Sue Elvis Writes

Big Hearted Excitement

noreply@blogger.com (Sue Elvis) — Mon, 20 May 2013 05:02:00 +0000

While the girls and I were outside in the back garden this morning, hanging clothes on the washing line in the bitterly cold wind, we were unaware that something exciting was happening at the front door. The mail man had arrived with a mysterious looking parcel. When we came back inside, rubbing our cold-numbed fingers together, there it was sitting on the kitchen bench.

We were all eager to find out what the parcel contained. Sophie was quick to point out the ‘open’ tag to one side of the address label. I grabbed the tag and pulled and the cardboard unwound revealing another layer of wrappings. I pulled again and the parcel rolled over and over, and more cardboard came away.

“It’s like pass the parcel,” said Gemma-Rose with delight. “Loads and loads of wrappings. Do you think it’s all cardboard and nothing else?”

But by this time, I had an idea of what we’d find inside: “I bet it’s books.”

And it was. Multiple copies of a book, with a red and white cover, were finally revealed:

Big Hearted: Inspiring Stories from Everyday Families by Patti Armstrong and Theresa Thomas.

About a year ago, I received an email from Patti:

Dear Sue,

My co-author, Theresa Thomas, and I are compiling a book titled Big Hearted Families, for Scepter Publishers. We are looking for contributions that will entertain and inspire readers to grow their family's heart and soul…

And so I wrote a story, and Patti and Theresa very kindly included it in their new book. That book arrived on my doorstep this morning.

I have quickly flipped through the book and discovered there are 22 stories in this volume. My own chapter is there close to the end of the book. It’s called Moving in the Spirit. Did Patti have to do much editing of my story? Did it need many changes? Does it fit in with all the other contributions? So far I haven’t had the courage to reread it and find out.

It’s strange seeing one of my stories in someone else’s book. I never worry about my stories when I publish them here on my blog. But to see one in print in someone’s book… that’s totally different. I hope it's good enough.

Fortunately my story is only one of many. Here’s the Amazon description of this book:

Big Hearted gives you an inside look into the triumphs, struggles, joys and sorrows of ordinary families with generous hearts. It invites you to witness extraordinary love in ordinary moments like the simple cooking of a meal or the hug between a teenaged brother and his baby sister. Just like your family, these families experience pain, setbacks, and challenges. And just like your family, they also experience love and immeasurable blessing through their commitment and care for each other.

In this book, you will learn the story of:

• A father of seven healthy boys who struggled to love his Down syndrome baby girl

• A mother of twelve who learned an important lesson about Christmas from her children

• A special relationship between a teenaged brother and his infant sister

• Two grandparents in their final days who inspired their grandchildren in simple ways

• Two orphan children from Kenya who prayed for adoption by an American family and got what they asked for!

It has been said that God cannot be outdone in generosity. The stories in these pages will show you how big hearted families experience this truth in a myriad of ways, sometimes miraculously.

I can’t wait for a quiet moment to sit and enjoy the book. I am sure the other contributors have written some amazing and inspiring stories.

Thank you Patti Armstrong and Theresa Thomas for including my story in your new book, Big Hearted. I hope the book is a huge success.

Åbenhed or OPENNESS: The Blogging Challenge Danish Extension

noreply@blogger.com (Sue Elvis) — Fri, 03 May 2013 05:46:00 +0000

A few years ago I was given a book written by another bereaved mother. I opened it, ready to share her grief experience. But as I turned the pages, even though the story was beautifully written, I felt something was wrong. In the very last chapter, I understood what was missing. It was openness.

The author had shared the sorrowful story of her baby’s death due to SIDS, but she told it as if she were standing on the outside looking in. She described the various scenes very well. She had an enviable command of the English language and I could visualise the mother discovering her child who was no longer breathing. I imagined the ambulance drawing up outside her home to take away her dead baby. I could see everyone present at the funeral. But I couldn’t feel the emotions of the mother.

When a story is told from the outside, and no feelings are revealed, it is difficult to connect with the story. It doesn’t touch us so deeply. We know it is sad because of the basic facts, but we can’t step into the mother’s shoes and feel what she felt. We don’t make an emotional connection.

In the very last chapter of the book, the author describes meeting her editor to discuss her finished manuscript. The editor pointed out that the mother had written her story without being open and revealing. She hadn’t shared her feelings. Why had she done this? She couldn’t share her feelings with her readers because she couldn’t face those feelings herself. She didn’t want the pain to flood over her so she was keeping it at arm’s length.

While she was talking with the editor, the author realised what she’d been doing. She admitted her intense sorrow, and she broke down and cried properly for the first time… and the story became real. All of a sudden I could feel the depths of the mother’s pain, and was reminded of my own sorrow. And I cried too. We became sisters-in-grief.

It is very risky being open. First we have to face ourselves. Then we might worry what others will think of us. Someone might criticise. A couple of people have said I should never have written my own grief book. I was told that my private sufferings should have been kept to myself. It’s not the 'done thing' to reveal such intimate thoughts and feelings.

I used to hesitate before hitting ‘publish’ when writing a blog story, especially one about grief. I don’t any more. I have discovered that there is great value in being open. When we are honest and revealing, our writing becomes real, and we connect with other people. And that’s exactly what I wanted to do when I first set out to write my grief story. (I am not saying my writing is perfect. In fact I think it could be greatly improved.)

Of course, there are times when we can't or don't feel the need to be open.

I can write very openly about grief and many other aspects of my life, but there are still some things I am reluctant to share and write about with truth. Other people are involved in these stories and I can't violate their privacy. I guess no one can be completely open about everything.

And there are times when openness is unnecessary. It depends on what a person is writing about. If a blogger is sharing recipes, then a reader may not want to hear the deep stirrings of the blogger's soul, whenever she clicks on for the latest recipe.

But I rarely share a recipe. Usually I want to connect with readers on a deeper level. So even though it is risky and scary, I try to be open.

Isn't it just as well I have a family who isn't shy and retiring?

"I wrote about you today," I say. "I hope you don't mind."

"That's okay, Mum."

My family? As long as I follow our blogging rules, they don't mind me being open at all. They're writers too. I guess they understand.

How do you feel about openness when writing? Does it have a place in your blog? And when you read, how do you feel about stepping into someone else's shoes in an intimate way? Does it make you feel uncomfortable? I'd love to hear your thoughts.

That was the last additional Danish letter. Do I hear sighs of relief?? Thank you, Uglemor for your encouragement and suggestion. I enjoyed researching a few Danish words. When I come to visit I will now be able to ask for an apple!

Ønskeliste or WISH LIST: The Blogging Challenge Danish Extension

noreply@blogger.com (Sue Elvis) — Thu, 02 May 2013 05:45:00 +0000

I was born on my grandmother's birthday, in the second bedroom of her small terrace house, and it wasn't long before everyone discovered that I'd inherited my grandmother's distinctive red hair. I wonder if my mother's mother looked down at her tiny look-alike, and regarded her first born grandchild as a birthday gift.

My grandmother's birthday was two days ago, and so was mine. Last week my family wanted to know what gifts their birthday girl desired. I thought and thought but couldn’t come up with anything to put on my wish list.

“You can’t have a birthday without presents!” my children complained. “Mum! You’re not making it very easy for us.”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something to give me,” I answered.

I used to send my grandmother a special gift on our birthday, but I don't do that any more. She died a few years ago, just before her 93^rd birthday.

I was speaking with my mother on the phone last night. “It was Nannie’s 100^th birthday this year,” she said. I was surprised. How could I have forgotten such an important date? I see it every day. I have an embroidery in our living room that I stitched for my grandmother’s 90^th birthday. It says:

30 April 1913

Charlotte Rosie

My mother's sister took a huge bunch of flowers and a ‘Happy 100^th Birthday’ helium balloon to the cemetery on our special day. I like that. It made me smile. That’s the kind of thing I would do.

Having the special connection of our birthdays and red hair, I always felt close to my grandmother. I thought I knew her very well. I enjoyed spending time with her, talking (very loudly because she was hard of hearing) while we shopped, (my grandmother could outshop anyone) or while we sat sipping coffee around the kitchen table. Whenever we parted or met up, she would hug me fiercely and smack big kisses on my cheek. But only a few years ago, I realised there is so much about my grandmother I don't know.

Just after Thomas died, my grandmother suddenly revealed she gave birth to a baby that died a few weeks later, from injuries sustained when she fell down the stairs in late pregnancy. I asked my mother why she’d never told me about the baby, and my mother replied that the day I found out about my aunt was the same day she found out she had an extra sister. My grandmother had kept her sorrow hidden inside her for over 50 years. I wonder what else she never shared.

When we are young the world revolves around our own lives. It’s only been in recent years I have looked beyond myself and wondered about my grandmother. She wasn’t just my Nannie. She was a person in her own right with her own life that didn't always include me. When she was with us and I had the opportunity, I never thought to look beyond the surface. Would my grandmother have shared her stories with me? What could she have taught me?

This year I didn’t need to choose a gift for my grandmother, but my family still had to think of something to give me. Finally I said, "Perfume! I haven't had any of that for years."

So my children wrote ‘perfume’ on my birthday wish list, and they and my husband Andy went shopping.

Last Tuesday I tore off the wrappings from around my birthday presents and I discovered a glass bottle of Nantucket Briar perfume and matching body lotion. I sprayed a little on my wrist and sniffed. “It’s beautiful!” I exclaimed. “I love it. I'm going to wear it all the time.” It's going to become my scent.

Andy let out a sigh of relief. "So I did okay?" he asked. I nodded, and we both smiled.

“You should have seen us in the perfume shop,” said Imogen. “We sprayed so many different scents onto our hands, it got very confusing. Then Dad sprayed his shirt by accident.” She grinned. “He was worried you’d smell it on him when he got home.”

So I was a very happy birthday girl receiving exactly what was on my wish list. But there’s something else on that list, something I didn’t write down:

I wish that one day I will meet my grandmother again and have the opportunity to share her stories.

My sister once said, “Nannie really loved you, you know. She always looked out for you.”

I think I took that love and attention for granted. Did my grandmother ever know that I really loved her too?

Happy 100^th Birthday, Nannie. I love you.

æble or APPLE: The Blogging Challenge Danish Extension

noreply@blogger.com (Sue Elvis) — Wed, 01 May 2013 10:10:00 +0000

When I was a teenager, my mother was famous for her homemade apple wine. She used her own fruit, grown on a tree in our back garden. I can’t remember what my mother actually did with the apples. I just remember the glass demijohns of apple liquid which glopped away noisily on the pantry floor for many weeks. Eventually the demijohns were emptied, and then row after row of corked wine bottles, neatly labelled, took their place.

Andy also used to made his own wine. One day he invited me into his cellar and proudly showed me his collection. “This is last year’s vintage,” he said. “Would you like to taste it?”

I am an adventurous type person, and I like wine, so I nodded enthusiastically. Moments later, I was clutching my throat and whispering, “Water!" When I could once again speak properly, I asked, “Are you sure that's wine?” It tasted like paint stripper.

Of course, I have no idea what paint stripper really tastes like. We bought some once, but I wasn’t tempted to drink it. We used it to strip the paint off an old wooden framed lounge suite. We had big plans. I had a book about restoring old furniture. There were lots of glossy photos in it of chairs and tables and chests that had been bought for next-to-nothing at second hand stores, and then restored into items of exquisite beauty. We were sure we could do the same. We had big dreams. Actually that was all it turned out to be: a dream. Once the paint was stripped from the wood, we lost interest. We’re hopeless like that.

My mother would have finished what she started. In fact she restored a number of antique armchairs. She asked my grandfather for some tips: He was an upholsterer. Apparently he was a very skilled craftsman. He told my mother she had talent too. All around our house were various chairs she’d stripped and recovered with new fabric, after replacing the padding.

We've been considering having our old St Joseph’s lounge suite reupholstered. We’ve been thinking about it for ten years or more. Each year the lounge suite gets more and more shabby, and each year Andy says, “Let’s take it to the tip, and buy a new one.” And every year, I protest and say, “I like that lounge suite. It’s so comfy. Let’s keep it. One day we’ll get it reupholstered.”

But time has run out. We recently faced up to the fact that ‘one day’ will never arrive. We have ordered a new lounge suite, and my poor St Joseph’s lounge suite will be thrown out. The cats will be sad. The backing fabric of the sofa is loose and they like to climb inside and hide when it’s bath time. Where will they go next time they want to avoid being washed?

Once, a friend asked us why we wash our cats. I seem to remember the lady at the pet shop telling us to wash our long haired kitten, so we did. When the other two cats came to live at our house, they got a shock. Saturday afternoons are bath time. I doubt if these adult cats had ever had a bath before joining our family. They hate the water, and so they hide whenever they hear the laundry taps being turned on. You see, the laundry sink is also the cat bath.

I remember when the laundry sink used to be the baby bath. I never bothered with one of those plastic baths. It was much easier filling the laundry sink and working without bending over. We did have a special baby bath but the girls took charge of it. They carried it outside and then sailed over the seven seas in it. It made a great pirate ship. Don’t you just love how kids make up their own imaginary games?

I’d always regretted we never bought any of our children a proper cubby house. The girls would have loved one, or so I thought. Then the other day one of the girls, with a huge smile on her face, told me about the imaginary house they used to make together under the pine trees. “That was such a great game, Mum! That was the best house ever.” Yes, imaginary houses and games are the best.

Of course imaginary houses are useless if you have a family. Nothing less than a real one will do. Now there are real rental houses and real our-very-own-home houses. We used to live in the former sort of house until about 5 years ago. Then we were able to buy the one we are currently living in. I remember seeing it for the very first time. It felt like our home from the moment we stepped inside the front door. It was as if God was saying, “This is the house I have picked out for you.”

After we’d had a tour of the house, we went up to the village and had a look around. We visited the café and sat looking out the window, sipping our coffees. “Can you imagine walking up here and having coffee together?" I asked Andy. “Our very own café, only a short walk away.” That settled it. We bought the house. We have indeed walked up to the café a number of times since we moved to our village. They serve good coffee and delicious cakes, including huge apple pies.

My mother used to make wonderful apple pies. Apple pies, apple wine and reupholstered chairs are only a few of her talents. My mother is a remarkable woman.

Me? Am I like my mother? No, I am hopeless. I can’t even find a way to end a long and rambling story about apples.

Zulu Memories: Dad, Andy and His Girl

noreply@blogger.com (Sue Elvis) — Tue, 30 Apr 2013 00:41:00 +0000

I knock, and after waiting for some time, a stocky man with sleepy eyes comes to the door. He looks at me as if I'm a stranger, raising his eyebrows in question.

“Is Andy home?” I ask.

“Andy?” The man scratches his head and frowns. “Andy who?”

“Andy Elvis,” I say. “Andy, your son.”

The man's face comes alive. He smiles. “Oh that Andy! Yes, come in.”

Later, I tell this story to Andy saying, “I think for a moment your dad forgot he was your father.”

“I think he often forgets about me,” says Andy. “He’s given my best jumper to the dog.”

The next time I am invited over to Andy’s home, I understand what he means. Andy’s dad is sitting on the sofa, a big mug of tea in one hand, a square of chocolate in the other, and snuggled up next to him is the dog, dressed in Andy’s best jumper.

“Come on in,” greets Andy’s dad, smiling. Today he knows who I am. He even recognises his own son. “Join me. I’m watching a movie.”

I glance at the TV. Zulu warriors are marching across the screen. We find a seat, and settle down. Tea, chocolate and a Zulu movie in front of the fire: Andy’s dad’s idea of the perfect way to spend a lazy cold afternoon.

Sometimes Andy grumbles a little about his dad forgetting his name and seeming to prefer the dog to him.

“He loves you very much,” I reassure Andy. “He was probably half-asleep when I knocked on the door that day. He works hard, you know.” Andy agrees. His dad is a shift worker, sleeping odd hours. I probably woke him up from a deep sleep. Yes, we can forgive him the occasional slip of his memory.

“But he gave my best jumper to the dog,” says Andy, shaking his head in disbelief. I haven’t an answer to that one.

I think Andy’s dad liked me. Every time Andy took me out on a date, I noticed his father would slip him some money. “Go and enjoy yourselves!” he’d say. “Treat your girl to something nice.” He always made sure we were well looked after.

Andy’s mother wasn’t so sure about me. Maybe she thought I was too bold and independent, even a little aggressive for her taste. Besides I wasn’t Catholic. But there wasn’t much she could do about me marrying Andy. I had both Andy and his dad on my side. We arranged our wedding, and on Andy’s dad’s birthday we became husband and wife.

Two weeks later, we were on a plane to Australia. Before we left England, Andy’s dad hugged us both tightly and he slipped Andy some extra money: “Take care of each other.”

We'd only been in Sydney a few days when a note was pushed under our front door, by a friend of a friend. Not having a connected phone, some important news got passed along the grapevine to us, in an unconventional way.

Your father died. Phone home.

Those stark words stared at us. We read and reread them, trying unsuccessfully to make sense of the tiny note.

What happened? Dad went shopping on a Friday morning as usual, and collapsed in the bank, because of an undiagnosed heart condition. By the time the ambulance arrived, he was dead.

Two weeks… that’s all the daughter-in-law-father-in-law time we had. We didn’t get to know each other as members of the same family. Dad only really knew me as Andy’s girl, someone who dropped in on Saturday afternoons and shared tea and chocolate while watching Zulu on TV.

Over the years, I've often thought about the tragedy of losing a father so prematurely. We have missed Dad, and he would have loved his grandchildren. He would have kept a close eye on them, looking after them, just as he always looked after Andy and me.

A few years ago we realised Dad has been looking after us and our children. His influence on our lives didn't end with his death. By working hard and investing prudently while he was alive, he ensured that Mum was well provided for, even though he departed so unexpectedly. And through Mum, after her death, he also provided for our family. Without Dad's help, we’d still be moving from one rental house to another, while wishing all the time we could afford a home of our own.

We never know how our lives will influence our loved ones, even after we have departed. Our legacy could live on and on.

Andy and I are sitting on the sofa together watching a movie. Gathered around us are our children, the grandchildren Dad never knew. We sip tea and eat chocolate as we watch, not Zulu, but Tangled. I look around at the home that I love, our very own home. And I think about the last time we saw Dad. He hugged us tightly and said, “Look after each other.” Andy and his girl are still doing that.

And so is he.

This post is linked to the Memoir Monday hop at Chris' blog, Campfires and Cleats. Please visit for more memoir stories.

I did it! This is my last post for the A-Z April blogging challenge.

I would like to thank everyone for reading so many posts in one month. I'm sure that wasn't an easy task. I really appreciated all the wonderful encouraging comments. Thank you!

I would love to give a special huge thank you to my beautiful sister, Vicky. I wrote 26 posts and she wrote 31 comments. Don't you think that deserves a number one commenter award? I will have to make one!

So much writing in one month... I think I've run out of stories. It might be quiet around here for a time...unless of course another 'great' idea appears unexpectedly out of nowhere. Writing is like that. I love how that happens!

You Come to Visit

noreply@blogger.com (Sue Elvis) — Mon, 29 Apr 2013 02:03:00 +0000

You're at the airport. My son Callum is there to meet you. I would have come myself except I’m hopeless when it comes to driving through Sydney: so many intersections and lanes and traffic. You're better off with Callum. I would only get us lost.

I guess you are tired. It’s a long flight all the way to Australia. You’ll be relieved you are here. Hey! Do you realise you’re a time traveller? All your family are living in today. But you have arrived at tomorrow.

Have you found Callum yet? Will you recognise him from his photo? Just look for a broad man with a beard and smiling eyes. He’ll make you feel welcome. He’s good with people. Must be all those customers he deals with at work.

Now don’t look dismayed when you see Callum’s rust-studded ute. It should get you here in one piece. Callum should only stall a few times on the journey home. No, just kidding! He’s a good driver.

Are you on your way out of the airport yet? Can you see the blue, blue sky? It’s a beautiful time of year. Of course that sky is going to disappear a number of times as you shoot down all the tunnels and fly up again for air. You’re heading south. Soon you’ll leave all the traffic behind. It’s not a bad trip once you leave the city. You'll see paddocks of cows and bush: lots of native plants. You might see a sky diver floating down over the fields. Don’t worry. I’ve never seen one land on the freeway.

I look at my watch. Time is flying by. I think you'll be here in about twenty minutes. I can’t sit still. I walk around the house straightening an already tidy house. First impressions, you know. What will you think of our home? What will you think of me? Will you stop in surprise and think, “Sue looks much older than in her profile picture”? Will you suddenly wonder if you know me at all?

I stand at the sink filling the kettle with water. You’re sure to be thirsty after a long trip. Do you like tea? I’m not sure. We have coffee as well. There is so much about you I don’t know. But we have time to chat and chat. We shall get to know each other properly... as long as we hit it off.

Do you think we’ll suddenly be shy when we see each other? Will we not know what to say? What if we can’t get a conversation going? What if we can't understand each other's accents?

You will be travelling along the cutting by now. You’ll be whizzing through the tunnel of sandstone rock, gum trees forming a cathedral ceiling over your head. Out into the sun and back into the dappled shade. Roll down the window. Sniff the fresh damp earthy smell. You might be able to see little waterfalls trickling off the rock. We’ve had a bit of rain recently. You should see the cutting when it really rains. Water rushes along the road with nowhere to go. It’s quite exciting if you have a sense of adventure. Don’t worry about the ditches either side of the road. Only a few people have driven over the edge, hit the rock, and upturned their vehicles. Callum isn’t one of those people. You are quite safe.

Can you see the village sign? You are almost here. A couple of turns and you'll be heading down our street. I’d better open the door and get outside.

I’m standing on the driveway peering down the road. My legs feel a bit shaky. What am I so nervous about? I practice a smile. “Hi! I’m Sue,” I say. No, that’s ridiculous. Who else would I be?

What will you notice as you come along our road? Are our houses different to yours? You’ll see a mixture of old cottages and new houses. We live in one of the new ones. Watch out for a light brick house with a brown roof. It’s half hidden behind a shrubby garden. We’re right down the end of the road close to the bush. That’s where we run. I wonder if you’ll come running with us while you’re here. There’s gum trees everywhere, and wattles and bottlebrushes. Perhaps you won’t be looking at the trees. You might be trying to spot me.

“Look! They’re here!” I yell. Everyone comes running. My whole family is anxious to meet you. “Don’t overwhelm our guest,” I warn. We’re rather a crowd.

Callum turns into the driveway. I can see you! You’re smiling. You slide out of the ute, and then you stop. I stop too. The moment I've been dreaming about for so long has finally arrived. What do I do? What do I say? I wonder what you're thinking. Are you glad to be here?

We stand still just for a second or two. And then all of a sudden, we both move. We open our arms. We hug! We hug real hugs for the first time ever. I’m grinning and so are you. Then we both start to speak. The words come tumbling out… lots of them.

“Welcome to our home,” I say, as I link my arm through yours. We move towards the house. Soon we’ll be sitting at the kitchen table, mugs of tea in our hands. We are going to talk and talk and talk… Not know what to say to each other? We’re not going to have any trouble at all.

So when are you coming?

XXXXX: Love Letters

noreply@blogger.com (Sue Elvis) — Sat, 27 Apr 2013 01:54:00 +0000

By the time Andy and I finished high school we knew we wanted to spend the rest of our lives together, but no one gets married straight out of school: “You’re so young. You need to finish your education. Get your degrees first. You need some security.” And that was why we didn't arrange a wedding but headed off to university.

Andy hugged me tightly and said, “Three years will soon pass." He looked into my wet eyes and added, "I‘ll come and see you every weekend if I can.”

“We could write to each other,” I suggested.

He smiled, "Yes! I'll write to you every day."

And then Andy went south and I went west.

Every Friday, after his final lecture, Andy headed for the bus station. He caught slow bus after slow bus until he'd travelled the many miles between Cardiff on the south coast of Wales, and Aberystwyth on the west coast. Arriving late at night, he'd forget his tiredness as he anticipated our weekend together.

We spent many of our precious end-of-the-week hours strolling together along the coast, arm-in-arm, buffeted by the strong winds blowing off the sea. And we talked. We talked about what we were going to do when we could be together forever. Saturday was always perfect, but the thought of having to say goodbye yet again, always cast a shadow over Sunday.

As soon as Andy had boarded his bus back to Cardiff on Sunday evening, I’d hurry back to my room in search of paper and a pen, so I could write him a letter. And as soon as Andy arrived back at his university, he’d write one to me. Can two people find anything to say when they’ve only just parted? It seems two people in love never run out of words.

Every morning I searched my mail box, certain there'd be a letter from Andy waiting for me, and there always was. Each envelope was addressed in his neat print:

To the Most Gorgeous Miss Sue Skeleton.

I slipped my finger into the envelope and ripped it open, and read my letter as I walked back to my room. I devoured every one of Andy’s words right down to the last xxxxx.

Every morning of the week we'd receive letters from each other, and every evening, we'd write letters in reply, without fail. And most weekends Andy would travel to see me.

The first long year passed, then the second, and eventually the third and final year disappeared too. What did we have to show for our three years of university education? We each had a Bachelor of Science degree… and a huge pile of letters.

On the very last day of our final semester of our final year, Andy and I were married. Two weeks later, we were on a plane flying to Sydney. I was returning home after a few years away. Andy was off on the biggest adventure of his life. But before we left for Australia, we had to sort through our belongings. What did we want to take with us and what did we need to throw away?

We looked at our letter collections. Andy’s letters from me were neatly filed in old shoe boxes. Each one was in its original envelope, and they were all in chronological order. My letters from Andy formed an untidy mixed-up heap in a grocery box. Some were in envelopes, some not. All our letters were there: three years’ worth. Should we keep the letters? We decided to throw them away.

I look back through the years, and part of me is sad we tossed away something that was so precious to us, all that time ago. I imagine rereading the letters and reliving those student days. Perhaps we were too hasty in our decision, throwing away a connection to those two young people, who were so impatient to be with each other for life.

I don’t think Andy and I have written a single letter to each other since our university days. We've never been separated for more than a day or two at a time. As a married couple, we have been very blessed: We've never known the longing to be with each other when we can’t, the heartbreak of having to say goodbye, the pain of being somewhere we don’t really want to be. We haven’t needed to write to each other of our love, and our hope that time will pass quickly until we are reunited. All that belonged to another part of our lives, a part I don’t miss at all.

It's funny to think how slowly those three years of university life passed. We thought our wedding day would never arrive. Now we have been married for thirty years, and each year passes much too quickly. Slow down time! I want to savour every day with my beloved.

No, I am not upset we no longer have our letter collections. I don't really want to relive a time when Andy and I couldn't be together. And I don’t need those love letters to remind me of my husband's love. He is right here beside me, telling me all the time.

"Mum! There's a message on your mobile phone."

"It's from Dad," I say, as I begin to read:

Sue, How was your run this morning? Hope you have a good day. Miss you lots! Love Andy xxxxx.

"Just Dad checking in from work."

No love letters? Andy is still writing me love letters every day.

XXXXX: Love Letters because love letters always end in kisses.

Image: Andy and me on our engagement day. Wow! Didn't we look young?

Writing the First Few Words of a Blog Post

noreply@blogger.com (Sue Elvis) — Fri, 26 Apr 2013 01:58:00 +0000

I write a post. I click ‘publish’ and immediately, the first few words of my latest story appear in your feed. Are you intrigued? Do you click onto the link and read the whole post? Or maybe you scroll past my notification, in search of something more interesting.

“Read me! Read me!” shout dozens of post notifications. They are all vying for our attention. Which ones should we read in full? Do we read them all? I wonder if anyone reads every post of every blog they are subscribed to. I’m sure that would be quite a feat.

I think there’s three features of a post notification that can capture our attention, encouraging us to follow the link to the full story.

The first is subject matter. I have discovered that posts about blogging are popular.

Then there’s the post title. My story Andy Elvis Presley got quite a bit of attention. I wonder why. And how about Those Weird Unschoolers? Would that title lure you in, if you're a homeschooler? Or maybe Life after Babies might appeal if you are in the same stage of life as me.

Finally, there's the first few words of the post. I guess these words are a bit like the first paragraphs of a novel. If the beginning of the story doesn't grab our attention, the book gets shoved back on the shelf and will never be read. Maybe the first few words are the most important words in the whole post. If we get them wrong, they may be the only words of the post some people will read.

So I’ve been thinking about the first paragraphs of my blog stories. I had a look at some of my more popular posts to see how they began. Here’s a few samples…

When I regained consciousness, I discovered I was lying in a pool of blood.

Yesterday I found these key search words in my stats: “I am too sad to live”.

Yesterday, we buried our baby. Today, I am kneeling on the ground beside my son’s grave, tears streaming down my face. I thrust aside the mountain of funeral flowers, and then I start to dig into the loose damp earth with my fingers.

Shortly before Andy and I were due to be married, my future mother-in-law took me aside and said, “You don’t really want to marry my son, do you?”

I am a skirt girl.

Would you have been tempted to read those posts in full? Would you have wanted to know what happened next?

I’d like to think that everyone who subscribes to my blog wants to read every story I write. But I know that doesn’t happen. I'm not one of those big bloggers who has readers hanging onto her every word. Each time I write something, I have to provide some evidence my post is worth reading. And sometimes I fail. Many times, I am sure, readers just scroll right past my notification.

And so I have been thinking...Maybe I need to choose those first few words of a post much more carefully.

Has anyone else ever thought about the best way to begin a post? What captures your interest when you see posts in your feed? I’d love to hear your thoughts.

By the way, just for fun, does anyone know which stories the above sentences come from?

Image: Random Words by Chris Halderman, CC BY-ND 2.0

Vision: Counting Ladybug Eyelashes

noreply@blogger.com (Sue Elvis) — Thu, 25 Apr 2013 01:52:00 +0000

How many eyelashes does a ladybug have? Shall I count them?

“Girls, I need a ladybug! Nancy wants me to count a ladybug's eyelashes.”

"But, Mum,” says Imogen, “do ladybugs even have eyelashes?”

I don't know. It's not a question I've ever considered. I decide to Google it to find out

Do ladybugs have eyelashes?

I find this…

Ladybug Feather False Eyelashes feature long, feathery eyelashes that have red
spots against a black background. Complete your ladybug costume with Ladybug
Feather False Eyelashes!

If you want to be a realistic pretend ladybug, it seems eyelashes are essential.

I also find this…

Recently we installed a set of eyelashes on a VW Beetle. Not a graphic art wrap or painted on eyelashes, but an actual set of eyelashes. As strange as this may sound, the addition of the eyelashes actually made the Beetle Bug a prettier car.

Now a ladybug belongs to the beetle family, so it seems quite possible that a ladybug does indeed have eyelashes.

“I think there's a good chance ladybugs have eyelashes,” I tell my daughters. “Now all I need is a ladybug and then I can start counting.”

Luckily it's ladybug season. The girls go outside and gather a sample for me. I place a little bug on the tip of my finger and peer at it. I bring my finger closer and closer, and soon my eye is right up against the bug.

“I can’t see a thing,” I say. I am having trouble seeing.

Trouble seeing...

When I was a teenager, something dreadful happened: I became short sighted and my mother found out. She marched me off to an optometrist, and we returned home with a pair of gold-rimmed ugly-making glasses. I put them on and peered into the mirror. Yes, I could see perfectly. I wished I couldn't. I refused to wear those glasses, preferring instead to stumble around in a blurry world.

I met Andy at school. He was short sighted too, but that was okay. His glasses made him look like John Lennon which was very cool. Andy asked me to go out to the cinema with him, and I said yes. We settled in our seats, just as the lights went out. Wearing his glasses, Andy enjoyed watching the movie. I sat and listened. Would you believe I wouldn't even wear my glasses in the dark?

A momentous day arrived when I was about 19. I was fitted with my first pair of contact lenses. Wow! The whole world looked bigger and brighter. I discovered what Andy really looked like. I realised he was even more handsome than I imagined. I now had perfect sight without having to wear ugly glasses. It was wonderful. No one even suspected I was short sighted. All went well for many years.

Then one day while I was in the supermarket, an old lady handed me a jar of something and asked me to read the label for her. I peered and squinted, and eventually handed the jar back, label unread. I couldn’t make out a single word. Had I turned into an old lady too? A quick trip to the optometrist revealed my near sight was deteriorating. This time there was no avoiding the glasses. I came home with a pair of reading glasses to wear over the top of my contact lenses, which I wear over my eyeballs. (I've just realised that's three sets of eyes!)

I am quite happy wearing my reading glasses in the privacy of my own home. I have even been known to quickly slip them onto my nose in public. Ugly or not, I haven't much choice as I can't read or write anything without them. And I can't not write, can I?

My near sight dilemma had been solved but my vision problems weren’t over. The next thing to disappear was my night vision. "Is that a truck ahead?" I asked Andy. "Where's the edge of the road? I missed my turn-off? Oops! I didn't see that man. What's he doing trying to cross the road?" Andy soon decided it was prudent for me not to drive at night. I had to agree.

Then one evening my eldest daughter, Felicity needed a lift home from work. No one else was available, so I decided to brave the dark. Felicity, poor girl, had to brave her mother. Unfortunately, it was a cold and very wet winter’s night. I leaned forward over the steering wheel, straining my eyes as I peered through the falling rain, and somehow managed to get to my daughter's place of work without hitting anyone or anything.

Now if Felicity had been standing on the curb waiting for me to arrive, all might have gone well, but I had to wait a while for her to appear. By the time she came running towards the car, I had breathed quite a lot. All the windows had steamed up, and it was impossible to see anything outside. I wiped my hand over the windscreen to clear a viewing hole, turned up the air conditioner to a fast blast, rolled down the window a little way, and started the engine.

“Can you see where you’re going, Mum?”

“Sort of… well, not really… I’ll be okay!”

But I wasn’t okay. I made a left hand turn and then another, and then all of a sudden, I hit something hard which made the car rise into the air. We landed with a thud. My heart was racing as I pulled over to the side of the road, wound down the car window and stuck my head out. Oh no! I'd driven right over the top of the roundabout, instead of around it. I'd failed to stop at an intersection I hadn't even seen.

“Oops! That could have been nasty,” I admitted. "I could have hit someone." I looked at Felicity and asked, "Did I frighten you?” My eldest daughter must be made of sturdy stuff. She just grinned. She obviously thrives on unexpected dangerous adventures.

But back to the ladybug...

I tried looking for eyelashes using my contact lensed eyes. I put on my reading glasses and looked. I held the ladybug at arm's length and squinted. I brought it up against my eyeball. But none of that helped. I failed to see the ladybug's eye, let alone even one tiny eyelash.

Nancy, if you want to know how many eyelashes a ladybug has, you’re just going to have to count them yourself.

Unexpected God Conversations

noreply@blogger.com (Sue Elvis) — Wed, 24 Apr 2013 02:00:00 +0000

“I wonder if I will ever see her again. I don’t know how she was with God before she died.”

I am standing in a shop having an unexpected God conversation with the young man who is serving me.

So how did the subject of God come up?

I’d been to this shop several times before. The man is a friendly person, who always asks about our day, what we’re doing, how we are.

I handed my money to him and he smiled and asked,” So what did you do for Easter?”

“We didn’t go away, just stayed at home,” I said, assuming he didn’t want to hear about our four days of church going.

But he asked, “Did you go to church?”

“Well, yes,” I replied. “Easter Sunday is the biggest day in the Church year. I love Easter even more than Christmas... The ceremonies are so beautiful.”

The young man counted the notes of money and smiled, “The biggest day in the year? Yes! Celebrating the birth of Jesus is great but His death? Wow! Think about that! Dying for us. That’s truly amazing.” His voice rang loud and clear across the shop.

Gemma-Rose was with me. The man asked, “Is this your youngest daughter? You had an older one with you last time you came in.”

“Yes. I have five daughters.”

“And sons?”

“I have three sons too,” I replied. “You’re one of four, aren’t you?”

“Yes. One of my sisters has died though." The young man looked down at the money. "Worked night shifts. Thought she was invincible. She drank caffeine drinks to keep herself awake. So much work to do. Then one night she fell asleep at the wheel of her car while driving home.”

“How long ago?”

“About two years.” Not long ago at all.

“I wonder if I’ll ever see her again." He looks directly at me and says, "I don’t know how she was with God before she died. It's hard not knowing.”

An unexpected conversation while I am out doing my shopping. And I wonder...

How many other people are waiting for an opportunity or an invitation to have a God conversation?

Tears: Inconvenient Red Eyes

noreply@blogger.com (Sue Elvis) — Tue, 23 Apr 2013 01:56:00 +0000

I have the most inconvenient eyes. I only have to shed a tear or two and they instantly turn red. And they stay red for hours, signalling to everyone that their owner is a very emotional woman.

As a child I yearned for skin that tanned, with matching brown hair (curly would have been nice). What I had was freckled skin and red hair… and matching red eyes when I cried.

“You’ve been crying! What’s wrong?” everyone asks.

“Nothing! I’m not crying,” I lie.

"Yes, you are! I can see your red eyes."

Why are we so reluctant to admit we cry? Why do we feel we have to keep our emotions safely hidden within us?

On Good Friday, surrounded by a packed church of parishioners, I cried. I just couldn’t help it. We were reflecting on all Jesus had done, because of His love for us. And what did we do in return? We prepared a cross and crucified Him. How could we have done that? I looked around to see if anyone else had tears running down their cheeks. No. There was not a single tear to be seen. And I wondered: “How can anyone not be affected by the thought of Jesus dying such a horrific death just for us?” Was I the only one affected? More likely everyone else had their emotions carefully under control.

I wish I could do that: have sad thoughts, witness heartrending scenes, hear bad news, watch emotional movies… and keep my tears inside my head, away from curious eyes. But I can’t. I open my eyes wide and blink. I bite on my lip, and harden my jaw. I try to think about something else, but it's useless. Even before the first tear inevitably escapes, my eyes are changing colour. I try to swallow the lump in my throat as I reach for a tissue.

On Good Friday, I thought how good it would be if everyone was expected to cry. I could then cry without restraint. Everyone could. Don’t you think that would do us all a lot of good? We could approach the Cross united by our tears, not embarrassed by them. We could hug and comfort and feel the pain together. Instead we are isolated in our own private worlds of grief, each of us trying not to feel too much in case we get embarrassed.

When Thomas died, I walked around in my own private world of grief for months, but I cried in public. I cried so much I stopped putting on make-up because I knew the mascara would just wash away in a matter of minutes. My most valuable possession was my box of tissues which I carried with me everywhere. My eyes were perpetually red, and for the first time in my life I didn’t care. I thought, “If I can’t cry openly when my baby dies, when can I cry?”

“Are you okay?” someone kindly asks. "Is something the matter?"

“My baby died,” I reply, knowing my answer justifies my tearful state.

I just let those tears flow wherever I was… walking down the street, at Mass, by myself. I really couldn’t do much about them. And it helped.

When we can’t cry we tend to bottle things up inside us. We don’t face whatever is causing us sorrow. We dare not let the genii out of the bottle, because once those tears start flowing, we may lose control. We might get embarrassed. Maybe that's not the whole story. Could we also be frightened of facing so much pain?

Just thinking about crying is making my eyes watery. But that’s okay. This is my blog and crying is allowed here. Red eyes are accepted without comment.

Anyone feel in need of a hug and a few tears? Come on in. Let's put our arms around each other. Let's cry together.

Now doesn't that feel better?

Don't you think the little critter above looks rather sad? Is he a ferret? That might explain his sorrowful eyes. Although he looks cute, he really could be a most unlovable creature. I still have memories of a certain ferret's teeth!

This post is linked to the Memoir Monday hop at Chris' blog, Campfires and Cleats. Please visit for more memoir stories.

Superheroes, Super Powers and the Super Enemy

noreply@blogger.com (Sue Elvis) — Mon, 22 Apr 2013 02:00:00 +0000

When Bob Blogosphere interviewed me for his article about the A-Z challenge, he remarked on my lack of readers, and then gave me a bit of advice: “You’ve still got a few letters to go before the end of the month. Use one of them to write something popular. Go on. Give it a go… You’ll see. The comments will come flooding in. It'll be a challenge.”

So I have decided to dedicate S to Superheroes. That’s a high interest topic, don’t you agree? Here goes…

He’s wearing his Superman suit, with its huge red letter S on his chest. His blue cape hangs over his shoulders.

“I’m fighting the bad guy," he cries, as he launches himself off the sofa, and flies across the room.

“The bad guy?” I ask, lifting my eyes from my book. “Lex Luther?”

“Nah!” he cries, as he swoops from side to side, his cape streaming out behind him. “I’m fighting the biggest enemy of them all, much worse than Lex Luther.”

My superhero knowledge is rather limited, so I ask, “Who’s that?”

He comes to a halt in front of me. “The devil, of course!”

“Oh, yes!” I agree quickly. Now why didn’t I think of that? “What superpowers are you using? Super strength? X-ray vision? Speed-of-light flight?”

He sighs and rolls his eyes. “None of those would work against the devil.” I guess he’s right. “I need supernatural weapons. I have to be strong to resist the enemy. I need grace." He looks at me to make sure I'm listening. "That comes from God, you know.”

I smile. I do know, but I don’t tell him.

He is off again across the room, but he shouts over his shoulder, “I’ve got lots of helpers in this battle. Lots of helpers with supernatural powers.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. There’s all the saints. St Michael the Archangel is the best of them all.” He draws out an imaginary sword and darts this way and that. “I’ve just thought of something else,” he shouts. “The name of Jesus. That will scare the devil away.”

“But aren’t you scared of the devil?” I ask. “He’s very powerful. And clever. He sneaks up on people.”

“Oh yes!" he says, darting behind the sofa. “He has invisibility. People don’t even know he’s there. He likes to trick people. Do you think he laughs when everyone says, 'There's no such thing as the devil'?"

I nod. "He must laugh a lot."

"But he doesn’t fool me,” he says, as he reappears. He peers to the left and then to the right, as he emerges into full view. "I'm watching out for him. I’m ready for action!”

And then just as he is about to take off into space again, he changes his mind. He stops, his brow wrinkled in thought. After a few moments, he says, "I bet the devil can change himself into whatever he likes. Transformation: that's a very powerful weapon."

"So how do you fight that?" I ask.

"I'll just have to change myself into something even more powerful. I'll transform myself into a saint." He flings his arms out, and twirls himself around and around in a circle. "All I need is more super grace."

“More super grace?”

“Yes, I'll ask God for it," he says, staggering with dizziness. "He has so much of it, it never runs out. Don’t you think that’s wonderful? Super grace must be the best super power ever."

I am about to agree, but my superhero hasn't finished. “I bet God could fire a huge arrow right at the devil." He falls to his knees. "I could pray a powerful prayer and God would help me." He screws his eyes shut. "That would make the devil quiver!"

“You could say the Rosary?” I suggest. "That's a very powerful prayer."

“Oh yes!” he replies, opening one eye. “Just a decade though, or two Hail Marys, or even just one. I am only a little superhero after all.”

I grin. “I don’t suppose you want to fast then?”

He thinks carefully for a moment. “Well, that’s very powerful too, but I’m growing still. I’ll save that one until I’m bigger. I need to develop my super powers slowly.”

“Very wise,” I agree. “How about a sacrifice? You could clean your bedroom.”

He ignores this suggestion. The word ‘sacrifice’ has given him another idea. “We could go to Mass,” he says.

I look at my watch. “You really want to go? We’ve just got time to get there.”

“Can I go in my superhero costume? Can we stop for an ice-cream on the way home?”

“Of course."

Minutes later we are on our way to the church. The sacrifice of Jesus will be offered for the sins of the world. We’re going to come home with grace. Watch out devil! We’re superheroes with the best weapons ever. With God on our side, you have no chance at all!

I finish my post and hit 'publish'. Will Bob Blogosphere like it? It doesn’t take long to find out.

An email arrives: Sue, just read your Superhero post. How did all that faith stuff get into it? It isn’t quite what I had in mind. Pageviews? Comments? Followers? I’d forget all about those if I were you. You’re a hopeless case.

I can hear Bob sighing from here.

Image: Superman II by Balsavor, (CC BY-ND 3.0)

Relics: Snipping Hair and Cutting Habits

noreply@blogger.com (Sue Elvis) — Sat, 20 Apr 2013 01:55:00 +0000

“Imagine if you died and everyone thought you were a saint, Mum. They’d all come along with their scissors and cut bits off your clothing,” says Sophie.

“They’d have to keep redressing you, like they did for Rose of Lima,” adds Gemma-Rose. “They had to replace her habit a number of times.”

“They might snip your hair too,” says Charlotte. "You don’t think anyone would try to saw off a finger while no one was looking, do you? Everyone will want a relic of their own.”

Now if anyone did manage to sneak off with my hair or blood or bones, they’d end up with a first class relic (assuming I was holy enough, of course.) All the snipped pieces of my clothing would be considered second class relics. And if anyone missed out on these types of relic, they could always make some third class relics of me by touching pieces of cloth to someone else's first or second class relics. People could even get their very own relic by visiting my grave and touching their items to my tombstone.

Imagine! Bits and pieces of me could end up in the possession of lots of different people from all around the world. I might even be sold, though that's really against Church law. I could end up on ebay. They have quite a variety of relics up for auction. I know because I had a look. But I 'm guessing most of these are only 3rd class relics. I don't suppose anyone would try and sell a saint's bone or blood online. Or would they?

I wonder if there are false relics waiting for the unsuspecting buyer. How would anyone know? I guess if there were 15 fingers all claiming to be relics of St Sue Elvis, it would mean I either had 3 hands or some fingers weren’t mine to begin with.

So why would anyone want a relic? I guess it’s a bit like wanting to keep a few locks of hair or the special belongings of a loved one. They connect us to that person. And if that person was holy, the relic might inspire us to pray to him with full confidence that he will intercede for us with God. Miracles have been associated with the veneration of genuine relics, though they aren't magic charms. And prayers aren't always answered in the way we ask.

I have a relic of a saint, a 2nd class one. It’s a small circle of brown cloth that used to be part of one of St Padre Pio’s habits. It is enclosed in a hard transparent bubble of plastic, attached to the back of a medal. My friend John lent me this relic when I was pregnant with Thomas: “You can give it back to me after your baby is born. Perhaps Padre Pio will intercede for you. Maybe your baby will be blessed with a miracle of healing.” Perhaps he wouldn't die after birth like the doctors predicted.

For many months Padre Pio’s relic hung around my neck. It went with me to doctors’ appointments and ultrasounds. I closed my fingers around it while I heard bad news, while I prayed, while I cried, while I hoped, while I tried not to despair at the thought of our baby's death. I was wearing the relic when Thomas was born and when Thomas died.

When it was time to return the relic to John, I hesitated. A miracle might not have been granted to us because of the relic, but I still didn’t want to part with it. I associated it so closely with Thomas. Would John let me keep it just a little longer, until I felt stronger?

And then something unexpected occurred. Before I had time to ask my favour of John, he said, “Sue! That relic I gave you… keep it. I came across another one exactly the same. I don’t need two relics.” How does one just ‘come across’ another identical St Padre Pio relic? I did hear that quite a few relics were made from this saint's habits. They were given to those who donated money so his cause for beatification could go ahead. But even so...

I actually have more than one relic. Thomas is also a saint because he died as an innocent child. His locks of hair and his bloodstained gown are first class relics, while his hospital ear muffs, foot prints and hand prints are second class ones. I suppose I could make some third class ones but there doesn't seem much point.

So I have relics of both Thomas and Padre Pio, who are in Heaven together. For some reason, this seems so awesome.

“If you are recognised as a holy person when you die, Mum,” says Imogen, “we’ll have to bury you quickly. If we wait too long, you might disappear altogether, transformed into relics.”

If I die as a holy person (don't laugh) I could be in great demand. Would anyone like to get in first? Would you like a snipped out circle of my cast-off clothing... just in case?

Questioned by Bob Blogosphere

noreply@blogger.com (Sue Elvis) — Fri, 19 Apr 2013 02:00:00 +0000

An email from Bob Blogosphere: I want to interview you about the A-Z April blogging challenge. Meet me in my office at 11 am.

Bob Blogosphere, the most famous man in the blogosphere wants to interview me? I glance at my watch. It’s almost 11 am now. I click my mouse a few times and before I know it, I’m standing outside the Blogosphere News Building. I push through the revolving door, step into the elevator, and shoot to the top floor.

Miss Bell is sitting outside Bob’s office. “Go right on in,” she tells me. “Bob’s expecting you.”

I push open the heavy door and step inside. Bob is sitting behind his huge desk. He glances quickly into his mirror and smooths his already immaculate hair, then he turns and treats me to a dazzling smile. Bob is as perfect as ever.

“Sue! Sit down,” Bob orders. “I’m writing an article for the Blogosphere News about the A-Z challenge. Big news at the moment! I need someone to interview.”

“The blogging challenge?” I ask.

“Yes. How’s it going?”

“Great,” I say. “I’m enjoying myself immensely.”

“Enjoying yourself? No, that’s not what I meant,” says Bob, shaking his head. “How’s the pageviews? Are you attracting readers? Do they like your posts? Are they commenting?”

“Well, I had a stream of new readers at the start of the challenge,” I reply. “But most of them disappeared after a few days. Not that it matters. One or two are still with me, and I’ve got some lovely friends who've been encouraging me along.”

“But isn’t the A-Z challenge about networking?” asks Bob. “Aren’t you supposed to be attracting new followers?”

“I guess so,” I reply, “but new followers aren’t everything. I’m enjoying the challenge of writing lots of new stories.”

“I’m not sure you understand,” says Bob. “What’s the point of writing so much if no one is reading? You can’t rely on the kindness of friends. You need proper followers. What are you doing wrong?”

I shrug my shoulders. We both sit in silence for a few moments and then Bob narrows his eyes and looks directly at me, “You haven’t been writing about all that sad stuff, have you?”

“Yes, I have actually,” I admit. “I started the challenge off with a grief story: Angels and Babies.”

Bob rolls his eyes. “That was a huge mistake. Probably scared everyone away!" Then he shoots another question at me: "And all that faith stuff? Have you been writing about that too?”

“Well, yes...it seems to have worked its way into quite a few of my posts.” Bob is slowly shaking his head, so I say in a rush, “I didn't mean to write about faith. It just sort of happened.”

“But at least you've been encouraging some religious debates?" asks Bob. He leans forward and rubs his hands together. "Are your readers arguing?”

“Well, no,” I say. “No debates. No arguments. It’s all very friendly.”

“Then that’s your problem,” says Bob, slapping his hand upon his desk. “What did I tell you when I interviewed you last time? Unless it's controversial, no one is interested in that sort of stuff. Readers see the word 'Catholic' or 'grief' and they don't hang around. You need to write about something with more appeal: Big news stuff… something sensational… something everyone can relate to.”

“I do?”

“Yes,” says Bob firmly. “Have you visited Alex J. Cavanagh’s blog? Or Shannon Lawrence’s? Or Mark Means? Or Arlie Bird’s?”

“I have actually,” I reply.

“And what did you discover?”

“Their posts are very popular,” I admit.

“Popular? They get hundreds of comments on all their posts. And do you know why?” Bob lowers his voice and leans towards me. “They write about things people are interested in, like movies and history mysteries and superheroes and…”

I don't let Bob finish. “I can’t write about those things,” I protest.

“You’re just going to have to make more of an effort if you want to attract some readers,” says Bob.

And then something occurs to me. “Why am I here? Why aren’t you questioning Arlie or Shannon or Alex or Mark? Surely they’d provide you with better interviews?”

Bob looks down at his desk. “I tried to interview them. I left them emails.” He fiddles with his ear and then adds, “I guess they’re too busy. All those comments… Probably haven’t seen my emails yet. But you…”

“You know I don’t get much mail. I’m not busy answering comments,” I say. “You knew I’d hop straight over at a moment’s notice.”

“Precisely!” says Bob smiling, once more in control.

It's all making sense. “Are you really going to publish my interview this time?” I ask. “You never did use my Elvis’ Wife interview.”

“Well,” says Bob, suddenly noticing a speck of dust on his jacket. “It all depends on whether…”

“On whether you get someone better to interview before the deadline,” I finish for him.

“Precisely!” agrees Bob. “I can see you understand. There’s still a chance Shannon or Alex will respond to my emails. I’ll just hold you in reserve.”

I sigh. Had I really expected Bob Blogosphere to be interested in my little blog? I stand up. It appears the interview is over.

But Bob has one last piece of advice for me. “You’ve still got a few letters to go before the end of the month. Use one of them to write something popular. Go on. Give it a go,” he encourages. “You’ll see. The comments will come flooding in. It'll be a challenge.”

Bob has said the right word. I love a good challenge. I stand in front of his desk, deep in thought and then say, “’S’… I could try writing a superhero story of my own. S is for Superheroes.”

Bob smiles his perfect smile. “Perfect! I bet your readers will love it.”

Before I know it, I’m back at my blog. I pour myself a glass of red wine, reach for a few squares of chocolate and then sit back to think…

Will I be able to write a superheroes story?
Will anyone come to read it?
Will anyone stop to comment?
Will it be popular?
Do I even care about popularity?
And will Bob Blogosphere publish my interview in the Blogosphere News or will he find someone better to write about?

Please stay tuned to find out!

Image: QuestionMark Icon courtesy of digitalart at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Pyjama Pants: an Embarrassing Story

noreply@blogger.com (Sue Elvis) — Thu, 18 Apr 2013 01:57:00 +0000

I have an embarrassing story to tell. It happened years ago but it still cuts deep. I guess that’s why I’ve never forgotten…

When I was eleven years old I went a posh private school with lots of expensive amenities including a huge swimming pool. Twice a week, together with the other girls of my class, I headed to the change room to don my regulation brown and white swimmers and my rubber cap, ready for our regulation exercise in the water.

One day as I lifted my navy blue school tunic over my head, I discovered something kind of embarrassing. Actually, it was awfully embarrassing. I found myself standing in full view wearing my pyjama pants… my brightly coloured floral baby doll bloomers.

My face went as red as my hair. How could I have forgotten to get dressed properly that morning? Twenty-five girls were standing there in their twenty-five pairs of regulation navy blue underwear. The twenty-sixth girl was wearing her pyjama pants.

Then I heard a snigger, and someone snorted, and then a full belly laugh rolled through the room. “She’s wearing pyjama pants! Who’d come to school in their pyjama pants?” No one except me.

I just wanted to crawl under the bench and never come out. I hurriedly pulled on my swimmers and thrust the offending pants under my pile of clothes, hoping everyone would stop laughing. But they didn’t. Snigger! Snort! Chuckle!

I hated pyjama pants, swimming days, sniggers and snorts, and feeling embarrassed. I hated the fact that twenty-five eleven year old school girls had so much power to hurt.

I guess that’s another reason why I never sent my children to school.

"I've just written a post about pyjama pants," I tell my older girls. "It's a childhood story. It's about how embarrassed I was when I realised I'd forgotten to get dressed properly before going to school."

"That sounds like a Ramona story," says Imogen.

"Yeah, but she chose to wear her pyjamas to school," says Charlotte. "She had these wonderful new pyjamas which she didn't want to take off, so she decided to just put her clothes on over the top of them."

"She got dressed like a fireman," explains Imogen. "You know... they never have time to change from their pyjamas into their underwear when going out on a call."

"And then Ramona got hot and she wished she'd never decided to wear her pyjamas to school," grins Charlotte.

"What if you'd gone to school and discovered you were still wearing your pyjama pants?" I ask.

"I'd be proud of my pyjama pants!" says Charlotte, her eyes flashing with delight.

"Anyway, these days it's fashionable to wear pyjama pants as everyday wear," says Imogen.

"So you wouldn't be embarrassed?"

"Nah!"

Perhaps I should have sent my kids to school after all.

Odds and an End about Noticing

noreply@blogger.com (Sue Elvis) — Wed, 17 Apr 2013 02:14:00 +0000

Odd 1

I flew through the supermarket grabbing bits and pieces off the shelves, and throwing them into my shopping basket. I was in a hurry: my husband Andy was waiting for me in the car.

I headed up the last aisle and spotted an ‘On Special’ sign next to a display of facial mosturisers. I stopped, held a jar at arm's length and squinted quickly at the label, and read something about wrinkles miraculously disappearing after 28 days. Now I normally wouldn’t bother with such wild promises, but as I said, I was a woman-in-a-hurry, and I really did need some moisturiser. I threw the jar into my basket.

Later, with my glasses perched on my nose, I read the moisturiser label properly. Yes, there it was in clear print: Expect your wrinkles to significantly decrease after one day’s use. By the end of the month, you will have a whole new face. It sounded good.

I decided not to tell anyone about my new moisturiser. There really was no need. After 28 days I was expecting all my family to shout, “Wow Mum! What have you done? You look terrific. You have a whole new face.”

After 28 days, no one noticed a thing. It’s been two months now. I guess that new face didn’t arrive.

Odd 2

It was Saturday morning. Andy took the girls to the swimming pool, and I debated what I should do while they were away. Should I write a blog post while the house was quiet, or should I do some housework?

I decided to be virtuous and clean the lounge room. I dusted everywhere, even under the statues and around the picture frames. I used furniture polish and buffed everything to a nice attractive shine. I then heaved out the vacuum cleaner and carefully sucked all the dirt from the carpet. I even moved things and cleaned underneath. I worked for hours.

When I’d finished, I looked around with satisfaction. I didn’t have a blog post written but the lounge room looked absolutely perfect. Everyone’s bound to notice, I thought. There’ll be no need to tell everyone what I’ve been doing this morning. As soon as my family comes through the front door, they’ll say, “Wow Mum! We can see how you spent your morning. The lounge room looks fantastic!”

Everyone arrived home. No one said a word about my cleaning. No one noticed all my hard work. Perhaps I should have written that blog post after all.

Odd 3

There are a lot of willing chefs in our family. I never have to cook dinner, but one afternoon I thought I’d take a turn.

I chopped and whizzed and stirred and before I knew it, a potful of bolognaise sauce was simmering on the stove.

I didn't expect anyone to notice it was me who cooked dinner. I didn't expect any fuss. Anyone can whip up a potful of sauce, even nine year old Gemma-Rose.

Later at the table…

“Mum cooked dinner tonight!” said Imogen.

She cooked it all by herself,” said Gemma-Rose, “without any help.”

"She even cooked the pasta," said Charlotte.

"She served up dinner as well," said Sophie.

“Hey! You've done well,” said Andy.

They were all so amazed. Did they think I didn't know how to cook?

“I can cook,” I said. “Who do you think did the cooking around here before you girls were old enough to do it? I cooked for years and years… I'm not entirely useless.”

After that reaction, it will probably be years and years before I next go into the kitchen and cook another meal. I think I'll leave cooking to the girls.

Odd 4

"We noticed you wrote another blog post, Mum! It was fantastic!"

An End

I've decided not to bother with cooking or cleaning or moisturizers that make wild promises.

Instead, I'm off to write another blog post.

I wonder if our cats notice what's going on around here. Do they keep their eyes on me?

Nothing to Say?

noreply@blogger.com (Sue Elvis) — Tue, 16 Apr 2013 00:24:00 +0000

I really have nothing to say. I’ve hit a wall. Too many stories in such a short time, I guess. It seems I’ve run right out of inspiration. No, don’t go away. Please stay. Maybe I could just tell you about a memory that popped into my head this morning. Is that okay?

I was thinking about a very learned professor who is an expert in diaphragmatic hernia babies. His name is Prof G. I went to see him when I was pregnant with Thomas. He was so pleased to meet me, excited perhaps. How many opportunities does one professor have in a year to see a mother with an unborn baby who has a diaphragmatic hernia? Not many. I was a very interesting case.

Prof G’s eyes lit up when he saw me. He looked over my head and began his lecture. He flung facts and figures this way and that. I was supposed to be impressed. Did I realise I was a rare statistic? Did I know how fortunate I was to have all this attention?

“But there is a chance my baby will live?” I asked, when Prof G finally stopped talking.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” said Prof G, shaking his head. "These babies hardly ever survive.”

“But I know two babies with the same condition that did live,” I persisted.

Prof G shook his head again. “They couldn’t have been as badly affected as your baby. No, this is an extreme case. I wouldn’t get your hopes up of your baby surviving.” Then he looked at his watch, stood up and opened his office door, “I’ll see you in a month’s time. Make another appointment." Our time was up.

I headed towards the reception desk with my husband Andy and our five children in tow. No one said a word. What was there to say?

The receptionist was a large woman with short wiry iron hair, and hard matching eyes, that peered through steel frames. An upside-down smile was etched deep into her face. "Yes?” she barked.

“I need to make another appointment.”

“Have you got your hospital card with you?”

My hospital card? “No… I didn’t think to bring it.”

“Didn’t think!” the woman cut in. “How can I do my job properly if you don’t bring along the right paperwork?”

How inconvenient. What a nuisance I was. And I was about to make things worse. I just couldn't help it. Tears burst forth from my eyes and slid down my face. I heaved in air and let out a noisy sob.

The receptionist stopped shouting at me and asked rather gruffly, “Are you okay?”

“No. I’ve had a bad morning. My baby is going to die.”

“Oh! I’m sorry. Forget about the hospital card. It doesn’t matter. I can make that appointment for you without it.”

I sobbed quietly while the woman wrote out the details of my next appointment on a new card, and I thought, “I’m never coming back here again.” A few minutes later, halfway to the car, I screwed the card into a tight ball and threw it away.

I never saw that receptionist again. I never did keep the appointment she made for me. I didn’t see Prof G until the night I was in labour with Thomas. He was so annoyed with me: “Why did she stop attending her appointments? I have no details about her case.” I could hear his loud commanding voice, even before he entered the delivery room. I guess I'd been a nuisance again.

Why didn’t I keep my appointments with Prof G? You know, I do have something to say after all. I want to say everyone deserves compassion. No one is just an interesting case. I’m a person and so was my baby.

Have you ever heard the words, “If only I’d known, I’d never have said that”? I think of that receptionist and her change in manner, once she heard my distressing news. I know I should make excuses for her. She might have been having a bad day. But I'd still like to say...

Shouldn’t we always treat others with compassion, dignity and politeness, regardless of what we know of their circumstances?

Nothing to say? It seems I have plenty to say after all.

This post is linked to Chris' Memoir Monday. Please visit to read other memoir posts.

Making Up Stories About Marijuana

noreply@blogger.com (Sue Elvis) — Mon, 15 Apr 2013 01:38:00 +0000

We used to live opposite a rather run-down old house. Every now and then, a middle aged man in his singlet and shorts would appear from within. With a beer in one hand and a lawnmower in the other, he'd wander backwards and forwards over his grass until his bottle was empty. That's all we ever saw of him. We didn't know anything else about him.

But my husband Andy likes making up stories...

“I bet the man across the road is a drug dealer,” said Andy, lowering his voice.

“Drugs? Why would you think that?”

“All kinds of strange people go into his house at odd times of the day.”

"Do they? I hadn’t noticed," I said. “But if they do, they’re probably buying marijuana.” I can pretend too.

“Yes!" agreed Andy, "The man grows it, under lamps, in that lower room where the blinds are always closed."

“Could be. It looks kind of damp in there, the walls all green and mouldy.”

“The drug capital of Australia." Andy opened his eyes wide. “We have a dangerous neighbour.”

I laughed loudly. “The only thing dangerous is the man's dog. It just lies there in the road, too lazy to get up. One day I'm going to reverse the car right over the top of him.”

But Andy wasn't listening to me. He was still thinking about his story. "He could have guns,” he continued. “Yes! He's an illegal gun trader, as well as a drug dealer.”

“You might be right. I’ve heard shots in the night,” I admitted. “But then again that could have been a car backfiring. They sound very similar.”

“Definitely guns,” said Andy.

I nodded my head slowly.

For months we lived quietly opposite that old run-down house. The owner continued to keep a low profile, only ever appearing to mow his lawn and drink his beer. People continued to come and go (according to Andy). The dog continued to lie in the road. The house turned greener and greener. Then one day…

I returned home from town to find a police car parked outside our house. With my heart racing, I ran inside to find out what was wrong.

“The police didn't come to see us,” reassured Andy. “They went into the house opposite." He added with relish, “I bet there's a drug bust going on.”

“No! The police are probably just delivering some bad news."

"Yes, definitely bad news: You're busted!" Andy drawled, in his best TV detective voice. "I'm arresting you for drug dealing."

Hours later, two policemen reappeared, got into their car and disappeared. A few mornings later, we bought a copy of the local newspaper.

"Hey, Sue! Listen to this." Andy was practically jumping up and down. "Police arrested a 47 year old man in W St on Saturday morning after information leading to a drug bust...That's the house across the road! The police found a number of marijuana plants growing in a downstairs room... That's the room with the closed blinds, I'm sure!"

Then he shouted, "A number of illegal guns were discovered hidden in the walls of the house. I told you! I was right! We live opposite a drug dealer and a gun trader!"

And I’d just thought our neighbour was an introverted beer-loving man with a lazy dog. Detective Andy knew better.

"So what was it like living opposite a busted drug dealer?" I hear you ask. "Was it dangerous?"

Not in the slightest. He was the best neighbour we ever had. For a long time he disappeared. In prison, perhaps? Then he was quiet and orderly. You wouldn't know he existed... except when the grass needed cutting. I guess he didn't want to call attention to himself. Model citizen and all that. Seems he could pretend too.

I wonder if our neighbours ever make up stories about us. Drug dealing? Guns ? Nah! We're much more shocking than that. If only they knew...

Locked Out, Locked In and Lies

noreply@blogger.com (Sue Elvis) — Sat, 13 Apr 2013 02:01:00 +0000

Antique Style Key by Stars Go Blue, CC BY-ND 2.0

“Hurry! Hurry! Time to go!” I yelled, as I herded my three oldest children through the front door. I swung my bag onto my shoulder, scooped up the baby and grabbed the stroller, before slamming the door shut. Four children had been fed, washed and dressed. I grinned. I'd done it. We were off to town and it wasn't even lunch time. This was going to be a good day.

But where was the van key?

“There it is, Mum!” shouted seven year old Duncan, pointing back through the kitchen window. The van key was lying on the table, together with the house keys. They were locked in. We were locked out.

We were newcomers to our village, but I'd remembered seeing a phone box outside the post office, which was only a short walk away. Perhaps I could call my husband Andy. Would he come and rescue us?

Twenty minutes later, I squeezed into the phone box with the two youngest children, and left the older ones outside, watching the people posting letters through the slot in the post office wall. Soon I was explaining my predicament to Andy, who replied, “Can’t you call a locksmith?”

I was about to say, "Couldn't you come home?" but instead yelled, "Got to go!” I slammed the phone back on the hook, and shot out of the phone box.

“What did you do? How did you manage that?”

One of Duncan’s arms had disappeared inside the rectangular posting slot in the post office wall. He was leaning at an odd angle. “I can’t get my arm out!” His right arm was well and truly locked inside the box.

“Why did you put your arm in there?” I cried, my voice getting higher and louder.

“I wanted to see if I could touch the letters,” sobbed Duncan.

“You can’t touch other people’s mail. People will think you are trying to steal the letters!”

I looked around. Was anyone watching? What was I to do? Duncan’s arm couldn’t stay inside the post box forever. I decided to go into the post office and beg for help.

“Stay there!” I ordered Duncan, as I disappeared into the building with the other three children.

“My son’s got his arm stuck in the post box,” I confessed to the post master. He didn’t waste words. He headed straight outside to have a look. The next moment he was on the phone to the rescue squad.

“They’re coming at once,” he reassured me. “They'll soon have your son free.”

Minutes later, we could hear a siren blaring its way to the village. A huge rescue truck screeched to a halt outside the post office. Another vehicle was hot on its tail. Oh no! The local TV news crew were following along behind, hoping for a good story. I could just see it:

Caught in the Act: Irresponsible Mother Encourages Son to Steal the Mail.

A crowd of people was gathering as the rescue man assessed the situation.“We’ll soon get your arm free, matey,” he smiled. “I’ve got a cutter somewhere in my truck." Duncan gulped. "Metal cutter, not arm cutter," he quickly added. "Now don’t go away.”

A ferret-faced reporter jumped out of the TV news car and thrust his microphone in front of Duncan's face: “Why did you put your arm in the post box?”

“I wanted to see if I could touch the letters.”

“Did your mother let you put your arm in the box? What? She wasn't with you? You were all alone? Unsupervised?"

Duncan sniffed and nodded.

“Why did you want to touch the letters? Did you want to take them? Were you stealing them?”

“Out of the way! Metal cutters coming through!” ordered the rescue man, breaking up the interview. We all stood to one side as he attacked the post box with his huge steel cutters. Crunch! Crunch! Would we have to pay for a new box? I didn't care. My son was free.

The news reporter had one more question for Duncan, “Would you like to say anything to your rescuer?”

Duncan shook his head. "Not really," came the reply.

"We'd like to say thank you, wouldn't we, Duncan?" I shot my son a dagger look,and smiled at our rescuer, and prayed the reporter would go away... I was feeling rather worn out.

Our rescue hero grinned and said, “You're welcome! Never rescued anyone from a post box before. This will make a great story.”

It was a great story, wasn't it?

All right… I confess… I lied. That’s not the way it happened at all. The post master didn’t call the rescue squad. The local news team didn’t arrive on the scene. That story only happened in my imagination, as I stood outside the post office, wondering how on earth we were going to get Duncan’s arm free.

This is what really happened…

I went into the post office. The post master was standing behind the counter and I said to him, “I’m really sorry. I don’t know what possessed my son… He’s got his arm stuck in the post box, and I don’t know what to do.”

The post master went outside to assess the situation. “No problem,” he said. “See those screws? If I remove them, the metal plate will come away from the box. Then we should be able to get your son’s arm free.”

The post master took charge. I gratefully stood to one side, while he rescued my son. Moments later, he said, “All free!" He smiled and added, "Don’t go putting your arm into any more post boxes.” Duncan solemnly assured him that his post box investigating days were over.

Once the drama had dissolved, I remembered Andy. I headed back to the phone box. “Sorry I had to hang up on you earlier. Duncan got his arm stuck in the post box. It’s a long story. You called the locksmith? You’re coming home? Oh, you are the best husband in the world!”

An hour or so later, Andy and the locksmith arrived at our house at the same time. Two minutes later, we were back inside our home. Of course, Andy wanted to hear the full story.

“You wanted to see if you could touch the letters?” he asked Duncan. “And could you?”

“No,” said Duncan, his face dropping. All that and his fingers hadn't even touched a single envelope.

Isn’t it good to know that once you pop a letter into an Australia Post mailbox it's safe? No one can twist their arm through the slot and steal it. Not even a 7 year old boy.

I really must go and thank Australia Post.

Krydderuglen and Kindness

noreply@blogger.com (Sue Elvis) — Fri, 12 Apr 2013 02:00:00 +0000

I had this bright idea: I decided to learn Danish. So I visited the library and borrowed a CD/ book set. But when I turned to the first lesson, my heart sank. It all looked so complicated. Could I really learn a new language?

I bet you’re wondering why I want to read and write Danish. Well, I have this fantastic Danish friend called Uglemor. That’s not her real name, of course. I think Uglemor means MotherOwl, which is rather appropriate as Uglemor lives in the Owlery with her owlets. The Owlery is located in a village on an island in Denmark, a long, long way from where I live, here in Australia. But Uglemor is only a click of the mouse away, due to the wonders of the Internet.

I first visited Ugelmor’s blog which is called Krydderuglen, just over a year ago. When I arrived, I saw my blog link in her side-bar but I have no idea how Uglemor heard about my blog. I stopped to say hello, and later I discovered something very special: My comment was the very first comment ever on Uglemor’s blog.

I read all Uglemor’s posts. I love hearing about her life. Although we are both Catholic mothers living in villages, Uglemor’s life is very different to mine. Uglemor is one of those wonderfully productive people who grow vegetables and flowers, bottle fruit, make soap, knit, sew, make natural dyes, draw and write…. You should see the baskets Uglemor weaves out of candy wrappers. I’ve never seen anything like them.

So how do I understand Uglemor’s posts if I can’t read Danish? Do I resort to Google Translate and read funny muddled up versions of her stories? No, there is no need to do that. You see, Uglemor is a very kind and generous person. She writes every post twice, once in Danish and then again in English, so people like me can enjoy her stories too.

I think about having to write all my own posts twice. Wow! That would be a lot of work. It would also take up a lot of time. And then I would need excellent language skills. I don’t think my Church Latin or schoolgirl French would get me very far.

I wondered how I could return Uglemor’s kindness. How could I say, “Thank you for translating all your posts into English”? And that’s when I had the bright idea of learning Danish. I thought, “Wouldn’t Uglemor be surprised if I wrote a comment on her blog in DANISH?”

I returned to my How-to-Speak-Danish book and flipped the pages. Then I saw exactly what I needed. I hopped over to Uglemor’s blog and posted my first Danish sentence. Uglemor understood it and even said she was impressed! How about that? I smiled.

I don’t know if I will ever read and write Danish properly, but this experience has led to some serious thinking: Do we English speaking people expect everyone to learn our language? Should I make more of an effort to learn a language which isn't my own?

I really appreciate Uglemor’s kindness and generosity in translating her posts into English so I can read them, so I'd like to say...

Uglemor, I know I don’t have your language skills. I might never be able to comment properly in Danish on your blog, but I do have an imaginary daisy I’d like to give you with gratitude for your friendship....

If you haven’t yet visited Uglemor’s blog, Krydderuglen, please do. Uglemor will welcome you into the Owlery, and tell you all her latest stories in her beautiful and special way (in both Danish and English!) Be sure to feast your eyes on her photos, and then leave her a little message.

K is for Krydderuglen and K is for Kindness: one very kind friend who lives in the Owlery.

Just in Case

noreply@blogger.com (Sue Elvis) — Thu, 11 Apr 2013 01:51:00 +0000

Washing baby clothes in preparation for the new arrival! by Elin B, CC BY 2.0

My husband Andy and I didn’t make many preparations for our sixth baby's birth. We decided not to sort out the baby equipment or the clothes we had packed away from previous children. We didn’t walk up and down the baby aisles of the shops, arm-in-arm, with secret smiles on our faces. We didn’t toss tiny clothes and attractive toys into our shopping trolley. No one would have known we were expecting a baby except for my pregnant shape.

We did however choose a name for our child. And I packed a hospital bag for myself with the usual toiletries, pyjamas and coming home clothes. I put it by the front door, ready for the big day. I was all prepared. But I wasn’t. Who can be prepared for the birth of a baby who is going to die?

Then about a week before our baby was due, I changed my mind about the baby clothes, and hunted out a few from our storage room after all. My mother-in-law watched with sad eyes as I washed a few tiny outfits. Did she think I was setting myself up for even more sorrow? I hung the clothes on the line and they flapped in the breeze, announcing to the world we were about to give birth.

“The clothes are ‘just in case’,” I told myself. “Just in case our baby does live after all.”

When I went into labour, we left home with the two bags, mine and the 'just in case' one. When we arrived at the hospital Andy grabbed my bag. We left the baby clothes in the car. Perhaps I didn’t want anyone to know how much I hoped.

A day or so later, we returned home with both bags. We had no baby. Thomas was in the morgue.

I threw the baby clothes into the cupboard where I couldn’t see them and I cried. It was many months before I was able to unpack that bag and look at those tiny suits and socks and singlets. I smoothed them out and thought, “If only…”

Would it have been easier if I’d listened to my head and not my heart, and not washed and packed those tiny outfits? The doctors had said my baby wouldn't live. I know they wanted me to face this fact. So why didn't I? Why did I take those clothes to the hospital with me?

I didn't want to picture my child dead in my arms, before I'd even seen him, his body cold and still. I didn't want to imagine the tears that would run down my face and the pain that would grip my heart. I had done that so many times already.

Instead I wanted to feel the secret joy and excitement that wells up inside every mother, as she imagines meeting her baby for the first time. I wanted to pretend I was a 'normal' pregnant mother. I wanted to dream just a little in order to get through the birth. Those clothes were my symbol of hope.

My baby might have lived. God could have saved him.

I had to take those clothes just in case.

Ingredients: Andy's Amazing Potato Salad

noreply@blogger.com (Sue Elvis) — Wed, 10 Apr 2013 02:00:00 +0000

We’re sitting around the table enjoying lunch together. My son Callum hands the bowl of potato salad to his girlfriend, Casey and says, “You must try some of this. Dad is famous for his potato salad.”

Casey spoons a small amount onto her plate, and Callum watches her closely as she transfers the salad to her mouth. He knows she's in for a surprise. Suddenly Casey smiles widely and says, “Wow! This is good!”

“I told you! Dad makes the best potato salad in the world.”

Casey reaches for the bowl and spoons more potato salad onto her plate, and now Callum looks worried, “Hey! Leave some for me!”

“What’s in the salad? This is so delicious! What's the secret ingredient?”

“Well, there’s…” begins Callum.

“That’s my recipe,” protests my husband Andy, who’s been listening and watching with interest. “You can’t give away my secrets.”

“Mum’s probably told the whole world the recipe already,” says Callum. “I bet she’s posted the recipe on her blog.”

“No I haven’t!” It’s my turn to protest. “I wouldn’t do that!”

But I’m thinking, “What a great idea. Why didn’t I think about writing a potato salad post before?”

So here I am writing about Andy’s Amazing Potato Salad. It truly is delectable. It’s no ordinary salad. Whenever we go visiting, we take along a huge bowlful as our contribution to the meal, and we're always greeted with the words, “Wow! We were hoping you’d bring along some potato salad. We can’t wait to eat it!”

Your mouth is probably watering at the thought of this truly out-of-the-ordinary potato salad. You are probably waiting impatiently for me to write out the recipe. You might be planning to rush out the door to buy all the ingredients as soon as you find out what they are.

But now I’m thinking… what if everyone has the recipe? What if everyone brings Andy’s Amazing Potato Salad along when we have a potluck dinner? It will no longer be Andy’s Amazing Potato Salad. Instead it will be Everyone’s Amazing Potato Salad. My husband will no longer be able to call it his own. I am also imagining Andy's face as I tell him I posted his secret recipe.

No, I can’t do it. I can't write out the recipe. I can't even mention the ingredients. I’m sorry.

But…

Tomato soup is good. Andy’s Amazing Tomato Soup is also something very special. You should see the smiles of delight when everyone tastes it. I could give you this recipe instead. I’ve already passed it onto a few friends so it’s not quite as precious as the potato salad recipe. Andy wouldn’t mind at all if I shared it. You could rush out and buy the following ingredients and and then whip up a potful of delicious creamy soup.

Andy’s Amazing Tomato Soup

Ingredients

60g butter

4 rashers bacon

2 large onions, peeled and chopped

2 large carrots, scrubbed and chopped

2 medium celery sticks, trimmed and chopped

1 kg tomatoes, roughly chopped

800g tinned tomatoes

1.7 litres chicken or vegetable stock

2 sprigs thyme, parsley and rosemary

1 tsp celery seeds

20 black peppercorns

300 ml single cream

rosemary sprigs to garnish

Method:

Melt butter in large pan, add bacon, onion, carrot and celery
Sauté over low heat for 5 minutes without browning
Add fresh and tinned tomatoes (with juice) and the stock, bring to the boil – stir continuously
Add herbs, celery seeds and peppercorns to the soup. (If you don't like the wonderful sensation of discovering a whole peppercorn in your mouthful of soup, make sure they are in a muslin bag so you can remove them before pureeing.)
Reduce heat, cover and simmer gently for about an hour or until vegetables are soft
Cool soup and puree
Before serving, reheat soup and swirl in cream and garnish with rosemary (if you want to impress).

With the cold weather approaching (at least here in Australia), a tomato soup recipe might be appreciated even more than a cold salad recipe. At least I hope so.

“Andy, I blogged about your Amazing Potato Salad today. I posted your secret recipe." I watch my husband's face. It looks just as I imagined.

"Just joking!"

Andy is now smiling again. I give him a hug.

That recipe could have made my blog ratings soar. I could have been famous. But some things are more important than popularity.

And one of those is love.

Hugely Overweight

noreply@blogger.com (Sue Elvis) — Tue, 09 Apr 2013 02:02:00 +0000

“My stomach’s growling,” moans Sammy.

“Your stomach’s huge!” observes Jenny, ignoring her own wide load.

“A big stomach needs lots of food, and it’s about time we had breakfast.”

“How are we going to get their attention?”

“I think Poppy should throw herself at their bedroom door. That should work.”

“Why me?” asks Poppy.

“You've lived here the longest. They like you best. When they open the door, just make big owl eyes at them, and look like you're wasting away.”

Three hungry fat cats are outside the bedroom door.

Thump! Thump!

“What was that?” mumbles Andy, from under the quilt.

“The cats want their breakfast.” Sue yawns, as she climbs out of bed, and opens the door.

“Meow! Meow!”

“Okay! Okay! You can’t be that hungry.”

“We’re starving!”

Sue reaches for the dry cat food container and a small measuring scoop. “You cats are getting fat. I will have to tell the kids to give you less food. You are all hugely overweight!”

"Hugely overweight? Less food? Oh no!"

Three hugely overweight cats are put on a diet, and they are not happy. They complain loudly but no one is listening.

Then one morning, Callum, the second son of the family, is out of bed first. He has an early shift at work.

“Meow! Meow!”

“Okay! Okay! Wait a minute. Here it comes." Callum bends down to the bowls on the floor. With his hand ready to scoop, he tips the food container. “Oops!” A huge stream of kibble flows out over his hand, into the bowl and over the side and all across the kitchen floor. Being a man-in-a-hurry, Callum leaves it there. The cats smile.

When the rest of the family get up, there are three very satisfied, stuffed cats sprawled on the floor by their bowls. They raise their heads just a little, and grin.

“Well, that didn’t help their diet,” Sue observes. There is still food on the floor (dessert for later.) “Even stricter rations for those animals tomorrow.”

All goes well (or not, depending on your point of view) for a few more days. The cats receive small dinners. They are not happy, and spend lots of time complaining. Three grumpy cats.

Then one morning…

“I can’t take much more of this. I’m starving,” moans Sammy.

“I’m a former shadow of myself,” whines Poppy, looking down at her round fat stomach.

“I’m going to die without more food!” says Jenny, raising her paw to her brow and falling dramatically into a fluffy heap.

Sammy takes control. He's the leader. “We need a real breakfast. We have to make a plan.”

He rests his head on his paw while he thinks. “I know! Callum! He’s always in a hurry. He just scoops out huge handfuls of food without measuring it. Remember that wonderful day when he dropped food everywhere? We need him to feed us.”

“Do you think he has an early shift at work this morning? Do you think he’ll be the first person up?” asks Jenny.

“Let’s pray that Callum gets up first,” suggests Poppy.

Sammy lifts his eyebrows. “Pray? Do prayers work?”

“Well, all the family pray. It must work,” says Poppy. “Why else do they spend so much time on their knees?”

“But they are people,” says Sammy. “Does praying work for cats? Would God listen to three cats?”

“Why not? We’re God’s creatures,” says Poppy. “God looks after the birds of the air so why shouldn’t He look after cats?”

“Birds of the air?”

“It’s in the Bible.”

“You mean you listen when they’re praying? I just go to sleep.”

Poppy rolls her eyes. “No wonder you know nothing.”

“Know nothing? I know lots!”

“Like what?” asks Poppy.

A moment of silence and then Sammy mumbles, “I suppose we could try praying. So... how does one pray?”

“We need to kneel down,” answers Poppy.

Sammy raises his eyebrows again. “Kneel down?”

“I guess we could omit the kneeling bit,” concedes Poppy. “And we say, ‘Please God, we are very hungry. Please make Callum get up first so we’ll get a big breakfast. We are very needy'.”

“I think we should add some thanks too. That wouldn’t hurt,” suggests Jenny.

Sammy is surprised. “You’ve been listening too?” he asks Jenny.

“Well, sometimes. I’m not as stupid as I look. Yes, we could say, ‘Thank you for our nice warm home even if there isn’t enough food here.’”

“Right, got that, cats? That’s our prayer all worked out,” says Sammy, taking control again. “Now let’s get praying.”

The three cats line up next to their bowls. They close their eyes and pray really hard:

“Please God, we are very hungry. Please make Callum get up first so we’ll get a big breakfast. We are very needy. Thank you for our nice warm home even if there isn’t enough food here.”

The three hugely overweight cats stop praying. They are listening. They have heard a noise, and it’s coming from the boys’ bedroom. The door opens and Callum appears, yawning deeply.

“Meow! Meow! Thank you, God! Thank you, God!"

Callum takes down the cat food container from the pantry shelf. He doesn’t bother with the measuring scoop. He uses his hand… his big hand. The food clatters into the metal bowls. The cats sigh deeply. This is going to be a GOOD breakfast.

And just at that moment, Callum tips the food container just a little bit too far and food comes raining down…

“Manna from Heaven!”

“They’re right. God IS Good. He’s VERY good.”

Later that morning at prayer time…

“Those cats look like they’re listening.”

“Are they praying?”

"Nah! Don’t be silly! Who ever heard of praying cats?"

Graves: Wild Imaginings

noreply@blogger.com (Sue Elvis) — Mon, 08 Apr 2013 02:03:00 +0000

When I die I’d like a proper grave with a headstone, and one of those slabs that prevents people walking on top of you.

“I want a proper burial,” I say to my children, “in the ground. I don’t want to be turned into a pile of ashes and placed in one of those cubby holes in the cremation wall, where no one will notice me. I want to have a proper place in the cemetery: be seen, have flowers, be visited, be prayed for.”

My grave will be the book cover of my life. The blurb will read: Here lies Sue Elvis, beloved wife of Andy, mother of 15, grandmother of… People will know I existed. Maybe someone will come along and read my plaque and wonder about my story.

When we go to the cemetery to visit our son Thomas, we always stroll between the graves reading the words on the headstones, imagining the people who are no longer here. We stop at a few graves, usually at the neglected ones, and pray for the souls of those within. There’s one special grave we never fail to visit.

Martin is the brother of a friend. One day he went mountain bike riding alone, in the national park. He sailed down the side of a very steep hill, his bike out of control, and broke his neck. By the time he was found, he was dead. He was only 25 years old.

We stand by Martin’s grave and say our prayers for his soul, and when we have finished, I think: I hope someone will do that for me one day.

We always visit Thomas on his birthday. We arrive with fresh flowers and a huge bunch of brightly coloured balloons which we tie to his flower bowl, where they bob in the breeze. And after we have scraped off the latest lichen from his stone, and pulled out a few weeds from around his grave, we grab the picnic basket from the van, and settle under a tree for a birthday feast.

While we are munching our sandwiches, I let my mind wander…

I imagine a black hearse suddenly appearing at the cemetery gate, a stream of mourners following close behind. What do they think when they see us sprawling in the shade, having a picnic? Do we seem irreverent, enjoying our food so close to the dead? Should we shove everything back into the basket and beat a hasty retreat? Somehow I feel we have the right to picnic close to Thomas. This place ‘belongs’ to us. We have paid the membership fee. But yes, this time I think we should pack up quickly and quietly and leave the cemetery. Everyone deserves privacy when they are burying their dead.

But the hearse doesn’t arrive and I am now thinking of something else. I am imagining all the people who were ever buried in the cemetery: There’s Martin, and the young man killed in a road accident, all the nuns of a local convent, four generations of an old established family, the brothers and sisters who died within weeks of each other after contracting a disease, Thomas and all his baby friends…

Everyone is alive and standing between the graves. There are hundreds of people, all with a story to tell. Are they mostly old people? Do they all look as they did just before they died? I am sure everyone is dressed in the clothes of their day. What about the babies? Are they just lying there on the grass? Yes! I can see Thomas dressed in the white baptismal gown he was buried in. He is waiting for me, returned to my life. All I have to do is walk over and pick him up... and take him home.

I shake my head. No, Thomas isn't coming home. Think of something else.

I try, but those gone-before-us people refuse to leave my thoughts. This time it is the last day when everyone really will rise from their graves. All those buried people will no longer be just a pile of bones. They will rise and once again be whole:

We firmly believe, and hence we hope that, just as Christ is truly risen from the dead and lives for ever, so after death the righteous will live for ever with the risen Christ and he will raise them up on the last day.

Everyone is smiling and joyful. People are hugging and kissing. Death has been overcome. Pain and disease have gone forever. No need for graves any longer. There are no more old people. Is everyone the same age? Yes, they must be. Thomas is all grown up. He is so handsome, a light glowing from within. I hurry through the crowd towards him. He turns and sees me and smiles, a huge radiant smile of love. And then we meet and we hug. We hug close as if we'll never let each other go.

Then I wonder... haven't we already met in Heaven? It probably wouldn't happen like this. But it’s just another dream, and dreams don't have to make sense. Another wild imagining.

“Anyone like another sandwich?” I ask. Soon the birthday feast is over. We head back to the van with our picnic basket. But before I climb into the driver’s seat, I turn and take one last look out over the graves.

The cemetery is quiet, deathly quiet. No sign of life except for the horses over the fence and a few twittering birds. But all that quiet is deceptive. Life is not over and done with. It’s just waiting… like a wintering tree. One day it will come bursting forth again…

Maybe my imaginings aren’t so wild after all.

This post is linked to the Catholic Bloggers Network Link-Up Blitz

Former Friends: Did I Shock Them?

noreply@blogger.com (Sue Elvis) — Sat, 06 Apr 2013 00:52:00 +0000

I have a former life which now seems a world away. It’s more than 30 years since I graduated from school, went to university, married Andy and moved away… far away, from my former high school friends.

At first my friends and I swapped frequent chatty letters, then occasional letters which turned into once a year emails, which evolved into Christmas cards that didn’t actually say much. Then one day I had this brilliant idea.

I emailed a former school friend or two: “Do you know I’m now a blogger? Here’s my web address. Why don’t you visit my blog and catch up with all my family news? Have a look at my photos.”

That was a long time ago and I’ve never heard from those friends since. What happened? Did they read something on my blog that was shocking? Did they close their computers thinking, “Oh! We'd never have guessed that’s the way Sue would turn out?”

I think back to that fiercely independent, hot-tempered young woman my friends used to know. Did my friends visit my blog expecting to see that person? I rather think I have changed beyond recognition.

Even I am shocked at how I have turned out. Never in my wildest imaginings could I have ever dreamt up the life I am now living. No, when Andy and I got married we were going to have several children, maybe four if we felt really adventurous, a nice house and good jobs. We’d entertain on weekends, go on exciting holidays, have a dog and a cat... live happily ever after. Nothing complicated. Just the usual dream.

So what happened? I did something I vowed I’d never ever do: I became a Catholic.

As a young person, I was totally against the Church. My mother-in-law was a Catholic and I felt she didn’t like me. One day just before the wedding, she said to me, “You don’t really want to marry Andy, do you?”

“Of course I do!” I replied, digging my heels in. Her son was going to marry a non-Catholic whether she liked it or not. I didn't need religion. I didn't need the Church. I was quite okay being me. I was prickly and defensive, and I was adamant no one was going to tell me what to believe and how to live my life. My future mother-in-law wasn't going to get rid of me, and I wasn't going to change.

It took a long time before my heart melted and I realised my mother-in-law wasn’t the enemy. The Catholic Church wasn’t an enemy either. One day God got through to that head-strong young woman and she finally listened.

When I was in my early twenties, young people rebelled by becoming punks. They wore tartan and black tights or jeans liberally sprinkled with holes, pierced themselves with safety pins and studs, dyed their hair and chopped it into spikes. They enjoyed shocking society. ‘Normal’ people took one step back when they approached and said, “Oh! I hope my children don’t turn out like that.” I never was tempted to become a punk. It wasn't my ambition to shock anyone, but it seems I have done that anyway.

Isn’t it funny to think a person can shock the world by staying happily married to one person of the opposite sex for 30 years, by accepting life and giving birth to 8 children, by surviving the death of one of those babies and experiencing 7 miscarriages, by being joyful and at peace regardless of the inevitable sufferings of life... by being a practising and obedient Catholic in an age where unbelief, attitude and 'one's own conscience' rule supreme?

My children are fascinated to learn that once upon a time all Christians were Catholic. Everyone went to Mass and believed. Everyone was normal. Nowadays normal is shocking. But you know? I don’t care at all. I am still a rebel at heart. But this time I have found the right reason for going 'my' own way, regardless of what the world thinks.

I wonder what happened to my former friends. Did they change too? I guess everyone changes in some way. It's inevitable. We grow up and look beyond ourselves. We start to wonder why we are here and what life is all about. What did my former friends find when they started to think of the bigger picture? Did they discover the important things of life: peace, joy, hope, love, God? Or do they look at me, shake their heads and say, "How can she believe in all that? What happened to her?"

What happened to me? I guess I just got lucky.