At the op shop this morning I stood beside a man holding a bundle of books.. Old hardbacks.. The one on top caught my eye because when I glanced down I saw it was titled something like Learning Swedish. He was middle aged, dark haired and had a moustache as fine as a cat's whiskers. In the seconds that went by I began to picture him opening the book in a room with his Swedish girlfriend but when I looked down again, I saw it wasn't a language manual but a book about Crafting Softwood. The woman serving flicked through the pile and stacked them by the register.
The large white book at the bottom was an embossed Holy Bible.
"That'll be 4 dollars" she said and he paid her, dropped them in plastic bag and went out the door..
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Friday, November 26, 2010
brushstrokes..
It’s late here..I'm tired from the drive down to Morwell today but want to put down something before I go to bed. Something about mum and being with her on a wet November afternoon. She’d been out at an activities day organised by the health services at her local council.. She looked tired but better than she's been for some months.. We had a look at the garden.. I swept the path that was covered in rain-soaked pink fuchsia buds and made tea for the two of us.. An omelette which she seemed to enjoy. We watched the news as we ate and saw a boy from Morwell take a hat-trick at the Gabba.. I still don't know how much she actually sees.. Before I left to go home, as we stood together in the kitchen she picked up a brush and did my hair. . It’d been raining through the afternoon and the back of my head had gotten wet. . as she pushed the bristles through, so lightly that the ends flicked up around the sides of my ears, I remembered how she dried and combed my hair when i was young, how safe i felt tucked into her chest, how calm and strong her hands were and as I stood there at the bench trying with all my might to stay in the moment stay in the real and now with her at 92 and me touching 60, stay in this holy moment and hear her telling me I have good hair and I feel so loved, so young..
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Wayne..
Wayne died on Thursday. He lived on his own across the road at 17. I thought something was up when I went outside about 6 and saw a group of people standing in the front yard of his house. Some were on mobiles, a few were smoking. His sister appeared from the back and went up to the house but no one followed her in. I tossed out the tealeaves, broke off a few spent geranium flowers and went inside.
Wayne barracked for Collingwood and during the season the front window of the house featured a Weg Magpie poster. Grand final day started early over there. Even when his side wasn’t playing he still flew the flag. The side gate would swing open around 9 and all morning his mates would be up and down that drive carrying in the supplies.
He liked a drink and was quite overweight. His parties were legendary. He held them for just about anything. Mostly they were loud. In the early days of living on his own they didn’t finish too well. Around 2 or 3 am when the music would have begun to tone down, there’d be an argument or a bit of shouting and on a couple of occasions I remember women screaming to stop what must have been a fight. It wasn’t Wayne’s fault though. His friends were the wild ones. A few times I went over in the morning to complain about the fact that we’d hardly slept and he’d look down at the ground and shake his head as if he couldn’t believe it either.
I liked his parents. They were an old-fashioned couple who’d lived in the area all their lives. Sonny retired from working at the Heinz factory in Dandenong not long after we moved here and I remember seeing him going off in a mate’s car each week in a white shirt and black trousers carrying a piano accordion on his lap. He played in the local senior citizen’s band. Rhoda pottered about in the garden looking after a few roses. On Sunday afternoons she’d be in an apron standing at the top of the steps waving her children and grandchildren goodbye.
They died within a year of each other and because Wayne was the only one of their kids who wasn’t married, he just stayed on. He wasn’t too flash with looking after the place. When the canvas awnings began to tear and then fray into strips that fluttered in the breeze, Wayne didn’t bother replacing them or even pull up the inside blinds. The house took the full strength of the afternoon sun and that was that. It was enough for him to mow the lawns and put out the bins on a Sunday evening. His mates would sit on the front steps smoking and having a beer. I don’t know what sort of a job he had. For some years he drove a yellow mini minor with a bumper sticker that said Don’t look too closely, your daughter might be inside.
I never saw him with a girl.
His nickname was Bluey, he was a committeeman with the local cricket club and the scorer for many years. I doubt if he ever missed a game.
Beyond a smile and wave when we were out the front at the same time, I only had a few conversations with him. One night I was home alone during an earth tremor and met him on the road when I went outside to see what had happened. He didn’t have a lot to say. We both laughed and said we’d meet again if the house fell down.
On Thursday night I went to my brother’s for his birthday and when I arrived home a fellow was standing on the porch. He told my husband and me that his cousin Wayne had suffered a heart attack in the afternoon. Apparently he’d been unwell for a couple of weeks but hadn’t mentioned it to anyone. An ambulance crew called and took him to hospital but he died soon afterwards. By 4.30 his mates at the pub knew.
He was 48.
Tonight it’s Saturday night and not one light’s on at no 17. I look across the road and just see an empty house.
Wayne barracked for Collingwood and during the season the front window of the house featured a Weg Magpie poster. Grand final day started early over there. Even when his side wasn’t playing he still flew the flag. The side gate would swing open around 9 and all morning his mates would be up and down that drive carrying in the supplies.
He liked a drink and was quite overweight. His parties were legendary. He held them for just about anything. Mostly they were loud. In the early days of living on his own they didn’t finish too well. Around 2 or 3 am when the music would have begun to tone down, there’d be an argument or a bit of shouting and on a couple of occasions I remember women screaming to stop what must have been a fight. It wasn’t Wayne’s fault though. His friends were the wild ones. A few times I went over in the morning to complain about the fact that we’d hardly slept and he’d look down at the ground and shake his head as if he couldn’t believe it either.
I liked his parents. They were an old-fashioned couple who’d lived in the area all their lives. Sonny retired from working at the Heinz factory in Dandenong not long after we moved here and I remember seeing him going off in a mate’s car each week in a white shirt and black trousers carrying a piano accordion on his lap. He played in the local senior citizen’s band. Rhoda pottered about in the garden looking after a few roses. On Sunday afternoons she’d be in an apron standing at the top of the steps waving her children and grandchildren goodbye.
They died within a year of each other and because Wayne was the only one of their kids who wasn’t married, he just stayed on. He wasn’t too flash with looking after the place. When the canvas awnings began to tear and then fray into strips that fluttered in the breeze, Wayne didn’t bother replacing them or even pull up the inside blinds. The house took the full strength of the afternoon sun and that was that. It was enough for him to mow the lawns and put out the bins on a Sunday evening. His mates would sit on the front steps smoking and having a beer. I don’t know what sort of a job he had. For some years he drove a yellow mini minor with a bumper sticker that said Don’t look too closely, your daughter might be inside.
I never saw him with a girl.
His nickname was Bluey, he was a committeeman with the local cricket club and the scorer for many years. I doubt if he ever missed a game.
Beyond a smile and wave when we were out the front at the same time, I only had a few conversations with him. One night I was home alone during an earth tremor and met him on the road when I went outside to see what had happened. He didn’t have a lot to say. We both laughed and said we’d meet again if the house fell down.
On Thursday night I went to my brother’s for his birthday and when I arrived home a fellow was standing on the porch. He told my husband and me that his cousin Wayne had suffered a heart attack in the afternoon. Apparently he’d been unwell for a couple of weeks but hadn’t mentioned it to anyone. An ambulance crew called and took him to hospital but he died soon afterwards. By 4.30 his mates at the pub knew.
He was 48.
Tonight it’s Saturday night and not one light’s on at no 17. I look across the road and just see an empty house.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
song of a late afternoon..
not much comes..
but here, just now as I stop to put the laptop away
and get ready to make the tea,
I hear birds..
I hear birdsong that's different to birds' voices at any other time of the year,
late winter, southern hemisphere, Berwick.
Outside my kitchen window
birds are finishing up for the day,
Closing their shops,
sweeping the floors,
putting away the bits and pieces of their work for the afternoon.
They're about to go home.
Before they go, they sing their music.
Squirt the notes into the cold air like this...
s s s s s s s s s and wwwwwwwww and t t t t t t t t ...
up and down, side to side, over and under,
over and over they sing
They sing their song in through the window, over a sink
and all around this room where I sit
listening and waiting ...
finding my words at last.
but here, just now as I stop to put the laptop away
and get ready to make the tea,
I hear birds..
I hear birdsong that's different to birds' voices at any other time of the year,
late winter, southern hemisphere, Berwick.
Outside my kitchen window
birds are finishing up for the day,
Closing their shops,
sweeping the floors,
putting away the bits and pieces of their work for the afternoon.
They're about to go home.
Before they go, they sing their music.
Squirt the notes into the cold air like this...
s s s s s s s s s and wwwwwwwww and t t t t t t t t ...
up and down, side to side, over and under,
over and over they sing
They sing their song in through the window, over a sink
and all around this room where I sit
listening and waiting ...
finding my words at last.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
boot..
On the way to my mum's yesterday, driving along the Princes Freeway not too far out of Pakenham, I saw a boot lying beside the road.. A brown Blundstone, in very good nick.. What caught my eye was this.. The boot didn't look as if it had accidentally dropped off the back of a truck, nor did it look as if it had been there for long. No. That boot was a freshly laid egg. It had a purpose about it and I recognized it straight away. That boot was the first art of the trip.
It looked as if it was about to begin a life of its own.. There was some power in the way it lay.. Instead of going off on the exit to Nar Nar Goon, it was coming on.. Heading into traffic..Kicking against the flow.. On a 45 degree angle and in the centre of the bitumen it stood there catching the light on its leather skin.. A bit like the way a man might stand - his back to the sun, drawing strength from the big yellow ball as he waited alone on a road.
I turned the radio down, right down as though that brown boot had slipped through the back window while I was driving by and now was on the seat beside me. I had company for a while. The boot was with me.. I'd picked up a hitch-hiker.
I had to ask-
who are you?
how long were you waiting?
what's yr story?
I drove along smiling. I had a picture. I had a story. I wondered who'd been wearing the boot before i'd met it..
a builder or plumber- who couldn't face going to work?
a youth who missed his mum,
or his girlfriend
or his mates?
a boy who wished so badly he was back at school kicking the footy at recess
or talking to a girl in the corridor?
The boot had what's known as attitude but not something you'd take offence at, not that selfish, boorish stuff that passes for being cool. No. That boot had such a strong individual sense of itself that I wanted to put it on, hold my foot down on the pedal and for just a few kms try out some other life..
.a man's life at half past 11 on a bright winter morning..
It looked as if it was about to begin a life of its own.. There was some power in the way it lay.. Instead of going off on the exit to Nar Nar Goon, it was coming on.. Heading into traffic..Kicking against the flow.. On a 45 degree angle and in the centre of the bitumen it stood there catching the light on its leather skin.. A bit like the way a man might stand - his back to the sun, drawing strength from the big yellow ball as he waited alone on a road.
I turned the radio down, right down as though that brown boot had slipped through the back window while I was driving by and now was on the seat beside me. I had company for a while. The boot was with me.. I'd picked up a hitch-hiker.
I had to ask-
who are you?
how long were you waiting?
what's yr story?
I drove along smiling. I had a picture. I had a story. I wondered who'd been wearing the boot before i'd met it..
a builder or plumber- who couldn't face going to work?
a youth who missed his mum,
or his girlfriend
or his mates?
a boy who wished so badly he was back at school kicking the footy at recess
or talking to a girl in the corridor?
The boot had what's known as attitude but not something you'd take offence at, not that selfish, boorish stuff that passes for being cool. No. That boot had such a strong individual sense of itself that I wanted to put it on, hold my foot down on the pedal and for just a few kms try out some other life..
.a man's life at half past 11 on a bright winter morning..
Friday, June 25, 2010
a little black book..
.
The book fits in my hand like a slim paperback. Its black cardboard cover creased in a web of lines like old skin. On the inside cover written in a firm even script is his first entry
Geelong Police
1926 Phone Number
Just below this is a faded lemon 1 penny stamp and midway down the page is an inscription in my mother's own handwriting .
Thomas Joseph Bowden a police man from 1915 until 1939.
The first page is in pencil and though the lead has faded I can make out the names of Alfred Edward Bush from Rupanyup and James Ross from Greens Creek who must produce their licences to Police within seven days.
My grandfather keeps a record of Seized Goods from around this time beginning with J R Hutchings on 28/12/28
1 Buick Car
1 Heater
6 Draught Horses
I turn the pages and find longer lists of property items that tell stories of their own:
One race horse (known as Cashil)
one Bay horse 1 Black Pony
one Chestnut one Grey
Two Draughts one Dray
Three Cows one Single Furrow Plough
40 Head Cattle one Harrows
one Writing Desk
one Lounge suite one Table
1 Carpet Square 1 Gramaphone
1 Apollo Phone
one Book Case one D.R. Table
1 Side Board 1 Tea Waggon
one Carpet square 1 Wash Stand
1 Dressing Table one carpet
1 oak Wardrobe one dressing table
one Carpet
T Lindsay seized 4/9/29
Good seized at Grassmede on 24/7/29
1 Case of Gordon's Gin 1 Doz
1 Case of Black and White Whisky 2 1/4 Doz
4 Bots of Robinsons Yellow Label whisky
1 Case of Fosters Lager 4 Doz.
2 Cases of S..... Wine 8 Doz
2 Cases of Lawries Whisky 2 Doz
1 Case Snowy 4 Doz
2 Boxes Capstan Cigarettes 100 pkts
1 Box County Life Cigarettes
1 1/2 Doz Flasks Brandy Le Beaumont
210 ozs Doz Flasks Johnnie Walker
8 12 Doz Moonbeam Cocktail
7 Chairs 1 Piano 2 couches
1 Table 1 Wireless set 7 chairs
3 Tables 1 Over Mirror
Carpets Cocoanut Matting
1 Piano one Specimen Case
3 Lounge Chairs 5 Chairs
one mirror one clock
1 Walnut Bed Suit 20 Carpet Squares
1 Wardrobe 5 Chairs
2 Tables 1 Side board
1 Dressing Table
Mr Thomas Lindsay
Woolsthorpe
Seized in connection with County Court Warrant
on 24.7.29
One Hudson car
No. 747444
======================
Will fix it as soon as
possible possibly on
Saturday
=====================
One report is only 4 lines long
Ian Sharpley
13 years of age on October last
driving Car up Selby St Stawell
on 15.1.29 at 12.20 pm
I hope to put more of my grandfather's notes on this blog.
The book fits in my hand like a slim paperback. Its black cardboard cover creased in a web of lines like old skin. On the inside cover written in a firm even script is his first entry
Geelong Police
1926 Phone Number
Just below this is a faded lemon 1 penny stamp and midway down the page is an inscription in my mother's own handwriting .
Thomas Joseph Bowden a police man from 1915 until 1939.
The first page is in pencil and though the lead has faded I can make out the names of Alfred Edward Bush from Rupanyup and James Ross from Greens Creek who must produce their licences to Police within seven days.
My grandfather keeps a record of Seized Goods from around this time beginning with J R Hutchings on 28/12/28
1 Buick Car
1 Heater
6 Draught Horses
I turn the pages and find longer lists of property items that tell stories of their own:
One race horse (known as Cashil)
one Bay horse 1 Black Pony
one Chestnut one Grey
Two Draughts one Dray
Three Cows one Single Furrow Plough
40 Head Cattle one Harrows
one Writing Desk
one Lounge suite one Table
1 Carpet Square 1 Gramaphone
1 Apollo Phone
one Book Case one D.R. Table
1 Side Board 1 Tea Waggon
one Carpet square 1 Wash Stand
1 Dressing Table one carpet
1 oak Wardrobe one dressing table
one Carpet
T Lindsay seized 4/9/29
Good seized at Grassmede on 24/7/29
1 Case of Gordon's Gin 1 Doz
1 Case of Black and White Whisky 2 1/4 Doz
4 Bots of Robinsons Yellow Label whisky
1 Case of Fosters Lager 4 Doz.
2 Cases of S..... Wine 8 Doz
2 Cases of Lawries Whisky 2 Doz
1 Case Snowy 4 Doz
2 Boxes Capstan Cigarettes 100 pkts
1 Box County Life Cigarettes
1 1/2 Doz Flasks Brandy Le Beaumont
210 ozs Doz Flasks Johnnie Walker
8 12 Doz Moonbeam Cocktail
7 Chairs 1 Piano 2 couches
1 Table 1 Wireless set 7 chairs
3 Tables 1 Over Mirror
Carpets Cocoanut Matting
1 Piano one Specimen Case
3 Lounge Chairs 5 Chairs
one mirror one clock
1 Walnut Bed Suit 20 Carpet Squares
1 Wardrobe 5 Chairs
2 Tables 1 Side board
1 Dressing Table
Mr Thomas Lindsay
Woolsthorpe
Seized in connection with County Court Warrant
on 24.7.29
One Hudson car
No. 747444
======================
Will fix it as soon as
possible possibly on
Saturday
=====================
One report is only 4 lines long
Ian Sharpley
13 years of age on October last
driving Car up Selby St Stawell
on 15.1.29 at 12.20 pm
I hope to put more of my grandfather's notes on this blog.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
june 22nd..
I'm just about to finish the day at school and all I want to say is I've thought of my sister a lot throughout this the 22nd June, her special day.
She had the gift of being able to praise you when you needed it .
I loved her sense of fun.
I loved her ability to see things plainly and simply "you know what you know" would so often be the words I'd take away after we'd hung up the phone..
She had the gift of being able to praise you when you needed it .
She had so much good in her-
A great spark in her being
Happy Birthday Michele wherever you are on this day
Loveyou...
x
Thursday, June 17, 2010
on the page again..
so here I am at the desk.. back at the tree to be precise. the apple tree beyond the sunroom window... for company today I have two blackbirds -male and female- hopping on a couple of branches that are higher than the ceiling of this room.. now they're resting in the leaves.. above the greenery a nest of blue sky..
******
I've been reading a series called My Hero in The Guardian.. Nick Clegg, the leader of the New Democrats considers Samuel Beckett his hero. Why? He admires the fact that the Irish author asked dangerous questions... Doing so came naturally to him..It was just his particular way of thinking I suppose.. Anyway like many others, I regard this as a refreshing insight into the mind of a politician..
Thinking about Clegg's choice prompted me to look back and see which heroes others had nominated.
Gordon Brown whom one of his party's candidates recently called " the worst Labor Prime Minister the country's ever had" was more predictable in his choice. Nelson Mandela. According to Brown, Mandela is a man "whose generosity of spirit and capacity for forgiveness make him a true hero for our times."
Aside from those politicians, I was actually more interested in the selections Irish writers Colm Toibin and John Banville had made.
Jack Yeats, the painter and younger brother of the famous WB was Toibin's choice. Apparently the artist spent much of his life trying to understand and capture in his work the light of the Irish landscape. The play of light that he saw in the sky, in city streets and as it fell on the faces of people going about their daily lives. This is what most fascinated him. Painting with the right kind of light was the thing he tried to do - over and over and over. Toibin says that Yeats left no record of himself other than his paintings and "it seems there is no evidence he ever in his life discussed anything that was of great private concern to him"
Could this be really true?
Banville writes about a labrador named Ben. Not a word is wasted. I take the liberty of quoting the final paragraphs of his piece.
Though Ben was a handsome fellow he was not overly bright, as is the way with labradors. He could be annoying, was often smelly, insisted on what he considered to be his rights – good grub and plenty of it and two walks a day – and could lick himself with noisy relish in places the equivalent of which in a human being are not even visible to the person's unaided eye. Yet he cared for us, kept us exercised, tolerated our children and even, when the occasion required, guarded them; and, a gift above all gifts, he made us laugh.
Nietzsche writes: "I fear animals regard man as a creature of their own kind which has in a highly dangerous fashion lost its healthy animal reason – as the mad animal, as the laughing animal, as the weeping animal, as the unhappy animal." Ben, I am certain, recognised our terrible, human, predicament and tried to help us as best he could along our hard road. We were, however, a constant mystery to him, and it was in his brave, unwearying, dogged efforts to understand us that his heroism lay. Good dog, Ben.
******
I've been reading a series called My Hero in The Guardian.. Nick Clegg, the leader of the New Democrats considers Samuel Beckett his hero. Why? He admires the fact that the Irish author asked dangerous questions... Doing so came naturally to him..It was just his particular way of thinking I suppose.. Anyway like many others, I regard this as a refreshing insight into the mind of a politician..
Thinking about Clegg's choice prompted me to look back and see which heroes others had nominated.
Gordon Brown whom one of his party's candidates recently called " the worst Labor Prime Minister the country's ever had" was more predictable in his choice. Nelson Mandela. According to Brown, Mandela is a man "whose generosity of spirit and capacity for forgiveness make him a true hero for our times."
Aside from those politicians, I was actually more interested in the selections Irish writers Colm Toibin and John Banville had made.
Jack Yeats, the painter and younger brother of the famous WB was Toibin's choice. Apparently the artist spent much of his life trying to understand and capture in his work the light of the Irish landscape. The play of light that he saw in the sky, in city streets and as it fell on the faces of people going about their daily lives. This is what most fascinated him. Painting with the right kind of light was the thing he tried to do - over and over and over. Toibin says that Yeats left no record of himself other than his paintings and "it seems there is no evidence he ever in his life discussed anything that was of great private concern to him"
Could this be really true?
Banville writes about a labrador named Ben. Not a word is wasted. I take the liberty of quoting the final paragraphs of his piece.
Though Ben was a handsome fellow he was not overly bright, as is the way with labradors. He could be annoying, was often smelly, insisted on what he considered to be his rights – good grub and plenty of it and two walks a day – and could lick himself with noisy relish in places the equivalent of which in a human being are not even visible to the person's unaided eye. Yet he cared for us, kept us exercised, tolerated our children and even, when the occasion required, guarded them; and, a gift above all gifts, he made us laugh.
Nietzsche writes: "I fear animals regard man as a creature of their own kind which has in a highly dangerous fashion lost its healthy animal reason – as the mad animal, as the laughing animal, as the weeping animal, as the unhappy animal." Ben, I am certain, recognised our terrible, human, predicament and tried to help us as best he could along our hard road. We were, however, a constant mystery to him, and it was in his brave, unwearying, dogged efforts to understand us that his heroism lay. Good dog, Ben.
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