Drumbeats on the tin roof. I pull back the curtains and study the sky. Dark clouds everywhere and pin-straight lines of rain falling through the leaves of the apple tree beside the house. Two crows swoop from the neigbbour's roof and into our backyard. The washing’s soaked. Overhead the drumming gets heavier and louder until just like that it eases to a tip-toeing then silence. The sky’s an empty white. In the space beyond the window, a large insect appears. Gliding like a small helicopter between the dripping branches it seems to be looking for a place to land. There are no other creatures here except that insect and me. I watch it hovering and then settle its feet on a leaf.
Feels like peace.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
two smiles..
Earlier this week my niece Emmeline had a baby. Patrick. I saw her on Sunday afternoon at a family get together on the beach in St Kilda. Ten days overdue, she laughed and tapped her belly telling us it was all a phantom. She looked tired but in the way of most women in the last stage of pregnancy she had an extraordinary beauty, like a luscious rose about to drop its petals.
On Tuesday my brother sent a text just before 8 in the morning to say that the baby had been born. His first grandchild. That message probably went all around the country as he let each of us – his eight brothers and sisters- know the news. I went off to school feeling incredibly happy.
The next night an email arrived with three photos taken in the hospital room. The first picture opened slowly on the screen from the top of my brother’s grey flecked hair across his pale face – a face I realize now, with features much the same as Dad’s- down to his arms where he’s holding a tiny baby wrapped in a bunny rug and wearing a white beanie. My brother’s fingers are spread open across the baby’s chest like wave-lines on a map. One hand spanning the life of another.
The second photo showed four generations of the family - great grandmother, grandmother, aunt and newborn. All eyes are on the baby.
In the last picture, Emmy’s wearing a red t-shirt and her long blonde hair’s pulled back from her face and held in a pony tail. She’s lying sideways on soft white pillows on the hospital bed. Just beneath her, tufts of golden hair escaping from his beanie is tiny Patrick. Lips curled upwards, his smile is a perfect copy of the grin that spills from her eyes.
On Tuesday my brother sent a text just before 8 in the morning to say that the baby had been born. His first grandchild. That message probably went all around the country as he let each of us – his eight brothers and sisters- know the news. I went off to school feeling incredibly happy.
The next night an email arrived with three photos taken in the hospital room. The first picture opened slowly on the screen from the top of my brother’s grey flecked hair across his pale face – a face I realize now, with features much the same as Dad’s- down to his arms where he’s holding a tiny baby wrapped in a bunny rug and wearing a white beanie. My brother’s fingers are spread open across the baby’s chest like wave-lines on a map. One hand spanning the life of another.
The second photo showed four generations of the family - great grandmother, grandmother, aunt and newborn. All eyes are on the baby.
In the last picture, Emmy’s wearing a red t-shirt and her long blonde hair’s pulled back from her face and held in a pony tail. She’s lying sideways on soft white pillows on the hospital bed. Just beneath her, tufts of golden hair escaping from his beanie is tiny Patrick. Lips curled upwards, his smile is a perfect copy of the grin that spills from her eyes.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
in the valley of love..
For the past year my daughter Pip has been in Japan. Chikusa, the village in Hyogo where she's lived and taught lies in a deep valley more than five hours to the west of Tokyo and is reached by rail and road. The first picture she sends home comes via her mobile phone on the afternoon she arrives and is the view from her first floor window. Mountains and forest, rice fields, a narrow road winding across the valley like a pale yellow scarf, a bridge with wooden railings and two trees beyond the rice fields in the shape of lollypops.
At the local junior high school she commences her teaching career and in the tiny rural community regarded by many as the Tibet of western Japan, her year begins to unfold. Sorachi-san, the elderly neighbour in the downstairs flat becomes the friend with whom she walks in the evenings after school as well as the friend who shows her how to separate rubbish into six different groups. Hashimoto-san the school tea lady leaves a note on her desk "There are many extra milk in refrigerator. Would you like use home?" and takes her to her son's baseball game where the crowd sings R-R-R-R-RR! to the tune of We-will-we-will-rock-you! Pip joins the Chikusa choir and learns to play taiko drums and makes chocolate truffles for her students and all along the way in her phone calls and emails she takes us with her. Her brothers and her dad and I move around the Chikusa valley like shadows following sunlight. Her stories are the dances that take her away and bring her home. On the first weekend of July she swims in the Sea of Japan and in the last batch of photos we receive, there she is, grin from ear to ear, in her board shorts and t-shirt standing by the water pretending to surf.
Now after a year in Japan it's time for her to leave.
This morning, twelve months and two days since she left Australia I woke to an email from her, written at Changi airport as she waited for a flight to Edinburgh where she'll be for a month or so.
quickie frm changi
To: mum
woke up at seven, feelin kinda strange, bare walls, fridge etc.. a shell.. having my mornin coffee i noticed a few students walking down the hill from school, then a few more, and before i knew it, all of them were walking..... hmmm...... ohmyGOD!! they came to my apartment ma, the WHOLE school, staff too, to send me off, give presents, sing the school song!!!!!! can you even comprehend how overwhelmed i was/ still am???
love you, speak soon..
I read her message over and over and let the pictures roll in my head. If I could I'd have been there too, singing that song at her door.
At the local junior high school she commences her teaching career and in the tiny rural community regarded by many as the Tibet of western Japan, her year begins to unfold. Sorachi-san, the elderly neighbour in the downstairs flat becomes the friend with whom she walks in the evenings after school as well as the friend who shows her how to separate rubbish into six different groups. Hashimoto-san the school tea lady leaves a note on her desk "There are many extra milk in refrigerator. Would you like use home?" and takes her to her son's baseball game where the crowd sings R-R-R-R-RR! to the tune of We-will-we-will-rock-you! Pip joins the Chikusa choir and learns to play taiko drums and makes chocolate truffles for her students and all along the way in her phone calls and emails she takes us with her. Her brothers and her dad and I move around the Chikusa valley like shadows following sunlight. Her stories are the dances that take her away and bring her home. On the first weekend of July she swims in the Sea of Japan and in the last batch of photos we receive, there she is, grin from ear to ear, in her board shorts and t-shirt standing by the water pretending to surf.
Now after a year in Japan it's time for her to leave.
This morning, twelve months and two days since she left Australia I woke to an email from her, written at Changi airport as she waited for a flight to Edinburgh where she'll be for a month or so.
quickie frm changi
To: mum
woke up at seven, feelin kinda strange, bare walls, fridge etc.. a shell.. having my mornin coffee i noticed a few students walking down the hill from school, then a few more, and before i knew it, all of them were walking..... hmmm...... ohmyGOD!! they came to my apartment ma, the WHOLE school, staff too, to send me off, give presents, sing the school song!!!!!! can you even comprehend how overwhelmed i was/ still am???
love you, speak soon..
I read her message over and over and let the pictures roll in my head. If I could I'd have been there too, singing that song at her door.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Poppies..
Three dollars a bunch from the man at the Sunday market. I buy two, bring them home and unwrap the purple tissue paper.
Some go in the kitchen in a pottery vase on the table, the others in a glass jar by the front door. Just before midnight on my way to bed I notice that the tallest poppy has opened. She's taken off her coat – dropped it from her shoulders onto the table to reveal the fold of her dress. A swish of apricot taffeta. The woman beside her is muffled and stiff. Her lemon skirt's scrunched inside her hood -or is it an arm poking out of her sleeve? Another has her head lifted towards the ceiling-the green coat tangled around her neck. The one beside her can only stare at the dress leaking out from under her like blood ready to spill.
The women by the front door are too chilled to move. Mouths stuck for words - waiting on warmth to speak. The sun should wake them.
In the morning I take a handful to school and put them in a vase on my desk. Just before lunch, Niamh the little Irish sweetheart stops as she's reading her work aloud and asks "what are dose things?" Niamh has a slight lisp. da for the, pwease for please.. Poppies I tell her - but they're really girls about to go dancing when they're warm enough. They'll slip off their coats and dance in the sun.. "Ohh" she squeals and touches the petals. The boys on her table come over to look and Niamh tells them the story. By the time the bell for play has gone the last two women have had their coats taken from them. The crisp green hoods are souvenired then lost on the classroom floor.
###
Mum sticks poppy petals on to a home-made card .."your favourites".. The petals have the feel of paper and look like butterfly wings. Pollen dust smudges my fingers when I open the envelope.
###
Colours of fire, earth and sun,
Creased, pressed, still.
Tongues tied up inside mouths waiting to speak-
they are holding the peace.
Drooped folds, gathered skirts.
They nudge each other in the water.
A bristle of hair,
A mouth split open to show a puckered smile.
Tiny capes on the table.
Fine yellow needles, dusty tops, cup waists.
These women are strong, stooped, bowed, looped, stuck, tucked, short.
They lean into each other's arms-
Thin bodies standing in the deep.
Drinking in sunlight- held in the moonlight.
###
A week later they’ve lost their looks. I take them out to the garden and lay them under the eaves.
Buy two more bunches.
Some go in the kitchen in a pottery vase on the table, the others in a glass jar by the front door. Just before midnight on my way to bed I notice that the tallest poppy has opened. She's taken off her coat – dropped it from her shoulders onto the table to reveal the fold of her dress. A swish of apricot taffeta. The woman beside her is muffled and stiff. Her lemon skirt's scrunched inside her hood -or is it an arm poking out of her sleeve? Another has her head lifted towards the ceiling-the green coat tangled around her neck. The one beside her can only stare at the dress leaking out from under her like blood ready to spill.
The women by the front door are too chilled to move. Mouths stuck for words - waiting on warmth to speak. The sun should wake them.
In the morning I take a handful to school and put them in a vase on my desk. Just before lunch, Niamh the little Irish sweetheart stops as she's reading her work aloud and asks "what are dose things?" Niamh has a slight lisp. da for the, pwease for please.. Poppies I tell her - but they're really girls about to go dancing when they're warm enough. They'll slip off their coats and dance in the sun.. "Ohh" she squeals and touches the petals. The boys on her table come over to look and Niamh tells them the story. By the time the bell for play has gone the last two women have had their coats taken from them. The crisp green hoods are souvenired then lost on the classroom floor.
###
Mum sticks poppy petals on to a home-made card .."your favourites".. The petals have the feel of paper and look like butterfly wings. Pollen dust smudges my fingers when I open the envelope.
###
Colours of fire, earth and sun,
Creased, pressed, still.
Tongues tied up inside mouths waiting to speak-
they are holding the peace.
Drooped folds, gathered skirts.
They nudge each other in the water.
A bristle of hair,
A mouth split open to show a puckered smile.
Tiny capes on the table.
Fine yellow needles, dusty tops, cup waists.
These women are strong, stooped, bowed, looped, stuck, tucked, short.
They lean into each other's arms-
Thin bodies standing in the deep.
Drinking in sunlight- held in the moonlight.
###
A week later they’ve lost their looks. I take them out to the garden and lay them under the eaves.
Buy two more bunches.
Friday, July 11, 2008
winter's night..
Just before I left Mum's tonight- we were standing together by the table as she tidied up after tea- I opened up the library book I had in my bag. Under Milkwood by Dylan Thomas. I asked if I could read my favourite lines to her.. these ones-
Mr Edwards: Myfanwy Price!
Miss Price: Mr Mog Edwards!
Mr Edwards: I am a draper mad with love. I love you more than all the flanelette and calico, candlewick, dimity, crash and merino, tussore, cretonne, crepon, muslin, poplin, ticking and twill in the whole Cloth Hall of the world. I have come to take you away to my Emporium on the hill, where the change hums on wires. Throw away your little bedsocks and your Welsh wool knitted jacket. I will warm the sheets like an electric toaster, I will lie by your side like the Sunday roast.
Miss Price: I will knit you a wallet of forget-me-not blue, for the money to be comfy. I will warm your heart by the fire so that you can slip it in under your vest when the shop is closed.
Mr Edwards: Myfanwy, Myfanwy, before the mice gnaw at your bottom drawer will you say
Miss Price: Yes, Mog, yes, Mog, yes, yes, yes.
Mr Edwards: And all the bells of the tills of the town shall ring for our wedding.
At 90, Mum can't read much anymore. Even with a halogen light and a large magnifying glass, she struggles to see more than blurry images on a page. As I read I heard her repeating the cloth names after me, making little pictures for both of us.. candlewick in bedspreads, tussore silk, crepe evening dresses, ticking in mattreses.. those tiny change tins before cash registers..and it struck me that there could be nothing more lovely than sharing A Play for Voices on a winter's night with my mother's voice whispering in the kitchen beside me. An echo in the wings.
Oh she said as I finished, it's beautiful.
Mr Edwards: Myfanwy Price!
Miss Price: Mr Mog Edwards!
Mr Edwards: I am a draper mad with love. I love you more than all the flanelette and calico, candlewick, dimity, crash and merino, tussore, cretonne, crepon, muslin, poplin, ticking and twill in the whole Cloth Hall of the world. I have come to take you away to my Emporium on the hill, where the change hums on wires. Throw away your little bedsocks and your Welsh wool knitted jacket. I will warm the sheets like an electric toaster, I will lie by your side like the Sunday roast.
Miss Price: I will knit you a wallet of forget-me-not blue, for the money to be comfy. I will warm your heart by the fire so that you can slip it in under your vest when the shop is closed.
Mr Edwards: Myfanwy, Myfanwy, before the mice gnaw at your bottom drawer will you say
Miss Price: Yes, Mog, yes, Mog, yes, yes, yes.
Mr Edwards: And all the bells of the tills of the town shall ring for our wedding.
At 90, Mum can't read much anymore. Even with a halogen light and a large magnifying glass, she struggles to see more than blurry images on a page. As I read I heard her repeating the cloth names after me, making little pictures for both of us.. candlewick in bedspreads, tussore silk, crepe evening dresses, ticking in mattreses.. those tiny change tins before cash registers..and it struck me that there could be nothing more lovely than sharing A Play for Voices on a winter's night with my mother's voice whispering in the kitchen beside me. An echo in the wings.
Oh she said as I finished, it's beautiful.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
night thoughts...
On Thursday I went to a funeral. Jim, the sparky fellow with furry eyebrows and a quick smile who happened also to be a naturally-gifted athlete had died earlier in the week aged 73.
In his hey-day he'd played League footy for Collingwood until his knees began to give trouble then he'd gone on to Dandenong in the VFA followed by a coaching stint then record and time-keeping in the local club where my son played. This is where we connected with him. He showed a keen interest in Anthony as a player and in the last couple of years whenever we saw him he always asked how he was going. Couldn't believe it when he heard about the chronic fatigue. Jim would shake his head as he breathed in and then puff out all the held air with a "Bad luck!" and I knew he felt for him. More than most people, he understood what it would be like to suddenly lose your talent.
It was a big funeral. I had to park the car in a side-street at the bottom of the hill and walk up to the church where, like a country grand final it was standing room only. All around the walls and leaning up against the windows were the footballers. Young and old. Suits and casual clothes. Funny to see so many men at mass en masse. They looked a bit self-conscious, or so I thought.
The requiem was about hope yet in saying that it seemed to have the something extra which is almost as important as belief in eternity, at least to my mind. The particular recognition of an individual's life. How this one man- or woman -mattered. The song in other words… In Jim's case his children spoke, all five of them preceded by a fellow from the footy club who loved him like a brother. Jim was a lucky man! The fact of his death was there as well of course. The awful grief on the faces of his wife and kids. The incredible sadness they all carried. The other part of the story.
I left as the crowd spilled out onto the grass at the front of the church and walked in the light rain back to my car.
In his hey-day he'd played League footy for Collingwood until his knees began to give trouble then he'd gone on to Dandenong in the VFA followed by a coaching stint then record and time-keeping in the local club where my son played. This is where we connected with him. He showed a keen interest in Anthony as a player and in the last couple of years whenever we saw him he always asked how he was going. Couldn't believe it when he heard about the chronic fatigue. Jim would shake his head as he breathed in and then puff out all the held air with a "Bad luck!" and I knew he felt for him. More than most people, he understood what it would be like to suddenly lose your talent.
It was a big funeral. I had to park the car in a side-street at the bottom of the hill and walk up to the church where, like a country grand final it was standing room only. All around the walls and leaning up against the windows were the footballers. Young and old. Suits and casual clothes. Funny to see so many men at mass en masse. They looked a bit self-conscious, or so I thought.
The requiem was about hope yet in saying that it seemed to have the something extra which is almost as important as belief in eternity, at least to my mind. The particular recognition of an individual's life. How this one man- or woman -mattered. The song in other words… In Jim's case his children spoke, all five of them preceded by a fellow from the footy club who loved him like a brother. Jim was a lucky man! The fact of his death was there as well of course. The awful grief on the faces of his wife and kids. The incredible sadness they all carried. The other part of the story.
I left as the crowd spilled out onto the grass at the front of the church and walked in the light rain back to my car.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
treewordloves..
Friday, June 6, 2008
90 words for my mum..
Mum had her portrait taken at a photography studio in Fitzroy when she was about 19. Dark hair brushed off her face,she's wearing a white silky shirt with pearl buttons on the bodice. Her lips are slightly parted, little criss-crossed top teeth peeking through- that soft-eyed look drawing you in close.
On the back in pencil is her father's handwritten note
Eileen Mary Bowden.. aged 19
In my estimation she is one-in-a-million.
I love him for this..
soft-skinned
sweet-smelling
gentle voice
calm eyes
strong grip
non-swimmer
tip-toe stepper
wise
happy whistler
heart mender
trusting light
Mother Hen
Joe Robin
daily walker
op shop tea girl
garden friend
giggler from way back
trusting, kind
loyal, patient
non-drinker of wine
steady, forgiving
persistent, true
Bold and Beautiful watcher
could this be you?!
child-like, curious
never could be furious
classy, elegant
prayerful and blessed
moon and stars
music and birds
letter-writing
phone calling
cards sending her words
memory-laden
story-teller
sister
mother
Nan
“One-in-a-million daughter”
my life-giving
friend...
kate
On the back in pencil is her father's handwritten note
Eileen Mary Bowden.. aged 19
In my estimation she is one-in-a-million.
I love him for this..
soft-skinned
sweet-smelling
gentle voice
calm eyes
strong grip
non-swimmer
tip-toe stepper
wise
happy whistler
heart mender
trusting light
Mother Hen
Joe Robin
daily walker
op shop tea girl
garden friend
giggler from way back
trusting, kind
loyal, patient
non-drinker of wine
steady, forgiving
persistent, true
Bold and Beautiful watcher
could this be you?!
child-like, curious
never could be furious
classy, elegant
prayerful and blessed
moon and stars
music and birds
letter-writing
phone calling
cards sending her words
memory-laden
story-teller
sister
mother
Nan
“One-in-a-million daughter”
my life-giving
friend...
kate
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