Sunday, July 10, 2011
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Thursday, April 28, 2011
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.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
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…
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.
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.
Monday, April 11, 2011
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.
***
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.
***
Friday, March 18, 2011
White chocolate and raspberry muffins
Ingredients:
2 cups self-raising flour
1/4 cup caster sugar
1/4 cup brown sugar
1 egg
zest of 1 lemon
90g. unsalted butter, melted
1/2 cup buttermilk (I didn't have any, used 1 cup milk)
1/2 cup milk (see above)
1/2 cup white choc chips
150g. frozen raspberries (1/2 box)
1 teaspoon vanilla essence
Directions:
1. Pre-heat oven to 180 deg.C.
Grease a muffin tin well with butter or spray oil.
2. Sift flour into a large bowl and stir in the sugars to mix evenly.
In another bowl mix together the egg, lemon zest, butter, buttermilk, milk and choc chips and add to the flour mixture with the raspberries.
Spoon into muffin tin and bake for about 20 minutes (less for mini muffins) or until golden. The last batch I added some coconut.
Remove from oven and allow to cool for a few minutes before turning out onto a wire rack to cool completely.
2 cups self-raising flour
1/4 cup caster sugar
1/4 cup brown sugar
1 egg
zest of 1 lemon
90g. unsalted butter, melted
1/2 cup buttermilk (I didn't have any, used 1 cup milk)
1/2 cup milk (see above)
1/2 cup white choc chips
150g. frozen raspberries (1/2 box)
1 teaspoon vanilla essence
Directions:
1. Pre-heat oven to 180 deg.C.
Grease a muffin tin well with butter or spray oil.
2. Sift flour into a large bowl and stir in the sugars to mix evenly.
In another bowl mix together the egg, lemon zest, butter, buttermilk, milk and choc chips and add to the flour mixture with the raspberries.
Spoon into muffin tin and bake for about 20 minutes (less for mini muffins) or until golden. The last batch I added some coconut.
Remove from oven and allow to cool for a few minutes before turning out onto a wire rack to cool completely.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Simon & Garfunkel- Last Night I Had The Strangest Dream
Last Night I Had The Strangest Dream (2:11)
E. McCurdy, 1950
Last night I had the strangest dream
I ever dreamed before
I dreamed the world had all agreed
To put an end to war
I dreamed I saw a mighty room
The room was filled with men
And the paper they were signing said
They'd never fight again
And when the papers all were signed
And a million copies made
They all joined hands and bowed their heads
And grateful prayers were prayed
And the people in the streets below
Were dancing round and round
And guns and swords and uniforms
Were scattered on the ground
Last night I had the strangest dream
I ever dreamed before
I dreamed the world had all agreed
To put an end to war
Peace, man.
I grew up in the love and peace attitude of the seventies. John Lennon had sung about it, the radio played songs with beautiful, innocent lyrics: "If you're going to San Francisco, be sure to wear some flowers in your hair".
We listened to Simon and Garfunkle tell us:
Last night I had the strangest dream
I ever dreamed before
I dreamed the world had all agreed
To put an end to war
I dreamed I saw a mighty room
The room was filled with men
And the paper they were signing said
They'd never fight again
Everywhere I turned as a young teenager, was love, and peace. We wore the peace symbol on our Levi jeans back pocket, we made the sign when our photos were taken. I still do.
My hair was waist-long, straight and golden. My skin was tight and brown, tanned from hours spent running on the beach with my dog. Freedom was endless, and as the days blurred into years, my cheesecloth shirts grew holes, and my leather handmade sandals grew thin, but still the message was the same. Love one another.
Peace, man.
I wore no makeup, I ate healthy food; apples, mostly! Slogans like free love, and stickers telling us to “Save water! Shower with a friend” only reinforced the society attitudes that everyone should love one another. My dad was a priest, and would tell me solemnly, with his hand on my shoulder; Jesus said Love one another. That’s all. Just love one another.
I totally got it.
Now as an adult, I don’t get why this generation of spoilt, over indulged, over educated kids, hate each other so much. Why are they so full of aggression, and depression? What happened? What the hell happened? We brought them up, so wouldn’t we have passed on our values to them? The internet happened. That’s what. Violent video games, so called ‘friends’ you never met, or saw, happened.
Your opinion on everything and anything was able to be ‘out there’ in cyberspace, your thoughts and ideas were blogged and broadcast on social media sites. And then trolls began; strangers bagging your ideas, slagging off with contempt and hatred and over-reaction to your opinions. So we stopped giving them. We withdrew.
Although we might reach out even further with other social networking, we are now expected to be totally available at any given point in time; on mobile phones, and the net. We don’t have any special place for ourselves. We haven’t the time, or the energy to honour our own selves. Instead of running along the beach with the wind dancing in their hair, my sons sit in front of their computer screens, chatting, working, studying to get ahead. Where is their freedom?
Why do I have to be fearful when they go to the city at night? That they might be glassed, or stabbed, or punched. I am sure my sons are quite capable of looking after themselves, but neverless, I do worry and fret. Young people at university are on anti depressants. Why? Why aren’t they coping?
Why are young girls called Princesses? Why do they have a birthday party I can’t even afford, at age five? What on earth do you do for their birthday when they become teenagers, or *gasp, an adult?
Why do we as a society so easily complain? Why is my city full of whingers and knockers?
Why are we so intolerant of each other?
Love one another. It’s a really simple message.
It’s a really simple message. Peace.
The young man behind this idea, Stephen Danger Shoemaker says:
"I have an idea... for a day of peace. Wouldn't it be amazing?
Just one day in the year where we all held our tongues.
A day where we ignored others' shortcomings and made a valiant effort to be kind and understanding.
A day where we all got along. It's sad that we are all at a point where we should do this, but it's even sadder to know that we easily could every day, but refuse to do so.
My proposition is simple:
One day, March 4th, we all stick to three simple rules that will make the world a little bit more bearable. Feel free to partake in this before and long after then; the only reason I have the event set that far into the future is because I want word to spread and allow this to have as big of an impact as possible.
This event is to take place everywhere we go in the world, preferably all the time.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Rule #1.Say not a single unkind thing about anyone or anything. If at all possible, try not to even think a nasty thought. If we do, reflect on why it was that we thought to say it in the first place.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Rule #2.Show everyone we cross paths with some genuine human compassion. Be it with a smile or kind words, just spread some love.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Rule #3.Make not one person the exception to the rule. Not everyone deserves to have roses thrown at their feet and have a holiday in their honor, but nobody deserves to feel alone. Reach out. Talk to someone new. Care about them, and we will be cared for in return.
Peace, man.
Space Shuttle Discovery - Nasa's Final Launch 2011
My childhood was spent watching NASA shoot rockets into the sky. I watched as man walked on the moon; a small black and white TV placed under Berserker Street State School in Rockhampton, and 350 kids, smelling of sweat and slight fear and apprehension, holding our breath to listen to Neil Armstrong speak.
Later, the Space Shuttle was launched, and I gasped as it glided home and landed like a 'normal' plane.
My youngest son - desperate to be an astronaut as a child, now studies aerospace engineering, in the hope of redesigning planes and one day, perhaps space rockets. Will he? No one can see the future, but I love that he is reaching for the stars.
This is a recording of the last Discovery Space Shuttle, and I must admit to feeling slightly overwhelmed as I watched the marriage of science and physics come into play with man's imagination and desire. Good luck. Safe home.
PS: Make sure you see 5.00 minutes into clip, for debris.
Later, the Space Shuttle was launched, and I gasped as it glided home and landed like a 'normal' plane.
My youngest son - desperate to be an astronaut as a child, now studies aerospace engineering, in the hope of redesigning planes and one day, perhaps space rockets. Will he? No one can see the future, but I love that he is reaching for the stars.
This is a recording of the last Discovery Space Shuttle, and I must admit to feeling slightly overwhelmed as I watched the marriage of science and physics come into play with man's imagination and desire. Good luck. Safe home.
PS: Make sure you see 5.00 minutes into clip, for debris.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Flash Mob for Flash Floods!
At Karrinyup Shopping Centre (Western Australia) the Variety Club Youth Choir organized a FLASH MOB where they all were incognito in the Food Hall, and started standing up in groups singing "We are Australian" -
The purpose it to raise money for the QLD floods. Each time it is clicked on, money is raised thru google ads, SO PLEASE WATCH! It is a beaut way of suppporting Aussies.
The purpose it to raise money for the QLD floods. Each time it is clicked on, money is raised thru google ads, SO PLEASE WATCH! It is a beaut way of suppporting Aussies.
Hoping tomorrow never comes
Another week, another tragedy at our doorstep.
I even joked with my husband that this week would be free of any drama, natural or man made, and yet here I sit with the TV remote glued to my hand, flicking between each station and news reporter.
I finally turned it off when I saw a deceased person being carried out of the rubble that was their office, their workplace. Although I am a funeral photographer, there are some images I don’t wish to see. I’m tired, exhausted emotionally, the same as every other Queenslander.
Tomorrow the images will still be there. I’ll look again tomorrow, but not now, not today. My candle burns for the hearts of each New Zealander.
I’ll blow it out at sunset, and re-light it tomorrow. Meanwhile, stay safe, and hug your Loved Ones.
Tomorrow will be here soon enough.
Tomorrow will be here soon enough.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
A Polm for Murphys.
Anonymous said...
such a sad story but true could u make a polm for the town please
azza
https://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7899299685333724371&postID=8786381231768270743
If I were to draw a map of my Murphy’s
In the old days
I would be kissed here.
And there - high on the hill.
My poetry would follow the terrain of the land,
Each sonnet a hill,
Each song - a contour.
A bath of red rose petals is drawn,
further along the road, to the left.
It seemed nice - but it wasn’t.
Cups of tea and conversations lay to the lower place,
Across the dusty paddocks of thistle and cactus,
Taking bags of carrots - for the horse.
On my Murphy’s map, is a tree.
A huge gum, shading the water
As it glides - beneath.
My old cat is buried there,
Wrapped in a green shirt,
He dreams - of mice.
On my landscape is the road I rolled my car.
Driving backwards to the tune of Oh! My! God!
It was never going to end well.
And yet - it did.
My world of Murphy’s contains the valleys and the crests,
A meandering effort tracing across the page
Where everything seemed so important
And yet - it wasn’t.
Today’s map would be different, drawn in a shaking hand
Containing rips and scars,
Lumps of land would be missing,
Chunks of lives would be smashed and splintered
Against - the edge of the page.
If I were to redraw the Murphy’s map today
I would hesitate to put pen to paper.
I would scribble in purple, a healing softness.
A purple map of love - and hope.
But I’m not a map maker or a person that can
Hold a pen with such precision
As to redress the past.
I can only guide a hand towards the future
Whatever that will be.
We are all architects
Of our own - life.
~~
...and so I did.
~~~
such a sad story but true could u make a polm for the town please
azza
https://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7899299685333724371&postID=8786381231768270743
If I were to draw a map of my Murphy’s
In the old days
I would be kissed here.
And there - high on the hill.
My poetry would follow the terrain of the land,
Each sonnet a hill,
Each song - a contour.
A bath of red rose petals is drawn,
further along the road, to the left.
It seemed nice - but it wasn’t.
Cups of tea and conversations lay to the lower place,
Across the dusty paddocks of thistle and cactus,
Taking bags of carrots - for the horse.
On my Murphy’s map, is a tree.
A huge gum, shading the water
As it glides - beneath.
My old cat is buried there,
Wrapped in a green shirt,
He dreams - of mice.
On my landscape is the road I rolled my car.
Driving backwards to the tune of Oh! My! God!
It was never going to end well.
And yet - it did.
My world of Murphy’s contains the valleys and the crests,
A meandering effort tracing across the page
Where everything seemed so important
And yet - it wasn’t.
Today’s map would be different, drawn in a shaking hand
Containing rips and scars,
Lumps of land would be missing,
Chunks of lives would be smashed and splintered
Against - the edge of the page.
If I were to redraw the Murphy’s map today
I would hesitate to put pen to paper.
I would scribble in purple, a healing softness.
A purple map of love - and hope.
But I’m not a map maker or a person that can
Hold a pen with such precision
As to redress the past.
I can only guide a hand towards the future
Whatever that will be.
We are all architects
Of our own - life.
~~
...and so I did.
~~~
Memories of Murphy’s Creek past.
I stand, legs spread, arms out wide, straight; like a starfish. The water reaches to just below my nose, allowing me to breathe.
The swimming pool reflects my outside world. Tall buildings, palm trees, clouds like frozen steam are solemnly reflected in the smooth water. I am weightless, suspended in space and time. The outside world slows to each breath in and out. At times the water barely moves but the smallest movement disturbs the surface tension and my aqua world rollicks and sways in discord.
My husband and his mother chat quietly in the far corner of the swimming pool. I am happily lost in my own universe of water and reflections.
Is the world any easier to fathom upside down? In part, as it becomes blocks of shape and colour. The apartment block wobbles like jelly in front of me, stripes of blue zoom in and out; now there, now not there. So, the question is begged. Are they really there, or not? Did recent events really happen, or not? The flood, mud, destruction, cleanup, mess, the cyclone, the winds, the rains, the bloody rain.
~~
Sitting in the Murphy’s Creek Pub, my friend CJ asks: Did this pub go under water? Did it flood?
Staring at the rising bubbles of my beer, my mouth tightens. I shake my head; I don’t know, and I don’t want to ask. I want to walk gently in this landscape. If they did go under which was highly likely, as it’s just down the road from the primary school (“I looked up from my class preparation to see cars floating away” says the teacher to the media) then they’ve made a wonderful recovery. It’s not my place to ask such impertinent questions. If they have recovered, then I don’t want to disturb their newly made memories by trolling through the muddy, distressing past. Let bygones be bygones.
I do, however, ask how long the pub has been there.
Three months. So young. So fresh.
Three men in suits and a woman dressed for serious business stride past outside. They stop, consult folders, and continue walking. Detectives? Forensic? Government officials? Locals gather to talk, perhaps about anything but the inland tsunami, perhaps to discuss each step; each day by day; minute by horrifying minute.
Rows of army tents flap silently across the road. Army water trucks rumble past. On the way home we pass the road crews who have put in a massive effort in the short time we have been away. Kilometres of road have been resealed, resurfaced, smoothed and are now open the travelling public.
~~
The following night I phone my mother and my sister in Rockhampton. “I read your piece on Murphy’s Creek” she says. There’s a short silence, and we both begin to cry in the soft way women do when we don’t want to disturb menfolk. Our voices break when we speak again.
“Do you remember buying Naughty Toby James from Murphy’s?” mum asks.
Do I? How could I forget! Toby James was the bitiest, barkiest puppy . As my family were previous cocker spaniel breeders, I had hesitated in buying him, as he wasn’t a purebred. Someone had gotten to the bitch so the father was an unknown. I bought him anyway, glad of the company. I took him everywhere. My advertising clients soon fell in love with my puppy, as I arrived in my girly pink pearl buttoned blouse, jeans and short white gum boots, pup firmly tucked under my arm. Bet they’d never seen anything like it in their life!
As time progressed and my husband and I set up house together, Toby James left his yappy indelible mark on us both, and the front door which even now still bears the scars from his sharp claws.
“I came back covered in so many scratches,” my mother says with a laugh.
“And how about the time you came down to visit me, mum, and Toby was shitting eight poos a night. We went to move the mattress you and dad had been sleeping on, and I shoved once too hard. You went flying across the room, to land within a bee’s dick of a huge turd.” We both laugh heartily at the memory.
Neither of us has even seen a bee’s dick, but we know how small it is. Sorry bees.
As it became more apparent to both my husband and I that it was either me or the dog, Toby James went to live in Rockhampton with my parents. An ideal match, as Toby barked at everything, and dad was deaf. One day as dad was walking Toby along our street, the local ex- Police inspector came rushing out of his house. He lived across the road.
“Shut that bloody dog up or I’ll shoot it!” he demanded.
Dad’s heckles rose, and he bristled with fury. His normally gentle priest’s voice became a deep menacing growl.
“Touch my dog and I’ll have you, ya bastard!” snarled dad, and with that he turned and shuffled back home. It became a battle of wits, the former copper, the ex-priest, and Toby, always barking madly in the middle.
Toby! Lie down! So there it was: two old men, their careers and philosophies forgotten in the streets of Rockhampton. One barking, yapping, happy gold and white spaniel, dad’s best mate.
Sadly they are both gone now, and I like to imagine Toby James, the barkiest, bitiest puppy, running along the beach, yapping at the seagulls and at nothing, his short golden ears flapping in the sea breeze; my dad quietly walking behind him, grinning. Such freedom, heaven must hold.
~~
“Hmm, I remember so much,” I say to mum. “I’ve forgotten heaps, but gradually the memories are becoming refreshed.”
Suddenly the image of black and white photos comes to my mind.
“Do you remember me taking beautiful photos of my sister’s hair” I ask excitedly. “You were both visiting, and we were sitting on the pristine white sand banks of Murphy’s Creek. The afternoon sun made my sister’s hair resemble spun gold.” I can still see her now, yellow dandelion flowers in her fingers, as I clicked away, heart pounding.
“Don’t move, don’t move sis! Look up a bit, now turn your head away a little, and stay still!” I snapped away on The Land’s work camera. Her blonde hair glistened with health and sunshine.
I’ll never forget. However my sister marches up to the telephone in Rockhampton, interrupting my reminiscing. “I only remember some old flasher, giving us all an eyeful!” she snorts. “And there wasn’t much to see!”
Oh?
Yes, I do slightly remember that, but it’s only 5% of my memory of that day. She, on the other hand, has no memory of my photographing her hair. “We bolted as soon as we saw him” she reminds me.
Did we? Fair enough.
But I don’t remember the bad, or ugly, only the sunshine, the glossy loveliness of it all, and the yellow dandelions, waiting to burst upon the world.
~~
The swimming pool reflects my outside world. Tall buildings, palm trees, clouds like frozen steam are solemnly reflected in the smooth water. I am weightless, suspended in space and time. The outside world slows to each breath in and out. At times the water barely moves but the smallest movement disturbs the surface tension and my aqua world rollicks and sways in discord.
My husband and his mother chat quietly in the far corner of the swimming pool. I am happily lost in my own universe of water and reflections.
Is the world any easier to fathom upside down? In part, as it becomes blocks of shape and colour. The apartment block wobbles like jelly in front of me, stripes of blue zoom in and out; now there, now not there. So, the question is begged. Are they really there, or not? Did recent events really happen, or not? The flood, mud, destruction, cleanup, mess, the cyclone, the winds, the rains, the bloody rain.
~~
Sitting in the Murphy’s Creek Pub, my friend CJ asks: Did this pub go under water? Did it flood?
Staring at the rising bubbles of my beer, my mouth tightens. I shake my head; I don’t know, and I don’t want to ask. I want to walk gently in this landscape. If they did go under which was highly likely, as it’s just down the road from the primary school (“I looked up from my class preparation to see cars floating away” says the teacher to the media) then they’ve made a wonderful recovery. It’s not my place to ask such impertinent questions. If they have recovered, then I don’t want to disturb their newly made memories by trolling through the muddy, distressing past. Let bygones be bygones.
I do, however, ask how long the pub has been there.
Three months. So young. So fresh.
Three men in suits and a woman dressed for serious business stride past outside. They stop, consult folders, and continue walking. Detectives? Forensic? Government officials? Locals gather to talk, perhaps about anything but the inland tsunami, perhaps to discuss each step; each day by day; minute by horrifying minute.
Rows of army tents flap silently across the road. Army water trucks rumble past. On the way home we pass the road crews who have put in a massive effort in the short time we have been away. Kilometres of road have been resealed, resurfaced, smoothed and are now open the travelling public.
~~
The following night I phone my mother and my sister in Rockhampton. “I read your piece on Murphy’s Creek” she says. There’s a short silence, and we both begin to cry in the soft way women do when we don’t want to disturb menfolk. Our voices break when we speak again.
“Do you remember buying Naughty Toby James from Murphy’s?” mum asks.
Do I? How could I forget! Toby James was the bitiest, barkiest puppy . As my family were previous cocker spaniel breeders, I had hesitated in buying him, as he wasn’t a purebred. Someone had gotten to the bitch so the father was an unknown. I bought him anyway, glad of the company. I took him everywhere. My advertising clients soon fell in love with my puppy, as I arrived in my girly pink pearl buttoned blouse, jeans and short white gum boots, pup firmly tucked under my arm. Bet they’d never seen anything like it in their life!
As time progressed and my husband and I set up house together, Toby James left his yappy indelible mark on us both, and the front door which even now still bears the scars from his sharp claws.
“I came back covered in so many scratches,” my mother says with a laugh.
“And how about the time you came down to visit me, mum, and Toby was shitting eight poos a night. We went to move the mattress you and dad had been sleeping on, and I shoved once too hard. You went flying across the room, to land within a bee’s dick of a huge turd.” We both laugh heartily at the memory.
Neither of us has even seen a bee’s dick, but we know how small it is. Sorry bees.
As it became more apparent to both my husband and I that it was either me or the dog, Toby James went to live in Rockhampton with my parents. An ideal match, as Toby barked at everything, and dad was deaf. One day as dad was walking Toby along our street, the local ex- Police inspector came rushing out of his house. He lived across the road.
“Shut that bloody dog up or I’ll shoot it!” he demanded.
Dad’s heckles rose, and he bristled with fury. His normally gentle priest’s voice became a deep menacing growl.
“Touch my dog and I’ll have you, ya bastard!” snarled dad, and with that he turned and shuffled back home. It became a battle of wits, the former copper, the ex-priest, and Toby, always barking madly in the middle.
Toby! Lie down! So there it was: two old men, their careers and philosophies forgotten in the streets of Rockhampton. One barking, yapping, happy gold and white spaniel, dad’s best mate.
Sadly they are both gone now, and I like to imagine Toby James, the barkiest, bitiest puppy, running along the beach, yapping at the seagulls and at nothing, his short golden ears flapping in the sea breeze; my dad quietly walking behind him, grinning. Such freedom, heaven must hold.
~~
“Hmm, I remember so much,” I say to mum. “I’ve forgotten heaps, but gradually the memories are becoming refreshed.”
Suddenly the image of black and white photos comes to my mind.
“Do you remember me taking beautiful photos of my sister’s hair” I ask excitedly. “You were both visiting, and we were sitting on the pristine white sand banks of Murphy’s Creek. The afternoon sun made my sister’s hair resemble spun gold.” I can still see her now, yellow dandelion flowers in her fingers, as I clicked away, heart pounding.
“Don’t move, don’t move sis! Look up a bit, now turn your head away a little, and stay still!” I snapped away on The Land’s work camera. Her blonde hair glistened with health and sunshine.
I’ll never forget. However my sister marches up to the telephone in Rockhampton, interrupting my reminiscing. “I only remember some old flasher, giving us all an eyeful!” she snorts. “And there wasn’t much to see!”
Oh?
Yes, I do slightly remember that, but it’s only 5% of my memory of that day. She, on the other hand, has no memory of my photographing her hair. “We bolted as soon as we saw him” she reminds me.
Did we? Fair enough.
But I don’t remember the bad, or ugly, only the sunshine, the glossy loveliness of it all, and the yellow dandelions, waiting to burst upon the world.
~~
Friday, February 4, 2011
Thoughts of Murphy’s Creek
Kilometre after kilometre of fence lines with debris and brown grass clinging like dead skin to the barbed wire.
~~
Driving past a crumpled something. It’s not until I am beside it, I realise it is a car. Was a car. Looks like a crushed tissue. I gasp so deeply momentarily my car wobbles as my hands shake.
~~
Driving past homes and front gates with a sad flapping piece of police tape. In some areas it’s blue and white. Other places have the same tape, as well as orange and white. I don’t know what it means, and I love that I am protected from the horror.
~~
Noting wordlessly another police tape on a letterbox. A gate. We try not to look, to pry.
~~
The further along the road I drive, looking for a safe U-turn place, the tighter my stomach draws into a knot. I feel physically sick, and can't wait to throw the car into a tight right-hand lock and swing it towards home. Hurry!
~~
A sign outside the pub: IF ANYONE FINDS ANY PIECE OF CLOTHING, NO MATTER HOW SMALL, PLEASE REPORT IMMEDIATLEY. DO NOT TOUCH. DO NOT REMOVE.
~~
The countryside so green. Such a high price to pay for the rain.
~~
~~
Driving past a crumpled something. It’s not until I am beside it, I realise it is a car. Was a car. Looks like a crushed tissue. I gasp so deeply momentarily my car wobbles as my hands shake.
~~
Driving past homes and front gates with a sad flapping piece of police tape. In some areas it’s blue and white. Other places have the same tape, as well as orange and white. I don’t know what it means, and I love that I am protected from the horror.
~~
Noting wordlessly another police tape on a letterbox. A gate. We try not to look, to pry.
~~
The further along the road I drive, looking for a safe U-turn place, the tighter my stomach draws into a knot. I feel physically sick, and can't wait to throw the car into a tight right-hand lock and swing it towards home. Hurry!
~~
A sign outside the pub: IF ANYONE FINDS ANY PIECE OF CLOTHING, NO MATTER HOW SMALL, PLEASE REPORT IMMEDIATLEY. DO NOT TOUCH. DO NOT REMOVE.
~~
The army are everywhere at Murphy’s Creek. Row upon row of enormous tents sit in a paddock, across the road opposite the pub. The old shop is next door, where I bought my 8 chooks from Lois, and I recall how we used to enjoy our Saturday afternoon chats across the shop counter. The road is full of water trucks dampening down the dust and gravel; heavy machinery.
~~
Traffic-control men spray their tired faces with water bottles as we drive past. They lean on the STOP SLOW signs with a determined grimness.
~~The countryside so green. Such a high price to pay for the rain.
~~
Return to Murphy’s Creek 2011
Now that I’m home, in the safe confines of my own house, I can write. Even now as I sit here, my fingers hesitate over each keystroke. What to say, and how to say it? How to write about returning to Murphy’s Creek - my home for a year – and to put down on paper what I saw, and how I felt. Be patient with me, I’ll do my best for you.
“I returned to the creek/listened to the spring to come/felt the grass grow tall.
And look, there/Darling/still the yellow flowers are bursting!”
I lived in a single skin, round one-bedroom house at Murphy’s for a year, when I was a single girl; weighed down only by 8 chooks, a rooster, and various wildlife and animals. I loved that house. It was isolated, innovative, interesting and unique. Once I had turned on all the outside lights, at night it looked like a UFO about to fly off into the darkness. The owls would swoop on the insects the floodlights attracted, and I spent most of my time there writing poetry, feeding open mouths and working hard as an Advertising Rep for The Land and Qld Country Life. Gumboots and field days were a wonderful part of my life, I enjoyed mixing it with the menfolk, and I loved being back in Queensland, my home state; closer to my parents in Rockhampton.
It was only a full days drive away!
When you live at Murphys, you cop a lot of criticism from the Toowoomba community. “You live at Murphy’s Creek? Why?” they demanded. “You have to go up and down the range, all that way!”
Well, yes, that’s true, but it’s not like I had to walk, I had a car for crying out loud. What was wrong with these people that they were not only so disinterested in living down there (too hot, too cold) but so against the whole concept of driving “The Range.”
Me? I’ve always loved to drive. I marched into the Rockhampton Police Station on the morning of my 17th birthday and got my drivers licence. I had already sat for and passed my written test, the rest was easy. I have always loved my road trips, and I married a car enthusiast, so yeah, me and cars go hand in hand, but I digress.
Murphy’s Creek, as you may recall was the flashpoint for so much destruction recently with the floods, beginning first in Toowoomba (who hasn’t seen the you tube clip of the blue car floating nose-first down the street?) and making their way to Murphy’s Creek, Grantham, and eventually to Brisbane, the waters included in the flooding river and as they say, the rest is history.
My dear friend CJ is with me today. I have work to do in Toowoomba for my client, and she has personal effects to drop off to a young girl who lives here. We head to Toowoomba, an early start; along the amazingly easy but complicated new highway, out to Ipswich, past the flooded paddocks and scoured-out creeks, past the road-work gangs mopping their foreheads in the 30c heat, and past the numerous Police Camera radar sites. So many!
We drive, and chat, and as we slow for road works at the most damaged community, we point. First me. Then CJ. We point, and mouths open and close slowly, we are speechless. Really, there’s nothing say either; nothing more to add to the media and the commentators and the blame being apportioned for the flood.
Our work done in Toowoomba, we spend ten minutes trying to locate the grave of my grandmother, Minnie.
I drive slowly along the old road of the Drayton Cemetery, calling her name. Minnie? Minnie? Min? Minnie! We get out in the scorching heat. The graves lie baking like gingerbread men. We can’t find her. This will have to be another road trip and we make our way home, first discussing if we should drive to Murphy’s, or not.
We should go, it's history, and relevant to me. We shouldn’t go, it’s ghoulish. I need to get CJ back to Brissy by 3.30pm so she can clean her church.
Eventually we decide that we should go and see, to witness for ourselves, and to check out my old home. At first, it’s shocking, the carnage. Then it becomes appalling. At times we gasp together, and then the silence settles again, and we point.
Here. There. At once I want to turn my head, look away. At the same time I need to stare, to absorb it all.
I am not going to describe what we saw, and I didn’t take one photograph. It wasn’t necessary, these images will be with me, and we have all seen too much in the past few weeks. Way too much. At Murphy’s Creek there is a new pub, where the locals and visiting officials have gathered.
We stop for a quick drink, to toast to the new pub, and the survivors of the horror.
We toast to the destruction; Mother Nature; and we toast to the dead, the missing; the lives torn and ripped apart by my beloved creek.
Do I feel betrayed by my meandering, pristine water course, the source of so much of my poetry. You bet. Will I be back? Of course, but for now, a community needs to heal, to settle. Homes need to be demolished and rebuilt. Trees need to be removed, boulders shifted, roads and bridges rebuilt.
Murphy’s Creek remains a strong resilient community, and I pray the scars heal, and quickly. Actually Murphy’s Creek, take your time.
 |
| I filled 2 books of poetry living at Murphy's Creek. |
“I returned to the creek/listened to the spring to come/felt the grass grow tall.
And look, there/Darling/still the yellow flowers are bursting!”
I lived in a single skin, round one-bedroom house at Murphy’s for a year, when I was a single girl; weighed down only by 8 chooks, a rooster, and various wildlife and animals. I loved that house. It was isolated, innovative, interesting and unique. Once I had turned on all the outside lights, at night it looked like a UFO about to fly off into the darkness. The owls would swoop on the insects the floodlights attracted, and I spent most of my time there writing poetry, feeding open mouths and working hard as an Advertising Rep for The Land and Qld Country Life. Gumboots and field days were a wonderful part of my life, I enjoyed mixing it with the menfolk, and I loved being back in Queensland, my home state; closer to my parents in Rockhampton.
It was only a full days drive away!
When you live at Murphys, you cop a lot of criticism from the Toowoomba community. “You live at Murphy’s Creek? Why?” they demanded. “You have to go up and down the range, all that way!”
Well, yes, that’s true, but it’s not like I had to walk, I had a car for crying out loud. What was wrong with these people that they were not only so disinterested in living down there (too hot, too cold) but so against the whole concept of driving “The Range.”
Me? I’ve always loved to drive. I marched into the Rockhampton Police Station on the morning of my 17th birthday and got my drivers licence. I had already sat for and passed my written test, the rest was easy. I have always loved my road trips, and I married a car enthusiast, so yeah, me and cars go hand in hand, but I digress.
Murphy’s Creek, as you may recall was the flashpoint for so much destruction recently with the floods, beginning first in Toowoomba (who hasn’t seen the you tube clip of the blue car floating nose-first down the street?) and making their way to Murphy’s Creek, Grantham, and eventually to Brisbane, the waters included in the flooding river and as they say, the rest is history.
My dear friend CJ is with me today. I have work to do in Toowoomba for my client, and she has personal effects to drop off to a young girl who lives here. We head to Toowoomba, an early start; along the amazingly easy but complicated new highway, out to Ipswich, past the flooded paddocks and scoured-out creeks, past the road-work gangs mopping their foreheads in the 30c heat, and past the numerous Police Camera radar sites. So many!
We drive, and chat, and as we slow for road works at the most damaged community, we point. First me. Then CJ. We point, and mouths open and close slowly, we are speechless. Really, there’s nothing say either; nothing more to add to the media and the commentators and the blame being apportioned for the flood.
Our work done in Toowoomba, we spend ten minutes trying to locate the grave of my grandmother, Minnie.
I drive slowly along the old road of the Drayton Cemetery, calling her name. Minnie? Minnie? Min? Minnie! We get out in the scorching heat. The graves lie baking like gingerbread men. We can’t find her. This will have to be another road trip and we make our way home, first discussing if we should drive to Murphy’s, or not.
We should go, it's history, and relevant to me. We shouldn’t go, it’s ghoulish. I need to get CJ back to Brissy by 3.30pm so she can clean her church.
Eventually we decide that we should go and see, to witness for ourselves, and to check out my old home. At first, it’s shocking, the carnage. Then it becomes appalling. At times we gasp together, and then the silence settles again, and we point.
Here. There. At once I want to turn my head, look away. At the same time I need to stare, to absorb it all.
I am not going to describe what we saw, and I didn’t take one photograph. It wasn’t necessary, these images will be with me, and we have all seen too much in the past few weeks. Way too much. At Murphy’s Creek there is a new pub, where the locals and visiting officials have gathered.
We stop for a quick drink, to toast to the new pub, and the survivors of the horror.
We toast to the destruction; Mother Nature; and we toast to the dead, the missing; the lives torn and ripped apart by my beloved creek.
Do I feel betrayed by my meandering, pristine water course, the source of so much of my poetry. You bet. Will I be back? Of course, but for now, a community needs to heal, to settle. Homes need to be demolished and rebuilt. Trees need to be removed, boulders shifted, roads and bridges rebuilt.
Murphy’s Creek remains a strong resilient community, and I pray the scars heal, and quickly. Actually Murphy’s Creek, take your time.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Gotta love Qlders sense of humour - ABC TV News - Duck Hand
My husband and I saw this last night, and we burst out laughing.
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