I often wonder whether everyone, or even anyone, has this habit:
When I read and there is a description of a character's facial expression or minor body movement, I copy it before I continue reading. For example, the writer describes -
"She jerked her head suddenly in his direction ...." I do this
or
"He suddenly nodded, knowingly" .... Copied sometimes in different ways to emulate how the character would do this.
or
"She glared at her neighbour, then tossed her head in the air as a sign of dismissal"
or
"His shoulders slumped and his lips pursed as he realised the full extent of this knowledge"
etc etc
I have tried to stop myself re-enacting these movements but only find that I cannot continue the story until I do it.
I have an even crazier habit in relation to housework but will need more time before I can write this one down. I mentioned it to Tones in Vietnam and, although he took particular notice and has even spoken about it since, I am not sure whether he thinks the men in white coats should come and lock me up.
Both hands were up to my face and covering my eyes after I wrote the last paragraph, thinking whether to delete it or not. (Did anyone copy the last sentence?)
Saturday, 7 August 2010
Tuesday, 3 August 2010
TO KNOW OR NOT TO KNOW
Little ones, even my two-year-old great grandson, know about babies in tummies and that is how their siblings come to be born. In 'days of old' pregnancies were hidden and were mentioned as the mother's 'confinement'. And confinement it was as these mothers rarely went out and with flowing dresses and aprons were quite adept at hiding the bump.
I was 10 when my sister, Maureen, was born. When I told my friend, Caroline, that I had another sister she said that she didn't notice that mum was fat. I didn't know what that had to do with it but she said that all mothers get fat before a new baby comes. I remember being confused with the conversation but we were at the local swimming pool and we were soon splashing around again in the big pool, which we had promised our parents we would not enter unless one of them was present. Not our fault that they were too busy to supervise.
I remember my father telling me of the day Aunty Pat was born. He was 15 and his mother asked him to take her to the hospital on his way to work. They walked there with him carrying her suitcase and then she told him to leave her there and come in after work.
After work, he found her sitting in bed nursing a baby. To his utter amazement she told him that it was his new sister. He said "Where did she come from?"
Hard to believe? Not when a number of my friends have similar stories.
A golfing friend, Vi Penno, told me of her mother's marriage. This was held at the family home and when the guests had left and the cleaning-up was done, her mother retired into her bedroom. When the door opened and her new husband entered the room she looked at him and said "What are you doing in here?"
I was around 15 when a group of us were walking home from a rehearsal for a Catholic Ball where we were to lead the debutantes into the hall. We were to wear our pretty pink dresses which had been made specially for the occasion and we were very excited to be attending such an event.
On our way one of our friends spoke about a girl who was a couple of years older than we were and told us that she was pregnant but didn't know who the father was. My comment caused a stir as I said "Can't she just pick who she wants?" Silence followed. Then the friend who was relating the gossip said "We'd better shut up as SOMEONE doesn't know". They talked of other things and try as I might no one gave me any more info.
A few days later I quizzed the storyteller and she told me, very quickly, how it came about. I couldn't believe that she would make up such a disgusting story but gradually, after asking some other friends, I realised that this was what happened. I looked at my parents in a totally different light but didn't bring up the subject with them, ever.
And my sister, Pam, when she was pregnant and one of the youngsters mentioned how fat she was, she told her that she had a baby in there. The child looked, wide-eyes and asked "Oh, NO. Did you eat it?"
We all thought this is be a very funny story but my mother was quite shocked that Pam would actually tell a child this.
This was the first time that I had heard a pregnant mother give this answer and not brush off the child with a vague reason. Before your time, Pam. Before your time.
I also remember mum saying that Carole Fenning was not someone she would wish us to bring home. The reason: she overheard her yelling out, 'in the main street, mind you', that she couldn't go for a swim as she had her period.
I remember when I first heard about periods I couldn't believe that only females were subjected to this. "So Dad doesn't get them? Only girls? How fair is that!"
I was 10 when my sister, Maureen, was born. When I told my friend, Caroline, that I had another sister she said that she didn't notice that mum was fat. I didn't know what that had to do with it but she said that all mothers get fat before a new baby comes. I remember being confused with the conversation but we were at the local swimming pool and we were soon splashing around again in the big pool, which we had promised our parents we would not enter unless one of them was present. Not our fault that they were too busy to supervise.
I remember my father telling me of the day Aunty Pat was born. He was 15 and his mother asked him to take her to the hospital on his way to work. They walked there with him carrying her suitcase and then she told him to leave her there and come in after work.
After work, he found her sitting in bed nursing a baby. To his utter amazement she told him that it was his new sister. He said "Where did she come from?"
Hard to believe? Not when a number of my friends have similar stories.
A golfing friend, Vi Penno, told me of her mother's marriage. This was held at the family home and when the guests had left and the cleaning-up was done, her mother retired into her bedroom. When the door opened and her new husband entered the room she looked at him and said "What are you doing in here?"
I was around 15 when a group of us were walking home from a rehearsal for a Catholic Ball where we were to lead the debutantes into the hall. We were to wear our pretty pink dresses which had been made specially for the occasion and we were very excited to be attending such an event.
On our way one of our friends spoke about a girl who was a couple of years older than we were and told us that she was pregnant but didn't know who the father was. My comment caused a stir as I said "Can't she just pick who she wants?" Silence followed. Then the friend who was relating the gossip said "We'd better shut up as SOMEONE doesn't know". They talked of other things and try as I might no one gave me any more info.
A few days later I quizzed the storyteller and she told me, very quickly, how it came about. I couldn't believe that she would make up such a disgusting story but gradually, after asking some other friends, I realised that this was what happened. I looked at my parents in a totally different light but didn't bring up the subject with them, ever.
And my sister, Pam, when she was pregnant and one of the youngsters mentioned how fat she was, she told her that she had a baby in there. The child looked, wide-eyes and asked "Oh, NO. Did you eat it?"
We all thought this is be a very funny story but my mother was quite shocked that Pam would actually tell a child this.
This was the first time that I had heard a pregnant mother give this answer and not brush off the child with a vague reason. Before your time, Pam. Before your time.
I also remember mum saying that Carole Fenning was not someone she would wish us to bring home. The reason: she overheard her yelling out, 'in the main street, mind you', that she couldn't go for a swim as she had her period.
I remember when I first heard about periods I couldn't believe that only females were subjected to this. "So Dad doesn't get them? Only girls? How fair is that!"
Saturday, 17 July 2010
MATILDA revisited
Because I have 12 balls of this pink/blue stuff, I decided to give it another try. Of course, with my prior very successful efforts in this creative activity, I was confident that I would overcome any problems. How hard can it be?
After four hours I have just finished 3 different designs. The first ended up in a circle (circumference 30 cm). Pulled it undone so tried with a different stitch - it was curved and ended in a crescent shape which I could not see fitting into a crib or pram or basinet or even a car seat. Next one became square and I became quite excited with my clever new stitch until about row 9 when I noticed that the first 3 lines were undulating.
It is now 9.30 pm - tomorrow I might buy a doll at the Kiama markets.
After four hours I have just finished 3 different designs. The first ended up in a circle (circumference 30 cm). Pulled it undone so tried with a different stitch - it was curved and ended in a crescent shape which I could not see fitting into a crib or pram or basinet or even a car seat. Next one became square and I became quite excited with my clever new stitch until about row 9 when I noticed that the first 3 lines were undulating.
It is now 9.30 pm - tomorrow I might buy a doll at the Kiama markets.
Friday, 16 July 2010
MATILDA
My cousin, Kinya, had a little girl, Matilda, born 14/07. She was due on 23/07 and I have been making a blanket since finishing the magnificent one I completed for my new little great granddaughter. (I was very, very proud of this one as it is the only one I have finished on my own using a difficult pattern. One needs to see this to appreciate just how beautiful it turned out. I spent many hours just looking at it and, to be honest, was pretty sad when I handed it over.)
Well, maybe this is what happens when one is over-confident because this next effort has not been the success I anticipated.
Firstly, because I didn't know if she was expecting a girl or boy, I got wool with both pink and blue - very soft and pretty. Made a complete hash of that one - too thick and too long and would probably take 3 years to finish.
I then got the news that a little girl had arrived New plan - pink and white.
Disaster struck again as it looked CRAP.
Went back to the pink and blue and decided to do the same pattern as I use for Trishcloths - couldn't fail with this as there are many examples of these in many countries and they are in demand by family and friends.
What I didn't realise was that I had not attempted to use wool of this ply - much too thick for the hook. Ended up with what now looks like a scarf and nothing like a blanket. Still have another six balls of the wool but the size will be about 6 feet long x 2 feet wide. (I had emailed Kinya I was making one and she replied how excited she was to see it).
What to do now. I have spent 18 hours on three flops so far. Really - she is a third cousin and two days old. How can I stress over this? Have decided I need a good night's sleep. Tomorrow I will buy a pink blanket. Might throw in some booties.
Well, maybe this is what happens when one is over-confident because this next effort has not been the success I anticipated.
Firstly, because I didn't know if she was expecting a girl or boy, I got wool with both pink and blue - very soft and pretty. Made a complete hash of that one - too thick and too long and would probably take 3 years to finish.
I then got the news that a little girl had arrived New plan - pink and white.
Disaster struck again as it looked CRAP.
Went back to the pink and blue and decided to do the same pattern as I use for Trishcloths - couldn't fail with this as there are many examples of these in many countries and they are in demand by family and friends.
What I didn't realise was that I had not attempted to use wool of this ply - much too thick for the hook. Ended up with what now looks like a scarf and nothing like a blanket. Still have another six balls of the wool but the size will be about 6 feet long x 2 feet wide. (I had emailed Kinya I was making one and she replied how excited she was to see it).
What to do now. I have spent 18 hours on three flops so far. Really - she is a third cousin and two days old. How can I stress over this? Have decided I need a good night's sleep. Tomorrow I will buy a pink blanket. Might throw in some booties.
Saturday, 26 June 2010
TO DIE FOR
As one gets older, funerals become an increasingly frequent event.
For instance, last week I attended one on Wednesday followed by another on Friday.
The two sides of my family - dad (O'Brien); mum (O'Connor). To be sure, to be sure.
Wednesday was the one I thought would be a miserable affair as my Uncle Noel had not been a favourite in the O'Brien family for many years and was 'off with the fairies' and any visitor of late had been looked on as a potential lover and was given the once-over. He had often gloated re his ability to attract the ladies but no longer had the ability to differentiate when it came to his sister or his nieces.
The fact that he didn't have children to arrange his funeral meant that Kerrie, Aunty Pat's daughter, took over this task.
The service was conducted at the South Chapel in Sutherland Cemetery.
On arriving with Aunty Pat (the surviving member of the O'B clan) I was surprised to find a recording of Uncle Noel singing "What a Wonderful World" and photos of him and the family shown on a screen.
The eulogy was shared by nieces Kerrie, Jill, Anne and myself giving our respective histories with our uncle and then the President of the Belmore RSL spoke about Noel's involvement as a soldier in WWII and his invaluable contribution to the welfare of the returned soldiers and widows from that period in relation to pensions etc as well as his entertainment value as a singer with various groups around the clubs. The reading of The Ode and the playing of The Last Post was really moving.
The service was followed by family and friends having a 'wake' at the RSL in Sutherland. It was so much fun with lots of photos and stories that it was sad when it was time to leave.
One of the best funerals I have attended.
FRIDAY - Aunty Clarice O'Connor's funeral.
My mother was one of 10 children and Aunty Clarice was married to her closest brother, Bill. They had two children - David and Joanne. David had died a couple of years before so Joanne, her husband Peter and their four children had organised the service.
I was looking forward to seeing some of the 36 nieces and nephews of the O'Connor clan who were scattered around the traps since leaving Cootamundra.
I arrived on my own at St Joseph's Catholic Church in Oatley. I signed the book and proceeded to sit on my own about three rows from the front. After the family arrived the service took on the form of a Requiem Mass which included several readings by grandchildren and a very long sermon by the priest, which I felt had nothing to do with Aunty Clarice but was geared towards the possibility that 'someone' in the church may have needed some preaching. That would be me as I was the only one who didn't attend communion.
There was a recording of Ave Maria sung by David in 1982 at Joanne's wedding which, obviously, brought a few tears from me but I couldn't detect any other sobs around the room. It had been his mother's request that he sing at her funeral but with his pre-demise the recording was used. It was beautiful.
I was still hopeful of meeting up with some of my cousins as events like this turn into quite a good reunion for the family. For the life of me I couldn't see anyone I recognised but was still hopeful when we all (including Aunty Clarice, of course) left the confines of the church and gathered at the hearse for the farewell to the crematorium.
As I had taken the train, I was intending to catch a ride back to Sutherland but had the timetable for the train in case I needed a Plan B. There would have only been about 15 people outside (apart from the immediate family of daughter, son-in-law and four children) so sussing out rels would not have been difficult. But I could not see anyone looking remotely like an O'Connor so I realised that I was the lone representative of that generation.
I waited to speak to Joanne but she was tied up with an old couple who were asking - I kid you not -
'was she still OK upstairs?
so she had all her marbles then?
she knew you and the children?
etc etc
I then touched Joanne's hand and told her I would see her later at the crematorium. She said 'OK, Trish' and then continued with her conversation with the old couple. I was pleased that she recognised me and then I briefly spoke to her two daughters and told them that I was Aunty Rene's daughter. They looked suitable impressed as they watched me walking towards the Railway Station.
I got the train back to Sutherland and walked to the same South Chapel of Wednesday fame, getting a little lost as on foot, and a huge area, my sense of direction was limited. However I still arrived in time for the 'service' as the group of mourners was still outside but now down to about 10 as not everyone goes the full nine yards for a farewell.
I stood with the group but noone paid any attention whatsoever to me so when the priest from St Joseph's invited everyone to go inside I dutifully took my place, again about three rows back. Noone sat with me but that was OK as I could then start reading my rail timetable inside the leaflet about Aunty.
Again we had readings from the four children and the priest plus a eulogy from Joanne which lasted 45 minutes. Quite informative and well presented.
The curtain was then closed and we all gathered again outside the Chapel. There was much chatter and I felt that finally I would be acknowledged as I stood within the group. Not the case. I then spied the sign for the Ladies Toilet and ventured over as my new resolution is never to waste an opportunity to go as one is never sure when the next one will be presented.
After the toilet stop I decided not to attend the afternoon tea advertised for the Forget-Me-Not Cottage (appropriately named for my visit) and walked in the other direction to view some of the graves etc. I didn't walk on the road for the unlikely fear that one of the mourners might offer me a lift to the Cottage and in the process got lost in the acres of memorials. (As Tones would know, I really enjoyed this part of the day).
After about an hour I found the exit road which I hoped led me away from the Cottage and worked my way back to the train station and my trip home.
For instance, last week I attended one on Wednesday followed by another on Friday.
The two sides of my family - dad (O'Brien); mum (O'Connor). To be sure, to be sure.
Wednesday was the one I thought would be a miserable affair as my Uncle Noel had not been a favourite in the O'Brien family for many years and was 'off with the fairies' and any visitor of late had been looked on as a potential lover and was given the once-over. He had often gloated re his ability to attract the ladies but no longer had the ability to differentiate when it came to his sister or his nieces.
The fact that he didn't have children to arrange his funeral meant that Kerrie, Aunty Pat's daughter, took over this task.
The service was conducted at the South Chapel in Sutherland Cemetery.
On arriving with Aunty Pat (the surviving member of the O'B clan) I was surprised to find a recording of Uncle Noel singing "What a Wonderful World" and photos of him and the family shown on a screen.
The eulogy was shared by nieces Kerrie, Jill, Anne and myself giving our respective histories with our uncle and then the President of the Belmore RSL spoke about Noel's involvement as a soldier in WWII and his invaluable contribution to the welfare of the returned soldiers and widows from that period in relation to pensions etc as well as his entertainment value as a singer with various groups around the clubs. The reading of The Ode and the playing of The Last Post was really moving.
The service was followed by family and friends having a 'wake' at the RSL in Sutherland. It was so much fun with lots of photos and stories that it was sad when it was time to leave.
One of the best funerals I have attended.
FRIDAY - Aunty Clarice O'Connor's funeral.
My mother was one of 10 children and Aunty Clarice was married to her closest brother, Bill. They had two children - David and Joanne. David had died a couple of years before so Joanne, her husband Peter and their four children had organised the service.
I was looking forward to seeing some of the 36 nieces and nephews of the O'Connor clan who were scattered around the traps since leaving Cootamundra.
I arrived on my own at St Joseph's Catholic Church in Oatley. I signed the book and proceeded to sit on my own about three rows from the front. After the family arrived the service took on the form of a Requiem Mass which included several readings by grandchildren and a very long sermon by the priest, which I felt had nothing to do with Aunty Clarice but was geared towards the possibility that 'someone' in the church may have needed some preaching. That would be me as I was the only one who didn't attend communion.
There was a recording of Ave Maria sung by David in 1982 at Joanne's wedding which, obviously, brought a few tears from me but I couldn't detect any other sobs around the room. It had been his mother's request that he sing at her funeral but with his pre-demise the recording was used. It was beautiful.
I was still hopeful of meeting up with some of my cousins as events like this turn into quite a good reunion for the family. For the life of me I couldn't see anyone I recognised but was still hopeful when we all (including Aunty Clarice, of course) left the confines of the church and gathered at the hearse for the farewell to the crematorium.
As I had taken the train, I was intending to catch a ride back to Sutherland but had the timetable for the train in case I needed a Plan B. There would have only been about 15 people outside (apart from the immediate family of daughter, son-in-law and four children) so sussing out rels would not have been difficult. But I could not see anyone looking remotely like an O'Connor so I realised that I was the lone representative of that generation.
I waited to speak to Joanne but she was tied up with an old couple who were asking - I kid you not -
'was she still OK upstairs?
so she had all her marbles then?
she knew you and the children?
etc etc
I then touched Joanne's hand and told her I would see her later at the crematorium. She said 'OK, Trish' and then continued with her conversation with the old couple. I was pleased that she recognised me and then I briefly spoke to her two daughters and told them that I was Aunty Rene's daughter. They looked suitable impressed as they watched me walking towards the Railway Station.
I got the train back to Sutherland and walked to the same South Chapel of Wednesday fame, getting a little lost as on foot, and a huge area, my sense of direction was limited. However I still arrived in time for the 'service' as the group of mourners was still outside but now down to about 10 as not everyone goes the full nine yards for a farewell.
I stood with the group but noone paid any attention whatsoever to me so when the priest from St Joseph's invited everyone to go inside I dutifully took my place, again about three rows back. Noone sat with me but that was OK as I could then start reading my rail timetable inside the leaflet about Aunty.
Again we had readings from the four children and the priest plus a eulogy from Joanne which lasted 45 minutes. Quite informative and well presented.
The curtain was then closed and we all gathered again outside the Chapel. There was much chatter and I felt that finally I would be acknowledged as I stood within the group. Not the case. I then spied the sign for the Ladies Toilet and ventured over as my new resolution is never to waste an opportunity to go as one is never sure when the next one will be presented.
After the toilet stop I decided not to attend the afternoon tea advertised for the Forget-Me-Not Cottage (appropriately named for my visit) and walked in the other direction to view some of the graves etc. I didn't walk on the road for the unlikely fear that one of the mourners might offer me a lift to the Cottage and in the process got lost in the acres of memorials. (As Tones would know, I really enjoyed this part of the day).
After about an hour I found the exit road which I hoped led me away from the Cottage and worked my way back to the train station and my trip home.
Monday, 3 May 2010
NIGHTMARE REVISITED
Imagine this in the eyes of a five year old. You cannot see the cane from here but it is always there, next to the large rosary beads which dangled from the belted waist.
Imagine this hovering over the desk of a seven year old, writing with her left hand.
Imagine this coming closer to a nine year old who has just spilt ink all over her desk and book and uniform.
Imagine this for an eleven year old as she is hanging out one of the windows, during a kept-in recess, holding a bottle of our then government-funded free-milk handed up by a friend. A product forbidden for the kept-ins. A previous blog entry describes what happens to the left overs.
Oh dear, I'll have to close off now as my hands are too sweaty to type and the recalling of other episodes is making them shake. I will revisit these topics later. There are 1001 nights.
Sunday, 2 May 2010
NIGHTMARE on Sutton Street
It has been quite a few years since I have been sitting up in bed with my index fingers holding my eyelids open so that I would not go back to sleep and return to the nightmare.
The reason for my worry that these nightmares will return is the following photo:
** (Oh dear - I have copied this photo but cannot get it to appear here when I try to paste it. Help, Tones or Annie or Pete or Flint or whoever reads this first)
I will return to this post when I can figure out how to get this other old bag's photo to appear. Maybe I will feel better when everyone can see how scary this is, particularly when it is brandishing a cane!
PS Thanks, Tones - photo now in next blog entry
The reason for my worry that these nightmares will return is the following photo:
** (Oh dear - I have copied this photo but cannot get it to appear here when I try to paste it. Help, Tones or Annie or Pete or Flint or whoever reads this first)
I will return to this post when I can figure out how to get this other old bag's photo to appear. Maybe I will feel better when everyone can see how scary this is, particularly when it is brandishing a cane!
PS Thanks, Tones - photo now in next blog entry
Sunday, 11 April 2010
SECOND-HAND ROSE
My father always called me Second-hand Rose. This was because I was the second in a line of five girls and always waited with baited breath until my older sister, Jude, grew out of her clothes so that I could have some new ones.
One night he arrived home with a brand new bike - it was pink and purple and I was so excited because I could have her old one, which was bigger than mine and, of course, Pam would get mine and down the line we would go.
We all came out for the changeover and I remember going to get Jude's bike when dad said "The new one belongs to Trish". I thought he had gone a bit crazy until he said it was because I had never had anything new and as it was the same size as Jude's old one, she would still have a good bike.
I remember walking over to it, getting on and riding around and around the block then putting it in the back shed, where all our bikes were kept, dusted it off and made sure that it was placed in a spot where it couldn't get damaged or where nothing could fall on it.
I loved that bike and I don't remember ever having another one whilst I lived at home.
As long as I can remember I had hand-me-downs from cousins, aunts and even managed to own my maternal grandfather's overcoat once he had died. I used to put this on my bed each night for warmth as there was no electric blankets or even flannelette sheets then. The coat was always a bit of a joke in the house because no one could believe I would want such weight on top of blankets and bedspread.
This second-hand habit has continued throughout my life as I look around now and see what I wear from time to time. My wardrobe and accessories include -
My dad's long johns and his damart vests which get taken out every winter and because of the good quality, have lasted well over the 15 years since his death.
I regularly wear many slacks/shoes/blouses/jumpers/bowls rain jacket/dressing gown/slippers which belonged to my mother. (In fact as I am typing this I am wearing one of her jumpers now and also a warm vest given to me by number four sister, Marie, some years ago.)
The blue baboon outfit I wore at The Great Wall was one of my mothers' tracksuits which I kept just for that occasion. Tony, Peter and Flint - shame on you! I still hold that I looked pretty good that day.
And of course there is Vinnies .... and goodness knows whose once-loved clothes they are.
I have bowls shoes/blouses/a jacket/tracksuits all from my sister Marie.
I have some shirts I wear often which belonged to my niece, Donna.
The list goes on ....
It is not to say that I don't have new clothes/shoes etc but I still love wearing the hand-me-downs and when I wear them I often think of that person and it gives me good memories.
One night he arrived home with a brand new bike - it was pink and purple and I was so excited because I could have her old one, which was bigger than mine and, of course, Pam would get mine and down the line we would go.
We all came out for the changeover and I remember going to get Jude's bike when dad said "The new one belongs to Trish". I thought he had gone a bit crazy until he said it was because I had never had anything new and as it was the same size as Jude's old one, she would still have a good bike.
I remember walking over to it, getting on and riding around and around the block then putting it in the back shed, where all our bikes were kept, dusted it off and made sure that it was placed in a spot where it couldn't get damaged or where nothing could fall on it.
I loved that bike and I don't remember ever having another one whilst I lived at home.
As long as I can remember I had hand-me-downs from cousins, aunts and even managed to own my maternal grandfather's overcoat once he had died. I used to put this on my bed each night for warmth as there was no electric blankets or even flannelette sheets then. The coat was always a bit of a joke in the house because no one could believe I would want such weight on top of blankets and bedspread.
This second-hand habit has continued throughout my life as I look around now and see what I wear from time to time. My wardrobe and accessories include -
My dad's long johns and his damart vests which get taken out every winter and because of the good quality, have lasted well over the 15 years since his death.
I regularly wear many slacks/shoes/blouses/jumpers/bowls rain jacket/dressing gown/slippers which belonged to my mother. (In fact as I am typing this I am wearing one of her jumpers now and also a warm vest given to me by number four sister, Marie, some years ago.)
The blue baboon outfit I wore at The Great Wall was one of my mothers' tracksuits which I kept just for that occasion. Tony, Peter and Flint - shame on you! I still hold that I looked pretty good that day.
And of course there is Vinnies .... and goodness knows whose once-loved clothes they are.
I have bowls shoes/blouses/a jacket/tracksuits all from my sister Marie.
I have some shirts I wear often which belonged to my niece, Donna.
The list goes on ....
It is not to say that I don't have new clothes/shoes etc but I still love wearing the hand-me-downs and when I wear them I often think of that person and it gives me good memories.
Saturday, 20 February 2010
WE REMEMBER ... WE DREAM?
I remember a time at school when a nun came into my classroom with Judith and asked me a maths question, which I answered correctly.
She turned to Jude and said: 'See how stupid you are! Even your younger sister knows the answer' and then marched out.
I hadn't realised what was happening at the time and dearly wished that I had hesitated and given the wrong answer.
Over the years I have often thought about this and I mentioned it to Jude when I was considering writing my book "NUN'S HABITS" and asked her if she minded if I used it. She looked at me quite blankly and said she had no memory of it happening. I then wondered how many times she had been humiliated by these 'caring' teachers to have forgotten this one, which I had remembered with such sadness over the last 50+ years.
She did, however, remember the day she and I had an argument and I had taken a kitchen knife and threatened her with it. She said that she had never been so scared in her life. It was my turn to stare blankly at her. My memory with the nun is real and I know that she is convinced that her memory is real also, but it is not. I would remember being so angry with someone to actually take a knife and threaten them with it. It was a dream/nightmare, whatever, but it is a memory she swears is real.
I am now more upset about her memory than mine.
She turned to Jude and said: 'See how stupid you are! Even your younger sister knows the answer' and then marched out.
I hadn't realised what was happening at the time and dearly wished that I had hesitated and given the wrong answer.
Over the years I have often thought about this and I mentioned it to Jude when I was considering writing my book "NUN'S HABITS" and asked her if she minded if I used it. She looked at me quite blankly and said she had no memory of it happening. I then wondered how many times she had been humiliated by these 'caring' teachers to have forgotten this one, which I had remembered with such sadness over the last 50+ years.
She did, however, remember the day she and I had an argument and I had taken a kitchen knife and threatened her with it. She said that she had never been so scared in her life. It was my turn to stare blankly at her. My memory with the nun is real and I know that she is convinced that her memory is real also, but it is not. I would remember being so angry with someone to actually take a knife and threaten them with it. It was a dream/nightmare, whatever, but it is a memory she swears is real.
I am now more upset about her memory than mine.
Friday, 19 February 2010
WHEN ALL SEEMS LOST ....
Played a championship round of singles yesterday. I was in the second round having won the first one 31/9. However, my next opponent was similar to Roger (her) playing Lleyton (me).
Not an impossible task but the odds were not good.
I won the toss and the first end by 2. Lead 2/0. I remember thinking at the time that at least it would not be a nil score, when it is a little hard to smile at the end. (Remember Dad saying that he didn't want to see by my face whether I had won or lost a game)
I lost the next two ends to be down 2/4 .
The worst part, as the game progressed, was when I was down 4/19, then 5/20, then 7/23 and with the result being the first to get to 31, things were not looking promising. In fact I noticed quite a few of the spectators getting their bags and heading off home. Didn't blame them.
However the score progressed to 10/25, then 24/25, then 24/28, 26/28, 27/28, 27/29, 29/29 and 31/29.
So .... bring on the next round.
Not an impossible task but the odds were not good.
I won the toss and the first end by 2. Lead 2/0. I remember thinking at the time that at least it would not be a nil score, when it is a little hard to smile at the end. (Remember Dad saying that he didn't want to see by my face whether I had won or lost a game)
I lost the next two ends to be down 2/4 .
The worst part, as the game progressed, was when I was down 4/19, then 5/20, then 7/23 and with the result being the first to get to 31, things were not looking promising. In fact I noticed quite a few of the spectators getting their bags and heading off home. Didn't blame them.
However the score progressed to 10/25, then 24/25, then 24/28, 26/28, 27/28, 27/29, 29/29 and 31/29.
So .... bring on the next round.
Thursday, 18 February 2010
NO ONE LOVES US
My parents often told these stories to friends and relatives. I was not sure whether it was to demonstrate the difference between my older sister, Judith and myself or just to make conversation. Judith was 18 months older than I was and I cannot remember her getting into trouble during our early years.
The first one is when we lived in Parker Street and I was about three. Mum went to the letterbox and on discovering that there was no mail, she went inside saying "No one loves us".
After about 10 minutes she came into the dining room where I was standing by the table with a bunch of mail and a big smile saying 'lots of people love us now'.
I had been to all the letterboxes in our street block and taken the mail from their box and brought it home apparently with great excitement. My excitement wasn't shared by Mum as she then had to deliver the mail to the respective houses and apologise.
Apparently over my young years I did nothing to improve neighbourly love. I once heard Mum say that 'if I had a daughter like Judy Ryan, I'd give her a whack with my strap'. Well, why should I be the only one getting whacked! So I went over to Mrs Ryan, knocked on the door and told her what Mum had said. She was furious and told Mum so and I don't think they ever spoke to one another again.
Another time our friends, the Whiteleys, who lived out of town about 5 km called in to our house, as they often did on their way home from Mass on Sundays. Mum had said, before they arrived, that they should not have taken their daughter, Elizabeth, to Mass as she had the measles and could infect other children. SO, on their arrival, I went out and told Mrs Whiteley what Mum had said. This time, however, they apparently had quite a good laugh so the friendship was not ruined.
My parents didn't tell this story as they, of course, didn't know:
I was around five and my friend, Judy Ryan, (girl in the above story but despite my mother's opinion, she obviously was not told about it or definitely didn't hold a grudge against me) had a brother, Michael, who was about three. I had never seen a penis and was pretty curious to see one. Judy organised to show me Michael's but despite giving him my total allowance of weekly lollies, when it came time to reveal, he had not only eaten his sweets but refused to show me. He was so stubborn and no amount of coaxing could shift his shorts.
I was 11 this time and my maternal grandmother lived with us. There were five girls, my mother, my grandmother and dad and we always had dinner together in the dining room each night with my father sitting, of course, at the head of the table. I often think that it must have been why he was always fairly quiet. He would start the conversation asking us what had happened during the day. I couldn't wait for my turn as I had some really startling news.
The conversation went like this:
"Hey, Dad! You'll never guess what Nora Splite (a friend in my class who had been away from school for a few days) told me today. She said that she had been off school because she had been bleeding for five days. Hey, Dad! What a liar! If she had been bleeding for five days, she'd be dead. Wouldn't she, Dad? Dead!"
When there was silence at the table with no one seeming to take any interest in my story just concentrating on their dinner, I was pretty disappointed that they didn't think that this was the most ridiculous thing they had ever heard. I ended my story with -
AND she even said that it was going to happen to her every month from now on! DAD have you ever heard such a lie?
Dad made no comment and changed the subject to include one of my other sisters who would not have had anything as interesting as my story and I decided not to join in any more conversations that night.
The first one is when we lived in Parker Street and I was about three. Mum went to the letterbox and on discovering that there was no mail, she went inside saying "No one loves us".
After about 10 minutes she came into the dining room where I was standing by the table with a bunch of mail and a big smile saying 'lots of people love us now'.
I had been to all the letterboxes in our street block and taken the mail from their box and brought it home apparently with great excitement. My excitement wasn't shared by Mum as she then had to deliver the mail to the respective houses and apologise.
Apparently over my young years I did nothing to improve neighbourly love. I once heard Mum say that 'if I had a daughter like Judy Ryan, I'd give her a whack with my strap'. Well, why should I be the only one getting whacked! So I went over to Mrs Ryan, knocked on the door and told her what Mum had said. She was furious and told Mum so and I don't think they ever spoke to one another again.
Another time our friends, the Whiteleys, who lived out of town about 5 km called in to our house, as they often did on their way home from Mass on Sundays. Mum had said, before they arrived, that they should not have taken their daughter, Elizabeth, to Mass as she had the measles and could infect other children. SO, on their arrival, I went out and told Mrs Whiteley what Mum had said. This time, however, they apparently had quite a good laugh so the friendship was not ruined.
My parents didn't tell this story as they, of course, didn't know:
I was around five and my friend, Judy Ryan, (girl in the above story but despite my mother's opinion, she obviously was not told about it or definitely didn't hold a grudge against me) had a brother, Michael, who was about three. I had never seen a penis and was pretty curious to see one. Judy organised to show me Michael's but despite giving him my total allowance of weekly lollies, when it came time to reveal, he had not only eaten his sweets but refused to show me. He was so stubborn and no amount of coaxing could shift his shorts.
I was 11 this time and my maternal grandmother lived with us. There were five girls, my mother, my grandmother and dad and we always had dinner together in the dining room each night with my father sitting, of course, at the head of the table. I often think that it must have been why he was always fairly quiet. He would start the conversation asking us what had happened during the day. I couldn't wait for my turn as I had some really startling news.
The conversation went like this:
"Hey, Dad! You'll never guess what Nora Splite (a friend in my class who had been away from school for a few days) told me today. She said that she had been off school because she had been bleeding for five days. Hey, Dad! What a liar! If she had been bleeding for five days, she'd be dead. Wouldn't she, Dad? Dead!"
When there was silence at the table with no one seeming to take any interest in my story just concentrating on their dinner, I was pretty disappointed that they didn't think that this was the most ridiculous thing they had ever heard. I ended my story with -
AND she even said that it was going to happen to her every month from now on! DAD have you ever heard such a lie?
Dad made no comment and changed the subject to include one of my other sisters who would not have had anything as interesting as my story and I decided not to join in any more conversations that night.
Saturday, 9 January 2010
OLD BAG and THE BIKE
Probably my greatest fear when going to Vietnam was the fact that Tony's transport consisted mainly of a motorbike and that his visitors were carted around on the back of it.
I had seen the traffic congestion on his blog so, at 67, and never having been on the back of a motorbike even in the quiet country roads around Cootamundra, I was concerned.
When I arrived Tony had been in KL for a few days and the bike wouldn't start - I began to thank whoever/whatever is in charge of these miracles whilst pretending to Tony that it was such a shame.
Then, as with most things in life when things are starting to get too good to be true, the motorbike spluttered into life and I was thrown a helmet - well named: HELL MET which could mean that this was the day I would find out if hell did actually exist.
After donning this tight equipment, which always seemed to knock my glasses off my head or damage my ears on the way through, I gingerly took my position on the back.
It was impossible not to indicate my fear to Tony as he took off at what I was to discover in the days ahead quite a conservative and considerate speed for the old bag, because both my legs and arms were clutching him so tightly it was a wonder he could operate this ugly monster.
For most of the ride into the Old Quarter, where I was being gratefully dropped as he had to go back to work, I had my eyes closed because whenever I opened them my heart nearly stopped with traffic/pedestrians/buses/trucks/cyclists/hawkers coming at us from any direction be it from behind, in front, left or right.
I am not sure how I dismounted but I do remember my legs feeling like jelly and it had nothing to do with jetlag.
However my hatred of the bike didn't continue for long as each time I was plonked on the back I became braver. This started out with both hands hanging onto the thingy on the back and I realised that this was really better as I wasn't jerking the rider as he was navigating through the chaos. I progressed then to holding on with one hand on the back, then none, then lighting a smoke, then looking up directions in our Lonely Planet. Finally I was able to watch the scenery and traffic with an air of normality which I could never have guessed would happen in just a couple of weeks.
In fact I admit that it was disappointing that we needed to catch a cab to the airport because of my luggage. I think I would have downsized to a smaller case that we could carry on the bike just to have a last ride.
I had seen the traffic congestion on his blog so, at 67, and never having been on the back of a motorbike even in the quiet country roads around Cootamundra, I was concerned.
When I arrived Tony had been in KL for a few days and the bike wouldn't start - I began to thank whoever/whatever is in charge of these miracles whilst pretending to Tony that it was such a shame.
Then, as with most things in life when things are starting to get too good to be true, the motorbike spluttered into life and I was thrown a helmet - well named: HELL MET which could mean that this was the day I would find out if hell did actually exist.
After donning this tight equipment, which always seemed to knock my glasses off my head or damage my ears on the way through, I gingerly took my position on the back.
It was impossible not to indicate my fear to Tony as he took off at what I was to discover in the days ahead quite a conservative and considerate speed for the old bag, because both my legs and arms were clutching him so tightly it was a wonder he could operate this ugly monster.
For most of the ride into the Old Quarter, where I was being gratefully dropped as he had to go back to work, I had my eyes closed because whenever I opened them my heart nearly stopped with traffic/pedestrians/buses/trucks/cyclists/hawkers coming at us from any direction be it from behind, in front, left or right.
I am not sure how I dismounted but I do remember my legs feeling like jelly and it had nothing to do with jetlag.
However my hatred of the bike didn't continue for long as each time I was plonked on the back I became braver. This started out with both hands hanging onto the thingy on the back and I realised that this was really better as I wasn't jerking the rider as he was navigating through the chaos. I progressed then to holding on with one hand on the back, then none, then lighting a smoke, then looking up directions in our Lonely Planet. Finally I was able to watch the scenery and traffic with an air of normality which I could never have guessed would happen in just a couple of weeks.
In fact I admit that it was disappointing that we needed to catch a cab to the airport because of my luggage. I think I would have downsized to a smaller case that we could carry on the bike just to have a last ride.
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