadays, Queensland summers are to be endured.

Condensed version originally published in Sunshine Coast Daily 1/2/92 © SMG