Cat/chy?

Isn't it interesting how poems stay with you years after you first hear them?

The Owl and the Pussycat conjures up a fantastical world where animals speak and take on human qualities.

Their possessions fill me with an envy arguably the colour of the 'beautiful pea green boat'. Oh, to have a small guitar, not to mention a five pound note and that runcible spoon!

Read your children poetry - or better still, write some for them.

Grumps

As Grumps walked along, he could feel Oli’s hand, small and trusting, in his own.  There was a time, he supposed, rubbing his free hand across the stubble on his chin, when his own hand had been as soft. Now it was burred and scarred.

 ‘What’s that?’ Oli asked, pumping his two-year-old legs to keep up.

‘They’re cows,’ Grumps replied, eyeing the Friesians in the field ahead.

Almost on instinct, Grumps took in the information about his dairy farm. He’d been born here one winter morning nearly seventy years ago, and there was nowhere in the universe that he knew better.

With a single glance he counted the cows (forty with calves at foot), he assessed when he would need to move the cows to preserve the paddock’s carrying capacity (Tuesday next week, around lunchtime), and he estimated how much he would make at market when he sold the yearlings (not as much as last year before the drought broke).

He stopped next to the gate, opening its catch. ‘Come through mate,’ he said to Oli who stepped around a cow-pat and stood on tippy-toes to push the latch back into place.

He liked helping Grumps. It made him feel grown up and competent with technical things – and Grumps had a lot of those.

His favourite place was in the shed. This was where Grumps had let him hold a funnel while he poured oil into a jerry can. Oli even helped wipe around the lid with a rag made from an old singlet. Another time he had helped Grumps straighten nails with a hammer. That took all afternoon.

‘For next time,’ Grumps had said, placing all the nails into an old jar on the shelf where he kept his tools.

This morning, as Oli made his way around the paddock with Grumps, he noticed that there were hundreds of spiderwebs strung between the wire strands of the fence. When he looked closely he saw that they shimmered in the morning sun because dew drops had collected on them overnight. He touched one, sending the dew drops scattering, but when he pulled his finger away, the web stuck to him and broke.

Oli thought he might cry, but Grumps distracted him. ‘Look over here,’ he said, leading Oli to where a newborn calf was nursing from its mother.

‘It’s hungry,’ Oli observed, watching the calf flick its tail while it drank. He flicked his fingers in time with it, and edged closer.

The cow wasn’t happy and shook her head at Oli. When she mooed, Oli jumped back, frightened, and hid behind Grumps.

‘Breakfast time for all hungry littlies,’ Grumps said, suppressing a smile as he picked up Oli and walked towards the house.

Oli had recovered from his fright by the time they arrived at the gate, and he fastened the latch. All by himself.

‘Can we go to the shed later?’ Oli asked, keen to be with Grumps.

‘Yes mate,’ Grumps said, laughing. ‘Where would I be without my helper?’

Drive Towards Mullumbimby

When I crest the hill I see the curve of the land cupping the bay and holding it up to the horizon. As I drive towards Mullumbimby, hugged in the palm of the land, the thumb of the lighthouse is at one end of the bay and the skyscraper fingers of the Gold Coast are at the other.

Each time I see this I feel the same kind of wonder that I experienced the day Dad had opened his hands to show me the surprise nestled inside; a blue diamond butterfly that had flicked its wings before flying into the sky.

Drive Towards Mullumbimby: Karin Maier 2015

Our farm was wrapped in the embrace of ancient hills that spoke of the time when volcanoes ruled. The valleys held remnant rainforests that drew on this alluvial legacy, making ferns and orchids that were too fragile to pick. 

As a child I played in the cold, cold water of springs that tumbled down the rocky steps of waterfalls. I squeezed the silt, soft as silk, between my toes. It seemed like a paradise full of treasure.

‘What do you think I’ve got?’ Dad asked, playing the game that required me to guess.

‘A flower?’

‘A sparkly stone?’

Often it was a dandelion ready to be blown. Sometimes a piece of quartz washed from the mountain. But it might also be a beetle, shiny and iridescent like a Christmas decoration. Or a cicada, green and quivering with the noise of its life that seemed somehow trapped inside it. This time it was the butterfly.

‘Look how it goes,’ he said.

I watched its wings beat up and down. The propulsion took it into the green leaves of a tree and it flew there a while in the dappled light. Exhausted, it settled on a branch.

‘Will it die?’ I asked, knowing even then that all creatures have a time and place allotted.

‘Eventually,’ Dad said.

We stood for a moment, acknowledging that truth.

As an adult, I value that instance of honesty more and more. It held within it the need for urgency; to do what you can with the time you have. Your wings may be small, but they can lift you.

So today I am trying to fly - into an expanse of creativity, mapped against the contours of the place that nurtured me. Every heartbeat pumps a memory. I breathe the ageless air that lifted the butterfly and I know I am coming home.  

Harmony

The bundle of conference papers LJ carried was becoming crumpled as she scanned the eager faces of the crowd for the colleague she was meant to meet. Hawaii was the third Pacific country she’d been to this week, and the novelty of airports was wearing thin. As the humidity engulfed her, she wondered again about the impact of global warming, and was grateful for a job that enabled her to make a positive difference, however small.

‘Sorry!’ her colleague called, pushing through the crowd to help LJ with her bags. ‘I was running on local time.’

‘Are we doing the set-up today?’ LJ asked, referring to the conference preparations. She liked to make sure the meeting rooms were arranged and the microphones and PowerPoint were working. Last minute glitches with technology were all too frequent, and detracted from the message she was here to present.

‘Sure,’ said her colleague who knew from experience that LJ would not be happy until after the venue was sorted.

Looking at the lectern and the circle of chairs LJ was reminded of the heated discussions she had attended recently in Kiribati. Delegates from some of the smaller Pacific Islands had been frustrated by the higher ocean levels and the repeated inundation of their homes. They threatened a walk-out at the apparent lack of commitment to change on the part of larger, more developed nations. It had taken all her powers of persuasion to prevent this happening and to move the discussion along. In the end an agreement of sorts had been reached, and she now looked forward to months of shuttle diplomacy as the details were refined.

I need some fresh air,’ LJ announced, suddenly realising that her jetlag was taking hold.

'Come on,' replied her colleague.

An hour later, standing on a mountain outside the city, LJ followed her colleague as she shared some simple poses. ‘You will feel the power of the island inside you,’ her colleague said, beginning to stretch.

To her surprise, as LJ emulated the island’s rugged peaks by pointing her toes to the sky, a sense of calm and equilibrium enveloped her. When she curved her body like the waves rolling in and settling on the sand below, she realised they had travelled across the expanse of the Pacific. Just like me, she thought. 

The next day at the conference, buoyed by the island’s energy, LJ found that an unusual harmony had calmed the fractious delegates. She drew in a deep breath, remembering the feeling she had experienced as she stretched in the sun. From now on, she resolved, I will carry the strength of the mountain and the persistence of the waves inside me. 

As a Hawaiian song drifted across the conference room, LJ hoped there might one day be a solution to the rising tides that battered islands like Kiribati.

Five Generations - the Inspiration of a Blanket

The bag contained a red ball of yarn and a partially completed, hand-crocheted blanket. I had been sorting my mother’s possessions, intending to donate her craft items to her friends at the local Craft Club. When I first saw the blanket I considered unraveling the yarn – perhaps someone else would be able to use it?

But when I picked the blanket up, it was warm and soft, and it gave me pause. I saw an image of Mum’s hands holding it as she crocheted. Suddenly the blanket was too personal, almost intimate, and I resolved it had another purpose.

A few days later, I searched for my crochet hook and sat with the blanket on my knees as I worked my way around the edge using a double crochet stitch. I thought about the importance Mum had placed on the simple pleasure of making the blanket, even though she was unwell, and her stitches showed her deterioration. I chose not to unpick those sometimes ragged stitches, instead working them into the final pattern, wrapping my own stitches around them like a hug.

Hooking the yarn, I also thought of my grandmothers who had helped me as I leaned a new crochet stitch or struggled with a doily pattern. I wondered if they knew the skills they taught me would be used on a day such as this?

When I give the blanket to Mum’s great-grand-daughter, my grand-niece, this practical heirloom will wrap together, with knowledge and love, five generations of women.

Excuse #23 - Bowling a Maiden Over

When players from Afghanistan and Bangladesh run up and down the pitch at Manuka Oval as part of the Cricket World Cup, I might try to write a pitch for my latest story.

It would not be the first time I’ve whiled away my time at a cricket match. All those Saturday mornings keeping score at junior cricket or the time I got sunburnt at the Prime Minister’s XI come to mind. And filling in a blank scoresheet is a whole lot easier than writing words on a blank page.

Given that junior cricket is a few weeks away, the answer for writer’s block could be a trip to Bowral. Pottering through the Bradman Museum and International Cricket Hall of Fame or having a picnic at the picturesque Bradman Oval is bound to be inspirational. I’ve just got time to dust off the folding chair and fill the esky before the game between Cootamundra and Bowral on 15 February.

Cricket Captains Walk Cootamundra

As for Cootamundra, serious procrastinators would enjoy the Cricket Captains Walk where it’s possible to admire Australia’s cricketing greats, soak up the ambiance and think about statistical probabilities. I have calculated the likelihood of producing a quick 500 words after this kind of nostalgic reflection to be 500 to 1 against, with the usual standard deviation – much like a cricket ball off a crack in the wicket.

Statistically speaking, I might be better Setting Up My Starting XI for success. This is where I channel the Australian selectors online and pick a World Cup Team full of players like World Cup debutants Glenn Maxwell (122 off 57 balls in the warm-up match) and David Warner (127 off 115 balls against England at the SCG). It’s like writing that virtual best-seller where I can be Margaret Atwood and Ursula Le Guin all at once.

To even up the odds, when the Australian Cricket Team plays England at the Melbourne Cricket Ground on Valentine’s Day, and my loved one steps up to the remote control, I’ll pick up my pen, and like any good opener, settle in. I should be able to show some resilience, develop a relaxed style, get some runs on the board, and hit a six or two in my allotted overs. If I get drinks as well, I’ll know someone’s bowled a maiden over.

A/musing

I bumped into a former work colleague, Jenny, at the Canberra Theatre last night and it started me thinking about the passage of time. She mentioned she had been at my farewell from a posting in Bangkok, which was in 2005.

That final month in Bangkok saw my son turn seven and a week later have his appendix removed at the BNH. I remember the aching anxiety between the time I held the anaesthetic mask over his face prior to the operation and watching him shiver back to wakefulness in recovery less than an hour later. It seemed like an eternity.

These days Aidan doesn’t need his teddy (who happily also recovered from the appendix experience). And as a young adult he doesn’t need me in the same way he did at seven.  At the theatre last night, and nearly ten years on, he towered over me and made polite conversation.

He’s noticed the passage of time too.  “You’re not embarrassing anymore,” he said to me earlier this week. 

While I was trying to work out when I had ever been embarrassing (spinach in my teeth? forgetting someone’s name? kissing him good-bye at the school drop-off? ), he let me know we’d moved on to a new phase. Phew. Despite the sands of time shifting slightly under my feet, I felt relief. Even though I’d missed this awkward phase, it was over.  Probably best for both of us.

"You can do anything you like,” he said. The sands tilted further as I processed the fact that I was being given permission. Hmm.  He patted me gently on the arm and said, “Now you’re just amusing.”

Review: The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry

When Harold Fry receives a letter from a former work colleague, Queenie Hennessy, who is seriously ill, he knows that simply posting a reply will not be enough. Without proper equipment, or his mobile phone, Harold leaves his comfortable lounge room to set off on a six hundred mile journey. After a chance encounter in a service station, Harold believes he can keep Queenie alive as long as he keeps walking. Over eighty-seven days he walks from Kingsbridge in the south of England, to Berwick-on-Tweed near the Scottish border hoping he will arrive in time to say thank you for a kindness Queenie once did him.

As Harold makes his pilgrimage he undergoes a transformation, discovering friendship in unlikely places and a capacity he didn’t think he had to confront the memories he carries about his relationship with his wife and his son.

This book deals with the themes of families, ageing, grief, self-reliance, friendship and hope.

It will make you laugh. And it will make you cry. But most of all it will remind you about why random acts of kindness make a difference.

The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry

Rachel Joyce, 2012

Black Swan

357 pp.

ISBN 9780552778091