Saturday, June 1st .....

Sometimes you fine yourself in a situation which should be ordinary but, by some magic, transforms itself into a memorable incident - like our train trip yesterday from Oak Flats to the airport. The train was busy, but we got on at the first stop and settled ourselves and our suitcases in the corner of one carriage. It annoys me that inter-city trains and those going to the airport don't have places to put luggage. By the time we had stopped two or three times, our bit of the carriage had half a dozen people, all with suitcases. At Dapto, a couple got on with two of the biggest suitcases I have ever seen, two carry-on suitcases and two shopping bags stuffed with stuff (excuse my vernacular). They squeezed in beside me with their cases in front. It was certainly getting cosy.

The fellow opposite (his name was Eric) laughed, 'looks like you're going away for the weekend!' The couple were clearly European and the man didn't understand what was being said but his wife translated. It seems they were going to 'Griss' to see their sons. This seemed to amuse Eric too and he asked the Greek gentleman in what year he was born. 1943, was the reply. 'Me, too!,' says Eric, 'what month?' I confessed to being born in 1943 as well which caused Eric much hilarity.

At Wollongong, a worried-looking man came through the carriage. Eric says, 'Are you all right, mate?' 'No, I'm lost,' says the fellow, moving on. 'Were you born in 1943?' Eric calls out. 'Yes!' Is the reply. Eric almost falls off his seat with delight. Five minutes later the worried man, who turns out to be Ken, comes back to borrow a mobile 'phone. I offer mine but he asks me to ring his friend Hilary to see where she is. He had expected to meet her on the train but she can't be found. She's waiting at Wollongong!

By this time, we're all the best of friends. Ken and Eric have the same birthday! Almost too much delight to bear. It seems that Eric's son runs the Gloria Jean's coffee shop in Launceston so he insists that we call in for a free cup of coffee. We hear about his love-life, how much his last girlfriend cost him and the one he met at the Dapto Leagues Club but who lives at Miranda. Ken has never been married and Hilary is just a 'very good (married) friend. Marilyn took pictures to send to Hilary and to give to Eric's son, Garry, in Launceston.

It was almost a relief when we got to Wolli Creek and had to change trains.

Friday, May 31st ....

It's been a stressful week and the blog took a back seat while our minds were focused on giving Mum an appropriate farewell. We arrived in Wollongong on Saturday and had a meeting with the representative of the funeral directors. He was very solemn, which I suppose is his professional persona, and we found ourselves reflecting his mood although none of us was the least bit hysterical. Although we were sad that Mum had gone, in reality she had left us several months before and we're pragmatic enough to know that her life had reached its natural end.

Sandy's and Jenny's friend, Nerida, was the celebrant. She knew Mum and was able to speak about her from personal knowledge. We were delighted with the roll-up: lots of people from her church and other organisations she belonged to. There were neighbours as well, all of whom remembered Mum with real affection. Sandy and I both spoke and, all-in-all, we felt it was a good send-off.

Friday, May 24th .....

My mother passed away this morning. It's a sad time for us, but her last few years have not been good for her and we hope she's now at rest.

She has had an eventful life as so many others of her generation. Living through the Great Depression and World War 2, she was part of the mass migration of Europeans to the new world in the 50s and 60s. She was also part of that generation who believed that a mother's place was in the home so my brother and I enjoyed her undivided attention when we came home from school.

On my trip to Scotland, I visited her home town, saw the house where she lived before her marriage, the place where her school used to be, and the area where she went on holiday. I suppose I feel that I now have a better understanding of her background and the challenge she accepted by moving to a new country.

Thursday, May 23rd .....

I heard a story last night which I believe has something to say about bringing up children and how difficult it is to avoid causing offence to someone.

It begins when a little girl-child comes home from school with a new word she has learned. It's 'bumhead' and she knows how it should be used. 'I hate you! You're a bum head.' And so on. Here's where child-rearing philosophy comes into play. How do you deal,with it? Ignore it? Act shocked? Gently point out to the child that it's not a nice thing to say? Tell her she'll go to hell if she says it again? The possibilities are endless.

I don't know how this family dealt with it but chapter 2 begins when the family goes to their shack for a holiday. Apparently the holiday home area has a tradition of making scarecrows to amuse other residents, so grandma says, 'Let's make a bumhead scarecrow,' and so a bumhead scarecrow appears on the lamp post outside the shack.

Before long, bumhead disappears. He has been stolen! It seems he has been pinched by the postman, a public servant with a very good reputation. Grandma, the bossy one in the family storms off to see the postman. 'Did you steal bumhead?' She says. 'Yes, I did,' says the postman. 'Why,' asks grandma, 'were you offended by the name?' 'No,' replies postie, 'I'm offended by the implicit homophobia in the idea of the scarecrow. We have homosexuality in my family and I believe you were poking fun at the gay community.'

You can't win, can you?

Friday, May 17th .....

My friends, Brian and Frances, in Cambridge put me on to an excellent website called TROVE.  It’s the National Library of Australia’s on-line catalogue of its archives.  For example, it has digitised newspapers from 1803 to 1954.  The amount of ‘stuff’ is unbelievable.

I tried a search for Hilary Lofting, Marilyn’s grandfather, and had, literally, thousands of ‘hits’.  Many were repeats but I found his death notice in the Sydney Morning Herald and other regional newspapers, and a notice that he had been granted a weekly pension of 15/- from the Commonwealth Literary Fund.  Most interesting was a snippet from the Burnie Advocate (!) 0n 23^rd July 1932.

WIFE OF AUTHOR ON

PENSION WINS

                -------

£1,000 in N.S.W Lottery

                --------

   SYDNEY, Friday – When at the drawing of the State Lottery to-day it was announced that No. 28664 had drawn second prize of £1000, a woman sitting in the audience screamed with delight.  She was the owner of the ticket.   She was Mrs Hilary Lofting, wife of a well-known journalist and author, who yesterday was granted a pension of 15/- per week from the Commonwealth Literary Fund.

 

Marilyn’s grandmother was also an author, writing under the name Margaret Fane. She was best known for co-authoring The Happy Vagabond with Hilary Lofting but wrote many short stories, especially in The Australian Journal.  In the Sydney Morning Herald of January 12^th, 1929, I found this little poem:

A Sulky Cat

Once I found a catterpillar (sic)

Sitting on a leaf

I brought it in before the fire

And fed it bits of beef

Gently rubbed behind its ears

And stroked its pretty fur

And still, I’m sure, I don’t know why

The creature wouldn’t purr.

                      Margaret Fane

 

Friday, May 10th .....

We watched a nice little story on the 7.30 Report tonight, about a project to re-enact a romantic transportation system from the early days in the Huon Valley south of Hobart. In those days, before roads, small sailing vessels called 'passage boats' travelled up and down the waterways collecting and delivering produce to the wharf at Kermandie, and on to Hobart.

The boats were designed and built locally, of local timbers like Huon Pine, King Billy or Celerytop. They could cope with the shallow and narrow inlets, as well as the rough weather which was likely at any time of the year, and could carry a couple of tonnes of cargo, apples and other produce, honey and timber.

There are quite a lot of these boats still sailing around Hobart. The timber is almost indestructible, and the workmanship was first class. Although they were originally sailing boats, many were fitted with engines as they became available. The restored boat in the program was the Olive May. She sailed to tiny jetties in places like Heriots Point and Franklin, collecting potatoes, apples, timber, wine and cider. Getting into the spirit of the the project, many of the producers brought their goods to the jetties in old vehicles or even horse and cart.

The Olive May is expected to arrive in Hobart tonight and the cargo will be sold at Watermans Dock tomorrow. I wish I could be there.

Photographs #4

Scenes from Cambridge