FAREWELL MUM...

Farewell Mum

We celebrate now in love, Mum's life from start to end

And we're glad we knew her, as Mum and as a Friend.

We remember all the love and lessons she taught us

And thank her for the care and generosity shown us.

Although Mum's now left this earth and taken flight,

We know she's that voice in our heads, our guiding light.

Remembering her will be easy, we do that anyway;

Because there's an ache in our hearts that won't go away.

But we're pretty sure that up there in Heaven

She'll be painting and teaching pottery once again...

S, P & R (26.9.17)

THE CIRCUS TRAIN

Photo courtesy Nest In The Attic

My eyes are wet with tears as I stand over her frail body. Her face is peaceful and free of the pain that has been so noticeable of late.  I feel my throat constricting with the effort of keeping my emotions in check.  Is this tiny, thin creature the same woman I remember from childhood as a tower of strength?

Mum had phoned me earlier this morning and asked me to stop in on my way to the city to check on her mother, my "Grammy".  I had grudgingly agreed because she was insistent although it would mean I’d be late for my hair appointment.  It was terribly difficult to get a suitable spot at Ramon’s.

“Honestly Mum, you worry too much,” I had said.  “She’s as tough as old leather and will probably outlast me!”

I look through the door to the kitchen where long ago Grandma had taught me to cook the dishes my own family now loved.  So strong are the many happy memories of that room, I feel I can almost touch the woman and child I see in my mind’s eye.  When had the table become so low and the huge combustion stove so small?  Everything looks the same, just smaller and more faded.  Like the woman lying on the couch.

I am caught up in a web of nostalgia, remembering the good times I spent with my grandmother.  A train trip in those days was excitement enough but very often I got to top off the trip with something even more wonderful.  I remember best how she took me to the circus and the exhilaration I felt each time.  I amused myself for hours each day after those trips.

I played trapeze artist on the clothes line (“Stop swinging on the line Alex! You’ll break it.”), lion tamer with old Puss (until he got bored and wandered away) or tightrope walker on the rickety fence.  I even performed death-defying feats like jumping from the outhouse roof to the garage roof.

My grandparents’ house was home to me occasionally for short periods as I grew up, and I recall many happy hours poring over their old photos or searching the wardrobes for dress-ups.  My grandmother answered all my questions patiently and told me interesting stories about the various relatives and friends in the photos.  None had been lion tamers or ringmasters.

We also went to the city to see the Tintookies puppet show.  I suspect my love of the theatre started that day.  My mother couldn’t afford such things, yet because of Grandma’s generosity I never missed out.  She always had a few pennies for me to take home to put in my piggy bank too.  A lively, humorous woman, she had taken me to the Ekka*, bought me sample bags and strawberry ice creams and, one year, kangaroo tail soup!  I had always trailed happily around the craft exhibits with her until it was time to go.

Why hadn’t I noticed how frail she was becoming?  I feel the tears coursing down my cheeks.  I can never make amends for the lost years, years I was too wrapped up in my own life to worry about hers.

Memories crowd in on me and guiltily I recall how she comforted me when I had nightmares, allowing me to climb into her side of the high bed she shared with Grandad.  I had felt safe there. No kidnappers could find me in that bed!

I look again at her lined face, at the veins showing through her almost translucent skin.  I gently push the wispy, grey curls away from her temple.  I smile, remembering the day she swore the fruit sherbet I insisted on prescribing had, indeed, rid her of that terrible migraine.  I was eight and for years believed I had discovered a cure for headaches.

Those days will never return and I feel a profound sense of loss.  I wish I had been more observant, visited more often; just been there for her.  I wonder if my own children will neglect me in the same manner.  I choke back a sob at the thought and the shape on the lounge stirs.  Faded, cornflower-blue eyes turn toward me, hugely magnified by the thick lenses.

“Is that you Alex? I didn’t hear you come in. What are you doing here?” she asks, knocking her glasses aside as she rubs her eyes.  Her voice is thin and reedy as I help her struggle to a sitting position and sit the spectacles back on her face.

“Yes Grammy, it’s me.  I’ve… I’ve come to take you to the circus!” 

Behind the thick glasses a spark of the woman she used to be flashes and a mischievous smile plays on her lips.

“What time does the train leave?” she asks, echoing one of my constant childhood questions, as she opens her arms to me for our customary hug.

SMG © 2006

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

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

PUTTING A GOOD FACE ON IT....

I am under siege! Every day I come under a constant barrage of complaints from my 13 year old daughter: "It's not fair. All my friends are doing/wearing/having/getting it."

Last year “it” was getting a signet ring (heart-shaped, preferably with a red stone, not silver).  I daresay next year “it” will be something equally as earth-shattering to a girl of her age.

At the moment, “it” refers to the wearing of make-up.  I might add that after watching her friends closely, I have found no evidence to support her claim that they’re all doing anything, except gang up on me.  One signet ring does not a sorority make.

I intend to go down fighting, though.  I vow I will not succumb to the endless sniping.  It may be paltry ammunition but the tried and true “when I was your age...." will hold her off for a while and then I can trot out my favourite, “I’ll think about it”.  Recycling is the key to resistance.

It has occurred to me that I can’t hold out forever.  In the meantime, I have decided to write down all those little grooming tricks only experience can teach you so as to give her a head-start when she finally get the go-ahead.

Nearly thirty years of slapping on foundation and the like has taught me a lot and who better to benefit from my painful lessons than my own daughter?

The first tip that springs to mind concerns lipstick.  I will tell her never, never put on lipstick in a moving car, especially if she is driving. Apart from the safety aspect, one good bump and she’ll look like Ronald McDonald in drag.

Hairspray is another tricky part of a woman’s routine.  I’ll make sure she knows never to keep her spray deodorant near the hairspray.  The reason for this is twofold.  Should she pick up the wrong can, deodorant will not keep her hair in pace very well. Secondly, she could give herself a nasty rash in the armpit area, and if she has neglected to shave in that spot for a while, severe scrathing.

Similarly, I must remember to tell her about the pitfalls of keeping her toothpaste anywhere near her father’s tub of shaving soap.  Mixing up the two takes mouth hygiene to new heights, although I can’t comment on how well toothpaste would lather up a rough, manly beard. Which leads neatly to my next hint...

She should always make sure to shave her legs before going to any doctor, especially the gynaecologist.  It is not a nice experience to realise, belatedly, that your legs look and feel like large pin cushions.  I was caught out once at the cardiologists’s because I had not realised he would be sticking little sensors to my ankles.

I will warn her to be alert when she has just bought a new eyeliner pencil. After using an every-reducing stub of pencil for a few months, there’ll be no need to stand so close to the mirror. A poke in the eye with a new, longer pencil just before a big date will do nothing for her confidence (or appearance).  Still on the eye area, I’d better tell her not to sneeze just after applying the mascara or she’ll look like the victim of a practical joke.

Finally, I’ll give her the benefit of my eye-popping experience in the acrylic nail arena.  For the first few days after those fabulous, long nails have been applied, she should be very, very careful when she blows her nose.

For now, I’ll put these personal grooming hints away in a safe place until that long-awaited day when I say: “Ye gods, girl! Okay, okay! Just stop your damned whining!”

Originally published in The Courier Mail 18.4.95 © SMG

A PSYCHIC BENT....

The article announced that Diana, an amazing US psychic, was to focus on Queensland at noon that Sunday.  If we readers were also to concentrate at noon, holding a spoon or fork, whilst staring into the eyes of the accompanying photograph of the psychic, we could discover our own powers.

I devoured the story, soaking up the instructions and realised I would need to clear the house of all negative vibes. This meant my husband, The Great Sceptic, must be persuaded to go out with the children. I knew I would not be able to concentrate if I could feel his cynicism close at hand.  I cunningly discussed the idea of seeing a movie within earshot of the youngest and, true to form, after considerable nagging on her part, he caved and had the brilliant idea of taking the girls to the movies.

By 11.45am I was sure I had everything ready.  I went over the instructions again, so I would be sure not to omit any important step.  As well as a sturdy, unbent spoon, on a tray on my lap, I had my late mother-in-law’s broken watch and several bent pins; working on the theory that if something can be bent, it could be “unbent”.

I settled quietly in the lounge chair and at last it was noon.  I followed the instructions precisely, staring into Diana’s eyes for a minute or two, then closed my own while holding the spoon. A few minutes later, I could hardly contain my surprise as I felt the spoon warm and twist in my grasp.  Opening my eyes, I found it had twisted several times. As well, the watch was ticking loudly and the pins were quite straight.

Although I had always believed in such things, I couldn't believe what I was seeing. I had always felt this sort of thing only worked for other people. But now it was happening to me.  Amazement had me shaking like a leaf. Just as I thought of phoning my sister to share the news with her, I felt a nudge on the shoulder.

“Look, look, look,” said a disembodied voice in my ear.  I was puzzled to see my husband’s face.

Disorientated at first, I realised I must have fallen asleep after staring into Diana’s eyes. I checked the tray on my lap and there was my “proof”, exactly as it had been before noon!  I must have dreamed the whole thing.  Disillusioned, I was in no mood to look at whatever The Great Sceptic had to show me.

“I would never have believed it if I hadn't seen it myself,” he was saying. “Look at this!” He waved his car keys in my face.

“During the movie, I was thinking about how you’d be staring into that woman’s eyes and I was jingling the keys in my pocket.  They started to feel warm but I didn't think much of it until we got to the car and I took them out.  Then I saw that the bent one was straight!  Look.  I couldn't wait to get home to show you.”

Other people......

Originally published in The Women's Weekly February 1994 © SMG