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.
Tuesday, 19 August 2014
Saturday, 2 August 2014
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.
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.
Saturday, 26 July 2014
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
Thursday, 24 July 2014
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.
Saturday, 5 July 2014
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
Monday, 30 June 2014
The sad, sad truth
I had a good week-end; a very good week-end. Well, most of it was great. A house I really wanted to sell, sold; and it sold for a good price. Both the buyer and the seller were very happy. I also had the chance to have some 'coffee and cake' time with the child bride.
Although this is where the week-end took a turn for the worse.
Apparently I have been operating under a misunderstanding for a long time. I thought the definition of a week-end was that time in the week when sleeping-in was considered de rigueur, shaving was not necessary, watching a movie was allowed regardless of the time of day, and tangible concessions were given in the wardrobe department.
It turns out I was dead wrong about that last one.
Ask any man over the age of 40 about what he considers is important about the clothes he wears and I'll bet one answer you will never get is "fashionable". I will also bet that the most common, if not the only answer you will receive is "comfortable". The fact that the jeans may be a little worn, the shirt a little faded, the shoes a little misshapen, are not entered into the equation. The issue of a belt will be, at best, an after-thought, just like whether or not a comb is required to be run through my hair. Over 40, wearing clothes that are sartorially-lacking should not be considered a crime upon humanity, nor grounds for casting aspersions upon one's character or intelligence, and it's certainly not acceptable to throw them all away and go on a shopping spree.
This raises a serious dilemma.
For clothes to be truly comfortable, they must be soft. They must either fit the contours of your body or they must loosely ignore it. For clothes to acquire this essential attribute, it takes the determined passage of time and many, many washings. In my experience, one to two years at a minimum. Hanging in the back of a closet for a few years is also known to add the desired level of softness.
There are many of us males who endure the grief and discomfort of hard, harsh clothing for many days and months, in the hope that our wretched clothes will one day be soft and pliable. We look long into the future, willingly delaying wardrobe gratification, so we can one week-end enjoy the comfort of "good" clothes. Imagine then our utter dismay when our respective partners turn around and say, "You're not wearing that old thing are you? That shirt's faded. It's time you threw it out." Just when it's reached its peak!
Oh, the horror of it, and most of all the sadness of it. I am not sure why I felt a little ashamed. I truly did not intend to offend the clothing gods. What this means for any future week-ends, I'm not sure. One thing is certain, some elements of my wardrobe are clearly unwelcome on any out-of-the-house activities.
Although this is where the week-end took a turn for the worse.
Apparently I have been operating under a misunderstanding for a long time. I thought the definition of a week-end was that time in the week when sleeping-in was considered de rigueur, shaving was not necessary, watching a movie was allowed regardless of the time of day, and tangible concessions were given in the wardrobe department.
It turns out I was dead wrong about that last one.
Ask any man over the age of 40 about what he considers is important about the clothes he wears and I'll bet one answer you will never get is "fashionable". I will also bet that the most common, if not the only answer you will receive is "comfortable". The fact that the jeans may be a little worn, the shirt a little faded, the shoes a little misshapen, are not entered into the equation. The issue of a belt will be, at best, an after-thought, just like whether or not a comb is required to be run through my hair. Over 40, wearing clothes that are sartorially-lacking should not be considered a crime upon humanity, nor grounds for casting aspersions upon one's character or intelligence, and it's certainly not acceptable to throw them all away and go on a shopping spree.
This raises a serious dilemma.
For clothes to be truly comfortable, they must be soft. They must either fit the contours of your body or they must loosely ignore it. For clothes to acquire this essential attribute, it takes the determined passage of time and many, many washings. In my experience, one to two years at a minimum. Hanging in the back of a closet for a few years is also known to add the desired level of softness.
There are many of us males who endure the grief and discomfort of hard, harsh clothing for many days and months, in the hope that our wretched clothes will one day be soft and pliable. We look long into the future, willingly delaying wardrobe gratification, so we can one week-end enjoy the comfort of "good" clothes. Imagine then our utter dismay when our respective partners turn around and say, "You're not wearing that old thing are you? That shirt's faded. It's time you threw it out." Just when it's reached its peak!
Oh, the horror of it, and most of all the sadness of it. I am not sure why I felt a little ashamed. I truly did not intend to offend the clothing gods. What this means for any future week-ends, I'm not sure. One thing is certain, some elements of my wardrobe are clearly unwelcome on any out-of-the-house activities.
Saturday, 21 June 2014
Still Life
Chilly night; moon bright;
Intermittent star light.
Dark ground; street light round;
Shooting star earthward bound.
Thin cloud; spreading shroud;
Silhouette trees standing proud.
Shadows cast; dawn at last;
Winters night is finally past.
MDC 19/6/81
Monday, 14 April 2014
Sesquipedalian
I learnt a new word today
Don't know when I'll use it
Normally I have little to say
Not much chance I'll abuse it.
It seems there are some people
Who use words long and fancy
Sitting high up in their
steeples
For me it'd be too chancy.
What I want to know is
Who needs such arduous words?
Well, maybe the folks in showbiz
They don't do things by thirds.
And maybe the legal eagles
With their tortured, twisted
tongues
And the investigative beagles
Chasing fugitives on the run.
And I suppose our politicians
Need a large vocabulary
And of course magicians
Like to take you up a tributary
And doctors write prescriptions
In their homologated text
For therapeutic medications
To keep their patients so
perplexed.
And writers, authors and poets
Love the polysyllabic
Journalists and other
all-know-its
Love the detail and the graphic
Even cowboys must'ring cattle
Issuing orders with invective
Want to show their mettle
Though simple words are as
effective.
So I suppose there is a place
Other than a diphthong
For words in lowercase
That seem really, really long.
MDC 4/5/2005
Wednesday, 9 April 2014
Art for art's sake ...
Local artist, Cathy McClelland, recently tweeted that she had sold her Tabletop Mountain to a private Sydney art collector.
Prolific is not a word you can use to describe Cathy's work. No, better words would be exceptional, notable and remarkable. Stand on the escarpment on almost any morning in Spring or Autumn and the view of the real article will be little different to this masterpiece of poise and accuracy.
Unlike that popular 70's song by 10cc which had the lyrics of "Art for art's sake, money for God's sake" Cathy continues her habit of producing low numbers of exceptional quality. I don't know what Cathy sells her paintings for; I suspect I will never be able to afford one, but one thing I do know is that Cathy is not driven by the money. She paints because she loves to, and her care for her subject is evident in every brush stroke and palette knife dab.
Enjoying both national and international acclaim, Cathy's work is quintessentially Australian, supported by a technically adept and consummate talent . You can check out her paintings at https://www.facebook.com/cathymcclellandfineart.com.au
Prolific is not a word you can use to describe Cathy's work. No, better words would be exceptional, notable and remarkable. Stand on the escarpment on almost any morning in Spring or Autumn and the view of the real article will be little different to this masterpiece of poise and accuracy.
Unlike that popular 70's song by 10cc which had the lyrics of "Art for art's sake, money for God's sake" Cathy continues her habit of producing low numbers of exceptional quality. I don't know what Cathy sells her paintings for; I suspect I will never be able to afford one, but one thing I do know is that Cathy is not driven by the money. She paints because she loves to, and her care for her subject is evident in every brush stroke and palette knife dab.
Enjoying both national and international acclaim, Cathy's work is quintessentially Australian, supported by a technically adept and consummate talent . You can check out her paintings at https://www.facebook.com/cathymcclellandfineart.com.au
Monday, 10 March 2014
An Ikea Experience
Fourteen of us flat-packed into a
lift
barely enough room for us all, more
claustrophobic than cosy
all silently watching the floor
numbers counting upwards
as if the only way to ensure we
reach the correct destination is to monitor that meter mutely
and just like the delivery of a new
dining suite we all disembark at the same floor
leaving the lift lacking and empty
except for a child’s shoe.
(There’s always some small part left
over after assembly.)
Mark Chimes
Saturday, 8 March 2014
A new wind blowing
There was this Greek guy called Aesop who became famous for a whole lot of pithy sayings, one of which was, "The little grapes are the sweetest".
Life is made up of big things and little things. I don't know about you but my life has probably been 20% big things and 80% little. If we live by just the big things, then there is a whole lot of life we miss out on. And upon reflection, oft times, the joy in the small things is just as good as in the big events.
I've just moved to Kleinton. It's not really Toowoomba, but it's so close, and I've lived in Toowoomba for so long, I'm still going to be calling myself a Toowoomba boy.
One of the little things I discovered about Kleinton is that there is almost always a breeze blowing. This is not a startling revelation. It's not worthy of a comment on the evening news. It's not even something I would normally mention in conversation, let alone in a blog post.
Maybe it's because moving house this week has been one of those big events in life. The days have been filled with cleaning, packing and unpacking, moving furniture, looking for lost items, moving more furniture, finding treasured items broken, discovering things thought to have been lost in a previous move, feeling exhausted from dawn to dusk and by the time it hits mid-afternoon the day already seems to have exceeded its 24 allotted hours. It's right then that the cool breeze has been very welcome indeed.
Regardless of where you live (even if you have the misfortune of not living in Toowoomba) make sure you take notice of the small things that happen around you. They very well may be the things that get you through the big thing that is transpiring in your life right now.
The child-bride is calling. Apparently there is more furniture that needs to be moved.
Life is made up of big things and little things. I don't know about you but my life has probably been 20% big things and 80% little. If we live by just the big things, then there is a whole lot of life we miss out on. And upon reflection, oft times, the joy in the small things is just as good as in the big events.
I've just moved to Kleinton. It's not really Toowoomba, but it's so close, and I've lived in Toowoomba for so long, I'm still going to be calling myself a Toowoomba boy.
One of the little things I discovered about Kleinton is that there is almost always a breeze blowing. This is not a startling revelation. It's not worthy of a comment on the evening news. It's not even something I would normally mention in conversation, let alone in a blog post.
Maybe it's because moving house this week has been one of those big events in life. The days have been filled with cleaning, packing and unpacking, moving furniture, looking for lost items, moving more furniture, finding treasured items broken, discovering things thought to have been lost in a previous move, feeling exhausted from dawn to dusk and by the time it hits mid-afternoon the day already seems to have exceeded its 24 allotted hours. It's right then that the cool breeze has been very welcome indeed.
Regardless of where you live (even if you have the misfortune of not living in Toowoomba) make sure you take notice of the small things that happen around you. They very well may be the things that get you through the big thing that is transpiring in your life right now.
The child-bride is calling. Apparently there is more furniture that needs to be moved.
Monday, 3 March 2014
Moving house
My parents have owned the same house for over 54 years. Think about that for a moment. When was the last time you moved house? How many times have you moved in your adult life?
Two years ago, they realised that somewhere in the near future there might be a possibility that they would begin to need some assistance. Their house is a big old Queenslander and upkeep of the yard and building was starting to become too much for them both. So, we started making plans to take them in under our roof.
Now there are a number of things that are fairly obvious to anyone making these kinds of decisions. For example, my parents wanted to maintain their own living space and their own car. My mother loves to cook, and she is a quilter of some note, so it was important for her that these activities could be maintained. In other words, they wanted to retain their own independence. These were simple matters to agree upon, and while the pragmatic implementation of some of these things took a little discussion, in the main they provided no hindrance to progress.
We started looking for suitable homes that could house two separate family units. We saw many that might have been suitable. Most would require some minor alterations, but that presented no problem to us either. As time went by, it looked like my parents were having second thoughts about moving in with us. When I raised this with them, they assured me that they were still keen to proceed. I finally realised that this "reluctance" was not about the new house.
It was all about leaving the old.
Despite my assurances that they could, would and should remain independent as long as they felt comfortable, leaving the house that had been the family home for over 54 years was similar to a death in the family. There was a process of leaving and separation that could not occur over just a few days or even weeks. And like the five stages of grief we all go through with the death of a close friend or family member, time needed to be given so that this process could be properly dealt with. Leaving the family home meant that a time of grieving and reconciliation was needed so this season of my parent's life could be completed properly.
We are all faced with decisions that a sometime unpalatable to us. Sometimes, the harder the decision, the longer we take to make it. I'm not just talking about procrastination. Procrastination will rarely change the decision once it is made. But sometimes we need time to allow our heart and soul to catch up with the decision the brain has already made. This is not to say that the decision was hasty, but it's our heart that grieves, not our brain. Even when the decision is a good one, and the fruit of that decision is eagerly anticipated, there can still be a need for comfort and solace over the necessary cessation of long-held habits and views.
Possessing sturdy resolve and never ones to allow a little pain to hinder necessary progress, today my parents move from the old home to the new one. Already they are involved in decisions over shrubs and gardens, tools and sheds, wall colours and curtains. And because they took the time and meditated on all the various aspects of the wonderful life the old home had hosted, and because they have concluded this season appropriately and with deliberation, they have a very good life ahead of them.
Two years ago, they realised that somewhere in the near future there might be a possibility that they would begin to need some assistance. Their house is a big old Queenslander and upkeep of the yard and building was starting to become too much for them both. So, we started making plans to take them in under our roof.
Now there are a number of things that are fairly obvious to anyone making these kinds of decisions. For example, my parents wanted to maintain their own living space and their own car. My mother loves to cook, and she is a quilter of some note, so it was important for her that these activities could be maintained. In other words, they wanted to retain their own independence. These were simple matters to agree upon, and while the pragmatic implementation of some of these things took a little discussion, in the main they provided no hindrance to progress.
We started looking for suitable homes that could house two separate family units. We saw many that might have been suitable. Most would require some minor alterations, but that presented no problem to us either. As time went by, it looked like my parents were having second thoughts about moving in with us. When I raised this with them, they assured me that they were still keen to proceed. I finally realised that this "reluctance" was not about the new house.
It was all about leaving the old.
Despite my assurances that they could, would and should remain independent as long as they felt comfortable, leaving the house that had been the family home for over 54 years was similar to a death in the family. There was a process of leaving and separation that could not occur over just a few days or even weeks. And like the five stages of grief we all go through with the death of a close friend or family member, time needed to be given so that this process could be properly dealt with. Leaving the family home meant that a time of grieving and reconciliation was needed so this season of my parent's life could be completed properly.
We are all faced with decisions that a sometime unpalatable to us. Sometimes, the harder the decision, the longer we take to make it. I'm not just talking about procrastination. Procrastination will rarely change the decision once it is made. But sometimes we need time to allow our heart and soul to catch up with the decision the brain has already made. This is not to say that the decision was hasty, but it's our heart that grieves, not our brain. Even when the decision is a good one, and the fruit of that decision is eagerly anticipated, there can still be a need for comfort and solace over the necessary cessation of long-held habits and views.
Possessing sturdy resolve and never ones to allow a little pain to hinder necessary progress, today my parents move from the old home to the new one. Already they are involved in decisions over shrubs and gardens, tools and sheds, wall colours and curtains. And because they took the time and meditated on all the various aspects of the wonderful life the old home had hosted, and because they have concluded this season appropriately and with deliberation, they have a very good life ahead of them.
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