Tuesday, October 8

 It's our Probus meeting tomorrow and, because I agreed to be Treasurer, I have to prepare a financial report for the meeting.  It's not a big deal; we collect $10 from each member at the meeting and pay the Bowls Club ladies for the morning tea they provide.  Hardly anything to stress over.  However, I think I've made a mistake in taking on this job.  One problem is that I am having trouble learning the members' names.  After a year, I probably only know four for sure.  Yes, they have badges but I would have to put on my glasses to read the names and that's not a good look. (that comment comes close to being a joke - not a good look - glasses?) I also made the mistake of agreeing to give a talk about our experiences in the Philippines and it didn't go as well as I had hoped.

In the past I've always been happy to take on a leadership role.  Even in the Cubs, back in about 1957, I wanted to be the one who said 'DYB DYB DYB' while everyone else answered 'DOB DOB DOB'  But nowadays all I want to do is fade into the background. 

This business of getting old is no fun.

Monday, October 7

I met a man in the caravan park at Ross one time, probably in 2010.  He and his wife had recently retired (like us) and were taking a year or so to travel around Australia in their van.  I asked him if he had a plan or was he just following his nose.  He had a plan all right; once he left Tasmania his travels would take him and his wife to as many of the famous 'big things' as he could find.  he mentioned the Big Prawn and the Big Banana and expected to hear about others as they travelled around.

I mentioned the Big Merino at Goulburn and the Big Potato at Robertson, though I warned him that the spud might be a little underwhelming.

In my reading this morning, I read about a new Big Thing being built in Carnamah in Western Australia. Carnamah is a town of about 400 inhabitants, one pub, one restaurant and one grocery store.  The big attraction, which the town hopes will bring in hordes of visitors, is an enormous replica of the Chamberlain 40K tractor, the machine that helped develop the region into a productive farming area.  It's 11.5m high and 16m long and painted bright orange.  It cost about $1 million to build.

I suppose there are people who think that 'big things' are interesting but I can't imagine I would make the 600 km round trip from Perth just to look at a huge orange tractor. They probably wouldn't even let you climb on it.

 

ON YOUR TOES                                                                                                  AUGUST 5, 2022

Charles Grantham had joined the Alabama Prison Service when he left school and had now reached the pinnacle of his career: through hard work and dedication he proudly held the position of Governor of Holman Prison.  His father would have been proud of him.  Throughout Charles’s childhood, his father had encouraged him to strive to make the most of his opportunities.

‘Stay on your toes, son,” he would say, “Who knows when opportunity will appear?  Always be on your toes, ready to seize the chance.”  When the chance came to stand for election for the job of Governor, Charles received more votes than anyone else and was awarded the job.

Always following his father’s advice, Charles tried to ensure that the prison ran as efficiently as possible and brought in new rules to look after the welfare of prisoners.  It was hard, though.  Holman was a maximum security prison and the prisoners, for the most part, were a brutal lot. 

“It’s not like Shawshank Redemption,” he used to say.  Nobody is asking for library books here.”

The guards were little better.  To survive, they had to be more brutal than the inmates so every day in the prison was a continuation of an on-going battle between the hard men in the cells and the even harder men in the blue uniforms.

One of Charles’s innovations that had a positive effect was his institution of a Dress Code for female visitors.  He had been appalled at the appearance of the wives and girlfriends who came to visit the inmates: tiny mini-skirts, low cut blouses, and so on; there was almost a riot on visiting days when the doors were opened to let the visitors in.  Some of the guards resented having to police the regulations but understood the need for them.  There had been a couple of unsavoury episodes over the years which no guard wanted to see again.

One day, Charles received a message from the State Governor.  It had been decided that one of the Death Row prisoners, Joe Nathan James, was to be executed in early-August, and would Charles make the necessary arrangements.  Even though there were over 170 inmates on Death Row, there hadn’t been an execution for years and Charles would need to be on his toes handling this one.

The day of the execution came and witnesses gathered at the prison to ensure that all was carried out as expected.  Charles was expecting representatives from the media but was surprised when his deputy appeared in his office to tell him that two reporters had arrived and were undergoing the checks to make sure their clothing matched the Dress Code requirements.  Charles was appalled; it was never intended that reporters and other VIPs would be subjected to that indignity but his deputy was adamant; they were visitors like the wives and girlfriends who came every week and shouldn’t be given any special treatment.

It might have been alright but a young female reporter from the local paper was wearing a mini skirt which was several inches shorter than the code allowed.  Charles might have overlooked this one infringement but his deputy was taking delight in his discomfort and Charles could not be seen to be making an exception for a pretty young girl.

He met the young lady and begged her to find a solution.  He didn’t want to refuse her entry but he might be forced into it unless something could be done.  The young woman tried to pull the skirt down to her hips but it was still too short.  Eventually, a photographer who was there remembered she had been fishing with her boyfriend at the weekend and still had her rubber waders in the trunk of the car.  The reporter was very reluctant but agreed to try them on.  She pulled them up under her skirt and somehow secured them so they wouldn’t fall down.

The deputy, enjoying his boss’s discomfort reminded him that his Dress Code also stipulated that female visitors must not wear open-toed shoes and pointed out that the reporter was still not compliant.  Luckily, she had an old pair of sandshoes in her car.

Imagine the young woman’s discomfort. She arrived for her first major assignment, well-dressed in fashionable clothes but was not able to view the execution until she donned khaki, rubber waders to cover her legs and shabby sandshoes to cover her feet.

It would be good to say that the execution went off without a hitch after that, but it wouldn’t be true.  It took the medical officers three hours of poking around to find a vein for the insertion of the intravenous line for the lethal injection. 

Of course, there are some who might say that the whole execution was a farce; being in jail for 28 years, surely, was punishment enough.

Sunday, October 6

I should be changing our clocks but why bother?  Time is relative and, unless you need to be at a certain place at a certain time, it doesn't matter.  I always have my breakfast at breakfast time and my lunch at lunchtime but it doesn't really matter if the clock says it is 8 o'clock or 11 o'clock, the fruit toast is just as delicious.

I turned on Youtube this morning and Steve was getting on a plane to Ireland.  It was a whim; he had no plans and no luggage but the possibility opened before him and he grabbed it.  Spontaneity is a wonderful thing.  I often dream about heading to the airport carrying just a credit card but I soon come back to earth.  My card would probably take me to Melbourne but I'd probably have to sleep on a bench at the airport and there's no fun in that.  Better to stay at home where I know there will always be fruit toast in the pantry if I fancy it.

Saturday, October 5

We've been watching a show on ABC TV called Return to Paradise.  It's supposedly linked to the show Death in Paradise but the only reference I can see to the original show is an occasional appearance of an Irish actor who once was the policeman on D in P.

It's not a bad show but we watch it because it's shot in the suburbs north of Wollongong. I think they use Stanwell Park Beach and other villages around there, and Thirroul pops up from time to time.  Watching the show, I often think of a walk I did with a Fellowship group  in that area.  I suspect it was about 1959 or '60.  We took the train to Austinmer Station and headed up the escarpment to Stanwell Tops.  It was very steep in parts and somebody had installed steel ladders, attached to the cliff.  Very hairy!

When we got to the top, we had lunch but I can't quire remember how we got home.  Maybe we walked down the highway to Stanwell Park and took the train.  A good memory, if a bit unclear.

Friday, October 4

I'm addicted to the website, Quora and it's the first thing I turn to when I open my eyes in the morning.  Of course, with the US elections coming up the spectacle of Donald Trump trying to keep himself out of prison is riveting but that's a rare treat; Quora keeps on giving 365 days of the year.   This morning, there was a post from somebody in one of the southern states, "Is it better to have a shotgun or a handgun for protection from home invasion?"

Yes, it's a real thing.  In the world's wealthiest and most advanced country (or so they say), people are planning how best to kill a burglar.  There were several replies, of course, all saying much the same thing: it's a matter of personal preference.  Too many, I thought, sounded like they would enjoy blowing the intruder away and looked forward to the opportunity.  One respondent, though, a little more thoughtful perhaps, suggested it might be worth thinking about where the shot might go if it missed the hapless burglar.  It if was a bullet from a handgun, it might travel through the wall and hit someone in the next apartment or even in the house next door.  Collateral damage, you might say, but think of the paperwork!

A BLAST FROM THE PAST                                                                               MAY 24, 2024

I don’t know what it is about rivers that attracts sad people.  Perhaps it’s because rivers ‘just keep rolling along’, and that’s a good message for someone whose life is in a bit of a turmoil.  Anna’s life was like that: she had broken up with Peter, her boyfriend, when she found he was seeing another girl and, although he was remorseful, she felt she couldn’t trust him.

And, on this bright and sunny August afternoon, a walk beside the river was just what Anna needed.  Up ahead, though, there was a shabby figure sitting on a bench and Anna’s senses were alert to any danger.  He – and Anna was almost certain it was a man - was wearing an old army greatcoat which made Anna think he might be homeless. In the past, she might have avoided passing the stranger but the way in which she had handled the recent break-up had given her more confidence and she walked on.

As she approached the figure, she noted that he was drinking from a bottle: the label on the bottle was red and the liquid in it was colourless: vodka, then, and this confirmed in her mind that the stranger was a homeless alcoholic.  Sad, of course, but she had no sympathy to share with someone who had clearly made wrong choices in his life.  

Anna walked a little faster; however, she had been brought up to be polite and, as she came alongside the stranger, she glanced towards him and gave a tentative smile.  Surprisingly the stranger called out, “How are you, Anna.  It’s been a while.”

Anna stumbled to a stop and looked more closely.  Apart from the shabby coat, she noted even more shabby boots, matted hair and an unkempt beard.  Nothing about the figure sparked any glimmer of recognition.

“Do we know each other?” she muttered.

“Oh, yes, Anna, we certainly do.  You’ve probably forgotten but we knew each other very well about 20 years ago.  I’m Darren, a little older, a little shabbier but still the same Darren you once thought you would marry.”

“Darren? I would never have recognised you.  What on earth has happened to you?”

“It’s a long story and I hope you’ll let me tell you all about it but it’s too cold sitting here; let’s go to a café and you can buy me a coffee.”

 Anna hesitated.  Darren had been a very special friend and she would love to know what had brought him to this state, but he was filthy, there was a rank smell about him and he had been drinking vodka straight from the bottle.  How could she take him to a café looking, and smelling, as he did?

“I don’t think so, Darren.  You wait here and I’ll get a couple of take-aways and bring them back.”  She backed off hoping that she didn’t appear too rude, but Darren didn’t seem to notice anything unusual in her manner.  Perhaps he had been rejected so many times he no longer bothered to take offence.

Anna drove to the nearest café, ordered coffees and something to eat, and made her way back, but not before ringing her ex-boyfriend to let him know what was happening.  Although Peter was still upset with her, he promised he would come immediately. In the meantime, he said, stay close to where she had met Darren and don’t agree to go anywhere with him.

 When she returned with the coffee, Anna was surprised to see that Darren had gone.  Apart from a red cap from a bottle of vodka, lying on the table there was no sign that he had ever been there.  Had he thought better of their reunion and decided to leave, or had he fallen in the river? Lost in her thoughts and looking at the oily sheen on the water, Anna was hardly aware of Peter’s car pulling up and it was only when he ran up and threw his arms around her that she knew that everything was going to be alright.

Thursday, October 3

When he has a busy day planned, Jamie has got into the habit of dropping Archie the chihuahua off with us to spend the day.  Jamie says he is a 'therapy dog' and has to earn his keep by providing companionship to the two oldies.  He seems to enjoy coming and Marilyn spoils him outrageously.  

Now the weather is becoming better, she is in the habit of taking him for a short walk. She sees a walk as an important part of her own exercise routine and, recently, I've encouraged her to take the walker that I had to buy when I had my stroke. It gives her a bit of support and has a seat to sit on if she needs it.

Archie gets very excited when he's put on the lead and sets off full of energy.  But, he's only a little dog and, by the time they've reached the end of the block he wants to sit down for a rest.  Marilyn now simply bundles him into the basket on the walker and he comes home as a passenger, sitting up like Jacky.

As I wrote the last bit of that sentence I wondered who was Jacky and why is he remembered for sitting up?  I assumed it was an Australian expression but Google thinks not: it suggests that 'Jacky' refers to Little Jack Horner who 'sat in a corner' and said 'what a good boy am I'.  That fits the image of Archie sitting in the basket of the walker.

We're all dotty, of course.

Wednesday, October 2

 I have a few jobs to do this morning and I'm trying to put them in some sort of order so that nothing is forgotten.  Writing this blog has jumped to the top of the list although it's probably not the one that Marilyn would like me to be making a priority: there's last night's washing-up still sitting there and a few things to picked up at the shop.  The washing-up is a particular issue.  For years now we have shoved everything into the dishwasher and washed it overnight but recently I started to question this process.  We're not cooking in the same way as we used to and not using as many pots and pans so a normal load in the dishwasher would be a few coffee mugs, a couple of plates and a handful of cutlery; hardly enough to warrant a 3-hour wash, rinse and repeat dishwasher cycle.  

The only way I could get Marilyn to agree to give up her favourite labour-saving device was if I became the chief manual dishwasher.  That's now the accepted rule of the kitchen.  I don't always get around to it in the evening but it's always there in the morning waiting for me. It didn't get done last night because we became involved in a great TV show; Night Sleeper.  It was particularly interesting to me because much of the action in the first couple of episodes took place in Motherwell, where my father was born.  My grandfather, John, left Gourdon on the East Coast of Scotland before the First World War and settled in Motherwell, taking a job in the local coal mine.  He married Janet Gore and my father was born in 1918.