My Dad

OAP = Old Age Pensioner SOD = Sod

My dad had a wonderful sense of humour. He took his position as father and bread-winner extremely seriously. He was a very private man. He had few friends because he didn't need them. I think my mum was his best friend. I say 'I think' because I realise now that I didn't know him very well during my years at home. I understand a lot more now, simply because I have matured and have had time to look back with adult eyes.

I cannot remember having long conversations with him. I cannot remember him actually putting his arms around me and cuddling me. I can remember him holding my hand a few times and I sat on his lap once or twice.

I accepted this lack of closeness without question - as a child would.

I used to stand next to him in his shed and watch him making things; sawing and planing; or repairing things. He used to sole and heal our shoes to get a few more month's wear out of them. I used to stand around watching while he fixed things on his car. He had a car accident once and as they were in the process of renewing the insurance policy at the time of the accident they weren't covered. He ploughed away, weekend after weekend until he'd completely fixed it. He had no training in mechanics at all, he just got the car instruction manual and worked on it until it was fixed.

I watched him build a little greenhouse at the end of our garden and grow delicious tomatoes and cucumbers each year. I haven't tasted tomatoes quite as sweet and succulent since.

I realise now that he must have loved having me following him around and I'm glad I did.

I also realise now that my dad had more love in him than he could handle. He just could not show it. The only way he knew was to provide the food on the table, the coal for the fire that kept us warm and the security of a home. He used to take us out at weekends sometimes. That is why I have been to most of the popular tourist attractions in London, eg: The Tower of London, The British Museum, etc. and to beauty spots around the south of England. We also always had a holiday each year even though we weren't that well off. My favourite holiday was at Trebarwith Strand in Cornwall.

I have lived in Australia for 28 years now and always wrote to my parents regularly. My mum wrote every single week; beautiful letters, full of news, questions, newspaper cuttings, anything she thought I would be interested in. Occasionally there would be a note from my dad in his beautiful script-like handwriting.

My mum passed away in 1999 and I stopped writing for a while. I was phoning dad from time to time and then in one phone call he said how much he would love to get letters. It made me realise that I'd been assuming my correspondence was only to mum but quite obviously dad had been absorbing every word of my letters and was missing them!

From that day every Sunday I would sit down and enjoy writing a long letter to dad. He was unable to write back as he was so frail so I kept phoning too. I really enjoyed telling him my news, adding photos, anything I thought he'd be interested in.

I also encouraged my sons to write him letters which they did and had done just a couple of weeks previous to Australia Day 2005.

It was early Monday morning, a public holiday as it was Australia Day. I was living by myself with my dog, in a small unit in a suburb of Perth. I'm not sure what woke me but it was about 3am and very quiet, very still. I laid awake for a while then started to drift in and out of sleep, then a voice whispered in my ear, "I love you." It startled me because it was as if the person, definitely male, was right next to me. I sat up and looked around and thought I must have imagined it but it was too real.

Four hours later the phone rang. It was my sister calling from the UK. She was silent at first and then said, "It's dad...." He had passed away quietly in his sleep. I immediately knew who had visited me just hours before.

At last he was able to tell me.

Christmas Parties

I can remember Christmas parties at our house as children. A small council house on the outskirts of London. I was young and, unfortunately, didn't appreciate the fun everyone was having. Now I can look back and laugh.

We had my grandparents and their brothers and sisters, uncles and aunties, cousins, come for Christmas dinner. Later on, everyone would be sitting around the edge of the lounge room; the fire roaring in the grate and Christmas tree, duly decorated and with fairy lights glowing, in the corner of the quite small room. My eldest sister would get them playing a game called "Stations".

She would go around the room giving everyone the name of a London station, eg. Kings Cross, Victoria, Trafalgar Square, Waterloo and so on. Then she would stand in the middle and call two stations. Those two stations had to swap chairs without letting her get into one of them. Well, some of these people were not only elderly but slightly overweight, so for them to haul themselves out of a low chair and race across the room was no easy task.

I was very young but have clear memories of my nana, her brother and my mum laughing until they cried. I can still see their red faces with tears running down their cheeks. Such happy days.

Christmas

As you can see, my dog really enjoys Christmas.

I wouldn't call myself a 'religious' person. I'm not sure what that word means anyway. I don't attend church every week; not at all, in actual fact, but from time to time over the years have enjoyed walking into churches and cathedrals to feel the atmosphere and think about the 'goodness' for which they were intended.

My friend was brought up in a religion (from year dot therefore not given any choice in the matter) where Christmas and birthdays were not celebrated. Consequently, he went through school as an outcast; at weekends he was dragged up to doorways with an adult, waving pamphlets and 99% of the time told to GO AWAY! and worst of all, in my opinion, as a result of not celebrating Christmas or birthdays the family had no reason to get together. And they rarely do. What a shame.

Christmas brings people together. Few people think about the religious aspect of Christmas, let's face it, but many enjoy the giving and coming together and, to me, that makes Christmas all worth while. Maybe there are some that feel it is a chore to invite the parents, grannies, aunties etc but the fact is, we all need to know we belong and coming together reinforces family roots.

Christmas also makes us aware of people who are not so well off as ourselves and I don't just mean in a material sense. There is always someone much worse off, somewhere.

So, I believe in Christmas.

I believe in everyone having the right to believe in what they want to believe and not be told what to believe.

And I believe in "Love Thy Neighbour".

My friend, incidentally, "saw the light" eventually and lives a normal life these days.

Homesick

My sister has had a special birthday this week. It is an important time for her and she is coping well, considering. She is calling the family together for a lunch. I wish I could be there.

I speak to my sisters quite often on the phone. A lot more often than when I was first here, twenty years ago. Calls from Oz to the UK can be relatively cheap these days and I'm glad because as I get older it seems so much more important and necessary, for the three of us, to talk to eachother.

When I woke this morning I felt a kind of emptiness; a sadness, and this is dreadful because I live a wonderful life and have absolutely nothing to be sad or feel 'empty' about. So I've put it down to the fact that my family are gathering for a wonderful lunch together and I won't be there.

It's time to do the mental 'balance sheet' with pluses and minuses. What have these 28 years in Australia given me and what has the distance from 'home' taken away? I see a huge weight on the Australian side of the scales. And this is not a materialistic scale.

So I will enjoy my day in this paradise I live in and be with my sisters in spirit. I love them.


Happy Birthday, Gill.

Dear Dad

I remember when we were young our Sunday dinners (at lunch time) were always special. We all sat at the table observing the rules: sitting up nicely and no elbows on the table. Mum enjoyed feeding her family and she would present a full roast dinner complete with Yorkshire Puddings and yummy gravy. This would be followed by a wonderful dessert: rice pudding, trifle, or maybe steamed syrup sponge pudding with custard. Thinking back now, I have no idea where I put it all!

Sometimes, after the dishes had been taken away from the table, mum and dad would reminisce about 'the war' (WWII). Mum would describe the horror of the blitz and what it was like to live in London at that time. She could never forget the frightening sound of the air raid warning sirens when everyone would rush to air raid shelters or to the underground stations for safety. There everyone would stay, tucked up and safe until the 'all clear' sounded.

Dad would tell of his experiences on the battlefront where he was a Royal Engineer. He told us about searching for mines, building Bailey Bridges, and lots more but I can’t remember. And this is why I write. I wish I could go back and listen to his stories all over again.

It wasn't until I was working as a temp in Perth and spent a few weeks on the reception at the Vietnam Veterans’ Counselling Service that I realised why my dad was telling us his stories at the dinner table.

After the war he didn't have a counselling service to go to. He was demobbed, given some 'civvies' (a suit) and left to 'get on with it'. Very fortunately for him he had my mum to come home to. They had been pen friends during the war years and were married in 1946. I am sure if it weren't for my mum he would not have 'recovered' as well as he did. But I still don’t think he ‘unloaded’ any of the horror of the war to mum or to anyone.

So I ask myself now, what was going on inside his head? I shudder to think. And now I wish I'd listened more carefully to what he said at that dinner table. But I was only young and had no understanding of what I was actually listening to.

I have just watched a documentary about The Battle of Monte Casino. It was described as one of the most dreadful battles of WWII. And that is the dinner table story I remember most clearly. I can see my dad's face now as he described the war scene, using the condiments as Tommy, Jerry, and the monastery! But not once did he tell of the horror, the blood and gore, the thought that he may die. No, that was all kept inside. He told us of the heroics, the guns, the camaraderie and the winning! That was his way of dealing with those memories. Probably not enough though.

I understand now dad.

An Achievement

d' daaaaaaaaaa !

"These are a few of my favourite things" and my earring holder that I just finished today! Don't be fooled, I am not 'crafty'. There's mucky gluey bits all over the back, the embroidery is far from neat but I like it.

Handbags

Let's face it; a girl can never have too many handbags!

There's a story attached to each of mine.

My dear old mum bought me the tapestry one. I can never part with that.

My sisters and I had been walking around Harrods in London on one of my trips home, pretending to be important, browsing, oooing and ahhhing at various things, celebrity spotting, giggling and generally having a bloody good time. After a coffee in the coffee shop where ordering coffee is like ordering a three-course meal we browsed the gift shop and my eldest sister pointed out a stunning, stylish, black backpack with "Harrods" embroidered on the flap. We both liked it. On the train on our way home, she produced it from a shopping bag - she'd bought it for me! That's my 'cabin bag' whenever I fly.. of course, darling!

The small satin clutch bag has a motif of beads sewn into a heart shape. One of my sons found the beads amongst my sewing things, he would have been about ten years old. He found a piece of black material and set to sewing them on. When he presented it to me I was so touched. So I made a small clutch bag of black satin so that I could place it on the flap. A treasure!

I have two cloth bags given to me by my very dear cousin. She bought one of them - the lovely red collage - and made the other - a floral fabric bag. I have a secret suspicion she may also have a number of handbags. I would assume her two daughters would have a cupboardfull each too! She tends to frequent 'car boot sales' and her motto is "you can never have too many vases!"

I went with my sister and brother-in-law to London one day on my last trip home (to England) and on walking through a mall bought a nice sized black fabric bag with fabric flowers on the side. She made special effort to show me how I could transform the 'flowers' on the side from buds to full blooms. Amazing! I said. I haven't thought about doing anything with those flowers since I bought it! Sorry lady!

I made myself a red backpack specifically for using when I am on my bike. Hopefully drivers will see me with a bright red patch on my back!

A very dear aunt who lives in Queensland made me a small clutch bag. She does a lot of craft and it is made of patches of various fabrics with a green theme and there is a piece of lace incorporated in it that belonged to our great grandmother. She is a great believer in families and remembering people.

I bought the striped fabric bag from the chemist where I was working in Narrogin, a country town in Western Australia, a few years ago. Narrogin was my first experience of living in a country town. I found the people to be of a different species almost. Down to earth, friendly, broad minded and genuine. Well I thought so, anyway. I learned so much from country living.

I made a friend in Narrogin and she is one of these people who are incredibly good at buying gifts for people. She thinks of things that they actually want, like and/or need. How does she do it? She bought me the brown bag with beaded dangling things. So many people have commented on what a nice bag it is. It's a perfect shape, size and colour.

That's the problem with handbags; size, shape and colour. Can you get it all in one bag, as it were? I've tried a great big one that I could get everything in - wallet, phone, tissues, lipstick, diary, perfume, pens, lunch, camera, handcream, extra jumper for when it gets chilly, kitchen sink etc etc. It looked so appallingly untidy that I decided to change to a small and very rigidly shaped one so that I was limited to what I could cram in it. It didn't last long. I couldn't get everything in it. I started using another little bag along with it then realised I was carrying TWO bags! I go back to the huge bag and try to be tidy. And so it goes on.

My son phoned and I mentioned that I was going through my handbags. He reminded me of a patchwork leather bag I had (many years ago) with circular plastic tortoiseshell handles. One of the handles had leaned against a hot iron and had a groove melted into it. Why on earth did he remember that? He was very young!

My eldest sister was in her teens when she had the brilliant idea of a new handbag for mum's birthday and collected money from my other sister and myself. She was working in London at that time and she chose an exquisite brown stylish leather bag which must have cost a fortune, I realised later. Mum loved it. It was like the Queen herself would have used. My mum loved the Queen.

Autumn

After the heat of summer which extended into Autumn this year somewhat, it has finally cooled down. (sigh... I love the heat!) Here in the south of Western Australia we are receiving the dregs of a cyclone. An incredibly fierce cyclone (named Glenda) which caused some destruction and flooding. It formed off the north west coast of Western Australia and at one stage the Meteorological Office reported the possiblity there could be THREE cyclones forming. Fortunately, only one actually eventuated.

A couple of weeks ago cyclone Larry caused devastating destruction in Queensland where it obliterated banana crops, tore off roofs, pushed over huge trees and generally made a bloody mess. I should watch my language especially as, incredibly, not one person was killed or injured. But I feel this is because Australians understand their weather. Australians respect their weather, their climate. They therefore prepare, they evacuate, they batten down and are ready for anything. At the aftermath there is absolute camaraderie. Everyone gets in and helps. I love these people. Maybe that's why I live here!

Two days ago, as our cyclone Glenda moved slowly south she crossed the coast near Karratha which received huge amounts of rain. But not too much destruction. We watch the radar images with fascination. We are due to go mining in the Gascoyne Region and we wonder if, when we get there this winter, we will find a completely new arrangement of the scenery compared to when we were there last year.

My partner wants to be there NOW to witness this spectacular weather, the heavy rain, the wind, rivers and creeks running that rarely have water showing above ground level.

This photo is of the Gascoyne River when we were there last year and that's the bulldozer on its way across the 'river'! Can't see any water? That's because there isn't any!! It's all below the surface.


So this morning, instead of putting on my shorts and t-shirt to go walkies with Woody, I adorn jeans and jumper and grab my umbrella. It's not pouring but the sky is grey and there's moisture in the air. Cyclone Glenda is now ex-cyclone Glenda and as usual we get the leftovers. But the leftovers are gentle and greening.

As I walk out the door the fresh air hits me and is invigerating. Then I notice the unmistakeable fragrance of wood smoke. Someone has lit their wood fire! mmmmm As I approach the forest my nose tells me that the overnight rain has lifted the scent of the eucalyptus oil that drips from the trees on to the forest floor. It is absolutely delightful, refreshing, like pure oxygen.
Woody, of course, is completely oblivious to all these smells. The only smells he is interested in are animal and/or edible. But then, he is a dog.

Bad News

He has a particularly aggressive tumour. If he has treatment he may live for twelve months, if he does not, he may have three months.

How does a person face this? How do his loved ones face this? He has a twin brother who was described as being "incoherent with grief". He has a wife and a new little daughter.

If it were me I would be straight to a counsellor. I'm having enough trouble dealing with it and I'm not even related to them. I've never had anything like this so close to me. I know these people, have eaten with these people. They never hurt anyone, don't deserve this. Why?

Would I want to prolong the inevitable? Or would I take the short cut? Would I want my family to watch me suffer for months on end or would I bring it to a short sharp end?

Would I stop working and devote my life to him if it were my son? He would not want that.

I would not be able to watch TV, read a book, act normal in any way if it were my son. I would want to scream at everyone, tell the world, destroy something with my bare hands, demand answers.. why?

But life is like that. And in actual fact people suffer worse things than this. Much worse things. Six billion people on this earth. I know this one who has a death sentence.

Pilates

I went to Pilates today. I've been going quite regularly. Partly in an effort to keep fit and supple and partly to be able to work alongside my partner when we go digging for rocks.

At last, today, the air conditioner at the gym has been repaired. Exercising in 30-35 degrees Celcius is not funny. But they still had all the windows open??

This class uses the 'fit ball'. A large, strong ball that we use to exercise with. I had no idea you could do so much with, on, about and under a ball. They come in various sizes so as to suit tall people to short people. I got there late and the only one left was huge, for me that is.

We bounce, we lift arms, we lift legs, all the time holding in those 'abs'. We lean on it, we lift it, with arms and legs. And we 'swim' on it! I always wonder if anyone is peering through that glass door at the back of the room. No, I shouldn't. The 'swimming' on a ball too large for one was quite a challenge and became extremely funny when the instructor pointed it out. Thankyou, not.

Slow is good..... We are ballerinas...... Slow is strong..... Lengthen.... Or should I say llllleeeennnngtheeenn.

Blue

Today I hear of a twin very ill in hospital. The discovery of a brain tumour. His twin brother is beside himself with grief. As is his wife and family. He is on the operating table. It does not look good.

I also have twin sons and have tried to imagine the devastation to one as a result of the loss of the other. I have tried to imagine it because I thought I should, to prepare for that possiblity. I have done this when I have seen the extreme happiness they have had together.

If I were to lose my son, no, this is beyond comprehension and something I cannot and do not wish to imagine.

I went out into the garden and tried to think of this twin and his brother and his family with positive thoughts. Some call this praying. I call it using that part of ourselves we know so little about but a part some of us know can make a difference sometimes. Some call that 'God'. I don't. We have such a huge amount of power but use it so little. Some of us use it unconsciously. I just want to use it and make a happy ending. I wish.

I have not blogged very much and was wondering what it's all about and 'why'. Now I know. I needed to say all this to 'someone' and no one.


Later...

No news is good news. But is it? Is my friend with her family, very distressed. This is what blogs are for. For unloading without worrying anyone.

And why is our Prime Minister allowing our troops to go to the front line in Iraq? Is he mad?

Purple

This particular day I went shopping I needed three things. I'm not a great shopper, just tend to look for what I need to buy, buy it and go home again. On arriving home I find that all three things I bought are purple! They say purple is a spiritual colour. Is it? Was I having a 'spiritual' day?

"The Colour Purple" was an amazing film.

I shared a bedroom with one of my older sisters back in the seventies. We had a 'psychedelic' picture of Jimi Hendrix on our wall. It was purple.

I love the sound of that group of women called "Amazing Ladies who wear Purple and a Red Hat". What a wonderful idea. They are ladies who decided to "greet middle age with humour and a touch of class".