Plugged in and tuned out

500 Words: Odd One Out

https://open.abc.net.au/explore/73841

We stand on busy Parramatta road on a Monday morning, the first day of the school holidays. We wait at the bus stop just down from the footbridge overpass, shouting to each other as the cars, trucks, vans and motorbikes thunder past on their way into Sydney city. A sleek concertina bus pulls up. The driver hardly looks at us as we board . Up one step, then another. We’re on a pre-pay bus and as the the door closes and the bus lurches inelegantly into the traffic, we fall toward a contraption on a pole that punches a hole in our ticket and ‘pays’ for our ride. The bus is pretty full and the only seat that’s free seems to be reserved for people with prams but the driver is oblivious and there’s no conductor to tell us off, so we park our bottoms there anyway.

The bus pitches forward. I’m sitting at right angles to an older, dishevelled guy with flowing grey hair, wild eyes and a smiley face. When we make eye contact, he launches (very loudly) into his medical history and his upcoming cartilage operation. He’s shouting information at me about surgeons, procedures and outcomes. I listen and nod. I can’t honestly say I really want to be a part of this conversation but I don’t want to be rude either. I am interested in what he has to say.

But no one else is interested and no one else is listening. Everyone else on the bus is plugged in and tuned out. Blank faces are connected to iPods whilst others are seemingly talking to themselves when, in fact, they are connected to their phones and on hands-free. Fingers tap away at tablets on laps. Not a newspaper in sight. The old guy keeps talking at me and I keep listening. Whenever other passengers do look up and see us conversing, they turn away, looks of boredom on their faces.

My daughter thrusts her mobile phone to my ear. “Hello? Hello?” I gabble, thinking someone is on the line. “Just pretend you’re talking mum,” she hisses. “I do it all the time when I don’t want people to bother me.”
I’m appalled but I totally understand at the same time. “But where’s your compassion?” I ask her.
She rolls her eyes at me.
We lurch to another stop and a lady with a pram gets on. She needs our seat so I bid a hasty goodbye to the old guy and we make our way up the next step to the back of the bus. Back here, everyone is connected to their machines. Not one physical  conversation
is taking place. No eye contact. Nothing.
For a while there, I was the odd one out, and it felt good.

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.

Goanna man

500 Words: One Moment, This Year

https://open.abc.net.au/explore/60657

When my mother’s friend
died, I remember her daughter telling us about how her mother had
visited her in the form of a beautiful butterfly on her wedding day.
I’m not sure about my
father’s affinity with butterflies and he wasn’t a great lover of
insects in general. But he did like most other animals and I feel he
was particularly taken with goannas after his many encounters with
them during his working life in Australia. Coming from the small
Mediterranean island of Malta where no goannas live, seeing these
big, prehistoric-looking creatures in the wild was, to him, something
very special.
I remember his stories of
his observations of them while he was camping away from home, working
for the railways.
I had never seen any
goannas in the wild and I constantly complained about this to my
husband. We had been living in the Bega Valley for years and not once
had a wild goanna crossed my path. Other people had seen them or had
stories about them, but not me. I felt really cheated – living in
this wildlife paradise and not ever having seen a free-ranging
goanna. Not fair!
When my father passed away
unexpectedly, I was crippled with shock and grief. I
couldn’t believe he had gone. My head felt like it would explode with
memories of him. I expected him to turn up at any minute, back from
wherever it was he’d gone. I wasn’t ready for him to never come back.
So, when some four months
after my father’s passing, a goanna scrambled its way over the
rockery in our garden, in front of the kitchen window I happened to
be gazing out of while I washed the dishes, I thought my imagination
had gone into overdrive. I stopped mid-dish and stared, thrusting my
head as close to the window as was physically possible to get a
better look. And then, I froze!
Here, in my own back
garden was a real goanna! At least seven feet long, with beautiful
markings and fearsome claws, he was gorgeous and ancient and right
here!
I had him all to myself
until our dog began barking and lunging. The goanna didn’t seem too
perturbed and got over a small fence and up a eucalyptus not far away.
He positioned himself in
the fork of the tree and looked magnificent. We wondered at his size
and strength and ‘oohed’ and ‘aahed’ at his beauty.
Our goanna made himself
at home in our gum tree. He had no intention of going anywhere!
Our family thought this
was great and we talked to him each time we went outside, getting as
close to his tree as we could to watch him and enjoy his magnificence
and tenacity.
However, after about the
fifth day of his not moving, I began to get worried and rang our
local wildlife park for advice. Was he sick? Should they re-home him?
Did we need to call a vet?
They assured me that he
was fine. He had probably just eaten a very big meal and as the
weather was quite cold he needed time to warm up in order to complete
digesting his food. He would remain with us until this was
accomplished.
Sure enough, a few hotter
days later, our goanna was gone.
I will never forget the
visit our goanna made to our home. I think it was my father’s
cheeky way of checking up on us and telling us he was okay.

Dancing with Billy

500 Words: How We Met

https://open.abc.net.au/explore/59979

Bewitching straight blonde hair. With just the hint of a curl at the nape of his neck. He tossed his longish fringe so perfectly. Beguiling blue eyes with luxuriously long lashes. “Wasted on a boy,” they used to say.
A handsome face. Pale skin.
Cherub lips housing a cheeky smile. I worshipped him from afar.

I dreamt of him liking me.
Like all the other girls.
They all liked him, too.
The mention of his name made them go all giggly.
We were united in our unrequited love, of him.

We watched his every move.
Some tried to make friends with his friends, in order to get an ‘in’.
Sometimes, it worked.
Sometimes, it didn’t.
It didn’t, for me, but I never gave up.
I continued my vigil of worshipping from afar.In class, I would hang off his every word.
As he spoke, I studied his every move.
And stayed in the background, nursing my secret love.The May Fair.
A wonderful family fete, put on by the school, its students and their families. Book booths. Food tents. Cold drink stands. Devonshire teas. The White Elephant Stall.

There was to be entertainment – and we were providing it.
We were to dance around the maypole, bearing ribbons aloft.
We were to folk dance and polka, skip and twirl and have a partner.
Girls would be partnered with boys.

We sat in rows, cross-legged on bare floorboards.
Last minute instructions regarding the next day’s May Fair.My long brown hair hung to my waist.
I wore it in two bows, high on either side of my head, secured with rubber bands and navy blue ribbons.

As I listened, I felt my hair being touched.The long strands were being stroked and patted. Was that someone behind me? I jerked my head around, my forehead knitted into a frown.
He was smiling at me, my hair in his hand. Our eyes locked. We had formally met, at last.”I love long hair,” he whispered. “Is it okay if I play with yours?”When we were dismissed, I got to my feet reluctantly.
My hair was let go.
I turned to give him a smile. “Will you be my partner for the dancing tomorrow?” he asked.
Did I need to give him my answer?I was ready for the May Fair hours early. But my family was not, and we got to school with only minutes to spare before the dancing was due to start.
I ran to my group, my long hair loose and free, flying behind me.
He was already in position… with another partner.
But as he saw me running to join in, he told his partner that he was supposed to be dancing with me and with a sad face, she left his side to go to the end of the line.
I stepped in beside him, my smile as bright as the maypole ribbons.

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.

Killer album

500 Words: Heartbreak!

https://open.abc.net.au/explore/59208

It was a busy night. Almost Christmas. Definitely school holidays. Frazzled parents herding hyperactive kids. Older customers cursing themselves for not doing their shopping at a quieter time.

Traffic jams in almost every aisle. Not much room to move for anyone.

And then, our trolleys crashed!
His was piled high with boxes of biscuits for stacking on the shelves. Mine was full of returns from customers who’d changed their minds or run out of money.

A clichéd beginning? Perhaps, but at least the ice was broken and we got a chance to check out each other’s name badges and make awkward apologies.We exchanged small talk and took mental notes for later.

We both worked the Thursday night / Saturday morning shifts at the large local supermarket.

He was a country boy, boarding with his aunt and uncle while he went to uni. He was in his first year there.

I was in year 11, on my way to the HSC.

He was nice. He thought I was nice, too.We spent time chatting, between customers and shifts, getting to know each other. He spent a lot of time talking about his home town and the people there.
It all seemed very interesting, although I was a city girl and knew nothing about the country.Eventually, he asked if I would like to go to an afternoon movie.

I said yes.

It was a lovely date.

He invited me to meet his aunt and uncle. They seemed like good people.

After dinner, we sat in his aunt’s kitchen eating deliciously sweet peaches, picked that morning from the tree in the suburban backyard.Everything was going swimmingly until my friend produced a photo album…full of photos of all his old girlfriends. Girls in bikinis, on bikes, at picnics, all dressed-up…and with him!

He told me all about them. Ad nauseam.

He didn’t seem to notice my discomfort or disinterest.Those deliciously sweet peaches now felt quite sour in my stomach.

He got to the last page of the photo album.”The end,” he said with a smile. “Yes,” I agreed, getting up to go.

It was The End…in more ways than one.

Down the drain

500 Words: The Kindness of Strangers

https://open.abc.net.au/explore/59057

Plink…plunk…plonk.

That was the sound my mother heard as I happily dropped the only key to my grandfather’s house down the drain.I was about 12 months old and having a lovely time sitting up in my pram as my mother wheeled me home after a visit to my mother’s aunts.

We were staying at my grandfather’s home in a small village in Malta.

My mother tells me that I had started to grizzle and she was taking me home to have an afternoon nap.

It was a bit of a walk from one relative’s village to the other, so to keep me occupied and to stop me from crying, my mother had given me the only house key that my grandfather owned.

And I had just lost it! My grandfather was quite elderly and also very strict. My mother was afraid to go back to his house without his key – he had a bad temper!

As she stood in the street, quietly crying and staring at the house key which she could see shining in the sunlight, two young boys who were on their way home stopped to see what had happened.The boys sprung into action. First they tried to loosen the grate over the drain – no luck.

Next they tried to poke long sticks down it to hook the key on – again no luck.

One of the boys then had a brilliant idea. He had a packet of chewing gum unopened in his bag. He took out a stick and started chewing.

When it was nicely masticated he popped it out of his mouth and stuck it onto the end of the longest, thinnest and strongest stick he and his friend could find.

Slowly and very carefully the boy manoeuvred the gum-covered stick through the grate and down to where the key was lying.

Mum watched on nervously as the boys, lying flat on their tummies and with their heads down, gently pushed and prodded at the key, trying to get it to stick to the gum.

At last, success!My mother was overjoyed and so thankful to the two young strangers.

She didn’t have much money but what little she had in her purse she tried to give to the boys. The kind strangers refused to take any payment and went on their way, laughing and happy with their good deed and their cleverness.My grandfather was never the wiser about what had happened to his only house key.

And my mother never let me play with the key to anything, ever again!

Help Yourself!!

500 Words: The Kindness of Strangers

https://open.abc.net.au/explore/58683

Have you ever taken things that weren’t yours?

I confess…I have.

Well, they were there for the taking.

And they looked soooooo good.

And I didn’t have any of my own.

And a kind stranger indicated that it was okay. There was such an abundance just sitting there…waiting.

So…I took some.

From the overflowing basket below the handwritten sign that said ‘Help Yourself’, I took a few plump and juicy lemons.

And when I got home, of course I put them to good use!I don’t always take things that kind strangers leave out.

For example, the other day, as I was driving on the main road out of town, another kind stranger had left another message.

Written on a torn-off piece of cardboard box and propped up against a telegraph pole was a sign saying ‘Kaffir Lime Leaves – Free!’ Next to the sign, I could make out a cane basket with stems and leaves poking out. How much fresher could you get?

I didn’t stop to take some – I was driving home from a hard day’s work helping to move offices and had no intention of cooking anything much that evening, but I was struck by the kindness of the stranger in offering such delectable goodies to other strangers.

And I got to thinking about how often people do give their excess produce away to people they don’t know.I’ve seen bags of zucchinis donated to the local charity shop for on-sale to raise money for the poor.

Chokos have been given away for as long as I can remember and I’ve even seen bunches of mint and parsley offered to anyone who wants them.

And have you noticed how good these free, fresh foods actually taste?

So much better than the same items bought from the shop.

Perhaps it’s just the knowledge that someone you don’t know and may never actually meet has taken the time and gone to the trouble to gather their excess produce, put it out in a spot where strangers might pass and offer it to them for free.

It really is a wonderful gift of giving and a humbling gift of receiving!And, of course, the kindness of strangers on roadsides and footpaths extends beyond the giving of fruit and veggies – it extends to the giving of furniture and white goods as well.

On a road I travel very frequently from my home to town, there is often a table of ‘free stuff’ set out for anyone who wants or needs it. Signs, book cases, shelving, glass jars, light fittings and lots of other interesting paraphernalia are there for the taking.On my way home along another back country road only a few days ago, I was once again touched by the kindness of strangers.

A large, cleanish white fridge stood to attention on the side of the road, in full view of anyone passing by.

The sign said it all: FREE
WORKS!

There’s still life in those leaves

500 Words: The Kindness of Strangers

https://open.abc.net.au/explore/58543

Many years ago, our local supermarket used to sell shrubs and seedlings, along with lots of other garden paraphernalia.

The poor plants that were either well past their use-by date or definitely not long for this earth were sat up on a small table and sold off at greatly discounted prices.

I had just finished my weekly shopping with a couple of small children in tow.We stopped to have a look at the ‘dead plant table’, as the kids called it.

A bedraggled bottlebrush caught my eye.

I picked it up in its pot to have a closer look. The poor plant was sticking out of soil that was as hard as cement and almost the same colour.

It was not looking very well at all.

In fact, it was looking decidedly dejected.

Another shopper had stopped at the dead plant table, also.

She watched me as I tried to examine the potted bottlebrush. “You’ll be right with that one, love,” the stranger offered with a smile. “Do you think so?” I replied. “Definitely,” she answered. “Look, there’s still life in those leaves.”I had a closer look. The stranger was right. “Just snip off those dead tips. That’ll do it the world of good.” The stranger grabbed the pot off me and turned it upside down.
Fuzzy, brown fibres that looked like dried shredded coconut were poking out from the holes in the bottom of the black plastic pot. “See that,” the stranger pointed, “root bound.””I don’t have much of a green thumb,” I offered. “Don’t need a green one,” the stranger said, “you just need the one you’ve got. When you get home, tip the pot over, stick your thumb in and pull out the plant. Tease out the roots, give ’em a little trim then plant it in good soil in a sunny spot. No need to coddle it, but just give it some water and keep the weeds away and you’ll be right.” “I don’t know,” I said, my voice wavering.”You’ll be right love,” she said again. “You couldn’t kill that bush with a cricket bat, mark my words.”

And with that she picked up her shopping bags and went on her way.

The stranger’s kind words had encouraged me.

I bought the bottlebrush, took it home and did exactly what she had said.
It took a little while before I saw a turnaround in its condition but once I did, there was no going back for my little friend. It grew bigger and stronger and each year since it has been a prolific flowerer.My reject bottlebrush stands proudly at my front gate, with its beautiful blood-red blooms adorning the entrance to my property each spring. It attracts birds and insects, looks fantastic and gives me so much pleasure.

I am grateful to that kind stranger for her gardening words of wisdom. The encouragement she gave both me and the bottlebrush, who I’m certain was listening also, was very powerful.

She believed that we could do it and we did!

Little boy lost

500 Words: The Kindness of Strangers

https://open.abc.net.au/explore/58424

The setting was perfect.

It was a balmy summer night and the Botanic Gardens were looking lush and well-manicured, a tranquil oasis in the midst of the Sydney concrete jungle.

We were part of an audience of about two hundred people who were watching Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

This show was theatre on the move, which meant that at various points during the performance, the actors and the whole audience picked up sticks and moved to another location within the Gardens.My husband and I were watching the play with our two children. Our daughter was aged 5 and our son was aged 3.

They were really enjoying the performance. The actors in their fantastic costumes were mesmerising.

The first part of the performance ended and it was time for the audience as a whole to move on with the actors.

Along with everyone else, my family got up from our spot on the grass, ready to move. My husband had our daughter by the hand and I turned to get our son who had been sitting quietly beside me for the duration of the show so far.But our son wasn’t there – he was nowhere to be seen! I felt my heart fall into my shoes. I felt faint. I silently screamed.My husband had worked out what had happened and pushed my daughter’s small hand into mine as he took off, following the crowd. I saw his head bobbing up and down, looking over and around the seething mass in search of our tiny son.

My mind was exploding with horrible outcomes:

Our son had been kidnapped.

Our son was hurt.

Our son would never be found. After what seemed like an age, my husband appeared, out of breath, dishevelled and distraught. “I couldn’t see him. Come on. Let’s go. We need to get help.” We hurriedly packed up our stuff. My husband herded my daughter and I to him and we turned, as one, towards the nearest path.”There they are!” I heard a young, familiar voice call out.

Coming from the opposite direction was our son, holding onto the hand of an elderly man.

“That’s them,” I heard him tell the stranger.

We dropped everything and ran to them.

The stranger gave us an understanding smile.”Your little fellow was walking with us. We thought he was with the family in front but when everyone started setting up for the next part of the show, that family told us he wasn’t with them and then we realised we had a runaway on our hands,” he gave a chuckle.

“He’s a very brave little man. I told him I’d help him look for you and he just took my hand and here we are.”We were overwhelmed. “Thankyou, thankyou,” we kept saying.

“No problem,” said the stranger. “See you little mate,” he said, clapping our son gently on the shoulder.

“Bye, bye man,” said our son.