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.

Adding to the fabric of family life

We are a family that enjoys discussing the past events and incidents of our life together. Over the years, anyone who has spent time around our dinner table has been regaled with more than one story about a randomly selected family member or two. The stories become well-known, and though they do not change, they are told with humour, affection and much laughter.  These times and stories help introduce new friends into the wider family context. Such is the content of this blog post, although in this instance the story does not remain the same for a surprising addition must be included.

One of our daughters was the nurse in a very remote part of the Outback for a few years. The work was exciting, but the hours were gruelling. One of the side-benefits of this employment was an excellent wage, and as a result of this, when it came time to leave, our daughter had some extra savings.

She decided to purchase a Peugeot 306 soft-top sports car. It was second-hand and old and did not cost very much, but it was in good condition. It was bright yellow and cute and the family started calling it the Jelly Bean. The child bride loved this little car too, and the two of them were often ducking off somewhere with the top down.

Fast forward a few months and we were looking after it while our daughter was away at another remote outpost. One day the top would not go down. No matter how long or hard we pushed the button, the best we could get were a few shudders, and eventually, not even that. Feeling responsible, I took the car down to the local authorised dealer to see what was wrong.

Some days later, I received an unbelievable call from the service department manager. Apparently, the hood was opened and closed by a hydraulic ram. This unit was broken and needed replacing. There was none in stock in Australia, and he had scoured the country to see if there was a wrecking yard somewhere that might have one. No such luck. A new unit would have to be ordered from France with a waiting time of at least three months.

This was not good news, but it got worse. The price quoted for the replacement unit, NOT including freight or labour, was twenty-one thousand, and sixteen dollars! Yes, you read correctly. $21,016.00 As you can see, that number is forever burnt into my memory.

Not only was this unit broken, but while dismantling portions of the car to access the faulty unit, a mechanic had broken one of the actuator arms too. No apology; just a grunting comment that it was no real loss because the thing didn't work anyway.

I'm not sure what upset me the most. The fact the car had become broken while in my care? While I knew my daughter would be upset, I knew it would not have a detrimental effect on our relationship. Perhaps the fact the cost of repair was so extortionate that approval would never be given to proceed? Not that either. Such things happen in life and any mature adult soon learns to get over them. No, the thing that got under my skin was the attitude of the service department manager. Having been involved in business consultancy for many years, I knew there were oh, so many ways that the guy could have improved his service in this particular instance.

The whole affair eventually became another story in the fabric of our family. After all, how many people get a quote to repair a car that is more than four times the value of the car? The car has remained reliable and as our daughter is currently working closer to civilisation she is able to use her little Jelly Bean for commuting to work. 

I got a call from her last night. It seems that she has had some problems with the air conditioning; it would not turn off. A friend had explained to her the steps to troubleshoot a problem in order to ascertain whether the fault lay in the electrics, the plumbing, the pneumatics, etc. She was able to successfully diagnose the cause of the problem and rectify things so her air-con now behaves itself.

She decided to apply the same troubleshooting process to the soft-top. Would you believe she came up with a completely different diagnosis than the service agent did? As repeating the process brought the same result, she decided to spend the few dollars and replace the signal cable that her diagnosis indicated was faulty. Lo, and behold! the soft-top now closes as expected. I  was flabbergasted when she called me. We laughed for some minutes; I not sure whether from sheer surprise at the unexpected result, or in derision at the "professional" service team who clearly need further training in trouble shooting techniques. Perhaps a little of both.

Either way, we now have an even better story that will now be re-told around the dinner table for many years to come.

Driving in Massachusetts

During a business trip to the USA in the early 90's, I spent a few days in Boston. I did the usual touristy things and walked the freedom trail, saw Johnny Tremain's grave, toured the harbour  where the Boston tea party took place, drank a beer in the Cheers Bar and rode the lift in the John Hancock Tower. Nothing unusual or worthy of particular note.

However, one day I hired a car and drove the the Faneuil Hall markets. Parking spaces were at a premium, so when I saw a spot behind a row of cars I grabbed it eagerly. I spent quite some hours wandering around the markets and soaking in the history of the place. On my way back to the car I saw a vehicle like mine that had a bright, iridescent sticker on the windscreen. Once close enough, I realised the sticker covered the whole of the windscreen, and screamed the word, "VIOLATION!". Drawing even closer I realised the car was mine. Apparently I had parked in some space I was not supposed to.

I was immediately in a quandary. How was I going to remove the sticker? It was large enough and presumably sticky enough that removing it was meant to impose some sort of punitive time impost upon the offender. I was also uncertain whether the windscreen would be clear of adhesive or not. I had found driving in America to require much more of my attention than usual, being unfamiliar with driving on the right so I was unhappy about driving without completely clear vision.

So I walked away.

Yes, I did an about-face and walked all the way back to my hotel. It took me so long that by the time I got to the car rental office, which was near my hotel, that it was closed for the day. I slipped the keys through the slot provided for that purpose and returned, exhausted and foot-sore to my hotel.  I flew out the next morning so did not think any more about the matter.

More than a month later I received a letter in the mail from the State of Massachusetts along with a fine advising that if I did not pay the fine within 7 days the matter would be referred to the local courts. Seeing as the letter arrived some weeks after the deadline, I did noting about it.

A couple of months passed by and another letter arrived from the State of Massachusetts advising that a court date had been set and that I needed to appear to defend my actions. As this letter had arrived well after the court date I again did nothing.

Another month later and I received what turned out to be the final correspondence from the State of Massachusetts advising that as I had not made the court appearance, the matter had been awarded against me and in view of my recalcitrant and obstinate silence, driving privileges were hereby revoked in the State of Massachusetts.

I suppose I deserved this outcome. I accept my guilt. After all, I did apparently park in a no-parking space. I willingly submitted to the loss of a driving license in Massachusetts. 

I thought that this would be the end of it but, oh no, my family have not let me forget my moment of socially irresponsible behaviour. 

 I travelled to the USA again in the late 90's.  I was not arrested upon arrival. I had no trouble entering or leaving.  But my wife did not accompany me. To this day, not one member of my family has travelled to the USA, ostensibly due to fear of being harassed by the authorities for being related to a person convicted of a mis-demeanour. Hokum, I say, but my family reckon that's proof that I still harbour anti-social attitudes.

I hope you can all forgive me.

Words

A word is more than air with meanings;

having power and possessing such strength that it can camouflage its prowess

as the meekest of suggestions,

and an assurance so confident it willingly waits aeons for the truth of its assertions

to be proven.

Weightless as air oozing through conversation,

untouchable syllables lodging without contest in our pores,

mining deep into our souls,

changing our perceptions and defences,

without effort,  without resistance,

without cognition.

MDC 23/03/2012

Arriving

Travel is so easy to us these days that we reach destinations too quickly and so we under-appreciate them as rewards for our efforts, and as places in their own right. They’re merely “on the way” somewhere. We have lost the ability to arrive. When we deliberately spend time in these unexpected or unplanned destinations we often are surprised at what we find, see or experience.

My father has never done this. Some how, some time, he learnt to give equal weight to every place he found himself in. On holidays as kids, we knew that we would stop at every city, town, village, watering hole and tourist stop along the way. Initially the excuse was that someone in the car would need a toilet stop (and he was always right), but that does not explain the need to read every sign, memorial, plague and tribute in all parks, gardens and civic buildings within line of sight of where the car was parked.

I remember only a few years ago on a road trip back from Melbourne, my father waxed lyrical about a particular small town on the way. While cruising along a multi-lane freeway, all other occupants of the car fast asleep, I flashed past a sign and realised I had missed the turn to this town. Screeching to a stop and reversing brought everyone out of their dreams and the car was filled with questions about what was happening. Once I was headed down the turn-off I explained that I had missed the sign but there was nothing to worry about as we would be arriving at our next stop in a few minutes. "Oh, we don't need to go through there", my father explained, "That's quite a bit out of our way."  My mistake. I had forgotten that places that do not lie on our chosen path of travel did not reduce their importance or meaningfulness to my father.

While I do not give attention to places outside my current itinerary, I do think we miss a richness in our lives that comes from paying attention to the small things, the seemingly insignificant things that fill our day. I'm not expecting to ever re-gain the wonderment of childhood experience, but I am hopeful that occasional attention to the small and the tiny may bring a greater insight into those things that loom large in my life.

Winter

The wind’s blowin’ leaves across the street

It’s sure getting cold down ‘round here.

Westerlies start blowin’; rain turns to sleet

I could easily hate this place this time of year.

Water from the fountains fall across the paths,

Everywhere the grass is turning yellow.

Wood fires, and pine-cones crackling in hearths

Fashion styles for women are more mellow.

Tree-tops toss and writhe in the windy gusts,

All of Nature’s starting to look bleak.

Hot-food shops cater for people’s hunger-lusts,

And the colour of the gardens become weak.

The sky is grey-blue ashen, rather overcast

Sparrows cry and wheel upon the wing

Sunshine wanes; its time of reign is past

And people’s hearts are yearning for the spring.

MDC 14/05/81