My crazy mixed-up world

500 Words: Right here, Right now

https://open.abc.net.au/explore/77757

Right here right now it’s 7.30 in the morning and I’m outside at my clothesline, hanging out the first load of washing. Despite the lightness of the day and the presence of a watery winter sun in an azure expanse, a beautiful silvery moon is winking hello to me from the western sky.The new day’s air is crisp and clean. It holds a distinct chill yet it’s tempered by a hint of warmth. I can sense a friendly rivalry – a mature Bega Valley winter is being pushed on its way by a youthfully emerging Far South Coast spring – but winter’s resisting, it’s not in any hurry.Right here right now my garden seems confused. Out here, it’s a crazy mixed up world of light and shadow, warmth and cool, stillness and noise. This environment is bristling with the solemnity of winter and the rashness of spring.The magnificent liquid amber tree sports bare limbs with a solitary curled-up leaf clinging on.A few feet away, a wild plum tree is ablaze with lolly-pink blossoms. At the end of my garden a giant fir tree proudly boasts vivid green growth and the buds of forming cones. The lemony jonquils have blossomed and withered yet their distinct fragrance lingers on the breeze.The calistemon is thriving, it’s woken up from its winter sleep and is exuberantly sprouting lipstick-red bottle-brush flowers, sweeping the sky with millions of intricate bristles.And yet we have only just had below zero temperatures, the paddocks and verges crusty with frost. On a recent trip to Canberra my family stopped at Nimmitabel to play in the snow and throw snowballs at each other relentlessly – another example of the craziness of the seasons change.The birds can sense that winter is on the way out and spring is on the way in. They frolic in the toasty sunshine. I’m soon forced out the back door to investigate all the noise that’s coming from a nearby eucalypt. When I look up into the higher branches, just under the leafy canopy the tree is filled with rainbow lorikeets singing and sqwarking, no doubt congratulating each other on the passing of another winter and the joy of a spring to come.My new neighbour knows what’s up. As the days have started to lengthen, he’s venturing out of his burrow and taken to eating the tasty bits of green that border our road. I caught him out there at 5pm yesterday afternoon enjoying a pre-dinner snack.Right here right now my home is on the cusp. Thankful for the winter that is leaving for another year and filled with anticipation of the wonder of the spring about to begin.

Delivering the eulogy

500 Words: Personal Challenge

https://open.abc.net.au/explore/64346

When the priest told me I only had five minutes to give my father’s eulogy during his requiem mass, I was stunned. Five minutes? Five lousy minutes? Really? Now I am not a public speaker of any sort, in fact I hate having to speak in front of groups or gatherings, and I have never delivered a eulogy but I wanted to speak about my father and I wanted to do it properly. But how could I honour my father’s 82 years on this earth in such a short time? How could I explain to all who knew and loved him just how much he meant to us all? Giving my father the best send off I could was resting on my shoulders. I could feel the weight of doing it properly bearing down on me heavily. I wanted my eulogy to honour my father, to trigger happy memories and to give a raw and honest account of the man he was. I might only have five minutes, but I vowed that those five minutes would be the most meaningful, the most truthful, the most respectful and the most jam-packed five minutes I could possibly spend talking about my beloved dad. And so I set to work preparing a series of verbal snapshots of my father’s life. I talked about how he was born during the Depression and his life as a child in Malta during World War Two. I spoke of his migration to Australia and the discrimination he suffered here. I talked about his life as a husband, father and grandfather. I spoke of his strictness and his wicked sense of humour, his spontaneity and his storytelling skills. I remembered his love of gardening, nature and wildlife documentaries. I made everyone laugh with various reminisces such as his love of songs like ‘Sink the Bismark’ and ‘Walk the Line’ which he played every Saturday afternoon at full bore. The congregation giggled as I jogged their memories of my father’s obsession with very loud marching band music, his big, grey Pontiac Parisienne with the red leather upholstery (which I found embarrassing as a teenager) and his negotiating skills, which were non-existent. I told everyone that Dad was no angel, but that he was our Dad and he was a good man. He taught us to be strong and to be resilient and most of all, he loved us. My eulogy made us laugh and it made us cry. Delivering my father’s eulogy was one of the most moving and positive experiences of my life. When I took up the personal challenge of sharing with others very special memories of my father I wondered if I would be up to the job. I don’t know if I stuck to the five minute limit or not. But I do know that I did the best job I could and that I felt so proud to be honouring my father with the support of my family and friends. I hope that my dad approved of the loving send-off I gave him on the next step of his journey. I love you, Dad.

The boogie board caddy

500 Words: Personal Challenge

https://open.abc.net.au/explore/63804

For years, I’ve been the boogie board caddy. Making sure my children’s boogie boards were packed into the car when we went to the beach, helping them carry them down to the surf, retrieving the escapees when my kids lost hold of them and ‘helping’ carry the boards back up to the car at the end of our excursion. Sometimes, I would have a try at boogie boarding myself, but I was always so hopeless. I’m a bit scared of the surf, and I’m not the strongest swimmer, so tackling boogie-boarding was something I wasn’t too confident about. When I did have a try, I always seemed to end up in the foamy shore-wash, legs and arms flailing dementedly as my body was shaken like a rag-doll by the breaking waves. Not a good look.
But, last summer, I made a decision. I set myself a challenge. I was going to take this boogie boarding business seriously and actually try to do it right. I wanted to catch a wave, all the way into shore, and not be just an observer or a beached whale lolling in the shallows and embarrassing myself!
So, I started studying how it’s done, watching the boogie boarders do their thing. I’ve been trying to learn their tricks, trying to imprint their actions into my brain so that, when I’m out there, what comes next will be second nature to me.
I’ve got to catch the wave just as it’s breaking, following the line of frothy foam. With the nose of my board pointed toward the beach, I make sure my hands are holding the board correctly, my shoulders are in the right position and my elbows aren’t sticking out like chicken wings. I start paddling and kicking my legs like a mad thing. I’m trying to get ahead of the wave so that I can catch it. I make it and I feel the tug of the ocean on my board, propelling me forward and onto the surging wave. I stop kicking and enjoy the ride. I’m doing it!  I’m still on the wave and I can see the beach racing up towards me. The feeling is exhilarating! All is well until my wave seems to get run into by another wave and I get caught in the crossfire!   The next thing I know, I’m being cartwheeled by the crashing surf and my skin is being scraped along the sandy bottom. I am tossed over and over by the breaking waves. Here we go again, I think to myself. But, as I’m thinking this and wondering whether I’m being laughed at by the beautiful people on the beach, I feel good – I have actually faced my fear of the surf and the deeper water and ridden a wave into the shore (if only for a little while). I smile to myself as I manage to get up and stagger onto the shore.

I reverse snort the salty ocean from my nose.
I gag as the briny sea trickles down my throat
I rub my stinging eyes and shake my hair out like a dog shaking out wet fur. I’m all in one piece, nothing’s broken and I’m ready to give it another go.
I’m not giving up yet!

Nature’s trick of the eye

500 Words: One Moment, This Year

https://open.abc.net.au/explore/62786

On the eastern slopes of the Bold Granite Range, the Yowaka River rises. Between Pambula and Eden, the Princes Highway crosses the river and it is at this point that we often take the road on the right-hand side and pull up on the banks of this inspiring waterway.During the last school holidays, we drove to the river just before lunch. Armed with rods and tackle boxes, notebooks and pens, nets and old runners we looked forward to a few hours of river time. A hastily packed esky came along for the ride and doubled as a seat for small bottoms.It’s restful at the river. Time slows down. You can hear yourself think. And we can each do our own thing, separate yet together.Everyone got busy and I wondered if, long ago on the banks of this serpentine river, a platypus built its home and swam along the water’s edge where I dawdled now with my children – my daughter dragging her orange butterfly net through the speckled water, my sons casting pink squidgies into deeper water, hoping for at least one bite.As the idle zephyr picked up and became a stronger breeze, the clunketty clunk of truck tyres over the bridge downstream mingled with the lapping river ripples and the distinct kerplunk of cast sinkers smacking water. On the opposite bank, reeds as high as a man’s thigh bent, tall and knowing, a paint swatch of the colour green ranging from olive to khaki, from lime to emerald. I watched the displays of colour and the activities of my children as I daydreamed about the platypus and its life on the river.After a while, over at the water’s edge, an elongated head bobbed higher then lower, snaking like a miniature Loch Ness Monster. In that moment, with my mind thinking about the platypus and my hopes raised in anticipation of sleek brown fur, leathery duck bill, clever webbed feet and broad paddle tail, I was sure this reclusive creature was making an appearance just for me. I was becoming excited at the prospect of witnessing my first platypus in the wild. I strained to get a good look at the unfolding scene – there was no way I was going to miss a second of this!Instead, I made out a sleek wet cormorant and not a fascinating monotreme.In that moment, I felt utter disappointment, total disbelief. The river had let me down – it had failed to deliver the river-dwelling platypus I had willed to be there.The cormorant, of course, had no idea that it had dashed my hopes of sighting my first platypus and it continued dipping and diving in the cool water of the river. Life went on.Above my head, eucalypt leaves rustled and spun, while the limbs of ancient gums caressed each other and moaned, long and low.The wind strengthened, the loving boughs crooned to each other in less hushed tones, their foreplay becoming more frenzied. Then a creaking, splintery and determined, suggested a climax of breaking branches and that perhaps it was time to move my imagination, my children and my old blue folding chair further down the riverbank into safer space.

Summer Figs

Snapped: Summer

https://open.abc.net.au/explore/62173

Summer is …getting to enjoy the black figs from my garden before the wild birds do!

Floating

500 Words: One Moment, This Year

https://open.abc.net.au/explore/62096

Cold ocean stabs at my toes. Its chilly fingers pinching at my ankles, creeping up my goosepimpled skin.I pause to savour the sensation, accepting its intrusion.I admire the ocean’s beauty as it stretches before me. I am in awe of its vastness.I wriggle my toes into the gritty, sandy bottom, trying to anchor myself. I smirk as the incoming waves hit the fronts of my legs. I am part of their game. I’m not far enough out yet to be toppled. But the shallow surf continues, unrelenting. It lures me forward as it pounds.I shuffle and sway like an old drunk. The call of the sea is intoxicating.Fixing my eyes on a point further out, I struggle to pull up one foot, then the other from the sinking sand. The gloopy suck of the ocean quicksand is masked by the screeching of seagulls overhead and the human sounds of summer carried on the breeze.I twist at the waist as I lunge forward, against the waves, taking sharp, short breaths as the water gets colder and deeper and the more sensitive parts of my body are tickled by the frothing foamy whitecaps. The heat of my upper half now craves the coolness enjoyed by my lower half. With each beat of my heart, the flush of cold/hot, hot/cold surges through my being, up then down.I lumber forward. More exaggerated steps and the sandy bed falls away. Abandoning me. Releasing me from its stability and its surety.The water is deep and I paddle like an excited puppy, my head still warm and dry as I enjoy the heat of the sun on my face and the cold of the sea on my body.I am weightless. I am powerful. I am perfect.I propel myself up, then out and down, performing an exaggerated duck-dive to finally submerge myself. A full-body immersion. A believer’s baptism. A surrender to the omnipotence of the sea.I kick and bob and splash, over and over, mimicking a precocious seal or perhaps a cheeky dolphin or an engaging baby whale. I giggle to myself. I am at peace.At last, exhausted, I rise to the surface to gulp the salty air and shake the briny ocean from my limp curls.My limbs are leaden and my lungs are heaving. I blow salty mucous from my nostrils and spit out the sea.Now, arms outstretched, legs straight, my body floats on the surface, forming a perfect ‘T’.In the ocean’s lap, my head nestles.And with eyes closed, I worship the sun god above.The strong sea buoys me, lapping at my soul. Rhythmic, hypnotic, mesmerising.In this moment, on the turning tide, stress ebbs away from my body.And into its place flows the sensation of calm.

My name is Francesca

500 Words: How We Met

https://open.abc.net.au/explore/59661

Change of shift. Nursing staff huddled over clipboards in the corner of the high dependency unit. Hushed voices above the blips and bleeps of the machines.
Whispered murmurs from the few relatives allowed in. Handover completed, each staff member disperses to a task.She made her way to his bedside and smiled warmly at us as she reached for his chart.

He lay there, cuffed to the bed, his bare chest studded with wires and leads, connected to machines that whirred and flashed.

Monitors aglow with coloured lights. Green and red. Orange. Yellow. All blurring into an ignorance of what was good and what was bad. For us.His eyes were closed but his eyelids fluttered. He was trying so hard to open them.

His breathing was laboured and we watched the rise and fall of his chest like hawks, our eyes darting back and forth to the monitors. Not that we knew how to read them. His handsome face seemed to be swallowed up by the clear plastic oxygen mask. It looked so tight and uncomfortable. She had read his notes and checked the machines. She plotted down some readings, all the while moving silently around his bed and around us.

As she stopped to watch his face, he must have sensed her presence. He managed to open his eyes. Just a little. They tried to smile.”Is your name Sam?” she asked, gently checking his wristband. “Oh no, I’m wrong, this chart says Saviour.””It is Saviour,” his wife answered, “but everyone calls him Sam.””But Saviour is such a beautiful name,” she replied”Well, when he came to Australia and got his first job, the boss said Saviour was too hard to say or to remember. So he called him Sam instead. And he’s been Sam ever since, really.”She nodded knowingly. “They tried to do that to me, you know, when I arrived in Australia as a schoolgirl from Italy. The teachers wanted to call me Frances instead of Francesca but I wouldn’t let them. I told them, ‘My name is Francesca, not Frances.'”We could imagine her as a small child, probably bewildered and upset at having left her home and extended family, her school friends and her country. She wasn’t going to lose her name as well, no matter what the teacher said!”Good on you,” we smiled.

She looked at him, sunken in his bed, his eyes now watching hers.

She reached for his fingers and held them gently.

She leaned in towards him and whispered, “Well I will call you Saviour, if that’s alright with you?”He used the little strength he had to squeeze her fingers in response.

We saw a flicker of a smile.

The joy of fishing

500 Words: The Kindness of Strangers

https://open.abc.net.au/explore/58138

We were both in the fishing aisle of a local store. I was examining the lures. He was scanning the shelves.

We squeezed past each other, me with my shopping bags, him with his walking stick.

We caught each other’s eye and smiled. “What are you after?” he asked. “Beach lures,” I replied. “It’s my teenage son’s birthday and he has asked for beach lures. He’s a mad, keen fisherman. How about you, what are you after?” I asked him. “Just looking,” he replied.
He told me he had a couple of rods at home. Hadn’t used them in a while. But he saw the fishing aisle in this store and just wanted to “take a look”.

When he said that, he reminded me of my father, who insisted that he “hated shopping” but would happily spend hours in the hardware section of any store, anywhere!We spent time looking at the shelves, checking out the lures (for me) and the hooks (for him), while discussing the pros and cons of fishing. We chatted about river fishing as opposed to beach fishing, fishing off a wharf as opposed to going out in a tinny. We touched on funny experiences and scary situations.He seemed a bit upset about not having been fishing for a while.

I explained that I didn’t actually fish, but went with my husband and kids and just kept them company. I carried a notebook and pen and took the opportunity to do some writing, if possible.We moved onto the tackle box section and had a chat about the different types. Size, colour and holding capacity were discussed. He still had his old cane tackle box, he said. It sounded like a beautiful piece of fishing equipment. I advised that we had given my son a medium-sized green plastic tackle box last birthday – one with lots of compartments of differing dimensions.I finally chose the beach lures and he decided to buy some new hooks. He also chose some new line – he said he was going to get his old rods out and rig them up again. Then he was going to go fishing.”She’s coming with me,” he said in a loud voice, looking past me to a lady who was walking towards us. She turned out to be his wife.”There you are,” she said, “and where are we going?””Fishing,” we replied, the stranger and I.”Okay,” she laughed, “as long as I can bring my knitting!”Read more of Diana Harley’s writing at her blog dianaharley.wordpress.com

A whole lot of bull

500 Words: Failure

https://open.abc.net.au/explore/57137

“We’re going to grow our own meat,” we proudly announced to family and friends.
Whilst the sceptics amongst them nudged each other and laughed behind their hands, predicting mayhem and failure (again) for the Folk from the Big Smoke, we spoke to the farmer nearby and bought a neutered bull calf, or steer, for our small holding.

With lovely grassy paddocks to graze in and a cool, clear creek to drink from, we could already imagine our steer fattening up in no time. Our minds were racing ahead to the purchase of a bigger freezer, the need to locate a mobile butchery service and how we’d divvy up the steaks and mince to lucky family members.

Things didn’t seem to be going too well when, after a few months, our steer was still a scrawny runt and was failing to bulk up. He’d grown taller and his horns seemed longer and pointier, but as for his stacking on the weight and producing those sirloins we were dreaming about – it wasn’t happening.

Our steer had also started behaving strangely. Next door to us was a dairy, and each afternoon when the ‘girls’ were herded together to go into the milking sheds, our steer would go berserk.

He became highly agitated, bellowing and growling.

Then, with horns down, he pawed the ground violently, snorting. He raced around our house paddock, slowing down only to glare in the direction of the cows – a long way off – before starting the run all over again.

This bullish behaviour was getting so bad every afternoon that we had to keep the kids inside, or at least very close to the back door so that we could reach out and drag them in when our steer started his rampage.

After a couple of months of putting up with our steer from hell, an older neighbour dropped in. This lady was a farmer from way back and knew everything you needed to know about raising cattle and living on the land.”That steer hasn’t been done properly,” she announced. Apparently she’d been watching his antics for a few days while she was up at the milking sheds.

Turned out, that in order for our bull calf to be made into a steer, an instrument resembling an overgrown nut cracker of torture was used for…just that…cracking the spermatic cord of each testicle.

Apparently this method of castration has the highest failure rate due to tool operator error.

“Great!” we sighed, upset.
“Only gonna cause you more trouble,” she announced. “He won’t fatten up and he’s gonna start jumping the fences to get to the cows. Best to get rid of him.”
“Right…” we agreed, shocked.

Our beast was trucked off to the next cattle sale.

At least we got our money back. And the kids could play outside again in the afternoons.

Our dream of growing our own meat was dashed!

As has so often happened during our ‘Green Acres’ existence in the country, we had failed again!

Move over Eddie Albert And Eva Gabor!

Night, night, sleep tight

500 Words: Failure

https://open.abc.net.au/explore/56797

Okay,
I do NOT want a repeat performance of last night. I don’t need it!What
I do need is my sleep and I need it to be restful and peaceful.I’ve
read all the books and I definitely know what I am supposed to be
doing. I’ll be right now, I know it.Come
on…how hard can it be to get a good night’s sleep?I
really mean it! I am determined to hit the hay and get my beauty
sleep before I have to wrestle my alarm clock into submission.So…I’ve
had my calcium tablets, drunk at least 4 glasses of water today,
added the magnesium powder to my orange juice and walked the dog,
twice. I’ve eaten properly and gotten a bit of sunshine. All good.Add
that to all the usual household tasks involved in my sometimes
stressful, sometimes very physical day and I think I should be right
tonight.Turn,
tosstoss,
turn,thinking,
thinking.Bills
to pay.Worries.Will
that cheque clear?Is
there enough money in the account?What
is the bank balance on the other one?TossTurnStretchCurlThinking,
thinking.When
she said…Did
she mean?TurnWas
that the…?Did
I put off the…?Oh,
right, yes, hang onFine.Hmm,
okay, when did I say I could do that?Fine,
should work.Did
I get back to him about…?Oh,
no! Oh well, I’ll try to remember tomorrow…TossIf
we try to…TurnNo,
wont work.Toss,
turnMaybe?I’ll
see what they say.Turn.Wait
a minute.Toss.Blast,
I forgot about that.Toss,
turn.Double-booked,
that’s what I’ll say.Well,
it is the truth.Turn,
toss.If
only…Toss,Turn,Oh
no! Oh! Oh! Ouuch, not again!!Cramp,
cramp, leg cramp!Help! Helpppppp!!!Stretch,
stretch!Calm
down. Calm down!!Stretch
– which way?? Up? Yes. Yes. Yes!Oh…uh
oh.No,
no. Oh hell!Straight,
go straight, don’t curl up, no!Oh
dear goodness, why? Why?Okay,
calm down…stretch, stretch out.Slowly,
slowly…Oh
yes…yes…that’s good, good, much better.Don’t
move. Do not move a muscle.Relax,
relax…don’t think.Just
try!Tomorrow,
I am not walking the dog, I’m jogging the dog.
And
tomorrow night, if I fail again in the leg cramp stakes, I’m blaming
him!