Christmas day

Umbrella's unfolded as we got out of the car and headed for church this morning at 8.30am. As this was such a rare occasion, it was quite fun. Rev Peter Elliott spoke about the struggle of some people being very sick this past year and how the struggle can bring them closer to God in their need for comfort. My daughter listened intently, as we all did, relating the sermon directly to the year she has had. Lincon had to work in Gladstone, unfortunately, but all the rest of the family came for the day - well, almost everyone...

Morning tea had been set up before we left for church, so we enjoyed that and began swapping gifts while we waited for my sister, Judy. The phone rang. She had just returned from the hospital and she's spending Christmas day very sick at home in Noosa. Poor Jude. I'll add some videos of the morning for her to view when she is feeling able to sit up in a not so dizzy state.

The recipes all turned out very successfully, especially the ice cream tiramisu cake. Now I will have to speed up my morning walk a bit to make up for all the food I consumed today.

Roast chicken, a turkey and leg ham, sweet potato, prawns, sorbet, triaminsu ice cream cake, plum pudding. I won't eat again for a week, I promise!

The angel at the top of the tree

The Christmas tree is getting there ...

Ho Ho Ho

Midnight strikes. The first day of December turns me into a Christmas junkie. Ecards save the environment, so if you need to send one, go to http://care2.com/ecards

My newsletter is finished and now I ask one of the boys to erect my Christmas work table in the family room. It gets covered in ribbons, paper, sticky tape, pens, cards, newsletters, gifts, etc very soon and I'm off and running towards the big day - 25 December.

I know I have survived this before, so I can do it again!

Follow your dream

Follow your dream
wherever it leads
don't be distracted
by less worthy needs...

Shelter it, nourish it,
help it to grow
Let your heart hold it down deep
where dreams go.

Follow your dream
pursue it with haste
Life is too precious,
too fleeting to waste...

Be faithful, be loyal,
then all your life through
the dreams that you follow
will keep coming true.

Written by Larry Chugges - not me. I'm hopeless at poetry. Dad's the poet in our family. He writes a poem for every grandchild's birthday and its reading forms a large part of the enjoyment and traditions of our family. Once he wrote this poem when I was wondering what we should call baby number four.

NAME CALLING

'What's in a name', old Shakespeare said.
'A rose seen in a garden bed
would smell as sweet upon your nose
if called a weed and not a rose.'

But name a child if you are able
with a careful chosen label
one it can display with pride
(Not one it wants to change and hide).

If by chance you had a girlie
You may choose to call it Shirley
Kate or Mary-Ann sounds nice
Judy, Jill or Eurydice.

A boy will need a lot of thought
perhaps you'll name him for some sport
Like Norman, Bradman or by golly
Even after our King Wally!

'What's in a name' so said the Bard.
Parents have to think quite hard.
Just put the names into a hat
pull one out ... and call him that!

He signs his work: Grannles 1990.

For son number four's 19th birthday, he wrote:

Recession Blues

The finance experts will confess
The world is in an awful mess
Recession that we can't ignore
Stock Exchanges through the floor.

We're down the drain, there is no doubt
Who can we get to help us out?
Cash is short and banks are busted
Politicians can't be trusted.

Then someone said, 'Now, here's a name
David Marley knows the game
Economics he is good at,
Formulae and stuff like that.'

He'll set us on a course that's best.
Because he passed his recent test.
At nineteen he's a finance smarty
Enough of that ... Let's have a party !!!

Grannles 13/9/09.

Music to cook by

For the longest time .... ohhh .... for the longest time....
(Billy Joel)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G7G0KUSoUJc

I just finished cooking some afternoon tea for sons and girlfriends, and a few plates extra for the church morning tea tomorrow morning, as promised. A scruptious recipe if you want to try it ... 1909 original recipe which I cooked for our church centenary this weekend. Now I have to get dressed up as a 1909 lady. I hope I survive the heat, as they covered everything from top to toe with gloves, hat, long-sleeve shirt, long skirt, stockings, ahhhh.... There are 350 people booked tonight for the dinner and over 550 are expected tomorrow at the church service. People overseas in England might think we are excited over nothing much because their history is really something to brag about. Anyway, here's the recipe for the Almond tarts and I hope someone tries them singing the same song I have been singing whilst rolling out the dough this afternoon!

1.5 sheets frozen shortcrust pastry, thawed (how authentic, you say)
1.5 tblsps strawberry jam
50g unsalted butter, at room temperature
1/4 cup caster sugar
1/4 tsp almond essence
1 egg
1 cup almond meal
2 tblsps plain flour
icing sugar mixture, to decorate.

1. Lightly grease a 12-hole round-based patty pan (1.5 tblsp capacity).


2. Using a 7cm round cutter, cut out 12 rounds from pastry sheets. Line holes with rounds. Spoon 1/2 tsp strawberry jam into each pastry case.


3. Place butter, sugar and essence in the small bowl of an electric mixer. (OK I cheated a little and used electricity!)


4. Beat, scraping down side of bowl occasionally, until fluffy. Add egg, almond meal and plain flour. Beat until combined.


5. Divide mixture among pastry cases over strawberry jam.


6. Cook in a moderate oven (180C) for about 30 minutes (I baked mine at 150C okay) or until tarts are golden brown and cooked through. Transfer to a wire rack to cool.


7. Serve tarts warm or cold. Dust with sifted icing sugar mixture.

Streamers on the Orcades

Edit:

The night before the majestic, white Orcades pulled out of Sydney Harbour, Andrew and I spent our last moments together, talking and wishing things were different. We held hands and gazed into each other's eyes, longing for the night to never end. We felt the warmth of each other's young body and closed our eyes trying to soak in as much as we possibly could because we knew what tomorrow would bring. We smiled at remote memories and tried to make plans for a distant future. No sleep.

Clocks moved on. Sunrise came to us, creeping gently into Sydney, no matter how much we wished it would not come this day. We moved the cereal around in our plates and made polite conversation with our hosts. Feelings of dread were like a hole in my stomach. Andrew was reluctant to pack his last bag, but we both knew he had no choice. At nine o'clock we were driven to the ship.

AND LATER... a bit more...

Streamers of all colours joined those people on board the ship to those left on the whalf. It was more than Jenny could bear, as she hung onto one coloured streamer and Andrew held the other. She stood on the whalf and he was leaning over the railing of the ship with his arm outstretched. As the ship moved toward the Sydney Harbour Bridge, the streamer stretched and stretched, then snapped in half and two young hearts snapped too.

"I'll be back. Wait for me, Jenny!" Andrew called, his voice barely audible over the noise of the crowd and the ship's engines.

Jenny could not find the strength to answer him as she felt faint, her legs felt wobbly. She was already missing his presence and longed to touch him, to feel the strength and resolve of his arms around her . It would be nearly thirty years until they touched again but neither of them would imagine such a thing would happen. They were both completely sure that Andrew would return very soon. Not a doubt in their minds."

Passionfruit and ginger fruit cake - yum

200 gm Sultanas, 125 gm raisins, chopped, 100 gm dried apricots, chopped, 75 gm ginger chips, 60 gm orange juice, 125 ml passionfruit juice, 125 gm unsalted butter, 1 cup caster sugar, 3 x eggs, 3/4 cup plain and self-raising flour, 1 tsp mixed spice.

Method:

1. Place sultanas, raisins, apricots, ginger, fruit juices, butter and sugar into a large sauce pan and heat slowly until butter has melted. Increase heat to bring to the boil. Simmer uncovered for 3 minutes. Remove and allow to cool. Place mixture into a large mixing bowl.
2. Pre-heat oven to 150 deg C. Line a 20cm cake tin with Glad Bake.
3. Break eggs into a small bowl and lightly beat before adding to the fruit mixture with the sifted dry ingredients. Mix together well before spooning into prepared cake in. Smooth the surface. Bake for about 1 and 1/4 hours or until cooked when testing with a wooden skewer. Sometimes takes less time than this.
4. Remove from the oven and allow to cool completely before storing in an airtight container. This cake will keep for two weeks.

• The Australian Womens Weekly Cakes and Slices Cookbook is the source. www.fooddownunder.com

Red skies

Wednesday
Well, the sky is thick with red/orange dust at the moment. It’s all over the eastern coastline of Australia, not just here. Sydney has absolutely no flights going in or out today, and, for the first time, even the Sydney Manly ferries have been stopped. Visibility is almost nil. Not a good day to do the washing! The winds (80kph) have blown it all in from Northern Territory dry lands and also from the mining area of Mt Isa, out west from here. It’s amazing. The sky is bright red. I cannot even see the trees in my back yard.

Here is the UK Telegraph newspaper report on our dust storm today. It has now left Sydney a mess and it’s in Brisbane.
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/australiaandthepacific/australia/6220820/Dust-storm-blankets-Sydney-disrupts-transport.html

Thursday
Brisbane eventually got the same treatment as Sydney did yesterday. The heavy red clouds moved north about lunch-time yesterday but they have cleared completely this morning. Water restrictions have been lifted today so residents can wash their houses. My parents visited yesterday and they have a white car. It was covered in a blanket of red dirt by the time they prepared to leave for home. Dad had to wash his car’s windows. Of course, my family is familiar with the orange-red sky. I was brought up in Wagga. These events are more common in Wagga during the windy conditions of spring. The red dirt is gathered from the dry earth west of Wagga and is picked up and carried on an easterly wind towards our country homes so regularly that we not only closed the doors and windows, but we learnt to block off the edges of the windows and under the doors with Gladwrap and towels. Somehow a thin blanket of red dust gets embedded in between small spaces anyway, and it’s very gritty underfoot.

It was an interesting experience for visitors in the cities but quite common in the country. Today Queensland is back to perfect. Blue skies, clear air and no wind.

Enjoy your English

Ohhh, that sounded like school days english classes! Actually, it's the name of a book I am reading by Nick Renton (2004), a bloke who has written sixty books prior to this one and it shows. He opens with a few pages of quotations about english. For example:

England and America are two countries separated by a common language. (H Mencken)
Where does that leave Australia in 2009, one must ask?

A baby born during the bubonic plague of the Middle Ages had more chance of celebrating its first birthday than a new Australian novel published today. (Dawn Cohen)
Oh dear.

If you stare at any sentence long enough, it will look wrong. (S Sturgis)

An editor is a person who knows more about writing than writers do, but has escaped the terrible desire to write. (E White)

(..on plain english) Don't let a shortcut for the writer become a roadblock for the reader.
and,
Eschew obfuscation.

I love deadlines - they make the loveliest whooshing sound as they go by. (Douglas Adams)

If you take hyphens seriously, you will surely go mad. (J Benbow)

Times are bad. Children no longer obey their parents and everyone is writing a book.
Believe it or not, this was written by Marcus Tullius Cicero who lived from 106 - 43 BC.

The author uses the following example for the poor use of english words so nobody can really understand the writer. Can you understand it?

Multiloquence characterised by consummate interfusion of circumlocution or periphrasis, inscrutability and other familiar manifectations of abstruse expatiation commonly utilised for promulgations implementing procrusteam determinations by governmental bodies.

Andrew's decision -1970

Edit :
More editing in progress. It's such a big job and I only had short whisps of time to do it in. That's why I only work on one bit at a time and in no particular order.

In his sweaty afternoon sleep, Andrew dreams of lush green English fields, spread out before him as he takes in the scent of fresh rain on leaves of tall oaks. When he was nineteen, he discovered a longing to go on a path of his own, back to Jenny, back to Australia. A foreign place from these deep greens and yellows. Foreign tracks leading to the dry heat of outback summer in Wagga. He searches his memory for her again, each month fading into feelings he had for her rather than her eighteen-year old face in the photos he held close to his heart. In his half-sleep, Andrew is standing at a cross-road. He concentrates especially on his mother’s need to have him close as his father is dying. These thoughts are interrupted by the memory of the other path, the one from where he stands now and the long journey back to resettling in Australia. At the end of it was Jenny. Both of them working together for their future; for themselves and for their own family. The sky in his dream was a deep and troubled grey, a single ray of sunshine splitting the clouds for a short time but the clouds hung sullenly all around him. He turned toward the ray of sunshine and started running towards it, through puddles which became deep and cumbersome. Thunder mumbles softly at first, but intensity builds as he ventures out of one puddle and into the next. Suddenly it became too hard for him to continue his journey. Beaten, he looks behind him and sees his mother in the distance on the other road and, as much as he longs to be with Jenny, he knows it is easier to stay in England. This feeling of belonging is strong. He allows it to happen, but not without doubts. The walk back to the cross-roads is easy, like slipping down a slippery-dip . The first drop falls heavily onto his upturned eye and stings. He wipes his face and says to himself, ‘Just until my mother can manage without me.’ The clouds plunged into sleeting rain, covering his tears and the single ray of sunshine on the other path becomes obscured.

Without giving away the ending ...

Edit: A bit of the last chapter

The small bridge with the archway dripping with diminutive pink rosebuds, now displayed in a frame on the wall of my Doctor’s surgery, had been covered in beautiful climbing sheaths of miniature, pink clusters. The overhang drooped over the handrails and stretched up over the wire arch beyond. I closed my eyes and felt the warm sunshine of that morning. The flowers glisten with dew touching the pink petals and the aroma of Monet’s garden filled the crystal, crisp morning air. Water lapped against a little, wooden boat on the side of the pond near the bridge.

In the quietness of that morning, a soft breeze blew across the water and the soothing waves slapped against the rustic timber of the old boat, making a rhythmic, splashing sound. In the shadows of the willow, clusters of water lilies floated in pink and white drifts beneath the small, curved bridge. Bright orange nasturtiums were scattered along the sloping edges of the landscape. I heard that Monet did not like tidy gardens, rather he preferred to blend flowers according to their colours and he left them to grow freely. Little birds flittered about the quieter parts of the garden.

A familiar sting in my eyes warned of impending tears . It is amazing that a painting could bring back such memories. I had tried so hard to ignore and even dispel the memories so I could move on. Books and photos and memorabilia of a time when I had felt vivacious and loving, had been stored away. Banished to a cupboard rarely opened. This had been a time when life and love were complete, a blink of a moment in my life-time.

And, later on, as Jenny remembers more about France -

The summer I was in France with Andrew, we strolled along grass-lined lanes surrounded by the bright-red poppies of Connelles, thirty-three kilometres from Monet’s garden. I snuggled under his arm for warmth as we wandered happily among the stone farm houses of an insignificant French village. I felt light and warm and feminine. Blood-red poppies gently bowed and swayed in the summer breezes as Andrew held my waist and lifted me up to sit on the precipice of the lane’s rocky edge. I was able to look intently into his hazel eyes without standing on tip-toe, and put my arms around his neck, wrapping my legs around his body to pull him close to me, locking him there. He smiled a contented smile and leaned over to pick a wild red poppy for me.

‘Thank you. Poppies will always have a special meaning now. They will always remind me of this place, this moment in time being with you in Connelles.’ Of course, it goes on describing Moulin de Connelles and romance in country France.

On golden sands

Sea water oozed between my toes today. White foamy waves reached into the blue sky throwing a haze along the sandy foreshore at Broadbeach. Gulls dived and squarked (is that a word?) and hovered above the endless neat lines of waves. Board riders sat dejected but hopeful in the peace of the ocean, and little children ran along in front of me splashing clear spray in their wake. I fell on the warm sand and hugged my legs. The salty wind blew gently and rythmically in my face, blowing my hair back and cooling my face. It was quite warm. People were swimming, life-savers were digging the flags into the white sandy beach ready for an onslaught of swimmers.
For two days I have watched this moving wallpaper from the tenth floor opposite, fascinated with the continuous motion and uninterrupted beauty that is the eastern coastline of Australia.

A bit of a fright - is it cancer?

The white gowns did up in the front. Fifteen women sat in silence, some sipping the free tea/coffee and nibbling politely on hospital-grade biscuits, some women reading outdated magazines and feeling self-conscious. I looked around the waiting room at QEII hospital and saw grey hair, a few wrinkles, worried expressions and the odd shy smile. The phone call came on Saturday, three sleepless nights back. The doctor had requested more tests to be done as soon as possible at a different hospital with more substantial testing equipment. I didn't have classes on Tuesday afternoons, so I booked in at the same time as these other ladies who were sharing the waiting room with me today.

"Madge Pinkerton", the nurse called. Madge stood up, adjusted the one-size-fits-all hospital gown and, like an obedient dog with her tail between her legs, followed the nurse who wore a pink shirt with the breast cancer symbol scattered over the fabric. We all looked up from our magazines. They disappeared into a small door at the end of the long hallway. Another nurse appeared. We all looked up, expectantly. This continued for half an hour and then my name was called. I threw my polystyrene cup went into the bin near the hall entrance as the butterflies hit my tummy and I entered her room on the left. She did her best to settle my anxiety, clipping two images into the overhead screen in front of us.
"Just there ... see?" Well, there is was. It looked like a small oval shape that could have the ability to re-shape my whole future. What power in a little dark shape.



After all sorts of tests, ducking in and out of the various test rooms, five of us remained in that original waiting room. One lady came back into the room describing a painful injection into the soft tissue that was supposed to be treated gently and lovingly, and we all cringed. I made another cup of coffee. My group of five took turns with the doctors. Madge had the painful injection too. I had another coffee and waited. Hours passed, we had heard the life history of several of the ladies by the time my name was mentioned by the ultrasound person. Dejected by stories of painful injections into breast tissue, I cringed as she asked me to remove my hospital gown and get ready. Ready? What for? Ohhhh...just a scan. She slopped a thick gell onto my right breast and pressed the instrument until it hurt a bit. Happy that she had found the 'spot', she called in the doctor to confirm her findings.

'It is just a fluid sack,' she told me, nearly as elated as I was. 'You can get dressed and go home. We will keep an eye on this next time, but it looks like a milk duct blocked up with fluid.'


WHAT A DAY!! I had been worried about the 27 telecom towers straight above my work desk. I didn't want to leave this world without apologising for any horrible things I might have done and I had flashes of farewells to loved ones and I didn't want to leave this world full-stop. I have too much living to do, even if it's not as many years as I used to have. I suppose I have been fortunate this time, but it has made me realize how fragile my existence really is.

My knight in shining armour

This is what I have been doing these past few days, in between everything else, of course. One of my sons (now 21) had a fancy dress party to attend last night and designed this cruisader outfit for ME to sew. He told me this morning that he had a great time, and enjoyed the banquet provided!

Father's day should be every day.

Hello blog - this is a photo of my dad with his two surviving sisters, Jean and Ann. It's Father's Day today in Australia and fathers were honoured in the church service this morning. I used to drive to the Gold Coast on Father's Day every year, but the roads are jammed today with people who remembered their father and probably had not seen him for a while. I saw my dad on Friday when they drove up here (with his axe to show David how to cut up the small tree trunk Tim dug out for me last month). I am also driving down to spend the day with them at Broadbeach on Friday next - to walk with them on the sandy beaches and smell the fresh salty air together....in short, I do not need to get into cramped roads on a special day to visit my dad. I will share some time with him on Friday and I might be lucky to share a ginger chocolate from his gift from me.

My father has been the patriarch of our family and has kept up his support to my sister and myself over all these years. It can't have been easy. Neither of us is very rebellious, but he did go through the sixties with teenage daughters in a town where the army had national servicemen and the RAAF and the university (then the college of advanced education). Boys must have been a bit of a worry - I recall one feisty lad who was from near Albury. He drove up to Wagga one weekend and decided to throw stones at my bedroom window until my father collected his golf stick and led him off our property! A couple of years later, another lad wanted to marry me, even though we were only 18 and 19. Dad did a lot of pacing during our teenage years. He went to a political rally with my sister to lend her his conservative opinions afterwards. He made sure we attended Sunday School and youth group and guides. Yes, he was a success at his workplace, but nothing like the success he was for my sister and myself as our father. He led by example. At church, he handed out the hymn sheets, counted the pennies. He (and mum) was on committees at the school and in brownies and guides too. They were at the school fetes and helped us decorate our bikes with streamers. Best of all, my sister and I always felt proud of his fun-loving sense of humour. He loved being a part of the community in which we lived and attended regular Rotary meetings where he was admired for his participation as president and master at arms. At work, in short, he started up country television in NSW and made it an early success. He chose what regional television would want to watch and always put his values first - no rubbish TV at RVN2. What a guy. Judy and I have been very fortunate in that he is still driving at 85 and only bought glasses for driving last week. He's fit and well and still enjoys helping out 'the old' people in the other units in which they live. He's active on the committee there as his mind has never lapsed, his body is fit for his age. He enjoys nothing more than hearing from his grandchildren or his daughters, except spending time as a family group and we all love him to bits.

A second post! More editing done...

Edit: A few notes from my editing tonight:

(as he was leaving)
‘I will always find a place in my heart for you, Jenny,’ he whispered, reaching his hand up to her face for the last time, feeling her warm, soft skin now soaked in tears. Her eyes reached his as she turned toward him. His bags were set beside him now after he took them from her car. She thought how much he looked like a traveller rather than a settler. She wanted to say so much to him, but the lump in her throat prevented her from speaking. Jenny slammed the boot of the empty car, and turned to face him one last time. It was so hard, saying goodbye again. There were no colourful streamers this time, no crowd, just the two of them on a lonely country road surrounded by tall gum trees.

She wanted to say so much. She wanted to tell him how sorry she was that he was going back to England. How sorry she was that he had come here and was leaving disappointed. How sorry she was that she had been like an empty vessel, drained of the spirit he had expected to see. But she could not change anything. Her grief was a shock to her too, and she had not realized it would happen to her. He might have thought he could change her feelings by being close to her, but nobody could control how others feel. She had loved him for such a long time, had believed herself capable of opening her heart to him at any time but once he came into their family, she had found that she craved to be alone and had no energy left to endure his edginess and keenness for their relationship to grow. She wanted to tell him how sorry she was that her energy was depleted, drained but he was wrong to think she did not continue to love him. She wanted to say to him that she wanted him right here but she knew he had made up his mind to go.

‘You say that, but I don’t believe you,’ she managed to say to him, feeling the pressure in her throat. Jenny stepped around to the driver’s door and opened it slowly. She glanced up at Andrew. The gullies deepened in his forehead as eye-brows sunk into a dull expression. He was unhappy too – she could see it. He had given up on them. He was tired of waiting for something that may never happen.

She sat momentarily in her car, watching him through the rear vision mirror. She’d been so attached to Andrew all these years and she felt an intolerable ache now. She wanted to run back to him, throw her arms around him and beg him to stay, but why did her legs and arms feel like lead, why did her hand turn the key to start the motor?

They had collided into each other’s worlds and they had learned so much about each other but there was still so much more that would never be known. One cannot hurry these things, cannot push or pull the other into embracing new roles. Jenny knew it would be easier for her to create a sense of stability for her family when she did not have to use what depleted energy she had left, to include a new man in her life right now. Even Andrew. For Andrew had tried his best, she knew that. She could not explain what had led to him to feel unwanted but she realized he was unhappy in Australia and, as much as it pained her to acknowledge this, she felt his homesickness had prevented him from giving them the time needed to continue their lives together.

That magnetic glow of connection, that spark of belief that things between them could only get better given sufficient time, had gone out. They would never have imagined either of them would have to struggle to stay together but they had not only come from different cultures, they had come from different worlds. For him, the struggle to blend into the world of happy families had become too hard. He had been pulled toward England again, to the safety net of his old job, friends and maybe even to his ex-wife. It was not ideal but it was where he’d felt that life was more predictable. Jenny watched his hand move through his hair as he gazed in sorrow at her car moving away from him. She had not said anything he had wanted her to say to him and she hoped with all her heart that one day in the future she might be able to do so.

Spring has sprung

Spring in Queensland is not my favourite season but, so far, it has been gorgeous. Blue skies, only a bit of rain early this morning and then warm days. Winter is usually dry (except ten years ago when it poured raining all winter) and the garden looks great.

My parents drove up from Broadbeach to visit us yesterday for the day, and we took my two little dogs and enjoyed a walk to meet David from the train at Wellington point station. He'd been to an exam at university and looked quite drawn. This subject has been a struggle for him, but I'm sure he'll get through as he usually does.

I have been editing tonight. This is a part of my edit:

Just before the storm, they had not cared what other people thought. Now the clouds of life were set to engulf them. Andrew had tried to squeeze into the box set aside for a family man, but he was finding that he didn’t fit. He looked around him and saw fathers soaking up every moment spent with their children, securing memories, disciplining with love and caught up in their youthful spell. He thought how fortunate he had been with his own step-father and tried to learn from him but, if he was honest with himself, he found it impossible to imagine how that man had slipped into their lives without causing so much as a ripple. His mother’s second husband had fitted into their family box so well, that Andrew had a new sense of respect and a depth of compassion for him now. How had he done it? How had he blended into them as he had? As a child, you accept things easier when everything is warm and comfortable so Andrew gave as much effort as he could muster to ensure the children were feeling safe and their well-being was of paramount importance to him.
As much as he endeavoured to befriend them slowly, he felt a growing impatience to step into that family box. Earlier he had felt sure that he would fit. Jenny had insisted on shared custody of the children, so he knew he had to fit. It was so hard when the box was not empty to begin with. If he had returned to her all those years ago, the family box would have been empty and eagerly awaiting the entry of children to share their lives, but when he peered into its dark space now, he felt he might not fit no matter how much he tried to. It would require time and exercise and he had a sense of time running out for him to squeeze his gangly arms and legs inside the box before the lid shut permanently.
Andrew realized it was the only way he could be with the woman he’d fallen in love with, and the only way he could feel this sense of liberation with her was to be inside the box with her family. But he did not feel he was free any more. Love was supposed to set you free, but the longer he stayed here, the more he felt trapped. There was no sense of liberation from the mundane any more. He had felt that very strongly when he met her the first time, and when he met her again at Heathrow. A surge of escaping from the boring, mundane walls that had closed in on him over time. She broke the doors down; one by one the walls dropped until he had found himself standing in crystal fresh air, the warm sunshine of her embrace electric and her dark eyes made his icy heart melt. He gulped for air and looked around himself now.
He had not imagined anything getting in the way of them being together but he felt a sense of Jenny pulling away from him and he had to admit he had doubts too. He felt an urgent need to break out of this family box to resolve his doubts. Andrew felt he was suffocating and the feeling shocked him. Despite fears of losing her again, he would give Jenny the space she craved. He reached for the phone and dialled the travel agent.

A bit of a pain

I had been planning on joining my friends in a traditional hot-pot evening tonight. That was before the pain. Since yesterday's mad rush around the yard and the house with mop in hand, my back is repaying me with sharp, slow pain. One of my boys said the bathroom is so clean it's scary, but I say it's worth it. Of course, interrupted sleep warming up hot packs and scoffing down pills is a downpayment most people would regard as over the top. It's hard to slow down when one is born with extra batteries which work fine; it's just the supporting tissues that are crumbling with age. Three back operations have weakened my back some, but most of the time I feel perfectly normal. Ah well.... I have plenty of people telling me to take more care, but did I listen? No. Next time, maybe. In the meantime, I'm going to warm up my hot pack again and get a good story to read. I'll be more careful next time, I will, I will.

My mate in the gum tree

Can you see him? I'm standing under his favourite gum tree, a crinkly old tree that holds no beauty to anyone but him. He is my quietest friend, except at breeding season when his grunts distrub my sleep as he sings to his lady friends in loud rythmic grunts. This tree is his supermarket and water supply, so he doesn't need me much. In a long summer drought I leave a climbing board against my back fence to allow him to enter my back yard to drink from a bucket. Of course, my two small dogs are inside the house at night when he moves around. Koalas are very shy and they could have a heart attack if even little dogs start barking at them close up.

Koalas are a feature of the Redlands region and we proudly acknowledge their presence. Sadly their numbers have dwindled with population growth but the local council is very focused on assisting their welfare. And ours. We need their peaceful presence. Wild-life should be left to thrive without humans running them over, chopping down their food supplies and allowing pets to roam. One does not pat koalas nor disturb them - they like to sleep during the day and can get a fright and fight back with sharp nails that are designed to climb the rough bark of gum trees.

Freezing Friday

It is winter in south-east Queensland, the nights are cold and a bitter wind bites into exposed skin. Windows have a dampness which evaporates when morning sunshine changes things back to sunny days. Today the sky is a pale blue haze at 9am. Birds have come to life and I wonder how they are not frozen to the branches of the overhanging gums outside my room. Yes, it is winter. It's nice to have a change of seasons, unlike our country cousins out west and up north in Queensland where summer extends from one month to the next, the only difference in seasons being a measurement in humidity. I recall my childhood in NSW country Australia, Wagga Wagga and Young, where winter was about pea-soup fogs, bitter winds, heavy rain and iced over windscreens. I remember pouring boiling water over the meter-reading device in the morning to melt the water in the extended water pipes so I could have a shower. I remember the beautiful yellow and red leaves of the deciduous trees along the Murrumbidgee River. In comparison, in Queensland, my winter garden is blooming white with lavendah loving the warmth of the day.

Cup cakes with Leah

A cool breeze defied the blue skies yesterday at Burpengary, Qld. My daughter, Leah, snapped small carrots and extended her flattened hand to Charlie-bean's nearly 18 hands height. The giant horse happily nuzzled into her handful of morning tea offering. Leah and I then sipped coffee and cup cakes (with colourful 100s and 1000s on top). She had bought some beautiful Tulips for the dining table and carefully wrapped several gifts in flowery paper - for me. A shirt for Molly dog (I love my mum printed with red hearts), a movie pass and a little poem on a mirrored frame.

Mum, you've been my strength

The rock on which I stand

And I've gained so much wisdom

Guided by your gentle hand.

The kindness you have shown

In every word and deed

Has been a blessing in my life

In so many times of need.

What she doesn't know is that just being with her is enough. She lights up a room just being in it. To have her love is her most precious gift to me and always will be.

The Church centenary celebrations in Cleveland

With my teaching work rumbling across the landscape like a volcano's ashes and mire, filling every gap in my busy life with student examination stress, marking and resulting, it was a welcome relief to relax last night at the Uniting church's centenary concert. Old ladies with fruit bowls on their heads, smiling faces glaring down through stage lighting, and children - the church of the future - adored by an audience who recalled their own debut in a concert fifty years ago or more. Who cares if mistakes in wording or tune were made? Nobody. It was as if we were transported to a safe place from our past. The church concerts of the past. Memories had already settled positively in our minds, those of us who had participated every few years, all our lives since those innocent Sunday school days. So many changes to society, to our lives in general. The warm fuzzies of the church concert ensured its success from the start of preparations and the laughter will continue to echo throughout the lives of all who attended last night.

My book's character's heartache and confusion

Edit:
This is a tiny part of my manuscript. I am still working on the edit.

He went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror as he washed his hands. Why had this happened to him now, just as his jaw was sagging, his muscles softening and his joints aching? Just as he really knew love again, he began to wonder if his ageing torso could perform as he willed it to. Self doubt crept in as his reflection reminded him of a lost youthful zest for love. He wondered if he could dig up his past feelings and go on from here. His doubts drew him closer to the mirror inspecting gullies and creases across his brow.

He had a feeling of emptiness that stretched between both countries. He recognized it as homesickness and stubbornly withdrew from its pangs. Homesickness is for children away at boarding school, for the elderly in nursing homes, a longing he had to dismiss or he would cave into its depths. A sense of missing out on something, a longing for that glimpse of pleasure across the horizon, the promise of togetherness with a woman who was passionate for his presence. These are the things that Andrew had longed for all his life and they were within reaching distance now. Sometimes he would stare out the window at the park opposite his small unit, barely able to breathe so he wouldn't miss the sound of her footsteps approaching. She filled the gaps and made life for him real. When she filled the void, he was content and excited but when life took other directions and she was trapped with distractions of work and her children, he was unhappy. The emptiness and homesickness overwhelmed him. The little unit seemed large and empty of feelings. The icey loneliness overcame his memory of her presence and he forgot why he was here in the first place.

The long weekend - Queen's birthday

It isn't really the birthday of the Queen, but we have a day off work tomorrow anyhow. It is, however, Queensland Day on the Saturday, 6 June. People were celebrating that in various ways officially. There was a huge concert of 2,000 school children for three hours last night, and I believe yesterday afternoon too, in Brisbane. For Qld day.

I decided to curl up and read a good book when the sun was hidden by a thick fog yesterday morning. 'The Good Parents' by Joan London, the author of Gilgamesh. The novel is set in Australia and written by an Aussie, and it was very good. She has international awards for her writing, and one can only agree with her winner status after reading this book. It tells the tale of a contemporary family from a country town, how we are shaped by our families and our environments. How intertwined we are. Although at times, it was complex recalling all the characters, I enjoyed the story very much. After I closed the book, I felt like doing some writing myself and focused on my own manuscript, sitting in the corner of my study gathering dust. I wanted to write of the male character's feelings of homesickness.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY QUEEN ELIZABETH II.

Mother's Day

Mother's day is a special day to thank my Mum and honour her presence in my life. My mother lives at Broadbeach on Queensland's Gold Coast, south of Surfers Paradise. She has been (and is) a lifeline which throws itself to us when we need her to give us encouragement or to set standards for living. A great mother for my sister, Judy, and myself, she is now 82 years old. I will drive down to see her on Wednesday rather than join the rat-race on the highway today.

This is a picture taken at her birthday party on March 9 with my sister (at my place).

Sunshine Coast hinterland day trip

I have Wednesdays off my lecture timetable this semester so I like to balance my life a bit during that time, even if it means catching up on housework. This past Wednesday I invited So yeon Lee, a South Korean lady to accompany me on a two hour journey north of Brisbane to the Glasshouse Mountains. So Yeon is visiting Australia for a couple of months and had not been north of Brisbane yet, so she was keen to take a look around. My new car (Mazda 3) made the trip up the mountains steady and comfortable, even with the air conditioning on, which is not amazing to most people who had not travelled in my old car. Poor old Pulsar used to cough and splutter before we hit Mapleton.

We had morning tea (from home) at Mary Cairncross park at Mapleton, and walked through the rain forest there. We sat in the middle of the rain forest and enjoyed the tranquil sounds and damp smells. Whip birds, brush turkeys, strangling vines on ancient trees. Then, off to Montville and heavy research in the craft shops. We enjoyed lunch at a cafe near the bread shop and then did more shopping. Montville has the most beautiful crafts anywhere, many produced in the immediate vacinity, some produced overseas (I avoid them). Ten minutes out of Montville, further north, is Mapleton. This is where my family has spent a week every January for many years now. So Yeon and I dropped into the Mapleton Holiday camp so I could show her around, and they gave us afternoon tea before our descent from the mountain into Nambour, down the highway, over the Gateway bridge to home. The sky stayed blue despite threatening weather forecasts.

Angel of Ruin by Kim Wilkins

This morning I finished reading Angel of Ruin by Kim Wilkins. Nearly 600 pages, most of which was enthrawling. The story is of a freelance writer in England who looks for a story and finds more than she had hoped for. She attends the ritual ceremonies of a small group of weirdos and pretends to be interested so she can write about them. Through them, she meets an old lady who is actually hundreds of years old and cannot die until she passes on her story. It's a story from the sixteenth century - ie London burning, the plague. It's a story about three sisters who are turned against each other after they lure an angel into their midst who happens to be an evil angel. The old woman is one of the sisters. Really well written, non-stop action and I had no idea what was going to happen next. Well done to Queensland writer, Kim Wilkins.

A good read

Anna Jacobs, Our Lizzie
Jodi Picoult, Keeping Faith
Steven Carroll, The Time We Have Taken
Chen Da, Sounds of the River
Jodi Picoult, My Sister’s Keeper
Kate Atkinson, When Will There Be Good News
Jodi Picoult, Change of Heart
Christopher Bryson, The Fluoride Deception
The Australian Society of Authors, Australian Book Contracts, Rhonda Whitton and Sheila Hollingworth
Mission Impossible – How to make money from your writing
Tim Winton, Breath
Cathy Glass, Hidden
Kim Wilkins, Angel of Ruin

Anzac day 2009

April 25: The sun is hot but nothing will stop those old diggers from gathering at the annual remembrance parade and ceremonies across Australia. Every year since I can recall, I have honoured the tradition and waved my appreciation to those who have returned from battles and I have felt the sad tone of their repose. As a child, I marched as a Brownie and then a Girl Guide. There is no victory in war. Nobody really wins. The winners are those who continue to live in the freedom the diggers fought for. Right now we are aware of wars in other places where our army persists for the safety of those threatened by bullies and greed - mainly in Afganistan. We pray for their safe return. We pray that peace can be restored in Afganistan. I'm going to wear a sprig of Rosemary as I wave my flag today.

Happy 21st birthday, son

Tim on the right. David on the left.

HAPPY 21st BIRTHDAY!!!

My third child turned 21 yesterday. The photo on the left is when some of his mates dropped by with a few 21st birthday gifts in a box. He emerged later showing me his treasures...original german historical artifacts somehow purchased. This son loves history, particularly war history, so his mates knew him well when they went hunting for a gift. He was very pleased they remembered him in such a thoughtful way.

Family will celebrate in a couple of weeks. It's not easy getting everyone together!

Two weeks later: Most of the family, plus the Tilney family (who are like family), came to the 21st luncheon. We held it at home and enjoyed his favourite tucker. Lemon merangue pie and fruit salad and choc cake (made by Nana) for dessert.

A week off!

This photo is of David (18), Leah (32) and grandad (84) during my mother's birthday lunch. (left) The other one (on the right) is of my mother cutting her birthday cake.

It's so relaxing not having to get out of bed and race about like a chook with his head off in order to get to my job (I am a TAFE teacher in the faculty of business). I enjoy teaching most of the time, however, it can be overwhelming and it's good to have a break.

Catch up time.....in the housework, in the book reading, in the story writing, in the friends....

Family - Mum and Dad are well. They live in Broadbeach, an hour south. My parents are in their eighties and fighting fit ... well, they can race along the beach at a good pace with coffee at McDonalds as first prize every morning.

Easter - He has risen indeed.

Easter is a time for reflection, particularly of the suffering that a young man called Jesus went through, and also of his triumph a few days later when the stone was rolled away to reveal an empty tomb. He appeared to many over the next few days, which must have been a bit of a shock to his friends and family. The rest is history. He continues in our lives today if we let him. Any time in my life when things have 'gone wrong', it would have been a time when I have shut Jesus out of my life by ignoring him, not acknowledging him, not living as he would have wanted me to. Each time, as I look back, I see myself falling and he picks me up to start again with a fresh page....it is so good to be forgiven.

Easter 2009

Easter has a special significance for me as a christian. It humbles me to visualize that Jesus died for our sins. I know that I am saved. I know that Jesus cares for the birds flying past my window and he cares for me. I have no idea how people manage without faith that God loves us and wants us to live a particular way. Easter is not so much about the cruel death of Jesus to me, but the fact that he came back to speak with people of that time, to direct us to live by his example for all times. If the world could obey the ten commandments as best as they can, and also know that they are forgiven when they break one of the commandments, we would live more peacefully together. Love your neighbour...do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Fabulous.

It is still warm in Queensland at Easter so most families like to go camping. I don't. There's too much traffic. The warmth of the evening is better spent at home reading - or, better still, by writing. I will make hot cross buns on Sunday morning and attend church to sing 'He arose a victor from the dark domain, and he lives forever with his saints to reign.'

Birthday boy

This is a photo of my oldest son, Anthony, and my daughter, Leah, at her wedding to Lincoln Tedman, with me in the centre. It was taken in April 2005. It was the most beautiful wedding I have ever been to, and the bride and groom are a lovely couple.

This week heralded two birthdays. An old friend turned 60 on Monday 23rd March and the 34th birthday of my oldest son, who lives nearby. The family took him to lunch to celebrate his special day although it had to wait until Saturday as we are all too busy during the week days. Queensland is a long way from Wagga Wagga, but we enjoyed guests from there this past week. Ken was here to judge the cows at the Toowoomba show. It's all quiet in the house now they are gone, one son is working and one is at a 21st tonight. I have just these two at home now as my daughter is married and my oldest boy is living at a nearby suburb with his two dogs.

This is my time to write.

My first post

This is my very first entry to a blog and I'm doing this so I can introduce the world to my writing. About ten years ago I had a moving experience that led me to start writing my first book. The 80,217 word novel won a literary award locally which ultimately led me to think I might be able to write seriously.

Ever since I was a little girl, I have enjoyed putting pen to paper. It began when I wrote to my grandmother who lived in Sydney (I lived in the country NSW town of young) and continued with short stories while I was in high school at another country town (Wagga Wagga). I have kept some of those short stories for over thirty years now as I find them very hard to throw away.

I finished my novel in 2008 and have set it aside now to snooze for a few months before I attack it with a final and thorough edit before sending it to an agent. In the meantime, I have completed two short stories (2,500 words) for the Jane Austen competition in the UK and a 3,000 word story for the Bristol writing competion. I also completed a story (3,000 words) for the Commonwealth writing competition. All are due mid-2009. I had not considered another novel at this time but I will write my second novel one day when I am not quite so busy.

I live near Brisbane, Australia at Wellington Point. It's a pretty suburb overlooking Moreton Bay and Stradbroke Island. I am 59 years old and work as a TAFE lecturer in the Business Faculty. My children are all grown up now - I have four, the youngest of whom is eighteen years old and at university. They have their own blogs, so they informed me, when I announced that I was about to create a blog for myself. It seems everyone has a blog and I may be the last person on this planet to start one. Oh well.