A COUNTRY WEDDING

( Note:  This story was for our Writers' Group monthly assignment.  The topic was ‘friendly fire’ which has a military connotation of course but not so in this story.)

 

Organ music signaled the bride’s arrival to the country church.  Abbie turned to watch the very short, very plump bride walk slowly down the aisle with her father.

 

Despite her dimensions, the bride had chosen the latest trend in bridal wear, a sleeveless, strapless torso hugging gown.

 

‘Sleeves would have been preferable for those chubby arms.’ She told Ben.

 

‘Ssh!’ he hissed then quickly added, ‘Sweetheart.’
 

Ben had learnt a few unpleasant things about Abbie after working with her for 12 years.  Abbie was brutally frank and, worse, she was incapable of whispering.

 

He wanted her to accompany him to his cousin’s wedding.

 

‘Why don’t you take your latest boyfriend, Sam isn’t it?’  Abbie replied.

 

‘I need a girlfriend.  And you’re a girl and a friend.  I don’t normally attend family dos but Sharon is my favourite cousin.’  He explained.

 

‘Your family doesn’t know?  How can they not know?’

 

‘Easy.  I left home at 17 for uni.  Mum died shortly after. I was the only child.  Dad remarried after a while and started a new family.  I rarely go home.  They just think I’m citified.’

 

‘You know I love you and I owe you big time for helping with that budget project but I have a bad feeling about this.’

 

‘Please Abbie.  I will pay for everything.  I will pay for your outfit, hairdo, undies.  Hell, I will pay you by the hour.’ Ben begged.

 

‘Well, okay.” She relented.  “But now we’re even with that budget thing.’

 

‘Great!” Ben said then paused before adding.  “One small thing.  We’ll have to do some handholding and cheek kissing so we look authentic.’

 

‘That, my new boyfriend, is going to cost you a very very expensive pair of shoes.’

 

After the ceremony, the guests milled about in front of the church whilst the photographer snapped the bridal party in various poses.

 

Ben took the opportunity to introduce his girlfriend to his extended family. 

 

They did look an odd couple.  Tall thin Abbie was elegantly dressed thanks to Ben.  Ben’s medium height was greatly reduced thanks to Abbie’s five inch heels.  He did wonder if she chose them as a ploy to reduce cheek kissing whilst they were both standing.
 

The reception was held in the community hall.  Abbie and Ben were seated at a table with the bride’s siblings and their partners.

 

Abbie dragged Ben to a quiet corner.
 

‘I love Sharon.  She is the sweetest girl.  No wonder you love her.  But this is getting out of control.’  She warned him.  ‘First Sharon told me how happy she is that you’ve found someone to love.  Then your great aunt May insisted we attend her 80^th birthday party in June.’

‘She’s got dementia.  She’s probably already forgotten she met you.’

 

‘What about those engagement questions? When we are going to make it official?  You’re both getting long in the tooth!  And, when are you going to make her an honest woman?’

 

‘Just the usual wedding day banter.’

 

‘Well, your step-mother wants us to come home for Easter.  We have to do something Ben.  If you won’t then I will and it won’t be pretty!’

 

When the huge servings of roast meat and veg arrived at the table, Abbie gasped.  ‘This is three day’s worth of kilojoules.  No chance of a salad I suppose.’ 

 

‘Just eat a little, sweetheart.’  Ben encouraged her.

 

‘I’ve just reached my goal weight.  I can’t spoil it with grease and gravy.’ She insisted.  ‘Do you think I should give Sharon a copy of my diet?  A little late for the wedding photos though.’

 

Her dinner partners gasped.

 

‘Maybe my sister prefers to look like a woman and not a praying mantis.’  Bruce, Sharon’s protective older brother, sneered.

 

‘Excuse me!’  Abbie spat back.  ‘I was merely suggesting that Sharon would be healthier and happier carrying less weight.  It also helps with conception when they want to start a family.’
 

More gasps.

 

The mudcake and cream dessert arrived at the table.  Abbie immediately pushed it away. 

 

‘The mudcake is great Abbie.  You don’t know what you are missing.’  Bruce called out to her.  ‘Here have a taste.’

 

A spoonful of mud cake flew across the table and landed on Abbie’s bony chest.

 

‘Ben!  Did you see that!  Do something!’  Abbie insisted.

 

Ben tried to remove the cake with his napkin. 

 

Abbie pushed him away, grabbed her dessert, stood up and walked around the table to stand beside Bruce.

 

‘Well, Bruce.  Because you love it so much, you can have my share.’  She dropped the dessert into Bruce’s lap.

 

Suddenly Abbie felt a second mudcake assault.  This time it landed on her hip.  She turned to see a sheepish Ben armed with the offending weapon.  ‘Ben!  How could you?’

 

‘Sorry sweetheart.  It was friendly fire.  I swear I was aiming at Bruce.’ 

 

Abbie strode back to her seat to confront Ben.  ‘Friendly fire my arse!  I have had enough of you and your hillbilly friends.  I am going back to the motel via the bottle shop.  And don’t you dare follow me!’ 

 

With her back to the table, she winked at Ben and stomped off.

 

The guests watched her retreat with sighs of relief and much sympathy for Ben. 

 

The word ‘engagement’ was not uttered again.

 

Michelle Keleher 2010 (Copyright)

 

 

SIGNPOSTS

‘What did that signpost say?’ Doug asked.

“95 kilometres to go.’ Sue told him.

‘How are the kids travelling?”

Sue turned to check the back seat passengers.

Little Robbie was fast asleep in the infant safety capsule.

“I wish that boy would sleep so soundly in his cot. We’ve been a few hours on this rough road and all the bumps and stops and starts haven’t disturbed him at all.”

They had crossed the Queensland – New South Wales border some time ago and Doug dropped his speed to cope with the poor condition of the road and also to give them a chance to take in the new territory.

“Katie is awake though. That booster seat gives her a bit of height so she’s got a good view of the countryside.” Sue reported.

They were driving through a closely settled rural area and the recent signposts had promised a town was coming up.

“I’ll stop for a break at this next town. We can stretch our legs. Find some toilets and a picnic area.”

Doug had taken regular stops on the long trip to their much anticipated holiday at the beach.

“Oh, I know that shed.” Katie said suddenly.

Sue looked back to Katie. She had jolted forward, her passive gaze replaced by an attentive scan of the road side.

“I used to live here.” She said excitedly.

“No baby, we’ve never lived in New South Wales.” Sue corrected her.

“No. Before. With my other family.” Katie told her. “In a white house with lots of stairs. And a cubby next to a really big tree with a swing.”

Sue looked to Doug. He just grinned at her and shrugged.

As the car rounded the bend, there was a high-set white house on their left. Its tall stumps a precaution in case of flooding. In the yard was a large tree supporting a home-made swing. A wooden cubby house was nearby.

“The red car isn’t there. They must be out.” Katie observed, then relaxed back into her car seat and cuddled her teddy bear.

Sue looked to Doug again, her eyes wide with alarm. This time his face was quite pale and rigid.

Neither said a word until they’d reached the small town.

They sipped the coffee they’d bought from the takeaway shop and watched Katie climbing on the playground equipment.

“She’s never been one for creating stories.” Sue said.

“No.” Doug agreed. “Perhaps she had a bit of a dream.”

“Must have been a very vivid dream.”

Sue looked across to the highway intersection where the signposts pointed in all directions including the road they had just travelled.

“Next time we come down this way I think we should take the coast road.”

END

VIEWS FROM OUR BACK DOOR

A COUPLE FROM OUR WALLABY CLAN

A FIERY SUNRISE

MY DAUGHTER'S MUSIC BOX

When I was a young girl I was entranced by music boxes.

I have a vague memory of a little pink music box that played “One Enchanted Evening” when the lid was raised and the tiny ballet dancer twirled about in front of the mirror.

No doubt it belonged to a first-born daughter in our extended family.

I never gave my daughter a music box.

In retrospect, I am most surprised and guilt ridden about this oversight.

So it was most difficult for me to deny my daughter’s request for a music box when she was asked what she would like for her 21st birthday celebrations.

We had considered whatever was essential for the party.

We booked the lovely old country hall and we arranged for the food and drinks.

When it came to the music for the evening, I had foolishly thought that one of our four stereos could be carted to the hall along with the family’s very comprehensive library of CDs and tapes of music ranging from the early 1900s to the current releases.

But no, my daughter wanted a music box and she promptly gave me the name and telephone number of a reliable jukebox hire company.

We met with the owner of the company and we filled in the request form and we passed over the deposit and he handed over the list of available music for my daughter to peruse and the deal was sealed.

I quickly warmed to our jukebox provider because he was sincere and friendly.

However I did worry about his abrupt and inexplicable bursts of laughter during our interview. They did seem a tad manic.

On the day of the party my daughter, my sister and my nieces were helping to decorate the hall whilst my husband, brother-in-law and son were busy erecting the hired marquee in the grounds of the hall car park.

Suddenly word filtered into the hall that the music box had arrived.

Fortunately I had warned my extended family about our jukebox provider’s merry bursts of laughter.

I was the sole witness to his entry to the hall which was from the front stairs. As he backed up the stairs, tugging the music box on the wheeled trolley, I saw more of his nether regions than I needed to see due to his work shorts slipping well below his waist.

I have always been far too quick witted for my own good so, before I could stop myself, I heard myself saying to him, “Oh, I am getting a peepshow here.”

Manic laughter echoed about the empty hall.

My extended family, safe in the supper room, could titter without causing insult to him.

My daughter’s music box was the highlight of the party.

No one enjoyed it more than her Uncle Darryl.

He had studied the song list and he found his favourite song and memorised the number.

Whenever my daughter approached the music box, Uncle Darryl would call out, “Put on 5105 lovey.”

The song in question was Harper Valley P.T.A.

Only one person enjoyed the 21st party more than my daughter. Uncle Darryl.

I am certain it was because he was born and bred in the country and he had spent many Saturday nights in a country hall, just like this one, attempting to get some girl up to dance with him.

I am so very pleased to report that Uncle Darryl was not without a partner all night and, more often than not, it was with the birthday girl.

The music box remained in the hall until mid Sunday so that everyone got great value from its presence until our lovely merry jukebox provider came to pick it up.

It seems I did eventually give a music box to my darling daughter.


Michelle ©

RETIRED SHED

An old shed on our property that is in retirement now.

GHOST STORY

In the early hours of the morning, a bedroom can harbour ghosts. They become apparent as moonlight filters through the windows.

You wake to find a figure lurking by the door. You blink and look again and it is still there. You squeeze your eyelids tight and then refocus and try to force the ghostly form into something commonplace. And at last you do. With relief you realise that it is not a ghost but your winter dressing gown hanging on the back of the door.

One night I woke to see a luminous figure standing at the end of my bed. I blinked and tried to refocus a number of times but it refused to transform into something mundane. It remained steadfast, a glowing apparition in the form of a woman standing at the end of my bed where dressing gowns do not hang.

Oddly I did not feel any fear.

Was this my guardian angel?

No. I don’t believe in such things. The idea that someone or something is stalking you and watching your every move is downright creepy.

No thanks. I can do without that sort of intense scrutiny.

So I decided that it could be the ghost of my great grandmother who had decided to take a quick visit to Earth to see how her great granddaughter had turned out.

She had died long before I was born but I knew about her because my mother had loved her dearly and told me about her.

Yes, I decided. That is who it is.

So I took one last look then pulled the blankets over my head, willing dawn to arrive.

Michelle 2008©





Michelle 2008©

MEG AND THE BLOWFLY (or Don't ask your family for help with fiction)

(As the links to the right of my blog will reveal, I am part of a writers' group. We have monthly assignments that we can contribute and the fiction below is a response to one of the topics. The task involved writing about "diamond, fly and beer". My imagination produced the work below.)

“What noise does a blowfly make when it hits a window?” I asked the family.

“Buzzing.”

“No. No. Not buzzing. I can’t use that. It’s a cliché. I can’t use a cliché.”

Despite my concerns, the family vehemently insisted that buzzing was the only word for a distressed blowfly.

“I can’t use buzzing in my opening sentence.”

“Well don’t make it the opening sentence.” The son said.

“It has to be the opening sentence. The fly being trapped at the window sets up the storyline.”

‘Why?” The son asks.

“Because of my next sentence: “Tell me about it.” Meg scoffed. “I’ve been trapped in this house for 36 years. The last four have been in solitary confinement.”

“Who is Meg? Do I know her?” The son asks mischievously.

“Why is she trapped in the house?” The spouse asks.

“Because her children expect her to maintain the family home even though they never visit and she is left to pay all the ongoing expenses.”

“Why don’t her kids visit?”

“Because Andrew is a solicitor in London and Jody and her family live on the other side of the continent.”

“Why can’t her son be a Formula One driver or a C.I.A. agent?” The son asks.

“And why can’t Jody be a long haul truck driver?” The spouse asks.

“I need one of them to be settled and responsible.” I explain. “Meg has put the house on the market and she is going to travel Australia and New Zealand by house-sitting. So she needs one of them to be responsible for the family heirlooms.”

“What’s house-sitting?” The son asks.

“There are websites where you can contact people who need someone to live in their house, feed their pets, collect mail and look after their indoor plants and gardens while they are away for a period of weeks or months. You don’t get paid but you get free accommodation. I looked up the sites and some of the houses are in really nice places. So that is what Meg is going to do.”

The second half of the football game had resumed on TV and my advisors lost interest in my story.

Meg sorted through her meager collection of jewelry. She decided to keep her diamond engagement ring, her wedding ring, a string of pearls and three pairs of earrings.

She placed the rest into a padded postal bag and addressed it to Andrew.

She had been feeling lighter, happier and free since listing the house and shedding her chattels. Her aim was to fit her belongings into one large suitcase and one large piece of hand luggage.

Soon she would be an itinerant touring the country in her small car stopping off to house-sit now and then but basically she would have ‘no fixed address’.

“Just like Jody.” She smiled.

There was an ad break on the TV and the spouse strolled over with a cold can of beer.

“How is it going?”

“Good. I have decided to take your advice. Jody is going to be a long haul truck driver.”

Michelle © 2008

SURPLUS TO REQUIREMENTS

(As the links to the right of my blog will reveal, I am part of a writers' group. We have monthly assignments that we can contribute and the fiction below is a response to one of the topics. The task involved writing about "an empty room, a window and a chair". My imagination produced the work below.)




“I’m here to look at the room.” Raine told the punk who answered her knock.

His pale face registered bewilderment.

“I’m meeting Rob Jamieson.”

“Ah, you’re a friend of Robbie’s. He hasn’t moved in yet.”

The slumped black-adorned figure suddenly became animated, “Knew him at boarding school. Great guitarist.”

He led her towards a large empty room.

“Biggest in the house.” He enthused. “I’ve got an upstairs bedroom. Shared kitchen and bathroom.”

They stood in the doorway. An incongruous pair. Michelle Phillips and Sid Vicious.

Raine wondered if he knew the Mamas and the Papas.

“Was it a lounge room?” She asked.

“Dunno. Look. Gotta go. Uni assignment to finish.” He sauntered off.

She wondered what uni course an anarchist would choose.

Raine looked into the room. There was a three pane window overlooking an unkempt garden and Milton Road.

A bay window, she decided. Not that she knew for certain. There were no bay windows in the suburb where she grew up.

She scanned the rest of the room and was surprised to find an abandoned chrome and vinyl chair, in good condition, in a corner.

“Surplus to requirement.”

A term used at her day job when returning stock.

She decided that the previous tenant, now graduated from uni, could afford more refined furniture.

“Move in with me.” Rob had insisted.

She examined Rob’s new residence. The floor boards were bare and grubby. The smoke-stained walls harboured the ghosts of posters long removed.

“You don’t love Barry.”

It wasn’t a question. Rob was 18 and certain about everything.

He was right and it was the reason why she had succumbed to her sexual attraction to the beautiful young Rob shortly after he joined the band.

There was no guilt. She was no longer the besotted 17 year old who’d caught the eye of the lead singer. Barry added her to his band when he found that she could carry a tune.

They had been living together for seven years now and it had become more of an arrangement than a relationship.

Raine knew her place.

She, like Michelle Phillips, had a sweet but somewhat weak voice. And she, like Michelle Phillips, was attractive, a drawcard for the male audience.

“He just wants to play covers on weekends. I want my own band, write my own songs. Music is my life.” Rob’s youthful enthusiasm was endearing. “I’ll buy a house in L.A. and London and Sydney. And you’ll be there.”

However, Raine knew that she would not be a part of his dream.

She didn’t like the new wave music and she believed that the punk movement was an excuse for middle class kids to dress up and act atrociously.

And she vividly recalled that look on Rob’s face when she questioned his lyrics and criticised his favourite songwriter.

It wasn’t disappointment or hurt. It was disdain.

Raine knew that, before too long, she would be surplus to requirement.

She tapped the doorway with the toe of her cork wedged sandal, unwilling to cross the threshold.

Fashion, not music, was her life.

The company had offered her a well paid management job in a new boutique opening in Indooroopilly Shoppingtown.

She’d seen a phone box at corner when she’d got off the bus.

Raine decided she would call her sister and ask if she could stay with her while she arranged a place of her own.

Michelle 2008 ©

MEET MY NEW PET: HUGHIE

I have already stated previously that I am a great fan of spiders and you can read more about this in my post Spiders are our Friends from 2006. (I did try to link it but it won't work at the moment, sorry).

I even appreciate the poisonous spiders because I know that they have a role in the ecology.

In the past, when our spider population becomes too numerous outside our house, I know that I need not intervene because our good friends the Butcherbirds will come and feed upon them thus solving our problem.

So, why am I once again singing the praises of spiders?

Well, it all happened a number of months ago.

I had noted that the Daddy Long-Leg spiders were flourishing inside the house and I felt it was time to cull them. I refuse to use poisons so I normally use the vacuum cleaner to remove any over abundance of spiders.

Being extremely lazy, I waited a week or so before assembling the vacuum cleaner to suck up the unfortunate spiders and also to clean the rest of the house.

Having managed to work up enough energy to set about cleaning the house, I noticed that the Daddy Long-Leg spiders had disappeared.

I was a bit startled and somewhat confused. Where had they gone?

Before too long, I came to realise that there was another spider living amongst us. It was a Huntsman spider. I suspected that he (I decided it was a he but I am sure that any spider expert viewing the photograph will immediately know if I am correct) must be responsible for the disappearance of the Daddy Long-Leg spiders.

I loved him immediately and I told the family that he was my new pet and that his name was Hughie and that he was now a valued part of our family.



Note that there are cobwebs about him which indicates that Hughie was at work at the time this photograph was taken.

As Hughie was a member of the family, we were always concerned about his welfare and also we would always check to see where he was.

I must admit that no one in the family wished to have his presence in our bedrooms during the night. We loved him but we did not wish to worry about the possibility of him crawling about our bed and body parts during the night.

So, if he had moved towards a bedroom at night time, we would always relocate him back to the living area.

We also had another concern for Hughie's well being. And that was the presence of my beloved Burmese cat Bill. Whenever Hughie ventured to the lower regions of the walls, Bill considered that Hughie was on for a game.

I knew that any encounter would only end in tears so we would ensure that Hughie was returned to the upper regions of the walls whenever he ventured south.

When I began to write this blog, all was well in our household. However I do have to admit that, since taking the photograph, there was been an unfortunate event.

I have taken time out to grieve so now I feel strong enough to complete the tale.

One day late last year an unusual event took place. It began to rain. I got overly excited and I decided to take my indoor plant outside so that it could enjoy the shower of rain.

Okay, that wasn't the real reason. The real reason was that because I am extremely lazy I do not dust and therefore I was really just hoping that the rain would wash away the dust on the leaves of my Peace Lily.

As I placed it on the front lawn, I realised that Hughie had been resting in the pot plant. I was in a hurry so I made a bad decision. I decided that Hughie would be fine. I decided that Hughie would wend his way back inside the house. Why wouldn't he? He found his way in once before.

A couple of days passed by. No Hughie. Then one day I returned home to find a body beside the doormat at the front door. It was indeed Hughie.

I was somewhat distraught. It appeared that he had indeed tried to make his way back inside but was unable to complete the journey.

I must admit that I do feel that I am completely to blame.

VISIT MICHELLETOWN

I have my own city. It is called Michelletown. I am Mayor and therefore I am in control of the planning scheme in my city.

There will be no intensive animal feedlots in my city. My city will respect the amenity of its residents and I will refuse to let greedy nasty environmentally bankrupt persons to live within my city limits.

My sister city is New Intersol. However, to learn more about New Intersol, one must visit Incognita's Museum of Dust.

Or just go to Red Bubble and visit Incognita's art.

We all need a city of our own.

LOOK WHAT I BOUGHT MYSELF FOR CHRISTMAS

I have decided to usurp Santa Claus and give myself a Christmas present. I know I am a bit early in heralding in Christmas but my present had to travel all the way from the United States of America to my rural mail box in south east Queensland.



Yes, it is a coffee cup adorned with my beloved cartoon characters Bub n Bill. I am totally thrilled to see them appear in this format.

I must thank Cafepress for arranging this for me. I hasten to add that Cafepress will be totally unaware of this ringing endorsement. Also, because I am buying my own image, I will not be receiving any monetary reward for the sale.

The cup is available (for a price) at
http://www.cafepress.com/bubnbill


My next project is to have my little characters on a tee shirt from the Red Bubble website. I am currently trying to get the image into an appropriate format to upload it onto the Red Bubble site.

You can already buy my photographs as cards from
http://www.redbubble.com/people/michelle422
for AU$3.00

Check back soon to see how my tee shirt turns out.

THE ALARM CLOCK, MY DREAMS AND ME

We had a brief loss of power the other night and that meant that the radio/alarm clock was flashing its red numbers to alert me to the fact that it had lost its memory.

Normally I wouldn't concern myself about this situation because the radio/alarm clock is my spouse's responsibility. He has to rise early each morning and therefore he is the one who relies on this electrical appliance to alert him that it is time to "rise and shine".

However, he was away overnight and, as I was to work in the morning, it seemed like a good idea for me to remedy the situation as I do like to know the time whenever I awake during the night.

So I picked up this little contraption and I started pressing each and every button until I managed to make the digital numbers move towards 9:00.

I cared not if it meant 9:00 in the am or the pm.

The task completed, I drifted off to sleep and into Dreamland which is always an interesting place to visit.

Well, I must tell you that I did not have a very peaceful night.

The radio/alarm clock activated a number of times throughout the night.

As the alarm regularly activated, I remember seeing numbers such as 12:something, 1:something, 2:something and 3:something.

There were probably more occasions but I may not recall them as I was not exactly lucid. I would have been in my REM sleeptime during those early hours.

The first time that I was awakened by the radio chattering away at me, I reached over and I pushed a few buttons.

Happily, I found that the top left hand button seemed to quell the radio chatter.

Well, that was until the next occasion and the many occasions to follow.

By 3.10 I decided to leave the radio on for a while. There must have been a change in the programming because I found that the chatter had finished and, instead, I was being serenaded by (or should that read "subjected to") country and western songs.

It wasn't long before I decided that I could not cope with any more of those sad little ditties and I had to take action.

I may well have become a little more lucid at this hour because I suddenly twigged to the reason why I was being tortured. Whilst I was indiscriminately pushing each and every button trying to set the time, I had somehow managed to programme in a number of alarms.

I had a bright idea, "Surely there is a volume button somewhere on this evil machine."

I poked about the bottom front of the machine and managed to push a button that stopped the country and western music. However it left me with a sort of hissing noise and I immediately guessed that all I had managed to do was to move away from the signal for the radio station.

I decided that I may be able to live with this noise and I rolled over in the hope of finding some more sleep.

But no, this new noise began to irritate me. It felt like I was sharing my bedroom with an angry snake.

Once more I reached across and pushed at buttons and at last I stumbled across the volume button. Peace at long last!

You may ask, "Why didn't you turn on the light and solve the situation earlier?"

Sure, in retrospect, that would seem to have been the sensible thing to do when I had the first alarm at about 12:something.

However when one is drunk with sleep, one does not function in a sensible manner.

And now to my dreams. Mostly they were very entertaining. And I was enjoying a particular dream where I was attending a party with family and friends.

I am guessing that this dream would have been about the time of the 3:something awakening which is a time when dreams can get a little weird. (Ah yes, there is a separate blog to write about my strange and silly early morning dreams!)

As I cuddled into my pillow I had hoped to rejoin the party and as I tried to reenter the dream, I found myself confronted with an image something like:



Yes, my subconscious was asking me to verify my access to my subconscious.

Me thinks I am spending too much time commenting on Blogs on the Internet.

THE DAY I COULD HAVE DROWNED

When I was in my late teens, I found myself caught in a very strong rip at a Sunshine Coast beach and I was quickly towed out to the deeper waters of the Pacific Ocean.

As I drifted further out, I realised that I was in danger of either being drowned due to exhaustion or being attacked by a shark.

It was also possible that if I continued too far out to sea and I ventured into the commercial shipping lane, I may be hit and run over by a passing cargo ship.

Admittedly, I have never been a strong swimmer, but I do believe that the main reason I found myself being washed out to sea was due to the fact that I was unfamiliar with this particular beach. I wasn't aware of its possible dangers.

During this period of my life, I had spent many weekends enjoying our Queensland beaches but I would usually visit the Gold Coast area.

And, knowing that I was not a strong swimmer, I would always swim in the area of the beach that was patrolled by our wonderful volunteer lifesavers.

This particular day I entered the water with the intention of playing about in the waves close to the edge of the beach.

When a wave approaches you, you decide upon one of three responses.

You can begin swimming toward the shore, hoping to be caught up by the wave, and thus experience the thrill of body surfing.

Or you can choose to leap up and be lifted by the wave. Or alternatively, after pinching your nostrils together and shutting your eyes, you can dive beneath the wave and then resurface after it has passed over you.

I may have tried one or all of those options however, on this day, there was a rip that I was not able to overcome.

For those who aren't quite sure just what I am talking about, I will add a definition of a rip that I found on a website from Australian Government Department of Environment and Water Resources.

"Concentrated currents flowing back to sea perpendicular to the shoreline. Rip currents are caused by wave action piling up water on the beach. Feeder currents running parallel to the shore (longshore currents) deliver water to the rip current."

After I was tugged behind the first break of waves, I found myself dealing with a second break of waves further out to sea.

Again, any action I took was futile. I simply drifted out to the deeper waters and it became quite clear to me that I was in trouble.

I remained calm whilst deciding upon my fate and the thoughts of sharks and the shipping lane passed through my head.

I was calm because I have never been afraid of deep water. Unlike my older sister who always insisted that she needed to touch the bottom of the pool, I preferred to bob about in the deep end. The deeper the body of water, the easier it is to float and gracefully tread water.

Obviously I did not drown, get savaged by a shark or run down by a cargo ship.

Fortunately for me, as I drifted out I came across a young fellow atop a surfboard. I politely told him that I was in trouble and he allowed me to hold onto his surfboard as he raised his arm to alert the lifesavers that there was some stupid female in need of rescue.

I did not experience a skerrick of humiliation over becoming a public spectacle that day. All I felt was intense gratitude.

I will always be grateful to that lovely young man and his surfboard and I continue to have great admiration for those selfless lifesavers who sprang into action and brought me back to land.

I am also grateful for the opportunity to learn to swim that I and my peers were given during our primary school years.

It is an interesting recollection that I shall pass on in the very near future.

WHAT YOU DO WHEN IT DOESN'T RAIN?

The drought continues. It is difficult watching our garden wilt and noting that native trees, which are decades old, appear to be dying.

The frosts were extremely biting this Winter and I have vowed not to tend our garden until late September just in case there is yet another very late Spring frost.

The return to a normal frosty Winter does give hope that we may be returning to a normal weather pattern which would mean rain may again fall.

So, what do you do when it doesn't rain? Well, you can't garden but you can still leave the house and take photographs.



I know this is silly but one needs to keep a sense of humour. The feral cactus (or is that cactii) is the only green thing on the farm. I decided to taunt them.



At least I have the wallabies! They eat from my struggling garden but their dear little faces melt my heart.

I THINK THE LAWN NEEDS MOWING DAD

 

This old farm house harboured a family of seven for many years until it was superceded by a brand new brick house built elsewhere on the farm.

Perhaps, with a hammer and a few nails and a coat of paint, it may be restored.

Hmm, perhaps not.

One thing I know for sure, those vacant rooms would still recall the love, laughter and tears of the missing family.

IF IT IS WINTER, DON’T PLAY YOUR PETER ALLEN CD

It is winter in South East Queensland and it has been very cold.

Last weekend we witnessed sleet hitting the ground!

I don’t like winter here on the Darling Downs. We have thick white frosts and something called a wind chill factor that means it is colder than the temperature gauge tells us.

Also ice forms in my birdbaths making it quite treacherous for the birds as they skate across the ice looking for actual water.

My aversion to winter is understandable given that I was born and bred in balmy Brisbane where, even on the coldest winter day, you just popped a cardigan over your usual summer clothes.

So you won’t be surprised to hear that I am rather depressed.

“Feeling lower than a snake’s belly.” I informed my good friend Juanita.

This is an unusual situation for me as I am not prone to low moods.

I have always been very resilient.

In the past, when something bad happened to me, I would think, “Okay, that’s happened. I’ll accept it. This is my new baseline. Now I will just get on with life again.”

Obviously it is more than winter that is draining my spirits at the moment but I won’t complain.

Okay, I will.

I have a severely burnt finger that is restricting my every activity. I expect to lose my job by next March. My arthritis is torturing me. I miss our cattle which were sold off last month. I would like to have chooks but the foxes are rampant. Etc., etc. and so on.

Now Juanita had a good suggestion. She thought that I may be afflicted by Seasonal Affective Disorder (S.A.D.) which is also known as seasonal depression. It is a depression that occurs each year at the same time, usually starting in autumn/winter and ending in spring, or early summer. It has something to do with a lack of sunlight upon one’s body. There is much more to it than that but, frankly, I am too depressed to extrapolate upon it today.

As Juanita has a medical background, I thought I would take her advice and get more sun.

So I decided to hobble up to our distant mailbox which gave me about 10 minutes in the sun.

Then I sat in a sunny spot at the rear of our house and unpicked the hem of my spouse’s trousers as they need shortening. Again more sun upon my less than sunny person.

But eventually I felt that I had been exposed to too much sun. After all, this is Queensland which is in a drought at the moment.

So, when I needed to take up needle and thread to complete the new hem, I decided that I would snuggle into my recliner rocker lounge chair and listen to music as I sewed.

What to choose? Fat Boy Slim, Dean Martin, Crowded House, Rammstein, John Lennon, Michael Buble, one or all of the three tenors, Tom Jones?

Then I spied “The Very Best of Peter Allen” CD.

“Yes! That will be good for a change.” I told myself.

I love Peter Allen and I wish he was still alive to entertain us.

I had seen him interviewed a number of times over the years and he had such a delightful happy personality with a quick wit and, well, he was downright hilarious.

In one interview I watched, he spoke about when he narrated the documentary “Deadly Australians”. It was about some of Australia’s most feared creatures on land and water. This 1983 video introduced us to the shark, the giant squid, the barracuda, sea snakes, black widow spiders and scorpions.

During the interview, Peter told of the moment where he was thigh deep in the waters of North Queensland uttering something like, “In these waters reside some of the most deadly creatures in Australia” and, of course, his immediate concern as he uttered these words was that perhaps he should not actually be standing in the “said” waters.

I popped the CD into the stereo and sat down and threaded the needle.

It started so well with song number one, “I go to Rio”, which is such a festive upbeat song. I was singing along and my toes were tapping.

Then came song number two. It was all about love gone wrong.

Song number three evoked the tragic figure of the talented Judy Garland struggling on stage.

Song number four was a tale of inappropriate and unrequited love.

Song number five was about a co-dependent relationship with a dodgy future.

Song number six was yet another shaky relationship with the threat “don’t push me over the borderline because anything can happen”.

Next came “Don’t cry out loud” with the advice “learn to hide your feelings” and a rather lame attempt to cheer the protagonist by telling her “remember you almost had it all”!

By the time “Tenterfield Saddler” got under way, a song about his grandfather and the suicide of Peter’s father, there were tears running down my cheeks.

Well, given my already S.A.D. condition, I had made a very bad choice. The bigger worry to me was that all these tragic songs were written or co-written by Peter.

Clearly I should have popped in the Rammstein CD. They have a driving beat with repetitive riffs and they thump and bash away on what sounds like an empty metal industrial rubbish bin. They “sing” the lyrics with a threatening growl.

But I do like their music.

And the best thing is that they sing in German and, as my knowledge of the language is minimal, I have no concerns about their lyrics causing me to cry.

But, back to Peter, I have decided to chase up a book about his very eventful life. However I won’t be reading it until the middle of summer.

ONCE IN A BLUE MOON

Below is a photograph of the blue moon on 30th June, 2007 in Australia.

But is it really an authentic blue moon?

Well I have just done the research for this question.

You have to love Wikipedia and Google search. I do.

Whenever I want to know everything about anything I log into these websites.

They are so much more user friendly than the traditional encyclopaedias.

So I logged in to Wikipedia this morning because I wanted to find out a little more about the occurrences of blue moons.

It seems that, by referring to this second full moon in one month as a blue moon, I am only partly correct.

Wikipedia told me that what we had in June was a calender blue moon based on the Gregorian calendar.

There is an older meaning of blue moon which makes it a rarer occasion, hence our popular saying, "Once in a blue moon."

In the 1800s, the Maine Farmer's Almanac's defined a blue moon as the third full moon in a quarter of the year when there were four full moons rather than the usual three full moons.

Furthermore, their definition divided the year into quarters with the dividing line set between March 21 and March 22. This related to the rule for setting the date for the Christian Holy Day of Easter, which depends on the last full moon on or before the Equinox.

Okay, now my brain is hurting a tad as I am struggling to understand all that but what I do understand is that this original meaning was lost for a while after the editors of the original Farmer's Almanac died.

Of course the term has also been used when referring to the actual colour of the moon where it appears bluish due to atmospheric events such as smoke or dust particles.

Whatever the correct definition, there is nothing as mesmerising as a full moon no matter what the colour.

Wikipedia has told me that the next blue moon will be in May, 2008. And it will be one of those rarer blue moons.

So I will return with another photograph in about 10 months.

MEET MY TATTOO

Last weekend we went to the Queensland Gold Coast to visit with family.

It was an excellent weekend to drive south east for three hours for two reasons.

The first reason being that Queensland was experiencing one of Australia's favourite events commonly known as "The Long Weekend".

It was a long weekend because we had a public holiday on Monday the 11th of June so that we could celebrate the birthday of the Queen of England.

Now just why we Queenslanders have a holiday for Queen Elizabeth the Second on a day which isn't actually her birthday is a discussion I don't wish to enter into today.

All I will say is that if it means we have an extra day attached to the weekend then I am not about to complain.

The second reason for it being a really good idea to run away from home is because winter has finally arrived. We live in the coldest region of Queensland so leaving home for a warmer climate was an extremely good idea even if it was for just a day or two.

And it was a glorious warm sunny day come Sunday as we strolled about the Wintersun Festival at Coolangatta on the Gold Coast.

This festival is all about celebrating Rock 'n Roll music and Rock 'n Roll dancing and the magnificent cars from pre-1974. For a taste of it visit here.

We strolled amidst a throng of people gawking at the beautifully restored vehicles and bopping along to the many bands playing live music.

And I am pleased to be able to report to you that Elvis is not dead. Indeed, given his continued popularity over the decades, it seems he had the good sense to have cloned himself because I saw him, well a number of variations of himself, amongst the crowd.

No, people, Elvis is not dead.

Now there were markets in the park at Coolangatta and that is where I spied the tattoo stall. I told the spouse that I thought it would be a good idea if I were to get a tattoo.

Surprisingly, he thought it was a good idea as well. So I chose my tattoo and I had it applied to the inside of my left wrist.




I chose this particular tattoo with my daughter in mind.

In the recent past, she has mentioned to me that she would like to have a tattoo similar to the one I have just acquired (but much larger) placed on her lower back.

The long horned cow is a symbol of the very popular company started by the late R. M. Williams.

See the authentic symbol here.

Well, being a responsible mother, I told her that if she actually carried out that procedure then I would have to kill her because no daughter of mine was going to desecrate her body with something as nasty as a tattoo.

Her response to her mother's recent folly was as follows:

LOL. Dag!! Mum's mid-life crisis. Next you will be riding Harley's and getting piercing's. So that means I can get one too then?

Well, of course, I responded immediately, "No, you can't get one. I only got it so that I could show you how silly they look."

Alas, my tattoo will only be with me for a week.

And, alas, the daughter knew immediately that it was a temporary tattoo.

But I do try to educate my children by displaying good and bad examples in life.

A couple of years ago I purchased a fake belly ring and come Christmas Day I donned the hipster shorts and walked about so that the son and daughter could see my latest (pretend) piercing. Up until then my first and only piercing was just the one hole in each ear for earrings.

The son was appalled. He looked at me as if I was some sort of freak.

Ah, those were the days! Days when I could shock my children.

My only regret about the tattoo is that I have bitterly disappointed my good friend Juanita. I had emailed her a photo of my acquistion from the Gold Coast and unfortunately she thought that it was a permanent tattoo. She thought that I had been audacious.

So very sorry Juanita!

I HEAR MUSIC IN MY HEAD

We meet many people during our lives and some of those people tend to remain in our memory. We even recall people we met only briefly and whose names escape us. No doubt we remember them because there was something about those individuals that left us wondering about how they would manage in the future.

I mention this because I wish to write about a young man I met whilst working in Sydney a very, very long time ago.

This memory was triggered early one morning when I could not sleep and I had a sudden suspicion that I was experiencing tinnitus. I became aware that there was a humming sound in my head and I thought, “I wonder if this is tinnitus.”

The noise sounded like two rather pleasant notes recurring over and over in my left ear.

I then thought, “If this is tinnitus then I can cope with a bit of music playing in my head.”

It was the thought of music in my head that triggered the conversation with the young man.

I don’t remember spending much time with him at work because I do believe that he wasn’t one of the regular people on my shift. He may have been filling in for someone on the night we had the interesting conversation that left me wondering about how his life panned out.

When we met, he had just finished his last year at high school and, as he had to wait a few months before beginning his university course, he had started work at the bank.

Our job involved shiftwork at the computer centre of the bank and I do know that the conversation occurred on a night when we were working the graveyard shift. There was nowhere to go during the meal break so we would spend that time with co-workers.

During our conversation, I asked what course he had chosen to do at uni and he said that he was going to do Law.

I must have appeared to be an empathetic listener because it wasn’t too long into our conversation before he began to confide in me.

He told me that it was his parents who wanted him to do Law. Obviously he had the academic ability to complete the course and they had decided that he would, indeed, do the course.

When I asked what he wanted to do, he said that he wanted to write music. He said that he heard music in his head and, as he tried to explain it to me, I could sense how important his need to capture this music was to him.

And he wasn’t talking about simple little “rock and roll ditties” but complex symphonies.

I was only a year or two older than him but I felt the need to offer some sort of reassurance and advice.

No doubt I would have told him that I completely understood about the concept of hearing music in his head because my head is always filled with words that swirl about until they formed into sentences and then formed into prose and eventually it becomes essential that those words are written down so that my head is left vacant allowing the process to begin all over again.

My advice at the time was that, if he couldn’t go against his parents’ wishes, he would always have his music and he may be able to concentrate on it sometime in the near future.

I do wonder if he ever had the chance to follow his passion. I hope he did.

My regret is that I can not remember his name so that I can Google it and find out whether the music in his head was written down and eventually performed by an orchestra.

The music in my head does continue. I am not sure if it is tinnitus or not.

I remember that my maternal grandmother would complain about her tinnitus so I have always been aware of this condition. My grandmother was very irritated about this constant noise in her ear and she would bitterly complain about it.

Given my suspicions about hearing music in my head, I did a bit of research and I found a most helpful site:

http://www.tinnitus.asn.au/tinnitus.htm

I have learnt that the word "tinnitus" means "tinkling or ringing like a bell". I have also learnt that tinnitus is usually a roaring, buzzing, or ringing sound in the ear. This site even has audio of the noises that tinnitus can produce.

My two recurring pleasant notes don’t seem typical of the experience. Maybe, like my co-worker, I am simply hearing music in my head. Although I am not sure that I can build a symphony upon those two notes.

CRIKEY, THERE IS A SNAKE IN THE GARAGE

My beloved cat, Bill the brown Burmese, has his bedroom in our large double car garage. It is the best room in the house. It is cool in summer due to the concrete floors and the added insulation of being beneath the bedroom and bathroom section of the house. Also it is warm in winter as the bricks retain the heat and there are a number of windows which provide many pools of sunshine for Bill to sleep and to sunbake in.

Below is a picture of baby Bill when he was not much larger than a mouse.


When he is not in his bedroom, Bill is in the house on a bed or a lap. And, when he is not sleeping, he is pestering me for food.

I do allow him to venture outside the house on occasion but I do worry about his wellbeing as the farm is awash with dangers. There are snakes, of course, and you will hear more about them soon. And there are many feral cats, against which Bill has tested his fighting skills with unfortunate results.

I also try to limit his outdoor life because I don’t want him to practise his hunting skills on the local native birds and baby hares.

Fortunately he is intimidated by the birds that frequent my bird baths. They will squawk loudly at him and at times they will execute bomb dives towards him and he will retreat with his ears back and his tail between his legs.

When we are away from the farm, we always ensure that Bill is left safe and sound in his bedroom garage.

Well, we had always assumed he was safe and sound until a recent event when we found that we were in need of Steve Irwin and his snake handling skills.

I must digress here to say that I still find it difficult to accept the sudden death last year of my fellow Queenslander, the endearingly zealous and genuine conservationist, Steve Irwin.

Back to the event. It occurred on a Saturday night when we were relaxing with a drink, watching TV and Bill had retired to his bedroom. The son heard a noise coming from the garage and he remarked upon it. The spouse dismissed it assuming that it was Bill having a bit of a tussle with one of our many resident green tree frogs.

But the son wasn’t convinced and he felt that the sound was different and he went down to the garage to investigate. Suddenly we heard him yell, “Snake!”

The spouse, displaying a dose of optimism, said it may just be the blue tongue lizard that has been living in our yard. However he was soon to discover that it was a large and deadly brown snake.

Yes, Bill and a snake were having a bit of a dust up in the garage. Bill was taking an occasional swipe at the snake and the snake was lunging at him in defence.

We grabbed Bill from the garage and I took him to the kitchen where I started wiping his paws and body with a wet rag in order to remove any venom on his fur.

We all know how cats react to having nasty substances on their bodies.

“Oh dear, what is that on my coat. Best lick it off.”

The daughter decided that water was not enough to cleanse Bill so she got out the antiseptic and tipped it in a plastic container of water and she gathered a number of rags and she started to drown the poor cat in this solution.

Her actions only added to my distress. Will Bill die from an unseen puncture wound from the snake or will he die from ingesting the antiseptic solution after his next bout of grooming?

Meanwhile the spouse is in the garage with a torch and a spade trying to coax the brown snake out of his hiding place so he could dispose of it.

As a born and bred country lad, this wasn’t the spouse’s first encounter with a snake nor will it be the last.

The brave son was milling about behind his (extremely brave) father armed with a hoe and giving his father much moral support and lots of advice.

I was somewhere between the two events, that is, the drowning and/or poisoning of Bill in the kitchen and the dangerous "Steve Irwin" activity in the garage.

It should be noted here that snakes are a “protected species” in Australia. And that is fair enough if they would go about their business avoiding us as keenly as we try to avoid them. But when they enter the sanctum of your home it is another matter. We have the right to be just as much of a “protected species” as they are.

Also I would like to mention at this point that Australia has severe gun laws which restrict the ownership of guns to people who have a legitimate reason to own a gun and a gun licence. These people include farmers needing to cull feral animals and people who use guns for sport such as target shooting.

Oddly enough, criminals are not subject to any restrictions whatsoever upon their ownership and purchase of weapons or their ability to use their weapons on human beings rather than feral animals and shooting targets.

I don’t know why this is. Perhaps I should ask this current Howard Government who imposed these gun laws upon the non-criminal population about this anomaly.

I mention guns here because it would have been foolish of my spouse to have tried to “wing” the snake using his legal weapon given that all surfaces were concrete and brick. The ricochets would have made it very interesting indeed.

After a tense time, the snake was eventually “subdued”.



The Australian Eastern Brown Snake (Pseudonaja textilis) is one of Australia's more deadly creatures. They are fast-moving and aggressive and they have venom which can cause death to humans relatively quickly if left untreated. Brown snakes are not always brown and they can grow to over 6 feet in length and they are even claimed to be the world's second most deadly snakes.

After the encounter with the snake was ended, we had the long wait to see if Bill was going to start to display the telltale signs that he had been struck by the snake and in need of antivenom from the emergency veterinary clinic which was a good 30 minute car trip away.

We all watched his every move and he seemed to be okay and he even tried to return to the garage to finish off the argument with the snake.

The spouse's theory as to why Bill survived the encounter was because snakes are not good at moving about on concrete and it may not have been able to get enough of a grip on the slippery surface to make a really solid strike and therefore make good contact on Bill’s body.

Whatever the reason we are grateful for his survival. It was not his fault that his bedroom was invaded. The snake came into his haven, his bedroom. It may have been able to slip though the gap between the floor and the garage doors. Or it could have snuck in when the doors were open.

We are currently experiencing a drought so it is inevitable that the snakes may come in search of water in and about the house.

We have had a number of snakes arrive in the garage over the years.

And Bill has had three snake encounters that we have witnessed. Who knows what happens when he is on his boundary rides of the farm?

I should mention that Bill also survived his encounter with the antiseptic solution.

Below is a picture of older Bill relaxing.



The son was well pleased with Bill’s new odour. He insisted that everyone in the family have a very deep sniff of Bill because for once he smelt wonderful rather than his usual dusty, musty old cat scent.

Now I fear that the son may decide to take an antiseptic bath himself.