Mum – Part 10

John and I drive in separate cars to see mum. Phone calls from my husband, from two of my close friends, location updates from June: I’m in Childers. The house is closed, locked and bolted. I drive in the silence of my mother’s old car, the radio has lost its knob.

I haven’t been to the hospital in the morning, so this is new to me. (I've been too sick)

Across the next parking allotment sits a huge tree, itself a forest of sprouting small figs. The multi-trunks span the entire block. Is it one tree? Just one tree? No, it’s a series, an orchard. Maybe not, it’s very confusing as the limbs intertwine and weave their way skyward.

Dog shit dots the pavement. My feet tango in between.

Above Rocky sky throws up a treat of fairy floss clouds, wistfully moving in slow motion to the east.

***

Bending in the back garden to throw handfuls of rose food to budding tight fists of reds and yellows, a butterfly glides past my cheek so closely I can feel the soft puff of wind as it flaps lazily by.

If a butterfly sneezes….I ponder.

My mouth makes an O like Jonathon, but no ‘wheelbarrow full of surprises'; only earthy fresh garden soil, and the steady drone of the garden sprinkler as it breathes new life into the citrus trees. I watch in fascination the purple and blue of the black winged butterfly. He dances a hiccupy flight meandering through mum’s yard. He makes no point of arrival, simply enjoys the journey wherever it may take him.

***

Hot chocolate and mud cake make a wonderful friend on days when you need to sit and think and talk. John and I collapse into seats facing the street, waiting to share some time together and discuss mum, our favourite subject. Last night he told me quietly that he read my writing essays from Year 7 at Berserker Street State School, when he went there the following year to begin his teaching career.

“I have always remembered your writing,” he says.

Because I’m your little sister?

“No, because it was bloody good, and in the 42 years I have been teaching ever since, I have never read anything like it.”

I’m stunned, and yes, flattered. He looks at me with his straight gaze. I grin madly back, like his little kid sister.

***

At the front door work two men in pull on boots. The ones with elastic sides. They are struggling with the sliding security door, it seems they have NOT measured twice and cut once. So now it’s too short.

Battery drills and crashing and banging and the odd mutter permeate the lounge room. The screen screeches with glee, the men adjust the screws, it shrieks again, giddy with the naughtiness of not doing what they want. Discussions are held over pop rivet guns, the tracks finally gliding the door into behaving after much ado.

***

To be continued...

Mum – Part 9

Already the morning routine has changed with June’s early pre-dawn departure and John arrival yesterday afternoon.

Four-wheel drive magazines clutter our girls toilet.

The Three Tenors - mum’s three magpies – have sung the sun up, dragging its lazy arse across the gum treed tops of Mt Archer. Life is returning to a new normal; a different routine we soon adjust to.

Carolyn quietly cuts another onion in half, and I awake to a small brown slice - sacrificed to soak up my ‘cold germs’ – sitting on top of the computer. The scouts could hold a jamboree!

John sleeps in my old green bedroom, the wallpaper tatty from years of teenagers and toddlers camping in the small cramped room over the decades. June dits to say she is at Childers, so I begin to work out her departure time.

***

As adults, gradually we reconnect; sitting in the night's cool darkness, feet up on the bench, sipping our red wine. Gradually we knock off the sharp edges of our relationships, and once again become the smooth cog of our family.

Last night we sang up a storm with old Henry – Seaman Dan – and the Mills Sisters. Turn it up! Turn it up! And we twist the old knob and crank the music.

Are you from T.I.?
Well I’m from T.I. tooooo, we bay.

We stomp and clap (I enthusiastically break a huge blood vessel on my left palm) and June shrills and Carolyn yelps: we howl like wild things at our lives, we howl to our mother, and we embrace; arms encircling each other, heads bowed in reverence of the beautiful joy of being part of this loving family.

As siblings, our family life experience is a progressive patchwork quilt, some edges are worn and smooth, other patches need stitching to heal, but together we children throw our homemade blanket around the shoulders of our beloved mother.

It keeps her warm.

***

A call from Carolyn, with a longish list of Things Mum Wants. Her classical music (of course) her crosswords, her mobile phone charger, so she can send out her dits to the world of grandchildren, updating her progress. In the war she was a Signals Officer, teaching Morse Code:

dit dit dit,
did dar dar dar.

We send dits to each other daily. Telstra love us.

***

To be continued…

Mum – Part 8

John has arrived from Bowen, at last. A day of ups and downs for mum – to be expected – and her ‘surprise parcel in the post’ arrived sans post stamp and larger than life. John!

Laptops are quickly organised to Skype, a bottle of champagne thrown into the car, and we sit as a family; this stoic mother with her broken hip, and her remaining offspring who adore her.

We sit and we chat and we laugh and we sing old songs that some of us know; and we sing old songs that all of us know. We are so happy – and relieved – to be together.

Later, dinner is a mish-mash if this and that, each choosing a different drink to wash away the day’s efforts.

Red wine.
White wine.
Beer.
Champs.

Much dancing and filming to the Mills Sisters and our adored Seaman Dan.

Tomorrow, when the crows are still silent from sleep; and the sun has forgotten to wake up, my sister June will creep into the darkness and drive 700kms home to her pot plants and awaiting family. God speed. God Bless. Don’t speed. Dit us!

***

To be continued…

Mum - Part 7

The girls ready for another day. They laugh and chat and gossip and talk. I type. Walking down the hallway I try to engage my eldest sister in a conversation, and within a minute she starts shouting at me again. It’s a bit rude actually. I’m over it.

“Are these your photos or the photographer’s photos?” she demands. They are the photographer’s photos, but I have put them on your usb stick, as you asked me to.
"YES I KNOW, BUT LAST TIME I COULDN’T ACCESS THE DISC SO I WANT TO KNOW IF….BLAH BLAH BLAH."

I’m not sure what she gets, and doesn’t get, but I’m over it. Today my brother John arrives. That might clinch the deal.

***

Across the road an industrial sprinkler beats, watering half of the lawn and the entire concrete driveway. Behind me in the two small brick units, an orange vested man mows dust, followed by another man who whipper snips. The noise is comforting. Childhood. Rockhampton is having a working day.

***

When dad passed away, Butcherbirds and Magpies began to visit mum’s back deck, singing to her as she sat in the sun ‘warming her old bones.’ She feeds them mince, and throws it in the air for them to catch on the wing. The Maggies she feeds by hand, and they swap songs for food.

They have become a much loved ritual and part of our family, most if not all of them having names. We are familiar with their antics, and enjoy them very much, but the birds haven’t been seen since mum was taken away in an ambulance. Carolyn tells me that when the front open opened to allow mum’s stretcher to pass through, Mr Fluffy sat on the chair with his head cocked to one side, silently watching mum’s departure.

He didn’t sing.

Yesterday, the hospital rings: "Doctor says he can see no new fractures, so Pearl doesn’t need an operation”. We sit in stunned silence until we over talk each other with cries and exclamations of “That’s great!” “Wow, I thought for sure...” “Amazing!”

Within two minutes Mr Fluffy whirled into the house as the door was slid open, and he sat expectantly on the chair he thinks he owns. Within minutes he was joined on the deck by the other three Butcherbirds, and two Maggies.

The birds have returned.

The parrots are a constant guest, eating the bread and honey left daily for them, and they helicopter to the trees in a blur of colourful feathers. We take the birds return as a positive sign, and we are relieved. Mum will be fine.

***

Mum – Part 6

It’s Tuesday. I’ve lost a whole day. Yesterday I woke to a black screen on my phone.

Yesterday was spent organising my dead Blackberry to be resuscitated by Telstra. They have actually replaced it *bless, and when we removed the old sim card, it spluttered back to life!

So now I have TWO Blackberries. *sighs. I’ll have to sort that out today.

Yesterday my sisters asked if I could vacuum the floor, so I waved them off to the hospital as only Cinderalla can, and vacuumed mum’s 90th birthday bling from the carpet.

90. Woosh. There goes a purple one. Wosh! There goes a gold one. 90.

Gradually little memories are removed from the floor.

Yesterday I met my sisters - who seem to talk around me, and over me – for morning tea. Agreeing to meet at the ‘Chocolate Shop’ I drive and park, only to read that what I thought was the right café is actually called Sexy Coffee. I hate coffee, but I love chocolate, so then I drive to Carolyn’s work to ask if I can ring her on her mobile.

Long story short, I found the girls, who didn’t miss me at all. *sighs, lol. They sit a cough’s distance away.

***

We wander the house, patting down our pockets. “Have you seen my phone? Are these my glasses? Where did I put my camera?”
We wander like sheep in a paddock, out of routine with life and habits.

***

A sign hangs limply from a building advertising “Opera in the Caves”. It would be beautiful to be there, to hear pure voices sing in God’s Cathedral.

***

A semi laden with cattle turns a hard right for the long drive to the meatworks. A line of manure spills from the truck in a graceful but smelly curve. Even with the windows up I can smell the shit.

Rockhampton is a beef city.

Large cows (cattle?) bullocks or whatever meet visitors at each end of the town. I like the concept.

Eat more meat ya bastards! crowed the old car stickers. You probably can’t say that now, in this politically correct world we live in. We exist in. This silly world where little girls prance in permanent party dresses of pink and fairy tulle. What on earth do they then wear to actual parties?

***

A group of young aboriginals cross the road in front of my car. They each hold a small plastic coke bottle and inside it the liquid isn’t the colour of Coke. They look at me with dead eyes. I stare back.

***

The Fitzroy - the great grey-green, greasy Limpopo River, all set about with fever trees of my old hometown - twinkles in the autumn sunshine.

Clouds hang above like gun fire.

I drive in silence, the car radio has died. It gives me time to think, and I can’t sing anyway with my scratchy voice. Later, I ring Father Cameron, all 6 foot 6 inches of him, to ask if mum can be put on the Prayer List. This morning he responds to my message, and also adds me to the list.

Marvellous! And all you have to do to be on it, is to be sick!

***

My sister asks if we should throw away the chocolate mud cake I bought for us to share on Mother’s Day. It has only one small slice taken from it. It sits pristine. No, I say, it will last for ages. She starts shouting at me, again.

BUT I DON'T EAT MUDCAKE!

I do.
So far she has lectured, roused on, bossed, and now she shouts.

I am her Elephant’s Child. We have forgotten how to speak to each other.

I might go home early. I’m dead weight here.

***

To be continued...

Mum - Part 5

Most people think it only takes 2 minutes to cook salmon steaks, but they are wrong.

I’m standing at the bbq, hand on my left hip, turning the pork chipolatas, cooking with care, the salmon; Vicks vapour rub on my feet, enclosed in pink bedsocks. My top lip beads sweat.

I’m doing the man’s job, again. We have no men, in Rockhampton, none that can turn the snags anyway. Not now, at this minute.

My sisters re-thread mum’s bedroom curtains, all three sets of them.

Are we doing double loops or triples? asks June. They sit quietly; doing women’s work; re-looping, until Carolyn covers her face in both hands, both shaking, trembling hands. It’s too much, making mum’s room ‘nice again’ when we all know she may not be home.

None of us feel like lunch but we know we have to eat, we must eat. Everyone is out of routine. When I serve the avocado and red tomato salsa, we fall upon it like a pack of dogs, we shove the food and wash it down with Lindeman’s Sav Blanc. Life is good, for now.

***

Candles are lit for mum; it’s Mother’s Day. Gently Carolyn circles the room, tea lights and purple candles and soft pinks, are all lit with care and love. We chat amongst ourselves, and busy our hands with glasses of red wine. The room smells of cut onions (don't ask!) and Vicks.

My sisters always talk like they have met each other for the first time, each conversation fresh with new discoveries and enthusiastic swapping of chat and titter.

I listen passively, lost in my own thoughts. I have conversations with my sons – in my head.

Later we head back to hospital, the cars know their way now and we lead them in like wranglers, parking outside. June has brought her laptop, so family can video Skype mum, and soon the room is full of laughter and blowing kisses and mum bravely waving her broken left wrist to much loved grandchildren. My two sons call in too, both looking serious and handsome, but hey! look at the mother, haha.

My niece holds her two year old son upside down over her pregnant tummy, his golden hair tossers down. I resist the urge to ruffle it.

Then it’s time for me to go; my cold is freshening up and I am a reluctant departure.

Bye mum! Take care darling. Love you heaps.

My sisters stay a while longer, to chat to the nurses and to oversee her care.

They are mother hens to our mother hen.

***

Dinner is leftover pizza and we gulp it down with red wine.

Later we sit in the evenings cool, me with my Vicks Vapour rub feet enclosed in bed socks, and a huge blanket around me, Carolyn and June sitting quietly as the candle burns down the hours till sleep comes to take us gently to bed.

***

Another restless sleep, my nose is so blocked that when I blow it I trumpet like an elephant with an orange stuck in it’s trunk – woo Weee!

A bush turkey thumps onto the roof in the early dawn and performs a percussion solo above me.

I drift in and out of sleep, half listening to my sisters soft voices.

The wall clock ticks in exact time to a blinking green light for mum’s emergency phone. In case she falls.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock, the light blinks in perfect harmony.

Legs curled like a bronze age burial, I snuggle in and dream some more, waking to the horror that won’t go away – mum’s agonising broken hip and impending operation.

In the morning, I shit bitumen.

***

To be continued…

Mum - Part 4

Sitting in the car, chatting to my Youngest, waiting for sisters to arrive for our planned brunch. Uh oh, here comes Carolyn, grim faced and trembling chin. It’s not going to be good news. I scramble out of the car, a gaggle of Mother’s Day wishes hurriedly snatched from my son’s mouth as he utters each word.

Overhead, a loose flock of pigeons wheel and turn like confetti in the blue Rockhampton sky; such a mad mob. A few of them break free, flapping this way and that, no idea where they are going; they must be young.

Learning.

Other pigeons fly in an orderly circle, how hard can it be, but the youngsters fall over the sky in random order, like starving kids in the school Tuckshop line.

***

My two sisters fill me in on what the doctor said, what the nurse said, what mum has told them. Stories are shared, options discussed. It’s grim. We sit there – shocked at the future being pushed towards us – we unwilling participants of this slow motion car crash called life. And death.

***

Driving through the city centre on Sunday afternoon, I see two old cowboys, playing the fiddle. It could be a violin, but come on, they are cowboys, and it’s unlikely to be such an instrument, but you never know. They stand bow legged, white hats and denim jeans, arms bent and I have to imagine the music they are playing. I’ll have to simply imagine, for now.

In the centre of East Street is an old fig tree, it’s massive branches carved off like butter. Upright limbs stretch skywards, as if asking to be saved from man's chainsaws.

Old wounds are painted with grey, and cracks and splits in the bark are bogged with putty. I should get some for mum’s hip! In contrast, to the left stands an elegant Royal Palm, dignified in the classic shape of nobility. It makes the poor old fig tree look like the dog’s breakfast it has become. It’s not a suitable street tree, at all, what were they thinking?

***

Arriving home to phone calls, Skype video calls (‘What time is it? It’s 3am. What on earth are you ringing at this hour for?’ We rouse gently). A bottle of champagne is produced. Girls? Pink champers or normal?

Pink? Normal?

No one cares, just open something, anything, and start to pour. We pause our minds for a minute to stop - STOP - and clink; Happy Mother’s Day, here’s to our children, and our mum. Clink. Sip. Ahhh, bliss. Back to rushing around.

***

To be continued…

Mum - Part 3

It’s morning, at last. Darkness scurries west, hiding from the day.

Such a long night.

Coughing, blowing my nose, tossing in my makeshift bed on the floor of the loungeroom.

Outside it's windy; the parrots are hanging off the screen door, waiting impatiently for their bread and honey. One hangs upside down, what a clown!

***

In the distance I can hear my sisters chat quietly, the jug comes to a rolling boil, cups are stirred. I am surrounded by a sea of tissues, and I am full of snot and mucus. How bloody annoying! Deciding not to join my sisters at church, I roll over and close my puffy eyes for more sleep. I haven’t had a bad cold for the past 5 years, and now, today of all days, here I am. Unclean! Unclean! So annoyed at myself.

‘Look behind the potatoes' I croak to Carolyn, and she digs out the large box of dark Lindt chocolates for Mother’s Day. I plan to eat at least 3 of them myself, although I doubt if I could taste them. I’ll just pretend.

Carolyn brings me a hot cup of tea, and waves Panadol at me. Thanks sis.

My voice sounds like a 13 year old. If I wasn’t so sick I’d burst out laughing at myself, how I sound. I honk my nose again.

When the girls leave, when my sisters drive away from this girl’s house, leaving me and my tissue landfill, I make myself another cup of tea.

***

This is such a girl’s house, now. On the walls there are 35 paintings, all original. We are a house of enthusiastic artists and collectors of memories and photographs. Good paintings hang above terrible, but much loved paintings. We look at them both, and appreciate the care and memory.

Some of dad’s paintings hang above the window, scenes of early days at Lockhart River Mission, us naked happy children running with freedom in our salty hair. Above the television stand a group of grandchildren photos, in various stages of smiles, teeth and life.

The frames jostle for prominence.

They are treasured and carefully replaced with each fresh batch of images. This girl’s house is surrounded by security, now. Lights, doors, mesh, screens, it is a bolt house for us women. No men guard us here. It’s a girl’s house with Adorable written in diamonds on the bathroom mirror, false pearls strung like party lights across the toilet window; the seat remains down, always.

Music seeps through, classical music. Always music, and art.

It’s mum’s house, except there is no mum here, now.

I light a candle for her, for Mother’s Day.

Later, in the hot shower, I stand and let the water drown me, spilling over my shoulders, across my back, to the floor. There are 3 soaps, 2 liquid bath lotions, 5 types of shampoo. It’s such a girl’s house, this home.

To be continued…

Mum - Part 2

It is a week since mum’s fall.

One week since Nigella cooked on TV, quietly unaware of the horror unfolding for my sister on the other side of the screen. Seven days of my older sister beating herself up (it happened on her shift) although you couldn’t find a more loving, dedicated caring daughter.

- One 12 second chat: “Mum, stay there and watch Nigella, I’ll just go and heat dinner for us”;
- one two second fall (twisting her body so she didn’t re-break her left wrist *smart!)
- 20 minutes of my sister sobbing and crying and trying to help Mum to her feet, trying to help Mum stand, trying to get Mum off the bloody floor.

Calm down Carolyn, Mum says, in the authoritive voice she learnt in the war, as Signals Officer.

Take your time, it will be ok.

***

In the afternoon we are in Mum’s room of the Rehabilitation Centre. We came laden with blankets (it’s cold) and fresh sleepwear and anticipation. She’s in bed chatting on the phone to brother John. Tomorrow will be Mother’s Day, and he has sent 2 red roses, and a card that reads: To the best Mother in the world, Happy Mother’s Day, I love you, John.

 Nice.

He has done it every year, for decades. He is a man of rountine and order. A school teacher. Driving home, Venus keeps her twinkling eye upon us, as the car turns into our street. We are home, bottles of wine are opened, pizzas are ordered, our growling tummies howl with anticipation of a meal.

***

So tomorrow is Mother’s Day, and the shops are full of mummy things: pyjamas, nighties, dressing gowns and so on. I buy my two sisters a bunch of Woolworths flowers: red roses for June (so they can travel the 700km back to Brisbane in the car) and pink tulips for Carolyn (I love to watch them gently droop as they grow one inch each day, so graceful). I hide a large box of Lindt dark chocolate in the pantry, behind the potatoes. Mum will receive yellow ‘Tulips in a Bucket!’ - like 'Snakes on a Plane!' - only tulips.

I walked my Rockhampton inspired 10,000 steps in the North Rockhampton Shopping Centre to buy the flowers. The shopping mecca is full of 14 year old boys preening their hair, carefully sculptured piles of dead protein sure to impress the chicks...middle aged women walk past me with both of their lower legs covered in tattoos. I’m sure you can get pantyhose that look like that?

I’m exhausted, but still appreciate watching dads with sons and young toddlers glean over catalogues to choose the right gift for their mother. It has to be right, they can’t stuff this up, the day is too important to them. They’re young. When they become older, when their body begin to change it’s scent and they feign carelessness as cool, Mother’s Day becomes less important. Never as important as their hair.

It’s proportional.

Later we Skype with brother John. My eldest sister and I clash, again. And again. It’s what we seem to do. We always have. We're both tired.

***

Carolyn, my other sister, is exhausted.

“Goodnight Sis, sleep well,” the old phrase not quite worn out from use. Within a minute my sister is back in the lounge room, crying, sobbing, her body shaking with grief.

“I just miss mum cleaning her teeth, it’s something we have done together, every night. I can’t stand the thought of her up there by herself.”

I hold her, it’s amazing how far my arms can stretch, I feel like Rubber Man. We embrace.

I tell her she is the most loving woman, the most patient, giving woman. It’s all true. It’s not a time to lie or embellish, it’s the simple truth. She really is.

We sob together.

Shhh. Shhh. Mum is in a good place. It’s her journey. We are witness to her life, what a ride!

I stroke her shoulders, and murmur.

‘Dad is with her. Dad is with her’. All will be well.

Tomorrow is morning service at the Cathedral, I haven’t been back for a service since we buried dad, so tomorrow is the day, before we go to see mum, to take our offerings of flowers and bed jackets and our love and concern, our family offerings of a life well lived and respected and appreciated. Tomorrow.

We have tonight to get through first.
Sleep well, God bless.

***
To be continued...

Mum 2010-05-08

We are entering a new era of soft, hushed voices, of lowered eyes that do not dare to connect for fear of letting go.

Tentative footfall.

What will we find today?

Our mother has broken her hip. Fractured bones and torn muscle (it’s her left side) and life as we know it – knew it – looks grim faced, staring back at us with a contemptful sneer.

We five children race down the hospital corridor, wheeling left like a flock of seagulls, a family in full flight, all sisters and nieces and toddlers, turning left, walking briskly along the silent tunnel of green paint, until we reach the end, and begin to slow our pace; finally, slowly, softly tip toeing on shushed feet to peer between the open door. Is she asleep? Her mouth is open. Is that normal? She’ll be thirsty when she wakes. We chat to ourselves and make notes of her needs. Of our needs. We need to be hugged and loved and reassured our mother is ok. Of course she isn’t. She’ll never be ok again.

We are entering an en era where feet tred slowly, time slows, clocks become only relevant when it comes to pain relief and tablets. A time when each painful raised heel and foot attempts to shuffle forward; a time that will witness sadder conversations, flurries of tears and tissues followed by hard nose blowing and “Yes Mum, I’m fine, darling”.

We begin to lie to each other.

To protect.

To try in our own silly human way to slow the inevitable: the death of a parent; our mother, the last woman standing.

Dad’s spirit smiles in the shadows, waiting for her to join him. Not long now Dad, not long now love.

Slabs of daylight shaft the room, fingers of time probing our life, falling at our feet in a pool of sunshine.

Outside a formation of Ibis fly silently overhead. Timid clouds sneak peeks over the shoulders of Mt Archer. We press the buzzer, we squeeze it, we stab it again with our shaking fingers. Quietly a bell rings in the Nurse’s Station, and a wearied figure of efficiency paces down the hallway, to be greeted by our sea of anxious faces.

To be continued...

HeartStrings CD - Ian Morton at OneTrueMedia.com

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I see what you don't see

I was speaking to a young friend last weekend about my Funeral Photography. He was trying to get his head around the fact that I wanted to take images, and how passionate I was about doing so. I explained that I viewed my work as a service - I am providing a service for grieving families - and I show them how the funeral went, from my point of view.

For example, I photographed a friend of a friend’s funeral, she was in her mid-forties and left 3 teenagers and a distraught husband behind. Naturally they sat up the front of the church, but what they didn't know, was there were approx another 300mourners outside the church, coming to pay their respects.

I took photos of the crowd outside knowing the family would be surprised at the large capacity. Later, he thanked me over and over, saying: "Patty, I had no idea. I had NO idea!"

He was so grateful for my images, and a beautiful album for his teenage children to remember their mum's funeral by.

In a funeral I photographed a couple of weeks ago, the young adult daughter was visibly distressed after her father's funeral. I say on my website that private grief is not intruded on, so I thought, I won't go there, we all deserve to grieve in our own way, and in our own time.

There is no right or wrong, so I continued to train my camera on the coffin.

To my delight, family friends came and began to touch, and then kiss his coffin, with much love and tenderness.

She saw nothing of this, as her face was covered. It was my job, to see what she didn't see.

I hope one day she can take the time to view the DVD and understand the respect shown to her father. It might be next week, it might be on the first anniversary of passing, it might be in 10 years time, but one day, she will be able to see it, and understand.

Cafe Connect Grand Opening

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Morgan Cars Centenary Tour - Inverell 2009

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Cafe Renovation - Week 6

Lenny's Funeral DVD

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Beecham Motors - Pot of Gold Idea - Car Giveaway

Watch our beloved 'binny' dome crumple like a balloon as we demolish the old Dealership to make way for the new building. But how does our Sales Manager still sell cars?

Photo and video editing at www.OneTrueMedia.com

Cafe Renovation - Week 4

Today the green back wall was painted, it looks wonderful, and is all coming together so nicely. Tommorrow the outside will be painted, and next week? Stay tuned.

Cafe Renovation - Week 3 Continued - MORE COLOUR!

Today the green back wall was painted, it looks wonderful, and is all coming together so nicely. Tommorrow the outside will be painted, and next week? Stay tuned.

Cafe Renovation Week 3

It's Week 3 and the colour is on the walls, purple today, and green tommorrow. Join Belinda Ross as she discusses the Cafe Renovation plans with Kevin, the Manager and Suerrat, the painter.