Home Free

No ghosts from the past with sordid history

No skeletons in the closet or places to be

No chip on my shoulder, no monkey on my back

No muse in my head to blame for my lack

No dues owed to the Ferryman, no tiger by the tail

No need to pay the Piper, nothing beyond the Pale

No fear of the Reaper, no angst t’wards Old Man Time

No grief for anything that ever was mine

No bad dreams to falter or things I want to forget

No tears of dread to cry, there is no regret

No niggling doubts to ponder or trivial questions “Why?”

No unsettled dispute, no little white lie

No pressing appointments or points to prove

No soap-box to preach or stumbling block to move

No chain to bind me, no lock without key

No debt tying me down - I’m home free.

No magic trick, no sleight of hand,

No fancy foot-work, no shifting sand

No ace up my sleeve or joker in the pack

No magic wand or rabbit in a hat

No spin of the dice, no four leaf clover

No reason to look my shoulder over

No rabbit’s foot, no lucky charm

No hasty retreat from a rushing gendarme

No other agenda, no facade on my face

No rockets in my shoes to cheat in this race

Not counting the blow but turning the cheek

Not eager for fame but fervent for meek

No fear of flying, no terror of heights

But an awe of flame and a kin for lights

Facing the challenges, no fear of fear

Living my life as if my Saviour is near.

No baggage to carry, no millstone round neck

No run-away thoughts to be kept in check

No prison to hold , no handcuffs on me

No reason to stay - I’m home free.

MDC

12/4/96

Creation

Seething Sea; Writhing wind; Rigid rocks

These be my heart and mind.

Restless soul; Aching heart; Empty void

These all the same kind.

Faithful Father, Brothering Son, Gentle Spirit

Creation process again.

Peaceful heart; Renewed mind; Quieted soul

Health and wholeness when I was lame.

MDC

18/4/95

I Like

Summer week-ends that unexpectedly become available when I don't have to work.

Lazy afternoons filled with cicada symphonies, far-off dog barks, a further-off car horn.

The galvanized action that appears suddenly when a conundrum of indecision crystallizes into a plan.

The sizzle and snap of sausages on the BBQ, their fragrance over-powering the mock orange.

The scent of vanilla lurking behind the fragrance of coffee.

The uncomfortable caress of bottle brush against the side of the house.

The wind turning ten thousand pages in the camphor laurels.

Dolce Vita

Sift the flour, heat the milk

Do take care that it’s not spilt

Chop the nuts, grate the cheese

Just a pinch of nutmeg please

Warm the oil, melt the butter

Please be careful of the splutter

Grill the pancakes, fry the bacon

This is a feast we are creatin’!

Self-raising flour, a pinch of salt

Some arrowroot, a little malt

Beat the eggs, grease the tin

Put a teaspoon of vanilla in

Dice the onion, shell the peas

The cake should come out of the pan with ease

Skin the kiwi, pit the cherries

Garnish with a few strawberries

Sunflower, olive or rape seed oil

Wrap the tongue in vented foil

Smoke the sausage, let them hang

Fold chopped hazels into meringue

Melt the chocolate, stew the pear

Prepare the Brie and Camembert

A cup of honey, whip the cream

This desert will be a dream!

Warm the plates, decant the wine

Pluck the grapes fresh from the vine

Choose your condiments, a dollop of mustard

Don’t forget to chill the custard

Fold the napkins, set the china

Indirect light will be much kinder

Draw the curtains, cut the glare

Ah, life is wonderful.  Savoir-faire !

© MDC

04/06/9

Things I hate

The mocking of youths, like an harassment of seagulls, creating a cacophony of activity and sound that produces no useful outcome.

The denial of delinquents protesting their innocence, forever enshrining their perception of the veracity of their behaviour.

Political commentary, igniting a holocaust of public indifference, being promoted by self-appointed talking heads whose rationale for promoting the commentary is completely divorced from the topic at hand.

People feeling sheepish, when they should be feeling ashamed.

People confusing the act of capitulation with the notion that to do so allows an attack on their self-worth.

Things rendered invisible by habit.

The new and exciting becoming normal and mundane.

The tearing of a comfortable shirt, thus rendering it usable only as a rag.
The articulation of night keeping me awake.

Running out of Pedro Ximenez.

Realisation

The sun, the moon, the wild dark ocean

The ice, the dune, devoid of devotion

The dim, the night, the forbidding mountain

The dream of hope, the dewy fountain.

The eye, the sight, the rising, the dawn,

The greens, the blues, the feeling forlorn

The tongue, the taste, the day, the dusk,

The sound of autumn, the smell of musk

The ear, the sound, the morning new

The distaste of bills long overdue

The yawn, the groan, the anguished cry

The bitter aged asking “why?”

The wicked, the clever, the dumb, the deft

The rich, the powerful, the poor and bereft

The quick, the slow, the wise, the sloth

The golden thread in the dark cloth

The king, the queen, the abdication

The folly of his fabrication

The subject revolt, the nation hissing

The realisation of a kingdom missing

The courage of love, the cowardice of hate

The strength to accept the command of Fate

The resolve to live with faith unfeigned

The humbleness to be justly-blamed

MDC

5/5/97

Naming Dilemma

Elizabeth or Kate, Bernice or Sue

We cannot decide, what will we do?

This cute little bundle must have a name

The indecision will turn us insane!

Kylie, Samantha, Julie or Jean

Lauren, Kathy, maybe Maxine

Gertrude or Sigrid, Lisa or Prue

Goodness! There must be one that will do.

Born on a Monday after much pain

Helen or Phoebe.  What about Jane?

Lyndal, Trudi, Margaret, Joan

We’ll even settle for Claudia (moan)

Mary, Lilly, Bronwyn, Faye

Do we have to make a decision today?

Megan, Jodie, Yvonne and Tammy

Now my hands are getting all clammy

Sophie, Nora, Sally, Nicole

I’m just digging myself into a hole

Vanessa, Edith, Bethany, Lenore

What you say there’s even more!

Andrea, Lois, Kim, Terri-Lee

Make it easy for poor simple me

I’ve done no work but I’m tired [yawn]

Debra, Cindy, Melanie, Dawn...

MDC

11/05/93

To all the young couples at Toowoomba Christian Fellowship who are enjoying the birth of their first daughters.

A good read

Reading is one of the singular pleasures in life. Regardless of whether you prefer fact or fiction, a hour (or three) spent reading a good book ranks as one of the most pleasurable things a person can do to relax. It does not matter what the subject matter is, and here is where I disagree with my I-only-read-non-fiction friends, because you can always learn something from a good book.

What makes a good book? That answer changes for every person. It will depend on your level of education (no point reading something that is far beyond your ability to grasp). It will depend on your preferences (no point reading something that is as dry as sawdust).

When I was a pre-teenager I read just about anything I could get my hands on.The first book that made an impact on me was Cocky's Castle by Celia Syred. The adventure excited me, the emotional ending shocked me. I read all of Enid Blyton's Secret Seven and Famous Five and I do not remember a time when I have not been reading a book since then.

My parents called me a book worm. They love to tell the story of the time when some old lino was being pulled up in the kitchen to make way for renovations. As the lino came up, sheets of newspaper, lying between the lino and the floorboards, were revealed. Apparently I was of little help to them as I insisted on reading every sheet as it was released from the floor.

Life takes many twists and turns, and mine has had many that were unexpected and difficult. Some things remain as constants though, and one of those for me has been reading.

In an effort to conform with my afore-mentioned friends I took a journey into the domain of non-fiction. I read biographies, auto-biographies, historical treatises, white papers, etc. I enjoyed most of them. But I don't read just for content. In fact, given that the larger portion of my reading is fiction, content has been a minor consideration for many years. I read to learn and to expand my vocabulary; to improve my communication skills. In my experience, non-fiction is generally written with only the content in mind. This leads to lazy writing.

One of my favourite authors is Charles Frazier. He became famous in 1997 with his first full-length novel, Cold Mountain. The movie was rubbish. The book was a tour de force in how to describe something with expression. He described several characters as "not precisely old but he was working his way there" and "had a natural inclination toward bile and melancholy" and "poisoned by lonesomeness and longing".

Another fabulous author, Simon Winchester, wrote The Surgeon of Crowthorne". This is one of the few non-fiction books I have read that match the prose and beauty of script that is commonplace in fiction, but so often sadly lacking in non-fiction. Winchester's masterpiece proves that it is possible to cover a topic that many would consider dry as old bones with artistry and aplomb, thus elevating it to the level of the sublime. The Surgeon is sub-titled A Tale of Murder, Madness and the Love of Words. It details the story of how the Oxford English Dictionary came to be published. One could be forgiven for thinking that the pursuit of ensuring that the mite of a two-letter preposition should have no less standing than the majesty of a piece of polysyllabic sesquipedalianism would be banal and trite. One would be wrong, but I digress.

This post started with an intention to alert you to an excellent book I read over the Christmas break. I don't usually recommend books to others as I know that reading is a very personal enjoyment, and like art and love, there is no accounting for taste. Written by William Kent Kreuger, "An Ordinary Grace" is the story of one summer told through the eyes and perceptions of a 13 year old boy. Read it for the story or read it for the beautiful prose and exquisite phrasing, but read it.

A principled man

Eighty years old - that's a milestone in anyone's book. I am a young whipper-snapper by comparison. Even so, I have found my self thinking a lately about the relevance of the elderly in our society. The media and most movies portray life as exciting for the young and almost irrelevant for the old.

So what relevance does an 80 year-old man have? I'll tell you. 

Ignoring all other contributions for the moment, one thing that the elderly provides society with is an "ancient landmark". Key that phrase into Google and see what you get. I know there may be exceptions, but I dare to venture that there are not too many octogenarians that are living irresponsible and reckless lives. 

Now I realise that living to an old age is as much about the gene pool we came from and factors outside our control as it is about responsible diet, behaviour and life choices. I also realise that bad habits don't just go away with age, and it is human to arrive at the last years of our life with attitudes and habits that are less than exemplary.

My father turned eighty today. He has lived a life as a principled, honest, truthful, reliable and humble man. He has done so, having come from a background of economic depression, war, bigotry, family abuse and low self-esteem. He worked hard to stop any shadow from that past being cast over those he loves.

He has lived through the decades of political upheaval, workplace "reform" and relentless media advertising that were unknown to his parents. These things did not deter him one little bit.

He has been generous to strangers and helped those in need, even when he had his own large family to feed and clothe. He taught his children the real meaning of love, forgiveness, and tolerance without once ignoring the sanctity of an individual's dignity or breaking any principles of relationship. He taught us to maintain a respect for authority that is completely lost on the youth of today.

Is my father perfect? Of course not. He would be the first to confess that inadequacy, weakness and personal bias has caused him to make errors, mistakes and blunders that he still feels ashamed of.

And that is why my father and many like him are owed a debt of gratitude and honour they rarely receive. Because despite all their short-comings, the elderly still provide us with example and education on how to live and they maintain a steadfast hold upon principles simply because they are just that - principles by which to live. 

When I say 'simply', I do not mean they they hold to these out of naivety or ignorance. No, they hold onto them because they have a lifetime of proof that such principles should, and do, guide a life. My father has been married for over 56 years to the same wife. Anyone who has been married for more than a few years knows how difficult that is to do. That kind of commitment only comes through the determination to hold onto promises and vows made regardless of how long ago they were made.

By refusing to assign a lesser value to things simply because of the passing of time, the elderly teach us that there is a different perspective on life that is so easily missed by we who are young.

Happy birthday Dad.

Over-reaction?

One of the enduring memories I have as a youngster is working with my father and brothers in the vegie garden on week-ends.Our vegie patch was as large as our family. It had to be to feed two adults, five boys, two girls and any number of visitors. 

In order to produce enough vegetables to feed our family, constant work was required to keep the garden free from weeds and keep the produce in a healthy condition. I have many fond memories of my father's long arms scooping up weeds in a single swipe. My brothers and I would endeavour to emulate this practice but all our attempts seemed puny compared with his.

I also remember one particular Saturday morning when my mother called us for morning tea on the front verandah. My father's instructions were to finish the area we were working in, wash our hands and come once we were finished. Of course, no sooner had my father disappeared around the corner of the house and the competition was on to see who could pull the most weeds in the shortest period of time. Once done, we proceeded to wash our hands at the water tap at the back of the house.

Something else we admired was the way our father could make the garden fork stand upright by simply throwing it into the ground. For boys who had not yet reached puberty, this was a feat that was oft-attempted but as yet, success had escaped us.

While washing my hands, one of my brothers was pursuing this elusive goal; throwing the fork into the Kikuyu hoping it would stick. As luck would have it, the fork went straight through my foot in the webbing between my big and second toes. Once the fork was extracted, there was a square, neat hole through the skin. My brother's immediate consternation relaxed when he realised I was not in pain and when I  said, "Hey look, I can see straight through my foot!". "Cool", he said. "I wish I had one too."

"You can", I said.

Well, it doesn't take much imagination to wonder what happened next. Suffice to say, in a very short space of time we both sported the latest in see-though foot accessories. To say that we were pleased with ourselves would be an understatement.

We went around to the front of the house, beaming with pride, and exclaimed, "Look what we've got!"

I only remember two other things about this little event.

The first is my mother's scream. It was not the reaction we were expecting.

The second is the bewildering pain that came when she poured Mercurochrome on the "wound". Once that yellow solution touched our skin the pain was far worse than we expected, and importantly, unnecessarily so. Up until that point we had a fantastic talking point with our mates that had cost us nothing - no money, no shame, and no pain. Now we were subjected to baths (we had just washed), more pain (the original portion of Mercurochrome having been washed off by the unnecessary bath), a tetanus shot (those things sting!), bandages (inhibiting for any physically-active young boy), and once we recovered, two weeks of full kitchen duty (the most despised of all family chores) to help us consider our foolishness.

Over-reaction on my parents part? While I long considered this to be the case, I have noted that since that day I have never gardened bare-foot.

Time

Time stretches itself, silently yawning

Age hurries forward, death dawning

Travail finally ends, new life spawning

Folly and glee leave no room for mourning.

MDC

6/11/82

Perspective

A couple of years ago, the child bride and I took a short holiday to Vanuatu. I won't bore you with a long list of things we did or places we saw. As much as these things contributed to our happy holiday, the thing that really made it enjoyable was seeing life through the eyes of another culture.

In Vanuatu, there is only one rule to become a taxi driver. You must own, or have access to, a vehicle. If you have a sedan you can become a bona fide taxi driver by painting the letter "T" on the front of your number plate. If you have a people mover and want to become a bus driver, then it is the letter "B" that must be painted instead. As a result it seems that every vehicle owner on this small island has entrepreneurial aspirations. I don't recall seeing a single vehicle that did not have the obligatory letter added to the number plate. 

This means that you meet the real people who live on the island, not some trained and approved representatives. We found them all very friendly and very informative, and very frank. 

We were being taken somewhere one day and struck up a conversation with the driver. We commented that we often saw men walking around the roads of the island with large machetes in their hands. We asked why this was so. The driver explained that the jungle grew so quickly that the paths needed to be cut back on an almost constant basis. The island did not have council workers that maintained these paths, so the locals did it each time they used them.

My daughter commented that in Australia, if we saw a man walking around with a machete, we would call the police.

The bus driver was silent for a moment and then said, "Oh, if we saw a white man with a machete, we would call the police too."

Ah, perspective. It changes everything.