A POEM FOR THE FIRST DAY OF SPRING
Darling, I am growing old
I fear my story's almost told
My knees are sore, my eyes are dim
I struggle daily at the gym.
It's too late now to mend my ways
All I can do is count the days.
But while my brain is still performing
I'll keep my daily musings storming.
No matter what my critics say
I know they read me every day.
Though some might hang me from a tree
The world has room for blokes like me.
Some people have odd hobbies; there's a fellow in America who grows pumpkins. Lots of people do that, of course, but Duane is different. If he gets a particularly big one, he hollows it out and turns it into a boat. His latest giant weighed 384 Kg and was named Berta. Duane paddled Berta 61Km along the Missouri River, breaking the Guinness World Record for 'longest journey by pumpkin boat'. He's waiting for the Guinness people to validate it.
When asked for a comment, Duane said, "I probably wouldn't do that again." He doesn't have to, of course. His objective, clearly, was to get his name in the paper so he must be delighted with all the attention he has received.
They say there's no place like home and it's true. It's great to catch up with family and friends but the bother of getting to somewhere else is just not worth it. Technology like video messaging and even the simple telephone, was invented to allow people like me to keep up the pretence of being social but allow me to sit in my chair at home and not get stressed by having to navigate the outside world.
I maintain the outside appearance of civilisation by showering every morning and always wearing clean clothes so, if somebody does knock on the door, I don't give them the wrong impression but my message to the world is: you know my telephone number if you want to talk to me and you know my address if you want to write to me, you'll be made welcome if you visit, but don't exact me to make the effort to leave the state ever again.
Our plane leaves at 6 but we decided to get an earlier train from Oak Flats in case of problems. Anissa and her partner, Jason, offered to drive us to the station - 12.30 train to Wolli Creek, change to Airport Line, 2 stations and we're there. Easy!
But, not so. Arriving at Wolli Creek, we are met with a sign saying Trackwork, get on a bus. Bit of a pain but we can cope. The bus is chock full of people with suitcases and it's not pretty. We stop at the International Terminal first and a very large, sleep-deprived, mad-eyed American gets on with an outsize suitcase. No room near the front so he bullies his way to the back, dragging his suitcase over out feet, as we cower in our seats.
Eventually, the long-suffering driver drops us off at the Domestic Terminal but, as I'm getting off, he shuts the door on me, jamming me in limbo. OK, I can cope but we realise he's taken us to Terminal 3 and we want Terminal 2, so we're faced with a long trudge through the carpark, dragging our luggage. We still have plenty of time and we're told we can't check in our luggage for another 2 hours. There's nowhere to sit but a kind woman lets us share her table in the cafe and Marilyn goes off to get the coffee.
It's not supposed to be like this but, too often, the best laid plans, o' mice and men, gang aft agley, as a better poet than me once said.
I think I've lost track of the days but I'm sure today is Sunday. We're packed and will leave for the airport in a couple of hours.
Robyn had some visitors yesterday: Natalie is a Gwynneville girl and she and her husband, Manfred, live near Bright in Victoria. They run deer so we had an interesting conversation about what to do with the meat and how to deal with poachers.
Apparently, Manfred is German and I had a moment of madness when I couldn't stop thinking of the Fawlty Towers episode when some Germans visited Basil's restaurant.
"Don't mention the war," he reminded everyone. "I did once but I think I got away with it."
I worry sometimes about what goes on in my head.
We're still in Oak Flats so I am missing my poetry and writing groups, however, I still managed to write a story which I will put aside in reserve. The topic was Reconciliation and I wrote a flight of fancy about four young men, working for the Railways in Sydney and all vying for a job in the Reconciliation Department. The hero is a poorly-disguised imitation of my friend Brian who now lives in Canada. It doesn't make a lot of sense but it may never see the light of day anyway.
We met up with Sandy and Jenny, and their family, for dinner last night. Good food and company, so very successful. We were at the Master Builder's Club which has just had major refurbishment and is quite spectacular, in a glitzy, over-the- top way which is typical of the NSW club scene.
I was reminded of a night in the early 1960s when I was in that club with two or three friends. We pooled our funds, got a container or two of 20c coins, and played the poker machines as a syndicate, in the belief that you have more chance of success if you invest more money.
We had a few wins but nothing serious and the time came when the very last coin was inserted and disappeared. Oh, well, just like every other time.
As we walked away, one of my friends found a solitary 20c coin in his pocket, inserted it into the machine which had swallowed all our investment and JACKPOT!! We were ecstatic, only to have our hopes dashed.
"This is not syndicate winnings," said our friend. "It was my 20c, so my winnings."
He was right, of course, but we were devastated. No doubt we all asked ourselves what we would do in the same situation. Some might even have asked, 'What would Jesus have done?'
Funnily enough, I saw the friend at Alan's funeral last week. He was in a wheelchair and I had real sympathy for him but I still remember that night more than 60 years ago.
I'm writing this as I wait for a 'phone call from a doctor to give me the results of some tests I had on my wrist. I saw him last week 'in the flesh but the tests hadn't arrived at that point so it was put off. Marilyn had a call from her doctor this morning as well. Maybe this is the way of the future. No more sitting in germ -laden waiting rooms; the doctor talks to you while you sit in the comfort of your lounge room.
And, of course, you don't even have to be in the same country. Love it !
We're back in Wollongong after our stint in Sydney for Alan's funeral. There's no fun associated with any funeral but it was good to see Marilyn's family and the familiar faces we only see at such occasions. Everyone's older of course, and there were a number now depending upon wheelchairs or walkers. Marilyn was annoyed that I refused to take my folding walking stick 'just in case'. However I survived.
It was a good send-off. We found ourselves involved in the planning and, particularly the music. Anne particularly wanted Neil Diamond's Story of My Life and we suggested Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah as people came in and Time to Say Goodbye as they left.
We haven't found this trip easy one way and another. Perhaps it's time to say goodbye to travelling.
It seems that converted churches have become the new big thing for people looking for somewhere quirky to live. The old St James Anglican Church in Waratah, Northern Tasmania, comes complete with its own story handed down for generations.
The church, built in 1880, was preparing for its first wedding. The excited bride waited at the altar- and waited. The congregation realised the prospective groom was not going to turn up.
A young man, sitting in one of the pews, stood up and said he had always liked the young bride and he would like to marry her. "Righto," she said.
They were married for 60 years.
7.26am - Our plane leaves at 1.10 and I haven't even got our suitcase down from the cupboard. Marilyn is enjoying her first coffee of the day so I can't depend on her to get me organised. Once upon a time, when we were travelling more regularly, we had the process down to a fine art; now, though, we have lost those skills. I'm not even sure where the suitcases are.
Writing this rubbish is not helping so I had better give myself a shake and get on with it.
I'm all prepared for my presentation to the Poetry Group this morning although I must confess to being a little anxious. You'd think that being a teacher for 45 years would prepare you for this kind os stuff but I have to confess I'm a bit nervous. My classmates are intelligent, cultured, erudite and knowledgeable about poetry and I can't help wondering what they'll think about my selection. Also, it's become the trend for presenters to include at least one piece of their own writing and I'm very unsure about that.
The self-written poems we've seen so far have been a bit of a mixed bag: traditional rhyming stuff, or post modern, complex, unintelligible ramblings. I write poems like Henry Lawson or Banjo Paterson: they rhyme, they tell a story and they make no pretensions to be literature.
I have printed one of my own poems but I won't reveal it unless I have run out of stuff to fill in the last 15 minutes.
I'll be glad when it's over and I can get my bag packed for our trip to Sydney tomorrow.
Sadly, Marilyn's brother-in-law, Alan, has passed away. He was a couple of years older than me and had been suffering from Parkinson's. Marilyn and I will be flying to Sydney on Saturday to attend the funeral next week.
Anticipating this funeral, I checked that I had the appropriate clothes to wear. I don't think I've worn a suit for about 10 years and, as you'd expect, I can't get into the trousers anymore; they must have shrunk in the wardrobe. so we decided I should have them let out. We know there's a place in Launceston where this can be done but we're keen to shop local so I checked the internet to see whether Longford had such a place. And there it was: Oh Sew Fine with an address in the Main Street. There was a link to a Facebook page but, when I checked, the latest entries were in 2015. It didn't look promising but Marilyn rang the number on Monday and was told that it still operated and would be open on Wednesday between 10 and 2.
We fronted up yesterday morning and found the premises were a little wooden hut in the backyard of one of the old buildings of the town. You could hardly get in the door for STUFF. There were rolls of material stacked up haphazardly, scraps of leftover material, boxes, bags and more STUFF. There was a narrow passageway between the STUFF leading to a corner where there was a sewing machine. There were a couple of shelves high up on the LH wall covered with dozens of white plastic boxes, full of STUFF.
The woman who worked in this labyrinth was very happy to take our little job and promised it back by Friday. She also makes coats for dogs so Marilyn is taking in Archie's measurement for a bespoke outfit.
Marilyn was to chair the Probus meeting yesterday so we planned to set out a little earlier than usual to make sure we got there in plenty of time for her to gather her thoughts before the meeting started. It's close to 60 Km so it takes a reasonable amount of time especially if there is slow traffic, which is always possible. In our most pessimistic expectation, we could not have predicted the reality.
It's a pretty good highway, but it's just a single lane each way with an occasional passing lane to allow faster drivers to get past the odd tractor or slow cattle truck. This morning, we found ourselves at the tail of a slow line of traffic almost as soon as we joined the highway. On a straight stretch I was able to see, far ahead, the flashing light of a vehicle and I realised he was part of a procession ushering along a wide load.
We were stuck. The miles unrolled slowly and the minutes ticked away. I caught a glimpse, at one point, of the load and it looked like it was a swimming pool and it was much wider than our single lane, impinging on the opposite lane so than oncoming traffic had to lurch over onto the far edges of the carriageway.
I couldn't see any way out of it and hoped that the police escort might pull the pool carrier over somewhere and give us a chance to get past. No such luck. Marilyn rang ahead and said we were going to be late and I took the first opportunity to turn off into one of the villages and we got ourselves onto the minor road which took us to Deloraine eventually.
As it happened, we were about ten minutes late, not a big issue in the scheme of things and I hope the people who receive their pool have many happy hours in it.
I tell myself that I only read the on-line newspaper for the political news or things that have some specific significance. But, that doesn't stop me jumping on a story this morning which teased me with the headline: 'How to buy socks that last'. How could I resist? Marilyn tells me that 'I like socks' and, by this, she means that I can't resist buying socks which catch my attention even though I have dozens of pairs just like it in my wardrobe.
Most people like me would have a 'sock drawer' but we live in a modern house where drawers are passe; our clothes live in a built-in wardrobe in our bedroom where I use baskets of various sizes to keep my clothes in order. I keep my socks in three baskets: white, coloured and thick (especially for winter). My sock purchases are not always successful and I think I've mentioned before the Nordic Sock Fiasco of 2022.
The article this morning told me that 'the purpose of the sock should dictate the blend of materials and weave'. Music to my ears. It went on to talk about blends of yarns, terry cushioning and moisture-wicking fibres. How sexy is that!
I think I'll print the article for future reference.
I can see why retired people take up a hobby. Today, I expect to be awake, or at least out of bed, for 15 hours. Take out 45 minutes at the gym and an hour eating (that's generous), and I have more than 13 hours to fill with worthwhile and challenging activities. Maybe I'll doze for an hour or so in the afternoon, but that still leaves about 12 hours. What am I going to do?
I used to think that we were the fortunate species: the only one with the brainpower to develop activities to amuse and challenge ourselves; the only one with the intelligence to come up with the concept of paid work so that we didn't just loll around, like lions on the veldt or walruses on the Arctic seashore.
But, then they retire us in our 60s and we're expected to harness that much-vaunted brainpower to fill our days with meaningful and useful activity, until everything starts to shut down. It's not easy.
Maybe I'll convince Marilyn that we need to watch a movie this afternoon. We haven't seen a movie since watching a remake of Westside Story and that was months ago. Wish me luck!
Jamie dropped Archie off this morning for us to look after. He and Nera are going fishing and it's not fair for Archie to be tied up while they're enjoying themselves and he knew we wouldn't complain.
What I am anxious about is that he gave us an ultimatum to get rid of the stuff we have stored in his garage. They have plans to do something with the big space and our stuff will have to go. Do we rent a storage shed and put off the decision to another time, or do we bite the bullet now and make a trip to the tip?
There's stuff like the wheelchair I bought when I had my knee done, and a pair of crutches of about the same age. There's a box of music which Marilyn had gathered from her time as a piano teacher. There are at least three mantelpiece clocks: from my Mum, from Marilyn's Mum and from her Gran. I think there might be about a dozen large plastic boxes full of STUFF!
Because our garage doubles as the laundry, there's no room there so I need to look outside
I could buy a bigger garden shed but we have nowhere on our little block to put it. We do have a little garden shed but it's got gardening stuff in it; however, I think that might be the place to start: remove the shelves, discard anything I'm saving in case I need it, and shove what we can't bear to part with up in the corner. I wonder if there's any more room under the bed?
Since our tutor moved away our Friday poetry group have been 'led' by individual members. I'm listed to conduct next week's session so I've selected 10 or 11 favourite poems which will elicit some conversation. I have chosen a mixture, with an emphasis on more modern stuff. Today's leader chose 9 poems, including 5 of her own. I wouldn't be game to do that. In fact, I wouldn't even choose one of my own. I don't think that's what it's about.
But, maybe that's just me.
I had a doctor's appointment this morning, I fronted up to the desk, wearing my mask as required, and the receptionist says, "Did I hear you sniff? Are you suffering from cold or 'flu symptoms?" What could I say? She instructed me to go back to my car and the doctor would ring me. In fact, it was a nice day so I sat on a bench in the garden.
He rang, informed me that my test results were not back yet and he would get back to me when he had them.
A bit of a wasted morning. Marilyn had gone off to her Book Club and I was settling myself down to write this blog when Jamie rang to say that he and Nera were coming to pick me up to go out and have lunch. Marilyn joined us when she finished and a good time was had by all, even Archie.
I'm getting into quite a routine with my mornings. I like to leave the house by 8.30 to get to the gym before it gets busy and that gives Marilyn time to get herself organised and have breakfast before I come back. There was a heavy frost last night and the garbage trucks were out and about and I headed up the hill for my morning workout. The garbos must be pleased that we've left the days behind where they used to run around the streets in their shorts and football jerseys throwing the garbage bins into the back of the truck being driven slowly around by their mate.
I've extended the number of repetitions I do of my exercises but I still manage to get them done in about the same time. I'm either getting faster or I'm not putting as much oomph into them as I once did. No matter, as long as they're done and I can get back for my breakfast.
As I drove into the driveway I noticed one of the bins has been emptied so the system is working. There's a nice smell from the kitchen and Marilyn says, "Would you like a fried cheese sandwich? And I'll get you to mash these bananas; I'm making a banana bread."
As Browning wrote:
'God's in His heaven, All's right with the world.'
Very sad news that Olivia Newton John has died. I was interested to see that her father had worked at Bletchley Park during WW2 and that her maternal grandfather won the Nobel Prize for his work in Quantum Mechanics. I love the back stories.
Marilyn and I were discussing our forthcoming cruise and thinking about how we might deal with the possibility of a Covid outbreak on the ship. We have booked a balcony cabin so we won't be having to spend all our time in public areas and I had read somewhere that it is possible to have meals delivered to the cabin. We don't have a current brochure so I checked the Royal Caribbean website to see what the details are of room service.
There was no information about lunch or dinner, but it was mentioned that an American Breakfast could be delivered to the cabin every morning for a cost of $7.95. However, for the benefit of thick Australians who don't know how the real world operates, it was clearly set out that an 18% gratuity is added to that fee, bringing it to $9.40.
It then says, "In addition, while tipping is not required, it's customary to give a small cash tip ($1 -5) to the crew member for delivering room service to your room."
Nobody will be so cheap as to give $1 tip so the steward will expect $5. The total charge is then: $14.40 x 15 days x 3 meals per day equals $648. Unbelievable!
It's very sad news that Judith Durham has died. She is a genuine contemporary of mine, having been born in the same year. The other connection is that she spent part of her childhood in Hobart, attending Fahan School in Sandy Bay.
Here's a good idea: wouldn't it be great if the government, in her honour, started the process of changing our National Anthem to We Are Australian.
I mentioned I've been reading about Alan Cummings, the actor. I was very impressed with his first book, Not My Father's Son about how he coped with his abusive father and survived to make his way in the world. I'm now reading Baggage and I've discovered that I don't like him very much at all. What a self-centred, hedonistic individual he is. I probably won't bother reading any more about how he picks up handsome young men for late-night flings. Yuck!
I generally browse the news headlines each morning with glazed eyes: so few of them have any personal reference to me. However, this morning, the online ABC site had an update on a story from 2017 about a fellow who disappeared in Tasmania while bushwalking alone. He happened to be a teacher from Launceston Grammar whom Marilyn knew quite well.
He was walking with his dog on a well-marked track he and his family used often. When he didn't return and people went looking, they found his dog but there was no sign of Bruce. It came out that he had started to suffer from Parkinson's and this threw up suggestions that he had decided to end his life. But, would he have left his dog to wander around on its own?
Almost five years on and there has been no sign of him. His wife is concerned that, without proof of death, she can't get on with her life. She now wants to sell their home but can't without his signature, or a death certificate, which she can't obtain until he has been missing for 7 years and can be presumed dead. It will be more than two years before she can move on and until then is is in limbo, without a husband but not yet officially widowed.
I'm reading a memoir written by Alan Cummings, the actor. I have read it before but it's worth a second look. It's called Not My Father's Son. He was brought up on a large property in Scotland where his father was a forester, and a violent, sadistic man who abused his wife and children. It's not an easy book to read but it's good to see how someone can overcome a bad start in life to make something of themselves.
I need to follow up Alan's story by finding the Who Do You Think You Are episode which covers his background and some of his more recent TV shows. We saw him recently in a show where he and Miriam Margolyes travelled around Scotland in a camper van revisiting places from their background, and really enjoyed it. I've already found two series of Instinct so we'll have to find time to watch that. So much to see, so little time!
The fellow next door had a load of wood delivered: what looked like tonnes of round slices of eucalyptus waiting for someone to break them into wedges and split them into pieces suitable for the fire. I looked at the pile and imagined the effort that had gone into felling the tree and slicing it up into the pieces which lay scattered around and, more importantly, the effort which was still required to take advantage of the heat stored in the wood.
Did he intend to leave it where it was, on his front lawn, and did he intend to cut it up in that spot, where everyone could see him at his labour? Apparently not, because I saw him and a couple of his mates looking at the pile, metaphorically scratching their heads and wondering how they would get it all into the backyard. They had a small wheelbarrow and somehow had managed to get one enormous slice of wood to balance on the top. But it was clearly impossible to wheel it forward without enormous effort.
On her walk with Archie, Marilyn pointed out to the neighbour that he had some wood delivered. he told her it had come from the family property and he was pleased he wasn't paying for it.
On my next reece, I saw that a small truck had appeared and the four fellows were working together to heave the various bits onto the back of it. It must have worked because after an hour or so, it was all gone. The lawn, of course, was a bit of a mess but that can be remedied over time.
The next day, another load appeared and the rigmarole started all over again.
I question whether it's worth all the effort, not to mention the resultant pollution. Give me air conditioning every time.
Oh, to be in Alabama last week to witness how they went about the judicial execution of Joe Nathan James Jr. You'd think it would be just another day at the office; Alabama has 170 inmates on Death Row and some experience in executions. A spokesman for the Department of Justice said this execution was 'nothing out of the ordinary'. Except, it was.
First, prison officials took exception to how a female reporter was dressed. One woman had been subjected to a 'full body inspection' before being allowed in to the prison but a second was barred because 'her dress was too short'. Apparently, it's OK to kill someone with a lethal injection but heaven forbid that a female person should wear a short skirt.
The reporter in question tried to pull her skirt down around her hips, to no avail. A photographer who was there said she had some rubber fishing waders in her car so the reporter put those on, attaching their straps under her skirt to keep them up. Still not satisfied, the prison officers complained about her open-toed shoes. Luckily she had some old sandshoes in the car so she wore those. Picture it: beautifully dressed from the waist up, hair and makeup immaculate but, from the waist down, clumsy, khaki rubber waders hanging down from beneath her skirt and finished off with shabby, grubby tennis shoes.
With all that drama out of the way, they set about executing the prisoner by lethal injection. After three hours of digging around for a vein, one was found and they went ahead with the execution. About time, too! The murder was committed in 1994 and the culprit was soon apprehended so for the last 28 years, the prisoner had been taking up space at the maximum security prison.
And they claim to be civilised.
