Patty Beecham

The Lightness of Being.

2013-05-03T16:26:00.004-07:00

“Cheers mum” and we adult children raise our flutes high and toast our dear mother. After a passionate rendition of singing Happy Birthday, complete with hip-hoorays, her casket is wheeled to the waiting hearse; we watch as mum is taken for private cremation.

She wanted to make 93 and so she did, in her own way. After a horrific fall that saw her hospitalised since January - the third fall in as many years - we gave her a very pretty, symbolic, old ladies funeral: can’t ask for better. In fact, it was perfect.

Crystal bowls of her favourite chocolates for everyone to share, stunning posies of native flowers, old friends, familiar faces, a gentle priest and enough great-grandchildren to almost fill the small wooden church. Genuine tears to be sad at our loss, plenty more laughter to remind us that life does indeed go on, at a cracking pace too. Even champagne!

So how are we all coping? Somehow I have changed. There is lightness now in my life. For the first time I have had to rely on myself.

Although dad has been gone for 9 years, I still miss his booming hello at the end of the phone line; and now there is no smiling mum asking me what my latest project involved. It’s just me now and I like it.

I now sleep at night, not worrying about her latest injury. What did the doctor say? Does she need to be moved to a Nursing Home? When was the last time her back was rubbed? What needs to be done? Her needs. Gently caring for our elderly mother has been a loving blessing which was in danger of becoming a chore. And yet it never did. But still, now I can relax, and enjoy my life a little more. I was a good daughter; in fact we were all dutiful, obedient, caring children to our parents, returning the unconditional love shown to us. We not only did our best, but far and beyond that. And we happily exhausted ourselves.

Now, newly orphaned, there isn’t the distress I thought I would feel, only a calmness.

A lightness of being in my own skin, for the first time.

Like a modern day Gulliver, the family ties that gently wrapped loving arms around me, and gave me a stable, solid grounding; from tropical Cairns and Rockhampton, to Toowoomba and beyond to far flung Wollongong, have unravelled; as old age and death claimed the matriarchs, aunties and godmothers in my life. Three old girls dead in four weeks. I drift through the days and nights, float through sleepless weeks, unweighted. The lightness both disturbs and comforts me, as I put into place life lessons learned from years of conversations and hands-on experience. I have to trust that I know enough. I need to believe that I can do this Living, without their voices on the end of the phone. Without loving arms surrounding me with joy. Without approval or judgement.

It has to be enough.

Now I am making my own decisions. Missing their opinions and helpful advice, yes, but gladly standing on my own two feet and looking forward to my own life, with confidence.

They say funerals are for the living, and it’s true. We created a memorable Service, which incorporated everything she wanted: The Lord’s Prayer. Traditional of course. Forever and ever, Amen.

The Magnificat. As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be.

We gave mum what she wanted, and more. Now it’s our turn to live our lives with the same grace and integrity shown to us.

Living with such lightness, demands my feet be grounded. If I am ever in danger of floating away, my memories will form a rock steady base, and with both feet planted safely, my eyes look to my own horizon.

Mum's Passing - Thoughts.

2013-04-08T21:58:00.001-07:00

March 19 2013
Thanks everyone else who has taken the time and care to comment, it's beautiful to be cared for by my Facebook family, hugely appreciated. Home now for a glass of red, my sister is showering, then back to hosptial, but not for me. I don't want to do it, I photograph too many dead people to want to see my mum like this. Over it. It was enough to hold dad in my arms as he went, I don't want to do that with mum.
I've said my goodbyes to her, and I am at peace with that. Candles are lit. x

At noon today we thought she would be gone by 1pm. Instead, her breathing regulated, her hands warmed up (!!) and here we are all those hours later. Death is a meanie, taking it's time, teasing and haunting us, every, single, fecking, day. We could still be having this conversation tomorrow! *faints.

Mum says in her halting, stuttering, breathy voice:"I must firmly tell my daughters; Family first". The irony made me weep. *sighs

Only 8 weeks ago today, my *almost 93yo mother, had sparking blue eyes, full of cheek and wit, rasing her wine glass and hugging her many grandchildren. Tonight, we keep virgil over her bed, as she sleeps peacefully snoring. Yoh Wah (*goodbye) Bunty, thanks for everything. I will miss you every day, and will never look at a telephone again without wanting to ring you at 5pm.

Worth sharing: "Go to sleep and rest your eyes. A clear conscience and no regret is what helps you sleep the sleep of babes. You have done what can be done. Believe me do not be afraid of death or the things left unsaid. Instead be able to celebrate life joy and happiness for these are what lives are for."

March 20 2013
The wind howls around the house, and cries through the trees: Where is our mother? Where is our mother?

RIP Pearl Warby, our Mother of 3 girls and 3 boys. Reader, gardener, opera lover, wife of a soldier, daughter, sister and mother to us all. Bless you and keep you in His loving arms. Toujours gai - and always a Lady. Yow Wah *goodbye

My 2 sisters are back home, red eyed, happy with grief. Phone calls are made...softly...gently.. We fresh ophans sit and raise our glasses of champagne, toasting our mum.

Playing The Lark Ascending for mum. (*And the lark just rises, going up, and up, and finally, it's out of sight) Having a quiet weep. She always wanted this for her funeral. Today we carefully ironed her beautiful purple blouse we all love, bought fresh white pretty knickers for her, and took her clothes to the funeral arranger. This afternoon we met with the always amazing Fr Cameron and planned her Service. Have to say, it’s going to be beautiful.

Flowers have started to arrive. Thank you to everyone for your kind thoughtfulness, with your loving Facebook posts, your beautiful Twitter messages of support, your phone calls, Sms’s and so on. Please know they are all read, noted, and enjoyed. Bless. X

Mum and I loved Archy and Mehitabel: we would often quote bits to each other. Please enjoy. http://donmarquis.com/archy-and-mehitabel

Happy Birthday Eve my darling mum, tomorrow we send you off with Grace and dignity, style and love. If you could see the waxing moon over Mt Archer, if you could feel the gentle night wind on your cheek once more, and know that your life was charmed, difficult, original and amazing. If you could only know, once more, the feel of my arms around you. I wish! Sleep now my darling girl, sleep now, brave girl. I love you. X

Please bear with me if I indulge in a little 1am quiet sob for my mum, whom I will never know. A private, reserved woman. The stranger in our midst. Yah wah mum. *goodbye

***

My aunty has my mother’s ears, and her own, twisted, paralyzed hands. She moans softly, Mum, mum. I am here.

Like a modern day Gulliver, the family ties that gently wrapped loving arms around me, and gave me a stable, solid grounding; from tropical Cairns and Rockhampton, to Toowoomba and beyond to far flung Wollongong; have unravelled, as old age and death claimed the matriarchs, aunties and godmothers in my life.

I drift through the days and nights, float through sleepless weeks, unweighted. The lightness both disturbs and comforts me, as I put into place life lessons learned from years of conversations and hands-on experience. I have to trust that I know enough. I need to believe that I can do this living, without her voice on the end of the phone.

Without aunty laughs and arms surrounding me with joy. Without female approval or judgement.

It has be enough.

Twitter:

She actually said: i love you, i love you, the naughty one. Sigh. X

Glad i am here, although i DID say no more death bed scenes. Still, who are we to write the script?

All a part of life & living, this dying business. Sitting cross legged in hall with a cuppa trying 2 get internet

Chatting to nurse Wendy. 'What was your husband like?' to mum. He was a beautiful man, she says. I cried, hearing that.

Mum glances to her right. 'Who's that?' she asks, nodding to the corner of the room. I nudge Carolyn. 'Is it a man or a woman mum?' I ask

She can't tell me. She looks around her room. 'There's 1,2,3 of them' she says. I stare and smile at nothing but curtains and the sink.

Carolyn suggests it might be mums angels, but mum isn't convinced. Yet she still counts them loud. One. Two. Three.

Mum is snoring. So sweet x

Sitting in the hallway playing solitaire, missing my pillow. Glad i am here though. Might make a nest in mums big chair. Goodnight x

Gawd i am freezing! Thin white hospital blanket, brrr. Mum still snoring.

Good morning Groovers. Sis and i at hospital with mum, starving for Maccas breakfast, lol. Long night. Long day ahead. the morphine is making her confused.

Think she "saw" 3 people in the room last night. Kept asking the time since 4am, witching hr

We will go soon, once witching hour has passed, come back later and do it all again.

Sending warm thoughts to you today..."thanks, i will wrap them around my shoulders like an old friend x

"I'm just a patient, who doesn't know: what's it all about?" says mum.

Remember family, says mum, then drifts off with a smile on her face. I wonder what that memory was?

It’s a restless wind in Rocky tonight, yachts jerk, trembling on their anchors, trees shake their manes with impatience, doors rattle.

It's a restless night tonight, the wind slaps the blinds and spanks unseeing windows.

Be able to celebrate life joy and happiness for these are what lives are for.

I am at home, listening to the wind shiver around the house. Sisters at hospital. Tired, bedtime xx

Back to sleep 4 me, mums candle went out, big wind here, think she is gone, dunno

RIP my darling mother with the laughing blue eyes, I shall always be grateful to you.

she was always a lady with a wicked sense of intelligence & humour. At peace now. Bless.

I am an ophan, the person who supported me & believed in me, listened to me, is gone. So non-judgmental & loving...

With life, comes death. My mother is teaching me gently, still.

she was our matriarch, much loved we won the jackpot with our parents. Marvellous lives x

I think what I'll miss most is her unconditional support, always interested in whatever funeral I'd film, supportive x

Mum's funeral notice in paper, looks good.

Magpies & crows having animated conversations #Rocky

Such a perfect circle.

Thanks Twitter buddies, give me strength to read the Eulogy (my part) & send her off with dignity.

We want happy funeral, she had a great life. Warby-time is over. Bless

So it is done. We orphans gave mum a dignified, memorable, creative Service. Yoh Wah mum. *goodbye #funerals

Tonight's the Night!

2013-02-28T16:18:00.000-08:00

It was all he had hoped for here and now. As he watched her dance en pointe, his breathing slowed until he heard his own heartbeat; keeping time to Swan Lake, Act Three. The audience shuffled quietly, expectantly.

White noise filled his head, a gentle roar that grew in depth. The world held its breath, waiting for his cue.

This was it!

It had taken him his whole life to reach this moment, and he savoured every sweet note, every heart thump, every smile, rehearsed or not.

She was beautiful!

Tonight, after they danced, he would ask her. A thrill surged through him as the violins shivered in tempo.

This was it!

A final deep breath, the roaring in his ears now replaced with the familiar strains of chords and notes, his cue; his moment; his spotlight.

This was it!

Arms up – soft – and away; a spring step, lightly, lightly; feet extended, and a springbok leap.

The rest of the ballet passed in a blur; a delightful, happy blur, as he danced like the man possessed he had become. Obsessed with movement and allowing his body to change and reach out, dance had become his whole life, ever since he saw her, at school , gasping with the beauty and delight at the retired ballerina’s graceful performance.

If only the U13 rugby kids could see me now, he mused, waiting for his final lift with her. That would silence the critics, his father in particular, and those bullies who waited for him behind corners, around trees, in the boys loos. If they could only see his body now; strong, sinewy, complete muscle definition. A man. A dancing man, yes, but this costume leaves nothing to the imagination. He was perfection. Perfection in lycra and tights.

He stiffened for the final lift, smile bright. Tonight is the night. His night. Music swelling, she leapt towards him, took flight; arms extended.

She was so beautiful!

He shivered in anticipation of her answer. Smiling, her perfect body taut with energy, sweat beaded her brow.

Now was the time! His career highlight, the audience, her, his spotlight, their triumph.

Reaching out, he carefully placed one hand on her left thigh.

Exquisite!

The other hand under her waist and ribs, careful not to bruise or hurt her. She was safe in his capable arms, his strong hands, his gentle touch.

Already the audience began to applaud.

Magnificent!

His heart thumped in time to the final chorus. Soon they would walk on stage Pas Marche and bow together. He closed his eyes, filled with passion and joy. He dipped her head towards the stage, as they had rehearsed for the past three months. He could do this movement with his eyes closed.

She never saw it coming, the blood leaving a small trickle, as he stood, in the spotlight, frozen.

Washing Day

2013-01-19T05:13:00.003-08:00

“Lift your boob mum, there you go.” My sisters and I take turns in showering her; it’s a loving chore we grow to love and dread. We wash her with great care and tenderness –and at times great dollops of humour - to get the job done.

Mum is 93 years old; a widow for nine years, a soldier’s bride, and the mother of us four rowdy adult kids and enough great-grand children that we gave up counting them. She reminds us, “I started all this mess!”

Old age ain’t for sissies. Undressing her is an art in itself; gently removing her trousers and shoes, unbuttoning her floral blouse, being careful with her arthritic bones. “Here mummy darling, just move your arm a bit.” We speak to her like a toddler, our own living doll to play with.

She prepares to stand, and then walk to the bathroom across the hallway, using her walker. Osteoporosis has left her weak and vulnerable. Our mother is a very intelligent, but physically frail woman; small confusions are beginning to cloud her memory.

Crosswords keep her mind busy. Use it or lose it. Her extensive classical music collection seems to annoy her now. She brushes the suggestion of which CD to play, with an impatient wave of her hand. “I’ve heard them all!”

We dutiful daughters have taken over the task of showering her after she became agitated with the daily rotation of the different home visit Nurses. No matter how cheerily they would arrive to care for her, it became too much. “So many new faces” she would say, and blush with shame. She’s a proud, private woman. This has added another hour to my live-in sister’s daily care of mum, and my siblings and I visit them both when we can, travelling the 700kms to help with home duties. Respite for my sister, new challenges for mum.

We adult children do this because she is our mother, and that’s how it is. We have become her personal hand servants, but it’s our choice and we are up to the task. The years of her love are returned, with gratitude and respect.

I know every inch of my mother’s soft body. Every curve of her dowagers hump, every unidentified lump, every wrinkle and fold where once smooth skin lay pale, unseen. We inspect her for bruises. Her delicate, paper-thin skin demands our full attention. I hold the shower curtain half closed for modesty so she can wash herself. Gripping the handles we have installed with trembling hands, the fear of slipping and falling frightens us the most. It’s constantly on our mind, the elephant in the room we cannot avoid. Already, she’s broken her wrist, and once slid off a chair when her dressing gown proved to be slippery on the leather seat. We have special wash cloths for her face, another one for her legs, yet another one for her curved, broad back. We tenderly check for signs of heat rash. For a small woman who is physically shrinking each month, mum needs at least three towels to dry herself. One to sit on, to protect her from sliding off the shower seat, one around her naked shoulders for warmth and one to actually dry as I raise each leg, being careful to pat between her toes. I powder her chest, easing on fresh clothes, and walk her gently to her bedroom. Now fully dressed, she lays on top her bed, exhausted. “I’ll just rest a while” she say, her eyes closed.

Bathing mum gives me opportunity and wisdom to see hands-on old age and dignity. It teaches me patience and respect, returning my mother’s love and care.

I sit on her bed and discuss the day’s events; recalling memories, quietly chatting as our roles are reversed. My mother is my child, my delicate doll with the blue eyes.

My mother is teaching me gently, still.

New Year’s Eve and all that I loathe.

2012-12-28T15:39:00.000-08:00

I hate this time of the year. Some people might be Christmas Grinchs, but not me; I love everything about the Christmas season; the carols, the gift-wrapping, the careful cooking of timeless recipes old and new. It’s this time of the year, between the afterglow of good giving, and the dreaded New Years Eve, that I loathe.

Expectations of another wonderful year ahead (what was so great about this year, huh?) and the party to end all parties, New Years Eve looms like a zombie in front of me, arms outstretched with gnashing teeth and dead eyes. Ok, maybe not, but it’s not a well built young man in nappies with a golden 2013 around his neck, either. It’s the weight of other people’s hopes and dreams, unrealistic and simplistic; that drag me down.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve given many NYE parties for my friends and family. In fact, almost every year without exception, and that’s the problem. Can’t they invite us back, and do their own party in their own house, to return the favour? For once, wouldn’t it be nice to be a guest in someone else’s home; to simply wander into a bottle shop, purchase some yummy champers, and bring a plate of cheese artfully plopped next to the biscuits. All care, no attention. Turn up the music.

Lots of our friends own swimming pools, how hard would it be to ask us to come around and bask beside their pool, like the photos I see on their Facebook pages?

No bothering about what theme for the night, no decorations, no amazing food spreads. I recall one year I cooked not one but two whole reef fish, borrowing a portable oven from a local chef. It was stunning but I hadn’t realised the bins wouldn’t be emptied until the following week. The leftover stench nearly killed us.

It must be us, not them. I don’t get it. You’d think by now I’ve have some friendship credit with my loved and dear mates, but apparently not. So this year, this wrung out, gloriously used up, sucked dry, wretched, withered and exhausted year, will see me parked in front of the telly, feet up, a glass resting in my hands, watching the fireworks.

Today I am taking my resentful, sulking self to escape to the coast, packing the leftover ham and wondering how many of the 25 Creative Ways with Christmas Ham recipes I can actually remember. Before leaving to drive north, I’ve washed the sheets, sprayed the weeds and put the bins out; I’ve been a good girl, surely I deserve a treat?

All that’s left to do is pack the house and leftovers, hump them down to the car; somehow pack everything in; including the cat, and drive for two hours in traffic to repeat the scenario at the other end, shoving bits of almost recognisable leftovers into the beach house fridge. It will probably die of shock; it was making weird noises and rattles last time we were up.

Wherever New Years Eve finds you, have a lovely happy time, and remember your friends.

I won’t be.

Whose Freedom?

2012-03-18T21:42:00.000-07:00

Looking at this picture, who had the most freedom? The three gliding pelicans; unconcerned to our human life of worries; or the three teenagers, now past-students - having completed senior studies at high school, and awaiting their school results so university can begin?

Meet my son and his two best friends.

They are putting out little "tinny" out for the day, blatting around the beautiful Noosaville waterways, enjoying their new-found lives and freedom from books, studying, Latin verbs, math 2, physics and biology, school ties ad-nauseum.

Do kids these days still have "best friends" when they also have 250 "contacts" on msn, all of whom they dit and chat to on a nightly basis?

Sure they do.

These 250 contacts aren't friends...well...most of them aren't, anyway. They are people you keep in touch with, so they don't spam you, knock you down, harass you on the net and generally make your life a misery.

Cyber-bullies.

But these two young men, and they are now; young men, are his best mates.

I have seen them grow from eager fresh-faced Year 8's, to the thoughtful and considerate, (not to mention, highly intelligent) young blokes you see before you.

My son has excellent taste in friends. And vice versa.

Freedom. It' not the birds gliding past; it's the kids; oblivious to their future calling - their wives/lives/unborn children and careers ahead of them.

For them, for now, it is simply mucking about in boats, with their mates on the water.
Life is sweet and free.

Me and Bobby McGee

2012-03-18T21:40:00.002-07:00

Did you ever think that the clear, solid notes coming from a trumpet would be golden?

This is me and Bobby McGee, except I am behind the camera, taking the photograph.

His name really is Bobby McGee, just like the song, but not after the song.

Bobby was born in Scotland, and travelled to New York as a 12 year old to play trumpet professionally with his older sister. Now just read that bit again. Left Scotland when he was 12; travelled to New York; to play professionally.

I have to blow through my teeth to comprehend the circumstances.

Bobby has earnt his living for the past 60 years playing trumpet, all over the world. At one stage he was based in Israel, performing “The Sound of Music” in Hebrew!

Now he is with my sister, and they are ‘an item’.

This photo was taken at our New Years Eve party, and when I downloaded the digital pics, I thought I was either too drunk to work the camera, or the battery is flat. As it later turns out, the flash synchronisation was on slow, and the blurring lights are my cherished ‘icicle lights’ to decorate the veranda for summer!

But I love how it captures Bobby McGee playing ‘Auld Lang Syne’ on his trumpet, his trusty, around-the-world trumpet, playing for friends and family, for his love, my sister, playing for his living.
Golden notes, who would have thought! But a camera never lies, eh?

Me and Bobby McGee.

Beyong the gate

2012-03-18T21:39:00.000-07:00

It looks charming, and it is. A simple wooden gate, painted white, the typical "picket fence" attracts the eye, but looking around, the scent of the frangipanni flowers also attracts the senses.

This is the gate that leads to my father’s room... beyond this gate, my father lies dying.

It's part of a beautiful Nursing Home in Rockhampton, and I grow to both love, and eventually dread, this gate.

The frangipanni tree offers me large clumps of flowers - their heads bowed in respect. The path is swept on a daily basis, so that any flowers that may fall are fresh and clean, unbruised, unlike my heavy heart.
Will he remember me today? Will he still be there, in his mind, in his body?

I pick a frangipanni and place it behind my right ear, so it shines out happily when he sees me.

They have always been my favourite flower, in their pureness and simplicity, the heady, giddy perfume enclosing me within a safe world of childhood memories, of hanging upside down in a huge old tree, marvelling at the hugeness of the world in my front garden.

Wonderful memories of reading books and eating apples, running around the frangipanni tree kicking up the leaves in autumn...waiting patiently for the first sings of new growth, the dark green tips sprouting from each barren stem, holding the promise of another summer, more glorious flowers, more hanging upside down to compare if my world had expanded during the winter.

This gate, this white, simple gate leads to where my father lies dying.

I took this photo as a precaution to a hazy memory, I wanted to savour every detail about my dad before stress and loss dimmed my memory.

Now I look at it, and although I am smiling with my love of the tree with its daily offerings of fresh perfumed flowers for me to enjoy, I am reminded of a softer, sadder time, where breathing becomes a chore, where time not only stands still, but runs backwards, as we the children become the adults and vise versa.

I push the gate open, and stoop to collect my flower...

Tahiti training

2012-03-18T21:37:00.001-07:00

Each afternoon they come like clockwork, 5.10pm. You hear them first, the grunting, the shouting across the calm, glassy waters of Tahiti's Morea Island.

Soon, their black bodies, hardened with honest work and gleaming with perspiration, glide into view, their arms pumping the paddles on their sleek outrigger canoes.

Legend has it Tahitians would race across the Pacific Ocean to the nearby island of Bora Bora.
It tires me to even think of it, as we had just crossed the same passage a few days before in our chartered catamaran, and believe me, the waves and swell are huge out there, beyond the reef. The ocean currents run for thousands of kilometres before hitting land, so the waves have time to build and grow in size.

Our crew for this magical sailing holiday on the 12metre cat are our teenage sons, who soon prove their worth and find their sea legs quickly. Sails are hoisted, anchors set and retrieved with minimum fuss. The only trouble we have is attempting to pick up a buoy outside the famous ‘Bloody Mary’s Restaurant’ in Bora Bora. As we motor around for the third time, we find our Skipper still distracted by the sight of a nearby naked Swiss woman, swimming off her yachts stern.

After sailing for 7 days, now we are landlubbers, relaxing in the arms of luxury in our gorgeous palm-fronded cabin. We can swim right outside our front door, and often do, searching the coral for Nemo and his fishy friends. The sight of the outrigger crews is our unexpected bonus, our afternoon entertainment.

The crews come each evening, straight from work, and train for an hour in the lagoon. We pour cold drinks and watch them from our over-the-water-veranda; it soon becomes my favourite habit, much to my husband’s amusement!

The coach for both crews calls out and encourages each man, to do his best, to stroke! Paddle! Pull! Endure! Beyond the lagoon break, there are shells, growing where the waves strike and fall upon the reef; there are huge swells, and whales, passing on their way to warmer waters. The crews paddle beyond the break, beyond the breaking, crashing waves, beyond the roar of white water and leave the safety of the lagoon’s mirrored waters.

Massive outriggers holding over 200 men would paddle from Tahiti to New Zealand, and return, navigating by the stars, pinpointing these tiny specks of islands with their volcanic peaks reaching upwards, to the Gods.

The lagoons have formed as each island sinks under the weight of their own volcanic mountains, forming a safety zone for fish and corals and shells and people and lush foliage. To enter the lagoon after being at sea, is to enrobe oneself in a mantel of peace and tranquillity.

Safe at last! Drop anchor! The sea is a harsh mistress, at times.

We had planned our Tahiti holiday with as much precision and latitude as possible, allowing for no delays, but plenty of surprises, and this was an unexpected bonus, these outrigger training crews, and their bulging arms, amazing energy and their calls and shouts of encouragement.

Gotta love being on holidays. Cheers!

Other submissions by this author: Me and Bobby McGee :: Whose Freedom

Rockhampton Show. Winter of my first doll.

2012-02-28T14:32:00.002-08:00

In the foot stamping cold of a winters night, we blew on our hands in desperation. The gloss of the Rockhampton Show’s was beginning to fade as we waited for our father to take us home. Mum was furious, her eyes narrowing with each question answered through gritted teeth.

No, I don’t know where your father is.

No I don’t know where the car keys are.

I have no idea when we will go home.

No, I still don’t know where your father is, but he’d better hurry up!

Various whines came from my brothers and sisters. We needed to go to the toilet. We were hungry. We were bored, and tired. Mum sat in silence, barely able to speak. I believe she was crying softly. And then we heard him, muffled at first through the hard black interior of the old Dodge car, then louder as he stumbled towards us.

Darlings! Sweetheart! Look what I won!

His leering face loomed at the windows, fogging the glass. He grinned and winked lopsidedly at me. Resisting all instinct to throw my arms around him, I pulled back into the car seat and the darkness.

Mum’s voice exploded over the city like fireworks. Where have you been? How DARE you keep us all waiting, John!

She seethed and bucked like a scorpion riding a bronco. A wild animal of a woman, keep waiting with five restless, cold children. Our tummies rumbled in sympathy.

Dad held up something in the darkness to me. Something pink and glittery. My eyes adjusted slowly to this new scene. A shepard’s crook, more glitter and sparkles, hot pink tulle. It was a Cupie doll, and the most stunning object of beauty I could ever imagine. Dad grinned sheepishly to us all, and we shyly twinkled our frozen fingers back at him.

Having settled into the new life of a priest in Rockhampton, the lure of the XXXX Show bar became too much for our dad. Encouraged by the jovial slaps of his new parishioners, he happily drank to his new flock, and basked in the fuzzy glow of new friendships. On his way out, a showman, sensing an easy target, took dad’s hand and placed three fat grubby baseballs in to it.

Here Father, have a go, every child wins a prize! Dads white dog collar stiffened with ambition mixed with pride and he closed one eye and took his best shot. To everyone’s surprise, it was a convincing win, and he had the choice of any prize on the top shelf. He swaggered momentarily, and then pointed with an unsteady finger, to the pretty doll with the gold hair and a stiff circle of skirt.

Now, as dad held himself up on the car door, from under his jacket he also produced bags of fairy floss and small stuffed toys. The Showman had felt sorry for his priestly charge, and had endowed him with small prizes, which dad gave to my brothers and sisters. Mum drove home in silence, as we children explored the beauty and mysterious wonder of the Rocky Show.

2012-02-26T23:28:00.001-08:00

So dad, yeah, another year without you. Somehow we muddle along.

Btw are you sitting on my steps in Paddo? The cat keeps looking and staring and in my mind I can see you, dressed in your blue flannel checked shirt, red and green beanie askew, grinning at me.

Is heaven that good dad? So what do you think about everything? Let me pick your brains and chew over the fat, as we used to do in days gone by. Did you see what I've done with your book? Yeah, I know, but it's getting there. Yep, quality paper, lots of photos, as you wanted. It's your book. I'm still working on mine.

No, I don't laugh as much, you're right, fancy you noticing that. Yes, I'm eating well, and of course I miss you topping up our wine glasses. How you loved to fuss over us. Thanks mate. We adored you too.

Yes, I'm doing what you asked me to. No I'm not crying much. I don't miss you most days, as you are always beside me. Even the cat notices.

Take care mannie, I'll see you again.

Want to help me blow your candle out? Ready? Hold hands, eyes closed, talking to God.

Now blow....

Miss you Beetle. xx

Always the Youngest.

Condoms galore!

2012-02-24T14:56:00.002-08:00

Extract from My Mate and Me - The life and times of John Warby and Family

Meanwhile, Laurie and I were cleaning out below, when we discovered half a dozen large cartons, stacked away under the stern counter.

On close inspection, we found that each sealed carton contained one gross of smaller cartons. Each of these contained one gross of small envelopes, each containing a condom.   Laurie and I looked at each other and burst out laughing.

Here, were roughly 125,000 condoms, obviously purchased from the War Disposals sale in New Guinea and left on board, when the owners had sold the lugger.    To our trusting eyes, they seemed in good order, but neither of us was authoritative on the subject! Why not sell them? Or even give them away? We sent a carton per taxi to an Army mate in Sydney, who was now in business as a chemist, and far more expert on the subject than ourselves. Would our windfall turn out to be a goldmine?

LET’S CHUCK 'EM!

But the word was 'no'. Despite appearances, they were too old and untrustworthy.   No doubt, that was why they had been abandoned. We decided to dump them that night on the outgoing tide. I still recall what a slow job it was, hauling up each carton in the dark, opening them and heaving the small cartons over the side to be dispersed by the tide.

Next morning, the shore was littered with hundreds of cartons that had been blown ashore by the wind, and not floated out to sea, as we'd hoped. But we were glad to see that it was not long before they, too, disappeared. Perhaps the next tide was higher and had carried them away, we thought.

Eighteen months later we found out where some, at least, had gone, when we put Panton up on Hockings Boatslip at T.I., for some underwater attention.   An irate shipwright confronted us. Wasn't the Panton in Careening Cove last year?   She sure was, we said.   Did we own it, then? Rather modestly, we agreed she was ours at the time.   Did we chuck overboard thousands of French letters then?   Laughingly, we agreed, yes, we had done that.

“You bastards!” he shouted, revealing that he and his wife now had a strapping son, resulting from him picking up some cartons!

He and his mates had collected the lot.   I wonder how many other new Australians we were responsible for!   As it is said, “God works in mysterious ways His wonders to perform”!

Murphy had nothing to do with it!

Celebration

2012-01-31T12:14:00.000-08:00

She leans into his shoulder and closes her eyes against the evening sea breeze. Curls her painted toes around smooth pebbles. Dreams of paradise. And lowering his gaze to her windswept face and tousled hair, he holds her, pushes hair away, kisses her lightly. Urgently. Softly. Choosing one rose, he places it in the water. Not thrown; placed. The photographer bends on one knee,captures the falling wave splashing against the red petals, adjusts his shutter to the fading light, clicks again. Remembered.

They are in New Zealand to recreate their wedding day from 30 years ago, but already it’s too late. His cancer has returned with the strength of a thousand men and his body is weak and frail with yellow.

The images are now on my computer, and from my kitchen I watch them walk their last walk together, as I create his funeral DVD. Their love was strong, obvious, deeply felt, ever-lasting.

So now she sits before me in a restaurant, eyes lowered. She cannot look into anyone’s eyes, not even her own. The hurt is so raw, her grief so huge, it will need a decade of nights to smooth over.

She’s bought flowers for me, roses. My thank you for filming and recording the funeral. For archiving forever, the way she held her head back, staring at the chapel ceiling. Trying not to film too closely, the way she knelt in front of her Nana; the way she placed her head on the old woman’s lap, and allowed her hair to be stroked.

Roses of every colour, to say thank you and celebrate the worst day of her life, the hardest goodbye. Reluctantly, gratefully, I take them from her shaking hands, and gently hug her frailty.

There is no smile, only the haunted look of a woman in love with a husband who will never age.
~

Birthday Poem

2012-01-08T19:43:00.000-08:00

Written for my 50th, love it, thanks Paul Martin.

To our Patty we say Happy Birthday once more,

She's Patricia Anne with an E,
But to us she's just our Patty.
But not just I must say she much more than that,
She's a modern woman,
A woman for the millennium,
Digital and smoke free.

No postmodern, politically correct deconstructionist,
She's a diversified, multi cultural, modernist non-delusionalist,
Politically, anatomically and ecologically correct.

She's a high tech high life.

She uplinks, downloads, inputs, and never outsources.

She's a cutting edge multi-tasker,
She'll give you a gigabite in a nanosecond.

New wave, but old school,
Her inner child is outward bound,
She's a hotwired, heat seeking, warm-hearted, cool customer.

Voice activated and biodegradable.

She's as cool as a cucumber.
Always singing a new number.

Patty interfaces with her database,
And her database is cyberspace.

Patty is interactive, hyperactive, and radioactive.
Never behind the eight ball,
she's ahead of the curve, riding the wave, always pushing the envelope.

She's on point, on task, on message and on the money.

Patty is in the moment, on the edge, over the top, and always
on our radar.

Still lighting rooms with her smile.

She's a high concept, high profile, long range ballistic marvel.

A computer wise, top gun smart sex bomb,
An enthusiastic critical thinker,

She's Eve not Adam our boat captain on the river out of Eden.

She daily climbs Mount Improbable,
Like a cool cat she flies here and there,
And the world now spins around like a top,
What better than to call it a dance,
Maestro Patty, the choreographer supreme, and the ultimate DJ.

She comes with no personal trainers, no personal shoppers, no personal assistants,
And no personal attitude.

She's a Webmistress with a whip in one hand a feather duster in the other.

Not a raging workaholic, not a working rageaholic,
Unless she's working on a DVD that is.

She's a totally ongoing, slam dunk, rain maker.

You can't shut her up, you can't dumb her down,
She's tireless, she's wireless.

She's a true believer, and an overachiever.

Patty is up front, down home, high rent, and low maintenance, Super sized,
long lasting, high definition, and fast acting.

She's a hands on, foot loose, knee jerk humanitarian.

She's a fully equipped, factory authorized, hospital tested, clinically proven, scientifically formulated biology wizard.

She's prewashed, precooked, prepackaged, preapproved,
prescreened, post-dated, freeze dried, and always prepared.

She eats fast food in the slow lane,

She's toll free, bite sized, ready to wear, and takes on all.

She's not a rude dude,
She's the real deal.

Lean, but not mean,
Cocked, locked and ready to rock.

She's not rough or tough, yet hard to bluff.

She takes things slow, she goes with the flow,
She rides the tide, she's got glide in her stride.

Always thinking and tinkering,
Lecturing and debating,
Confronting and challenging.

She's always pushing the pedal to the metal,
She parties hearty,yes we know,
There ain't no doubt,

She's still smashing fours and sixes around the ground.

So Today we're chanting Happy Birthday.

"To Patty", our mate, our friend, our pal, our buddy and much much more, the crowd stands to applaud and roars with delight as the commentater yells into the mike, "She's still at the crease with bat in hand now 50 something not out.

Incoming tide.

2012-01-05T23:38:00.000-08:00

Sit beside me, here near the shady Pandanus tree, with it’s sharp canopy of leaves. Feel the breeze on your skin. Let’s begin, yes?

Cross your legs and close your eyes, we’re going to share some time together in the sunshine.

We’re sitting in a time-warp, a scene repeated each day, every season, year after year. A dropping tide exposes mangrove roots to an impossibly blue sky, a sky so clear you have to wonder where the wind hides?

Ancient aerial roots stand like burnt party candles, or perhaps, like dead men’s fingers, pointing to a day they cannot share; choked in mud and suffocating under the weight of sand and tides.

I’ve always been fond of mangroves; an unfriendly tree at the best of times, but I know they hold the secret to sweet fish and an underwater world of crabs and scuttlerly things, hiding lost fishing hooks and dreams of the one that got away.

A lone gull parades in red stockings, quickly shuffles along with the wind to his back. Neck feathers ruffle in a stand-up collar. Elvis would be proud.

Looking around, it’s easy to unravel the wall of sound that surrounds me; like an old jumper, strand by strand.

A crow to my left, no doubt exclaiming his free lunch left by a careless worker.

A mother and her plump child in a bright blue hat, dragging a large stick. Looking for something in the clear blue waters edge. Small fish perhaps, anxious to retreat to the shady cool of the mangrove’s safety and protection.

Behind me, walkers shuffle along a sand-strewn track, thongs scuffling an emery board sound in rhythm to their laugh and chatter.

Ker-chunk ker-chunk denotes skateboarders, breezing past in shorts and attitude. Further to my right; under a spreading she-oak tree, and drenched in motterly shade, teens play a bastardized game of soccer, more pushing and shoving than any skilled kicking. The ball lands with a dull thud.

Overhead, an unseen plane wings its way to sea, its passengers no doubt staring at the coastline for one last glimpse of their holiday. Kids drift past in a blue and white kayak, too tired to paddle, they let the wind gently move them slowly along; giving them time to think and dream and chat and just sit about and watch the world glide past. Messing about on boats.

Darker patches of water hide leaves and stingrays basking in the arm shallow waters, whilst sandbars tippy-toe out of the water, waiting for children’s footprints, a dogs bark, seagulls tracking.

Tiny feet.

Crabs roll sand-balls out of habit, then hide. An outgoing tide, turns, and begins again.

Incoming tide.

2012-01-04T13:52:00.001-08:00

Writing for fun - Halloween

He hesitated, but only to adjust his collar, pulling it tautly upright against the dripping rain. He hasn’t seen me, not yet.

Not yet.

I crush myself into the bush hiding within its darkness. Branches scratch at my face and arms. Overhead, bats flap aimlessly searching for fruit. I can hear their soft wings beating the night-air with a brushing rhythm. Settling, they squabble high above me in the trees, as a car slowly drives past.

My eyes stare into the brightly lit door slowly opening; I can see him speaking to someone and nodding. Readjusting my position within the bush, I move my feet to avoid standing in dog poo, I can smell it and I gag slightly, just for a moment. Slowly he turns around to face my direction, and I freeze like a rabbit in a spotlight, willing myself to become invisible. Squinting, peering, he holds his hands outstretched, and receives the goodies, turning briskly to walk to the next house.

I have been following him now for 4 houses and he is yet to discover me.

We are both drenched in spring rain and sweat, it’s been a long day, and yet the night is but young.

There is still so much to do, to be done.

A cat slinks within the shadows, stalking the fat rats that hide among the street foliage and bushes. The cat, this familiar cat, dark haired with white paws, sees me, and meows loudly, beginning to rub himself against my leg. My feeble attempts to silence the animal have failed, and hearing a slight commotion, he turns once again, his attention caught, and begins to walk towards me, towards my darkness and cover.

“Mum! Is that really you? I’m a big boy now; I can trick or treat without you.”

~~~

The Rooster

Cedrick the Cockerel strutted his kingdom. Fluffed his feathers. Ruffled his comb. Preened his chest.

He was so proud of his new look, and he turned this way and that, catching his reflection in the pane of glass of his owners house. Not for him the chook pen, no siree, he was a show chicken, a stud, a champion exhibit at the Ekka, and he knew it. Only yesterday the owners little girl held him gently, tenderly, painting his talons a deep, ruby-red. He studied them now, holding out a claw to catch the sun. Very nice.

Today, he freely wandered the garden feeding on the worms and grubs he was able to delicately scratch out with his prized, painted, perfect, painted claw.

Cedrick the Cockerel never saw the farmer from behind; was too confused when he was lain on his puffed chest across the large piece of wood. Never heard a thing, only the farmers’ wife at the window yelling in a booming voice: “And cut those stupid legs off too!”

~~~

Beach Walk 2012

2012-01-03T21:03:00.000-08:00

I say it every year but never do it. Never. It's my coastal mantra which rarely eventuates, "a long beach walk, the length of the coast". Maybe once, at dawn; with my niece and young son, watching him drag his troll-like toenails across the sand; the colour of cake batter. Today, I am out of excuses, and drive to a quiet place where I can access the beach without the hordes of tourists watching.

It’s not that I am shy; I don’t want or need the company.

A soft-sanded walkway invites me to explore the beach of the northern end of Maroochydore. Entrance 148 it exclaims. I begin to walk south, my black sarong flapping around my thighs; the beach seems a little empty today. One good thing about the coast here, you can pick and choose your beach for the day. Too windy from the east? Try the river with its quieter waters, but watch that current. It’s fast and tricky! Blowing from the south? Go to The Spit, it’s always sheltered, facing north with small waves ideal for toddlers and old folk.

Glancing to my right, I can see it’s mostly women and older couples on their towels, rubbing brown shoulders with coconut oil (I can smell it) and laying flat on their backs. Like a lizard, although I’ve never seen lizards lie on their backs. A few young teens frolic in the water. Today the temperature is just about perfect and I remind myself that I will not, I must not swim, as my car keys are tucked into my togs and they’ll get wet. I must not, but the pull and lure of the waves is irresistible, and I paddle shin deep in the incoming tide.

Sets of waves stand up like wedding cake tiers, all froth and bubble, but underneath I can see a churning brown of fresh water. Wind against tide, the water pushes to the beach and retreats south, always retreats south. Stronger surges force me to tred carefully as I reach the coffee rocks, an area of old volcanic rocks, easy to carve, easy to erode. Although named coffee rocks, you’d be wrong to think it’s the colour of them; indeed the rocks are jet-black, Indian ink black. Coffee rocks perhaps, as in the texture of coffee, nothing more. Bright green seaweeds reside in tidal pools; looks stunning against the blackness. Nature’s abstract art.

Here, a mangrove leaf the colour of sunset sits in wait, kept company by white rounded marble rocks. The shells are familiar, the grey of Chinese hats, the orange of others, and the pure white smoothness of those, near the water. I don’t pick any up, must be getting old; our beach house is bulging with shells collected from previous walks.
There’s been erosion here; slabs of concrete lay like slain soldiers, perhaps this was a walking path once? Layers of dark grey and sand are exposed; the beach needs years to recover, and the sand dunes rebuilt. It’s heartless, the wind and tide.

As I walk in the tidal contours, my feet kick up the warm water, scattering a thousand comets and stars ahead of my footfall. In an instant they are gone, walked over, to begin again with the next push of a wave.

Turning back, time to go home.

I hear it first, the dull chop chop of a helicopter, when suddenly it appears like a gun-metal grey wasp. The doors are closed and I can see no signage on it, it’s not a coastguard chopper or even a rescue chopper. For that we can be thankful. Past the Surf Lifesaving Club, past the pokies and the bar smelling like spilt beer, past the other walkers on the beach with Australian flag designs for boardies, past the bandaid and cigarette butt on the tidal line, towards my car park. Up through the soft, slattered walk, the coast becomes a softer murmur, replaced by the wind’s sigh through stands of banksias and casuarinas.
~

A few good men - RIP

2011-12-30T13:49:00.000-08:00

Another Qld Flood hero has died.

The good man who skippered the ferry, saving the boardwalk from crashing into the Gateway Bridge, the good man who saved countless lives whilst risking his own in a helicopter in thrashing rain, rescuing people stranded on rooftops, and now the good man in Theodore who helped so many in his own community.

Thank you for your selfless gifts to us, to Queensland, to your community.

Rest now, in Peace.

Qld Floods - almost a year later

2011-12-28T19:13:00.000-08:00

It was my mother in law's home.

I blogged and photographed the event and over 16,000 readers have shared my story. It's all here, in fact reading parts of it and seeing the photos has set off my tears again. Still distressing. It must be deeply hidden.

The house was my mother in laws: she had to have it bulldozed, and the land is still vacant, covered in weeds. I asked her about it over Christmas.

“Have you been back Gwen? Have you seen the land? Taken photos?"

She just shook her head, and said later: “It's too sad. I can't look at it.”

Her mouth tries to smile, but for a moment her chin wavers. I held her hand briefly, just a squeeze. I am here for you. I know. I understand.

It's heartbreaking stuff at 77, nearly 78, to start again, by yourself.

Brisbane City Council have given her a lot of grief, too. Too long to go into here, but she does hope to start building in January 2012.

"That house would have seen me out" she says. Squeeze. "I have to make so many decisions, I just don't know anymore." Squeeze.

http://pattybeechamproductions.com/2011/the-flood-of-2011/

Xmas Thoughts

2011-12-27T18:07:00.000-08:00

Christmas was easier this year.

I did less, expected less. Wrote no cards. My friend of 23 years comes over, flourishing a bottle of pink champagne, begs me to make her card, as I have done each year, for the past 10 years. She doesn’t even send me one in the mail. I make no online Christmas profiles, not even for me, until the digital card.

Sent it out and received only 2 responses. I expected less. My mind was caught daydreaming: between walking to the South Pole with Cas and Jonesy, and planning dinner parties that didn’t happen. Blowing the dead leaves from the courtyard, and watching possums hang upside down in the starlight, when I did have friends over for dinner. They spend 30 minutes photographing it. Mostly, the images don’t come out, their cameras cannot focus in the semi-darkness, so I aim my little Canon *snap, *snap, and there, job is done.

I fall into the habit of eating Jaffas after breakfast, my treat for the day.

This year has exhausted us all; it is enough to simply be here, in the present, accounted for. No floods nor cyclone nor earthquake or tsunami has stopped us yet. Slowed us down, sure, but we are still here, survivors. Tireder, older, somewhat wiser - and here. There is little joy this Christmas, no kisses, no hugs, no exclamations of gift giving. In fact I had to ask if my husband even received a particular gift from me. He had. Little joy, but we are here and accounted for.

I wash my lead crystal champagne flutes in the dishwasher, and don’t even flinch when they come out cloudy. I am grateful to have used them, grateful to find an excuse to drink champs with friends and family over breakfast bowls of fresh fruit; gleaming strawberries and purple blackberries against the gold of mangoes and red blushing watermelon. The sweet tang of passionfruit coats each mouthful. The cat sleeps at my feet, follows me around like a faithful dog. I cook fresh chicken, stuffing its cavity with dried apricots, pine nuts, grained bread pulled apart roughly, basting its skin until golden. We don’t eat it until the next day, but knowing it’s there, gives me comfort. Roasting pans of baked potatoes and pumpkin cooked in duck fat line our stomachs. It’s all we can do to flick the remote control. Mostly, we lay on the bed, radio off, reading. No need for conversation, we are alone in our thoughts and only a brushed hand away from each other.

We are content.

~

This year, without consultation, my husband decides we are to spend Christmas here in the city. For a man that has spent every Christmas covered in sand and heat at the beach since he was two years old, this is a huge leap. I don’t mind, I’m grateful (that word again!) for the change, and the air conditioning. Although our beach house was built for sea breezes and not air conditioning, over the years buildings and development have choked our lovely easterly night breeze, and we usually lay on top of the bed, listless with heat, lacking energy, the whirr of the fan our only company.

Another new change this year was meeting my dear old Rockhampton school friend Sue for morning tea, and some light Christmas shopping. We buy a bird bath, walking around the plant nursery inspecting the various designs. A carved column or a twisted stand? Deep with a rim or shallow and embossed? Finally, decision made, we hump it puffing from the car to her guest room, giggling like schoolgirls - hiding it beside the double bed. Shopping again, I park underneath the centre, in case of rain. We buy so much our arms struggle to hold the bags, stuffed with last minute panicked buying. Grog. Food. Santa stuffers for my 25 year old son.
Standing at Myers, I buy two pairs of earrings; white pearly drops for me, and sparkling blue sapphires for her, to match the intensity of her eyes. ‘Look surprised’ I joke, and she feigns mock shock as a rehearsal. We both laugh, kids again, students in our daggy drab grey uniforms and moppy ties around our necks. Outside the rain belts down, and my stomach tightens, just a little.

~

Christmas Eve champagne drinks in our front courtyard, only the second time it has ever been used. Years ago I hosted a party for my sister for her 50th birthday there, hovering between the guests and scanning the road for expected Thursday Island Dancers, who never showed. I have slaved over the garden for this night, this Christmas Eve, and our friends and neighbours arrive with bottles to be opened, and plates of food to share. Carols sing out from the new CD player we have bought, and not once does it jump or scratch or repeat. Heaven! The humidity threatens to sap us of all energy, the occasional spot of rain sending our eyes searching skywards. Friends from Innisfail arrive and we feast on glazed ham, Bangalow roast pork, salads and vegetables, sparking Shiraz. In the morning we’ll drive his car back over to the house they are staying in, and admire the view over Brisbane, and the elegance of a freshly renovated home for a single professional woman. She’s done well for herself, I try to push the envy urge down and be happy for her. It’s Christmas Day; I am happy for her, for us all. New ideas, new customs for us this year.

~

My brother in law arrives with his family, having flown from Cairns at 5.30am. It’s been a long night and an early start for them all; they are exhausted, and sit slumped in the chairs, catching up on family news and events. We are so happy to be together and chatting that I totally forget to put out the Bon bons. No matter. We feast on fruit salad and champagne and my offer to cook salmon scrambled eggs will have to wait until tomorrow. Now it’s almost lunchtime. My mother in law shuffles off to join other family members for Christmas lunch, coughing and hacking so badly we advise her to take some antibiotics. She stays with us for the next two nights so we can keep an eye on her health. We eat so much it’s as much as we can do to shovel shortbread into our mouth for dinner. In the morning I wake with a heavy head cold, courtesy of my mother-in-law.

Our city Christmas has been a great success. Hope yours was too.

~

Limpet/oyster/glass (Writing exercise)

2011-12-13T20:57:00.000-08:00

Take my love; she sang to the waiting shore
He clung like a limpet to her breast.

Placed an oyster, ripe with sea, into her open mouth; sealed it with a kiss.

They toasted their lives in wine glasses - pure: each sip,
Another kiss,
A declaration of eternity.

Love.
Lost.
Long ago.

I stoop to collect the memories in my hand.

Chinese hats/houses for pearls/jagged glass now smooth

It is this I remember, not their kiss or heart-love.
It is this I hold in my hand.

A life of gratitude – a conversation with Ian (Skip) Skippen

2011-12-12T14:10:00.000-08:00

Skippen has been with Austereo for 23 years. In September Triple M decided to cancel The Cage, a breakfast show Skippen had anchored since January 2006.

We meet, sitting in the quiet garden behind the Black Cat Bookshop.

Ian Skippen ponders a leaf that has fallen on him. “Why did that just happen?” he says in a moment of reflection, and as he faces day 45 of unemployment, he accepts whatever future his life holds for him.

“I believe everything happens for a reason. I’m so comfortable with the decision,” he says, gazing to the sky. His face shines with not only optimism, but gratitude, a daily thanks for everything around him.
“In the end, it was a job, and I’ve been in a position where I could do a lot of stuff, and help a lot of people, but it was still just a job. If that’s the worst that will happen to me; hello, no one’s died here. There are people dealing with some very heavy duty stuff in life, and all around me. Put into perspective, this is nothing.”

A radio veteran of 42 years, he sees nothing but happiness and a beckoning future for himself.

As a teenager, he sent in tapes to radio stations, reading aloud from magazines; a motivated youngster who knew what he wanted. Not for him following his father’s footsteps into the funeral industry, and not for him a life of football, although it was a great love. He could have been the original Glee character, torn between singing soprano and playing hard on the footy field. The pull of music and speaking with people were greater, and so a radio career was born. “I’ve always been a performer,” he says, “I really wanted to be a disc jockey.”

You’d find him each year at the Ekka, nose pressed against the glass booth, watching every move the DJ’s made in the broadcast caravan.
A shower singer and frustrated drummer and guitarist, radio has given Ian his career and fed his passion. As a former scout involved in the annual Gang Show, Ian attributes his appreciation of cooking, his love of people, and doing things for people; to scouting, and the people who influenced him at the time. A life of service, freely given.

“It’s just something you do, the idea of being there for others.”
Although now living on acreage, he is city bred, and occasionally daydreams of working in the country again. He loves the creative process and copywriting part of radio, but for now is enjoying his free time, staying up later each night; waking and rising at a more reasonable hour than 2.30am. Each morning he finishes his shower with a brace of cold water. Health is important. It’s the one thing he fears, illness and a failing body. His dad is 91 and in reasonable condition for a man who has just had a recent pacemaker inserted.

In his new freedom, he has loosely embraced Social Media, Facebook in particular, although he’s still not convinced it’s necessary. “Why am I doing this” he questions. He can’t see the point of Twitter: perhaps one day? He still hasn’t worked out what he wants to do when he grows up, but a tell-all book is definitely out. “There’s nothing to tell.” he says with a shrug and a smile.

As a parent he questions his skills as a father; writes his sons notes. “Oh dad, you’re such a dag,” they laugh. He beams with pride recalling when his son won a sports award. “Never bring shame on the family” is one of the mottos they live with. “Treat everyone the way you want to be treated. Always be passionate. I don’t care what you do, you have to be passionate, whether you are driving a dozer, or making a coffee. Be passionate.”

The days are filled pottering around the house, working his way through a long list. Trimming hedges, getting stuck into the garden. Painting, staining, carpentry. “Being a part of the morning. Having more time and not being always being tired, feels pretty damn good. Not being a slave to the alarm clock is a great thing.”

“I’ve been sanguine about the whole thing. I’ve no animosity towards anyone, it’s not my thing anyway; I’ve had a great run, doing what I’ve done. It’s never happened to me before. This is the first time in 42 years I haven’t had a contract to go to, and it feels okay, although I miss interacting with people the most, chatting to them on the phone and on the radio.”

“Everything happens for a reason. I was speaking with my wife Helen, and our routines are changing with our growing sons. They are off to uni, and playing sport each weekend, and suddenly here we are, Darby and Joan. All of this has happened at a time of our lives, where strange things are happening anyway. I’m very peaceful.”

Ian believes there’s something for all of us, something pushing us forward, be it God or whatever you see. He’s big on karma. “What you put out, you get back”, but not in a spiteful revengeful way. In a rewarding way. It’s his dad’s family motto: Nice to be nice.

There’s always room in Ian’s life for a God. “I speak to Him every morning - to Someone - and I have done for years and years and years.” It’s a heritage still lived by his uncle, a Methodist Minister, and his own strict Anglican/Methodist upbringing. Singing hymns can still get Ian misty eyed, especially How Great Thou Art, although his favourite song of all time would be the New Zealand National Anthem. “I just love that song! I love the words, and the melody, it’s so emotive. For a disc jockey that has spun all the latest and greatest hits for the past few decades, this comes as a surprise, but it’s the music and the words that get to him.

“As you grow in life, you come to realise there is something. People come into my life and I wonder why. Where did you come from? How did that happen? I could instance many, many things in my life, and I am grateful. Thank you.”

Living a thankful life of gratitude, Ian ponders his future. He’s not in a hurry to do anything, and yet he’s not ready to retire either. “My passion is life; I just love what is here, and what’s next. I love to get out of bed in the morning, and sniff, and look around.

“Something’s coming,” he says as he sips his coffee. “There is something there, which I now have this downtime to pursue. My grandmother always said: Don’t you worry about what others are doing. Everyone finds their nitch in life, and you’ll find yours.”

For now Ian wonders at the physics of flight, maths problems in newspapers, and the true value of spelling.

One Parrot, or two?

2011-11-02T15:13:00.000-07:00

Once again I am in Rockhampton, the sleepy hot town of my childhood, but not my birth. I am a Saltwater woman; a beach girl, an ocean spirit who lived her teenage years trapped between the inland humidity of Mt Archer’s shadow, and the closed, tired minds of Rockhampton people.

It’s not true to say nothing changes here. It does, but it takes its time. Nothing changes in a hurry.

The Fitzroy River still ambles its sluggish way to the sea. Boats still glide and turn with the incoming tide; their bows facing the current pushing upstream, turning their backs to the bridge. Trains still shuffle along 'the main street of Rocky' – written once by a travelling writer, and often repeated, whether it’s true, or not.

It’s become folklore; people love to tell tales against this city, and sometimes its deserved, often not.

One thing that has changed with my latest visit is only one parrot hanging off the back door. Usually there are two clowns, gaily decked out wearing their feathered outfits, befitting their silly behaviour. Today there is only one, and he shrieks upside down from the red flowering bottlebrush tree in the front garden.

I wonder where his mate is, as they have almost become family pets, greeting my mother and sister each morning with hungry cries for bread and honey. Mum grew native plants for three decades, and flowering trees and shrubs for the birds to feed upon surround the house; so although there are a lot of natural bush foods here for them to eat, they adore their honey, wiping their sticky beaks of the side of flowering pot plants and sneezing with delight!

It’s almost irresistible to not put my hand out to stroke their colourful feathers. Today there is only one parrot. Perhaps tonight his mate will come, stomping his pigeon-toed parrot feet amongst the parsley, chasing the butcherbirds who come to feed on titbits of mince. I’ll watch for him, and rouse on him, scolding him in a motherly way, before placing bread and honey before his feet.

~

In my mother’s arms, lying across the bed, laying across her chest, I feel her arms wrap strongly around me. She holds me tightly. “I love you Mrs Warby,” I say softly.

She speaks with a strong voice, empowered.

“Some people want to live to 100,and receive the letter from the Queen. I am not one of those people. Enough’s enough.”

She repeats this.

Enough’s enough.

“I am simply being maintained, that’s all you can do at my age. It’s not like I can go to a hospital and have an operation and come out skipping. I’m simply being maintained, and enough is enough.”

There’s nothing more to add to that, and we sit in the cool darkness of her blue bedroom, and hold hands. We don’t speak, but we both sob silently with rage against time, and life and death to come.

~

“I don’t water the lawn”, my sister says, as she leaves for work. I know why she doesn’t. It’s all time, and money and effort. She has enough to do, enough to think about, more than enough to occupy her time and goodwill. I water the lawn for her, moving the leaking hose (did I say leaking? It’s a bloody fountain, twice over!) every 20 minutes, giving each patch a good soaking. Yes, it’s time and effort and water bills, but shows a generous spirit, saying to the neighbours: “Look, I care. I share this planet and this town with you, and I care.”

The birds chatter with delight; a solo peewee struts within the garden, a picture perfect image of military design in his crisp black and white uniform. A large ant marches backwards and forwards across the top of the stairs, halting and then turning and repeating the action. He’s either keeping the baddies out, or we are all going to be overrun by an army of insects. Whatever, will be.

~

My mother carries within her red walker; a racing guide, the crossword, and the telephone; all packed neatly with the seat up, in sight. Her silver hair has the permanent crease of bed-hair, no matter how much I comb it for her.

Her gait is slower, and more considered. As we speak, her eyes search for the right word. She grasps and stabs the air with her arthritic finger, digging out the right phrase, the correct word, and the ultimate answer.

~

I love to drive northwards - crossing the Fitzroy River over the new bridge - whilst watching the wrought iron train bridge to my left. Its elegance, leaping between black rock and black rock, always gives me hope, that one day – with thoughtful planning and an unbounded leap of energy and good faith, others can also escape the monotony of living in Rockhampton. And in leaving, they also leave their gilded footprint of the city and its people. Just saying.

~

(Re) Birth Day

2011-09-26T21:24:00.000-07:00

Lockie’s eyes crinkle with his laugh; it is one of his most lovable features. His ginger beard muffles a wide smile but it’s his brown almond shaped eyes that hold my full attention. My 23 year old son and I are travelling to Sydney to see the Archibald’s; (we are an art-loving family) and to spend time together in re-discovering each other, after 5 years apart as mother and son.

Well, that’s probably not quite true, but it does seem like I haven’t seen my son for the past five years. His fulltime work, uni studies, and his currant gal-pal Val, demand his time and mind. I have to stop myself from hugging him too much. Restraint is not my second name. Passion is.
On the plane we discuss the concept of a god, aliens, and conspiracies. He discusses Socrates. The dead philosopher is Lockie’s latest passion, (he’s reading the book of Apologies) and later that night – at the musical show Wicked - Socrates is mentioned in passing. I nudge and wink. “See, he’s still relevant” says Lockie. We grin.

I am in my parent’s town. I am walking the streets my father walked, before the war. I am looking at cathedrals and dead Kings that my mother saw. Her town. Her Sydney. My mother’s culture. I walk the streets with my eldest son, my bearded, chatty, laughing son who’s eyes wrinkle and crinkle with humour.

Over lunch and Rock oysters, he speaks. His hands keep time to his voice; knitting the air. Entranced by his perfect nose, I marvel at my own handiwork. As a natural birth consumer, his celebrated arrival was long and joyous; my birth cry of “I have a son, I have a son” echoing the corridor.
Sometimes, we are so busy bringing each other up as a parent and a child, we forget to simply revel in the uniqueness and beauty of each other. I stare away his conversation, nodding when I remember. His straight, no-nonsense nose. His generous, talking mouth. I mentally trim a stray hair of his moustache as he eats his Kilpatrick oysters. An unknown tourist takes our photo.

We are in the foreground, and the Bridge yawns behind us as a dozen climbers tickle it’s back. Later, our photograph will be placed carefully in a blue covered album entitled “My Trip To Australia Down Under” and placed on the middle shelf of the American snapper’s bookcase.
Circular Quay is a whorehouse for tourists. Have camera, will click. It doesn’t matter to us though; we too are tourists, to each other’s lives, and this sparkling city. I bite into my oyster and its creaminess. An angel’s full-mouth kiss.

Within the hour we will be seated 3 rows from the top of the Opera House, to see the ballet. For now though, it’s a talk-fest of information, swapping lives and experiences, embellishing stories of family, honed and polished, to be retold to unborn children.

We dream of unplanned joy, and share the rebirth of our lives, together, as adults.

Ask me

2011-09-24T17:56:00.000-07:00

Hugging my pillow, eyes closed, feeling the white linen against my skin.
Ask me.
Ask me!
I will him in my mind to Ask me.
Am I happy?
I want him to roll over and look at me and ask me if I am happy, because the answer would be yes! Yes! Yes!
Today I am happy with my life, my family, my bloke.