They are working away merrily on this late April afternoon, chatting at their tables as they draw pictures about what they think life was like in the Olden Days. I go around the room seeing carts and candles, horses and campfires appearing on the page and as I pass beside the table just near my desk, one of the girls speaks.
"Nice boobs."
I stop and look at her.
"Sorry?"
"Nice boobs" she blushes. She's quiet and a little nervy and generally reluctant to speak up in front of the other children. It's only in the last couple of weeks that she's begun to come out of her shell. I lean my head towards her and cup my hand around my ear to show I don't understand. She tilts back and her eyes slide down to my legs and then I hear her. For the first time. "Nice boots" she whispers and I stare hard at the floor.
"Oh yes, they are, aren't they. Really nice boots.."
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Thursday, April 2, 2009
little recipe..
The first person I met when we moved into this street was a woman named Pearl. She lived next door with her husband, and not long after we arrived I saw them through the window of our sunroom sitting together on a wooden stool in the back yard. They sat close, like a couple of grey sparrows resting beneath the liquid amber tree.
Pearl introduced herself as we stood watering the front garden one morning.
I liked the light in her eyes.
A few months later her husband, Ewan had a heart attack and died. From then on Pearl lived alone. I’d hear her pottering about in the garden and if she was there while I hung out the washing, we’d talk to each other across the fence. One morning she grazed her ankle with a spade while she was digging. Later I went in to ask her to come for a drive with us – it was a hot day and we were going to the beach but she said she felt unwell and I remember seeing a pink bandaid stretched across her foot. The skin around the wound was puffed and shiny. She told me her leg felt sore and that a rest would do her good. It was the last time I spoke to her. By that afternoon her tongue had begun to swell and later the same day her daughter arrived and called for an ambulance to take her to hospital. She died a day or so later of tetany.
I never forgot her.
The morning I’d come home from hospital when Anthony was a baby she’d left a tray of lemon slices on the doorstep. The sun shone, a bird sang and Pearl produced morning tea.
She gave me the recipe for them and here it is:
Lemon Slice
½ lb Morning Coffee Bisc
3 ozs Copha
½ can Condensed Milk
½ cup icing sugar
1 cup coconut
Juice & rind 1 lemon
Method
Place ½ Bisc on a greased tin 9x9. Melt Copha, add milk, coconut, icing sugar and lemon. Mix well & pour over biscuits. Place rest of biscuits on top. When set, ice with lemon icing. Keep in fridge.
* Since Metric, the cans of Cond Milk are a little larger so barely ½ can would be sufficient. P.R.
Pearl's handwritten note is still intact though cookery books and magazines have gathered on top of it in the kitchen drawer. Her recipe endures. Old friendships are a bit like this.
Pearl introduced herself as we stood watering the front garden one morning.
I liked the light in her eyes.
A few months later her husband, Ewan had a heart attack and died. From then on Pearl lived alone. I’d hear her pottering about in the garden and if she was there while I hung out the washing, we’d talk to each other across the fence. One morning she grazed her ankle with a spade while she was digging. Later I went in to ask her to come for a drive with us – it was a hot day and we were going to the beach but she said she felt unwell and I remember seeing a pink bandaid stretched across her foot. The skin around the wound was puffed and shiny. She told me her leg felt sore and that a rest would do her good. It was the last time I spoke to her. By that afternoon her tongue had begun to swell and later the same day her daughter arrived and called for an ambulance to take her to hospital. She died a day or so later of tetany.
I never forgot her.
The morning I’d come home from hospital when Anthony was a baby she’d left a tray of lemon slices on the doorstep. The sun shone, a bird sang and Pearl produced morning tea.
She gave me the recipe for them and here it is:
Lemon Slice
½ lb Morning Coffee Bisc
3 ozs Copha
½ can Condensed Milk
½ cup icing sugar
1 cup coconut
Juice & rind 1 lemon
Method
Place ½ Bisc on a greased tin 9x9. Melt Copha, add milk, coconut, icing sugar and lemon. Mix well & pour over biscuits. Place rest of biscuits on top. When set, ice with lemon icing. Keep in fridge.
* Since Metric, the cans of Cond Milk are a little larger so barely ½ can would be sufficient. P.R.
Pearl's handwritten note is still intact though cookery books and magazines have gathered on top of it in the kitchen drawer. Her recipe endures. Old friendships are a bit like this.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
20 things..
She writes a letter to me every week from the time I leave home in February 69 until she’s in her mid 80s. Macular degeneration.. Oh well, everybody’s got to get something she tells me. Her mum told her this.
Whistles to herself.
Loves the moon
Sleeps with a small black transistor under her pillow
Has an amazing memory
Tiptoes when she walks. Never gets used to walking in bare feet flat on the ground.
Wishes she’d learned to swim.
Eats slowly and not a lot.
Sits at the table with her chair half in half out
Always asks what time you left when you finally reach her door
Likes changing furniture around
Keeps up with the news
Remembers everyone’s birthdays. Sends cards with a couple of scratchies inside.
Hates losing things
Misses being able to read
Likes watching birds dipping in the birdbath outside her kitchen window
Is good to talk to on the phone
Loves music
Agrees with people
Misses my sister so much
Whistles to herself.
Loves the moon
Sleeps with a small black transistor under her pillow
Has an amazing memory
Tiptoes when she walks. Never gets used to walking in bare feet flat on the ground.
Wishes she’d learned to swim.
Eats slowly and not a lot.
Sits at the table with her chair half in half out
Always asks what time you left when you finally reach her door
Likes changing furniture around
Keeps up with the news
Remembers everyone’s birthdays. Sends cards with a couple of scratchies inside.
Hates losing things
Misses being able to read
Likes watching birds dipping in the birdbath outside her kitchen window
Is good to talk to on the phone
Loves music
Agrees with people
Misses my sister so much
Friday, March 20, 2009
the picture below..
Just before I went to bed last night, after I'd spent much of the day writing about travelling in Ireland with Michael and Amthony in 2005, I had the sudden thought that I should put a picture of my 5 children on this blog..
So here they are
5 works of art
5 poems if you will
Poems?
Well, about 20 years ago I heard an interview on the radio between Terry Lane and the poet Tony Lintermans and TLa asked TLi what he thought a poem was and TLi replied the brevity of passion
That struck me as a perfect way to describe a poem and, as time went along, I realized it was the best way I could describe and understand our kids..
Each one a work of art,
Each one a work in progress,
Each one a poem!
I still see them this way..
Tom, Mike, Dan, Pip, Anth
Thanks once more for your love..
So here they are
5 works of art
5 poems if you will
Poems?
Well, about 20 years ago I heard an interview on the radio between Terry Lane and the poet Tony Lintermans and TLa asked TLi what he thought a poem was and TLi replied the brevity of passion
That struck me as a perfect way to describe a poem and, as time went along, I realized it was the best way I could describe and understand our kids..
Each one a work of art,
Each one a work in progress,
Each one a poem!
I still see them this way..
Tom, Mike, Dan, Pip, Anth
Thanks once more for your love..
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Friday, March 6, 2009
summer sister..
I wake in lemon light
a cup of tea on the drawer beside my pillow,
birdsong,
the first swim of the day,
lying on cold sand listening to the sea,
lying on a straw beachmat with the smell of pressed hay coming all the way from China,
reading,
the feel of a good biro,
words spilling out of my head and onto the page,
listening to my brothers' and sisters' voices,
missing one - Michele's....
the warmth of Davey’s head as he leans against my chest,
Liz’s smile when we reach the verandah at Indented Head,
riding her old bike beside the water all the way to St Leonard’s,
flying down sand tracks and stopping off at the pier,
sifting through a carpet of shells,
finding driftwood in the shallows,
getting stuck in the supermarket at Ocean Grove and not caring- using the time to study faces and bodies and finding some bright thing in each one of them
being in the company of the clan..
how different it is without her..
a cup of tea on the drawer beside my pillow,
birdsong,
the first swim of the day,
lying on cold sand listening to the sea,
lying on a straw beachmat with the smell of pressed hay coming all the way from China,
reading,
the feel of a good biro,
words spilling out of my head and onto the page,
listening to my brothers' and sisters' voices,
missing one - Michele's....
the warmth of Davey’s head as he leans against my chest,
Liz’s smile when we reach the verandah at Indented Head,
riding her old bike beside the water all the way to St Leonard’s,
flying down sand tracks and stopping off at the pier,
sifting through a carpet of shells,
finding driftwood in the shallows,
getting stuck in the supermarket at Ocean Grove and not caring- using the time to study faces and bodies and finding some bright thing in each one of them
being in the company of the clan..
how different it is without her..
Sunday, March 1, 2009
NIGHT MOTHER..
THIS IS ABOUT HOW A MOTHER - ME - FEELS WHEN HER SON LEAVES HOME.. FOR THE 4TH OR 5TH TIME(?) .. HOW SAD SHE IS WHEN SHE SEES HIS ROOM ALL EMPTY OF LIFE.. SHE KNOWS SHE SHOULD NOT BE DOWN like this.. WHY IS THIS SO? HE IS A MAN AFTER ALL AND IT IS ONLY RIGHT THAT HE SHOULD LEAVE HOME.. HE MUST HE MUST.. THIS IS THE WAY LIFE GOES.. AND IN TIME..A DAY OR SO..PERHAPS A WEEK SHE WILL SEE IT SO.. BECAUSE SHE WANTS HIM WELL.. ALL WELL AGAIN.. AND HAPPY TOO.. AND LOVED AND LOVED AND LOVED.. ALL THIS GOES WITHOUT HER SAYING IT OR WRITING IT BUT STILL SHE MUST PUT DOWN WHAT SHE FEELS INSIDE TONIGHT WHEN THE LIGHT IS OFF AND THE ROOM IS QUIET...
EARLIER TODAY SHE WATCHES WHILE HE PACKS UP HIS LIFE IN BOXES AND BAGS..
A LAMP AND A MIRROR,
A DOONA, A BED,
BOOKS AND PAINTINGS,
CDS AND GUITAR,
CUTLERY CROCKERY,
COOKBOOK AND UTENSILS,
A PAPER BAG OF VITAMINS AND HERBAL MEDICINES,
A SUNHAT, A LEATHER COAT
SHIRTS ON HANGERS,
LINEN AND TOWELS..
THEN HE DRIVES TO THE CITY WITH ONE BIG DREAM..
THE DREAM IS HIS..
TO START AGAIN..
TO BE WELL ONCE MORE..
AND LIFE HAS CHANGED FOR BOTH..
AGAIN.
EARLIER TODAY SHE WATCHES WHILE HE PACKS UP HIS LIFE IN BOXES AND BAGS..
A LAMP AND A MIRROR,
A DOONA, A BED,
BOOKS AND PAINTINGS,
CDS AND GUITAR,
CUTLERY CROCKERY,
COOKBOOK AND UTENSILS,
A PAPER BAG OF VITAMINS AND HERBAL MEDICINES,
A SUNHAT, A LEATHER COAT
SHIRTS ON HANGERS,
LINEN AND TOWELS..
THEN HE DRIVES TO THE CITY WITH ONE BIG DREAM..
THE DREAM IS HIS..
TO START AGAIN..
TO BE WELL ONCE MORE..
AND LIFE HAS CHANGED FOR BOTH..
AGAIN.
Friday, February 27, 2009
poem at night....
Can I share this poem with you? I'm not sure whether it's legally okay to put someone else's published work on a webpage without getting written permission first - in fact the longer this sentence goes on the surer I am that it's not. However, I hope I'm forgiven, for here it is.
Written by Polish poet Czeslaw Milosz and titled Gift.
Gift
A day so happy.
Fog lifted early, I worked in the garden.
Hummingbirds were stopping over honeysuckle flowers.
There was no thing on earth I wanted to possess.
I knew no one worth my envying him.
Whatever evil I had suffered, I forgot.
To think that once I was the same man did not embarrass me.
In my body I felt no pain.
When straightening up, I saw the blue sea and sails.
I came upon it in a poetry book a few years ago and used a letter my Dad wrote when I was overseas to mark the page.. The letter was one of the briefest Dad had sent .. 5 lines on airmail paper. He wanted me home again. Neither the poem by Milosz nor the letter from my father had any connection to the other beyond the fact that they both felt so male to me. It was as though only a man could think and write the way they did.
Throughout his life Dad was a gardener.. Fruit trees next to the chookspen, a spinning gum behind the boys' room and a tall liquid amber in the front yard that filled the kitchen window with pale yellow light each autumn..
My husband's a gardener too.. even now when the ground's as hard as concrete something in him won't give up on the idea of trying to get a few things to grow..
On Saturday he turned 60 and we had a party here at home.. The boys carried couches and chairs outside, we borrowed a small marquee and strung lights through the apricot tree. Dan ran PC's favourite music out through an open bedroom window via speakers attached to his ipod.. Nearly 60 people came. I never expected the party to happen. Two weeks ago there were fires burning all over the state. A week prior to that Jack had died. Up until Friday I couldn’t believe the night would really go ahead..
But this post is to tell you that it did.. A great party.
I read the poem too.
Written by Polish poet Czeslaw Milosz and titled Gift.
Gift
A day so happy.
Fog lifted early, I worked in the garden.
Hummingbirds were stopping over honeysuckle flowers.
There was no thing on earth I wanted to possess.
I knew no one worth my envying him.
Whatever evil I had suffered, I forgot.
To think that once I was the same man did not embarrass me.
In my body I felt no pain.
When straightening up, I saw the blue sea and sails.
I came upon it in a poetry book a few years ago and used a letter my Dad wrote when I was overseas to mark the page.. The letter was one of the briefest Dad had sent .. 5 lines on airmail paper. He wanted me home again. Neither the poem by Milosz nor the letter from my father had any connection to the other beyond the fact that they both felt so male to me. It was as though only a man could think and write the way they did.
Throughout his life Dad was a gardener.. Fruit trees next to the chookspen, a spinning gum behind the boys' room and a tall liquid amber in the front yard that filled the kitchen window with pale yellow light each autumn..
My husband's a gardener too.. even now when the ground's as hard as concrete something in him won't give up on the idea of trying to get a few things to grow..
On Saturday he turned 60 and we had a party here at home.. The boys carried couches and chairs outside, we borrowed a small marquee and strung lights through the apricot tree. Dan ran PC's favourite music out through an open bedroom window via speakers attached to his ipod.. Nearly 60 people came. I never expected the party to happen. Two weeks ago there were fires burning all over the state. A week prior to that Jack had died. Up until Friday I couldn’t believe the night would really go ahead..
But this post is to tell you that it did.. A great party.
I read the poem too.
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