Fooled by Labels

The exclusive shop had opened in the seaside town because of her online patronage. This single customer had boosted their monthly income into the three figure zone. It made good economic sense therefore to bring their silken goods closer to this consumer, and surely she would promote them to her friends? But she had few and those that still stayed around, more neighbours really,who saw her behaviour for what it was and lightly accepted it, had neither the means nor inclination to indulge in such acquisitiveness.
Her loyal friend in the street once invited in for a drink, opened the wrong drawer and came across a handful for labels.$496, 340, 539, 601.Together, the amount could have constituted the GDP of a small island nation. And here they lay jumbled, testimony to the deep wound within. Despite the prodigious wardrobe, Susanna was usually seen wearing only two or three of the fabulous creations on a weekly basis. Where did the others live?
It was inevitable that Donna, the neighbour with the soft and caring heart would be invited to care for Susanna’s new kitten, Griselda. Invited to sleep in the wealthy woman’s bedroom, it was there that Donna was confronted with the first pile of things.
Labels still attached, many in their original packaging, Ralph Lauren knits squeezed in with Prada watches and Chanel key-rings. Brown silk pants by her favourite label (dry clean only) smothered garish beach towels and boxes and boxes of Waterford wine glasses. The mound reached half way up the red painted wall. In shock and feeling a growing physical repulsion,Donna stepped back in the low pink light of the room, losing purchase while knocking over the bottle of Guerlain beauty oil by the bed. She scrambled to contain the liquid before it could damage the expensive Persian carpet and gave thanks that the fragile bottle was not broken.
Tormented by guilt-she had felt like a voyeur at a Roman feast of excess-Donna checked out the price of the body oil only to discover that it cost more than her monthly wage as a cleaner. Raised a strict Catholic, there was only one moral course opened to her. And yet a thought had knocked on her mind’s door and slitheringly suggested another option.
For all her wealth and stuff, does she really know the value of her things?
Donna decided to be brave and give it a go, her daughter Anna, had often told her that she was too old fashioned in her values.
For two weeks after her return, she heard nothing from Susanna. It must have worked. Finally Susanna paid a visit and offered “a small token of thanks for caring for my darling Zellie”
Her skin glowed and Donna commented on her calm demeanour
“Yes its that Guerlain beauty body oil…such a treat for the skin. You should try it some time Donna”
If only Susanna knew that she had applied home brand olive oil to her skin! But then Susanna was a person used to being fooled by labels.

Posted from WordPress for Android

The Lush Life

Here in the tropics, life is profligate. Every morning, when you leave your air conditioned place-its impossible to sleep without air con- the sun smacks you around with its yelling rays, putting you under its spotlight while lukewarm moisture rolls over you from forehead to feet. The air is not the same as other places, with more H2 than O in its constitution, it can make you breathless and eternally moist. They are not called the wet tropics for nothing.

Please

Excessive moisture spawns all forms of life from micro-bacterial to white foamed waterfalls.The plant life is flagrantly abundant, with a variety of colour,smell, texture and shape, you sense the potency of its life force as you walk past. Humans expose themselves too, dropping as much clothing as they can in an effort to keep cool.Welcome to Far North Queensland where life stuns in its infinite variety and capacity for adaptation. Its the wet season, but the real wet hasn’t yet started-climate change has shifted the seasons around-and the locals are getting anxious. Then suddenly a storm builds, all living things feel an anxious expectancy in the form of headaches and erratic behaviour. When it comes, it is, like every form of life here, spectacular in its display and lasts for hours. All the creatures who have been restricted by the lack of free-flowing water rejoice. Frogs, toads, lizards, lyrebirds kangaroos, cattle and humans make the most of the downpour and saturate themselves in the flow.
A new season is born and all life breathes a sigh of relief.

Posted from WordPress for Android

Cane Toad Christmas

It had been the driest year in living memory
What happened to our famous wet season? Thought Cassie. But the tourists didn’t seem to mind and kept coming in plane-loads
That supply never dries up the local gardener and market stall-holder reflected But the earth!!
A practical person, unlike her ethereal Astrologer cum resident mystic sister Jan, Cassie nonetheless felt for the earth and in private moments was sensitive to her suffering. A big ch

ange is afoot that’s for sure  she thought as she engaged with Chinese tourists, freshly off the plane who marvelled at the delights of her tropical paradise.
“Freshly picked Cherries! Come on fresh today! Calypso mangoes! Dragon fruit, custard apple and local lychees” The Asian tourist group moved like a Chinese dragon at New Year to the exotic fruit stall at the famous local markets , remarking loudly on the low price and obvious health of their favoured delicacies.
Cassie a specialist in mangoes and stone fruit, attended to her steady stream of regular customers
“No Marge today Dave ?”
The elderly man,well dressed for the tropics, shook his head beneath the Akubra hat and lowered his face ostensibly to locate the right change from his pocket.
“The weather, you know…bad for her asthma. The doc thought it best if she stayed in hospital. Air con broke down…”
Times were tough for the inland cattle farmers, suffering without relief from years of drought. Cassie reached over the plums and apricots, touching Dave’s sunburnt hand
“On the house Dave, a Christmas present for Marge” as she doubled the slender bag of fruit he had passed to her for bagging.
Dave face lit up, suddenly animated ” And to you too Cassie, having Christmas with the family this year?”
“Yes, they’re all coming back to Mum’s and Sharon and Paul will be dropping in with Gemma and the new bub. Good thing Mum has the pool!”
“Give her my love won’t you?” Dave gathered his bags ready to continue his shopping. The stallholders at the internationally renowned markets were as diverse and colourful as their wares. Old Mary, a regular for the last forty years, purveyed that Pacific Island delicacy, betel nuts which highly sought after by the large contingent of Islanders who lived in the Far North. Reggie, her New Guinean friend sold Kava, a wonderfully soporific drink which Cassie had tried a couple of times to relieve a period of insomnia and anxiety. Over a man of course!
What a waste of time that was Cassie thought as she reflected on the new found serenity of being a singleton and grandmother at age 42. She had married young and had a daughter, Sharon who was now a mum herself and enjoying life in London with her gentle husband Paul. This year though, they were returning for Christmas.  Cassie and her Mum Sheila were overjoyed.

A real Christmas with a beautiful new-well six months old-babe and my gorgeous Gemma thought Cassie, who couldn’t wait to get her hands on baby Sophie and her four year old grand-daughter  It had been a long time.
The customers started to dwindle towards three in the afternoon and having been up since 4am, Cassie stifled a yawn. Soon, she’d hand over to her regular assistant,  young Judy to tidy up and pack away while she had a look around the stalls and completed her Christmas shopping. The pearl traders were still busy, attracting American and English tourists admirers of vivid red coral bracelets and freshwater pearls. The trader, Deano winked acknowledgement and a smile at Cassie that said ‘Its been a good day’. On the fringes of the markets, some of the newcomers had set up stalls.
Her eye was drawn to one garish display. Is that what I think it is? Cant be… thought Cassie
It was. Cane toads…Cassie hated them with a passion. The ugly viperous creatures, introduced into the sugar cane area, her own home town in fact, to deal with the cane beetle had taken over and swamped the place. Her dog Blue, found one in the garden and died at the heel of the toxic menace.
“Buffo Marinus”  the Latin name for the creature. Says it all
These idiots from the south are taunting the tourists with plastic ones that grunted when you stepped on them;look at that will you…pink ones even gold ones-they know the Chinese believe in money toads-and here they are laughing, proliferating in a different form …bastards! Thought Cassie, normally a defender of all wild creatures and tolerant of emigres from the southern cities.
She backed away from the stall as she  heard her name called by a friend, and decided to  turn away from all thought of the creature which adapted so well that he had moved into the backyards and gardens of the South.
The dry spell continued for the next week but on Christmas Eve the weather turned.
You can smell the wet before you hear or see it.The old Blackfellas used to say that  thought Cassie.
On Christmas morning she was delightfully woken at 5am by Gemma jumping on her bed
“Nana its raining frogs come and see!”
Jumping out of bed bleary-eyed Cassie woke fully as soon as she saw the sight. The big wet had started in thudding great drops of rain and cane toads who were rapidly filling up the swimming pool. Jumping and gracefully diving into the crystal clear pool  they were having a ball. Even Cassie had to laugh at this Cane Toad wrapped Christmas gift from Mother Nature.

Posted from WordPress for Android

Christmas Dinner

 

That Christmas the baked dinner landed on the floor and we ended up in the tree. I’d built a cubby house in the big gum, my place  of sanctuary. In truth it was an escape from the battlefield of my parent’s marriage. So later on when the memory surfaced of these broken festive rites, I realised that I had lost two homes that day. If a home is a place of safety and security, these two places, my family home and my fabricated sacred space in the tree out the back which was lined with old carpet and whose branches held my favourite books, were upturned like the dinner but unlike the food could never be picked up and brushed off. At least not for me.

It always surprises me how much children know, how accurate is there perception of the truth. Like the child in the emperor’s new clothes, I saw at that young age what was really going on between my parents, but was constantly inveigled by the adults to disbelieve myself. That palpable tension started building around 10 am when we had returned from Mass on the sacred day of Christ’s birth. As my mother  commenced preparation for the traditional baked dinner, the temperature climbed inside the house and out in the garden.

He sat there at the table decorated with paper chains and plastic holly steadily drinking his beer. I could taste the battle brewing.

“What good are you for heaven’s sake…all you do is sit there drinking or doing those doodles which no one will by! If it weren’t for my mother…”

“Here we go” I thought

“Here we go” my father said.

My mother excelled at pinching the sore spot and just after the dinner, chicken baked to perfection, roast potatoes, carrots, pumpkin and freshly picked peas from the garden, beautifully arranged on Wedgwood plates, the man who was my father erupted like a belching volcano and swept the feast from the table. His wild eyes told us what would happen next if we didn’t move quickly enough.

I remember the fear in my grumbling stomach as we fled wildly from the bellowing beast, My mother, sister, brother and I climbing the solid gum, diving beneath the teddy bear sheet canopy and clinging to each other as we waited for the beer brewed storm to pass. We stayed there for an immeasurable length of time, sweat pouring down our new Christmas clothes and finally I got up to survey the damage. I was the fastest runner in the family, and the bravest with my nickname of “Crusader Rabbit”. I moved stealthily along the border of pink dainty diaphanous, wonderful cover for a spy, until I came to the kitchen window, opened previously to let the steam out. As I peeked through I saw my father swagger over to the chicken and rip off an arm with his bare hands. I gauged the look in his eyes, saw the empty bottles, noted the rising afternoon heat and calculated  the length of time before he would go outside to lie on the banana lounge, snore for hours then wake up like a mewling cur.

Returning to my home in the trees  I gave the family the results of my reconnoitre and they started to breathe again. The clean-up began during my father’s afternoon siesta but I had lost too much and what was broken for me during that Christmastide remained broken. I would never feel safe in my family homes again.

 

Passenger in Blue

Passenger in Blue
The only passenger waiting at the inner city stop jumped breathlessly aboard bus. The laconic driver took the fare in five cent pieces from sweaty palms and dirty nails, without showing any interest in the passenger’s attire. The blue gown almost covered the front of his body.Everyone on the bus must have noticed that when he sat on the front seat, his dripping white back was exposed right down to the top of his once blue jeans. The serviceable knot of two frayed threads at the end of the edges of the garment signalled that this was a theatre gown and judging by the dilation of his blue eyes, the passenger had undergone surgery not so long ago. There was an air of desperate urgency about the fellow, obvious to even the most self absorbed travellers and yet no one appeared to find him or his appearance anything other than commonplace.
Hipsters from the funky coffee shop recently opened jumped aboard at the next stop, casually waving their cards at the machine before flicking hair from shoulders or eyes. A subtle twitch and shrug from one girl in the group drew the attention of the rest to the middle aged man sitting at the front gripping the rails who was oblivious to the blue gown slowly falling of his left meaty shoulder.
A knowing titter flew around the group of final year med students who had been celebrating the completion of their studies. “Could Mr McPherson’s surgery be that bad ?” They had heard of “Mad Mac’s” beside manner after theatre and assumed the worst for this quivering patient , desperate to be off as soon as he was conscious.
The driver, still staring relentlessly ahead, easily manoeuvred the air-conditioned early morning bus around corners and up and down the inner city hills. The student group,still absorbed in the wondrous prospects awaiting for the rest of their lives, now that they they had earned the right to have “M.D” after their name. Only the middle aged woman in a sea blue dress with the orange handbag noticed the growing apprehension and shallow breathing of the bare-backed man sitting opposite the driver.
“Let me off at the next stop will you mate? ” he pleaded with the driver who did not respond with words but obliged his request. The passenger now wearing the blue theatre gown toga style, jumped from the bus, ripped the covering away from his body, threw it in the rubbish bin nearby and struggled up the hill.

An Unfortunate Face

“He said ‘She has a lovely face
God in her mercy grant her grace,
The Lady of Shallott'”
From “The Lady of Shallott ” by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

He noticed her the second time . The veiled woman was begging  directly opposite the main doors of Coles. Close enough for shoppers to hear her thin entreaty and view the emaciated outstretched arm, but not close enough to wonder about the half face hidden so completely by the jumbled  layers of scarves.
As he slipped a fiver into her hand Harry noticed the old burn marks and scars tattooed along the length of the brown arm  and thought only that she must have been at the begging game for a while. She’d chosen a good spot.
Dr Amir Jayawardene is a well-known pillar of his community. A man of strong views, the MD felt he could be effective in fixing any problem which came to his attention from members and their families. Of course, he had come across the dark side of the subcontinent community of which he was so proud; practices like  child weddings, killing of errant daughters who would not be married off, rape in marriage and of course using acid on a woman as a weapon of control and submission. He sought to influence and change these medieval practices and integrate his fellow husbands and fathers in acceptable modern day Australian behaviours towards women and children.
He was a progressive but also believed in preserving that which was good in his motherland’ culture.
“She’s one of yours I think” Amir was alerted to the  existence of the veiled woman by Larry Forsyth, president  of his rotary club. Amir felt the subtle sneer in Larry’s referral and determined to do something about the woman.
On the following Wednesday, a busy day for local shoppers, Amir spied her from the end of the street and approached her with the strong intention of stopping this begging and getting her seen to. She stood there, clutching her scarves more tightly, refusing all assistance for help from the authorities. A good man and dedicated doctor , Amir noticed at once the  urn marks.
“Where did you get these? How did this happen.?”
Much of the skin was resistant to healing and infection had set in.
She refused to speak,  but Amir had the answer in his mind and through his training and experience. Acid burns. Thrown at the face and body as a weapon of war against the insubordinate. Shame deliberately grafted onto the body of the once beautiful so that they would be forced to hide in the shadows forever.
He wanted to help but was familiar with the intransigence of these women forced to live a half life and finally, after reaching into his  multi-talented repertoire of persuasion, admonition, threat and paternal care, left her to her own devices.
“She’s on the take, refusing all offer of care. You cant help some people” Thus he expunged the veiled one from his mind and dismissed her in the eyes of others. He could not however, erase the smell of rotting flesh.
The home-owners called the police; they’d had enough of the wailing and carrying on from the park at the end of their cul-de-sac. The male and female officer arrived promptly, and discovered the badly burned body of a young Indian woman. When the veils were finally lifted, a badly disfigured face was revealed. That night the young policeman vomited before dinner.
The autopsy revealed that burns of varying severity, caused by acid and hot water had eroded the flesh from 70 percent of Joyti’s body.
Dr Amir goes public and admits his shame in not doing more.

Posted from WordPress for Android

A Willing Smile

Please

The woman in the green Chinese jacket left the theatre almost sobbing. Halfway through the movie Clara had decided “Bugger it! Just let it go” allowing  tears to run down her face and saturate her neck. She had surreptitiously tried to wipe them up at one stage when emotional control seemed possible, but now at the end of the movie, moving into the light, the older woman pulled clean tissues from her bag and started to do a final mop up of her drenched face. Her friend, Rosie, caught up in a conversation with someone waiting to go into the next session, was busy explaining her own emotional deluge.
Clara stood next to her friend, unashamed of her own heartfelt response and looked around the cinema foyer, waiting for Rosie to finish her conversation. She reflected on how she had changed with age
“Thirty years ago I would have tried to fight it,rushed to the ladies to fix my make-up”
Still red eyed and watery, her eyes locked with those of a young girl, sitting with a friend, waiting for the next session.
The girl gave the woman an instant and almost intimate smile. It was bordering on-could it be?- a smile of deep understanding, one that says “Yes, I have felt the same way many times and I want you to know that this crying, this feeling, is a good thing”. The younger woman reassuring an older one as though age bore no impact on the life of emotional expression.
Clara looked away, her friend still in deep discussion.She surveyed the room while reflecting on her reaction to this film, whose theme involved animals, humans and healing. It was bound to touch her heart strings and she was bound to cry as she had in so many other heartfelt movies. Not as much as this time though and for some deep inexplicable reason, the film had caused a deluge which she had been reluctant to attempt to dam.
“Why are you crying, Nanny? ” her grand-daughter had asked Clara when she had let the tears flow while describing to her son an unexpected ending to a poignant movie. Little Jenny had assumed that she was crying due to sadness and Clara had failed to explain the real reason. Instead, Jenny gave her a hug, a huge one full of five-year old love, healing and fear of sadness.
“Its not a bad thing to cry Jenny, it means that something has touched your heart and you can’t let it out with words, only tears. Someone once told me that tears are sacred water, for they come from a place that has seen no light”
“I should have explained…Why didn’t I say that?” Clara questioned herself
But all she could do was hold Jenny, hoping that somehow child would understand through the universal language of the hug.
Now perusing the cinema goers young and old, Clara’s eyes were suddenly drawn back to the young girl and was instantly met again with her warmth and understanding through the curve of her mouth and softness in the eyes. So now it was clear, Clara hadn’t imagined it-the girl was sending a distinct non-verbal message “Its ok to cry, to be touched, to lose control. Sometimes we have to do that.”
Clara smiled back, deliberately willing her message of gratitude and affection to be  transmitted and received by the younger, wiser cinema goer.

Posted from WordPress for Android

Life Cycles

It would have been the perfect pit stop for riders doing the coastal trek “Apart from the coffee…and the service,” Sonia thought.
“Have I become a coffee snob?” The cyclist thought “Well that’s what living in Melbourne for three months will do to you, create unreal expectations ”

Three months ago Sonia had taken off from her fixed life in a  seaside village, exchanging furniture for freedom, small town for big smoke, with many calling her brave and some foolhardy, to the city in the south. She knew there was no risk involved, having been through a testing interval which had revolutionised her values and gifted her with the ultimate motto to live by “Life is Short”. Now on the other side of the country, a distance from her previous home similar to that between Paris and Moscow, Sonia mused about the trivialities of coffee and comfort food at the end of an hour cycle along the exceptional beautiful West Australian coastline where the locals demonstrated their renowned friendliness.
Another rider left the laughing bunch of cyclists at the table opposite, returning to his bike parked near hers.
“Stunning isn’t it?” he had just articulated her thoughts about the turquoise sea and Penguin Islands opposite. As he pulled on his cycling gloves and sunnies in the self assured manner of an experienced cyclist, the two riders  fell into easy conversation on the beauty of the place and their good fortune in living there.
“Yes you’re right, we are lucky and things could be worse…” She agreed.
“I’ve just been told my liver Cancer has metastasised”
So blatantly espoused as he clipped his helmet on
“And it’s my wedding anniversary…could have picked a better day..It’s my wedding anniversary, yes…but my wife Marie has gone to visit her parents in Montreal, she doesn’t know yet, not sure when I should tell her…Of course she’d want to rush right back and what for? What’s done is done…things of course can change though, there’s always hope!”
All through the monologue his voice remains cheery, it’s the same pitch and pace he used when describing the mundanities of the weather -which now seem to have taken on new meaning in the light of his pronouncement.
Carpe diem
“Yes” Sonia thought
“We need to squeeze every bit of juice from life, put our hands around its throat and throttle it. Throw it to the ground until it relents and produces the goods, not mutter and moan about trivialities as I had just done.”
How lucky to have some understanding of his experience!
“I had breast cancer three years ago,” Sonia offers by way of showing a grasp of the mortality shoulder tap; the dark beast that changes your life forever.

“Shit, Damn, Bugger F**K!”  It was not coffee that had soothed her soul on that May morning after walking out of the doctor’s office. To the dismay of her genteel friend she’d wanted a drink ….right now! That friend had taken advantage of her first shock to ask the doctor for antidepressants on her behalf. Fortunately the doctor, though youngish, was a healer of the old fashioned kind who had recommended a good red to savour on the beach. The healing power of wine!

Unable to wait for the 10 minute drive to the sea, she’d insisted on wine at the tavern. Sitting at one of the outdoor tables, she’d felt the opprobrium of female passers by ” There but for fortune…” an old Phil Ochs song of the 60’s sprang to mind as she’d realised that she could easily have been any one of them, looking on sourly at the woman of mature years who should have known better, hoeing into a large glass of white at 10.30 in the morning.
The wine took effect, stimulating the urge to sing “There but for the 10 minute consultation with Dr C, wait a minute was it 10? Felt like 2 seconds to me….anyway there but for the consultation, mammogram, grief of 2 years ago it could be you, here, and me, there, walking along the street but hey! Make my day! Go ahead and judge me! You couldn’t possibly know!”
It had all been bravado of course, before making that phone call to her son who was waiting for news. It couldn’t be done and she’d rung her daughter in law instead…”Another woman might understand” she’d  told herself but the truth was she knew the effect it would have on him-and consequently herself- so wasn’t ready to breakdown just yet. She’d been at that early stage of accepting the words alone and had wanted to say to the world “Yes that’s right I’ve got breast cancer….what are you going to do about it?” The need to blurt it out to any passing stranger and later by email and phone, had told all her friends who had then metamorphosed into wheat or chaff, to blow away or stick with her during the winds of change.

The official letter outlining the diagnosis had arrived some days later and now, sitting in the sunshine listening to a fellow traveller, she recalled the power of those three little words; “Malignant, Invasive, Carcinoma”, her new body state delineated in foreign terms whose meaning she would come to master in this life lesson. Now she grasped that they were sacred words- a magical invocation to  open a different, unexpected door on a new phase of life. All who enter are gifted with a deeper understanding of themselves, brought through pain, fear, and ultimately, as the circle of life continued its progression, wisdom.

Sonia been lucky and had come through, had done what was needed, lost her power in the early stages of entering the health system, reclaimed it later as she made her own decisions. Freely admitting the cancer experience had changed her, she had entered a new stage of loathing any mention of the illness and finally moved on with a life she believed was without any reference to, or influence from that time. Until now, here, by a different ocean on the other side of the continent, listening to how another human is  handling a harsher cancer pronouncement. For the first time in three years, she was suddenly back there, dealing with the pressure to make swift decisions when she was least capable of doing so.

“Don’t listen to them …it’s your journey…they have no idea and their prognostications are all based on the past! Annoy them with your questions and make sure that they answer them… Make YOUR choice at every step of the way and remember…no matter who has or hasn’t had it before.. IT’S YOUR JOURNEY! AND YES ANYTHING IS POSSIBLE!”

She longs to make that statement, maybe should have  but didn’t.  Would they have helped? Changed things? Instead, she grabs his hand, kisses his cheek, hugs him.
“I’m Alistair”
” Sonia,pleased to meet you”

Alistair now turns, grabbing the bike’s handlebars, ready to head off on the next stqge of his journey.

 

Posted from WordPress for Android

The Life and Joys of Jasper Rapscallion

What’s a dog to do? they were just sitting there within nose reach…should I  ignore the possibility and proximity of those juicy golden spheres? You must be barking if you think that! She put them there after all! Silly human ! And all it took was a nose’s nudge and we had it, a beautiful morning snack, golden and runny in the sunlight. And so I ask what dog in their right mind wouldn’t risk the temporary disapproval of their human for such a delicious crime ?
Anyway, all I’d have to do is look appropriately guilty, you know, give her that sad-eyed beagle look and she’d melt after awhile. It’s my half sister Jessie, the Dalmatian, who lets us down but then what can you expect of a highly strung aristocrat who loses it during thunderstorms?
I have to admit they did frighten me when I was weaning until uncle Albie-from the German bloodhound stock on my mother’s side of the family-got me to laugh about it by pulling funny faces and making  fart sounds. Later he explained  “Its all just Sturm and Drang, Jazzy nothing to worry about..just nature letting of steam ” Believe me all that noise just sends me to sleep now, particularly as I have to watch Baroness Jessica von Neurotski  perform so! Of course I do my best to lighten the situation by clowning it up, a bite to the ankle here and there but she does carry on so…trying to get attention if you ask me!  The human always feels sorry for her and makes such a fuss of patting and petting…boring in the extreme!.

So now while I’ve produced the eggs and am perfectly happy to share, she falls to the occasion by starting to shake, goes into hiding after our feast for fear of the human frown. Me, I roll over in the sunlight enjoying a full stomach from an unexpected junket.

It’s not that I don’t like my half sister, she can be great fun at times, take the chase games after dinner running around the garden endlessly for half an hour, I mean that’s great fun, always ends in a rumble, biting legs or necks then going to our respective water buckets. But really, her obsession with the chickens is bizarre! I mean, there they are locked in their stalag doing no harm, making great eggs and she has to bark at them, bully them, endlessly. Jess needs the shrink it seems to me, and though I have tried to intervene,she remarks rather too pointedly for my liking, that this is a case of the Alsatian calling the pit-bull aggressive and brings up my shoe fetish. So I like to collect shoes…and eat them…big deal! At least I don’t try to bite the hen who feeds me! These aristocrats! Not enough interbreeding if you ask me, never hurts to have a few ‘interesting” cousins in the family even just for a laugh.And that’s my biggest gripe against her, Jess just doesn’t know how to have a good laugh-at herself,at life and at those bloody chickens!

“I have my gifts”she once told me, and yes I have to admit she has been spot on about some things. I remember her acting up when we were walking the human one day suddenly crying “Pull her across road NOW!” so I did as she suggested and we made it just in time before that great bruising mastiff cross pit-bull came thrashing loose from his rope and tried to rip our noses off. Made it home just in time and I can tell you that was one episode I found  hard to laugh off. Later on of course I made it into a story, just like uncle Albie would have.
So when Jess whispered “She’s not our human” I took note but later thought did it really matter? “She who feeds is my mother”- Albie again. His human was a constant reader of the German high poets and philosophers, Nietzsche, Schopenauer, you know, that mob. His human fell from these lofty heights in Albie’s opinion when he started to read aloud the daily desk calendar sayings to my uncle as he sat down to start his work for the day. My favourite was “I cannot hear your words for the thunder of who you are” A Zulu  expression apparently,well you know what a howling those African dogs can perform, deafening! So naturally you have to rely on your sense of smell and sight in the dark continent.

What did it matter if she wasn’t my human? Dare I say that they all look the same to me? Of course I’m joking…as a species they have an infinite range of smells, some quite compelling, others decidedly off putting.  She wasn’t too bad all in all though our situation could have been improved  if I’d managed to eat  those pieces of paper our humans left for her with instructions on how to care for us. Had I succeeded she would have had a moment’s confusion and then Bingo! I could have had eggs on a daily basis . Sad that she ripped the sheets away from me, quite a tasty mid morning snack though, so my efforts there not completely in vain. Then there’s the freedom issue; I mean sure, she’ll walk us-twice daily most times- but she won’t let us off the lead  insisting that we wear those nose rings. I turned to her and yelped “I’m not a horse for Peke’s sake” but she obviously thought I was just excited to be going “Walkies” as she so charmingly puts it. When we get to the park, she won’t let us off those harness contraptions…Geez! I’m desperately missing my nice long gallops with Jess across the football field and no matter how much I push and pull, she won’t give in.

Until that one hot summer’s afternoon when the woman started talking to a neighbour ,. After the cat owner commented on my cuteness, they started a conversation on what else but that boring old chestnut on the difference between dogs and cats. Dogs and cats I ask you! Apparently  the subject holds the feminine of the human species in its thrall to such an extent that I felt the lead loosen, saw my chance and took off. What a thrill running freely across that football field full of  school kids wanting to have a bit of a play with Jazzy! a rollicking, roistering, tummy tickling, gal-lolloping tag team occasion that turned out to be. Ok sure I was in the proverbial dog house for a tad longer than expected but it was worth it. I tried to look repentant, let my head had low, ears covering the grass and eyes downcast. When I looked up she was half way to forgiveness so I lowered my eyes again to REALLY show that I was sorry. 1, 2, 3, 4….100 wait a minute, what nice pink sandals you have on today…are they new? Clearly she thought I was getting excited about being let back into her good books so to speak. Hmm…wonder where she’ll hide those lovely pink things this time?
Well it’s almost time for my humans to return from their trip, better get ready to look surprised and start smiling and yelping, always good to fulfil human expectations, helps them feel settled and loved.

Posted from WordPress for Android

Fluorescent

      An infusion of sea salt and chlorine envelops the bakery as wet backsides wobble in to join the queue . They’ve been to the packed beach nearby or chose the backyard pool instead, either way the vibrant colours of  new swimwear will start their takeover of the streets in this small town near the coast; Its Christmas in Australia.
”Goin ?”
“Yeah good mate…You?”
“Yeah mate..have a good one”
“Mate”
    Seasonal greetings in a land where each day formalities are shed with the climbing temperatures, words stripped from conversations like layers of clothing or the bark of a tree. Behaviours are shortened too, Local drivers summon the index finger salute instead of the full hand wave when passing on the road, carelessly parking over the lines and leaving the car running to keep the aircon on while nipping in to the shops.
   The main street of the small Australian town is elegantly lined with Royal Poinciana trees which were planted by the  town elders for their filigree lime green leaves and soft orange flowers. From residents’ gardens along the side streets where shoppers park their cars, the potent fragrance of old roses and boronia merges with the tang of ripe mangoes and yellow peaches from the fruit shop on the corner. Its a sensual cornucopia in a land and at a  time when Christmas marks the seasonal entry into high summer.
     Located at the end of Main Street is the statue of a lone soldier painted in fungus resistant white. Dressed in the uniform of the ANZAC forces, the statue marks the war dead of the small town, a concrete tradition of remembrance started after the First World War which decimated the future of all small towns throughout Australia. In the midst of an iridescent parade of shorts, swimmers and tees, “We are in death. Lest we forget.”
     Within cooee of the soldier stands the RSL Club. Positioned at the river’s edge it provides members and visitors-most of whom have not returned from an overseas war-with views of the ferries, houseboats and pleasure craft, while they watch the cricket or dine at the restaurant, occasionally catching that foetid mangrove smell on the breeze. The chaos of informal dress stops at the club door where patrons are reminded that certain standards must be upheld. Remaining shirtless and wearing thongs will produce a stern rebuff from the club staff with an offer of a loan of acceptable clothing for those who apologise and seek to comply. All others are promptly dismissed.
     This building is embraced by the shade of the powerful Morton Bay Fig tree, a multi purpose and ancient fellow which continues to provide fruit, now eaten only by bats after sunset, deep shade in its glossy leaves and the capacity to strangulate any obstacle, sentient or not, in its path. Its protective coolness is valued by many retail sales workers at lunchtime during the post Christmas sales, and over-imbibers from the club taking shelter from the relentless sun. Occasionally, children will play in its roots and the more adventurous climb its branches, preferring this natural adventure playground to the Council constructed one nearby.
     Once it was a meeting place for local indigenous women who picked the ripe figs for food and medicine and used its bark to weave dilly bags for themselves and fishing nets for their men. A relative of the Banyan and Bodhi tree, its sacredness seems to have evaporated in the modern day Australian climate.
     A tall man in a large brimmed hat stands beneath the tree. “When I was a young lad,before that building was there, I used to come down here on the hot afternoons-we had some stinkers then you know- and hoped that I could grow one of them from the seed so that when I married my kids could play in its branches and roots. Best shade ever in the best spot; you caught the river breeze see. I’ d just met Doris you see and knew she was the girl for me-was going to propose when that war broke out…had to do it quick like. Reception was at mum’s, a knees up alright then shipped out next morning. Five years later I met m’ son. ”
     Reg will tell anyone that takes the time to sit under the tree;shop girls and local teenagers know the full story. Most are kind, give him the time to get to the final bit about his sons dying in the horror car smash and Doris’ cancer ten years ago now.
     Christmas delivers a high tide of tourists, both interstate and overseas, bringing fresh eyes, holiday  bonuses and insistence on having fun. The colours of the town change yet again as brazen hot pink tank tops meet city linens and leathers of neutral and natural hue. The locals don’t mind the influx, they’re proud of their place and besides there are not as many incomers as on the coast. The town, though busy, resists being inundated and Main Street retailers-there are only four shops off the shopping strip-welcome the opportunities for increased transactions. Surprisingly during this time,older townsfolk still keep up their weekly ritual visit to their favourite café after doing the groceries.
     The local shoe store advertises its sale”Up to 50% off” but the locals aren’t taken in, they know the owner’s Scrooge-like ways and have seen the same yellow and orange sandals on sale for the past three years. Still,the tourists are pleased and never question the box labels for the “Italian ” footwear. Holiday-brown feet leave the shop, walking along Main Street getting acquainted with their new coverings and feeling satisfied with their new look, a souvenir that may last as long as their memory of this time. For those with less to spend after the Christmas binge, recycle shops have their own sales. Entrepreneurial volunteers organise their racks according to iconic surfing brands,Billabong, Ripcurl,Quicksilver, Mambo; plenty to choose from for the canny shopper.
     The tropical climate used to ensure a daily storm or if not certainly a downpour. Some of the older locals could predict the time through the swelling of the finger joints or other means. When its twenty eight degrees at seven thirty in the morning, the expected change is an unspoken promise of the season. But the climate, like the town, keeps changing and some days remain dry. The persistent cough of frogs as they come alive after the rain is absent and even the base note of summer, that cicada tinsel chorus, seems lackadaisical and drowsy. The rain eventually comes and the storm season starts to brew again, but the locals will tell you its different;wilder, unpredictable and strangely more vicious. Three tourists are hit by lighting on a crowded tourist beach.
     “Crikey, hear this June? They had never seen anything like it!  White sheets out on the ocean, next minute, two of them are thrown into the air, found metres away…bloke in the middle was burnt to the ground. A goner, the others in hospital. Reminds me of…” Laurie and June seated at the outdoor café, generously share memories of past storm traumas with their waitress and tourists nearby.
     The pattern of life in the small town by river and sea is changing somehow, locals can’t put their finger on it but its there. Being only ninety minutes from the state capital means the town has been spared a sacrificial exodus of the young people- which towns to their west know well. Of course the youngsters move away but for a short time and regularly return.When they come back families learn a new  language, less of the “mate”  and more of the “guys” the universal franca lingua of youth. Still, they soon drop their city ways after a bit.  No, its something else.
      Always busy, the town on the river enjoys continuous prosperity. Businesses come and go over the years, but most remain and some have a continuous commercial lineage back to the 1860’s. Only Reg and Laurie and June and Miss Colleen and some of the other long term residents know that the life of the town is changing, but can’t quite tell how or why. Yet should they be asked and if they ever cared to say, it would be something like the colours are changing.

Posted from WordPress for Android