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.

Letter From The Other Side; from Cynthia.

‘Not by the hair on my chinny-chin-chin.’

The snow is still deep up on the mountain slopes but spring is stirring in the valleys. Birds are stealing the coconut fibre from the flowers hanging baskets and taking the threads from the weed matting edges to make their nests. The male bower bird has stolen every blue flower out of the garden to impress his harem.

Cats are strolling the streets at night howling their feline love songs in what to them is a delightful serenade and when the males come to blows, the losers of the fence top fights are taken to the vet to have their abscesses syringed. The owners, after paying a large bill, are given the dubious pleasure of tending to a spitting cat as they try to deal with the drainage tubes. This process often leads to the owner swabbing blood from scratches on her hands after being swatted by flailing claws.

 Cats appear to have no sense of appreciation toward veterinary or nursing care.

The young foxes have been kicked out of home to find their way in the world and to make room for this year’s family. As with the young of all species they are rather naive and lazy. The foxes sniff out the nearest chook pen to get a breakfast they don’t have to chase and hunt down.

Our neighbour who lives across the road left for Melbourne for a much needed holiday. We were happy to agree to care for her girls. Four lovely Isa Brown hens.

Her dog went with her and so to my horror the first morning I crossed the road to feed the girls and collect the eggs I came upon a nasty scene. One hen gone and another badly mauled. Feathers were spread across the bottom of the pen and I could easily follow the trail of where the fox had run with his take-away meal. The two hens left were looking very agitated and obviously not in the mood to lay any eggs.

A large hole under the pen’s wire was a clear indication of where the fox had easily burrowed in to grab his meal.

Just our luck. First day Barbara is away and this happens.

Teddy immediately went across to kill the severely damaged bird and gave it a decent burial in the compost heap. He then sorted through the sheds until he found enough wire to put an apron of it right around the pen and half way up the sides so that the fox couldn’t have his meal as easily the next day. For it was a certainty he would be back.

After a couple of days the remaining chooks seemed to have recovered and were laying two lovely eggs a day. They obviously didn’t suffer a long bereavement and probably took the view that the extra greens they were getting made the episode worth while.

Our friend returned home a little sad but philosophical about her loss and planned to replace the two dead girls.

The very first night she was home her dog woke her just before dawn insisting she go out into the frosty garden. There was a commotion down at the chook pen. The noise echoed off the hill opposite and started every dog in the town barking including ours who just love a good rowdy dollop of excitement to start their day.

The young woman who lives next door to Barbara was awake early and had seen the fox getting under the hen house. Her dogs had also joined in the row and were doing laps of her back yard.

By sheer chance she was appropriately dressed for the occasion in her ‘Zena Queen of The Jungle’ leopard patterned mini pyjamas. She clambered over the wire fence which separates the properties and ran into the hen house, bravely stamping her foot onto the fox’s head as he tried to back out from under the chicken wire. At the same time she was calling for her husband to come and help.

The two remaining chooks were squawking and franticly dithering about. Torn between running to some place of safety but glued to their perches by fear as they stared down at the fox beneath the foot of the screaming woman dressed in flimsy leopard spotted clothing. They cackled hysterically not knowing what to do.

By the time Barbara had thrown some clothes on, shoved her feet into her gardening boots and arrived at the scene of mayhem, the young husband was emerging like an executioner from the tower of London, his axe dripping with blood and a look of grim pleasure on his face. His wife’s foot had survived in tact but the fox hadn’t.

Teddy has since put a solid base in the chook house for Barbara but her girls have decided while they wait for their nerves to recover there is more to life than laying omelette ingredients.

When the fox was laid out on the back lawn we could all see what a truly magnificent animal he was and felt rather sad he had chosen to break into the hen house.

Foxes are not a native species in Australia and are considered vermin because they kill so many native animals, although they also kill a lot of rabbits, which are also not native animals. At times rabbits have been in plague proportions in the country, inflicting enormous damage on the land.

In defence of the fox, he was just doing what any species will do, trying to provide for himself.

Hens are another imported species to the country, but they are useful to the inhabitants and so are reprieved.

It comes down to the fact that if something is useful to man they are spared. If not, they may be hunted or lose their habitat.

Vale Mr Fox you were a lovely animal.

I’ve noticed I haven’t heard the blackbird that was beginning to tune up for the season. His song seems to have stopped. Blackbirds are also not native birds and some gardeners don’t like the way they flip mulch and soil onto the paths and dig up seedlings as they search for worms and grubs. Perhaps someone has trapped the songster and done away with him.

It’s a hard life surviving in a world when your personal instincts and habits upset the ruling species.

Hooroo from,

Cynthia

Letter From The Other Side; from Cynthia.   Tunnel Vision.

Dear Del,

A few days ago a friend of mine remarked as we stood chatting in the main street of town, that men are afflicted by tunnel vision. She made this observation while watching her spouse, a keen fisherman, look with devotion at a fishing rod displayed in the sporting goods store window.

 This remark of hers made a memory stir restlessly in my mind for a few days. One that I don’t think I have ever shared with you. I think it has been on the outskirts of much of my thinking while our home has been subjected to the hours of work Teddy has spent while making a solar hot water panel. All else has been ignored while the weeks of construction of the Mark. 2. model of this panel has been in progress.

Mark. 1. was demolished some time ago much to my relief because it was taking on such large proportions that I felt if our roof wasn’t reinforced before it was put in place, the structure would come crashing through into the living room. This would not only spoil our television viewing it would most likely upset the finely balanced relationship we have with our home insurance company.

I knew when we married all those decades ago that I was marrying a man of high intelligence. I wasn’t quite prepared for some of the small eccentricities that sometimes accompany such intellect.

Within a few weeks I was given quite a few examples of what I could expect and the degree to which my patience, humour and tolerance would be stretched.

For example, we had been living in our first small flat for about four weeks. The night had been wet with the sort of lashing rain that Melbourne is capable of producing following a long dry spell. The water flows down the street gutters washing all the paper, leaves and rubbish before it and at times it will eventually clog up the road drains leaving vast puddles of filthy water swirling around for days until it is at last dried up, or a council team comes along and unblocks it.

It was Teddy’s habit to walk to the shops, pick up his morning paper, read it as he walked along the footpath all the while trusting the other travellers to keep his footsteps on the right course as he made his way along and through the underpass to the station while concentrating on the newspaper.

One morning as was usual, I made his packed lunch and after a peck on the cheek at the door, waved him off with a happy smile. That’s the sort of thing we women were shown to do in the 1960’s magazine articles entitled, ‘How To Keep Your Husband Happy.’

Some time later, after I had tidied the small amount of second hand furniture which adorned out little nest and washed up the breakfast dishes, I heard a noise at the door.

Feeling a little apprehensive I opened it slowly. Teddy was revealed sitting on the doorstep with his boots off and ringing out his soaking socks. His overalls were wet up to his thighs and there was an assortment of wrapping papers and grit in his wet hair.

‘What on earth happened to you?’ I asked.

‘Hmmm…….Well.’ He giggled a bit. I learned over the years, little things don’t upset him easily.

He began, ‘I bought the paper and opened it to read while walking along with the others as I always do…then after a time I realized no one was walking with me and my feet were really cold. I lifted the paper up and looked around to see I was up to my knees in muddy water and floating things. The underpass tunnel was filled right across the paths and road. None of the b…..blokes told me! They were all just standing behind me pointing and laughing at me. Then,’ he continued at last showing some exasperation, ‘some coot with a great sense of fun planted his foot on the accelerator of his car and drove through the water fast enough to dowse me with a wave of the muck.’

I sighed, the first of many to come and handed him a towel, some dry clean socks, a clean, dry pair of overalls, and shut the door firmly.

Despite my best efforts life has gone on in much the same way for five decades. Now, after much hammering, sawdust, metal pieces and piping made of various materials we have our own solar hot water.

‘Buying one from the solar shop would be far too easy and not as much fun,’ he told me the other day while I was removing another small handful of screws and metal objects from the bowels of my washing machine.

It’s too late to miss the tunnel now isn’t it? I wonder what it next has in store for us?

Cheers Cynthia.