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.
