Dying to Know

“I’ll be dead.”

My neighbour holds her wine glass and continues: “I don’t care, because I’ll be dead.”  

We are chatting about her funeral, eulogy and how she would like to be remembered.   I haven’t even asked her about her thoughts of coffin verses shroud.  Priest verses celebrant?  Home burial? 

Whilst it’s true that funerals are ‘for the living” it seems my friend can walk out of her life without a care in the world or a backward glance, but it’s not for me.

Us ‘deathies’  who work in the funeral business, love to discuss other’s funeral plans and we enjoy asking the big questions of life, and death. 

We are the death whisperers.  We are the people who give you permission to think and plan.

The thing that makes us human is that we know we will die one day. It’s what urges us on to live, knowing that the death stopwatch is ticking every second.  Having frank conversations of your own death, can give you an unexpected calmness and confidence.  These days anything goes, and new professions are being born such as funeral planners, and death doulas, or palliative carers.

‘Dying to Know Day’ is an occasion to create social and cultural change about death and dying.   The aim is to promote resilience and well-being in response to end-of-life issues, and to encourage people to build their death literacy.  It’s not morbid, in fact quite the opposite!

It’s a breath of fresh air - opening a window in your life to plan and discuss your own thoughts and wishes  with your loved ones.

Just as talking about pregnancy or chocolate won't make you pregnant or fat, chatting about death won't kill you!  

Discussion on death, dying and funerals is the new black, with Death Cafes being held regularly in Brisbane and internationally. Death Cafes are not grief workshops, nor are they support groups.   A Death Café is where people, often strangers, meet to have open and frank discussions about death, dying and grief, within safe boundaries.   Of course there’s cake too, as we celebrate our own lives.

It seems society has turned a cultural philosophical corner but there is a long way to go; we are all on the same train, with some of us getting off at different stations. I urge you to sit down with your family and have a cuppa and that special chat.  Talk about your Wills, chat about end-of-life wishes, and especially discuss and make your Advanced Health Care plan.   You don't need a terminal illness to begin these conversations, in fact, do it whilst you are well and healthy.  Making your Will, organising your Power of Attorney, and Advanced Care planning are all part of your life, and your future. 

Last month I put on my big-girl-pants and bought my own grave, and I couldn't be happier.  It occurred to me that I didn't want to be scattered, as nice as that sounds; I wanted a grieving place for future ancestors to come and visit and point, saying: “Look, they've spelt her name wrong.”

Having my grave chosen and paid for has given me added freedom to live my life.  I've made peace with my own mortality, and it gives me great comfort to know that it’s sorted.   

You'll find me gently resting somewhere in an historic cemetery, high on the hill and under a huge tree (great for photos!) with city and mountain views.

I'll be pushing up daisies, after I've kicked the bucket, how good is that?  The trick is not to fill it too soon.

My sons are relieved as that’s one less thing to worry about; they can sort out my funeral and it better include champagne!

Oh, that’s right, I’ll be dead.  

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder - sunglasses included.

The three women leaned over the table and peered at me through their black sunglasses.  I could see my startled reflection and adjusted my own sunnies over my nose.

“Would you describe this as fine, medium or thick?” The women exchanged glances, chewed their lips politely and blurted “Medium.  Definitely medium.”

I mentally punched the air, I was winning. I thought they’d say thick, for sure.

Yesterday I read on Facebook, that my local beauty parlour was looking for test dummies…er… models, for IPL Hair Reduction training. I quickly suggested that they could use me, goodness knows there’s enough unwanted hair to around.  

A quick phone call to me: “How about we do a half-leg’ the girl suggests.  “What do I do the other half a leg?” I pondered. “We already have an underarm. Perhaps….” (she pauses for quite a long time) “perhaps we could do a bikini leg?” I have to stop and think about this, for about 2 seconds.  Yes please, I find myself yelling.  After all, don’t my two sisters constantly barrage me with suggestions for whipper-snippers, waxing and everything else that involves pain and excess hair in my nether regions?

When I arrived at the Salon, I was given a small parcel. “Just pop this on please.” I hold the small white package up to my face; I have no idea what I am looking at. “Once you have on your disposable g-string, I’ll be back” and she closes the door leaving me still holding onto my mystery object.  

Now this is embarrassing!

After working out the front and back and which goes where, I lay on the narrow table. 

“I’m ready,” I lie.

And so my life has come to this, being peered at by three strangers, wearing sunglasses and discussing my fluffy bits. I go to a happy place, and close my eyes.

“Just move your leg to a right angle” and I die of shame. Soon the first laser treatment begins.

“How would you rate that on a scale of ten?”  Is she kidding me? 

“About a one” I say, but then again, I’ve had two natural childbirths, so anything you throw at me is always measured against that standard. This is nothing!

“Turn it up ladies” she commands, and the trainee dutifully turns the dial. 

“How about now?” she asks in what I swear was an Austin Power’s Mini Me voice.  Mentally I do the finger quotes  – “L A S E R S”

 “About a 1 and a half.”  I feel strong and powerful!  The girls exchange glances and then the words: “Turn it right up!”  I am worried now; perhaps I shouldn’t have been so strong, so stoic.  I imagine the laser setting fire to my nether regions and burly firemen breaking into the chandeliered beauty parlour.

“What’s happening?  Where’s the fire?” 

The three young women would all point to my exploding pubes, as the firemen douse the flames.

I return to my happy place and leave them to work on my bikini line.

In her enthusiasm, the new trainee rushes the job just a bit: Flash! Flash! Flash! It feels like cracker night in my undies.

“Just slow down, make sure you don’t leave any lines, you must get it all.” she commands, and I imagine my bikini line looking like a zebra, complete with black lines in a natty pattern.

I sigh.

One way or the other I’ll be the talk of the beach, but I doubt anyone will even look me in the eye; they’ll all be staring at my you-know-what! 

After 15 minutes I’m done, and after dressing, I stroll out into the sunlight, to the other world of normality, and begin to skip.

 

What's the Story, Morning Glory - Drawing

This was first published here.

~~~


Tony had no idea why he was there.

Really, it shouldn’t be like this.

What started out as a simple idea to consult a professional relationship counsellor on his impending marriage with her had somehow ended up with him in this field, with two other people he could only describe as nutters.

At the very least, they were mixed up. Emotionally unstable. More so than him. He just wanted a simple answer to his simple question.

“How do you know?”

How do you know when she’s the one? Should he settle down with her and learn to love her laugh? The way she wipes his mouth between courses? Could he truly be happy and sleep well every night for the rest of his life? With her laying stiffly beside him? He doesn’t even like redheads; normally.

The morning sun glared in his eyes. Turning his head slightly, he stared at the other blokes, who were busy sketching. Like that would help. He squirmed uncomfortably on his chair; it was digging into his back. Stupid camping chair!

He felt embarrassed to be there, and had no idea that the early morning bus trip from his new home would end up with him clutching a stick of charcoal and a notepad.

He drew a stick figure. Named it after her. Drew a big sun with arrows shooting out of it.

Nearby a conga line of cows were walking up the paddock; the soft dull bell, the sharp farmers whistle.

He slapped the back of his neck. Insects. A trickle of sweat rolled down his chest. The arms of his leather jacket creaked with each movement, it had always annoyed him. The other men said nothing, just bobbed their heads up and down as they took in each curve of the hill, each rise of the tree line.

He drew a square house, even though he could see none. Their happy home, together. The kind you drew as a kid, without lifting your pencil; with a big cross in the middle. A big, black cross.
The charcoal snapped.

Forever Winter

I have a confession to make. I am glad its winter and my swimmers can go back into the drawer until next summer.  Not that it was much of a summer, mind you; and not that I am much to look at in my togs, either.

But it’s not my choice of swimwear that‘s the problem, or how I look in it.

It’s my lack of ability to tame my…well… my more personal and yet oh so public areas of my body. 

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve tried bleaching, waxing, creams and razors (I may have lied about the waxing, I’m simply not that brave!) and still it persists, like a scene from George of the Jungle. And like George, my husband emits a similar howling cry when he sees me. My sisters have threatened to whipper-snipper me one day, but as I have patiently pointed out to them over the years, if it offends you, don’t look.

As a teenager I plucked my eyebrows, and they have never grown back. How does that work? I have also been shaving my legs since Adam was a boy and my regrowth grows stronger and more virulent each passing year. How does that work? 

Let’s not mention menopause when my chin suddenly sprouted enough hair to rival any adolescent boy in long pants, and my morning routine consisting of standing in front of my mirror until the foliage subsided, and the sink became blocked. Tweezers became my closest confidante.

You think I exaggerate?  Women of a certain age have all sorts of mysteries to them.  Once, a friend of mine wore a dress to a shopping centre, feeling very girly and fresh. She even rang me with excitement, as it was unheard of for her not to be in her beloved jeans or trousers. She told me that as she walked along, she  noticed a slight discomfort. What’s this?  After a mere 5 minutes of window shopping, her pain increased “down there” and she hurriedly made her way to the shopping centre toilets.

Once inside, she peered down with dismay, to see her hairy-bits had actually formed a knot, yes, I‘m serious. Tangled beyond help, she had to sit there and unravel, and trust me, you don’t want to know the rest, suffice to say, she’s never worn another dress since.

But I digress. It’s not just the taming of the wild things; it’s the cellulite legs and general lumps and tummy rolls that I won’t miss seeing. Winter becomes a time of snug trackies and long shirts covering all unnecessary flesh; with dinner parties and stews and casseroles, duck fat potatoes and hearty roasts and chocolate cake. Hang on! Isn’t that how I got my lumpy legs and rolls in the first place?

Still doesn’t explain the excessive hairy bits though. 

 

 

The Lightness of Being.

“Cheers mum” and we adult children raise our flutes high and toast our dear mother. After a passionate rendition of singing Happy Birthday, complete with hip-hoorays, her casket is wheeled to the waiting hearse; we watch as mum is taken for private cremation.

She wanted to make 93 and so she did, in her own way. After a horrific fall that saw her hospitalised since January - the third fall in as many years - we gave her a very pretty, symbolic, old ladies funeral: can’t ask for better. In fact, it was perfect.

Crystal bowls of her favourite chocolates for everyone to share, stunning posies of native flowers, old friends, familiar faces, a gentle priest and enough great-grandchildren to almost fill the small wooden church. Genuine tears to be sad at our loss, plenty more laughter to remind us that life does indeed go on, at a cracking pace too. Even champagne!

So how are we all coping?  Somehow I have changed. There is lightness now in my life. For the first time I have had to rely on myself.

Although dad has been gone for 9 years, I still miss his booming hello at the end of the phone line; and now there is no smiling mum asking me what my latest project involved. It’s just me now and I like it.  

I now sleep at night, not worrying about her latest injury. What did the doctor say?  Does she need to be moved to a Nursing Home? When was the last time her back was rubbed?   What needs to be done?  Her needs.   Gently caring for our elderly mother has been a loving blessing which was in danger of becoming a chore. And yet it never did. But still, now I can relax, and enjoy my life a little more. I was a good daughter; in fact we were all dutiful, obedient, caring children to our parents, returning the unconditional love shown to us. We not only did our best, but far and beyond that. And we happily exhausted ourselves.

Now, newly orphaned, there isn’t the distress I thought I would feel, only a calmness.

A lightness of being in my own skin, for the first time.

Like a modern day Gulliver, the family ties that gently wrapped loving arms around me, and gave me a stable, solid grounding; from tropical Cairns and Rockhampton, to Toowoomba and beyond to far flung Wollongong, have unravelled; as old age and death claimed the matriarchs, aunties and godmothers in my life. Three old girls dead in four weeks.  I drift through the days and nights, float through sleepless weeks, unweighted. The lightness both disturbs and comforts me, as I put into place life lessons learned from years of conversations and hands-on experience. I have to trust that I know enough. I need to believe that I can do this Living, without their voices on the end of the phone. Without loving arms surrounding me with joy. Without approval or judgement.

It has to be enough.

Now I am making my own decisions. Missing their opinions and helpful advice, yes, but gladly standing on my own two feet and looking forward to my own life, with confidence.

They say funerals are for the living, and it’s true. We created a memorable Service, which incorporated everything she wanted: The Lord’s Prayer. Traditional of course. Forever and ever, Amen.

The Magnificat. As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be.

We gave mum what she wanted, and more. Now it’s our turn to live our lives with the same grace and integrity shown to us.

Living with such lightness, demands my feet be grounded. If I am ever in danger of floating away, my memories will form a rock steady base, and with both feet planted safely, my eyes look to my own horizon.

Mum's Passing - Thoughts.

March 19 2013
Thanks everyone else who has taken the time and care to comment, it's beautiful to be cared for by my Facebook family, hugely appreciated. Home now for a glass of red, my sister is showering, then back to hosptial, but not for me. I don't want to do it, I photograph too many dead people to want to see my mum like this. Over it. It was enough to hold dad in my arms as he went, I don't want to do that with mum.
I've said my goodbyes to her, and I am at peace with that. Candles are lit. x

At noon today we thought she would be gone by 1pm. Instead, her breathing regulated, her hands warmed up (!!) and here we are all those hours later. Death is a meanie, taking it's time, teasing and haunting us, every, single, fecking, day. We could still be having this conversation tomorrow! *faints.

Mum says in her halting, stuttering, breathy voice:"I must firmly tell my daughters; Family first". The irony made me weep. *sighs

Only 8 weeks ago today, my *almost 93yo mother, had sparking blue eyes, full of cheek and wit, rasing her wine glass and hugging her many grandchildren. Tonight, we keep virgil over her bed, as she sleeps peacefully snoring. Yoh Wah (*goodbye) Bunty, thanks for everything. I will miss you every day, and will never look at a telephone again without wanting to ring you at 5pm.

Worth sharing: "Go to sleep and rest your eyes. A clear conscience and no regret is what helps you sleep the sleep of babes. You have done what can be done. Believe me do not be afraid of death or the things left unsaid. Instead be able to celebrate life joy and happiness for these are what lives are for."

March 20 2013
The wind howls around the house, and cries through the trees: Where is our mother? Where is our mother?

RIP Pearl Warby, our Mother of 3 girls and 3 boys. Reader, gardener, opera lover, wife of a soldier, daughter, sister and mother to us all. Bless you and keep you in His loving arms. Toujours gai - and always a Lady. Yow Wah *goodbye

My 2 sisters are back home, red eyed, happy with grief. Phone calls are made...softly...gently.. We fresh ophans sit and raise our glasses of champagne, toasting our mum.

Playing The Lark Ascending for mum. (*And the lark just rises, going up, and up, and finally, it's out of sight) Having a quiet weep. She always wanted this for her funeral. Today we carefully ironed her beautiful purple blouse we all love, bought fresh white pretty knickers for her, and took her clothes to the funeral arranger. This afternoon we met with the always amazing Fr Cameron and planned her Service. Have to say, it’s going to be beautiful.

Flowers have started to arrive. Thank you to everyone for your kind thoughtfulness, with your loving Facebook posts, your beautiful Twitter messages of support, your phone calls, Sms’s and so on. Please know they are all read, noted, and enjoyed. Bless. X

Mum and I loved Archy and Mehitabel: we would often quote bits to each other. Please enjoy. http://donmarquis.com/archy-and-mehitabel

Happy Birthday Eve my darling mum, tomorrow we send you off with Grace and dignity, style and love. If you could see the waxing moon over Mt Archer, if you could feel the gentle night wind on your cheek once more, and know that your life was charmed, difficult, original and amazing. If you could only know, once more, the feel of my arms around you. I wish! Sleep now my darling girl, sleep now, brave girl. I love you. X

Please bear with me if I indulge in a little 1am quiet sob for my mum, whom I will never know. A private, reserved woman. The stranger in our midst. Yah wah mum. *goodbye

***

My aunty has my mother’s ears, and her own, twisted, paralyzed hands. She moans softly, Mum, mum. I am here.

Like a modern day Gulliver, the family ties that gently wrapped loving arms around me, and gave me a stable, solid grounding; from tropical Cairns and Rockhampton, to Toowoomba and beyond to far flung Wollongong; have unravelled, as old age and death claimed the matriarchs, aunties and godmothers in my life.

I drift through the days and nights, float through sleepless weeks, unweighted. The lightness both disturbs and comforts me, as I put into place life lessons learned from years of conversations and hands-on experience. I have to trust that I know enough. I need to believe that I can do this living, without her voice on the end of the phone.

Without aunty laughs and arms surrounding me with joy. Without female approval or judgement.

It has be enough.

Twitter:

She actually said: i love you, i love you, the naughty one. Sigh. X

Glad i am here, although i DID say no more death bed scenes. Still, who are we to write the script?

All a part of life & living, this dying business. Sitting cross legged in hall with a cuppa trying 2 get internet

Chatting to nurse Wendy. 'What was your husband like?' to mum. He was a beautiful man, she says. I cried, hearing that.

Mum glances to her right. 'Who's that?' she asks, nodding to the corner of the room. I nudge Carolyn. 'Is it a man or a woman mum?' I ask

She can't tell me. She looks around her room. 'There's 1,2,3 of them' she says. I stare and smile at nothing but curtains and the sink.

Carolyn suggests it might be mums angels, but mum isn't convinced. Yet she still counts them loud. One. Two. Three.

Mum is snoring. So sweet x

Sitting in the hallway playing solitaire, missing my pillow. Glad i am here though. Might make a nest in mums big chair. Goodnight x

Gawd i am freezing! Thin white hospital blanket, brrr. Mum still snoring.

Good morning Groovers. Sis and i at hospital with mum, starving for Maccas breakfast, lol. Long night. Long day ahead. the morphine is making her confused.

Think she "saw" 3 people in the room last night. Kept asking the time since 4am, witching hr

We will go soon, once witching hour has passed, come back later and do it all again.

Sending warm thoughts to you today..."thanks, i will wrap them around my shoulders like an old friend x

"I'm just a patient, who doesn't know: what's it all about?" says mum.

Remember family, says mum, then drifts off with a smile on her face. I wonder what that memory was?

It’s a restless wind in Rocky tonight, yachts jerk, trembling on their anchors, trees shake their manes with impatience, doors rattle.

It's a restless night tonight, the wind slaps the blinds and spanks unseeing windows.

Be able to celebrate life joy and happiness for these are what lives are for.

I am at home, listening to the wind shiver around the house. Sisters at hospital. Tired, bedtime xx

Back to sleep 4 me, mums candle went out, big wind here, think she is gone, dunno

RIP my darling mother with the laughing blue eyes, I shall always be grateful to you.

she was always a lady with a wicked sense of intelligence & humour. At peace now. Bless.

I am an ophan, the person who supported me & believed in me, listened to me, is gone. So non-judgmental & loving...

With life, comes death. My mother is teaching me gently, still.

she was our matriarch, much loved we won the jackpot with our parents. Marvellous lives x

I think what I'll miss most is her unconditional support, always interested in whatever funeral I'd film, supportive x

Mum's funeral notice in paper, looks good.

Magpies & crows having animated conversations #Rocky

Such a perfect circle.

Thanks Twitter buddies, give me strength to read the Eulogy (my part) & send her off with dignity.

We want happy funeral, she had a great life. Warby-time is over. Bless

So it is done. We orphans gave mum a dignified, memorable, creative Service. Yoh Wah mum. *goodbye #funerals

Tonight's the Night!

It was all he had hoped for here and now.  As he watched her dance en pointe, his breathing slowed until he heard his own heartbeat; keeping time to Swan Lake, Act Three. The audience shuffled quietly, expectantly.

White noise filled his head, a gentle roar that grew in depth. The world held its breath, waiting for his cue.

This was it!

It had taken him his whole life to reach this moment, and he savoured every sweet note, every heart thump, every smile, rehearsed or not.

She was beautiful!

Tonight, after they danced, he would ask her. A thrill surged through him as the violins shivered in tempo.

This was it!

A final deep breath, the roaring in his ears now replaced with the familiar strains of chords and notes, his cue; his moment; his spotlight.

This was it!

Arms up – soft – and away; a spring step, lightly, lightly; feet extended, and a springbok leap.

The rest of the ballet passed in a blur; a delightful, happy blur, as he danced like the man possessed he had become.  Obsessed with movement and allowing his body to change and reach out, dance had become his whole life, ever since he saw her, at school , gasping with the beauty and delight at the retired ballerina’s graceful performance.

If only the U13 rugby kids could see me now, he mused, waiting for his final lift with her. That would silence the critics, his father in particular, and those bullies who waited for him behind corners, around trees, in the boys loos. If they could only see his body now; strong, sinewy, complete muscle definition. A man. A dancing man, yes, but this costume leaves nothing to the imagination. He was perfection. Perfection in lycra and tights.

He stiffened for the final lift, smile bright. Tonight is the night. His night. Music swelling, she leapt towards him, took flight; arms extended.

She was so beautiful!

He shivered in anticipation of her answer. Smiling, her perfect body taut with energy, sweat beaded her brow. 

Now was the time!  His career highlight, the audience, her, his spotlight, their triumph.

Reaching out, he carefully placed one hand on her left thigh.

Exquisite!

The other hand under her waist and ribs, careful not to bruise or hurt her.  She was safe in his capable arms, his strong hands, his gentle touch.

Already the audience began to applaud.

Magnificent!

His heart thumped in time to the final chorus. Soon they would walk on stage Pas Marche and bow together. He closed his eyes, filled with passion and joy.  He dipped her head towards the stage, as they had rehearsed for the past three months. He could do this movement with his eyes closed.

She never saw it coming, the blood leaving a small trickle, as he stood, in the spotlight, frozen.

New Year’s Eve and all that I loathe.

I hate this time of the year. Some people might be Christmas Grinchs, but not me; I love everything about the Christmas season; the carols, the gift-wrapping, the careful cooking of timeless recipes old and new.  It’s this time of the year, between the afterglow of good giving, and the dreaded New Years Eve, that I loathe.

Expectations of another wonderful year ahead  (what was so great about this year, huh?) and the party to end all parties, New Years Eve looms like a zombie in front of me,  arms outstretched with gnashing teeth and dead eyes.  Ok, maybe not, but it’s not a well built young man in nappies with a golden 2013 around his neck, either.  It’s the weight of other people’s hopes and dreams, unrealistic and simplistic; that drag me down.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve given many NYE parties for my friends and family. In fact, almost every year without exception, and that’s the problem. Can’t they invite us back, and do their own party in their own house, to return the favour?  For once, wouldn’t it be nice to be a guest in someone else’s home; to simply wander into a bottle shop, purchase some yummy champers, and bring a plate of cheese artfully plopped next to the biscuits. All care, no attention.  Turn up the music.

Lots of our friends own swimming pools, how hard would it be to ask us to come around and bask beside their pool, like the photos I see on their Facebook pages?

No bothering about what theme for the night, no decorations, no amazing food spreads. I recall one year I cooked not one but two whole reef fish, borrowing a portable oven from a local chef. It was stunning but I hadn’t realised the bins wouldn’t be emptied until the following week.  The leftover stench nearly killed us.

It must be us, not them. I don’t get it. You’d think by now I’ve have some friendship credit with my loved and dear mates, but apparently not. So this year, this wrung out, gloriously used up, sucked dry, wretched, withered and exhausted year,  will see me parked in front of the telly, feet up, a glass resting in my hands, watching the fireworks.

Today I am taking my resentful, sulking self to escape to the coast, packing the leftover ham and wondering how many of the 25 Creative Ways with Christmas Ham recipes I can actually remember. Before leaving to drive north, I’ve washed the sheets, sprayed the weeds and put the bins out; I’ve been a good girl, surely I deserve a treat?

All that’s left to do is pack the house and leftovers, hump them down to the car; somehow pack everything in; including the cat, and drive for two hours in traffic to repeat the scenario at the other end, shoving bits of almost recognisable leftovers into the beach house fridge. It will probably die of shock; it was making weird noises and rattles last time we were up.

Wherever New Years Eve finds you, have a lovely happy time, and remember your friends. 

I won’t be.

Condoms galore!

Extract from My Mate and Me - The life and times of John Warby and Family

Meanwhile, Laurie and I were cleaning out below, when we discovered half a dozen large cartons, stacked away under the stern counter.

On close inspection, we found that each sealed carton contained one gross of smaller cartons. Each of these contained one gross of small envelopes, each containing a condom.   Laurie and I looked at each other and burst out laughing.  

Here, were roughly 125,000 condoms, obviously purchased from the War Disposals sale in New Guinea and left on board, when the owners had sold the lugger.    To our trusting eyes, they seemed in good order, but neither of us was authoritative on the subject!  Why not sell them? Or even give them away?   We sent a carton per taxi to an Army mate in Sydney, who was now in business as a chemist, and far more expert on the subject than ourselves.  Would our windfall turn out to be a goldmine?

LET’S CHUCK 'EM!

But the word was 'no'.  Despite appearances, they were too old and untrustworthy.   No doubt, that was why they had been abandoned.  We decided to dump them that night on the outgoing tide. I still recall what a slow job it was, hauling up each carton in the dark, opening them and heaving the small cartons over the side to be dispersed by the tide.

Next morning, the shore was littered with hundreds of cartons that had been blown ashore by the wind, and not floated out to sea, as we'd hoped.  But we were glad to see that it was not long before they, too, disappeared.  Perhaps the next tide was higher and had carried them away, we thought.

Eighteen months later we found out where some, at least, had gone, when we put Panton up on Hockings Boatslip at T.I., for some underwater attention.   An irate shipwright confronted us.  Wasn't the Panton in Careening Cove last year?   She sure was, we said.   Did we own it, then?  Rather modestly, we agreed she was ours at the time.   Did we chuck overboard thousands of French letters then?   Laughingly, we agreed, yes, we had done that.  

“You bastards!” he shouted, revealing that he and his wife now had a strapping son, resulting from him picking up some cartons!

 He and his mates had collected the lot.   I wonder how many other new Australians we were responsible for!   As it is said, “God works in mysterious ways His wonders to perform”!

 Murphy had nothing to do with it!

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!”

~~~

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.

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.

***

Cowboy Calum, and the Big Secret

Cowboy Calum and the Big Secret

Waiting

Rockhampton has a hidden underbelly, a soft layer of art and craft and creativity within.

Often seen as a cowboy town and a cultural backwater, (where even my 3year old nephew mimics the rodeo riders – I’m buckin! I’m buckin!)  Rockhampton holds its serious creativity deep inside, for fear of mockery, fear of ridicule, and delights in a secret celebration of passion and drive.

I’m sitting in the quiet semi-darkness, waiting for my writing class to begin. On the second floor, around the corner, past the Creative Embroiderers and diagonally opposite the Spinners and Woven Fabric Artists, is where you’ll find me.

A giant red circle is speared with long purple arrows pointing to the centre of the building; a disused and re-energised warehouse, at the far end of East Street.

In my Writers Room, there are photos of this building on fire (1912), a photograph of the building in flood (1918) and a photograph of the magnificent building in it’s heyday (1919) with 2 bicycles, two small boys and a horse and buggy passively looking to the camera.

In my Writers Room, the colour of the walls matches exactly the colour of the coffee mugs.

Deep jacaranda purple.

I wonder which came first, the mug, or the walls?

“Here, this is the colour”, and the newly purchased mug is held up and turned this way and that.

Writing exercises - September 2010

On war, and heroes.

A tsunami of war.
The Harrys and Henries, the Johnnies and Alberts; whose hair their mothers had smoothed down with a lick of her hand; now lay staring in horror at the unfolding war.
Their eyes do not blink.
A crab creeps sideways, oblivious to the rat-a-tat shell fire stuttering and exploding above. Unaware of the growing red-stained sea, he feeds on our youth, and he too, doesn’t blink.
At home, in Australia, on a summer’s afternoon, a mother twists her hanky into rope.
Softly she calls his name, just the once.
She knows.