Letter From The Other Side; from
Cynthia
‘James, James, Morrison, Morrison
Weatherby George Dupree
Took great care of his mother,
although he was only three……
……..and goes on to the 4th
verse
‘You must never go down to the
end of town, without consulting me.’
Those words of A.A Milne were engraved forever on my mind when as a
child I recited his poems over and over again.
To this day I still enjoy their rhythm and flow and the wonderful
memories of my relatively carefree childhood they recall.
Last week as we made our way slowly along the shopping strip of our
small town the words of the poem wandered quietly into my head once more.
It was a beautiful Saturday morning. The sun shone brilliantly and the
early autumn glow was touching the edges of the leaves on the trees lining the
streets. The haze of smoke from the late seasonal burn-offs of the Department
Of Environment hung in the air. We all know autumn will bring this haze if the
weather is still and warm and are grateful for it, as the extra
undergrowth which has grown in the
forests during the summer will make any summer bushfire next year all the
hotter and hazardous.
The street was buzzing with tourists lounging about as they enjoyed the
mountain air and drank coffee at the tables along the footpaths. They always appear
to have their feet strategically placed to trip any unwary pedestrian. It seems
to me at times that tourists grow longer legs than we do.
The local volunteer groups find Saturday mornings very profitable for
their raffle ticket sales and some set up sausage sizzle stalls. The smell of
barbequed sausages and bacon wafts down the street enticing pedestrians to
follow their noses like ever hungry spaniels seeking the source of a scent.
Teddy and I were strolling from the supermarket down to our lovely old
Victorian red brick library. It is really only a very short walk and would take
no more than ten minutes on a quiet day.
Walking is something I can still
do without too much trouble just so long as I am wearing a pair of sturdy
supporting shoes. I have drawn the line at the ‘glow-in-the-dark’ gym shoes and
have opted for a more sober style.
We crossed the path which leads across the roundabout and were making
good progress until we met a friend. He is an interesting man, a musician and teaches
the drums. Teddy being of the opinion he is also a musician because he tortures
us with his trumpet every day enjoys chatting with him. I think the book he
read about Lois Armstrong has gone to his head.
While we were speaking to our drummer friend I spotted a decoration in
a garden nearby that didn’t really appeal to me. It was a discarded toilet
which has been converted into a plant pot. Two doors down from this home is a
small road sign which indicates there is a public convenience further along the
street and I wondered if the plant pot owner had taken his idea from the sign.
Another gentleman we know came along while we were being silly and
giggling childishly about the garden landscaping and he joined in the
conversation surmising along with us why anyone would opt for such a decoration
for their front yard.
After twenty minutes or so we parted company and went on our various
ways buoyed up by the happy and rather ridiculous conversation.
Not very far past the newsagent we met another couple we know and fell
into conversation with them. After receiving and giving updates on our health,
our families’ health, our dogs’ peculiar behaviourisms and where to purchase a
decent handbag in town, we continued on our stately progress.
Then we came upon the raffle ticket sales. It was in aid of a good
community cause and so we bought two or three and of course began a
conversation with the lady selling the tickets. We hadn’t ever met her before
but …and I still don’t know how the conversation got around to it,….. the
subject of my present health issues came up. She was a fund of information and
attends the same neurosurgeon that I do. She takes weight strengthening exercises
for the ‘older person’ and those rehabilitating from illness and after quite a
time, (there was another person selling tickets while we chatted) I left her
feeling as if our meeting had somehow been organized by someone or something
much wiser than me. It was quite
stunning how much better I felt from being able to share some of my experiences
with her.
Next stop along our way was the library. Well….. what can I say about a
trip to the library? It is never a quick drop-the-returning-book and run is it?
We shuffled through shelves, looked at videos and discs, argued about who’s
fine it was that had to be paid for the late return and came out carrying more
books than we can possibly read in the allotted time ultimately enjoying the
full library experience.
By this time, instead of taking ten minutes to walk the distance we had
spent an hour and a half.
We turned out steps back toward where the car was parked and made for
the chemist shop and met a lady we have known for ages and stopped to ask after
her health and laugh about her antics as she tried to hold her walking stick in
one hand and balance her barbequed sausage rolled up in its bread, in the
other.
We had reached the end of the town and began our journey back, not in
the least worried by the time we had taken. We know that trying to hurry on a
Saturday morning in our main street is a waste of time. Instead we looked up at
the smoky hills and shuffled along happily recounting some of our friendly and rather
silly conversations which were all enjoyed in comradeship and the pleasure and
the privilege of living in such a place which has the support and help we
provide to one another.
We did see one gentleman coming toward us that we felt unable to face
on such a nice day. He is possibly the most irritating and negative person in town
and I have yet to work out why he feels as grumpy as he does, but I ducked into
the shoe shop and Teddy followed quickly. It cost the price of a new pair of
shoes I fell instantly in love with to miss him, but we felt the purchase price
was worth avoiding being depressed on such a pleasant morning.
I think James, James, Morrison, Morrison must have lived in a town like
ours and knew that if his mother went down to the end of town she would be a
long time and would not be back in time for tea. That way he would know he could
be free to raid the biscuit tins in her absence without being caught.
At least the authorities didn’t have to put up a notice that we were ‘lost,
stolen or strayed and post a forty shillings reward’.
Cheers for now,
Cynthia
The End Of Town Without Consulting Me.
Friday, April 6, 2012
Saturday, March 3, 2012
Letter From The Other Side; from Cynthia. 'It's All In The Names.'
Dear Del,
We all think of our name as our own individual identification don’t we?
Of course many people go through life identified by their friends and family by a nickname but even the nickname can be a problem. There is always a ‘Bluey’ around, so called because of his red hair. Every town has a Musty because of his reluctance to open his wallet or a Lofty because of his height and of course we mustn’t forget Gunna. You know him, that fellow who is always ‘Gunna’ do this and ‘Gunna’ do that but doesn’t ever make the time to do much at all.
We think of our names as special things and like to keep our ‘good name’ and hope people or family won’t ‘ruin our good name’ or sully our family name in any way.
The first time a person becomes aware of sharing the same name with someone else can come as a shock, particularly if you meet them and you dislike them at once for some reason.
Years ago Teddy was confused by the stares of people who seemed reluctant to speak to him for a time until he found out he and a man who had been stealing from the company they both
worked for, shared the same name. Once the other man was identified in the press and the confusion was cleared up, Teddy became popular again.
A few decades later when I registered at a new medical surgery I discovered I shared my name with four other women also registered on their books. It made it confusing for the staff,
who had to make sure they double checked my address and details to ensure the doctors were given the correct details and didn’t mix up our files.
About six months later, Teddy began receiving sympathy cards from all over the district and interstate. At first he thought it was some sort of sick practical joke until we heard that
one of my other namesakes had been killed in a dreadful accident. We felt awful for thinking bad things about the senders of the cards and made sure we eventually found out her address and forwarded the cards onto her bereaved family. Although we hadn’t ever met her, we almost felt we knew her after opening the cards and reading some of the thoughts which had been expressed.
The next thing was to have problems with the small local bank when they mixed my name and address with another namesake. Luckily it was still during the days of being able to deal with your local branch manager face to face and not with a computer with tentacles which
became entangled and very hard to straiten out. The problem was fixed with apologies all round.
A mix up with names can also lead to funny incidents.
Teddy’s dad, Huey, had not been working in his allotment for a few weeks and when he returned to it, he found that some of his tools were missing.
The next time he went even more of his tools were missing and also some of the vegetables were gone.
“I swear I’ll catch the *****
that’s stealing from me.” He declared, irate that the prized vegetables he had worked on were on someone else’s dinner plate.
Sure enough when he went down to the allotment there was a fellow working away in his plot. He walked up quietly behind him and reached out to tap him on the shoulder. ‘What d’ya’mean by
stealing my stuff?’ he bellowed in the small man’s ear.
The chap swung around and staggered back and away from Huey who could look quite intimidating even though he was also short. His pronounced jutting jaw and broom of black hair which appeared to explode from his scalp could be very unnerving when his temper was
roused.
‘B’y God man, you’re dead.’ The little fellow squeaked. Huey declared the bloke turned as white as his hair, his knees buckled and he flopped into the furrow he had been digging.
Huey realizing how shocked the poor bloke was went no further with his accusations but assured the man he felt more alive than Don, as he was called, looked at that moment sitting at his
feet in a muddy plot of soil panting and shaking.
Eventually he and Don worked out that the people in the council office had been notified of the death of a man bearing the same name as Huey and had of course mixed up which allotment
had become available. It took him a while to reclaim the missing tools and for a while reassure people who had heard of his ‘death’ that they weren’t seeing a ghost.
I suppose the worst mix-up I have experienced was the day after giving birth to our daughter when I was handed a baby to feed. I knew immediately it was not my baby and when I said to the nurse it wasn’t my child she stared at me for a time and without checking any further went to get the nurse in charge. This large, loud voiced;absolutely no nonsense ex-army nurse came and demanded why I wasn’t feeding the baby.
‘It isn’t my baby’, I answered plaintively.
‘Stop being so neurotic’, she ordered, ‘and feed that child.’
I sat mute for some time looking at the little ginger haired child. It wasn’t mine. My daughter I was sure, even though I had only a couple of glimpses of her before she was rushed
off to the nursery where all the newborns were placed behind glass screens they used during the 1960’s to allow the fathers to view them.
I examined the tiny fingers, I examined more….. no definitely not, this was not my little girl, this was a little boy!
The sound of a stiffly starched uniform hurrying along the hospital corridor caught my attention and the nurse re-entered the ward carrying a baby.
‘Here Cynthia this is your baby I’ll take that one.’
She snatched the small red headed Cuckoo she had almost forced onto me and placed my daughter in my arms.‘Get on with feeding her’, she demanded as she rushed off without an apology or any sort of acknowledgement of the mistake.
I read of this same thing happening in a Victorian hospital a couple of months ago and they were in big trouble. It was splashed all over the papers and the mother received counselling and no doubt monetary recompense.
I wonder if her doctor also offered to circumcise her baby girl as my forgetful one did. That would have cost them months of counselling and even more money.
Maybe that is what is at the back of all my problems. Not enough counselling during my life.
Aaaah it’s all in the name they say. Well, not always, I think the name can be a problem as well.
I envy you Del if you cherish a name no other shares, because I can assure you it can be a trial at times.
Cheers
Cynthia.
Dear Del,
We all think of our name as our own individual identification don’t we?
Of course many people go through life identified by their friends and family by a nickname but even the nickname can be a problem. There is always a ‘Bluey’ around, so called because of his red hair. Every town has a Musty because of his reluctance to open his wallet or a Lofty because of his height and of course we mustn’t forget Gunna. You know him, that fellow who is always ‘Gunna’ do this and ‘Gunna’ do that but doesn’t ever make the time to do much at all.
We think of our names as special things and like to keep our ‘good name’ and hope people or family won’t ‘ruin our good name’ or sully our family name in any way.
The first time a person becomes aware of sharing the same name with someone else can come as a shock, particularly if you meet them and you dislike them at once for some reason.
Years ago Teddy was confused by the stares of people who seemed reluctant to speak to him for a time until he found out he and a man who had been stealing from the company they both
worked for, shared the same name. Once the other man was identified in the press and the confusion was cleared up, Teddy became popular again.
A few decades later when I registered at a new medical surgery I discovered I shared my name with four other women also registered on their books. It made it confusing for the staff,
who had to make sure they double checked my address and details to ensure the doctors were given the correct details and didn’t mix up our files.
About six months later, Teddy began receiving sympathy cards from all over the district and interstate. At first he thought it was some sort of sick practical joke until we heard that
one of my other namesakes had been killed in a dreadful accident. We felt awful for thinking bad things about the senders of the cards and made sure we eventually found out her address and forwarded the cards onto her bereaved family. Although we hadn’t ever met her, we almost felt we knew her after opening the cards and reading some of the thoughts which had been expressed.
The next thing was to have problems with the small local bank when they mixed my name and address with another namesake. Luckily it was still during the days of being able to deal with your local branch manager face to face and not with a computer with tentacles which
became entangled and very hard to straiten out. The problem was fixed with apologies all round.
A mix up with names can also lead to funny incidents.
Teddy’s dad, Huey, had not been working in his allotment for a few weeks and when he returned to it, he found that some of his tools were missing.
The next time he went even more of his tools were missing and also some of the vegetables were gone.
“I swear I’ll catch the *****
that’s stealing from me.” He declared, irate that the prized vegetables he had worked on were on someone else’s dinner plate.
Sure enough when he went down to the allotment there was a fellow working away in his plot. He walked up quietly behind him and reached out to tap him on the shoulder. ‘What d’ya’mean by
stealing my stuff?’ he bellowed in the small man’s ear.
The chap swung around and staggered back and away from Huey who could look quite intimidating even though he was also short. His pronounced jutting jaw and broom of black hair which appeared to explode from his scalp could be very unnerving when his temper was
roused.
‘B’y God man, you’re dead.’ The little fellow squeaked. Huey declared the bloke turned as white as his hair, his knees buckled and he flopped into the furrow he had been digging.
Huey realizing how shocked the poor bloke was went no further with his accusations but assured the man he felt more alive than Don, as he was called, looked at that moment sitting at his
feet in a muddy plot of soil panting and shaking.
Eventually he and Don worked out that the people in the council office had been notified of the death of a man bearing the same name as Huey and had of course mixed up which allotment
had become available. It took him a while to reclaim the missing tools and for a while reassure people who had heard of his ‘death’ that they weren’t seeing a ghost.
I suppose the worst mix-up I have experienced was the day after giving birth to our daughter when I was handed a baby to feed. I knew immediately it was not my baby and when I said to the nurse it wasn’t my child she stared at me for a time and without checking any further went to get the nurse in charge. This large, loud voiced;absolutely no nonsense ex-army nurse came and demanded why I wasn’t feeding the baby.
‘It isn’t my baby’, I answered plaintively.
‘Stop being so neurotic’, she ordered, ‘and feed that child.’
I sat mute for some time looking at the little ginger haired child. It wasn’t mine. My daughter I was sure, even though I had only a couple of glimpses of her before she was rushed
off to the nursery where all the newborns were placed behind glass screens they used during the 1960’s to allow the fathers to view them.
I examined the tiny fingers, I examined more….. no definitely not, this was not my little girl, this was a little boy!
The sound of a stiffly starched uniform hurrying along the hospital corridor caught my attention and the nurse re-entered the ward carrying a baby.
‘Here Cynthia this is your baby I’ll take that one.’
She snatched the small red headed Cuckoo she had almost forced onto me and placed my daughter in my arms.‘Get on with feeding her’, she demanded as she rushed off without an apology or any sort of acknowledgement of the mistake.
I read of this same thing happening in a Victorian hospital a couple of months ago and they were in big trouble. It was splashed all over the papers and the mother received counselling and no doubt monetary recompense.
I wonder if her doctor also offered to circumcise her baby girl as my forgetful one did. That would have cost them months of counselling and even more money.
Maybe that is what is at the back of all my problems. Not enough counselling during my life.
Aaaah it’s all in the name they say. Well, not always, I think the name can be a problem as well.
I envy you Del if you cherish a name no other shares, because I can assure you it can be a trial at times.
Cheers
Cynthia.
Monday, February 27, 2012
Hi
First of all I wish to apologize to the readers for the problems I have had loading this new posting. No matter what I have tried it has not formatted as it should and my patience has run out. So I hope you can read it as it is.
I hope to get this problem fixed before the next posting.
Cheers Cynthia.
Letter
From The Other Side; From Cynthia. ‘Hoy! I’m Down Here.’
Dear Del,
Aren’t doctors
an annoyingly pompous group sometimes?
Have you ever
been told by someone about the same age as one of your grandchildren that it
might be time to begin using a walking stick? Last week when I was adding yet
more money to my doctor’s slush fund toward her annual cruise around the Great Barrier Reef, she made that suggestion to me.
I was not
having a good day pain-wise and during days like that the brakes which should
work between my brain and my tongue don’t always function very efficiently so
before I could stop them the words of advice of where the said walking stick
would be perhaps more usefully be employed were out of my mouth.
She did look
a little taken aback, but with a wry smile suggested I would probably decide
for myself when to take my mother’s stick from the stand where I have kept it
since she died.
I had another
occasion during one of my recent sojourns in the hospital to become an irritant
in the doctor’s day.
As he and the
nurse stood over me chatting about my condition and what might be done about
it, some of the stored memories of my long days in hospital as a child must
have been dredged up and I felt I had reverted to the way I felt then. They
ignored me during this discussion as if I was incapable of hearing or
understanding anything such important people may say.
I had once more been transformed into a
‘condition’, not a person.
I suppose I
was feeling vulnerable while sitting up in a bed in my night wear, which these
days is not of the slinky and seductive kind but more closely follows the warm,
comfortable and modest mode. My hair was all mussed up, no make-up on and I
know I looked pale and elderly rather than interesting as women ‘of a certain
age’ are bound to become.
However, since those childhood days of illness
when I lay motionless in my bed while the grown-ups chatted over my body, I
have found my voice and lost the reverence toward the healing community my
parent’s generation seemed to hold and tried to instil in me. In fact my mother
was so impressed by doctors it wouldn’t have surprised me if she had
genuflected to them when they entered our home. She rather reflected the
fawning mannerisms of Basil Fawlty when a couple who were doctors graced the
guest list at his incredibly dysfunctional hotel.
I think it
helped me be more of a realist by going to school with two girls who became
doctors. They always passed their exams brilliantly but didn’t appear to be
able to retain a great deal of what they had learned for any length if time. I
know to this day if ever I walked into a surgery with one of them seated behind
the desk I would probably say ‘Hello’ and pretend I had just popped in for a
chat even if I did have to pay for the privilege.
Anyway, as I
was telling you these doctors were enjoying a great old discussion across my
prone body and the old feeling of being treated as a deaf and stupid nonentity
returned.
I raised my
hand as high as I could and said loudly; ‘Hoy! If you are going to talk about
me have the grace to at least acknowledge you know I’m here.’
There were a
few, ‘Oh,.. ers, yes sorry Cynthia.’ and we became comrades again.
Years ago I
used to volunteer at a school for children with disabilities and when we took
the pupils on an outing or just to enjoy a morning tea in the local mall we
were always aware of the occasional person who would make a quick involuntary
step back when the doors of the elevators opened to reveal the wheelchair bound
bodies and disfigured limbs. Then there were those who would shift away to
other tables because some of the older children handled their food like
toddlers, spreading it on themselves, their clothes and quite a lot of it on
the floor. I suppose to people who don’t live with it every day it can be
confronting.
Sometimes to
ours and the children’s pain we were told by an obnoxious individual that we
should not have had them in the shopping area or even out in public.
Why I bring
this up is that the same thing begins to happen to older bodies and the young
and healthy find it hard to witness. They often don’t realize how difficult it
is for the elderly people themselves to experience these changes, because
inside they still feel the same. In fact I tend to think that the character
inside is often an improved version of the one that was there when they were
young and healthy.
The medical
profession should be the one section of the community which should have the
training and the capacity to allow older people the respect and dignity they
deserve.
To this I add
that for me, and I’m sure many others, I resent the hospital cost cutting habit
of filling a ward’s beds with both male and female patients.
Flinging ones
legs out from the height of a hospital bed and padding about in one of those
gowns which have the opening down the back or for a gentleman to have his
pyjamas fall around his ankles and not be able to bend to pick them up is
demeaning.
Even during
the swinging sixties we were allowed the privacy of having the sexes separated.
I have heard both men and women say how confronting and embarrassing it can be.
What has
happened to our country? Years ago when
the population was smaller we were able to afford the first class medical care
of the day and have hospitals that contained happy and well contented staff
with the best of training? Where did the money and the caring priorities for
the patient begin to flow to?
Ooh I am
going to be a pain in the neck if ever I have to be cared for permanently. I’ve
already told my family I don’t want them to do it, because I want the capacity
to sack someone if I’m not happy with the treatment. I have already dispensed
with one doctor’s ministrations, or perhaps I should say lack of patient care.
I’ve also been known to discharge myself from a hospital after sitting in a bed
for five days without having a doctor come near me. That was a very large crack
I must have fallen through and no one knew why.
My present
doctor was quite surprised when I presented him with copies of all my latest
tests and discharge notes that I had requested through freedom of information.
I think he should become used to it because there will be many more in years to
come as people realize they have the right to access their own records.
So my advice
is to remember the old saying about the squeaky door getting the attention.
Squeak up for yourself.
Cheers
Cynthia.
First of all I wish to apologize to the readers for the problems I have had loading this new posting. No matter what I have tried it has not formatted as it should and my patience has run out. So I hope you can read it as it is.
I hope to get this problem fixed before the next posting.
Cheers Cynthia.
Letter
From The Other Side; From Cynthia. ‘Hoy! I’m Down Here.’
Dear Del,
Aren’t doctors
an annoyingly pompous group sometimes?
Have you ever
been told by someone about the same age as one of your grandchildren that it
might be time to begin using a walking stick? Last week when I was adding yet
more money to my doctor’s slush fund toward her annual cruise around the Great Barrier Reef, she made that suggestion to me.
I was not
having a good day pain-wise and during days like that the brakes which should
work between my brain and my tongue don’t always function very efficiently so
before I could stop them the words of advice of where the said walking stick
would be perhaps more usefully be employed were out of my mouth.
She did look
a little taken aback, but with a wry smile suggested I would probably decide
for myself when to take my mother’s stick from the stand where I have kept it
since she died.
I had another
occasion during one of my recent sojourns in the hospital to become an irritant
in the doctor’s day.
As he and the
nurse stood over me chatting about my condition and what might be done about
it, some of the stored memories of my long days in hospital as a child must
have been dredged up and I felt I had reverted to the way I felt then. They
ignored me during this discussion as if I was incapable of hearing or
understanding anything such important people may say.
I had once more been transformed into a
‘condition’, not a person.
I suppose I
was feeling vulnerable while sitting up in a bed in my night wear, which these
days is not of the slinky and seductive kind but more closely follows the warm,
comfortable and modest mode. My hair was all mussed up, no make-up on and I
know I looked pale and elderly rather than interesting as women ‘of a certain
age’ are bound to become.
However, since those childhood days of illness
when I lay motionless in my bed while the grown-ups chatted over my body, I
have found my voice and lost the reverence toward the healing community my
parent’s generation seemed to hold and tried to instil in me. In fact my mother
was so impressed by doctors it wouldn’t have surprised me if she had
genuflected to them when they entered our home. She rather reflected the
fawning mannerisms of Basil Fawlty when a couple who were doctors graced the
guest list at his incredibly dysfunctional hotel.
I think it
helped me be more of a realist by going to school with two girls who became
doctors. They always passed their exams brilliantly but didn’t appear to be
able to retain a great deal of what they had learned for any length if time. I
know to this day if ever I walked into a surgery with one of them seated behind
the desk I would probably say ‘Hello’ and pretend I had just popped in for a
chat even if I did have to pay for the privilege.
Anyway, as I
was telling you these doctors were enjoying a great old discussion across my
prone body and the old feeling of being treated as a deaf and stupid nonentity
returned.
I raised my
hand as high as I could and said loudly; ‘Hoy! If you are going to talk about
me have the grace to at least acknowledge you know I’m here.’
There were a
few, ‘Oh,.. ers, yes sorry Cynthia.’ and we became comrades again.
Years ago I
used to volunteer at a school for children with disabilities and when we took
the pupils on an outing or just to enjoy a morning tea in the local mall we
were always aware of the occasional person who would make a quick involuntary
step back when the doors of the elevators opened to reveal the wheelchair bound
bodies and disfigured limbs. Then there were those who would shift away to
other tables because some of the older children handled their food like
toddlers, spreading it on themselves, their clothes and quite a lot of it on
the floor. I suppose to people who don’t live with it every day it can be
confronting.
Sometimes to
ours and the children’s pain we were told by an obnoxious individual that we
should not have had them in the shopping area or even out in public.
Why I bring
this up is that the same thing begins to happen to older bodies and the young
and healthy find it hard to witness. They often don’t realize how difficult it
is for the elderly people themselves to experience these changes, because
inside they still feel the same. In fact I tend to think that the character
inside is often an improved version of the one that was there when they were
young and healthy.
The medical
profession should be the one section of the community which should have the
training and the capacity to allow older people the respect and dignity they
deserve.
To this I add
that for me, and I’m sure many others, I resent the hospital cost cutting habit
of filling a ward’s beds with both male and female patients.
Flinging ones
legs out from the height of a hospital bed and padding about in one of those
gowns which have the opening down the back or for a gentleman to have his
pyjamas fall around his ankles and not be able to bend to pick them up is
demeaning.
Even during
the swinging sixties we were allowed the privacy of having the sexes separated.
I have heard both men and women say how confronting and embarrassing it can be.
What has
happened to our country? Years ago when
the population was smaller we were able to afford the first class medical care
of the day and have hospitals that contained happy and well contented staff
with the best of training? Where did the money and the caring priorities for
the patient begin to flow to?
Ooh I am
going to be a pain in the neck if ever I have to be cared for permanently. I’ve
already told my family I don’t want them to do it, because I want the capacity
to sack someone if I’m not happy with the treatment. I have already dispensed
with one doctor’s ministrations, or perhaps I should say lack of patient care.
I’ve also been known to discharge myself from a hospital after sitting in a bed
for five days without having a doctor come near me. That was a very large crack
I must have fallen through and no one knew why.
My present
doctor was quite surprised when I presented him with copies of all my latest
tests and discharge notes that I had requested through freedom of information.
I think he should become used to it because there will be many more in years to
come as people realize they have the right to access their own records.
So my advice
is to remember the old saying about the squeaky door getting the attention.
Squeak up for yourself.
Cheers
Cynthia.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Letter From The Other Side; from Cynthia. 'When The Doors Of Life Begin To Close'.
Dear Del,
It has been months since I wrote, I hope you have noticed my absence but will take it on the chin if time has passed by without you missing my letters.
Most of my life I have tried to see the humour and irony of our days but I have been sorely tested since Christmas morning when I found myself looking out the rear window of an ambulance at a sullen stormy Christmas morning sky.
At around 6 a.m I had walked into the kitchen to make our morning cup of tea. We were expecting family to arrive from down south so I was up bright and early and feeling very excited.
As I held the kettle of boiling water my hand began to shake and I was aware of a most peculiar sensation. I tried to speak to Teddy but the only noises I could emit sounded rather like baby gurgles.
The next few hours seemed to be a constant blue of faces asking me a stream of questions I found difficult to answer and tests in machines that bumped or clanked and others which would have looked right at home on a stage where a magician was going to do the old ‘saw the lady in half’ trick. I would have liked to share some of my thoughts with the people around me but didn’t have the energy.
The upshot if it all was that I was admitted to the hospital with a suspected stroke.
For the next few days I shared a ward with two ladies suffering dementia and a poor young woman who had been kicked in the face by a horse. The conversation was bizarre in a rather humorous way. It made up for the lack of Plum pudding and cake. I wasn’t feeling very festive anyway despite the nurses walking around in Christmas hats and various decorations not usually seen on the wards.
One lady was convinced I was sitting in her bed and I was making it all wet and repeatedly told me to get out of it. When she wasn’t abusing me she was trying to take her oxygen and drip lines out and tying them into knots. The nurses earned their money as they fought with this frail little piece of humanity to keep her from damaging herself.
Another lady, a large Dutch woman, told everyone off in her native language. I may have been misjudging her she could have been saying happy things, but they didn’t sound it. Unfortunately she kept her barrage up all night. One doesn’t go to hospital for a rest. The other lass was too swollen and in too much pain to say anything much at all. By comparison I felt quite well and after yet more tests, I was sent home two days later.
Well, I have had two more trips since then following similar episodes and further tests. Each one making me a little more fearful that I indeed had a problem.
The result of all this tedious activity has been one of those times in life when doors has been unceremoniously slammed in my face and the world has become an unfamiliar place. My days this year will be the beginning of a new and difficult faze.
Have I ever mentioned that because of an accident when I was a toddler I spent some of my childhood in a cervical brace? Well I did until I was sent to boarding school when well away from my parents reach and with no house mistress who would check my behaviour, I threw the brace into the school furnace. No teenage girl wants to be seen wearing something like grandma’s corsets or be teased by her dormitory mates.
I have spent the rest of my life exercising and being reasonably fit but with a constant ‘bad back’ which has become worse during the years. Something I put down to getting older. We put everything down to getting older don’t we?
The tests have shown up a few unexpected bad jokes.
It seems I have a few tumours on my spine and my ability to do many of the things I have spent enjoying doing all my life may be taken from me.
Now, the prospect of having almost all my avenues of enjoyment taken away is a daunting and frightening thing and I can’t claim to have taken the news passively.
My speech and memory have returned, for which I am grateful, although the mental exercises and the crosswords I have attempted have been full of some creative ways of spelling. In fact I managed to make the words I wanted fit the squares rather than trying to think of the right word.
I’m going to chronicle some of this journey with you because it may be interesting and helpful if you or anyone you know is coming face to face with doors that are shutting them into what seems to be an ever shrinking life and world.
Over the years my reading has included many biographies. Reading how others dealt with the highs and lows of their lives has been enlightening, very educational, thought filled and supportive at times. I’m now interested to see how I am going to face them. I think at least at this stage I am able to be subjective enough to be honest with myself and also with the reader.
Teddy saw my frustration as I realized sitting at the computer to write is almost beyond me and so trotted off down to the op-shop and found a small lightweight desk on wheels. He cut it down to size, welded up the bits again at a more comfortable height and brought it in for me to try. Now I am able to roll it around the house and put it in front of me wherever I am sitting. I need to move fairly frequently into a new place to change the position of my muscles to help prevent the painful spasms and also to get to the furthest end of the house from the maestro when he is practising his trumpet….. He can almost play ‘Blue Moon’. This feat is a testament to his tenacity and to the forbearance of our neighbours.
His ingenuity in converting the desk has broken one door down which I thought had been closed and I am immensely grateful. All those years of inventing and making strange things may at last be going to pay off.
While I wait to see if the neurosurgeon can cement up the holes made in my vertebra by the tumours, I will spend time recording all the many letters I have written to you over the years. The local library is interested in keeping them in the section of audio books and of course, I will add some to my blog.
As well as the compression fractures and tumours, I am missing a couple of disks between my vertebrae, which explains some of the pain I’ve had and also explains why I am turning into the shape of a capital C. The rate things are going; I suppose I could become a lower case c.
This year hasn’t started well for a few of our friends and for a couple, it didn’t start at all. Death came suddenly to them and one wonders, is that perhaps kinder?
If like us you are finding it difficult to see a rosy side to life, try and kick some of those damn doors that have slammed in your face open again or maybe find a few new ones and rattle their knobs. We really have no other choice do we?
Instead of sitting aimlessly on our veranda doing very little, it has given me an opportunity to watch the birds in our summer garden and take part in an internet site which helps record birds throughout the country. It records their numbers and their conditions, breeding etc. I have also found another site which records a wide variety of wildlife including frogs, lizards, snakes and wombats and because we live where we do, I can help with spotting eagles, possums and other shy animals that live away from the cities.
It is only a small thing, but it gives me the feeling I am doing something useful.
So there is one piece of self discovery I have made already. I know some people who are happy to play cards, go to clubs, play computer games, do jigsaws etc but unless I am able to find what I think of as useful things to occupy my days I know depression will be looking over my shoulder. I have read that older people make up one of the largest percentages of the depressed persons in our community.
I can no longer bend and have become very proficient at picking things I have dropped up with my toes or failing that, the barbeque tongs.
Walter our spaniel is a wonderful help when it come to cleaning up spills until Teddy can wipe them up a little more hygienically. Walter also bullies me up out of my chair to take my daily walk out to get the post.
I don’t know who invented them but I would like to say a big thankyou to whoever invented remote controls. So if you know the person, please pass my thanks onto them.
I have always heard that these times in life show up your true friends. How right that is and how grateful I am to have a few who have gone through life with me right from school days. Those people whose faces still shine out at me from behind the wrinkles and the fading hair.
Although this year has begun very differently for us, others are facing far worse such as devastating floods, war, killer cold weather and personal losses of every kind. The world goes on in its muddled way and so must we.
As the old song said, we will try and ‘Walk On The Sunny Side Of The Street’.
Cheers for now,
Cynthia
________________________________________
No virus found in this message.
Checked by AVG - www.avg.com
Version: 10.0.1424 / Virus Database: 2112/4791
Dear Del,
It has been months since I wrote, I hope you have noticed my absence but will take it on the chin if time has passed by without you missing my letters.
Most of my life I have tried to see the humour and irony of our days but I have been sorely tested since Christmas morning when I found myself looking out the rear window of an ambulance at a sullen stormy Christmas morning sky.
At around 6 a.m I had walked into the kitchen to make our morning cup of tea. We were expecting family to arrive from down south so I was up bright and early and feeling very excited.
As I held the kettle of boiling water my hand began to shake and I was aware of a most peculiar sensation. I tried to speak to Teddy but the only noises I could emit sounded rather like baby gurgles.
The next few hours seemed to be a constant blue of faces asking me a stream of questions I found difficult to answer and tests in machines that bumped or clanked and others which would have looked right at home on a stage where a magician was going to do the old ‘saw the lady in half’ trick. I would have liked to share some of my thoughts with the people around me but didn’t have the energy.
The upshot if it all was that I was admitted to the hospital with a suspected stroke.
For the next few days I shared a ward with two ladies suffering dementia and a poor young woman who had been kicked in the face by a horse. The conversation was bizarre in a rather humorous way. It made up for the lack of Plum pudding and cake. I wasn’t feeling very festive anyway despite the nurses walking around in Christmas hats and various decorations not usually seen on the wards.
One lady was convinced I was sitting in her bed and I was making it all wet and repeatedly told me to get out of it. When she wasn’t abusing me she was trying to take her oxygen and drip lines out and tying them into knots. The nurses earned their money as they fought with this frail little piece of humanity to keep her from damaging herself.
Another lady, a large Dutch woman, told everyone off in her native language. I may have been misjudging her she could have been saying happy things, but they didn’t sound it. Unfortunately she kept her barrage up all night. One doesn’t go to hospital for a rest. The other lass was too swollen and in too much pain to say anything much at all. By comparison I felt quite well and after yet more tests, I was sent home two days later.
Well, I have had two more trips since then following similar episodes and further tests. Each one making me a little more fearful that I indeed had a problem.
The result of all this tedious activity has been one of those times in life when doors has been unceremoniously slammed in my face and the world has become an unfamiliar place. My days this year will be the beginning of a new and difficult faze.
Have I ever mentioned that because of an accident when I was a toddler I spent some of my childhood in a cervical brace? Well I did until I was sent to boarding school when well away from my parents reach and with no house mistress who would check my behaviour, I threw the brace into the school furnace. No teenage girl wants to be seen wearing something like grandma’s corsets or be teased by her dormitory mates.
I have spent the rest of my life exercising and being reasonably fit but with a constant ‘bad back’ which has become worse during the years. Something I put down to getting older. We put everything down to getting older don’t we?
The tests have shown up a few unexpected bad jokes.
It seems I have a few tumours on my spine and my ability to do many of the things I have spent enjoying doing all my life may be taken from me.
Now, the prospect of having almost all my avenues of enjoyment taken away is a daunting and frightening thing and I can’t claim to have taken the news passively.
My speech and memory have returned, for which I am grateful, although the mental exercises and the crosswords I have attempted have been full of some creative ways of spelling. In fact I managed to make the words I wanted fit the squares rather than trying to think of the right word.
I’m going to chronicle some of this journey with you because it may be interesting and helpful if you or anyone you know is coming face to face with doors that are shutting them into what seems to be an ever shrinking life and world.
Over the years my reading has included many biographies. Reading how others dealt with the highs and lows of their lives has been enlightening, very educational, thought filled and supportive at times. I’m now interested to see how I am going to face them. I think at least at this stage I am able to be subjective enough to be honest with myself and also with the reader.
Teddy saw my frustration as I realized sitting at the computer to write is almost beyond me and so trotted off down to the op-shop and found a small lightweight desk on wheels. He cut it down to size, welded up the bits again at a more comfortable height and brought it in for me to try. Now I am able to roll it around the house and put it in front of me wherever I am sitting. I need to move fairly frequently into a new place to change the position of my muscles to help prevent the painful spasms and also to get to the furthest end of the house from the maestro when he is practising his trumpet….. He can almost play ‘Blue Moon’. This feat is a testament to his tenacity and to the forbearance of our neighbours.
His ingenuity in converting the desk has broken one door down which I thought had been closed and I am immensely grateful. All those years of inventing and making strange things may at last be going to pay off.
While I wait to see if the neurosurgeon can cement up the holes made in my vertebra by the tumours, I will spend time recording all the many letters I have written to you over the years. The local library is interested in keeping them in the section of audio books and of course, I will add some to my blog.
As well as the compression fractures and tumours, I am missing a couple of disks between my vertebrae, which explains some of the pain I’ve had and also explains why I am turning into the shape of a capital C. The rate things are going; I suppose I could become a lower case c.
This year hasn’t started well for a few of our friends and for a couple, it didn’t start at all. Death came suddenly to them and one wonders, is that perhaps kinder?
If like us you are finding it difficult to see a rosy side to life, try and kick some of those damn doors that have slammed in your face open again or maybe find a few new ones and rattle their knobs. We really have no other choice do we?
Instead of sitting aimlessly on our veranda doing very little, it has given me an opportunity to watch the birds in our summer garden and take part in an internet site which helps record birds throughout the country. It records their numbers and their conditions, breeding etc. I have also found another site which records a wide variety of wildlife including frogs, lizards, snakes and wombats and because we live where we do, I can help with spotting eagles, possums and other shy animals that live away from the cities.
It is only a small thing, but it gives me the feeling I am doing something useful.
So there is one piece of self discovery I have made already. I know some people who are happy to play cards, go to clubs, play computer games, do jigsaws etc but unless I am able to find what I think of as useful things to occupy my days I know depression will be looking over my shoulder. I have read that older people make up one of the largest percentages of the depressed persons in our community.
I can no longer bend and have become very proficient at picking things I have dropped up with my toes or failing that, the barbeque tongs.
Walter our spaniel is a wonderful help when it come to cleaning up spills until Teddy can wipe them up a little more hygienically. Walter also bullies me up out of my chair to take my daily walk out to get the post.
I don’t know who invented them but I would like to say a big thankyou to whoever invented remote controls. So if you know the person, please pass my thanks onto them.
I have always heard that these times in life show up your true friends. How right that is and how grateful I am to have a few who have gone through life with me right from school days. Those people whose faces still shine out at me from behind the wrinkles and the fading hair.
Although this year has begun very differently for us, others are facing far worse such as devastating floods, war, killer cold weather and personal losses of every kind. The world goes on in its muddled way and so must we.
As the old song said, we will try and ‘Walk On The Sunny Side Of The Street’.
Cheers for now,
Cynthia
________________________________________
No virus found in this message.
Checked by AVG - www.avg.com
Version: 10.0.1424 / Virus Database: 2112/4791
Friday, July 22, 2011
Letter From The Other Side; from Cynthia.
It pays to read the instructions.
Why do so many of us feel it is unnecessary to read instructions and assume they are written for everyone else but never for us?
We especially do it with electronic gadgets.
When we purchased our new television recently, the instruction book lay unopened in its plastic wrapping for about three days while we fiddled about with the remote and various plugs and wires. We pressed all the buttons, often making matters worse each time or undoing something we had unwittingly done correctly. The screens passed through black to speckled greys to pixel size coloured blobs and when we had a channel functioning correctly, the sound went off and we were left looking at a talking head.
It caused many heated arguments and words to the affect of ‘well you do it then if you think you know so much about it’, sometimes accompanied by the remote being flung at the head of whichever ‘Know-all’ was sitting at the other end of the couch.
Eventually one of us deigned,…. I forget which one,…. to reach for the book of instructions. Now these are objects of mystery in themselves. They appear to be written in every language spoken by man but as the saying goes, ‘appearances can be deceiving’. We can only read the oriental version of English. We can read it, but can only make wild guesses at what some instructions mean. So we hop from one reasonably well written sentence to another.
After more hours of impatient tempers and frustrations, we call the television repair man and irritatingly, he fixes it in ten minutes while making light hearted conversation about this and that. Followed by writing out a bill while small smirk loiters around his mouth.
We pay the bill without complaint just to improve the atmosphere in the home.
Even new cars can bring out this ridiculous behaviour. Instead of getting the pristine and glossy manual out of the glove box we fiddle and fuddle about with knobs and buttons, peddles and gears putting windscreen wipers on when we mean to put heaters or radios on and try to drive out of the garage by pressing a foot on a pedal and doing something dreadful in the way Hughie, Teddy’s friend did. He pressed hard on what he thought was the brake pedal and shot straight through the end of his garage. The result of this mishap was chaos and a large repair bill for his new car, his garage and a neighbour’s fence. Perhaps, if he hadn’t been so impatient to get out on the open road and had spent a little while reading the manual and doing an airline pilot type check he may have saved so much trauma, but then it is easy to be wise afterward.
The same mind-set applies to our computers.
Teddy has been more than a week trying to load a new version of a programme. He has worked at it for hours and so far he has announced at the close of at least three consecutive days that ‘I’ve done it! I’ve got it to load!’ Only to find the next morning the programme is no longer on his computer.
A quick phone call to our young I.T man and it would probably be fixed in a jiffy. But no, I think that word ‘young’ is the tripping point. Combine it with the need to demonstrate he can do it without any help and he has the lack of success he is trying so hard to avoid.
The same thing happened last week.
The weekly email giving instructions for the Burke and Wills walking group appeared on his screen.
We rose before dawn to make sure his packed lunch and coffee was made and after his customary three returns to the house for the things he had forgotten such as his phone, camera, or glasses, he was gone with a cheery wave saying, ‘I’ll be back about 2 p.m. It’s only a short walk’.
Come 2p.m. no Teddy in sight.
Late in the afternoon when the daylight was giving way to a gloomy evening, he walked in the door looking tired and a little footsore. I suspected some sort of hitch had occurred but bided my time for the explanation to be forthcoming.
Eventually after a coffee and a long sit in his chair while he stared into space he told me.
He arrived at the usual parking place from where the group leave. There was no-one there so he suspected he had missed them. He drove to three other possible parking places. Still no sign of anyone so he went back to the original and thought he would start walking from the end of the walk and meet up with the others somewhere around halfway as they were coming from the opposite direction. He met no-one. He enjoyed his lunch while he sat at the top of the hill and began the walk back to the car park.
When he arrived back at the car park just after noon there was one person there who remarked ‘You’re early Teddy.’
‘Oh, well, if I’m early now, I was bloody early this morning because I’ve done the walk already.’ he replied.
Slowly the rest of the group arrived and Teddy told them he had already been but would do the walk again. This time with company.
His reputation for reading the details properly of where, when and what time, written in the club emails has well and truly gone down the gurglar.
He had simply read the name of the walk and assumed he knew the rest.
A bit like buying another new electronic device, we assume the details are the same as every other gadget we have.
I’m now going back to my automatic electric stove which turned off last week and I can’t work out which buttons turn it back on. Bother the instruction book, the advice seems completely useless. I’ll get it worked out one day. In the meantime I’ll use the gas top to cook on or the barbeque. I’m not going to be beaten by a stove!
The child lock on the dishwasher almost won the battle but fortunately my son turned up and removed it.
Cheers for now
from your ‘flower child friend’
Cynthia.
It pays to read the instructions.
Why do so many of us feel it is unnecessary to read instructions and assume they are written for everyone else but never for us?
We especially do it with electronic gadgets.
When we purchased our new television recently, the instruction book lay unopened in its plastic wrapping for about three days while we fiddled about with the remote and various plugs and wires. We pressed all the buttons, often making matters worse each time or undoing something we had unwittingly done correctly. The screens passed through black to speckled greys to pixel size coloured blobs and when we had a channel functioning correctly, the sound went off and we were left looking at a talking head.
It caused many heated arguments and words to the affect of ‘well you do it then if you think you know so much about it’, sometimes accompanied by the remote being flung at the head of whichever ‘Know-all’ was sitting at the other end of the couch.
Eventually one of us deigned,…. I forget which one,…. to reach for the book of instructions. Now these are objects of mystery in themselves. They appear to be written in every language spoken by man but as the saying goes, ‘appearances can be deceiving’. We can only read the oriental version of English. We can read it, but can only make wild guesses at what some instructions mean. So we hop from one reasonably well written sentence to another.
After more hours of impatient tempers and frustrations, we call the television repair man and irritatingly, he fixes it in ten minutes while making light hearted conversation about this and that. Followed by writing out a bill while small smirk loiters around his mouth.
We pay the bill without complaint just to improve the atmosphere in the home.
Even new cars can bring out this ridiculous behaviour. Instead of getting the pristine and glossy manual out of the glove box we fiddle and fuddle about with knobs and buttons, peddles and gears putting windscreen wipers on when we mean to put heaters or radios on and try to drive out of the garage by pressing a foot on a pedal and doing something dreadful in the way Hughie, Teddy’s friend did. He pressed hard on what he thought was the brake pedal and shot straight through the end of his garage. The result of this mishap was chaos and a large repair bill for his new car, his garage and a neighbour’s fence. Perhaps, if he hadn’t been so impatient to get out on the open road and had spent a little while reading the manual and doing an airline pilot type check he may have saved so much trauma, but then it is easy to be wise afterward.
The same mind-set applies to our computers.
Teddy has been more than a week trying to load a new version of a programme. He has worked at it for hours and so far he has announced at the close of at least three consecutive days that ‘I’ve done it! I’ve got it to load!’ Only to find the next morning the programme is no longer on his computer.
A quick phone call to our young I.T man and it would probably be fixed in a jiffy. But no, I think that word ‘young’ is the tripping point. Combine it with the need to demonstrate he can do it without any help and he has the lack of success he is trying so hard to avoid.
The same thing happened last week.
The weekly email giving instructions for the Burke and Wills walking group appeared on his screen.
We rose before dawn to make sure his packed lunch and coffee was made and after his customary three returns to the house for the things he had forgotten such as his phone, camera, or glasses, he was gone with a cheery wave saying, ‘I’ll be back about 2 p.m. It’s only a short walk’.
Come 2p.m. no Teddy in sight.
Late in the afternoon when the daylight was giving way to a gloomy evening, he walked in the door looking tired and a little footsore. I suspected some sort of hitch had occurred but bided my time for the explanation to be forthcoming.
Eventually after a coffee and a long sit in his chair while he stared into space he told me.
He arrived at the usual parking place from where the group leave. There was no-one there so he suspected he had missed them. He drove to three other possible parking places. Still no sign of anyone so he went back to the original and thought he would start walking from the end of the walk and meet up with the others somewhere around halfway as they were coming from the opposite direction. He met no-one. He enjoyed his lunch while he sat at the top of the hill and began the walk back to the car park.
When he arrived back at the car park just after noon there was one person there who remarked ‘You’re early Teddy.’
‘Oh, well, if I’m early now, I was bloody early this morning because I’ve done the walk already.’ he replied.
Slowly the rest of the group arrived and Teddy told them he had already been but would do the walk again. This time with company.
His reputation for reading the details properly of where, when and what time, written in the club emails has well and truly gone down the gurglar.
He had simply read the name of the walk and assumed he knew the rest.
A bit like buying another new electronic device, we assume the details are the same as every other gadget we have.
I’m now going back to my automatic electric stove which turned off last week and I can’t work out which buttons turn it back on. Bother the instruction book, the advice seems completely useless. I’ll get it worked out one day. In the meantime I’ll use the gas top to cook on or the barbeque. I’m not going to be beaten by a stove!
The child lock on the dishwasher almost won the battle but fortunately my son turned up and removed it.
Cheers for now
from your ‘flower child friend’
Cynthia.
Monday, July 4, 2011
Letter From The Other Side; from Cynthia --Bookshops.
Dear Del,
I do love bookshops.
From the moment I step over the threshold I find myself in another world as I riffle through small books with quirky titles, large tomes that may be handy after I’ve read them for holding the back door open, drool over gardening books and ignore cookery books because I know I just can’t fit another on my kitchen shelves. I stop by the psycho babble self-help books and usually after perusing the titles usually find I’m past the age where I think any of them can make an improvement….. The kids have given me a stack containing the words ‘healthy ageing’ which I have at times found very interesting and have kept ready for returning them when our well meaning children come up against their fiftieth birthdays with a thump. I glance at the astronomy section knowing Teddy would stop dead in front of it, giving the impression he had been super glued to the floor.
Usually I dally in front of the biographies hoping to find someone of interest and then I move on to the humour section and open up something which will have me gurgling and giggling with delight.
Looking around I feel amazed that so many new writers and authors have found the thousands of words and new ideas or research to put between the covers of them all. I also feel quite surprised there are still brave editors and publishers willing to pay to print them. I’m aware the self-help range is lucrative and the sports personalties that have done well in their chosen sport and can find good ghost writers are a paying area, but it is gratifying to find publishers still willing to try and sell good novels and unusual subjects to the public. It gives a lie to the popular thinking that reading is as pastime is being superseded by electronic books.
My favourite book shops are those that sell used and second-hand titles. Here I can look for authors’ no longer in print sometimes finding little sentimental notes written inside the covers which give an indication of the person who first owned the book. Sometimes I feel quite sad to see a favourite title I’ve read sitting among the preloved books looking pristine and fresh as if the pages have never been opened and enjoyed. These places are treasure troves for me and not just because of the books. It is always fascinating to discover the personalty of the person behind the counter.
Obviously they all share a passion for the written word but that is where the similarities appear to end.
In a village not far from here we have a dithery type of woman. She clucks around behind her customers chirruping away happily about this and that giving the impression she could have been Miss Marple’s nitwit sister.
In another, there is a large woman who never moves from her chair and your progress around the dusty shelves where spiders and silver fish live out their lives peacefully, is accompanied by the click, click, click of her knitting needles. She knits some fascinating shapeless looking things in horrendous colours. I’ve never seen her wear any of them so I presume a hapless relative has to say “Oh how lovely’ when they receive the results.
Then there is another shop I like to go where the owner appears to have just stepped out of the teacher’s staff room of St Trinians School. She really knows her books and her stock and I would never dare to contradict her opinion in case I was made to write out ‘I must not be rude to my elders’ a thousand times. She always has a few of my favourite authors so I steel myself for each visit and make sure my shoes are polished and my skirts are straight.
One of the most fascinating of owners I have met was a previous owner who lived in our village. During the 1970’s he had an ‘alternative lifestyle’ store when the words really meant what they said…….. One would think the way these words are bandied about nowadays that the last generation came up with them and it is a new concept.
His, was one of the first in this area however and all the people who had fled to the country in the attempt to enjoy a self sufficient life or join a commune would pass through his doors seeking books on meditation, vegetarian cooking, how to care for various stock and how to make mud brick houses etc. In other words everything of the period when we were all making love not war.
The city folk and the holiday makers who still lived conventional lives would arrive for their summer holidays or winter skiing holidays and be rather taken aback when the proprietor of the alternative bookshop gave full vent to his alternative lifestyle by dressing in beautifully co-ordinated ladies clothing each Saturday morning and walk the length of the shopping centre greeting one and all while flinging his caftan and braided hair provocatively.
It was quite a sad time when he sold the business and retired to live his dream. Although, it did give the lady who liked to ride into town on her pet milking cow during that same decade the opportunity to gain the full attention of the visitors. The reason being that while riding a cow is somewhat unusual not many people did it wearing from the waist down a Mexican riding outfit. Fewer still did it while being from the waist up with the exception of a sombrero hat, completely naked. It was positively astounding when a person witnessed her well developed body for the first time.
I believe her cow riding days are over and the lady now resides quietly in a retirement nursing home. I wonder if she shares her memories with others and they look at her in disbelief and scepticism.
I’ve heard of another second-hand place this week which I haven’t visited. I must make sure I go to see what treasures are there. Life is still full of discovery isn’t it?
Cheers from Cynthia.
Dear Del,
I do love bookshops.
From the moment I step over the threshold I find myself in another world as I riffle through small books with quirky titles, large tomes that may be handy after I’ve read them for holding the back door open, drool over gardening books and ignore cookery books because I know I just can’t fit another on my kitchen shelves. I stop by the psycho babble self-help books and usually after perusing the titles usually find I’m past the age where I think any of them can make an improvement….. The kids have given me a stack containing the words ‘healthy ageing’ which I have at times found very interesting and have kept ready for returning them when our well meaning children come up against their fiftieth birthdays with a thump. I glance at the astronomy section knowing Teddy would stop dead in front of it, giving the impression he had been super glued to the floor.
Usually I dally in front of the biographies hoping to find someone of interest and then I move on to the humour section and open up something which will have me gurgling and giggling with delight.
Looking around I feel amazed that so many new writers and authors have found the thousands of words and new ideas or research to put between the covers of them all. I also feel quite surprised there are still brave editors and publishers willing to pay to print them. I’m aware the self-help range is lucrative and the sports personalties that have done well in their chosen sport and can find good ghost writers are a paying area, but it is gratifying to find publishers still willing to try and sell good novels and unusual subjects to the public. It gives a lie to the popular thinking that reading is as pastime is being superseded by electronic books.
My favourite book shops are those that sell used and second-hand titles. Here I can look for authors’ no longer in print sometimes finding little sentimental notes written inside the covers which give an indication of the person who first owned the book. Sometimes I feel quite sad to see a favourite title I’ve read sitting among the preloved books looking pristine and fresh as if the pages have never been opened and enjoyed. These places are treasure troves for me and not just because of the books. It is always fascinating to discover the personalty of the person behind the counter.
Obviously they all share a passion for the written word but that is where the similarities appear to end.
In a village not far from here we have a dithery type of woman. She clucks around behind her customers chirruping away happily about this and that giving the impression she could have been Miss Marple’s nitwit sister.
In another, there is a large woman who never moves from her chair and your progress around the dusty shelves where spiders and silver fish live out their lives peacefully, is accompanied by the click, click, click of her knitting needles. She knits some fascinating shapeless looking things in horrendous colours. I’ve never seen her wear any of them so I presume a hapless relative has to say “Oh how lovely’ when they receive the results.
Then there is another shop I like to go where the owner appears to have just stepped out of the teacher’s staff room of St Trinians School. She really knows her books and her stock and I would never dare to contradict her opinion in case I was made to write out ‘I must not be rude to my elders’ a thousand times. She always has a few of my favourite authors so I steel myself for each visit and make sure my shoes are polished and my skirts are straight.
One of the most fascinating of owners I have met was a previous owner who lived in our village. During the 1970’s he had an ‘alternative lifestyle’ store when the words really meant what they said…….. One would think the way these words are bandied about nowadays that the last generation came up with them and it is a new concept.
His, was one of the first in this area however and all the people who had fled to the country in the attempt to enjoy a self sufficient life or join a commune would pass through his doors seeking books on meditation, vegetarian cooking, how to care for various stock and how to make mud brick houses etc. In other words everything of the period when we were all making love not war.
The city folk and the holiday makers who still lived conventional lives would arrive for their summer holidays or winter skiing holidays and be rather taken aback when the proprietor of the alternative bookshop gave full vent to his alternative lifestyle by dressing in beautifully co-ordinated ladies clothing each Saturday morning and walk the length of the shopping centre greeting one and all while flinging his caftan and braided hair provocatively.
It was quite a sad time when he sold the business and retired to live his dream. Although, it did give the lady who liked to ride into town on her pet milking cow during that same decade the opportunity to gain the full attention of the visitors. The reason being that while riding a cow is somewhat unusual not many people did it wearing from the waist down a Mexican riding outfit. Fewer still did it while being from the waist up with the exception of a sombrero hat, completely naked. It was positively astounding when a person witnessed her well developed body for the first time.
I believe her cow riding days are over and the lady now resides quietly in a retirement nursing home. I wonder if she shares her memories with others and they look at her in disbelief and scepticism.
I’ve heard of another second-hand place this week which I haven’t visited. I must make sure I go to see what treasures are there. Life is still full of discovery isn’t it?
Cheers from Cynthia.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Ash???
Letter From The Other Side; from Cynthia .... Ash
Dear Del,
The word on many people lips this week has been ash. Not a very interesting topic one would think but it has buzzed about offices, homes and various forms of media all over the country.
The problem has been the ash from a volcano in South America which is spewing out massive clouds of the stuff that has gradually made its way around the world. It has become a general nuisance to many people as it hangs about in the air preventing planes from taking off and landing and forcing travellers to try and find alternate domestic forms of transport.
Meetings have been rescheduled; celebrations, theatre appearances and funerals have been poorly attended by interstate travellers. The poor folk waiting to travel internationally have been bunked down on uncomfortably hard airport floors and seats and after a few nights and days of sleep deprivation are ready to blame anyone who looks anything like an airline employee for their predicament. I don’t think it matters to them if they are speaking to the top brass or to the cleaning ladies; they just want to blame someone.
Many seem to have completely lost the plot and evidently consider that a large fire hose and a good yell at Mother Nature should fix the lot!
White faced airline bosses are fronting up nightly to the television cameras trying to appear calm and reasonable while their brains must be running hot as they calculate the losses in revenue resulting from their planes sitting idle on the tarmacs collecting dust (or maybe it is ash).
We have watched all this going on from the comfort of our couches and muttered the sort of things that non involvement in a disaster brings to the mind of the observer’s lips, such as ‘poor things’ and then add as we settle down in front of our wood fired heater a little more comfortably ‘glad it isn’t us.’
Also featured on our regional news has been a complaint by our local firemen that they were being called out to too many fires resulting from careless persons who have put hot ash onto piles of rotting down autumn leaves.
Teddy did his ‘manly’ thing of huffing and puffing at the stupidity of people doing such an obviously silly thing. ‘Should know better etc’
His outburst would have left that grumpiest of men Victor Meldrew, speechless with admiration.
About three days later when we woke and I went to the kitchen to make the first cup of tea for the day. I looked out at the small wisps of steam rising from various parts of the back garden as the winter sun melted the heavy frost. One area behind our garden shed which backs onto two other neighbouring garden sheds and a new budgerigar cage seemed to have an uncommonly large amount of steam rising quickly and thickly into the clear morning air.
I called. ‘Teddy what is that?’
‘What?’ He sauntered across to the window.
Like a flash he was out into the -3 degree morning. Next moment he was rushing across the white frost encrusted grass wearing only a pair of work boots and the habitual light cotton short legged pyjamas he wears all year. In one hand he held a spade, in the other he had the bucket used for the dog’s water. Soon he was digging into the leaves behind our shed and pouring water into a hole.
It didn’t appear to help a great deal and more smoke and steam rose in an ever increasing column. I felt a twinge of apprehension as I stayed well away from the action but ensured my hand was close to the phone ready to dial 000.
After much frantic running back and forth and more digging (you will appreciate running in boots not fastened properly can make the physical action appear somewhat unusual and a little silly to the onlooker) gradually the column diminished and the emergency was over.
Other than for his knees having turned an attractive shade of blue from the cold and contrasting well with the bright red of his face brought on by the exertions, the emergency appeared to be over.
I said nothing when he eventually came back inside smelling strongly of hot ash and burnt leaves. I made the tea and we wandered back to the bedroom as he spread the odour of relief, burning guilt and embarrassment behind him.
I continued to say nothing about the episode feeling he felt quite silly enough without me pointing it out.
Ours and the neighbours sheds hold all the usual things that are thrown in them such as lawnmowers, lawnmower fuel and various tools and it would have been dreadful to have all the contents go up in smoke but at the very least, insurance would have covered some of it. But to have our neighbour who has just spent an enormous amount of time and expense lovingly building a palace for his pet budgerigars presented with eight or ten roast birds for his Sunday lunch would have been dreadful.
Since that day Teddy has admitted what happened to various mates who commiserated, mainly because they have been guilty of doing the same thing. One fellow actually managed to burn his fence down and another succeeded in spectacular flames reaching for the sky before he could get things under control. He spent a long time ‘in the dog house’ having been put there by his neighbours and his wife.
So yes, ash has been a big topic all round lately Del, I hope it clears up soon.
Cheers from your ‘flower child friend’
Cynthia.
Dear Del,
The word on many people lips this week has been ash. Not a very interesting topic one would think but it has buzzed about offices, homes and various forms of media all over the country.
The problem has been the ash from a volcano in South America which is spewing out massive clouds of the stuff that has gradually made its way around the world. It has become a general nuisance to many people as it hangs about in the air preventing planes from taking off and landing and forcing travellers to try and find alternate domestic forms of transport.
Meetings have been rescheduled; celebrations, theatre appearances and funerals have been poorly attended by interstate travellers. The poor folk waiting to travel internationally have been bunked down on uncomfortably hard airport floors and seats and after a few nights and days of sleep deprivation are ready to blame anyone who looks anything like an airline employee for their predicament. I don’t think it matters to them if they are speaking to the top brass or to the cleaning ladies; they just want to blame someone.
Many seem to have completely lost the plot and evidently consider that a large fire hose and a good yell at Mother Nature should fix the lot!
White faced airline bosses are fronting up nightly to the television cameras trying to appear calm and reasonable while their brains must be running hot as they calculate the losses in revenue resulting from their planes sitting idle on the tarmacs collecting dust (or maybe it is ash).
We have watched all this going on from the comfort of our couches and muttered the sort of things that non involvement in a disaster brings to the mind of the observer’s lips, such as ‘poor things’ and then add as we settle down in front of our wood fired heater a little more comfortably ‘glad it isn’t us.’
Also featured on our regional news has been a complaint by our local firemen that they were being called out to too many fires resulting from careless persons who have put hot ash onto piles of rotting down autumn leaves.
Teddy did his ‘manly’ thing of huffing and puffing at the stupidity of people doing such an obviously silly thing. ‘Should know better etc’
His outburst would have left that grumpiest of men Victor Meldrew, speechless with admiration.
About three days later when we woke and I went to the kitchen to make the first cup of tea for the day. I looked out at the small wisps of steam rising from various parts of the back garden as the winter sun melted the heavy frost. One area behind our garden shed which backs onto two other neighbouring garden sheds and a new budgerigar cage seemed to have an uncommonly large amount of steam rising quickly and thickly into the clear morning air.
I called. ‘Teddy what is that?’
‘What?’ He sauntered across to the window.
Like a flash he was out into the -3 degree morning. Next moment he was rushing across the white frost encrusted grass wearing only a pair of work boots and the habitual light cotton short legged pyjamas he wears all year. In one hand he held a spade, in the other he had the bucket used for the dog’s water. Soon he was digging into the leaves behind our shed and pouring water into a hole.
It didn’t appear to help a great deal and more smoke and steam rose in an ever increasing column. I felt a twinge of apprehension as I stayed well away from the action but ensured my hand was close to the phone ready to dial 000.
After much frantic running back and forth and more digging (you will appreciate running in boots not fastened properly can make the physical action appear somewhat unusual and a little silly to the onlooker) gradually the column diminished and the emergency was over.
Other than for his knees having turned an attractive shade of blue from the cold and contrasting well with the bright red of his face brought on by the exertions, the emergency appeared to be over.
I said nothing when he eventually came back inside smelling strongly of hot ash and burnt leaves. I made the tea and we wandered back to the bedroom as he spread the odour of relief, burning guilt and embarrassment behind him.
I continued to say nothing about the episode feeling he felt quite silly enough without me pointing it out.
Ours and the neighbours sheds hold all the usual things that are thrown in them such as lawnmowers, lawnmower fuel and various tools and it would have been dreadful to have all the contents go up in smoke but at the very least, insurance would have covered some of it. But to have our neighbour who has just spent an enormous amount of time and expense lovingly building a palace for his pet budgerigars presented with eight or ten roast birds for his Sunday lunch would have been dreadful.
Since that day Teddy has admitted what happened to various mates who commiserated, mainly because they have been guilty of doing the same thing. One fellow actually managed to burn his fence down and another succeeded in spectacular flames reaching for the sky before he could get things under control. He spent a long time ‘in the dog house’ having been put there by his neighbours and his wife.
So yes, ash has been a big topic all round lately Del, I hope it clears up soon.
Cheers from your ‘flower child friend’
Cynthia.
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