Just for Today – let me tell you a story

Take a well-earned break from your own writing and read a bit of mine – enjoy!

here’s the link:    https://open.abc.net.au/explore/98484

Just for Today – Read a story

hi everyone, I hope you can take a little time out from your own writing to read a little bit of mine.

my latest contribution to the ABC Open project can be found at https://open.abc.net.au/explore/96265

I hope you enjoy it!

Dishwasher? Shmishwasher!

500 Words: Endings

https://open.abc.net.au/explore/71390

Dishwasher? Shmishwasher! Who needs one? My mother certainly didn’t – she had kids. Three of them. One to wash, one to wipe and the youngest to put away.

Don’t get me wrong, I have had dishwashers in my lifetime. One house we owned had a dishwasher that was covered in grease, oil and other unidentifiable stuff. Apparently the previous owners had a lot of barbecues and didn’t believe in rinsing their plates. Gross!

Our home has a dishwasher, when we first moved in I refused to use it. It’s quicker to do it the old-fashioned way, I argued. But those around me convinced me that it was more economical to use the machine, plus my time was valuable and I could be doing better things than washing dishes and so on and so forth. So, reluctantly, I agreed.

However, I wasn’t just rinsing our dishes before putting them in, I was completely washing them!

“You don’t have to do that,” they told me.

“I stick mine straight in without rinsing,” they said. ” My machine does all the work.”

Really? Well my machine didn’t. And if I didn’t get every bit of yuck off my dishes before putting them in, they came out with that bit of yuck baked on with super glue-like adherence.

My relationship with my dishwasher was really under pressure. I knew there were other factors that were contributing to the strain, namely our tank water supply and low water pressure, our dodgy electricity due to upgrades in the area and  brownouts that happened annoyingly often. But when another electricity cut caused mayhem with the dishwasher, I had had enough.

I threw my hands in the air and screamed that my affair with that machine had ended. It was over and no amount of cajoling or attempts at reconciliation would change my mind.

The kids were devastated. They’d gotten off pretty lightly with me using the dishwasher. Their silly mother washed all the dishes, stacked the dishwasher, put it on, emptied it and put the dishes away. The kids didn’t get a look in.

But now there was a new regime  – washing dishes the old-fashioned way! My kids could wash, wipe and put away, just like we did when I was a child.

Closing my dishwasher’s white, metallic door for the last time was totally liberating. To me, this ending was a long overdue and a very happy one.

I now love the freedom of donning a pair of bright yellow rubber gloves, filling the sink with hot, sudsy water and washing and rinsing my dishes to my heart’s content. And I have helpers – I get to talk to my kids and they get to talk to me.

Washing dishes is like knitting, or perhaps fishing. It’s therapeutic. I’ve solved a few problems while up to my armpits in suds and I’ve even penned some of my stories there as well.

Dishwasher, shmishwasher! Who needs one!

The long, slow descent of shame

500 Words: U-Turn

https://open.abc.net.au/explore/68444

All the other kids are doing it.
I’ll be okay, I just have to give it a go.
Be brave.
Come on! I gingerly join the snaking queue.
Then, I’m swept along with the rest of them.
I’m in a sweaty line of kids travelling upwards, step after slow step.
Arms out to the sides, fingers gripping the railings. It’s a long, hot trip.
Cheers as someone makes it.
We keep holding on as we look down between the rungs to inspect the outcome.
Murmured discussions take place up and down the line.
Someone changes their mind.
We all shuffle to different sides as they hesitantly make their way down. They don’t get off lightly – there’s non-congratulatory slaps on the back and accidental/on-purpose tripping. Guffaws and whistles. Lots of chicken impersonations. Soon, the queue settles down again.
I can see the back of my brother’s head.
He’s about five people in front of me.
Mum told him not to do it, but he wasn’t going to listen.
And if he can give it a go (he’s three years younger than me), well I’m going to give it a go too. We keep inching upwards, ever upwards.
The deep, green water lies beneath us. Menacing.
There is the bristle of fear in the air and it’s contagious.
I can feel my heart racing.
My head feels light.
Despite the heat of the January school holidays, my skin has as many goosebumps as a plucked Christmas turkey. Perhaps this wasn’t such a great idea?
In no time, it’s my brother’s turn.
I watch as his head disappears over the top of the ladder.
Kids are shouting and whooping.
I peer through the rungs again, waiting to see him plummet.
In an instant, he’s free-falling, positioned in an ungraceful bellyflop. I hear his body smack the unforgiving water sharply.
Kids are laughing and pointing.
Through the rungs, I see my little brother surface and swim/limp to the side.
I just know mum will be mad and say, “I told you so.”As the next head vanishes over the top, I make a decision.
I make a u-turn.
I shift my body to the side of the ladder and start the long, slow descent of shame.
I know what I’m in for.
The slaps and jeers, the pointing and the sniggering, the name-calling and the chicken-clucking.
But I don’t care. I take my first step down the ladder – I will accept my punishment.
My second step down the ladder – I do not regret this decision.
My third step down the ladder – I feel my body flooding with relief. I continue downwards, feeling more confident with each step I take.
I want my two feet firmly back on the dirty, grey concrete path of our local swimming pool.
Conquering the second level diving board can wait for another day.

My mother, the overtaker

500 words: Car Stories

https://open.abc.net.au/explore/66395

My mother came to driving later in life. I was 12 when she got her licence and I can still remember the day she passed the test and excitedly showed the family her P-plates.
When Mum became a driver, Dad (a motor mechanic by trade) bought a 1962 XP Ford Falcon that needed a bit of work. He fixed it and sprayed it a bright orangey baby poo colour – it was the 70s after all.

One long weekend, we took the Ford on holidays with us to the Central Coast. Our 21 year old cousin was visiting from overseas. He was keen to go to the beach so mum offered to drive my cousin, my younger brother and sister and myself.

It was a stinking hot day. The one-lane road leading to the beach was bumper-to-bumper. Kids were hanging out windows, whilst frazzled looking mum and dad drivers resisted the urge to clamp their hands on their car horns and keep them there.

Mum stayed in the line of traffic with all the other cars until she hit upon a brilliant idea.

No one was using the verge on the left, so she diligently put on her left blinker and pulled out onto it. She then started to make her way, slowly forward, from the end of the queue, creeping past each car waiting in the line.

We had gotten past quite a few cars. With our windows wound down and the relief of finally moving, things were going pretty well for us. That is until we heard a loud, booming voice saying “Don’t let that woman in the orange car in! Don’t let the orange car in!”

Someone in the line of cars we were overtaking was using his CB radio as a public address system and was urging the other drivers in the queue not to let us back into the line of traffic.

Mum, of course, was totally oblivious to what was going on.

I slunk down in my seat. I cringed with shame and embarrassment.

“Mum!” I hissed, “He’s talking about us!”

“What? What about us?” asked Mum, innocently. She really had no idea.

“He’s telling everybody not to let us in!” I spat.

Maybe they hadn’t covered this in the driving lessons she’d taken, I thought.

Mum kept driving slowly, trying to get back into the line of traffic. But the cars had heeded “The Voice” and had moved closer together, blocking us from the queue.

Eventually, a fellow driver took pity on us and let us in. We did eventually get to the beach.

Even though this incident seems very funny now, many decades later, I still remember it as my first memory of public humiliation. I’m happy to say my mother wasn’t traumatised by the experience, but I definitely was!

Ladies who lunch

500 Words: Cringe

https://open.abc.net.au/explore/66309

Bingo! The doors open and the bingo aficionados flow out. Here comes my mum, a big smile on her face and a big meat tray under her arm.
She gets a few dirty looks from some fellow bingo buddies who are jealous of her winnings.
She sees me waiting and raises her free hand in triumph. “For you!” She signals, grinning.
“Yay,” I mouth, rubbing my hands together, another barbecue on the weekend then. Mum and I are off to lunch.
We examine the club’s bistro menu and settle on fish and chips for mum and cajun beef salad for me.
I grab us a drink at the bar and we get a window table. We sit and chat.
Our buzzer bursts into life and I jump up to claim our meals.
The food is good. Mum enjoys hers very much and mine is delicious. Tender pieces of char-grilled beef atop a mound of shredded salad with spinach and cabbage and other green things.
We finish up and mum spies some friends of hers who have been unwell lately but who are here for lunch. We pack up our stuff and make our way over to their table to say hello.
They are very happy to see us and we spend a few minutes catching up.
We leave them to finish their lunch.
On the way out, mum spots some of her other friends, so we stop again to have a chat and see how they are going. We discuss our respective lunches and how tasty everything was today. Mum and I leave and head off to St Vinnies for a look. Mum introduces me to a lady who used to live near us many, many years ago. We have another lengthy chat.
I leave mum near her car and I head off home – lots to do this arvo. As I drive along, I check my face in the rear view mirror.
I fiddle with my hair. I scratch my earlobe.
I decide to bare my teeth and check my smile.
Shock, horror!!
Staring back at me is a mouth full of teeth peppered with lots of green stuff – obviously bits of my very green garden salad lunch.
The green bits are everywhere, top and bottom, none of my teeth seem to have escaped the chives onslaught. I cringe…I have been speaking and smiling at lots of my mother’s friends through an embarrassing mouthful of yuck!
I feel so embarrassed. What are they going to think of me!!
Why didn’t mum tell me? I race home and phone her to tell her what happened
She laughs at me and assures me she didn’t notice anything.
I can only hope her friends are kind and forgiving and also shortsighted so that maybe, like mum, they didn’t see anything either!

The sleepover

500 Words: One Moment, This Year

https://open.abc.net.au/explore/63145

She had so wanted to go, this youngest daughter of mine.

I had tried to dissuade her – couldn’t she just have a ‘whole day play’ instead?

No, she assured me. That really wouldn’t do.

And so she went – with her little red rolling suitcase and a beaming smile.

She was going to the warm and loving home of her best friend, after all.The afternoon dragged.

We had an early dinner without her.

No going to the tyre swing tonight – she’s not here to ask me.

No hanging over the back gate, looking at the cows – she’s not here to hang over the back gate with.

Even the dog is sad. He looks up at me with his big brown eyes, tipping his head to one side as if asking where his friend is, the one that always brings his lead out after dinner in preparation for his walk. I pat his head and stroke his velvety ears slowly. I don’t feel like walking him tonight, my heart isn’t in it.Her Barbies are all over the lounge room floor where she left them in the rush to go this afternoon. I pack them up slowly.

I pick up her sketch pad – I flip over the pages she’s been drawing on. A very detailed castle is on the first page. It has three huge turrets. One for the girls, one in the middle for the mother and father, and one for the boys.

My eyes are tearing up and as I flip to the next page, a fat, salty tear escapes.

I flip through more pages of drawings of girls’ rooms and boys’ rooms.It’s all too much. The sadness of my absent daughter rushes up to me. I shut the sketch book quickly and leave it in the middle of the dining room table, ready for her return.I feel torn. Should I ring her? See if she’s okay?

But what if she’s not?

What if she’s sad, missing home?I could go and get her. She’s only 15 minutes away by car.

But she’d be upset about leaving her friend.

She’d be upset about not staying at her friend’s for the whole time.Okay, I’ll ring.

No, no. I won’t ring her.What if she’s really having a lovely time, having fun and then I ring and she starts missing home and I upset everything?

No. Okay I won’t ring.It’s 9pm.

Then the house phone rings, breaking my melancholy. I jump.

I reach for the receiver, trying to shake off my sadness as I answer. “Hello?”

A little voice answers excitedly. “Mummy, it’s me!”In that moment, my heart does a fluttery happy dance, my shoulders lose their stoop and I stand much taller. My face is plastered with the biggest grin ever and I press the receiver against my ear, hard – I don’t want to miss a word.”Hello, you!” I boom into the receiver.

“Are you having a good time?” I ask as cheerily as I can.I plonk myself down at the kitchen table, ready to be regaled with her afternoon’s adventures.

We laugh and giggle. We talk about what she had for dinner and where she is going to sleep. Her friend gets on the line and we discuss toothpaste (they are just about to brush their teeth).

They are going to read books together.We both hang up, happy.

I look at the kitchen clock and work out how many hours till she is home again.

First day

500 Words: How We Met

https://open.abc.net.au/explore/60252

I’d never been to preschool, there was no such thing as Orientation Day and what was a ‘teacher’?

Not the best preparation for the start of school, but that’s how things were for me many years ago.

After a lovely walk holding onto my brother’s stroller as mum guided us along the footpaths and across the roads, we had arrived at the local primary school – which, of course, I had never set foot in before!

The school was huge, a large brick building with large playgrounds, both bitumen and grass. There were toilet blocks and wash rooms, portable buildings and verandas.

My classroom was on the first floor of a long, skinny building. We climbed the stairs and were pointed in the direction of the end room.

The kindergarten area was large – a double room really with lots of toys. There were trucks and blocks. In a corner were dolls with little cots and clothes hung from miniature clothes rails. We could see books, tables and chairs, paper and coloured pencils.

And there were lots of children! Boys and girls about my age.

There were mums and younger siblings, the odd grandparent or two and even a couple of fathers. The huge room was filled with new students and lots of hangers-on!

Things seemed to be going pretty well. Some of the mums were leaving quietly. I was having a lovely time until the wailing started. Other mothers were trying to leave but their children were wrapped around their legs, screaming and sobbing.

When I realised that my mother was going to have to leave, too, I started blubbering. I latched onto my mother and buried my head in her side.

Then, a sound. A couple of short, sharp claps. An older lady who looked like someone’s grandmother stood in the middle of the room, gently demanding our attention.

She had her hair in bun and wore lipstick. Her clothes were very formal, a tweed skirt, tailored shirt and pearls. Her black leather pumps were shiny with sensible heels.

I had never met this woman before, yet she had my complete attention. She introduced herself as the teacher and welcomed us to her class. She told us we would have lots of fun, learn many new things and make lots of new friends. Her voice was warm and kind. She had a twinkle in her eye and a friendly face. I felt safe in her presence.

Our teacher encouraged our parents to stay for as long as was necessary.

Eventually, my mother did leave and I faced the rest of my first day in kindergarten on my own.

My first year of schooling was a very happy and productive one. I had lots of fun, learnt many new things and made new friends.

My first teacher had a big impact on my life and I will always remember, with fondness, the lovely lady I had met for the first time on that very first day.

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!