A Childhood Memory. Printed in the newsletter of my local writing group.
I thought I would include it in my blog. to illustrate that I can be serious.
A Childhood Memory.
The year is 1950.
The place is Nuku’alofa the capital of the small Pacific Island Kingdom of Tonga.
I am standing on the pier watching my mother swinging high into the air as the large rope cargo net lifts her while she lies helplessly on a stretcher. The wind sways the light load and I hear a faint cry as she feels the movement and watches the birds’ wheel above her.
I ask my older more knowing sister why our mother is being hung up in the net. She explains it is because she can’t walk up the gangplank, she is too ill. There is no other way to get her onto the ship.
The ship towers over us, smelling of oil and paint, its engine rumbles and bilge water streams from the rear. The odours mix with the smell of drying copra.
The smoke stacks are beginning to show a light plume of grey as the stokers get the engines ready for departure.
My mother’s body keeps swaying in the air, slowly rocking, flying closer to the ship as waiting arms stretch out to catch hold of the ropes and steady her descent.
At last she is lowered.
We walk up the gangplank, the water far below.
Our Tongan friends and my Tongan ‘mother’ who has cared for me for years stand quietly murmuring and begin to sing The Maori Farewell. The music fills me with fear and an immense sadness which still lingers.
The End.
Elizabeth M. Thompson. ©
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Letter From The Other Side by Cynthia.
Written by Elizabeth. M. Thompson.
Dear Del,
Well Spring has arrived hasn’t she? I always think of spring here in the southern part of the country as being like a very spoilt young woman.
I think she has been praised far too much in songs and verse in the northern hemisphere and arrives down here full of flouncing blossoms and waving bulbs and when she isn’t greeted with the enthusiasm she thinks befits her pretty face turns on a temper tantrum and blows off our roofs, tosses trees across power lines, railways tracks and roads and generally makes an embarrassing exhibition of herself.
Spring also brings with her the annual dose of hay fever causing many of us to interrupt our conversations with prolonged bouts of sneezing, or on occasions choking while valiantly trying not to sneeze a mouthful of our dinner across our partner’s plate.
We stand beside other afflicted folk who are making peculiar clicking noises in their throats at the chemists as they try and ease the itching while waiting to be handed the necessary antihistamines to relieve their discomfort.
Spring is also the time when blowflies arrive back from their holidays in the warmer northern states and force cooks to continually shout at forgetful children and husbands to ‘Close the door!’ as they are preparing the Sunday roast.
Along with the horrible flies, the cyclists dressed in those ever so revealing spandex outfits, swarm along the bike tracks and if one of them is suffering from hay fever and happens to be standing in the queue in the pharmacy with you it can be very difficult to know just where to place your eyes as he passes.
The weather bureau of course is in its element forecasting the coming gale and reporting the strength of the last one. If your power is out you may miss the riveting news that you will be waiting six more hours before the men in their trucks can clear the trees sufficiently to get down the road to your area to repair the lines enabling you to turn a light on to see where you left your glasses and make that longed for cup of tea.
Just to cheer everyone up, the weather man assumes the grim expression he reserves for such occasions and tells us we are about to go into a summer which will be even hotter, dryer and longer than the last one.
I think this is to test our resolve and to give us time to decide if we wish to live through another three months of temperatures up to 48 degrees or if we just want to slide off the world or emigrate to Iceland.
Of course it enthuses those mad ‘firebugs’ we seem to have in the population who love to play with matches and think they can make achieve some sort of sick fame by frightening us all.
Teddy and I experienced bushfires first hand and while I can think of very few things
more terrifying which leaves its trauma with you for a long time, I hope the survivors from last year’s fires are taking heart at the marvellous regeneration our forests can make.
This country is lucky to have plant species that have evolved to actually need fire to survive and although the forest looks black and dead for months, as soon as the first rain falls, green shoots appears across the ground and the tall eucalypts sprout the beginnings of new branches all the way up their mighty trunks showing the strength of the natural world to survive and carry on.
It sets a good example of a willingness to remain undaunted no matter what is thrown at us.
We spend spring getting ready for the threatened heat by making sure our grey water hoses are without unwanted holes and this year we are making an igloo to protect the vegetables from the searing winds which last year cooked and dried the tomatoes and lettuces where they grew.
The authorities allow us two hours of watering a week and no more. We have a tank which is full and hope this year we shall manage a little better than last.
Of course our companions of the shower, the blue buckets, will be put into use again very soon. Every drop is precious and necessary.
The climate has changed so much since we were young it seems almost impossible to grow vegetables in the unshaded areas any longer.
Only tourists and masochists lie out in the sun covered in oil trying to get a suntan. Along with the wished for tan they are quite likely to develop heat stroke and skin cancer or at the very least develop skin which looks like the saddle from an old drover’s horse.
So while Spring may come all dressed up and pretty, she is a madcap season and not to be overly praised and encouraged as she always trails that ugly stalker Summer behind her as he brings his swaggering bully-boy threats and vicious weapons of fire and drought with him.
They are an unwelcome pair this decade and we can only hope a change in the world’s greenhouse emissions will tame their attitudes during the next decade.
Your sneezing ‘flower child friend’
Cynthia
Written by Elizabeth. M. Thompson.
Dear Del,
Well Spring has arrived hasn’t she? I always think of spring here in the southern part of the country as being like a very spoilt young woman.
I think she has been praised far too much in songs and verse in the northern hemisphere and arrives down here full of flouncing blossoms and waving bulbs and when she isn’t greeted with the enthusiasm she thinks befits her pretty face turns on a temper tantrum and blows off our roofs, tosses trees across power lines, railways tracks and roads and generally makes an embarrassing exhibition of herself.
Spring also brings with her the annual dose of hay fever causing many of us to interrupt our conversations with prolonged bouts of sneezing, or on occasions choking while valiantly trying not to sneeze a mouthful of our dinner across our partner’s plate.
We stand beside other afflicted folk who are making peculiar clicking noises in their throats at the chemists as they try and ease the itching while waiting to be handed the necessary antihistamines to relieve their discomfort.
Spring is also the time when blowflies arrive back from their holidays in the warmer northern states and force cooks to continually shout at forgetful children and husbands to ‘Close the door!’ as they are preparing the Sunday roast.
Along with the horrible flies, the cyclists dressed in those ever so revealing spandex outfits, swarm along the bike tracks and if one of them is suffering from hay fever and happens to be standing in the queue in the pharmacy with you it can be very difficult to know just where to place your eyes as he passes.
The weather bureau of course is in its element forecasting the coming gale and reporting the strength of the last one. If your power is out you may miss the riveting news that you will be waiting six more hours before the men in their trucks can clear the trees sufficiently to get down the road to your area to repair the lines enabling you to turn a light on to see where you left your glasses and make that longed for cup of tea.
Just to cheer everyone up, the weather man assumes the grim expression he reserves for such occasions and tells us we are about to go into a summer which will be even hotter, dryer and longer than the last one.
I think this is to test our resolve and to give us time to decide if we wish to live through another three months of temperatures up to 48 degrees or if we just want to slide off the world or emigrate to Iceland.
Of course it enthuses those mad ‘firebugs’ we seem to have in the population who love to play with matches and think they can make achieve some sort of sick fame by frightening us all.
Teddy and I experienced bushfires first hand and while I can think of very few things
more terrifying which leaves its trauma with you for a long time, I hope the survivors from last year’s fires are taking heart at the marvellous regeneration our forests can make.
This country is lucky to have plant species that have evolved to actually need fire to survive and although the forest looks black and dead for months, as soon as the first rain falls, green shoots appears across the ground and the tall eucalypts sprout the beginnings of new branches all the way up their mighty trunks showing the strength of the natural world to survive and carry on.
It sets a good example of a willingness to remain undaunted no matter what is thrown at us.
We spend spring getting ready for the threatened heat by making sure our grey water hoses are without unwanted holes and this year we are making an igloo to protect the vegetables from the searing winds which last year cooked and dried the tomatoes and lettuces where they grew.
The authorities allow us two hours of watering a week and no more. We have a tank which is full and hope this year we shall manage a little better than last.
Of course our companions of the shower, the blue buckets, will be put into use again very soon. Every drop is precious and necessary.
The climate has changed so much since we were young it seems almost impossible to grow vegetables in the unshaded areas any longer.
Only tourists and masochists lie out in the sun covered in oil trying to get a suntan. Along with the wished for tan they are quite likely to develop heat stroke and skin cancer or at the very least develop skin which looks like the saddle from an old drover’s horse.
So while Spring may come all dressed up and pretty, she is a madcap season and not to be overly praised and encouraged as she always trails that ugly stalker Summer behind her as he brings his swaggering bully-boy threats and vicious weapons of fire and drought with him.
They are an unwelcome pair this decade and we can only hope a change in the world’s greenhouse emissions will tame their attitudes during the next decade.
Your sneezing ‘flower child friend’
Cynthia
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Letter From The Other Side; by Cynthia.
Written by Elizabeth. M. Thompson.
Dear Del,
Teddy remarked one evening last week ‘It seems to be always rubbish bin night’ and by the way the days fly by I had to agree with him.
We’ve all heard of the disasters when people have inadvertently thrown away money or precious items.
One of our friends threw away an old cardboard box he thought was full of rubbish to find he had turfed out a box of all the documents and certificates of the records of his wife’s family tree which had taken her years to collect.
The air in their home was noticeably frosty for some time.
Teddy’s remark started me thinking how privileged we are to have our modern methods of waste disposal.
Each week we place our green and yellow container for rubbish which can be recycled next to the green and brown ordinary rubbish bin which then sits beside the council’s green waste bin for the garden refuse which is composted for our public gardens.
Not so many decades ago we just had the dust bin as it was called. This mixed rubbish was taken by trucks to a designated place out of town which quickly became a smelly eyesore teaming with foxes, wild cats, dogs, rats and other vermin and a thorough blot on the landscape which many towns are still trying to clean up and reclaim.
When we lived on the farm there was of course, no collection. Our nearest small town was sixty kilometres away and the largest was almost three hundred kilometres away up a highway drawn in straight line with a ruler on the map as well as the landscape.
We composted and buried what we could and once a year during winter we burnt anything combustible and the rest we took to the dump in the back of our farm ‘ute.
Sometimes getting rid of rubbish and unwanted items caused us a few problems.
One in particular sits in the back of my mind even now and taught me always to check the pockets of any garment I may be trying to swipe from Teddy’s wardrobe when he isn’t about.
Teddy has always had the habit of becoming fond of certain garments to the point where a casual observer may even suspect he has super-glued the offending piece of clothing to his back.
Trying to get him to toss something out in the rubbish is not easy. Rarely is anything worth putting in an op-shop.
He once took to a pair of jeans which he said ‘were comfortable’ and wore them continuously to do all types of mucky jobs around the farm until they became knee-less, frayed and the backside so torn it was almost indecent or only useful to some sleazy dresser for an X rated porn magazine.
They became quite a bone of contention between us.
At this time we still used a wonderful wood burning slow combustion stove which also heated our water and many a meal had been cooked by me with the help of an old shirt or a few odd socks.
I did try an old pair of boots once, but never again. I discovered leather burns at a very high temperature and these old boots burnt so fiercely the flu of the stove became red hot. The hot water boiled and rumbled in the pipes and tank and out of the overflow on the roof for quite a while. It was all a little bit scary and took a while to cool down.
One day when Teddy was in town, dressed in his town clothes, and not likely to be back for a while, I took the opportunity to dispense with the offending jeans which had been left in an untidy pile beside our bed and hurriedly stuffed them into the firebox to help cook the dinner I was making.
I placed an old but newer pair back onto the floor space where the ancient relics had been. Teddy would see them and know his comfortable ones had been taken to the place where all faithful old clothes go.
Very pleased with myself I had at last seen the last of the ragged specimens I went on with preparing the vegetables until a loud bang came from the stove.
I stopped what I was doing as a second and then a third bang shattered my self satisfied mood.
Not waiting for the fourth bang I scuttled from the kitchen and went outside while a few more explosions issued from the kitchen.
At last they stopped and I returned to what I had been doing thinking there probably wouldn’t be any need to mention to Teddy about the bangs. He would be quite upset enough his jeans had been cremated.
During lunch, when water began to seep from the stove and across the floor, I had to admit I had burnt his jeans and in my haste to see the end of them I had neglected to check the only pocket still in tact.
This last remaining pocket must have held a handful of bullets from the rifle he had been using to shoot rabbits and foxes the day before and one of the bullets or perhaps, judging by the increasing flow of the water across the room, more than one of the bullets had punctured the water jacket of the firebox.
He was quite philosophical about it all; especially as I was the one who had to make the 300 kilometres drive to the nearest town with a store which had in stock a suitable replacement water jacket.
Yes, the wonders of modern waste disposal make life much easier and far less dangerous for me although I do still check the pockets very carefully.
The loose change or ‘shrapnel’ as the boys call it goes into the grandchildren’s money boxes.
Your clean and tidy ‘flower child friend’
Cynthia.
Written by Elizabeth. M. Thompson.
Dear Del,
Teddy remarked one evening last week ‘It seems to be always rubbish bin night’ and by the way the days fly by I had to agree with him.
We’ve all heard of the disasters when people have inadvertently thrown away money or precious items.
One of our friends threw away an old cardboard box he thought was full of rubbish to find he had turfed out a box of all the documents and certificates of the records of his wife’s family tree which had taken her years to collect.
The air in their home was noticeably frosty for some time.
Teddy’s remark started me thinking how privileged we are to have our modern methods of waste disposal.
Each week we place our green and yellow container for rubbish which can be recycled next to the green and brown ordinary rubbish bin which then sits beside the council’s green waste bin for the garden refuse which is composted for our public gardens.
Not so many decades ago we just had the dust bin as it was called. This mixed rubbish was taken by trucks to a designated place out of town which quickly became a smelly eyesore teaming with foxes, wild cats, dogs, rats and other vermin and a thorough blot on the landscape which many towns are still trying to clean up and reclaim.
When we lived on the farm there was of course, no collection. Our nearest small town was sixty kilometres away and the largest was almost three hundred kilometres away up a highway drawn in straight line with a ruler on the map as well as the landscape.
We composted and buried what we could and once a year during winter we burnt anything combustible and the rest we took to the dump in the back of our farm ‘ute.
Sometimes getting rid of rubbish and unwanted items caused us a few problems.
One in particular sits in the back of my mind even now and taught me always to check the pockets of any garment I may be trying to swipe from Teddy’s wardrobe when he isn’t about.
Teddy has always had the habit of becoming fond of certain garments to the point where a casual observer may even suspect he has super-glued the offending piece of clothing to his back.
Trying to get him to toss something out in the rubbish is not easy. Rarely is anything worth putting in an op-shop.
He once took to a pair of jeans which he said ‘were comfortable’ and wore them continuously to do all types of mucky jobs around the farm until they became knee-less, frayed and the backside so torn it was almost indecent or only useful to some sleazy dresser for an X rated porn magazine.
They became quite a bone of contention between us.
At this time we still used a wonderful wood burning slow combustion stove which also heated our water and many a meal had been cooked by me with the help of an old shirt or a few odd socks.
I did try an old pair of boots once, but never again. I discovered leather burns at a very high temperature and these old boots burnt so fiercely the flu of the stove became red hot. The hot water boiled and rumbled in the pipes and tank and out of the overflow on the roof for quite a while. It was all a little bit scary and took a while to cool down.
One day when Teddy was in town, dressed in his town clothes, and not likely to be back for a while, I took the opportunity to dispense with the offending jeans which had been left in an untidy pile beside our bed and hurriedly stuffed them into the firebox to help cook the dinner I was making.
I placed an old but newer pair back onto the floor space where the ancient relics had been. Teddy would see them and know his comfortable ones had been taken to the place where all faithful old clothes go.
Very pleased with myself I had at last seen the last of the ragged specimens I went on with preparing the vegetables until a loud bang came from the stove.
I stopped what I was doing as a second and then a third bang shattered my self satisfied mood.
Not waiting for the fourth bang I scuttled from the kitchen and went outside while a few more explosions issued from the kitchen.
At last they stopped and I returned to what I had been doing thinking there probably wouldn’t be any need to mention to Teddy about the bangs. He would be quite upset enough his jeans had been cremated.
During lunch, when water began to seep from the stove and across the floor, I had to admit I had burnt his jeans and in my haste to see the end of them I had neglected to check the only pocket still in tact.
This last remaining pocket must have held a handful of bullets from the rifle he had been using to shoot rabbits and foxes the day before and one of the bullets or perhaps, judging by the increasing flow of the water across the room, more than one of the bullets had punctured the water jacket of the firebox.
He was quite philosophical about it all; especially as I was the one who had to make the 300 kilometres drive to the nearest town with a store which had in stock a suitable replacement water jacket.
Yes, the wonders of modern waste disposal make life much easier and far less dangerous for me although I do still check the pockets very carefully.
The loose change or ‘shrapnel’ as the boys call it goes into the grandchildren’s money boxes.
Your clean and tidy ‘flower child friend’
Cynthia.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Letter From The Other Side from Cynthia.
Written by Elizabeth. M. Thompson.
Dear Del,
Do you like scones? I know that is rather a strange question but our neighbour who spends a lot of his time propping up our front gate while enjoying ‘blokey’ talk with Teddy is a very good scone maker.
He will sometimes come across and give us half a dozen of his light fluffy creations and I swap them for a jar of my home made jam or pickle.
Now whether you call then scones with a short O or scones with a lengthened O they have been a great boon to many a harassed housewife over the years who has had the misfortune to be greeted by the wide smiles of unexpected guests on her front door step.
We all enjoy strolling around the shops or beachside antique places and stopping for a creamy Devonshire Tea. Well anyone of baby-boomer or an older age admits to liking all that lovely jam and cream. I think the younger generations do also but it just isn’t ‘cool’ to admit to liking what the ‘wrinklies’ like is it?
Scones have risen to political heights in this country.
Who will ever forget the homely country wife of a certain northern state premier who was renowned for her pumpkin scones? Her recipe circulated the nation and many were the times she was seen on television espousing the taste and nourishment they provided.
Marrying her was probably one of the few wise things that man ever did. He must have blessed her handing her pumpkin scones about during official meetings of his ever so slightly corrupt government. These delicacies were so good they obviously diverted the attention of many within the government and law enforcement agencies who failed to notice the number of small paper bags containing sweeteners which were also exchanging hands.
I am not a good scone maker. My mother always said they needed a light touch. I have a feeling my touch must be in the heavyweight division because they always end up suitable for shipping ballast or perhaps golf practice.
I did make one very good batch many years ago and was so thrilled with my fluffy and perky creations I even had the nerve to take them placed upon a pretty plate to the sort of meeting where we were all required to ‘bring a plate’.
I knew what was in them but when everyone said how light and tasty they were I didn’t share the information that the secret ingredient of their splendour was probably the result of my mistakenly including the milk mixture in the fridge which had been prepared to be given to the orphaned lambs we had in the paddock. It was approved veterinary powdered milk and no one suffered any problems that I became aware of during the next week.
As far as I can recall the worst batch I have ever been guilty of producing, was when William was about fifteen or sixteen.
He stood in the kitchen twitching his eyebrows about at the sight of the flour dusted river pebbles I appeared to have made and suggested they would make good targets for his air rifle.
So out we went and set them up along a fence.
Now William is a very competitive lad and he wanted to show his mum just how good he was with this rifle. His hand eye co-ordination is excellent and even at that young age he was a star bowler for the state ‘under sixteen’ cricket team and had the bragging privileges in the local club of being able to say he had bowled his English father out by breaking his big toe.
But his mum is a competitive lady and shot her first rabbits and foxes, (those awful English imports which have devastated the country in plagues) when she was twelve.
He shot two or three times without even dusting any of the flour from the surfaces. I took over and showed him how to do it by shattering one of them into shrapnel.
He couldn’t believe his old mum could beat him so he tried again causing not a flutter by the scones. My next shot stuck inside the doughy centre of one specimen.
We eventually agreed, I was a good shot and the scones were really dreadful.
Over the years, I have been given all sorts of tips and recipes but to no avail so I have not made any for quite some time. However, it occurred to me this morning, my skill may come in handy as we have some English visitors due this week and after the mauling their cricket team gave us in the Ashes, they will be full of glee, lots of quick repartee and ready to share it with us. I think I may make some scones. They are a guaranteed way to wipe the smiles from the happiest of faces pretty smartly as their jaws grow tired crunching away at the rocky textures.
The mixture may even exhilarate their digestions for a few days as has been known to happen in the past.
I can think of one or two people we know in England I’d be happy to post some to as well but the weight would make the postage prohibitive. Pity about that.
Your competitive ‘flower child friend’
Cynthia.
Written by Elizabeth. M. Thompson.
Dear Del,
Do you like scones? I know that is rather a strange question but our neighbour who spends a lot of his time propping up our front gate while enjoying ‘blokey’ talk with Teddy is a very good scone maker.
He will sometimes come across and give us half a dozen of his light fluffy creations and I swap them for a jar of my home made jam or pickle.
Now whether you call then scones with a short O or scones with a lengthened O they have been a great boon to many a harassed housewife over the years who has had the misfortune to be greeted by the wide smiles of unexpected guests on her front door step.
We all enjoy strolling around the shops or beachside antique places and stopping for a creamy Devonshire Tea. Well anyone of baby-boomer or an older age admits to liking all that lovely jam and cream. I think the younger generations do also but it just isn’t ‘cool’ to admit to liking what the ‘wrinklies’ like is it?
Scones have risen to political heights in this country.
Who will ever forget the homely country wife of a certain northern state premier who was renowned for her pumpkin scones? Her recipe circulated the nation and many were the times she was seen on television espousing the taste and nourishment they provided.
Marrying her was probably one of the few wise things that man ever did. He must have blessed her handing her pumpkin scones about during official meetings of his ever so slightly corrupt government. These delicacies were so good they obviously diverted the attention of many within the government and law enforcement agencies who failed to notice the number of small paper bags containing sweeteners which were also exchanging hands.
I am not a good scone maker. My mother always said they needed a light touch. I have a feeling my touch must be in the heavyweight division because they always end up suitable for shipping ballast or perhaps golf practice.
I did make one very good batch many years ago and was so thrilled with my fluffy and perky creations I even had the nerve to take them placed upon a pretty plate to the sort of meeting where we were all required to ‘bring a plate’.
I knew what was in them but when everyone said how light and tasty they were I didn’t share the information that the secret ingredient of their splendour was probably the result of my mistakenly including the milk mixture in the fridge which had been prepared to be given to the orphaned lambs we had in the paddock. It was approved veterinary powdered milk and no one suffered any problems that I became aware of during the next week.
As far as I can recall the worst batch I have ever been guilty of producing, was when William was about fifteen or sixteen.
He stood in the kitchen twitching his eyebrows about at the sight of the flour dusted river pebbles I appeared to have made and suggested they would make good targets for his air rifle.
So out we went and set them up along a fence.
Now William is a very competitive lad and he wanted to show his mum just how good he was with this rifle. His hand eye co-ordination is excellent and even at that young age he was a star bowler for the state ‘under sixteen’ cricket team and had the bragging privileges in the local club of being able to say he had bowled his English father out by breaking his big toe.
But his mum is a competitive lady and shot her first rabbits and foxes, (those awful English imports which have devastated the country in plagues) when she was twelve.
He shot two or three times without even dusting any of the flour from the surfaces. I took over and showed him how to do it by shattering one of them into shrapnel.
He couldn’t believe his old mum could beat him so he tried again causing not a flutter by the scones. My next shot stuck inside the doughy centre of one specimen.
We eventually agreed, I was a good shot and the scones were really dreadful.
Over the years, I have been given all sorts of tips and recipes but to no avail so I have not made any for quite some time. However, it occurred to me this morning, my skill may come in handy as we have some English visitors due this week and after the mauling their cricket team gave us in the Ashes, they will be full of glee, lots of quick repartee and ready to share it with us. I think I may make some scones. They are a guaranteed way to wipe the smiles from the happiest of faces pretty smartly as their jaws grow tired crunching away at the rocky textures.
The mixture may even exhilarate their digestions for a few days as has been known to happen in the past.
I can think of one or two people we know in England I’d be happy to post some to as well but the weight would make the postage prohibitive. Pity about that.
Your competitive ‘flower child friend’
Cynthia.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Letter From The Other Side by Cynthia.
Written by Elizabeth. M. Thompson.
Dear Del,
It was necessary for me to go to Melbourne this week. I haven’t driven a car in Melbourne for years. The last time I did, I became lost, turned right in front of a tram and went up a one way street. Monica who was with me said she would never, ever travel with me in the city again. I couldn’t really blame her.
It would be even worse after all this time as streets have changed and there are new roads and underpasses all over the place.
When I said I would take the train Teddy offered to come with me.
We have a new station near our home but unless you wait for hours or by some miracle your visit coincides with an office clerk, there is never anyone there to sell you a ticket. The office is only open when a train is due to arrive.
It was commissioned, launched, whatever they do to stations when they say we can use them, with the usual gaggle of local and state politicians cutting ribbons and smiling for the camera’s but it soon became obvious to everyone wanting to use it, that the Planning Department forgot to give the commuters enough parking spaces. At the time there was vacant land all around which could have been purchased but it is too late now, the land is covered in new homes.
We chose to go to the next station down the line which is not so far away and is always manned.
I have the reputation of always being too early for anything. The family, if they want me to arrive at 7.30 p.m. will usually tell me 8.p.m. They think I haven’t twigged to this ploy.
We parked our car about two blocks away knowing getting a park was Buckley’s to none, and walked. This brisk trudge around the streets and across a small park kept us warm for the first ten minutes of waiting for the train.
We were lucky, it arrived on time. Not something, as you would know Del our public transport is noted for, and when we entered I was pleased to see the seats and carriage were quite clean.
We were also lucky it was winter because, as you would also be aware of Del, the government when ordering these very expensive items purchased with our taxation money, ordered trains which were designed to function in European weather conditions. I felt sorry for the Melbourne suburban travellers during summer, who were so inconvenienced last year. When they needed the air conditioning because the temperature outside was anything between 30 and up to 48 degrees the air conditioners found it all too much and stopped working. This caused cancellations and passengers were left sweltering on platforms for hours or if they were already on board a train, it travelled very slowly along rail lines threatening to buckle in the heat.
The windows in these new trains won’t open of course the way the old un-air-conditioned trains used to and this results in people fainting from the heat or standing about in puddles of sweat.
The trip from Geelong to Melbourne takes about an hour and is probably the most boring train trip one can take in Victoria. The scenery is a flat wind swept coastal plain which farmers for decades denuded of trees. Much of it has been used for industrial buildings and the biggest crops of Scotch Thistle growing metres high you will see anywhere. Some paddocks have a few lonely horses looking vainly for shelter and trying to find some decent grass to nibble.
New suburbs with enticing names such as something-or-other lakes, or pleasant meadows, or sparkling something creek (which was until a decade ago the outlet for industrial waste) try to give the impression of glamour to the sandy windswept coast.
The advertising gloss must work because monstrous size houses are being built on the smallest sized blocks of land I have ever seen. The walls and windows are so close, you could hand a cup of tea or a glass of wine to your neighbour if the relationship is friendly enough, without leaving your home.
The desolate landscape is relieved a little by that small outcrop of rocks I sense were ironically named the ‘You Yang Mountains’, which because of the flat land can be seen from all directions.
The trip on this line is possibly the roughest trip you will ever take on a railway. I think in an effort to rid the traveller of his sense of boredom the trains are designed with square wheels. The carriages rock violently at times and threaten to leap from the tracks. No wonder most of the regular passengers were wired up with their ipods as they tried to mask the nervousness the violent movements cause. There were so many of these loud things around us I could hear three or four of the programmes. Teddy sat in blissful ignorance because he had turned his hearing aids off.
As we jogged along, I began to take more interest in my fellow travellers. They were a very mixed bunch. One large young woman who sat on the opposite side of the aisle was dressed in a flowing black outfit. Her makeup was pure Goth. Dark angry pencilled eyes, blood red lipstick on her mouth and pallid skin. She only needed her pointy hat and a broom stick in the carriage rack and her look would have been complete.
Another couple about our age sat in front of us. As they sank into their seats I knew we would be safe from moth and silverfish attack all the way to our destination because a distinct aroma of naphthalene hung like a cloud around them.
He possessed the most marvellous face.
I remembered many years ago writers often used the expression of a character ‘knitting his eyebrows together in anger.’ Well this gentleman had eyebrows you could have made a complete cable stitch from.
I marvelled his wife hadn’t attacked him with her pinking shears at some time, or if she was very good at her craft work, she could have encouraged the growth and entered the record books by first spinning the long shaggy hair and creating an entirely man made organic scarf.
I then noticed the electronic signs designed to tell us where we were stopping and the next station we were to enter etc. Someone with a mischievous humour had a great deal of fun setting them up because they were always wrong. Either they showed two stations ahead, or the one we had just left behind. During the entire trip, not once did the sign give the commuter the correct name of the station we were entering.
We at last arrived at Spencer Street station, which the powers in charge insist we now call Southern Cross station.
Whenever this state government can’t think of any reason to get into the news they consult the ‘Department For Changing Names’ which has a list of potential name changes for places and things. They particularly like to change railways stations and sporting arenas. I suspect as well as supplying more photo opportunities and ribbon cutting ceremonies, it is done to keep the travelling public on their toes, in particular the infrequent commuters.
A day trip to Melbourne to see the football means country folk arrive not knowing where they are or where they are going and immediately assume the bewildered and lost looks on their faces sophisticated suburban dwellers love to make jokes about.
Being a regional person, I stepped from the train and and was at once disoriented.
Cynthia in the bush, is fine, in the city or water, forget me I’m gone.
Teddy guided me to our destination.
On the return trip we outsmarted ourselves by taking a train to one of the suburban stations thinking we could pick up the Geelong train from there and save ourselves from a long walk across The Southern Cross station.
The ticket office man told us the Geelong train would arrive at platform six. We trudged along the ramp, across the overpass and down another steep ramp to the platform. No escalators here to save the walking.
We were in plenty of time, naturally.
Three minutes before the train was due, the announcement was made our train would be leaving from platform three.
We hurried up the steep exit ramp, across the overpass and down the steep ramp to platform three and arrived panting like a couple of old draught horses pulling the season’s hay load.
The train was already full. It was standing room only. Everyone must have boarded in the city.
We stood, hanging on grimly to any support which seemed strong enough as we lurched along.
Too keep our minds occupied we renamed the train on behalf of the Geelong population ‘The Rock and Roll Express’. We chose this name because we thought if you were brave enough to buy a coffee from the kiosk you would definitely spill it all over your clothes as you rocked and everyone stepped on your blue suede shoes as they rolled.
Tell me Del, do we have any railway engineers who know how to lay flat tracks in this state or have they just picked on Geelong because our football team usually beats the Melbourne ones?
Your all shook up ‘flower child’ friend,
Cynthia.
Written by Elizabeth. M. Thompson.
Dear Del,
It was necessary for me to go to Melbourne this week. I haven’t driven a car in Melbourne for years. The last time I did, I became lost, turned right in front of a tram and went up a one way street. Monica who was with me said she would never, ever travel with me in the city again. I couldn’t really blame her.
It would be even worse after all this time as streets have changed and there are new roads and underpasses all over the place.
When I said I would take the train Teddy offered to come with me.
We have a new station near our home but unless you wait for hours or by some miracle your visit coincides with an office clerk, there is never anyone there to sell you a ticket. The office is only open when a train is due to arrive.
It was commissioned, launched, whatever they do to stations when they say we can use them, with the usual gaggle of local and state politicians cutting ribbons and smiling for the camera’s but it soon became obvious to everyone wanting to use it, that the Planning Department forgot to give the commuters enough parking spaces. At the time there was vacant land all around which could have been purchased but it is too late now, the land is covered in new homes.
We chose to go to the next station down the line which is not so far away and is always manned.
I have the reputation of always being too early for anything. The family, if they want me to arrive at 7.30 p.m. will usually tell me 8.p.m. They think I haven’t twigged to this ploy.
We parked our car about two blocks away knowing getting a park was Buckley’s to none, and walked. This brisk trudge around the streets and across a small park kept us warm for the first ten minutes of waiting for the train.
We were lucky, it arrived on time. Not something, as you would know Del our public transport is noted for, and when we entered I was pleased to see the seats and carriage were quite clean.
We were also lucky it was winter because, as you would also be aware of Del, the government when ordering these very expensive items purchased with our taxation money, ordered trains which were designed to function in European weather conditions. I felt sorry for the Melbourne suburban travellers during summer, who were so inconvenienced last year. When they needed the air conditioning because the temperature outside was anything between 30 and up to 48 degrees the air conditioners found it all too much and stopped working. This caused cancellations and passengers were left sweltering on platforms for hours or if they were already on board a train, it travelled very slowly along rail lines threatening to buckle in the heat.
The windows in these new trains won’t open of course the way the old un-air-conditioned trains used to and this results in people fainting from the heat or standing about in puddles of sweat.
The trip from Geelong to Melbourne takes about an hour and is probably the most boring train trip one can take in Victoria. The scenery is a flat wind swept coastal plain which farmers for decades denuded of trees. Much of it has been used for industrial buildings and the biggest crops of Scotch Thistle growing metres high you will see anywhere. Some paddocks have a few lonely horses looking vainly for shelter and trying to find some decent grass to nibble.
New suburbs with enticing names such as something-or-other lakes, or pleasant meadows, or sparkling something creek (which was until a decade ago the outlet for industrial waste) try to give the impression of glamour to the sandy windswept coast.
The advertising gloss must work because monstrous size houses are being built on the smallest sized blocks of land I have ever seen. The walls and windows are so close, you could hand a cup of tea or a glass of wine to your neighbour if the relationship is friendly enough, without leaving your home.
The desolate landscape is relieved a little by that small outcrop of rocks I sense were ironically named the ‘You Yang Mountains’, which because of the flat land can be seen from all directions.
The trip on this line is possibly the roughest trip you will ever take on a railway. I think in an effort to rid the traveller of his sense of boredom the trains are designed with square wheels. The carriages rock violently at times and threaten to leap from the tracks. No wonder most of the regular passengers were wired up with their ipods as they tried to mask the nervousness the violent movements cause. There were so many of these loud things around us I could hear three or four of the programmes. Teddy sat in blissful ignorance because he had turned his hearing aids off.
As we jogged along, I began to take more interest in my fellow travellers. They were a very mixed bunch. One large young woman who sat on the opposite side of the aisle was dressed in a flowing black outfit. Her makeup was pure Goth. Dark angry pencilled eyes, blood red lipstick on her mouth and pallid skin. She only needed her pointy hat and a broom stick in the carriage rack and her look would have been complete.
Another couple about our age sat in front of us. As they sank into their seats I knew we would be safe from moth and silverfish attack all the way to our destination because a distinct aroma of naphthalene hung like a cloud around them.
He possessed the most marvellous face.
I remembered many years ago writers often used the expression of a character ‘knitting his eyebrows together in anger.’ Well this gentleman had eyebrows you could have made a complete cable stitch from.
I marvelled his wife hadn’t attacked him with her pinking shears at some time, or if she was very good at her craft work, she could have encouraged the growth and entered the record books by first spinning the long shaggy hair and creating an entirely man made organic scarf.
I then noticed the electronic signs designed to tell us where we were stopping and the next station we were to enter etc. Someone with a mischievous humour had a great deal of fun setting them up because they were always wrong. Either they showed two stations ahead, or the one we had just left behind. During the entire trip, not once did the sign give the commuter the correct name of the station we were entering.
We at last arrived at Spencer Street station, which the powers in charge insist we now call Southern Cross station.
Whenever this state government can’t think of any reason to get into the news they consult the ‘Department For Changing Names’ which has a list of potential name changes for places and things. They particularly like to change railways stations and sporting arenas. I suspect as well as supplying more photo opportunities and ribbon cutting ceremonies, it is done to keep the travelling public on their toes, in particular the infrequent commuters.
A day trip to Melbourne to see the football means country folk arrive not knowing where they are or where they are going and immediately assume the bewildered and lost looks on their faces sophisticated suburban dwellers love to make jokes about.
Being a regional person, I stepped from the train and and was at once disoriented.
Cynthia in the bush, is fine, in the city or water, forget me I’m gone.
Teddy guided me to our destination.
On the return trip we outsmarted ourselves by taking a train to one of the suburban stations thinking we could pick up the Geelong train from there and save ourselves from a long walk across The Southern Cross station.
The ticket office man told us the Geelong train would arrive at platform six. We trudged along the ramp, across the overpass and down another steep ramp to the platform. No escalators here to save the walking.
We were in plenty of time, naturally.
Three minutes before the train was due, the announcement was made our train would be leaving from platform three.
We hurried up the steep exit ramp, across the overpass and down the steep ramp to platform three and arrived panting like a couple of old draught horses pulling the season’s hay load.
The train was already full. It was standing room only. Everyone must have boarded in the city.
We stood, hanging on grimly to any support which seemed strong enough as we lurched along.
Too keep our minds occupied we renamed the train on behalf of the Geelong population ‘The Rock and Roll Express’. We chose this name because we thought if you were brave enough to buy a coffee from the kiosk you would definitely spill it all over your clothes as you rocked and everyone stepped on your blue suede shoes as they rolled.
Tell me Del, do we have any railway engineers who know how to lay flat tracks in this state or have they just picked on Geelong because our football team usually beats the Melbourne ones?
Your all shook up ‘flower child’ friend,
Cynthia.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Writing Groups.
Putting Cynthia and her stumbling progress through life aside for a moment, I want to ask you if you belong to a writing group?
Is it a group you make time to attend or is it a group you just pay membership dues to each year thinking you will take part, one day soon?
What do you hope to receive from this group and what do you intend to give in return?
Lots of questions we should ask ourselves each time we contact other writers.
Do you leave the meetings coming away feeling invigorated or flat?
Finding the right group is hard.
Each one contains strong personalities and even stronger egos which overtly and sometimes covertly drive them.
I have belonged to a few over the many years I've been writing and I have been saddened to see shy and diffident writers buckle under criticisms aimed at them and their writing by others.
Trying to find your own voice and genre can take many years and others forcing their opinions upon you will lengthen that time.
Most writers need mentors from time to time, but if you leave a meeting feeling intimidated by someone ...and there is often a show-off in the group who will be quick to voice his/her opinion down your throat if the convener of the meeting doesn't have enough control.... then take heart, you won't be alone.
I have a theory, which I think is becoming a neurosis, that the poets of some of the groups I belong to are taking over and trying to force the short story writers and freelance writers into feeling inferior.
Heaven help anyone who might wish to write romantic stories, humour, general freelance articles for magazines or any other genre that doesn't appeal to the high minded elitist market.
They are doomed to sit under a rock of disdain forever unless they find or form their own writing group.
If you are feeling a bit low thank your stars you live in a time of digital wonders because there are places, colleagues and friends out there everywhere, you just have to go searching. Some of my best mates are people I have only known because of my computer but that is the writer's life. It has always been an isolated one.
It is fine for people to be poets, but in Australia I defy anyone to make half a living let alone a good one by being a poet......unless you teach it of course. What is the old saying? If you can't do it teach it? That's probably a bit unfair but it does give them a position of advantage to get their work in front of many more people. They teach it therefore they know it all ?Not in my book.
For the young people wanting to make a decent living from writing many start at the local education centres where they take writing and editing courses, or maybe even take a journalism degree.. That's fine, but do they get taught about the business side of writing? Are they told about the hard nosed competitive and plain bitchy world they might encounter when they eventually get that job? I don't think they are.
At least in the bad old days when you were a cub reporter you learned from the start what was ahead of you.
It's a little like the nurses who learn all the theory and are then, when they enter a ward for the first time, are shocked by the smell of bed pans and the sight of the first 'wino' brought in on a stretcher covered in lice and they have to undress, wash and clean him up while he has a fit of the D.T's
O.K I'm getting wound up now, so I'll stop.
My advice is find the right group for you or go it alone with the help you can get from the Internet.
The only criticism you should listen to is when it comes from a writer you really respect. That is all that matters, ignore the rest.
Liz T.
(C)
Putting Cynthia and her stumbling progress through life aside for a moment, I want to ask you if you belong to a writing group?
Is it a group you make time to attend or is it a group you just pay membership dues to each year thinking you will take part, one day soon?
What do you hope to receive from this group and what do you intend to give in return?
Lots of questions we should ask ourselves each time we contact other writers.
Do you leave the meetings coming away feeling invigorated or flat?
Finding the right group is hard.
Each one contains strong personalities and even stronger egos which overtly and sometimes covertly drive them.
I have belonged to a few over the many years I've been writing and I have been saddened to see shy and diffident writers buckle under criticisms aimed at them and their writing by others.
Trying to find your own voice and genre can take many years and others forcing their opinions upon you will lengthen that time.
Most writers need mentors from time to time, but if you leave a meeting feeling intimidated by someone ...and there is often a show-off in the group who will be quick to voice his/her opinion down your throat if the convener of the meeting doesn't have enough control.... then take heart, you won't be alone.
I have a theory, which I think is becoming a neurosis, that the poets of some of the groups I belong to are taking over and trying to force the short story writers and freelance writers into feeling inferior.
Heaven help anyone who might wish to write romantic stories, humour, general freelance articles for magazines or any other genre that doesn't appeal to the high minded elitist market.
They are doomed to sit under a rock of disdain forever unless they find or form their own writing group.
If you are feeling a bit low thank your stars you live in a time of digital wonders because there are places, colleagues and friends out there everywhere, you just have to go searching. Some of my best mates are people I have only known because of my computer but that is the writer's life. It has always been an isolated one.
It is fine for people to be poets, but in Australia I defy anyone to make half a living let alone a good one by being a poet......unless you teach it of course. What is the old saying? If you can't do it teach it? That's probably a bit unfair but it does give them a position of advantage to get their work in front of many more people. They teach it therefore they know it all ?Not in my book.
For the young people wanting to make a decent living from writing many start at the local education centres where they take writing and editing courses, or maybe even take a journalism degree.. That's fine, but do they get taught about the business side of writing? Are they told about the hard nosed competitive and plain bitchy world they might encounter when they eventually get that job? I don't think they are.
At least in the bad old days when you were a cub reporter you learned from the start what was ahead of you.
It's a little like the nurses who learn all the theory and are then, when they enter a ward for the first time, are shocked by the smell of bed pans and the sight of the first 'wino' brought in on a stretcher covered in lice and they have to undress, wash and clean him up while he has a fit of the D.T's
O.K I'm getting wound up now, so I'll stop.
My advice is find the right group for you or go it alone with the help you can get from the Internet.
The only criticism you should listen to is when it comes from a writer you really respect. That is all that matters, ignore the rest.
Liz T.
(C)
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