Birthday Poem

Written for my 50th, love it, thanks Paul Martin.

To our Patty we say Happy Birthday once more,

She's Patricia Anne with an E,
But to us she's just our Patty.
But not just I must say she much more than that,
She's a modern woman,
A woman for the millennium,
Digital and smoke free.

No postmodern, politically correct deconstructionist,
She's a diversified, multi cultural, modernist non-delusionalist,
Politically, anatomically and ecologically correct.

She's a high tech high life.

She uplinks, downloads, inputs, and never outsources.

She's a cutting edge multi-tasker,
She'll give you a gigabite in a nanosecond.

New wave, but old school,
Her inner child is outward bound,
She's a hotwired, heat seeking, warm-hearted, cool customer.

Voice activated and biodegradable.

She's as cool as a cucumber.
Always singing a new number.

Patty interfaces with her database,
And her database is cyberspace.

Patty is interactive, hyperactive, and radioactive.
Never behind the eight ball,
she's ahead of the curve, riding the wave, always pushing the envelope.

She's on point, on task, on message and on the money.

Patty is in the moment, on the edge, over the top, and always
on our radar.

Still lighting rooms with her smile.

She's a high concept, high profile, long range ballistic marvel.

A computer wise, top gun smart sex bomb,
An enthusiastic critical thinker,

She's Eve not Adam our boat captain on the river out of Eden.

She daily climbs Mount Improbable,
Like a cool cat she flies here and there,
And the world now spins around like a top,
What better than to call it a dance,
Maestro Patty, the choreographer supreme, and the ultimate DJ.

She comes with no personal trainers, no personal shoppers, no personal assistants,
And no personal attitude.

She's a Webmistress with a whip in one hand a feather duster in the other.

Not a raging workaholic, not a working rageaholic,
Unless she's working on a DVD that is.

She's a totally ongoing, slam dunk, rain maker.

You can't shut her up, you can't dumb her down,
She's tireless, she's wireless.

She's a true believer, and an overachiever.

Patty is up front, down home, high rent, and low maintenance, Super sized,
long lasting, high definition, and fast acting.

She's a hands on, foot loose, knee jerk humanitarian.

She's a fully equipped, factory authorized, hospital tested, clinically proven, scientifically formulated biology wizard.

She's prewashed, precooked, prepackaged, preapproved,
prescreened, post-dated, freeze dried, and always prepared.

She eats fast food in the slow lane,

She's toll free, bite sized, ready to wear, and takes on all.

She's not a rude dude,
She's the real deal.

Lean, but not mean,
Cocked, locked and ready to rock.

She's not rough or tough, yet hard to bluff.

She takes things slow, she goes with the flow,
She rides the tide, she's got glide in her stride.

Always thinking and tinkering,
Lecturing and debating,
Confronting and challenging.

She's always pushing the pedal to the metal,
She parties hearty,yes we know,
There ain't no doubt,

She's still smashing fours and sixes around the ground.

So Today we're chanting Happy Birthday.

"To Patty", our mate, our friend, our pal, our buddy and much much more, the crowd stands to applaud and roars with delight as the commentater yells into the mike, "She's still at the crease with bat in hand now 50 something not out. 

Incoming tide.

Sit beside me, here near the shady Pandanus tree, with it’s sharp canopy of leaves. Feel the breeze on your skin. Let’s begin, yes?

Cross your legs and close your eyes, we’re going to share some time together in the sunshine.

We’re sitting in a time-warp, a scene repeated each day, every season, year after year. A dropping tide exposes mangrove roots to an impossibly blue sky, a sky so clear you have to wonder where the wind hides?

Ancient aerial roots stand like burnt party candles, or perhaps, like dead men’s fingers, pointing to a day they cannot share; choked in mud and suffocating  under the weight of sand and tides.

I’ve always been fond of mangroves; an unfriendly tree at the best of times, but I know they hold the secret to sweet fish and an underwater world of crabs and scuttlerly things, hiding lost fishing hooks and dreams of the one that got away.

A lone gull parades in red stockings, quickly shuffles along with the wind to his back. Neck feathers ruffle in a stand-up collar. Elvis would be proud.

Looking around, it’s easy to unravel the wall of sound that surrounds me; like an old jumper, strand by strand.

A crow to my left, no doubt exclaiming his free lunch left by a careless worker.

A mother and her plump child in a bright blue hat, dragging a large stick.  Looking for something in the clear blue waters edge. Small fish perhaps, anxious to retreat to the shady cool of the mangrove’s safety and protection.

Behind me, walkers shuffle along a sand-strewn track, thongs scuffling an emery board sound in rhythm to their laugh and chatter.

Ker-chunk ker-chunk denotes skateboarders, breezing past in shorts and attitude. Further to my right; under a spreading she-oak tree, and drenched in motterly shade, teens play a bastardized game of soccer, more pushing and shoving than any skilled kicking.  The ball lands with a dull thud.

Overhead, an unseen plane wings its way to sea, its passengers no doubt staring at the coastline for one last glimpse of their holiday. Kids drift past in a blue and white kayak, too tired to paddle, they let the wind gently move them slowly along; giving them time to think and dream and chat and just sit about and watch the world glide past. Messing about on boats.

Darker patches of water hide leaves and stingrays basking in the arm shallow waters, whilst sandbars tippy-toe out of the water, waiting for children’s footprints, a dogs bark, seagulls tracking.

Tiny feet.

Crabs roll sand-balls out of habit, then hide. An outgoing tide, turns, and begins again.

Incoming tide.

Writing for fun - Halloween

He hesitated, but only to adjust his collar, pulling it tautly upright against the dripping rain. He hasn’t seen me, not yet.

Not yet.

I crush myself into the bush hiding within its darkness. Branches scratch at my face and arms. Overhead, bats flap aimlessly searching for fruit. I can hear their soft wings beating the night-air with a brushing rhythm. Settling, they squabble high above me in the trees, as a car slowly drives past.

My eyes stare into the brightly lit door slowly opening; I can see him speaking to someone and nodding. Readjusting my position within the bush, I move my feet to avoid standing in dog poo, I can smell it and I gag slightly, just for a moment. Slowly he turns around to face my direction, and I freeze like a rabbit in a spotlight, willing myself to become invisible. Squinting, peering, he holds his hands outstretched, and receives the goodies, turning briskly to walk to the next house.  

I have been following him now for 4 houses and he is yet to discover me.

We are both drenched in spring rain and sweat, it’s been a long day, and yet the night is but young. 

There is still so much to do, to be done.

A cat slinks within the shadows, stalking the fat rats that hide among the street foliage and bushes. The cat, this familiar cat, dark haired with white paws, sees me, and meows loudly, beginning to rub himself against my leg. My feeble attempts to silence the animal have failed, and hearing a slight commotion, he turns once again, his attention caught, and begins to walk towards me, towards my darkness and cover.

“Mum! Is that really you?  I’m a big boy now; I can trick or treat without you.”

~~~

The Rooster

Cedrick the Cockerel strutted his kingdom.  Fluffed his feathers.  Ruffled his comb. Preened his chest.

He was so proud of his new look, and he turned this way and that, catching his reflection in the pane of glass of his owners house. Not for him the chook pen, no siree, he was a show chicken, a stud, a champion exhibit at the Ekka, and he knew it.  Only yesterday the owners little girl held him gently, tenderly, painting his talons a deep, ruby-red. He studied them now, holding out a claw to catch the sun. Very nice. 

Today, he freely wandered the garden feeding on the worms and grubs he was able to delicately scratch out with his prized, painted, perfect, painted claw.

Cedrick the Cockerel never saw the farmer from behind; was too confused when he was lain on his puffed chest across the large piece of wood. Never heard a thing, only the farmers’ wife at the window yelling in a booming voice: “And cut those stupid legs off too!”

~~~

Beach Walk 2012

I say it every year but never do it. Never. It's my coastal mantra which rarely eventuates, "a long beach walk, the length of the coast". Maybe once, at dawn; with my niece and young son, watching him drag his troll-like toenails across the sand; the colour of cake batter. Today, I am out of excuses, and drive to a quiet place where I can access the beach without the hordes of tourists watching.

It’s not that I am shy; I don’t want or need the company.

A soft-sanded walkway invites me to explore the beach of the northern end of Maroochydore. Entrance 148 it exclaims. I begin to walk south, my black sarong flapping around my thighs; the beach seems a little empty today. One good thing about the coast here, you can pick and choose your beach for the day. Too windy from the east? Try the river with its quieter waters, but watch that current. It’s fast and tricky! Blowing from the south? Go to The Spit, it’s always sheltered, facing north with small waves ideal for toddlers and old folk.

Glancing to my right, I can see it’s mostly women and older couples on their towels, rubbing brown shoulders with coconut oil (I can smell it) and laying flat on their backs. Like a lizard, although I’ve never seen lizards lie on their backs. A few young teens frolic in the water. Today the temperature is just about perfect and I remind myself that I will not, I must not swim, as my car keys are tucked into my togs and they’ll get wet. I must not, but the pull and lure of the waves is irresistible, and I paddle shin deep in the incoming tide.

Sets of waves stand up like wedding cake tiers, all froth and bubble, but underneath I can see a churning brown of fresh water. Wind against tide, the water pushes to the beach and retreats south, always retreats south. Stronger surges force me to tred carefully as I reach the coffee rocks, an area of old volcanic rocks, easy to carve, easy to erode. Although named coffee rocks, you’d be wrong to think it’s the colour of them; indeed the rocks are jet-black, Indian ink black. Coffee rocks perhaps, as in the texture of coffee, nothing more. Bright green seaweeds reside in tidal pools; looks stunning against the blackness. Nature’s abstract art.

Here, a mangrove leaf the colour of sunset sits in wait, kept company by white rounded marble rocks. The shells are familiar, the grey of Chinese hats, the orange of others, and the pure white smoothness of those, near the water. I don’t pick any up, must be getting old; our beach house is bulging with shells collected from previous walks.
There’s been erosion here; slabs of concrete lay like slain soldiers, perhaps this was a walking path once? Layers of dark grey and sand are exposed; the beach needs years to recover, and the sand dunes rebuilt. It’s heartless, the wind and tide.

As I walk in the tidal contours, my feet kick up the warm water, scattering a thousand comets and stars ahead of my footfall. In an instant they are gone, walked over, to begin again with the next push of a wave.

Turning back, time to go home.

I hear it first, the dull chop chop of a helicopter, when suddenly it appears like a gun-metal grey wasp. The doors are closed and I can see no signage on it, it’s not a coastguard chopper or even a rescue chopper. For that we can be thankful. Past the Surf Lifesaving Club, past the pokies and the bar smelling like spilt beer, past the other walkers on the beach with Australian flag designs for boardies, past the bandaid and cigarette butt on the tidal line, towards my car park. Up through the soft, slattered walk, the coast becomes a softer murmur, replaced by the wind’s sigh through stands of banksias and casuarinas.
~

A few good men - RIP

Another Qld Flood hero has died.

The good man who skippered the ferry, saving the boardwalk from crashing into the Gateway Bridge, the good man who saved countless lives whilst risking his own in a helicopter in thrashing rain, rescuing people stranded on rooftops, and now the good man in Theodore who helped so many in his own community.

Thank you for your selfless gifts to us, to Queensland, to your community.

Rest now, in Peace.

Qld Floods - almost a year later

It was my mother in law's home.

I blogged and photographed the event and over 16,000 readers have shared my story. It's all here, in fact reading parts of it and seeing the photos has set off my tears again. Still distressing. It must be deeply hidden.

The house was my mother in laws: she had to have it bulldozed, and the land is still vacant, covered in weeds. I asked her about it over Christmas.

“Have you been back Gwen? Have you seen the land? Taken photos?"

She just shook her head, and said later: “It's too sad. I can't look at it.”

Her mouth tries to smile, but for a moment her chin wavers. I held her hand briefly, just a squeeze. I am here for you. I know. I understand.

It's heartbreaking stuff at 77, nearly 78, to start again, by yourself.

Brisbane City Council have given her a lot of grief, too. Too long to go into here, but she does hope to start building in January 2012.

"That house would have seen me out" she says. Squeeze. "I have to make so many decisions, I just don't know anymore." Squeeze.

http://pattybeechamproductions.com/2011/the-flood-of-2011/

Xmas Thoughts

Christmas was easier this year.

I did less, expected less. Wrote no cards. My friend of 23 years comes over, flourishing a bottle of pink champagne, begs me to make her card, as I have done each year, for the past 10 years. She doesn’t even send me one in the mail. I make no online Christmas profiles, not even for me, until the digital card.

Sent it out and received only 2 responses. I expected less. My mind was caught daydreaming: between walking to the South Pole with Cas and Jonesy, and planning dinner parties that didn’t happen. Blowing the dead leaves from the courtyard, and watching possums hang upside down in the starlight, when I did have friends over for dinner. They spend 30 minutes photographing it. Mostly, the images don’t come out, their cameras cannot focus in the semi-darkness, so I aim my little Canon *snap, *snap, and there, job is done.

I fall into the habit of eating Jaffas after breakfast, my treat for the day.

This year has exhausted us all; it is enough to simply be here, in the present, accounted for. No floods nor cyclone nor earthquake or tsunami has stopped us yet. Slowed us down, sure, but we are still here, survivors. Tireder, older, somewhat wiser - and here. There is little joy this Christmas, no kisses, no hugs, no exclamations of gift giving. In fact I had to ask if my husband even received a particular gift from me. He had. Little joy, but we are here and accounted for.

I wash my lead crystal champagne flutes in the dishwasher, and don’t even flinch when they come out cloudy. I am grateful to have used them, grateful to find an excuse to drink champs with friends and family over breakfast bowls of fresh fruit; gleaming strawberries and purple blackberries against the gold of mangoes and red blushing watermelon. The sweet tang of passionfruit coats each mouthful. The cat sleeps at my feet, follows me around like a faithful dog. I cook fresh chicken, stuffing its cavity with dried apricots, pine nuts, grained bread pulled apart roughly, basting its skin until golden. We don’t eat it until the next day, but knowing it’s there, gives me comfort. Roasting pans of baked potatoes and pumpkin cooked in duck fat line our stomachs. It’s all we can do to flick the remote control. Mostly, we lay on the bed, radio off, reading. No need for conversation, we are alone in our thoughts and only a brushed hand away from each other.

We are content.

~

This year, without consultation, my husband decides we are to spend Christmas here in the city. For a man that has spent every Christmas covered in sand and heat at the beach since he was two years old, this is a huge leap. I don’t mind, I’m grateful (that word again!) for the change, and the air conditioning. Although our beach house was built for sea breezes and not air conditioning, over the years buildings and development have choked our lovely easterly night breeze, and we usually lay on top of the bed, listless with heat, lacking energy, the whirr of the fan our only company.

Another new change this year was meeting my dear old Rockhampton school friend Sue for morning tea, and some light Christmas shopping. We buy a bird bath, walking around the plant nursery inspecting the various designs. A carved column or a twisted stand? Deep with a rim or shallow and embossed? Finally, decision made, we hump it puffing from the car to her guest room, giggling like schoolgirls - hiding it beside the double bed. Shopping again, I park underneath the centre, in case of rain. We buy so much our arms struggle to hold the bags, stuffed with last minute panicked buying. Grog. Food. Santa stuffers for my 25 year old son.
Standing at Myers, I buy two pairs of earrings; white pearly drops for me, and sparkling blue sapphires for her, to match the intensity of her eyes. ‘Look surprised’ I joke, and she feigns mock shock as a rehearsal. We both laugh, kids again, students in our daggy drab grey uniforms and moppy ties around our necks. Outside the rain belts down, and my stomach tightens, just a little.

~

Christmas Eve champagne drinks in our front courtyard, only the second time it has ever been used. Years ago I hosted a party for my sister for her 50th birthday there, hovering between the guests and scanning the road for expected Thursday Island Dancers, who never showed. I have slaved over the garden for this night, this Christmas Eve, and our friends and neighbours arrive with bottles to be opened, and plates of food to share. Carols sing out from the new CD player we have bought, and not once does it jump or scratch or repeat. Heaven! The humidity threatens to sap us of all energy, the occasional spot of rain sending our eyes searching skywards. Friends from Innisfail arrive and we feast on glazed ham, Bangalow roast pork, salads and vegetables, sparking Shiraz. In the morning we’ll drive his car back over to the house they are staying in, and admire the view over Brisbane, and the elegance of a freshly renovated home for a single professional woman. She’s done well for herself, I try to push the envy urge down and be happy for her. It’s Christmas Day; I am happy for her, for us all. New ideas, new customs for us this year.

~

My brother in law arrives with his family, having flown from Cairns at 5.30am. It’s been a long night and an early start for them all; they are exhausted, and sit slumped in the chairs, catching up on family news and events. We are so happy to be together and chatting that I totally forget to put out the Bon bons. No matter. We feast on fruit salad and champagne and my offer to cook salmon scrambled eggs will have to wait until tomorrow. Now it’s almost lunchtime. My mother in law shuffles off to join other family members for Christmas lunch, coughing and hacking so badly we advise her to take some antibiotics. She stays with us for the next two nights so we can keep an eye on her health. We eat so much it’s as much as we can do to shovel shortbread into our mouth for dinner. In the morning I wake with a heavy head cold, courtesy of my mother-in-law.

Our city Christmas has been a great success. Hope yours was too.

~

Limpet/oyster/glass (Writing exercise)

Take my love; she sang to the waiting shore
He clung like a limpet to her breast.

Placed an oyster, ripe with sea, into her open mouth; sealed it with a kiss.

They toasted their lives in wine glasses - pure: each sip,
Another kiss,
A declaration of eternity.

Love.
Lost.
Long ago.

I stoop to collect the memories in my hand.

Chinese hats/houses for pearls/jagged glass now smooth

It is this I remember, not their kiss or heart-love.
It is this I hold in my hand.

A life of gratitude – a conversation with Ian (Skip) Skippen

Skippen has been with Austereo for 23 years. In September Triple M decided to cancel The Cage, a breakfast show Skippen had anchored since January 2006.

We meet, sitting in the quiet garden behind the Black Cat Bookshop.

Ian Skippen ponders a leaf that has fallen on him. “Why did that just happen?” he says in a moment of reflection, and as he faces day 45 of unemployment, he accepts whatever future his life holds for him.

“I believe everything happens for a reason. I’m so comfortable with the decision,” he says, gazing to the sky. His face shines with not only optimism, but gratitude, a daily thanks for everything around him.
“In the end, it was a job, and I’ve been in a position where I could do a lot of stuff, and help a lot of people, but it was still just a job. If that’s the worst that will happen to me; hello, no one’s died here. There are people dealing with some very heavy duty stuff in life, and all around me. Put into perspective, this is nothing.”

A radio veteran of 42 years, he sees nothing but happiness and a beckoning future for himself.

As a teenager, he sent in tapes to radio stations, reading aloud from magazines; a motivated youngster who knew what he wanted. Not for him following his father’s footsteps into the funeral industry, and not for him a life of football, although it was a great love. He could have been the original Glee character, torn between singing soprano and playing hard on the footy field. The pull of music and speaking with people were greater, and so a radio career was born. “I’ve always been a performer,” he says, “I really wanted to be a disc jockey.”

You’d find him each year at the Ekka, nose pressed against the glass booth, watching every move the DJ’s made in the broadcast caravan.
A shower singer and frustrated drummer and guitarist, radio has given Ian his career and fed his passion. As a former scout involved in the annual Gang Show, Ian attributes his appreciation of cooking, his love of people, and doing things for people; to scouting, and the people who influenced him at the time. A life of service, freely given.

“It’s just something you do, the idea of being there for others.”
Although now living on acreage, he is city bred, and occasionally daydreams of working in the country again. He loves the creative process and copywriting part of radio, but for now is enjoying his free time, staying up later each night; waking and rising at a more reasonable hour than 2.30am. Each morning he finishes his shower with a brace of cold water. Health is important. It’s the one thing he fears, illness and a failing body. His dad is 91 and in reasonable condition for a man who has just had a recent pacemaker inserted.

In his new freedom, he has loosely embraced Social Media, Facebook in particular, although he’s still not convinced it’s necessary. “Why am I doing this” he questions. He can’t see the point of Twitter: perhaps one day? He still hasn’t worked out what he wants to do when he grows up, but a tell-all book is definitely out. “There’s nothing to tell.” he says with a shrug and a smile.

As a parent he questions his skills as a father; writes his sons notes. “Oh dad, you’re such a dag,” they laugh. He beams with pride recalling when his son won a sports award. “Never bring shame on the family” is one of the mottos they live with. “Treat everyone the way you want to be treated. Always be passionate. I don’t care what you do, you have to be passionate, whether you are driving a dozer, or making a coffee. Be passionate.”

The days are filled pottering around the house, working his way through a long list. Trimming hedges, getting stuck into the garden. Painting, staining, carpentry. “Being a part of the morning. Having more time and not being always being tired, feels pretty damn good. Not being a slave to the alarm clock is a great thing.”

“I’ve been sanguine about the whole thing. I’ve no animosity towards anyone, it’s not my thing anyway; I’ve had a great run, doing what I’ve done. It’s never happened to me before. This is the first time in 42 years I haven’t had a contract to go to, and it feels okay, although I miss interacting with people the most, chatting to them on the phone and on the radio.”

“Everything happens for a reason. I was speaking with my wife Helen, and our routines are changing with our growing sons. They are off to uni, and playing sport each weekend, and suddenly here we are, Darby and Joan. All of this has happened at a time of our lives, where strange things are happening anyway. I’m very peaceful.”

Ian believes there’s something for all of us, something pushing us forward, be it God or whatever you see. He’s big on karma. “What you put out, you get back”, but not in a spiteful revengeful way. In a rewarding way. It’s his dad’s family motto: Nice to be nice.

There’s always room in Ian’s life for a God. “I speak to Him every morning - to Someone - and I have done for years and years and years.” It’s a heritage still lived by his uncle, a Methodist Minister, and his own strict Anglican/Methodist upbringing. Singing hymns can still get Ian misty eyed, especially How Great Thou Art, although his favourite song of all time would be the New Zealand National Anthem. “I just love that song! I love the words, and the melody, it’s so emotive. For a disc jockey that has spun all the latest and greatest hits for the past few decades, this comes as a surprise, but it’s the music and the words that get to him.

“As you grow in life, you come to realise there is something. People come into my life and I wonder why. Where did you come from? How did that happen? I could instance many, many things in my life, and I am grateful. Thank you.”

Living a thankful life of gratitude, Ian ponders his future. He’s not in a hurry to do anything, and yet he’s not ready to retire either. “My passion is life; I just love what is here, and what’s next. I love to get out of bed in the morning, and sniff, and look around.

“Something’s coming,” he says as he sips his coffee. “There is something there, which I now have this downtime to pursue. My grandmother always said: Don’t you worry about what others are doing. Everyone finds their nitch in life, and you’ll find yours.”

For now Ian wonders at the physics of flight, maths problems in newspapers, and the true value of spelling.

One Parrot, or two?

Once again I am in Rockhampton, the sleepy hot town of my childhood, but not my birth. I am a Saltwater woman; a beach girl, an ocean spirit who lived her teenage years trapped between the inland humidity of Mt Archer’s shadow, and the closed, tired minds of Rockhampton people.

It’s not true to say nothing changes here. It does, but it takes its time. Nothing changes in a hurry.

The Fitzroy River still ambles its sluggish way to the sea. Boats still glide and turn with the incoming tide; their bows facing the current pushing upstream, turning their backs to the bridge. Trains still shuffle along 'the main street of Rocky' – written once by a travelling writer, and often repeated, whether it’s true, or not.

It’s become folklore; people love to tell tales against this city, and sometimes its deserved, often not.

One thing that has changed with my latest visit is only one parrot hanging off the back door. Usually there are two clowns, gaily decked out wearing their feathered outfits, befitting their silly behaviour. Today there is only one, and he shrieks upside down from the red flowering bottlebrush tree in the front garden.

I wonder where his mate is, as they have almost become family pets, greeting my mother and sister each morning with hungry cries for bread and honey. Mum grew native plants for three decades, and flowering trees and shrubs for the birds to feed upon surround the house; so although there are a lot of natural bush foods here for them to eat, they adore their honey, wiping their sticky beaks of the side of flowering pot plants and sneezing with delight!

It’s almost irresistible to not put my hand out to stroke their colourful feathers. Today there is only one parrot. Perhaps tonight his mate will come, stomping his pigeon-toed parrot feet amongst the parsley, chasing the butcherbirds who come to feed on titbits of mince. I’ll watch for him, and rouse on him, scolding him in a motherly way, before placing bread and honey before his feet.

~

In my mother’s arms, lying across the bed, laying across her chest, I feel her arms wrap strongly around me. She holds me tightly. “I love you Mrs Warby,” I say softly.

She speaks with a strong voice, empowered.

“Some people want to live to 100,and receive the letter from the Queen. I am not one of those people. Enough’s enough.”

She repeats this.

Enough’s enough.

“I am simply being maintained, that’s all you can do at my age. It’s not like I can go to a hospital and have an operation and come out skipping. I’m simply being maintained, and enough is enough.”

There’s nothing more to add to that, and we sit in the cool darkness of her blue bedroom, and hold hands. We don’t speak, but we both sob silently with rage against time, and life and death to come.

~

“I don’t water the lawn”, my sister says, as she leaves for work. I know why she doesn’t. It’s all time, and money and effort. She has enough to do, enough to think about, more than enough to occupy her time and goodwill. I water the lawn for her, moving the leaking hose (did I say leaking? It’s a bloody fountain, twice over!) every 20 minutes, giving each patch a good soaking. Yes, it’s time and effort and water bills, but shows a generous spirit, saying to the neighbours: “Look, I care. I share this planet and this town with you, and I care.”

The birds chatter with delight; a solo peewee struts within the garden, a picture perfect image of military design in his crisp black and white uniform. A large ant marches backwards and forwards across the top of the stairs, halting and then turning and repeating the action. He’s either keeping the baddies out, or we are all going to be overrun by an army of insects. Whatever, will be.

~

My mother carries within her red walker; a racing guide, the crossword, and the telephone; all packed neatly with the seat up, in sight. Her silver hair has the permanent crease of bed-hair, no matter how much I comb it for her.

Her gait is slower, and more considered. As we speak, her eyes search for the right word. She grasps and stabs the air with her arthritic finger, digging out the right phrase, the correct word, and the ultimate answer.

~

I love to drive northwards - crossing the Fitzroy River over the new bridge - whilst watching the wrought iron train bridge to my left. Its elegance, leaping between black rock and black rock, always gives me hope, that one day – with thoughtful planning and an unbounded leap of energy and good faith, others can also escape the monotony of living in Rockhampton. And in leaving, they also leave their gilded footprint of the city and its people. Just saying.

~

(Re) Birth Day

Lockie’s eyes crinkle with his laugh; it is one of his most lovable features. His ginger beard muffles a wide smile but it’s his brown almond shaped eyes that hold my full attention. My 23 year old son and I are travelling to Sydney to see the Archibald’s; (we are an art-loving family) and to spend time together in re-discovering each other, after 5 years apart as mother and son.

Well, that’s probably not quite true, but it does seem like I haven’t seen my son for the past five years. His fulltime work, uni studies, and his currant gal-pal Val, demand his time and mind. I have to stop myself from hugging him too much. Restraint is not my second name. Passion is.
On the plane we discuss the concept of a god, aliens, and conspiracies. He discusses Socrates. The dead philosopher is Lockie’s latest passion, (he’s reading the book of Apologies) and later that night – at the musical show Wicked - Socrates is mentioned in passing. I nudge and wink. “See, he’s still relevant” says Lockie. We grin.

I am in my parent’s town. I am walking the streets my father walked, before the war. I am looking at cathedrals and dead Kings that my mother saw. Her town. Her Sydney. My mother’s culture. I walk the streets with my eldest son, my bearded, chatty, laughing son who’s eyes wrinkle and crinkle with humour.

Over lunch and Rock oysters, he speaks. His hands keep time to his voice; knitting the air. Entranced by his perfect nose, I marvel at my own handiwork. As a natural birth consumer, his celebrated arrival was long and joyous; my birth cry of “I have a son, I have a son” echoing the corridor.
Sometimes, we are so busy bringing each other up as a parent and a child, we forget to simply revel in the uniqueness and beauty of each other. I stare away his conversation, nodding when I remember. His straight, no-nonsense nose. His generous, talking mouth. I mentally trim a stray hair of his moustache as he eats his Kilpatrick oysters. An unknown tourist takes our photo.

We are in the foreground, and the Bridge yawns behind us as a dozen climbers tickle it’s back. Later, our photograph will be placed carefully in a blue covered album entitled “My Trip To Australia Down Under” and placed on the middle shelf of the American snapper’s bookcase.
Circular Quay is a whorehouse for tourists. Have camera, will click. It doesn’t matter to us though; we too are tourists, to each other’s lives, and this sparkling city. I bite into my oyster and its creaminess. An angel’s full-mouth kiss.

Within the hour we will be seated 3 rows from the top of the Opera House, to see the ballet. For now though, it’s a talk-fest of information, swapping lives and experiences, embellishing stories of family, honed and polished, to be retold to unborn children.

We dream of unplanned joy, and share the rebirth of our lives, together, as adults.

Ask me

Hugging my pillow, eyes closed, feeling the white linen against my skin.
Ask me.
Ask me!
I will him in my mind to Ask me.
Am I happy?
I want him to roll over and look at me and ask me if I am happy, because the answer would be yes! Yes! Yes!
Today I am happy with my life, my family, my bloke.

Hamitlon Island - thoughts

People have to swim quietly here, this is not a place for kidding around or chiacking, indeed, the inner child is so suppressed we swim like ballerinas en point, delicately, with precision, and as little rippling as possible.
~~
It’s a wonderful thing to be worn out from usefulness.
~~
The thing about Rockhampton is, that it taught me resilience and initiative.
~~
I am sharing the pool with men. Men who's thighs have grown soft and flabby like a woman. From too much work. Desk work, mind work. Not physical work. A man who works hard physically, say as a road repairer or gardener, has thighs like tree trunks, strong, thick and made of iron, if that were possible of human flesh.
~~
My thoughts barely have time to form before they disappear like fog, leaving only the memory of confusion.

Patty Beecham Productions ShowReel

Brisbane Funeral Photographer & Videos

Easter in the Barossa 2011

We wanted some family time together, so spent five glorious days in Adelaide and the beautiful Barossa. Wonderful to see the autumn leaves and changing seasons. Thanks to eveyone for making us all feel so welcome.

Today arrives. Funeral day.

They touch her head when they hug her, rubbing her short cropped hair with their stubby men’s fingers.

They hug with such intimacy and emotion that I feel like an intruder, watching. Eventually they release their hold, pull apart and look each other straight in the eye, and repeat the embrace. It’s like they want to climb into her skin, with grief and love.

Talk about a transfer of energy! So powerful to witness.

With each friend and mateship embrace, I can see Ann’s back grow straighter, as if they are feeding her with their own strength.

It’s working, Ann’s face is red-eyed and tearful, but her smile is straight and genuine, her stance strong and hopeful, her body, ready for the next assault of emotions, whatever they may be.
~~~
I know her as Ann Marie. A couple of weeks ago she called me Pat. No, I corrected her, it’s Patty, now. I like to be called just Ann, she replied. So just Ann it was.

At the funeral, meeting her friends, they call her Annie, not Ann. It’s a friendly affectionate name, borne over three decades of card-playing, late night talks on the dark verandas, line-dancing evenings, and many, shared holidays.

Annie.

She smiles and grins with delight in their company. Old friendships are like our favourite jeans, we can slip them on and immediately feel at home where we belong. She belongs in these arms of company that surround her today. Thanks for being my friend Ann’s friend, your friend Annie’s mate.
~~~
Driving to the Nambour funeral, I pass country I haven’t driven through for years, not since the kids were little, and only then, some. Bli Bli castle, sitting proudly on the hill, boasting ‘Opera in the Castle” coming soon. It’s up for sale, looking for not only a buyer, but some loving.

Low lying cane fields sit in puddles of rainwater; the country had had torrential downpours here overnight, and the cane looks tired and fed up.

Mentally I run my hand over the tops of the grass as I drive past, windows up, singing.
~~~
After introducing myself to Dean, the Funeral Director, we both enter the Chapel. Ann has requested I photograph Colin, and so I shall. There is to be a viewing before the Service but I want to film him now, quietly, by myself.

Dean removes the casket lid and places it upright, standing to one side.

Hello Colin, I say softly, and wait for Dean to leave us.

He lays there, a smile on his large ruddy face. He’s holding a photograph of a card with a smiling woman on it. I wonder if this is his Irish friend. I raise my camera, and begin.

Really, he could be sleeping. I could almost shake him awake, with a cheery you-hoo!

Click.

His hands. Click.

His face. Click.

His beautiful Funeral corsage of orange flowers: happy geraniums, thoughtful, elegant white lilies, sweet, dear little orange roses, sophisticated white orchids, and simple white daisies. Click.

An orange and black Go Tigers! Flag is placed on the casket, it’s his wish.

I place my white ceramic box of his favourite yellow roses near his casket. The card reads: To my dear friend Ann’s gentle man, Rest in Peace now. Be still, my Soul, Patty.
~~~
When I arrive at Ann’s home, I am greeted by the familiar faces of her good friends from the Hunter Valley. They have been staying with her for the past few days, I am so grateful to them, and very pleased for her.

Cups of tea, buttered hot cross buns, chat and phone calls. Eventually Ann comes out of the bedroom, after speaking to his only brother, about certain funeral arrangements. Her face is red and blotchy, and she throws her arms around me and sobs: I never would have thought I’d be asking you to do this for me Patty.

We both shed tears, but quickly compose ourselves. It’s all good. We are adults now, and we can do this, one step, one tissue, one song at a time.

To be continued…

When tomorrow comes…

Tomorrow I am going to help my old school friend bury her husband.

After decades of pain and depression, he finally ended it all with a brand new white rope.

She found him.

She has asked me to bring my video camera to record the Service, as she explains: “Patty, I always remember you saying, that you might not want to view the images now, or even next week, but one day you will come to a place in your life where it might be good to view the funeral, and the DVD will be there, quietly waiting for you.”

So, tomorrow, I will help my old school friend bury her husband, who loved her, but depression and constant chronic pain won out.

Rest in Peace.

~~~

Today I am going to help my old school friend bury her husband. I’ll be the oldest friendship there to support her, and although her nursing friends and old bridesmaids will be there, although her small family consisting of her only brother and his wife and kids will be there, I will be the one with the oldest memories of her; memories of a single girl, a carefree, happy redheaded blue-eyed school girl, in the school hallway bent over laughing at my jokes.

We both travelled to Cooktown together in our senior year, keeping a watchful eye on the young boys as we were plunged into a series of small train tunnels, pitch black and groping hands, to emerge in the blinking daylight, slightly dishevelled with smug teenagers sitting opposite us, looking like butter wouldn’t melt in their mouth. It was a game and we played along, much fun.

Over the years we kept in loose touch. If I was staying in the Hunter Valley helping my old wine-maker friend Jim Roberts pick his grapes, I would stay with her and her husband.

Her husband was a soft, gentle man, a large man, a lumbering giant heaving an unworkable broken body around the best he could. In those days he drove a taxi, and could get around a little bit, but the passing years were unkind to him, and gradually depression began to taint his world and the shutters closed in.
~~~
Today my husband was showering early, and I heard him yelp from where I was in the kitchen. I called out: Are you alright? Darl? Are you ok? And with his silence my footsteps quickened to reach him.
He stood there, water droplets from the shower covering the paddocks of his back and shoulders. On Sunday he had spent most of the day changing over 45 fluorescent light tubes at his work, and one of the tubes had cut his finger deeply. It was this sore finger that had banged against the towel rail, and it had silenced him with sudden pain.

I gently took the white towel and slowly, tenderly, wiped his back, his legs, his chest. “There you go, the rest is up to you” I said, and left him to finish the job.

Some days marriage is like that, you have to be there and step forward.
~~~
“When you first told me what you did, I couldn’t understand it, I thought ‘A funeral photographer? What the hell?’ but now I totally get it.” We speak softly, the phone nuzzles into my neck, and I close my eyes and imagine we are once again sitting in the spa we shared only weeks ago. “I want you to photograph him, and film the funeral, in fact I want to take the DVD over to Ireland and share it with his old friend. She can’t make it over for the funeral. I’ll take it to her.”

Already in her mind, she is moving forward, seeing a fresh day, a new start, a different tomorrow.

A fortnight ago we stayed at O’Reilly’s in the Gold Coast hinterland, the four of us women coming together in solidarity of having some time to ourselves. I spoke to her about everything but her husband. She needed the break, and I made it clear that the topic was always there if she needed to, wanted to speak about him; I was all ears and arms; to wrap around her. We watched an opera DVD, Cecilia Botoli. Eventually, she leaps to her feet, and begins to move to the music.

This is the first time I ever lined-danced to opera she says. I try to keep up with her steps, but it’s not for me, the set routine and boredom of repeating movements. I lash out and wobble my bits in joy, dancing for a moment in the rainforest. We laugh and giggle, like the old schoolgirls we still are.

Neither of us then imagined that we would be arranging his funeral. My friend is my old schoolgirl mate, childless, now widowed. She’ll rise above this, and move forward, and I’ll be there to help if I am needed.

O'Reilly's - Through Ann's Eyes

Make an on-line slide show at www.OneTrueMedia.com

Beach Writing – Maroochydore

Observations by Patty Beecham

The tide takes its time to fill the mud holes and stingray hides of Maroochy River. As the silver coloured water eases past, unseen children scream with delight. It’s a gimmick to see the sun shine, and a day without rain – or clouds – exhilarates us all. Couples walk hand in hand, slurping milkshakes to the soft beat of their thongs slapping on the concrete walkway. A child drifts in a green kayak, intently watching the sea life below the waterline through the clear window of the hull. Dogs bark. Children question. A skateboard man rides a black, high-handlebar bike, his posture slouched into the seat and spreading.

On the flat river, someone attempts to stand on his paddle board. Behind me a middle-aged man checks his helmet; he looks like an echidna, long plastic tabs protruding skywards. This is supposed to keep away the magpies. It must be working; I can see no magpies following him.

A woman with a tattoo ‘sleeve’ walks alongside a bald man, together they are walking two white miniature poodles. One of the dogs wears pink socks, I kid you not. In front of me, a speedboat pulls up, landing with a metallic thud onto the beach, as it's anchor chain moves. Further north, past the sandbars hosting seagulls as they rest, three kayaks in a neat row make a uniformed tour of the waterways. Walking past me, couples argue whether its “July or August”.

A man in a flat-hulled punt casts a net next to the jetty pylons, hoping for baitfish or prawns. He catches neither.

A not-so-small girl of eight is wheeled by her parents, one either side, as she attempts to learn to ride her pushbike. Her father stares straight ahead. Her mother cannot take her eyes off the child. Her new pink and white bike sparkles in the sun. She wears an enormous pink sunhat with a broad brim, and an equally large pink Barbie helmet, the look is comical; making you turn your head twice to confirm what you are really seeing.

A red Virgin plane growls overhead, its passengers reluctantly leaving beautiful Queensland life behind for a week of work. A black helicopter, a yellow-winged plane, and a small grey plane take turns to clutter the sky with noise.

Two crows race the wind.

The not-so-little girl with the helicopter parents rides her bike past, the mother running beside her, breathless with excitement. She’s ready at any moment to grab the handle bars. This could end badly so I begin to watch intently, knowing I am privy to that sweet eureka day of childhood when you finally master learning to ride a bike.

Eventually she stops riding and stands beside her pink bike; and with outstretched arms she hugs the air in exhilaration. Her first ride!

Two pigeons in red socks strut towards me, turning away from me as one if I move.

***