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                                        Move over Mr Hitchcock 

To preserve the privacy of the couple featured in this story I shall call them Jane and John. Just the way the two young things who featured in our first reading books when we were children were always call Jane and John. Although I always did feel that they led such very boring lives it made privacy quite unnecessary. No one in my class was particularly interested whether they went ‘to the street with mother’ or ‘jumped on a log or not’. We could all do that without having to write about it.

So I shall begin to tell you about my Jane and John.

Their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary was coming up and their teenage children clubbed together to pay for a surprise weekend holiday for the happy couple. They always worked long hours in their business and hardly ever took a great deal of time away from it.

 It was a kind and thoughtful gift.

All that Jane and John were told to do was to pack an overnight bag with clothes suitable for the city.

On the day of the anniversary the first thing which happened when Jane answered a knock at the door was to be confronted by a Jester.  He bowed and the bells on the end of his pointed cap tinkled prettily. The rest of his costume made of purple and gold material was very striking and a sight not often seen in the streets of an Australian country town.

After a few shouts of ‘Hear Ye, Hear Ye’ which brought John rushing to the door in a panic wondering what the bellowing was all about the Jester read and sang a song.

They stood gaping in amazement at the court fool before them as he recited the rhyme full of olde English words such as ‘prithee, thou, love divineth, marriageth-well, merry maids’ and various other dollops of Ye Merry England of old. It was quite incomprehensible but meant with the best of intentions to entertain and cheer the merry souls who listened.

When he had finished his song and they had crossed his palm with some silver he departed after performing a  grand flourish of his cape, which had until then gone unnoticed. He then bowed deeply and disappeared into the shrubbery to find his way out of the garden. Probably hoping to go unnoticed by the neighbours before reaching the safety of his trusty steed he no doubt had tied to a tree further along the street.

 Very soon after that a white limousine, which appeared to be about two house blocks in length drove into their driveway taking up most of the drive and quietly settled down comfortably like a hen in a cosy nest.

Jane and John still recovering from the medieval visitor looked out the window as the driver wearing a neat chauffer’s uniform doffed his cap in a jaunty way.

‘Lord, from the ridiculous to the sublime.’ John muttered.

The chauffeur accepted their overnights bags without a shadow of disappointment at the shabbiness of the luggage. The bags took up a miniscule area of the boot of the car and looked like a ‘couple of forgotten pieces of road kill’, as John remarked afterward.

Jane is not very tall and because she sat down too quickly found she was almost lying down. It took a struggle to get into a seated position so she could see out the window. She felt extremely self conscious driving through their neighboured in such an ostentatious vehicle and hoped she wouldn’t be seen by too many people. It would give some of the old biddies even more reason to complain of the exorbitant prices they accused them of charging in their shop.

It wasn’t very long before the limousine floated into the entry of one of the most opulent hotels in the city.

‘Oh, John,’ Jane groaned. ‘I wish I had bought some better luggage and packed some clothes that would be more suitable for this place.’

John who is a very casual chap and hardly ever out of grubby shorts and T-shirts, summer or winter, replied, ‘don’t worry about it, we wouldn’t ever think of paying for ourselves to come back here at any time. So they’ll never remember us anyway.’

They thanked the driver who had been a friendly fellow and ready to chat throughout the drive.

He wished them a happy weekend and the limousine slid away silently.

 The children had reserved the top floor bridal suite for them.

As they moved swiftly up through the floors in the elevator John remarked that the movement was enough to make his nose bleed.

Jane laughed a little, but it was only a little because she knew he wasn’t really joking. John had a problem with sudden nosebleeds. The doctor had suggested that perhaps he should see someone about them if they became any worse.

The elevator opened to reveal a beautiful suite, filled with fresh flowers perfuming the air. A large box of chocolates lay on the coverlet of the enormous bed with another small posy for Jane to wear on her dress that evening.

They had been told a table was booked for them in the hotel dining room for later.

‘Oh, how lovely, they are such thoughtful kids aren’t they?’ she said quietly as she smelled the lilacs and roses. ‘We are lucky.’ 

The dinner was a delight and to their surprise all the family and their partners had come. John made a small rather self conscious speech and they cut the cake with a new Stirling silver knife that their daughter had purchased for the family to present to them as a memento. 

Later, back up in the sumptuous suite John stood surveying the bathroom.

It was as big as their sitting room at home. He looked at the various cosmetics and toiletries the hotel had supplied.

‘Let’s have a spa bath.’

Jane gazed at the spa apprehensively. It was three times bigger than their bath at home.

‘Well, we’ve never had one’, she answered a little doubtfully. ‘I’m not sure how they work.’

‘Well, we’ll find out.’

The water began to rush into the bath as if he had opened an irrigation pump.

He poured some liquid into the gushing torrent. It was bubble bath oil and sparkling suds began to build a layer upon the surface of the water. The suds grew, and grew until a large foaming dome frothed and frolic on the watery surface.

 He turned the spa on and the bubbles began to multiply rapidly the way a meringue will grow to fill the basin in which it is being beaten by an angry chef taking his troubles out on the defenceless eggwhite.

Soon the bubbles were higher than the spa edges and began to flow down onto the tiled floor.

‘Oh you twit! Why did you put so much in?’ Jane panicked trying to pick the blobs of froth up.

‘Don’t worry about that. There’s a plug hole in the floor that will drain all that out. Come on my lovely, hop in and enjoy yourself.’ John was getting into the mood of the evening.

The candles they had lit on the bathroom shelves glowed and flickered romantically. The smell of the bubble bath was delightful.

Smiling, Jane began to tie her long hair up on top of her head.

‘Watch this.’ John stepped into the spa, sat down and disappeared beneath the snowy mountain.

‘You’ll have to take some out,’ Jane said when he resurfaced. ‘If I get in I won’t be able to breath.’

He obliged by splashing a few piles onto the floor. Then he disappeared beneath the foam again. Jane watching for his reappearance noticed a slight pink tinge to some of the bubbles. It seemed to be spreading.

John re-appeared smiling broadly. ‘Come on in, it’s great!’ He beamed at her and then watched bewildered by her change of expression to one of horror and then she screamed.

In the candlelight she could see that the pink tinge of the bubbles had turned to scarlet. Blood red scarlet streams of water and foam trickled from his nose, covering his chin beneath his happy grin. His chest was covered in sparkling blood bubbles.

Greatly shocked at her reaction he wiped his face and spread more of his vital fluid across his face and up into his eyes and hair. A large quivering mass of blood-stained bubble clung to one side of his head giving the appearance that his brain had exploded out of his scull.

Jane screamed again and threw a towel at this vision of a ghoul that was her husband of twenty five years. ‘Wipe your face, wipe your face.’

The flickering of the candles now turned the room into a sinister chamber of horrors she had only ever seen before in spine chilling movies.

Gone was the romantic atmosphere, gone was the loving ardour of half an hour before. Out ran Jane from the room.

John cleaned up the bathroom and they watched television for a while as they usually did before going to bed and a small brandy each helped to restore the frayed nerves a little.

As John predicted, they haven’t ever been back.  

Now, I think if our John and Jane books at school had them doing that sort of thing we might have paid better attention.

Cheers,    Cynthia.

 

 

 

 

Under The Worm Farm Lid.

Letter From The Other Side; From Cynthia

Tightrope Walking And Other Gymnastic Feats In Life. 

At the time of life when the children have left home you feel at last your days may become a little less frantic and easier there comes upon many of us a circumstance I for one, had never considered  seriously.

Like so many millions before us, we became parents-in-law and then we became grandparents.

‘Aaah’ I can hear you say.

After the initial shock of the empty nest syndrome begins to fade you  realize your children are no longer in need of your help and care and so you settle into the first tentative era of learning to become a mother-in-law and father-in-law, often followed rather quickly by becoming a grandparent.

 This in itself can come as a shock to those who find it hard to see themselves in the roll of the grey haired, wrinkly and lavender or tobacco smelling grandparents who walked slowly through the memories of childhood.

When a group of people our own age get together it is inevitable the difficulties of walking the tightrope between our own thinking and those of our younger generations of parents will enter into the conversation.

We find it hard not to compare our beliefs, experiences and opinions with those of our adult children.

From listening to many, I believe that the majority of us find ourselves always balancing in our minds how much we can say, or even if we have the right to interfere in a situation when our whole being is screaming at us to do so.

These conversations become animated and the volume rises a decibel or two as everyone feels the relief of recounting the latest happening along the wobbly highwires of life.

It is very typical of our society for both parents to return to work following the birth of a child and very often much of the task of caring for that child during some of its most formative years falls to grandparents. Many generous grandparents take on this task willingly in order to help make life for their families easier both financially and emotionally.

Largely, during our lives as post war children we were raised in homes with stay-at-home mothers, working fathers and children who went to school. We were expected to complete after school chores to earn our pocket money. We did our homework and tidied up our few toys before going to bed at an early hour. Our homes were orderly and the wider community was more disciplined. Most went to church on Sundays or special days such as Easter and Christmas.

It all seems so simple looking back. Mum was in charge when Dad wasn’t around and on the whole we didn’t speak back to them or our teachers, we were soon given a good whack with a strap if we did and weren’t allowed to go out to the cinema if we really stepped over the line of what was considered acceptable behaviour. 

The problem for our age group is we no longer know or recognise what acceptable behaviour is and are shocked at what it appears to have become.

Now when visiting family, we sometimes writhe inwardly wishing we could turn off a television program we consider unsuitable for a child to watch. We hold our tongues in the presence of over indulgent parents allowing vile table manners only to see them then succumb to whinging kids who won’t eat their meals but are happy to eat something that will ensure the dentist will be earning another hundred or so dollars from the family again in the near future.

We see playrooms,   - now here I have to pose a question-   how did we manage to live in our smaller houses with less mod-cons and bigger families? How did our parents remain sane without playrooms?....These playrooms are like a second wardrobe for a woman with too many clothes. They are filled to over flowing with toys; many of which have been discarded for months and should by now have been moved on to a charity store.

Sometimes the living room becomes a sort of shrine to the children’s needs. The books, toys, electronic things left strewn across the floor, the television, video, C.D’s everything tuned for the children’s enjoyment. No attempt is taken to turn down the volume of music or talk-back that no one is listening to but it still intrudes into and overrides any attempt at conversation.

Grandfathers suffering from years of working in industries without the now compulsory protection of their hearing sit in a soup of noise that prevents them knowing what is being said by anyone in the room and are then labelled by the family as ‘loosing it’, because they can’t understand a question.

 No attempt to tidy the mess of toys is made but heaven help any grandmother who stands up and twists her ankle on something unnoticed. She falls in an untidy tangle and during the trip to the emergency department of the hospital, is told she should have looked where she was treading.

Who is it really in charge of this home? The children or the parents? Are modern parents nervous of stamping their authority in the house in case they will upset the children or some unseen authority? Where is the guidance and the boundaries of behaviour which should be put in place early to help prevent the nightmare adolescents that are roaming our streets indulging in petty and sometimes serious crimes? It isn’t up to the police or teachers to do all the educative work with our children; it is up to parents and society as a whole.

In our group we all agree we love these people, not always sure why, but we do. What a pity we feel so relieved to get away from them after a few hours.

I believe it uses an immense amount of energy to hold in all the built up frustrations we experience so perhaps it is a good exercise for us in some absurd way.

Others complain of instances when a crisis looms in the young parents’ lives they are immediately contacted and the whole sorry story is poured out into their ever caring ears. They worry for days hoping to hear that all is well.

 Eventually after some time and nights of lost sleep they may contact the son or daughter only to be told ‘Oh that! Oh we fixed that days ago. Sorry I should have called.’ Yes, they should have, but didn’t.

Then there are the emergency calls for a babysitter. ‘The grandparents wouldn’t have anything much planned would they? They can drop whatever it is anyway and we can play on their guilt if they don’t show willing enough. Tell them how little what-his-name is really looking forward to seeing them.’

The grandparents in fact know only too well that little what’s-his-name has screamed and shouted at Mum and Dad in a spectacular tantrum that he doesn’t want Nanna and Grandpa to come because he knows they will make him tidy up after himself, clean his teeth after having not been able to wheedle a sugary bun or biscuit out of them and make him go to bed before 10 p.m. without watching hours of television.

Part of being a mother-in-law to your son’s partner is to make sure you don’t ever, ever, make a verbal slip that may give her a reason for her to feel you are worried that the state of the house could give rise to the next outbreak of bubonic plague.

Being a mother-in-law to your daughter’s husband is a little easier. He can ignore your presence, by watching a football game or go off into a shed somewhere a hundred yards from the house where the father-in-law will have to come into his own with good blokey sort of conversation and riveting stories about how he would have dealt with a burst water pipe or a broken electrical fitting. Thus encouraging someone who has already come close to blowing himself up and electrocuting himself, to have another try.

Another gripe is the lost joy of eating out together as a family. I say eating out together, but it rarely happens.

A friend and I were dining at a beautiful restaurant set in spectacular scenery of rolling hills, snowy mountain tops in the distance with deer and goats frolicking about in the paddocks around us. So much to look at and what were the groups of families at the other tables doing? Everyone, with the exception of the older generation was playing with their smart phones.

There was very little verbal conversation. They pushed food about their plates while pressing buttons and were hardly aware of the natural beauty surrounding them. The in-laws caught us watching them and a look of complete understanding passed between us as one of the young women went outside onto the surrounding balcony not It wasn’t to admire the view, the animals, birds or trees but to have a cigarette.

There is a very high percentage of older Australians who suffer from depression and or anxiety. If we didn’t have our clubs, Probus Groups, U.3.A groups and the like there would be many more.

I have acquaintances that barely see any family members from one year to the next, rarely get a telephone call and although communication is so much easier, they don’t even get a quick text or email. These are good people who remember the various birthdays and anniversaries and care deeply for their children and grandchildren’s welfare.

However we can’t blame the younger generations entirely for this situation because it is up to us make our own lives as liveable as possible and to reach out to others who may be in such situations.

Children are not born to provide parents or guardians with unalloyed satisfaction.

As parents we have all without exception been guilty of making a few mistakes and sometimes a very large hash of a situation.

We brought our children up to be independent and not clannish in their attitudes to humanity. We sent them off to study in overseas countries and to live hundreds or even thousands of miles from us. We succeeded in what we set out to do. They are independent free thinkers. So, our aims have been met. Some just missed out on learning to be considerate and are selfish and overly fixed on success and material things as the only means of obtaining that illusive state of mind we all seek. ……….Happiness.

I often read an alternative lifestyle magazine I wrote articles for during the 1970’s ,80’s and 90’s. I still buy it out of loyalty and read pages which contain ideas and written as if they are newly discovered and original. Perhaps the writer should read some of the older publications. He would save himself the trouble of repeating knowledge which has already been passed on. Then he could perhaps build on it.

History and the elderly repeat themselves needlessly in this world in so many ways.

Our daughter gave her dad a T-shirt a while back. On it was written

WARNING!

 I’M RETIRED.

 I KNOW EVERYTHING AND I HAVE THE TIME TO TELL YOU.

We know what we know and like it or not we cannot stop others from having to learn for themselves.    Unfortunately they sometimes learn the hard way.

I haven’t touched on extended families, step-families and mixed race families. That isn’t a highwire challenge. That is a minefield of human relations.

I do think however, if we can’t manage to have our families mix with love and acceptance, how can we ever hope to have the rest of the world live in any sort of meaningful respect and peace?

Try and think positive thoughts this week. It may help, 

Cynthia

 

 

 

Under The Worm Farm Lid

Letter From The Other Side.  From Cynthia.

When All Else Fails. 

It was when I decided to put my purchases through the self serve check-out at the supermarket that I had the first inkling my day was not going to be a time full of smooth flowing pleasure.

Things began to go haywire when the 2litre container of orange juice flew out of my hands and propelled itself into the machine with a crash. The woman on duty for this area put an abrupt end to a conversation she had been having  and came running toward us.

The container lid flew off and the contents burst like a fountain that had suddenly come to life after a long dry spell. It was most spectacular and quite amazing to witness how far and wide two litres of orange juice could spread. It of course included me, Teddy and the man who was using the machine beside us with a splatter of orange juice. The pale orange liquid flowed down the front of the machine and across the floor. Our groceries waiting to be checked out were pelted and the ones which had already been checked out were spotted.

My embarrassment grew as I became aware of people staring, a few unfeeling souls even had the gall to laugh at my predicament and no doubt just dying to get home and tell everyone what they had seen. Concerned supermarket staff descended on our position with buckets and mops like a group of vampires that have smelled warm blood.  

‘At least we were in the right store to have plenty of cleaning products.’ I quipped. My stab at levity fell on their ears with as much affect as the wet sponges they were holding had on the juice which by now seemed to be congealing a little around the edges. 

People wheeling trolleys went through the mess without seeing it but became aware fairly soon as the wheels of their carts began to make the unmistakably slick, sticky sound of grit being picked up from the floor. It increased the further they travelled and began to produce traffic lines on the cleaned tiles.

When I looked at the total on the machine’s screen I saw it had retaliated to my assault by charging me three times for the citrus juice which since it had now spread across quite a large area of the store I felt was rather unwarranted. I wasn’t about to get my money’s worth by licking it up.

The bombardment of our machine seemed to affect the one the man beside us was using and his it went on strike in sympathy and refused his card.

He was livid and began trying to get some help from somewhere. Most of the staff was too busy trying to clean up our troubles before more people entered the store and spread the orange glue further a-field throughout the aisles.

The unhappy gentleman to our left feeling neglected by the preoccupied staff threw his bag of groceries in a basket and purposely wheeled it to the middle of the orange pool and strode out of the store squelching footprints all the way outside through the glass doors.

 It was a cold morning and I’m sure some of the steam I thought I saw issuing from his nostrils was as a result of his heightened blood pressure.

To be fair he could have turned round and blamed me so I hope he was more successful with his shopping somewhere else.

The floor was cleaned sooner than our clothes. We left the staff wiping down the checkout area and tried to make ourselves as insignificant as possible as we left but wafting quite a pleasant marmalade smell behind. We endeavoured as we travelled home in a stunned and silent condition not to spread our orange dressings onto the car seats.

At home, still flustered and upset we had to undress and remove all our gluey top clothes and put them in the wash. Our shoes were cleaned and the soles washed because everywhere we walked there was that tell-tale sluuuurpy gluey noise that sticky shoe soles make on vinyl flooring. It was even essential to have small spots wiped from the lenses of our specs.

Before we could put the groceries away into the cupboards every item received the obligatory wipe to stop the gummy spots from attracting ants or mice.

Eventually we subsided into our chairs and enjoyed a restorative cup of tea.

After a while, I thought of ‘Open Writing’ and feeling very guilty I hadn’t sent in an article for a week or so I sat in front of my friendly home computer to write, hoping in some way to put the ghastly morning’s accident in some sort of perspective and trying to see it in the way some of those that were giggling at us in the store would have viewed it. It was going to be hard work!

After waiting for the computer to fire up I pressed my Word files and looked for my writing. 

Now, my essays, poems, pod casts and letters do not remotely hold the splendour of content, thrill of story line or memorable insight of Tolstoy. It is however my writing and some of it, just a little, has won me the odd prize and been published and has been appreciated by a few. It is my little interest and hobby and something I enjoy even when no one wants to read it. On viewing the blank page my heart lurched and I felt positively ill. A decade of writing files should have been looking at me. They were not there.

It was a white shimmering blank zero.

Two hours of frustration, tears, indigestion tablets and a scream of help to Teddy my resident computer guru and husband and they were found in a place within the mysterious bowels of my machine I didn’t even know existed. 

I knew it was a bad day the moment the dog jump up to wake me by sticking his nose in my ear after I had had a sleepless night and was at last enjoying one of the three hours I had managed to grab.

Better luck to you all with the machines you meet this week.

Cynthia.

 

elizabeththompsonmywrite.blogspot.com

Under The Worm farm Lid

Letter From The Other Side; from Cynthia

Old Ticker.

Old Ticker was known by everyone in the town. He helped out with cutting fire wood for elderly people, did the odd gardening jobs and when the small funeral parlour was for some reason experiencing a bit of a gridlock of deceased persons in their refrigerated premises, he would help out with the grave digging.

            Out of respect for the bereaved relatives and friends who may have needed to pass the cemetery during the days before the funeral while they made their way to the shopping centre or pub, he usually went along to the gravesite during the evenings and by the glow of his old fashioned Hurricane lamp he would dig the grave. His only company would be the possums scampering around in the trees and birds settling down for the night.

            He was a tall sinewy man. His face was long and thin and despite a life of outdoor work he never lost his pallor. His long arms hung loosely by his side most of the time except for when he felt the urge to know the time. Needing to know the time was a compulsive thing with Ticker. For the best part of his life a watch had encircled his bony left wrist. It had been a special birthday gift when he was young and except for when he indulged in the occasional bath, he had worn it ever since and boasted that a daily wind was the only attention he had ever needed to give it in all his years of ownership and it still kept perfect time.

            Most people supposed it was because of this watch and the pride he felt in its beautiful case and fine gold band he had formed the habit of going about telling everyone the time and displaying his new gift and this had been the beginning of his obsession.

            When he became a part-time grave digger his mind would have dwelt on the passing of time and the shortness of life and this must have been the final catalyst to confirm an ingrained fetish and concern about life’s brief span.

            Whatever it was, the habit stayed with him and all conversations began with ‘Hello Cynthia how are you at 11.02 a.m. on this day Monday the 6th of February 2012?’ or ‘I spoke to Teddy at 7.55 p.m. last week Tuesday the of 15th January.’ You get my drift. He not only told everyone the time, he remembered when and where he contacted all of us. Although this was a little disconcerting when someone first met him, we all became used to it and were barely aware of the sprinkling of time and dates which were included in all discussion. No matter what the subject, somehow time was always included in it .

            If he had ever been called as a witness at a trial he would have been invaluable.

            One evening, you will have to ask Ticker which one because I forget those sort of details; an ashen faced young couple visiting an aunt who lived in the town rushed into the pub. They were breathless and the young woman was shaking so violently someone thinking she was about to faint pushed a chair under her sagging knees as her body began to sink rapidly toward the floor.

            People hurried to help and the usual questions were buzzing about. ‘Are you all right?’ Of course they plainly weren’t. ‘Will we call the doctor or ambulance?’ ‘Would you like a drink?’

That was the first question which received an affirmative reply and a beer and brandy soda were produced.

After a few gulps the young man staring wildly at the inquisitive faces about him announced. ‘We’ve seen a ghost….I never thought I would say that because I don’t believe in them, or didn’t…. but now I do.’

The look on his face defied anyone to disagree.

We don’t get much crime in this place and we didn’t think they looked as if they had been taking any drugs or been drinking before they had come into the pub.

‘You’d better tell us about it.’ drawled a fellow who was already so far gone he would probably see a ghost or two before his night was over as well. We all settled back to listen.

‘We were walking on the bike track beside the river,’ the young man began, ‘and because Ellie was a bit upset we were running late and her aunt, her mum’s sister, would be angry with us for being later home than we said we would be, we decided to walk up along the path that passes the cemetery. It was getting dark and colder too and the wind was whistling around the old graves. As we passed buy the cemetery, Ellie mentioned her grandfather was buried there.’ As the lad spoke Ellie’s head was nodding in agreement and she kept biting her lower lip reliving the scene in her mind once more. ‘I asked her’ he continued, ‘when that was and she said she didn’t know. Well.’ and here his hand began shaking violently again…. ‘Ellie asked me the time, and from the cemetery there came this croaking sort of voice. I looked across the grass and a tall thin ghost surrounded by a weird sort of glow rose from out of a grave and said.’ Here he stood demonstrating the ghost’s actions and held his shaking hand up above his head. ‘He was buried at 2.05.p.m. on the 14 January 1973. And it’s now 10.37 p.m. on the 12^th of May 2012 and time you took the little lady home young man, her mother will be worried.’

“Ellie screamed and we ran. We’ve never run so fast in all our lives! I’ll never forget those dates and words in all my life.” He concluded as he slumped back onto his stool.

The reaction he received obviously wasn’t the one of shock he had expected. Instead he was dismayed to see and hear most of the pub patrons either choking on their drinks or roaring with laughter.

The following day Ticker walked the streets stopping to speak with everyone he knew and asking them why, when he had been digging a grave the previous evening 10.07 p.m. for old Mrs Miller who had died at 9.22 a.m. last Wednesday 6^th of May 2012, a young couple after speaking to him ran screaming from the park.

Nobody could bring themselves to tell Ticker why.

It’s now 3.22 p.m. on the 8^th of April 2013 and I’ll say

Cheers for now,

Cynthia.

 

Under The Worm Farm Lid.

Letter From The Other Side; from Cynthia.

Last week my dog was taking me for our regular walk through his favourite haunts. He has been invaluable to me during my recovery and has become not just a companion but a major part in my therapy.

He was the reason I began to take short walks and is still the reason I will move from my chair on days when I would rather be resting than take myself outside.   It has been truly amazing during these last few months how he has been aware of my inability to move about as I once did. When, after nearly twelve months I first attempted a walk with him, he matched his pace with mine and seemed to know if I was hesitating on a slope or a step and would stop and lean into my leg lightly but comfortingly as though saying ‘I’m here, It’s O.K.’

We are now back to the full two mile stroll we always took.

So many of us walk each day, some going from place to place with only the goal in mind, others amble along with a friend or lover enjoying the company and paying little heed to what may be surrounding them. The ones I feel sympathy for are the joggers and power walkers. They look so unhappy and sour as they drip sweat profusely while pounding past me, often starring fixedly at where the next footfall should be without raising their eyes in any sort of greeting. Most are plugged into a type of electronic device with wires protruding from their ears. They often wear a look of grumpy determination. For me, a walk should be something pleasurable, a good exercise to help lower the blood pressure, sooth the mind and remind us the world is not always the dreadful place the news broadcasts would have us believe. I fail to see how exercising so hard during such hot weather and in a mind-set that is not happy, can be good for anyone.

 Perhaps it is the thought of the glass of wine they will enjoy when next they are talking to friends and are in a situation to throw in the line, ‘When I was out jogging the other day,’ compensates for the pain they put their bodies through. Bodies that will probably need premature knee and hip replacements if they keep stressing the joints for too long, encouraging the body’s ‘use by dates’ to come along much sooner than it should.

My favourite walk is with Walter. I think until you walk with a dog it is easy to miss so many of the sensory pleasures of human and animal contact that a dog will help you make and enjoy.

            Walter is a jet black cocker spaniel and of course has the appealing, heart melting eyes of his breed and uses them to great advantage. He adores the route we take through the main shopping street because it is busy, full of interesting sounds and smells issuing from restaurants, clothing shops, busy service stations and fragrant hardware shops wafting the odour of manures and sweet smelling timber through their doors.

As we turn a corner and walk past a boutique brewery; he always checks the shrubs and grasses to see if there have been any changes or new dogs since we were last passing by. The garrulous terrier which lives around the corner often follows the same path and I’m sure our stop there is to cover up his scent. They don’t like one another very much.

 He isn’t keen when a truck hisses the airbrakes. He replies to the insolent barking of a superior looking Blue Heeler hanging over the tray of a farmer’s Ute and lifts his head in appreciation of the rural smell issuing as another truck carrying cattle into the markets passes by.

The clothes hanging on racks outside apparel stores provide enormous pleasure as do the people sorting through them. His nose twitches with appreciation as he checks the air to sniff the scrumptious smells of the coffee shops and pub lunches and sometimes after using those ever appealing eyes, receives a small snack from some soft hearted person sitting at a table outdoors.

As we walk, his tail keeps up a constant wag of pleasure and tourists missing the pets they have left behind at home ask if they may give him a pat. He sits obligingly in front of them. It happens so often he is quite miffed if a group walk by and there isn’t at least one of them pause to pat. Last week a group of three stopped but only two of them patted. He moved and deliberately sat in front of the person who had ignored him and stared until the gentleman’s hand reluctantly moved to fastidiously touch the glossy black head. Satisfied he may have improved the gentleman’s attitude towards canines, we moved on.

Children hold out sticky hands as they pass by in strollers and every now and then I have a parent tell me their child doesn’t have a pet and it is rare for them to enjoy the opportunity of stroking a dog. To me, when I think back to my whole lifetime surrounded by animals of all kinds, I feel saddened for them that they will grow up with a void in their lives which prevented them from learning to love and care for another creature.

We move on from the street and turn down a road that leads to the park. He likes this road because there is a low brick fence he can jump onto and walk along it to demonstrate his balance and tight walking skills. We then go down the slope under the giant plane trees and across the grass toward the river where he is delighted if he can disturb the ducks from the group preening session they had been enjoying in the shade.

The river is different every day. When the level in low the children shift the smooth stones making them into pretend dams or walls or whatever their imaginations have created. These shapes change constantly with each different group of visitors. During winter the mood of the waters can change into stunning ferocity, sometimes raging and frothing and carrying trees and debris. We both stand and watch it because that is what everyone does. It seems to demand a moment of contemplation and is impossible to walk past without stopping and staring as it relentlessly moves along.

Here under the trees, the grass is long and thick. Often the council men have cut it and Walter smells the rich odours that come floating up from the ground. It must be a mix of cut grass, duck droppings, spilt food, people’s scents, decaying leaves, dropped cigarette butts…... So much he could tell me. Then he may enjoy startling a bird or watch the children at the swings or be attracted by the seductive smell of fish and chips that picnickers are spreading out across a table.

 A little further along, past one of the scary swing bridges that neither of us likes, is another low stone wall with a flat top. Here he jumps up and thumps his bottom down firmly. I am not allowed to move or be distracted until he has been petted and we have had a discussion about something. I don’t care if the people sitting at the tables under the trees of the restaurant behind us think I am balmy, he needs his chat. This is our small part of the day together. There are things he could tell me about some of those folk which they would prefer others didn’t know such as do they carry sweets, do they smoke, do they take drugs, are they friendly…or not, are they sad, do they have an illness? Dogs know these things and more.

 Sometimes we watch people swimming or canoeists paddling about and occasionally falling out into the water which has not long left the mountains and is still extremely cold. They emerge all pink and covered in Goosebumps.

Further along, the path is close to bushy scrub. It is used daily by dozens of people. This year summer has been long and hot and sometimes if the path has been quiet for a while we will come across a lizard sunning itself.

On a walk one day early in the season Walter kept bumping my legs and walking in front of me, eventually I stopped and asked ‘what’s wrong’? He was clearly not happy and stood stock still staring, his eyes fixed ahead. There I saw what had been upsetting him. On a low rock sunning itself was a young Tiger snake. It was only about three feet long but quite big enough to kill anything it struck. We would have passed within a foot of it had Walter allowed me to go on. Snakes kill a lot of dogs during summer particularly Fox terriers and the type that like to chase rabbits down holes. They have also killed quite a few people if medical attention isn’t found soon enough. I bent and picked up a small rock and threw it at the snake. He didn’t like being disturbed at all, flicked his tongue in disgust and slithered down off the rock into the dry grass. Once I was sure he was gone and Walter said it was safe, we went on our way.

Tourists from the city wander along this path oblivious to the wildlife that may be around and we locals don’t enlighten them very often because the wild things have more sense  than to stay around and mostly do less harm to the tourists than the tourists do to them.  

From that spot we slowly make our way up a slope past the elms and the Woolamai Pine tree and take small steps down another slope to the car.

Sometimes a small white dog, with a nasty attitude and an unrealistic, concept of its size will try and start an argument. Walter very wisely waits until he is in the security of the car before he lets fly with a deep and very loud reply. Once he is satisfied he has preserved his honour with the obnoxious little squirt he lies down.

I think any walk I take now is enriched by the things he has taught me to appreciate and a companionship that is not possible to explain to anyone who does not have an affinity with animals.

If you are lonely, get a dog. You will not only have a loyal companion you will have a friend who will help you meet new people, see new things. See some things in a different way and never complain about where you take him.

Happy walkies,

Cynthia.

 

Pop The Corks, Raise The Glasses, Strike Up The Band!. I'm Back.

To those of you who have been kind enough to search out my blog. and have found no new posts for months, I do apologize.
I have been ill.
Although I am not altogether better, I am much improved and getting on with my life.
New blogs should begin to appear as from today.
During my recovery Teddy and I have been working on a series of cartoons.
As regular readers know, we are keen organic gardeners and we have been collaborating in the creation of a cartoon series.
A new cartoon will be added most weeks from now on and we hope you will get a smile or even a laugh from the little creatures who live "Under The Worm Farm Lid'.

 

 

Letter From The Other Side; from Cynthia.

 It is unwise to begin sinking quietly into your favourite chair thinking thankful thoughts about Christmas and New Year celebrations being behind you because as soon as you do Australia Day celebrations begin. I’m sure other countries have this type of day. It is the day when national pride is supposed to shine like a beacon out into the world, or into a black hole which is my idea of where it mostly goes.

Politicians heap accolades on us bolstering our national psyche by telling us what a special people we are and many other wonderful things we promptly forget as soon as we enter a sporting arena or someone cuts us off on the freeway. That’s just before they go back to parliament to abuse the living daylights out of each other under the freedom of parliament and call each other names, heaping insults upon one another they wouldn’t dare utter in the public arena for fear of litigation.

At last the children are packed off back to school following a long and dreadful summer and parents are left contemplating the bills which fill the letter boxes after the purchasing of new uniforms, school books and computers, Oh yes, and buying all the now discarded Christmas gifts. Resolutely they return to work so they can pay for it all again next year.

Some parents and many others in our communities have no letter boxes. They have been washed away by floods and others have been burnt along with their homes, animals and livelihoods. It’s been a horrible summer.

A month after it began, the fire in the mountains near us is still burning. Professional and many volunteer firemen are still working long hours on their trucks or on foot in rugged terrain while water-bombing helicopters drone back and forth all day. At times the smoke has turned the sky red, stinging our eyes and throats making people with heart and lung disease ill. If you have ever seen a photograph of the eerie red atmosphere on mars, then think of us, that is what our landscape looks like at present.

We had a little rain and the fire has gone quiet as it creeps around the ravines and down into the gullies. It would only take another day of 40 degree heat and it could wake like a roaring giant and threaten to eat the towns and everything before it once more.

Most days we go for a walk with our dogs and joke with others we meet about taking our ‘breath of fresh smoke for the day.’ If the dogs are aware of the tension all around us they give no indication. Perhaps their trust in us is too complete.

This threat will pass, it always does. People have lost everything they own, some have lost their lives but we go on, we have to, we are told how tough we are how strong and brave we should be and beside all that according to the television and the supermarkets Valentines Day is coming!

That too will pass and before the last chocolate heart has left the shelves the chocolate eggs and bunnies will be filling the spaces.

The entire world, accept those who have suffered will forget the headlines and the pictures of destruction. It must, because it can’t become bogged down in despondency and depression. However, should you meet anyone who has been touched by these and other tragedies tread lightly on their feelings as you offer that person who has nothing left, a chocolate.