tea of life

Confession time. This is my office tea mug. A post workday wine o’clock conversation with the G.O. segued from wonderful old newspaper advertisements now accessible via Trove to an anecdote which brought the mug and its precedent to mind.

The G.O.’s story was about an old mate he knew in the country near Uralla who using old lathes & machinery imported from England, crafted bespoke parts for earthmoving machinery, in this case the dozer the G.O. was working on. Due to unfortunate circumstances the old bloke lived on his own, so even when not needing work done, the G.O. would purchase smoko from the bakery in town and call out for a visit. The old bloke’s contribution was mugs of tea. The kettle was dipped into a 44 gallon drum of water, and the wild brew sipped from blackened mugs. The G.O. laughs and says a lot of people wouldn’t have dared but he figured it wouldn’t kill him.

As I listen to the G.O.’s story my mind travels to the past and my Dad’s automotive mechanical workshop in Murrurundi, with its makeshift corner kitchen: brass cold water tap running from the weathered corrugated iron rainwater tank over a grimy sink next to a bench on which sat a mismatched collection of stained mugs, kettle, box of tea bags, jar of instant coffee, small carton of milk purchased daily, sugar in a jam jar to keep ants out, and crusty teaspoons.

For comfort there were half a dozen odd chairs, and during the cold mountain range winter an aged woodstove was lit. After whosever turn it was returned from collecting the bakery order, we’d congregate for smoko and consume pies, sausage rolls, or devon salad rolls if the weather was warm, followed by an assortment of cornets, matchsticks, apple turnovers and vanilla slices, accompanied by mugs of tea or coffee.

Cleaning up entailed sweeping the crumbs onto the floor for the dog, chucking paper bags into the bin or fire, rinsing the mugs under the cold water tap and resetting them on the bench.

All of a sudden my office tea mug made sense. I’m fanatical about using fresh water to make tea but I can’t remember the last time the mug had a wash. I drink straight black tea, as does the G.O. although he has a sugar. The mug might absorb layers of tannin for months before I spruce it up for a cup of soup, and only then because experience taught me soup dissolves tannin.

The G.O.’s work thermos lid is worse, and although I never give it more than an occasional wipe if it strays into the kitchen, he takes this opportunity to remind me it is sacrosanct and would be unacceptable to upset the long accumulated residue.

Just in case I might ever be tempted, the G.O. follows my recollection with another anecdote: his uncle throwing their billy to billy-o (possibly another explanation for the phrase?) after some well meaning but obviously female family member not being au fait with such things, gave it a scrub and ruined it.

Ah yes, so true… “The past is never where you think you left it.” Katherine Anne Porter

Aunt Emma

I share a love of Trove* with Metan of Buried Words & Bushwa. Metan posts about quirky historical newspaper articles, I trawl through Trove for family history snippets.

Trove came to the rescue last week, during a Facebook discussion within the Murrurundi Memories group.

RM: there was a swinging bridge there and a lady called miss button made our clothes for my nan when we stayed anyone recall this lady

Aunt Emma’s paintings dated 1911

LB: Yes I can… Miss Button made me a dresses for the balls that were held out at Timor. I worked for Mr Abbott at the BP garage and NRMA depot. He was Miss Buttons brother…

CC: …miss button made our communion dresses she used to give us cookie and fresh cows milk

CC: Miss button made my girl guide uniform that was a long time ago

RM: My time with miss button was between 1959 and 1962

GC: how could Mr Abbott be Miss Button’s brother?

LB: He told me it was his sister…

EllaDee: Miss Button was Emma Button who was my great, great, aunt. Their residence was next to the Royal Hotel. Hopefully this link will work http://trove.nla.gov.au/ndp/del/article/82774246** Harry Button was my great grandfather on Dad’s side. Uncle Mark had the dry cleaners in Scone but he is buried in Murrurundi Cemetery. I have & treasure 2 paintings done by Emma in 1911.

**Article 30 Jan 1953 – Mr. A .T. BUTTON

A popular figure in sporting circles, Mr. Arthur Trevor Button, of John Street, passed away at the Dangar Cottage Hospital yesterday afternoon. Mr. Button suffered a heart complaint which forced him to relinquish his saddlery business last year. Born in Murrurundi 69 years ago, the son of the late Mr. and Mrs. Walter Button, of that district, he came to Singleton about 1907. Settling here, he served his apprenticeship as a saddler with Mr. Milton Frith. Several years later he set up his own business in the town. In his early days he was a keen sportsman and prominent athlete, and these interests persisted up until the time of his death. Mr. Button is survived by his wife. Mrs. May Button, and leaves a daughter and four sons. They are Audrey (Mrs. R. Campbell, of Singleton), Rodney and Mervyn, Singleton, and Arthur and Easter, of Nowra.Mr. Button is also survived by three brothers and sisters. They are Fred, of Wentworthville, Harry and Mark, of Scone, Lil (Mrs. Hocking), Dosie (Mrs. Gordon) of Enfield, and Miss Emma Button, of Murrurundi. After a service at All Saint’s church this morning at 11 o’clock, the late Mr. A. T. Button was laid to rest at the Church of England Cemetery, Whittingham, where the last rites were performed by Canon W. Holmes. Messrs. H. J. Bartrop and Son carried out the funeral arrangements.

CC: I know miss button had a brother in scone

LB: I must have misunderstood Mr Abbott …sorry

EllaDee: Emma’s other brother Harry (my Poppa Button) was also in Scone, he was a tailor.

It was so very special to hear these great memories of Aunt Emma (b. 1890), who I don’t remember, although I knew and was very fond of Uncle Mark.

My great grandparents Poppa (Harry) Button and Nanna (Hazel)

My post art of the heart mentioned Aunt Emma’s paintings.

“The paintings came from my grandparent’s farmhouse living room. From 1975 – 2010 they adorned the walls of my uncle & aunt’s living room, with me uttering very quietly to myself upon seeing them, “I’d wish I’d chosen those”… but at 9 years old, I chose a tall blue & purple vase which is still mine, and would be the first item I grabbed if I had to evacuate.

In September 2010 I received a call from Dad who when it counts is quick on the uptake. My aunt was renovating and wanted fresh unadorned walls, so my uncle rang Dad to obtain details of the Murrurundi Historical Society. The paintings were painted in the early 1900′s by Aunt Emma on Nanna’s side who was a seamstress in Murrurundi, so my uncle thought they would be of local historic interest. They were. To me. Quick as a flash I was on the phone and organised to pick them up that weekend. So complacent had my uncle, aunt & cousins become that none of them wanted the pictures and were bemused I did. They now hang in the back room at TA. I think it was at this time my Dad christened our house the museum.”

Genealogy for some can be almost a science. Not me. Random thoughts and ideas pop into my head and translate via my fingertips into Google searches. The online world is a wonder for a family history butterfly… I flit from tree to tree gathering the remnant bits and pieces and colour of lives before mine.

*Trove is the National Library of Australia’s home “of over 342,775,686 Australian and online resources: books, images, historic newspapers, maps, music, archives and more”.

Ron: life after 70

When I started blogging, it didn’t occur to me that one of my finest sources of material would be my Dad, but here it is, #3 in the Ron chronicles.

A couple of weeks after Dad’s 70th birthday, and my gift of rock cakes to him, I speak to him on the phone, and he mentions “I put those rock cakes in the freezer the other day. I’m eating them but they’re a bit hard…”. I wonder how long it was until they went into the freezer.

Also for his birthday at the beginning of February, I’d chosen and written a message in a lovely card and enclosed details of the show we were going to, which was Dad’s actual birthday gift. When we meet them at the end of March to go to the show, my stepmother produces the card from her bag, unopened. It’d been assigned to her for reasons I can’t fathom, so don’t bother going into.

We had dinner before the show at the theatre’s brasserie. Fail #1 – no oysters on the menu. In fact there are no entrees at all. We try to make it up to Dad by requesting an extra bread roll, and pointing out the dessert menu.

Fail #2 – the roast beef fillet served on potato gratin, green beans, mushroom ragout and café de paris butter comes out as an elegant rather than generous portion size. “I should’ve ordered two”. He’s puzzled by the café de paris butter, pokes it with his knife and qualifies it with “What’s this? I ‘spose I can eat it”. The G.O. echoes Dad’s sentiments, but by the end, their eyes bigger than their bellies, Dad offers the placatory bread roll, the G.O. declines, and Dad manages to eat it to make a point.

Persuaded to accept dessert is the only other course on offer and not wanting to miss something the rest of us are having, Dad chooses a chocolate brownie with espresso ice cream and roast coffee crumble, which he seems to enjoy as it disappears rapidly, even though he hasn’t got a clue what he’s eating.

We all enjoy the show: barbershop quartet Benchmark and AO rated clever Rod Gregory, The Old Fella, who is about Dad’s age and after a back injury recreated his life from farmer to comedian. Even though Dad’s taken up strumming a guitar, he’s not about to hit the stage but I was hoping he might assimilate some of Rod’s post-retirement zest for life.

We spend the night at their house. Upon leaving the next day Dad encourages us to take with us a weedy pot with a tree growing in it, telling us he’s not sure what it is, it grew up the back from a seed they chucked in the compost, a mango or an avocado or…

I often give Dad a call during the day from my office desk, when my stepmother is at work and he’s home on his own. The dull noise my co-workers hear during these calls is either laughter or me pounding my head on the desk.

Asking Dad if he’s heard from my sister who’s recently moved interstate, I get. “No. Yes. But I can’t understand her”. I respond “Yeah, her phone always sounds like she’s down a well”. He clarifies “I can never hear her… I should put my hearing aid in”.

He mentions his chatty active  retired cousin has invited him to go with her and her travelling companion to Queensland to visit her brother who is ailing, likely dying. When I ask what the matter is, Dad pauses, grasps for words “… in his fork”.

He tells me he’d been in trouble on his 7oth birthday weekend for jokingly suggesting the same busy cousin’s “appetites” were the cause of her late husband’s demise. This I know him to be innocent of, he’s far too bashful to make baudy innuendo. I console Dad by suggesting he’s been misinterpreted, and it would be more likely the talkative cousin’s late husband is now enjoying a bit of quiet.

I advise Dad that his tree which we think is a mango, is doing well transplanted at Taylors Arm. He counters with “there’s more, one of each, I think, or it might be 2 avocados.”

I compliment him on the home grown pumpkin he gave us also, and what a great soup it made. The G.O.’s favourite. He responds “Bloody pumpkins. Your grandfather used to feed them to the cows.” “Did he really? Didn’t you eat them?” “Oh I don’t know… you know I don’t like pumpkin”.

Dad’s official occupation is retiree but he moonlights as a relief school and community bus driver. This means he has to report any income he earns. Dad has one last item of news… the bane of his existence… Centrelink. The necessary web link’s not working so he’s off to their office but he’s persona non grata at the local branch… For a moment I wonder how he accomplished this but as previous conversations play out in my head, I remember a song he sang to me a kid “there was a little girl who had a little curl, right in the middle of her forehead, when she was good, she was very very good, when she was bad she was horrid”. My stepmother is fond of saying I’m my father’s daughter. It’s not a compliment.

Dad calls me late on Mother’s Day. A tough day for him. He misses his mum, my mum, and being the centre of attention… as all the calls, visits and gifts on this day are for my stepmother. He’s also subtly checking how I am. He reports there are now 3 treelings waiting for us. Towards the end of the call, his attentions waivers, he’s got to go. His parting words are… “I need more rock cakes”.

Postscript: I was telling my aunt, Dad’s sister, via email about the rock cakes. Her response “It’s funny you say about the rock cakes, your Mum used to make them!!!”. Cue Aha Moment.

Other Ron posts are:

http://elladeewords.wordpress.com/2013/02/03/ron-clocking-up-70-years

http://elladeewords.wordpress.com/2011/12/18/ron-the-year-that-was

forever young

Reblogged from elladee_places:

Last weekend I stepped back into another life and time. I spent 24 hours in Tamworth* NSW Australia attending a school reunion*. Of those 24, I had 1 hour free to take location photos.

Most people when they think of Tamworth, think country music and the festival held each January. I'm not a lover of country music... other than a little Johnny Cash.

Read more… 321 more words

24 hours in Tamworth

Prior to departure I’m up with the  G.O.’s 5 am alarm; drink coffee & do a little blog surfing; decide I have plenty of time for a 40 minute walk; pack my bag to be on the safe side; go for a walk; upon returning realise I don’t have that much time; make a quick breakfast; shower; dress, change tops, put new top on wrong way and inside out; get call at 10.30 am from the G.O… who has a horror of running late to the airport because of one occasion… was it only my responsibility to set the alarm?… to make sure I’m about to leave, which I am – almost; get cab to airport; at airport rearrange packing formation of carry-on bag half a dozen times until it fits into the cradle that rates it as cabin luggage; go through security scan, forget to separate out tiny aerosol deodorant, wait for security personnel to extract it from carry-on bag & and scan it separately to make sure it is a tiny aerosol deodorant; walk to gate 58 at the other end of the airport; listen to attendants endlessly call late people to flights, which delays my flight; finally walk down stairs onto the tarmac and up stairs onto plane. I’d forgotten, regional travel is a little more basic and the planes are much smaller.

My flight, running late, lands in Tamworth just after 1.30 pm. As I call a cab and turn off flight mode multiple text messages beep, including one from my friend Nanna “Are you getting off plane I can see? I have just arrived near airport”. My lovely friend Nanna also running late, figured somehow it was my plane and was already driving around to collect me.

Getting in the car, I smelled then saw a lime green carry bag containing my tea order: Japanese Green Lime; Ginger & Lemongrass; Rose Petals; and Dragon Pearls (white tea) which I’d ordered from Nanna for special school reunion delivery. Nanna zooms us away from the airport as we talk nonstop punctuated with a few exclamatory swear words which we’re both trying to be more circumspect about employing… oh dear.

Arriving at my motel, Mrs S. emerges from the room next to mine. As I hang a couple of things & unpack, she and Nanna settle into the comfy chairs and we chat for half an hour. We’re supposed to be meeting up with the greater group but decide to head off for coffee first. Nanna takes us to Addimi where I enjoy one of the best long black (Americano) coffees I’ve had [shame on you Sydney baristas] served with a small tumbler of sparkling water.

Revived and still engaged in nonstop three way chat it is mid afternoon when we head up to The Tamworth Hotel to meet up with the rest of the group. We collect cold drinks from the bar; water & ice for me as the day still has a way to go, and head to the beer garden. It is great to walk into the congregation of familiar faces, most who I hadn’t seen for 10 years, some longer, but seems like yesterday.

A couple of hours later we break to go back to our various accommodations to prepare for sparkling pre-dinner drinks at 6 pm. Nanna drops Mrs S. & I off, and heads to her mum’s. After quick preparations our motel group assembles, deciding who’s driving and who’s walking. Mrs S & I elect to walk, with another 4. As we get to the main road and wait at the traffic lights, I was amused to see a young man also waiting, check us out, and wander further along – we may have looked a little too much like middle aged hens nighters for comfort…

As we arrive at the front garden of the old cottage that houses Le Pruneau, it is sprinkled with fairy lights, which lends a lovely atmosphere to the bubbly wine served by a personable young waiter who chatted as he poured, about his ambitions to become an airline steward for which he would be certainly be suited. He copes with 21 of us plus 2 husbands, and conversation at a decibel level such that as I walk out to call the G.O., I have to go 50 yards down the street until the noise of the group is muted enough to conduct a mobile phone conversation.

When the bubbly runs out and the night gets chilly we head inside where there is more wine, conversation, laughter, old photos, year books, memories and food. Seated, we catch up with our table mates until after entree we shift places, and post-dinner we flow around the tables.

We make a toast to absent friends. There is one round of hands-up-if-you questions: are married; have kids; are divorced; are a grandmother; and as an afterthought, are a lesbian. No takers on the last… hmmmm. Conversation is about where we live, kids, grandkids, lost parents, husbands, divorces, careers, holidays, the past, present and future. We’re of an era and age where it’s all possible.

11.30 pm arrives and as we’d talked, laughed, drank, eaten, paid and the staff had homes to go to, we leave with arrangements to meet for breakfast. We walk back in refreshingly chilly air to the motel where I put in a late call to the G.O. who’d been at a mate’s place and had left me a message he was still up. By 12.30 am I was asleep.

Daylight & noises wake me at 7 am. I enjoy a quiet, solitary cup of tea, and didn’t quite so appreciate the coolish shower… should have jumped in quicker. Doors open and we meet outside in morning sun. By 9 am, more photos have been taken as several are departing. Leaving my bag at the motel, Mrs S. drives us to The Old Bell Tower for breakfast. More chat, more photos: the waitresses can’t make themselves heard trying to deliver drinks and food orders to our tables. By 11.30 am all but a few classmates have departed.

My flight isn’t until 1.40 pm and I want to go for a walk and take photos. I entertain thoughts of a browse in the shops but there is no time. Nanna who with a bad head cold made a heroic effort, staying out the night before and getting up for breakfast, says she’d drive me. But by this time I need space, air and movement.

At 11.40 am I make my farewells, and race up the hill to our old school, snap photos and proceed to walk back down through the town centre, across the bridge back to the motel. Enroute I call a cab which meets me at the motel at 12.40 pm, and gets me to the airport in time to check in, repack my bag once again into acceptable cabin formation, and board at 1.20 pm for the flight which leaves on schedule at 1.40 pm.

Always a fun thing to do at airports is star spotting, and at Tamworth airport for the return flight I spot Claudia Chan Shaw from ABC TV’s The Collectors who was in Tamworth to talk about her book Collectomania. Also held in Tamworth over the weekend was The Australian Country Dance Festival, and on the return flight I recognise a couple of the faces of the special guests – Nadia Friel & Paula Greenwood, familiar from where I’m not sure.

By 3 pm, I’m home. Happy.

the seed grows into knowledge and life

You are what you eat. You are every dollar you spend. Read labels. Choose wisely. Care. Make a difference.

Recently while I was reading Michael Pollan’s book “In Defence of Food“, in lieu of a horoscope while the Moon was in Taurus, Moonology reported there were no major astrolinks so drew a Sabian Symbol and delivered this message ” THE SEED GROWS INTO KNOWLEDGE AND LIFE: You may feel that you are not growing or developing properly, maybe dissatisfied at your perceived failings. Things take time to develop and, rather than being rushed, need to be nurtured to develop in their own time. It is important to start small and grow.”

These posts from The Table of Zekki  http://thetableofzekki.wordpress.com/2013/04/25/being-wrong-about-food/ and Meeka’s Mind http://acflory.wordpress.com/2013/05/04/has-the-eu-gone-completely-mad/ & http://acflory.wordpress.com/2013/05/06/now-i-see-the-power-of-twitter/ among many others, highlight the risks we are facing. This is just one instance. Control the seeds. Control the world. What else are we losing control of? How much of our lives and future can money and Big Business buy?

This is a call to all Anons. March Against Monsanto is May 25th.

school daze

What is it about a school reunion that simultaneously attracts, repels and unnerves?

This weekend I’ll hop on a plane for the short flight, booked in August last year, to Tamworth ”Country Music Capital of Australia”, where I attended boarding school for my last 2 years in 1982-83.

The lead up has comprised 12 months of sporadic email correspondence from and to the motivated classmate who instigated the event. It’s a weekend I was looking forward to until it arrived. Having been away last week for 4 days to Taylors Arm, my anticipation is dulled at the thought of heading off again.

It’s our third class reunion. I’ve attended each, as well as keeping up with various classmates in various ways at various times, attending each others weddings, functions and parties, plus regular ongoing friendship with Mrs S. & Nanna. Now of course, many of us keep up via Facebook.

Although I have a relaxed attitude to clothes and appearance, I’m adequately groomed and look fine from day to day. So why did I prepare for the 24 hours I will be placed among 25 of my peers, a group of 47-48 year old women with similar education and backgrounds, by feeling the need:

• for the confidence boost of a haircut, which to be fair I was due for anyway but more than likely I would have continued to prevaricate over?
• to check and update a few contents of my makeup bag, which mainly serves me to appear as if I’ve made at effort in the office, and at weddings & similar events?
• to make sure my purchase of several items of new season Autumn-Winter apparel occurred prior, yet assign my reliable outfit of black top, favourite jeans [minor panic this morning when checking to see if they were clean I thought I had left them at Taylors Arm] and tan boots, as my ensemble for the main event?

Maybe it’s because, I suddenly feel like a stranger… One of the classmates, who I have only seen at reunions, proposed each of us submit a blurb which initially she proposed as why don’t we all write a para blurb on where we are … family, life, work etc. & circulate closer to the date for everyone ??? I’m sure we all have a few tales to tell but then efficiently compiled into a series of form criteria which the organiser dutifully disseminated with a note … has come up with a great idea. Attached is a sheet for everyone to fill out & send back to me about where you are “AT” in life & where you have been! Great idea so we can have a read up on everyone before 4 May. Fill it out & get it back to me when you have/make time (never have time!).

I wonder if it’s ok for me to skip the first 13 lines and once at the reunion with glass of wine in hand, wing it with “Other” ?

False awakening

The memory and sensation of my fingers gripping coarse fur and my own screams waking me to a room that was usual in every way except one, remains strong and tactile. My logic has tried to explain it away as a type of false awakening dream but 12 years after it last happened, I still wonder.

I mentioned in the post if you don’t risk anything, you risk even more  about writing inspiration… “Previously I wrote a short story about not a dream, recounting the events where I was asleep and my then husband morphed into a werewolf beside me in bed. It wasn’t a dream. It did happen. That it occurred annually three times, and the two subsequent times my other sleeping companion, Baddy Cat, stood guard… gives the it was real argument weight”.

Werewolves were a topic again last week when Buried Words and Bushwa posted Death of a werewolf. 1893. Commenting, my thoughts returned to the experience, and the 500 word short story I wrote about it for fantasy genre competition. There are 2 versions: the real, and the vamped up version I submitted. For me, writing about something that happened is enjoyable, so I blog. Easy craft of short story writing still eludes me. I find it hard work. Out of curiousity I did a compare of the 2 versions, and the result is the version below.

The Werewolf

Screaming. Someone was screaming. I opened my eyes. The screaming stopped. I thought I heard my husband ask A voice asked “Are you alright?”. I rolled over turned to face him my husband. There was enough light in the room to perceive a Instead, the moon lit the menacing shape of the werewolf lying next to me, asking “You were screaming. What’s wrong?”. I blinked unbelievingly and otherwise too terrified to move,  my arm instinctively shot out to push him away keep it at bay. As my hand met the primitive fur on his of its back, I struggled to comprehend. I looked at my the contrast of my own pallid arm and my hand firmly holding against the dark hairy body at bay, and around my bedroom, yes, everything was normal except there was a werewolf next to me, speaking to me.

His Its brown eyes shone glittered, looking at me quizzical and concerned speculatively. In the soft darkness I could discern his a face, although furry and dog like, did not look evil, just scary hirsute and primordial. His The body and coarse fur felt dense and muscular against my fingertips. When the werewolf spoke his voice had a soft growl like timbre, the menace of its voice belied the ordinary words, “What’s wrong? Did you have a nightmare? “Was I having a nightmare? I asked myself. I couldn’t think remember what I had been dreaming or why I would have been screaming. Now it seemed I was awake and conversing with a werewolf. A one sided conversation, as I was vocally paralysed.

Only Slow seconds had passed but they were slow seconds, stretched out with fear. “What are you doing here?” was the response I eventually managed. Again, the puzzled look. The werewolf’s eyes were gentle and expressive but his muzzle as he spoke revealed long, pointed, yellowed incisors. “What do you mean?” he asked back. I struggled to verbalise my thoughts, “You’re a werewolf” was the only response I eventually managed. He looked at me, then down at himself. His The werewolf’s expression showed no trace of reaction but its eyes glinted evilly like deep set coal fires. When it spoke, the muzzle revealed long, pointed, yellowed incisors. “You’re dreaming, go back to sleep” he it responded, breath fetid with death, and as he it looked deep into my eyes, sleep reclaimed me.

I next awoke in the early morning light, my grey cat curled at my side watching over me. As I remembered the night, I rolled over anticipating with dread anticipation of the werewolf, my arm outstretched, but my husband’s pale skin shone faintly in the light from the window. The cat nudged against my arm and I slept again. In the morning I asked my husband “Do you remember last night?”. “Yes, you were dreaming had a nightmare” was his only short response.

The next following night I felt reluctant and uneasy so I delayed as I prepared for bed. My husband was already sleeping by the time tiredness prevailed and I eventually fell asleep with the cat next to guarding me. I awoke to her licks on Her warning growl woke me, my arm already rigid arm and my hand enmeshed in the rough texture of the werewolf’s fur. My As my eyes recognised the same dark sinister shape, I closed them again and when they reopened, it revealed what my fingertips had felt in that moment, the change back to the bare skin of my husband.

The grey cat always slept with me after that, and although my sleep suffered with expectation there were no further visitations, until exactly a year later, I awoke to her licks on my arm outstretched, hand planted against its back her urgent growls opened my eyes to the sinister form once again revealed by the light of the December full moon.

According to the consensus of dream interpretation websites, and best said by Blackridinghood ”To dream of werewolf means that someone you love and trust has revealed (or is hiding) a different side of themselves. They are hiding something important from you.” Hell yes, didn’t that turn out to be so. False awakening indeed.

interesting times

Is it just us? We’ve come to accept and appreciate our somewhat quiet life, at least for the moment…

“May you live in interesting times” is often referred to as the Chinese curse. By its usual definition “interesting” is not a term I would often use to describe my life.

Interesting adj. engaging or exciting and holding the attention or curiosity
Antonyms: Dull

Dull. Yes, that’s more like it.

But, thankfully dull. Occasionally the G.O. and I will call each other during the work day. Mostly the chat goes like this “Any news?” “Nup” “You?” “Nup” “No news is good news” “Yep”… We rarely have any life changing, earth shattering News of our own. That’s ok by us.

But, there were “interesting times” happening within our wider circle of family, friends and acquaintances during the few weeks the G.O. and I were going about the business of getting our ducks lined up.

One experienced a dramatic and untidy end of a relationship because their fiance chose to unsubtly take another home for a bit of slap and tickle. Well, it ended up being a bit of slap, tickle and tinkle as the cuckolded one speedily alerted to the dastardly deed found some handy bricks and applied them forcefully & generously to the windows.*

I prefer to think of “interesting times” as “Life is like a Chinese menu, long and complicated yet full of mysterious flavours” Shyam-always

One, similar age to me suffered a stroke, has recovered and is now slowly on the mend.

One announced via a group email legal separation from their longstanding spouse.

One confided fears over middle aged son’s change in behaviour evidenced by the acquisition of a Harley Davidson and numerous tattoos.

One is grieving a spouse after a lost battle with illness.

One is distressed by lending grandaughter a substantial wad of cash only to have it applied contrary to the intended purpose.

One recently explained lack of communication after moving interstate with news of relationship and subsequent nervous breakdowns, and although moved back resultant ongoing health issues necessitate a disability pension.

One subject to ongoing mediation due to as yet unfounded allegations of workplace bullying now has stress related illness and workers compensation claim.

On the bright side…
One is pregnant.
One gave birth to a son after 2 daughters.
One after going through IVF and dealing with serious health issues gave birth to premature but healthy twin daughters.

Serving to remind us “There but for the grace of God…” the timing directed our considerations also to “Life is what happens while you are busy making other plans” when assessing the use by date on engagement with our city workaday life. It’s practical, it’s useful but it’s not challenging or ultimately the lifestyle we desire, and life comes with no guarantees.

Having involuntarily had a few interesting times ourselves in past lives enroute to our current and harmonious relationship we know we’re not immune. And, as we’ve experienced vicariously and a little unnervingly these past few weeks, life takes unexpected twists and turns.

It’s best not to put off your dreams for too long.

Carpe Diem.

The timing of putting together this post collided with the awful news of the Boston Marathon bombing and the Waco, Texas explosion… the worst of times… my heart goes out to everyone touched by these events.

*Later information reveals the source of this info got it slightly wrong, and it is the “interesting” version of what really happened.

getting all our ducks in a row

Although our aim is to move from our small city apartment to our house in a tiny country village 6 hours drive up the coast and live more simply and creatively, probably by necessity as I dare say we’ll be a lot poorer financially than we are now. Part of that move is also to hook up to a caravan and the great Australian dream of travelling around the country, which you’ll be familiar with if you’ve read the Wherever you go there you are… blurb on the RHS sidebar of this page, the G.O. and I know it isn’t a move to make without getting all our ducks in a row.

Ducks all lined up at Sydney Park

A few weeks ago, the G.O. & I over a bottle of wine had the conversation. The one we have every year-ish… Where are we at – where are we going? Although we’d quietly stated intentions Year End 2013 would be the time, as 2013 dawned, unspoken it seems we had come to the same conclusion: the reality of the benefits of postponing our planned exit from Sydney until Year End 2014 make sense.

We both are working on projects that have anticipated end dates of December 2014.

We will make our last house payment in December 2014.

My youngest-younger sister’s wedding is in May 2014. There’s no point in being on the other side of the country.

Our landlord/eldest-younger sister has no plans to do anything with her apartment other than rent it out, so we still have a real estate agent-free place to live.

2013 has passed quickly – we’re in the 4th month already and I have dates pencilled in my diary as far as August.

Life’s not getting any cheaper. Another 2 years of full time work salaries, superannuation contributions and bill paying will make a huge difference to how much poorer financially we are then, and the travel & lifestyle we can afford.

Things changed. When we’d made our Year End 2013 plan, we were living in our old apartment and paying much less rent. Figures, at least in this case, don’t lie, and money only goes so far.

We’re a little disappointed but simultaneously relieved of the burden of ill-advisedly making a premature move, and for now the logistics of packing, and unpacking the contents of our Sydney apartment into an also fully furnished house at Taylors Arm.

It’s not all bad. We enjoy living in the city fringe-Inner West. We love the proximity to Sydney Park  and Newtown,  if not the proximity to the trains. Interestingly there was a “Petition Against RailCorp 2013” flyer in our mailbox last week stating “In the past 18 months there has been increased activity on the rail tracks resulting in a substantial increase in track noise and ground percussion”.  We’ve lived in this apartment for those 18 months!

EllaDee_the office

I fair a little better than the G.O.  I work 5 days a week. He works 6 mostly. I work in the CBD with a short train commute, in a nice office building with a sunny desk and an iconic view. The G.O. commutes by car in iconic traffic congestion to a construction site on the other side of the city, and works in dirt at the mercy of the weather.

The G.O. on site

We will continue to spend long weekends and holidays at Taylors Arm.  We estimate from now until Year End 2014 only 23 more 6-ish hour trips.

Reassuringly, around the time of the conversation our horoscopes echoed what we already knew.

Sagittarius: Sagittarians who have been going backwards and forwards with questions about where to live and even who to live with, and/or regarding selling or buying property – there is good news ahead. You should now feel a lot clearer about your best course of action. The past few weeks have revealed the facts and now it’s time for decisions.

Cancer: Crabs who have been waiting for Mercury to end his reverse cycle to make decisions about where to go traveling or when to start studying are in luck. That cycle is ending now. Hopefully you have reviewed over and over again re: your options and have a better idea of what to opt for. Give it a few more days if you can.

Followed a few days later by a final Mercury Rx message “Important News! All is well. Everything is happening exactly as it is supposed to, with hidden blessings you will soon understand”.

Today I consulted Lynda Hill’s Sabian Symbol Oracle and got Capricorn 29 - Woman Reading Tea Leaves… Oh yes, that’s me: always looking for answers even when I’m not sure what the question is.

*http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Get%20my%20ducks%20in%20a%20row