Corbett family Christmas letter

Perusing Liz’s diary, I found December entries for shopping trips, baking days, Christmas drinks and staff dinners. But nothing to suggest a letter was in the offing. ‘Liz,’ I said. ‘Have you forgotten something?’

‘No, Biskit. Everything’s in hand.’

‘Something involving writing?’ I nudged her hand. ‘And postage stamps?’

She looked away, avoiding my doggy brown gaze. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘I think you do.’

‘Alright,’ Liz said. ‘If you want the truth. I started wearing glasses this year. Got hearing aids. My novel was rejected. And to top it all off, my sixteen year old daughter has just left home. A bit hard to put in print don’t you think?’

‘All the same,’ I persisted. ‘your friends like to hear from you.’

‘No, Biskit. It’s too hard, this year.’

I sighed, a big deep doggy sigh that went right to the tip of my tail. ‘Alright, I’ll have to do it.’

Having to do the Christmas letter didn’t come as a complete surprise. In fact, I had been itching to try my paws at bit of corporate writing, for some time. Emailing people, as Liz does. Following up with a probing phone interview. It seemed the perfect approach for a Christmas letter and a way to hone my journalistic skills.

I made up a list of questions and showed them to Liz.

1. Name one thing Biskit did in 2010, that made you think: Wow!
2. One instance in which you could have given Biskit more attention.
3. Describe something special you and Biskit have planned for 2011.

‘Hmm …’ she studied them in silence.

‘Well,’ I snuffled her hand. ‘What do you think?’

‘They may need tweaking.’

Tweaking! That is code word for a complete re-write. I have seen Liz go through this process a number of times. Can you be more specific?’ I asked. ‘Constructive?’

‘The themes are good she said. ‘A positive. Some regrets. Then looking forward. But … it’s not all about you Biskit.’

Not about me! Her words were a blow to the stomach. My ears drooped. My tail curled between my legs. I felt sick. After all this time? Didn’t Liz realise? I’m the faithful hound. Man’s best friend. Heart of the family. It is always about me!

Still, I had to be professional. Get the letter done. How many times had I seen Liz felled by a critique? How many times had I tiptoed round the house, thinking: This is it. This time we’ll have to have her committed. Then watched her recover and re-draft the piece. It would be the same for me, I decided. This was all part of the writing process.

I lay on the heating duct, licked my paws, chewed an old bone for a while and, sure enough, I came up with a revised list of questions. It was time to begin.

Wow! Moments for 2010
 Ness completed her Certificate 3&4 in Personal Training this year. Seth got himself a job at the Rivoli Cinemas, Camberwell. He is also working as a Myer Christmas casual (don’t ask him about their carol CD). Priya, is still thinks wow! about last year’s big event ‒ Phoebe and Andy’s wedding. Liz went on a Silent Retreat (and hasn’t stopped talking about it since). Andrew’s duo, ‘INSIDEOUT,’ did an intimate community gig at Cheeky Latte Café. Monique enjoyed her home stay with a family in Vietnam. And Phoebe liked hiking in Tasmania. But Jack couldn’t decide on his ultimate wow moment:

“Seeing the Taj from space …actually, that didn’t happen. Um… the look on Kevin’s face as he got knifed in the back – priceless. Dunno… haven’t’ really drawn breath this year so its hard to say… maybe wow! It’s Christmas already.”
I wasn’t sure what to make of this waffling response ( Liz says it is typical of academic writing). One thing is clear — Canberra certainly does affect people.

Our final wow! moment comes from Andy McCann. He, Phoebe and their friend Brett, went to the Grampians for a long weekend. A group of kangaroos arrived at the caravan park to feed on the lush grass. One of them was an extremely excited male roo. While the tourists all took photos (of the group, not the male) one mother squatted beside her pre-schooler, pointed to the roo and said:

‘Look darling, there’s a Joey.’

Wow! Andy and Brett exchanged looks of amazement.

Things we would have done differently

Jack and Ness agreed on this one. Go on a proper holiday. Not just a series of long weekends. Seth would have realised rich and famous people live in Camberwell. He certainly wouldn’t have said those terrible things about Peter Costello (our former Treasurer), especially not to his daughter, who just happens to work there.

‘How was I supposed to know?’ He said, in self- defence. ‘I live in Vermont.’

Andrew couldn’t think of anything he would do differently. Neither could Monique. This is what I call a sly dog moment ‒ an invitation to journalistic license. Andrew in fact, wished he’d learned to appreciate Biskit more. And Monique regrets spending so little time with him. At least, that’s what it says in my notes. Then again … you can’t believe everything you see in print.

Phoebe wished she hadn’t spent so long procrastinating over these questions. In fact, she could probably say the same of every essay she has written this year. Liz would have made the decision to axe the first five chapters of her novel much sooner. She looks forward to finishing it in 2011.

Things 2011 might hold

Phoebe and Andy will enjoy a late honeymoon in Africa. Andy looks forward to standing on top of Mt Kilimanjaro, whereas Phoebe wants to lay on the beach. Jack and Ness have a perfect alignment of aspirations — to get away from Canberra. Fortunately, this is achievable, as Ness has a four month CHOGM assignment in Perth.

After Seth’s great start at the Rivoli Cinemas, he is considering a change of employment in 2011. While Monique looks forward to recovering from her knee operation, playing in the Physio and Boyfriends mixed netball team, and finishing her degree. Priya looks forward to starting TAFE and living her new ‘independent’ life. But Andrew Corbett wants only one thing — peace in our home.

Well friends, a family dog has many responsibilities. It’s not all wags and bones, I can tell you – and this has been a difficult year. As it draws to a close, there are gaps in the family. A great deal of hurt. But Liz wanted me to tell you, God is good, and they are coping. We trust that it is the same for you. As you reflect on the year past, and look forward to the one ahead, we trust you will have peace in your heart ‒ and in your homes too.

Love Biskit ‒ on behalf of the Corbett family

Revising my Script

Last week I found out I need hearing aids. My family find this somewhat amusing. You see, my mum has hearing aids but she never wears them. Anyone who knows me, will have seen me foam at the mouth when talking about this annoying maternal trait.

Those who enjoy a more intimate acquaintance with me, will know Mum also has titanium hips. That she is not walking so well since the second operation. Her walking stick has recently been replaced by a shiny black aluminium frame. If you've had the good fortune to sit opposite me at a dinner party, you'll have heard me, glass of red in hand, saying:

She's only got herself to blame. She didn't do the exercises after her operation — and this is the end result.'

My very best friends will also know that Mum doesn't come to Melbourne anymore. She says my spare bed isn't comfortable enough.

'You can feel all the springs,' she said. 'And the boards beneath.'

Of course, this is both hurtful and embarrassing (you've heard the spiel), to have such a fussy mother. Who does she think she is, anyway? The Princess and the Pea!

These past weeks, however, I have found my self-assurance unravelling. My speeches distorting like an old cassette-tape disappearing into the workings of an out-moded machine.

It started with a visit from Canberra.

Seth's girlfriend Monique was turning twenty-one and, although he doesn't like to talk about it, Andy McCann was about to hit the big three zero. Jack and Ness decided they didn't want to miss out on the party fun. The bed was already set up. No flies on our backs. We have a spare room since Phoebe married, with a good mattress, despite Mum's princess propensities. We made up a second bed on the floor and anticipated a fantastic weekend.

I had no idea a mushroom cloud was looming.

But anyone who knows my daughter-in-law, will know she is direct. After one night on that spare bed she hit us with the truth.

'You need a new bed. That mattress is crap. You can feel the springs. And the boards beneath.'

Well! What could I say? Ness is tough. She has absolutely no princess delusions. If she says my mattress is crap, it must be. No point arguing. We'd have to get a new one, but darned if I was going to tell Mum straight off.

Unfortunately, the Karma Police weren't finished with me.

Mum has been pretty sick this year, with pneumonia and an infection in the lining of her lungs. She's had two extended stays in hospital and, although I've been trying to keep up with the hospital visits, my brother Ian decided it was time to take a turn on the carer's front. He flew home for ten days. We were chatting on the phone one evening, shortly after Mum had been discharged from hospital, when he said:

'Mum had a letter today, Liz. About her hip.'

'Yes?' I said, wondering what this had to do with me.

'Apparently the second hip's faulty. There's been a product recall.'

Silence.

'You there, Liz?'

Oh yes, I was there. I'd been haranguing Mum since that second operation. Urging, begging, coaxing and cajoling her to do the exercises. Go for a walk. Get motivated. Ignoring her quavery old lady excuses.

'Something's wrong, Liz. It's just not working.'

Now I knew why.

As if'd been hit on the head with a brick.

They say things come in threes. I should have feared the worst. But I'd had hearings tests before. This was in fact the third one in ten years. I knew what to expect.

'A degree of hearing loss, Mrs Corbett, but not enough to require intervention.'

Nevertheless, I didn't take the outcome for granted. I closed my eyes in that little carpeted testing room and concentrated really hard. I picked up every sound. Answered every question. At the end of the session, I looked up smiling.

'You need hearing aids,' the audiologist said.

'But ...,' my smile faltered. 'I heard all the sounds.'

'Yes,' she said. 'But I had to turn the machine up really
loud.'

Of course, the family think it's hilarious. A perfect twist of fate. On Skype, Jack and Ness could hardly contain their mirth.

'Pardon?' They said. 'What's that? We can't hear you.'

'Hey!' I said. 'Don't make fun of me, I'm now officially hearing impaired.'

'You'll have to wear them,' Jack said, grinning. 'No excuses. Even if they're uncomfortable.'

'Alright,' I said, face glum in the little Skype pane. 'You don't have to lecture me.'

It was time to ring Mum. She already knew about the bed. Someone had squeaked. She had ceased gloating about her hips, telling all and sundry it wasn't her fault. But this was something else. It was going to make her day.

'Hey Mum,' I said. 'Guess what. I have to get hearing aids.'

'Pardon dear? You'll have to speak up?'

'Hearing aids!'

'Yes, sorry. I haven't got them in.'

'No, Mum. Listen! It's me. I'm getting them.'

A pause.

'You, Elizabeth?'

'Yes, Mum, me.'

'Hearing aids?'

'I'm getting old. I'll need a walking frame soon.'

Another pause. Followed by a chuckle on the end of the line.

'Don't be silly, dear. You'll get a walking stick first.'

That's the other part of my speech. The bit I always leave out. Mum mightn't be able to walk very well, and she certainly can't hear, but her sense of humour is top notch.

Only a Small Peek

Here's the thing about me – I cheat. Not on significant things, like taxes, tithes or library reservation lists. But I lick the spoon after I bake a cake (though I am supposed to be losing weight), I look up the answers in the back of my Welsh book, and sometimes, despite my best intentions, I contradict what I have said on my blog. I wouldn't normally admit this. Only this week I have to – because I got caught.

I had dinner earlier this week with a newly married couple – let's call them Sophie and Tony (this is a clever ploy to protect the identity of persons concerned). Tony has a significant birthday approaching and Sophie had purchased him a gift online. We had finished main course (actually the only course) and were onto the Lindt chocolate when Tony said: 'My camera lens arrived to today.'

'That's quick,' Sophie replied, looking up. 'I hope you didn't open it?'

'Just s peek. To check it wasn't broken.'

'Tony! I told you not to look.'

'I didn't take it out. Or put it on my camera. So, it doesn't count.'

'You're hopeless,' Sophie shook her head.

I felt pretty smug at this stage. I mean I haven't peeked at a present since I was eight years old. Even then, I didn't mean to find the present. But it was a walking doll and mum had hidden it under my bed. It took all the surprise out of Christmas. I can safely say I haven't been tempted to peek at a present since. But I do cheat on other things and I was out of luck because, at that point, Tony needed a change of subject.

'What are you reading?' he pointed at the papers piled up on the arm of my chair.

'Oh, just some maps I copied from the State Library.'

'Old maps?'

'Yes, of Covent Garden,' I felt my face reddening. 'One's from the Regency Period. The other is late Victorian. I am trying to work out what the area looked like in 1841.'

'What for?' My husband (let's call him Joe) butted in.

'Well actually,' I swallowed it's for my novel.' Silence. I hurried on. 'It's just I did some TROVE searches and I found out the library had these old maps. And then I realised the Survey of London was online and a book called Old and New London. And I just started reading … I'm still having a break,' I added. 'I'm not writing or anything. Only thinking …

I looked away. Joe didn't say anything. Or Sophie. But I saw Tony smile because he knew that like him I'd been caught.

But, here's the thing about me. I love research. To sit poring over old maps trying to work out what a street looked like on a given date. To wonder how people lived in that room, in that house, or in that street. To read, and read, and read some more until I begin to see. Only a small picture, at first. But expanding like heat on a misted wind-screen. That is the way it works for me. It's heady. Like silver. Or nitrate. Or adrenaline. But is it cheating? The look on Joe's face told me it probably was. But really? I can't agree. It's not tithes or taxes, for goodness sake. I'm not diddling a library reservation list. And I certainly haven't un-wrapped my birthday gift. I'm just peeking – yes, that's it, like Tony. I'm having a quick glance in the drawer.

  

Drawer Therapy

Winning a writing competition is scary. And if the winning story happens to be the first short story you have ever written (apart from a rather dubious effort in year nine), then it will is much worse. The first thing you think after, oh, gee, wow, I can't believe it, that's marvellous, is: now I have to write another story - and keep winning.

The trouble is stories (short or long) don't start out as winners. They come out as crappy half-baked words all written around the pin prick of an idea. Infact, they are so elusive that when you workshop them for the first time your writing group sit, eyes round, faces slack, until someone finally has the courage to mouth the fatal words: But ... I don't get it?

At this point you seriously consider changing writing groups. I mean, all that subtlety wasted. All those metaphors unappreciated. The times you have said nice things about their rather ordinary efforts ... But you don't got to a workshop for praise. As masochistic as it may sound, you go there to pull the story apart. Layer by layer, like an onion; to analyse what is working, and what is not. To be grilled, questioned and challenged, until you know exactly what the narrative is about.

If you are a clear sighted sort of person, clarity will come early in the process. If you are me, you will fumble about as if in a fog. You will sit up late drawing mind-maps. Jiggle things about and make minor changes. Treat favourite parts as if they were indelible. Foist the narrative on another, more discerning, writing group (yes, it is necesarry to have two). Worry it over and over. Test it out on your long-suffering family until, at last, you give up and shove the whole damned thing in a drawer.

The word drawer in this context, is a metaphor. Not a wooden box slides on runners into a dark space. It means stepping back. Getting on with something else for a while. Letting your subconscious do the work. This is called Drawer Therapy, by the way. It is an essential part of the writing process.

But does this therapy actually work? Or is it merely a soft option? A way of giving up by degrees? Well, I don't know (not truly, deeply irrevocably). But at Easter, I wrote a short story. I re-drafted it a number of times. I sensed it needed to start differently. But I couldn't see how to make the changes. After a few months in the drawer, I began to get an inkling. It was time to re-visit the story.

I spent a day faffing about with the start. Then it dawned on me, my character motivations were all wrong. Scrambled infact. They were diluting the story's final impact. Yes, of course. Why didn't I see that before? Once, I had the motivations worked out, I started re-arranging the time sequence. I then added a whole new scene. Finally, it was starting to make sense.

So, is the story finished now? Is it stronger? A winning story? When will I send it off? I don't know the answer to those questions. Writing is a complex, mysterious process. But I certainly didn't have solutions before I put the story in the drawer. So the therapy must have worked.

Helpdesk eng sub.

Words

The greatest part of a writer's time is spent in reading in order to write. A man will turn over half a library to make a book.
Quotation of Samuel Johnson

I find this quote rather encouraging as I am currently in a non-word producing phase of writing my novel. In short, it is in the drawer. I am told this is what one must do when they reach a stalemate. When they have tried re-writing the same scene a dozen times, have sat staring blankly at the screen for hours on end, when they have risen to sit, head in hands, tears coursing down their cheeks, for too many mornings in a row.

I have an image in my mind of my father, sitting thus (although, without the tears). His creased brow resting in a pair of big warm hands, his navy flannel pyjamas all wrinkled with sleep. It was his morning posture. And now it is mine. An, oh my God, how am I going to face the day sort of pose. What am I going to do without my novel – the project that has consumed me body and soul for the last six years? Will I ever get back to it? What if I don't? Will my characters ever leave me alone?

I don't know the answer to those questions. For now they are in the drawer. But I am reading, more than I am writing. I am thinking, sleeping, laughing, praying and trusting – yearning for a still small voice. I am confident – at least, I think I am – that in time a pattern will emerge.

Bread Run

Last night we had Bread Run and, just between you and me, I have always struggled with Bread Run. I mean, who'd want to go out on a winter's evening, bag up bread and drive round the neighbourhood delivering it to people?

I don't know why I find it so difficult. I mean, it doesn't take long, and we often had coffee afterwards, and these days Andrew and I can generally do the navigating without having to serve a divorce notice. But for some reason, Bread Run brings out the multiple personalities in me.

Yes, that's right, my name is Legion. But not to worry, this week I sent those bad gals into a herd of pigs.

Here is how the process worked itself out in me.

The first person I had to confront was Lizzie Liar: an I-don't-feel-well-tonight, perhaps-I-won't-come,' kind of gal. She was quite convincing. But, her lies didn't wash in the end, because, even though she was adept in the art of twisting the truth, she couldn't help bitchin' about Bread Run for days beforehand, and I was onto her.

Number two was Lizzie Light Fingers. The moment she entered the church kitchen and saw the mountain of bakery items on the bench, her eyes lit up. I mean it wasn't just white block loaves, but pull-aparts, and coffee scrolls and jam doughnuts, and cinnamon buns and scones and pizza breads and cheesymite rolls. And even though she'd already had dinner, Light Finger's mouth started to water, and she just wanted to try one or two scones … or slip one of those doughnuts in her bag.

In fact, if I hadn't kept an eye out, Light Fingers would have squatted down behind the counter and just start stuffing those bakery items into her mouth.

The third, and by far the more sinister, persona was the Lizzie Legalist. As she drove up to houses, knocked on doors and handed over bread, she found herself trying to work out why these people even needed Bread Run. I mean some of the houses were big, bigger than hers, and the lawns were mowed, and the cars in the driveway were pretty spiffy, and she always thought, hey, who's helping who here?

That is when Look Again Lizzie had to step in. She reminded Lizzie
Legalist that looks can be deceiving. She told her someone in that house might be sick, or recently bereaved or suffering from more personalities than she. That it might not even be their house, they might be house-sitting. That we can never judge, ever. Never tell how long or dark someone's road is or what might lie around the bend.

This shut the Legalist down completely. But then, Lizzie Logistics weighed in. She said, think about it: six people, three cars, time, petrol, risk, all for twenty dollars worth of bread.

I mean, how sustainable is this process?

Actually, I thought Logistics had a point, if you forgot about that long dark road.

But you can't forget that highway, not for a minute, because, let's face it we are all on a journey. At different stages in our lives that road may be rocky, lonesome, smooth, downhill or twisted. The only thing keeping us going might be the little brightly coloured stones we find along the way. And that's when it hit me. Bread Run is not about the bread (or the scones), the time, logistics or the legalities, it is about – dropping stones.

About putting something bright down on a dark path, and somehow lightening the load.

A shopping centre snap of my new specs ...

Old age here she comes!

Before I got glasses, I thought my Nutrimetics anti-age ultra firming foundation was doing a good job. I thought I was keeping up with the grey in my hair too. That the house was clean and freshly painted. 

That new kitchen we installed twenty years ago was holding up just fine.

I was wrong.

Goal Setting ...

I am in Tassie. My first ever trip to the Apple Isle. It looks gorgeous, but I haven't come for sightseeing.

I am here on a writing retreat - along with Denis, Lloyd and Mel.

Tonight, we are setting goals. But first, odd things I have learned about my writing mates on day one.

Denis has a pink camera. Okay, not such a surprise.

He also a snuggle blanket. It's brown and he looks like Obi-wan-kinobi. 

It's a little scary.

Lloyd eats Heinz frozen peas and corn for  snack. Hmmm... and he is denying himself internet access in pursuit of a higher artistic calling.

Mel has an extremely cool tattoo on her back - no I mean her whole back - she is a girl with a dragon tattoo.

I am jealous - but, don't worry. My nose ring is enough.

Okay, now for the goals.

Denis:

I need to do at least five scenes - each two thousand words. So, that's five days of writing.

Lloyd:

two twenty four page comic strips and settle on all the character's names, backgrounds and an outline for where it is going (the latter is the easy part, apparently).

Mel:

first child free week in ... actually, she can't remember, but maybe eight years. She is working on a short story, the whole rule of thirteen (to have thirteen pieces out in the market at any given time), and a feature outline for screen writing.

Liz:

I have reached a crisis point. Do I try to edit little bits and produce a patched together attempt at a novel, or take it on the chin and go for broke - like completely re-write the damn thing. I have passed the nervous breakdown stage and now I am trying to really, really brave.

This is no picnic folks - it is a writing week.

Standing Tall

Thursday afternoon, you fly to Adelaide to visit your mum and, even though you have been told she's not managing so well, it's a shock. Her hair has cob-webbed in the five months since Christmas. Her shoulders hunched. She has driven to the airport to pick you up. But she is so exhausted by the effort that she can't rise to greet you. It takes twenty minutes to walk the two hundred metres back to her car. In that time, you hear she has fallen again last night. You reckon that to be about the tenth time.

Back at her unit, things aren't good – dishes in the sink, clothes about the floor, the washing machine door wrenched from its hinges in last night's fall. You think of all those times over the past six years, that you've seen the signs of this decline. All the times you've badgered, pleaded, coaxed and cajoled.

'Wear your hearing aids Mum. Please try.'

'Go for a short walk each day. Mum, can you hear me? It's use it or lose it, you know that.'

'Don't pretend. I know you're not exercising. I can see the evidence with my own eyes.'

On Friday, you go with her to the Falling Clinic. The physio is kind, softly spoken and very young. He is concerned about last night's fall. He hasn't been a physio long, you can tell by his shock. He glances from you, to Mum, and back again when he realises the home exercise programme does not exist. But he is learning fast, this young man. He sets some simple goals. Two exercises – five repeats each, and a walk to the letter box. On the way home, your Mum says she is worried it will be too much.

Saturday you walk to the letter box, it takes time, but your mum makes it there and back. Very slowly, and so terribly afraid she might fall. But that's her limit. In the afternoon, she curls up in the chair for a nap. You watch her lined face soften. Her body balled up and old in the green recliner chair. You wonder where she's gone, that woman who used to be nine feet tall. The one who coped after you emigrated, though her husband failed to adjust. The mum who stood up to bullies and nasty teachers and then turned around and insisted you always be polite. The one who came to Melbourne, time and again, when your own children were little, who sent you money and flowers, just to buck you up.

And as you sit there watching, you realise finally, definitely and irrevocably, that woman is gone. No amount of haranguing will ever bring her back. No amount of try a little bit harder please Mum, will ever be enough. And in that moment with the rise and fall of her breath filling the darkened room, you accept the final stage. And in a fish flip, your anger is gone. There will be no more pushing up hill. No more gravity defying determination. No impassioned arguments. She has tried very hard, for a very long time and now she has simply run out of puff.

So, you go to the sports store and buy the weights the physio has recommended. Knowing that, like the hearing aids, they will never be used. That she will never again engage you in conversation or walk easily across a room. You navigate the unfamiliar shopping mall, the weights heavy in your hands, thinking of agencies you must call, extra burdens you must manage, phone calls you must dread, and in that busy, noisy shuffling crowd, you realise you have become the strong one, and your mother is now the child.

 

Standing Tall

Thursday afternoon, you fly interstate to visit your mum and, even though you have been told she's not managing so well, it's a shock. Her hair has cob-webbed in the five months since Christmas. Her shoulders hunched. She has driven to the airport to pick you up. But she is so exhausted by the effort that she can't rise to greet you. It takes twenty minutes to walk the two hundred metres back to her car. In that time, you hear she has fallen again last night. You reckon that to be about the tenth time.
Back at her unit, things aren't good – dishes in the sink, clothes about the floor, the washing machine door wrenched from its hinges in last night's fall. You think of all those times over the past six years, that you've seen the signs of this decline. All the times you've badgered, pleaded, coaxed and cajoled.
'Wear your hearing aids Mum. Please try.'
'Go for a short walk each day. Mum, can you hear me? It's use it or lose it, you know that.'
'Don't pretend. I know you're not exercising. I can see the evidence with my own eyes.'
On Friday, you go with her to the Falling Clinic. The physio is kind, softly spoken and very young. He is concerned about last night's fall. He hasn't been a physio long, you can tell by his shock. He glances from you, to Mum, and back again when he realises the home exercise programme does not exist. But he is learning fast, this young man. He sets some simple goals. Two exercises – five repeats each, and a walk to the letter box. On the way home, your Mum says she is worried it will be too much.
Saturday you walk to the letter box, it takes time, but your mum makes it there and back. Very slowly, and so terribly afraid she might fall. But that's her limit. In the afternoon, she curls up in the chair for a nap. You watch her lined face soften. Her body balled up and old in the green recliner chair. You wonder where she's gone, that woman who used to be nine feet tall. The one who coped after you emigrated, though her husband failed to adjust. The mum who stood up to bullies and nasty teachers and then turned around and insisted you always be polite. The one who came to Melbourne, time and again, when your own children were little, who sent you money and flowers, just to buck you up.
And as you sit there watching, you realise finally, definitely and irrevocably, that woman is gone. No amount of haranguing will ever bring her back. No amount of try a little bit harder please Mum, will ever be enough. And in that moment with the rise and fall of her breath filling the darkened room, you accept the final stage. And in a fish flip, your anger is gone. There will be no more pushing up hill. No more gravity defying determination. No impassioned arguments.  She has tried hard, for a very long time and now she has simply run out of puff.
So, you go to the sports store and buy the weights the physio has recommended. Knowing that, like the hearing aids, they will never be used. That she will never again engage you in conversation or walk easily across a room. You navigate the unfamiliar shopping mall, the weights heavy in your hands, thinking of agencies you must call, extra burdens you must manage, phone calls you must dread, and in that busy, noisy shuffling crowd, you realise you have become the strong one, and your mother is now the child.

Kettles and Things

Some incidents in your life come out of the blue. They can be small, barely noteworthy. But your reaction is significant. With me it was the kettle. A shiny new aluminium kettle, that became a mirror to my soul. But, I am getting ahead of myself. Here's how the story begins.

'Mum,' the power's gone,' Seth yelled from the kitchen.

'That's no good,' I called back.

'The lights and the fridge.' His feet came pounding the hallway. 'Your room's dark too.'

I looked up. 'Oh dear, so it is.'

'What about your laptop?'

Sure enough, my computer had flicked over to battery.  I had an hour max and a new short story forming.

'Damn,' I said. 'We'll have to check the fuse box.'

The white wooden door opened with a click. Sure enough one of the little switches had stepped out of line. Seth flicked the switch.  But the little red fellow jumped back up again. Next, I tried. But that switch was a stubborn little cuss. Every time I flicked, he gave me the bird and poked his tongue out at me.

I looked at Seth. He shrugged. 'We could try some of the other switches?'

'No,' I said, stepping in front of the fuse box. 'Don't touch anything!'

'Come on, Mum. We have to try.'

'It's your fault,' I said, eyes narrowed. 'What have you done to my electricity?'

'Nothing,' he spread his hands wide. 'All I did was switch on the kettle.'

'The kettle?'

'Yup.'

'Then go and unplug it, son.'

I would like to say that was the end of the incident. But here is where the soul comes in. You see, once we'd chucked that kettle in the bin, I started dreaming of a new kettle. Not  a white, plastic kettle. Something homely and rustic, like a whistling kettle. A ye-olde-kettle-on-the-hob sort of experience.

Yes, a whistling kettle, I found myself enchanted by the notion.

It would be shiny as a five cent piece with a little black knob on the top and an old fashioned steam whistle that called us merrily to tea. I would cook Welsh cakes and muffins. Hearty casseroles and soups would bubble on the stove. There would be no publishers rejecting my manuscript, no advanced novel tutors telling me hard home truths, no failing to make the Bristol Long List. Things would be simple, old fashioned, the way they were meant to be.

A few days later, I bought the kettle.

Sadly, before I even stepped in the door, doubts began to creep in. What if I set it boiling, then remembered I had an appointment? What if I shot out the door without thinking? What if no one heard my little tin kettle shrieking?

No! We were entering a new phase. Only calm and order lay before me. I wouldn't get caught up in a new short story. Forget I had a family. Spend evenings scribbling in notebooks, or fulfilling corporate writing contracts. I would be a new, in-the-moment, earth mother, Liz.

Unpacking the box, I set my kettle on the stove and gathered the family. Okay, so we'd run out of tea because I hadn't done the grocery shopping and Andrew was sick. But instant coffee would be fine and there were a few stale biscuits in the packet. Besides, once we heard trill of my new kettle, life would take on a Brambly Hedge sort of glow.

Now, here's the thing about whistling kettles. They don't switch off automatically. Nor do they do the fast boil thing.

We sat with our empty mugs — waiting.

'How much longer?' Seth said. 'I have an assignment to finish.'

'Boring,' Priya said. 'Call me when it's ready.'

'I need a Lemsip,' Andrew said. 'My throat is killing me'

'Maybe I put too much water in,' I said, glancing at the clock.

'It's been five minutes,' Andrew said. 'But who's counting.'

Then it happened. A long white spume rose from the kettle's spout. Only, it didn't make the homely, comforting sound I had anticipated.

It blared: like a fog-horn!

'Help,' Andrew dived for cover 'The Luftwaffe is coming.'

I dashed to the kitchen, hands shaking, and lifted the kettle from the flame — silence, an even-the-past-isn't-safe kind of feeling, as one by one, family members grabbed coffee cups and headed back to assignments, chat rooms, and sick beds.

I emptied the kettle, and slunk back to my study.

A few days later, Andrew purchased a new fast boil kettle that switches off quietly.

There are no Welsh cakes on the bake stone. No hearty casseroles in the oven. All Brambly Hedge delusions have vanished. We are a modern family. But I have finished another feature article. My latest short story is ready for submission and I've been offered a new position at the library. Soon the re-draft of my novel will begin.

Meanwhile, I have gained a new sense of persepctive, and at the back of the cupboard, we have a shiny new kettle for use in electrical emergencies.

A favoured quote ...

This quote hangs above my desk. Call it an affirmation, if you like, a kind of new millenium creed.

'I still believe in the power of the priesthood, where sinful men are helped by sinful men. I believe in an authority that stoops to wash a poor man's feet. I believe in a banquet where sinners learn to love, eating in the company of their God. I believe in parents who teach their children the beauty that is life. I believe in words that God has left for man, words that can fashion hope from darkness and turn bitter loneliness into love. And I believe in man fashioned in mystery by God. I believe in the beauty of his mind, the force of his emotions, the fire and loyalty of his love. I know his weakness, his cowardice, his treachery, his hate. But I believe in him and his thirst for acceptance and love.

'Most of all I believe in God and the power of his victory in Christ. I believe in a Resurrection that rescued man from death. I believe in an Easter that opened man to hope. I believe in a joy that no threat of man can take away. I believe in a peace that I know in fleeting moments and seek with boldness born of God. I believe in a life that lingers after this, a life that God has fashioned for His friends.

'I believe in understanding, in forgiveness, in mercy, in faith. I believe in man's love for woman, and hers for him, and in the fervour of this exchange, I hear the voice of God. I believe in friendhsip and its power to turn selfishness to love. I believe in eternity and the hope that it affords.'

Father James Kavanagh
A Modern Priest Looks at his Outdated Church

Books, covers, and the bodies we live in.

You can’t judge a book by its cover. Neither can you judge a person by the materials they read. Just because a man comes to the library and borrows a book called, Sex Positions for Over Forty, doesn’t mean he has celebrated a recent birthday or that he's grown tired of being a missionary.

On the contrary, he might be borrowing it for a friend, who is doing a nude painting class. The friend might be in a wheelchair and unable to come to the library. Or maybe he’s always wanted to borrow that book, but has been too embarrassed, because he’s actually in it. Or maybe he’s doing it for a dare, one of those pre-buck’s night things.

You don’t know. You really don’t, appearances are deceiving.

This was brought home to me on a recent beach holiday. I took a pile of books, as is my custom and after joyously and obsessively revelling in the sumptuous detail of Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall, I needed a breather. I pulled a non-fiction book from my bag. I sat by a lovely inlet, in my little Port Fairy chair, reading and taking notes, when Andrew turned to me, face white, his lips trembling.

‘Liz? Is there something you haven’t told me?’

‘No,’ I turned, staring at him blankly.

‘But … your book?’

I turned the book over. It had a bright pink cover a library barcode and the title: Your Guide to Bowel Cancer.

‘Oh,' I said understanding. ‘It’s not for me. I’m writing a short story from the perspective of someone with bowel cancer.’

‘But no one knows,’ he said. ‘They’re all walking past, looking at you thinking, poor woman, someone in her family has cancer. Maybe even that woman has cancer? The poor brave thing.’

Well, he had a point. I could see how my reading choice might be misleading. But we should never judge a book by its cover. Nor a reader by the book they are reading. Further to that, I would like to add, we should never judge a person, by their outward appearance.

I learned this most recently at the library. We have a customer who, for this blog, I shall call The Wharfie. I will describe him as wearing a blue wife-beater and a navy flannel work shirt. He isn’t really called The Wharfie. Neither does he look like one. But please bear with me, I can't breach confidentiality. But I must characterise, for the purposes of telling.

The Wharfie comes to the library regularly. But if he ever worked on a wharf, I’d be extremely surprised. He is slight, scrawny even. His face ravaged by alcohol, tobacco and the passage of years. These are not assumptions, I can smell the tobacco. I know he slips out of the library doors, periodically, for a drink. What life has dealt him, I can hardly imagine. But I suspect it hasn’t been easy for The Wharfie.

One of the best parts of my job is serving folks like the Wharfie. Don’t ask me why, but I get a kind of warmth from it. I like knowing there is a cosy well lit place in the world where anyone can come, no matter how badly life has treated them. That they can spend all day there (and trust me plenty do), and so long as they don’t abuse the staff, or throw chairs, they can borrow DVD’s, or books, or simply read newspapers and magazines.

As a Christian, I sometimes wonder why our churches aren't more like this.

The other day, The Wharfie, came to the information desk, and thrust a scrap of paper at me. On it were written three medical looking phrases.

‘Doctor says I have to take these,’ he said. ‘I want to know what they’re gonna do to me.’

Well, it was a fair request. Although, I suspected prescribed drugs were the least of The Wharfie’s worries. But it wasn’t my place to speculate, merely to find the information. Unfortunately, it was also one of those afternoons when everyone wanted to join the library. Added to which, the phone hadn’t stopped ringing and now school was out. There were kids everywhere. I had a line like a giraffe’s neck arching from my desk.

‘I can look it up,’ I said. ‘But it might take time. Have you got a minute?’

‘No worries, The Wharfie said.

When he came back later, I had the MIMS open on my desk, but I hadn’t had a chance to look for his drugs.

‘I’m not busy,’ he said. ‘I’ll read something else, for a while.’

By the time he returned, I’d found the drugs in the MIMS. All I had to do was photocopy them. But I couldn’t understand a word of the descriptions. I doubted The Wharfie would, either. I showed him the descriptions. ‘These aren’t much good to you,’ I said. ‘I’ll look in one of our databases.’

‘Take your time,’ he said. ‘I’ll come back in a minute.’

‘You’re very patient,’ I nodded gratefully.

He smiled, all the lines on his face softening. ‘That’s what my granny always said.’

I found the information he required, and we were alone at the desk. I explained that although, the headings were slightly different, these were indeed the drugs he’d listed.

‘They’re gonna cut me open,’ he said, quietly. ‘You mightn't see me for a while.’

I nodded, feeling a sudden tightening in my throat.

Would someone to visit this man? I wondered. Bring him flowers? Ask how he felt? This battered old man, who had softened at such a small compliment, and despite my professional training, I found myself wondering how someone could travel the years, through all sorts of unimaginable hardship, yet still melt at the memory of his grandmother’s words.

‘Well, good luck,’ I said. ‘I’ll see you when you’re better.’

But I didn’t see him again.

Not for weeks.

I asked the other staff at morning tea. ‘Have you seen The Wharfie, lately?’

No one had.

I began to fear he hadn’t made it. That his membership would simply expire after two years. That we would never know what happened? Whether he was in pain, at the end? Whether he found peace? That’s the thing about being a librarian. You don’t judge a book by its cover. Neither do you judge a borrower by their books. And you never, ever, know when a small glimpse of someone’s life will disarm you, and make you care.

Last Saturday, I went to a picnic in the Botanical Gardens.

I drove home, mulling over a delightful afternoon with family friends. Wondering what we’d have for dinner. Whether Andrew and I would go to a movie? Work in the garden tomorrow? Go to the gym? The library was the furthest thing from my mind.

Until, I saw a familiar figure standing at the bus stop.

The traffic light at the approaching intersection turned red. I leaned on the brake and brought the car to a slow halt. Turning, I peered back at the old man. He wore a blue wife-beater and a flannel work shirt. His face was ravaged by the care of years. But he was alive. And it was The Wharfie. And I found myself grinning stupidly in the traffic queue.

I didn’t wave or toot my horn. He wouldn’t know me outside of work. Besides, I’m the librarian, a sometimes silent witness to other people’s lives.

But I went home feeling light of heart. Knowing he’d be back at the library sometime, next week, or the week after, and I’d smile and ask how he was, and he probably wouldn’t even remember telling me he was going to have surgery – if indeed, he ever did – and life would go on, just as before, and as long as he didn’t shout, or throw chairs, he’d keep coming to the library for the remaining years of his life.

Acrostic thoughts

I haven't blogged for ages – primarily due to a hiccup in my publishing aspirations which caused a temporary downward spiral in my mood.

But today, I'm home sick — headachy and suppurating in bed, my mind is running along acrostic lines. I don’t know why. I hated acrostic poems at school. But here you are: two little kernels that convey my feelings.

Retched, yes, I know it starts with a W, but that’s how I feel.
Effluent, a polite term for words that start with a SH
Jagged, yes jagged, the knife in my chest
Effluent, again and again, that’s right shite!
Calm, everyone, stay calm – hide the kitchen knives.
Torture, doubt and self pity, again and again.
Idiot, yes, idiot, for expecting too much.
Onions, yes, onions, my eyes are red.
No! I won’t cheer up – life’s a bitch cricket pitch!

Fortunately, time has passed. I have gained perspective. It wasn’t a rejection anyway, it was a send-it-back-later, not-quite-ready, sort of letter. So here’s my second attempt at acrostic.

Rubbish, yes, rot, my novel is great.
Everyone has set backs – yes, everyone, I say.
J.K. Rowling heard the word ‘no’ word stacks of times (okay, I know, delusions of grandeur).
Everyone, like I say everyone, there’s no need to pine.
Calm, stay calm, and believe in yourself.
Tough, as old boots – with a confident step.
Inner-resolve shoving doubt out the door.
Only grieve for a while and then trouble more.
Now it is time to get back to my work.
Someone, please someone, tell me how to begin?

More Wedding Photos

I saw the mother of the groom last week. She has her albums printed out already.

But you are my friends. So, the blog is as good as it gets, I'm afraid.

So, here we are getting ready.

Here we are at the Chapel.

Some family shots

What they got up to while we were knocking back the first glass or two

Of course, there were speeches

And cake

And there was a fair bit of this going on too

Photographer: Jason Lau