Moon Landings and Black Holes in my Understanding

Where were you when Neil Armstrong walked on the moon?

It’s the question of the week. I have been searching my cache of memories for an answer. But I can’t remember the event. Andrew says he remembers it clearly. He watched it on TV. It was night time, he says, someone roused him from sleep.

I always believed him, until this week. Until I found out the moon landing took place at 13:50 AEST, which is ten to two in the afternoon, if my time-zone converter isn’t lying.

So what was he watching? Remembering? Who roused him from sleep?

We may never know the answers to those questions. It’s a black hole in our family history. But it set me wondering. Where was I when Neil Armstrong walked on the moon? Why can’t I remember the momentous event?

I would have been five years of age at the time. I did a quick finger count. Yes, five. The catechism of my family history says I came to Australia at the age of four and a half. That means I must have been in Geelong on July 21st 1969 at 13:50 AEST.

But why can't I remember? And when exactly did we emigrate? For some reason, that date is also missing from my cache. I don’t know why? It was the AD of my childhood. The beginning and end of everything.

I remember my Aunty Jean crying at the airport and Mum being airsick. I remember Dad eating Mum’s airline meals. Ian walking up and down the aisle of the Boeing 747, even at that age unable to sit still. I remember Darwin airport, too, with its high ceiling fans. Mum being take away for re-hydration. Soldiers from Vietnam. I even remember pulling up in front of the Carrington Hotel in Geelong. It was Khaki Green and located next to used car yard. Mum vomited in the gutter at the sight.

I remember everything – except the moon landing.

I decided to ring Mum.

‘Hey Mum,' I asked. 'What date did we emigrate?’

‘We left the 31st of August, 1969,’ she said. It was a bank holiday. You were four and a half years of age.’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘That’s strange. I must have been in England for the moon landing?’

‘Yes, dear, you were.’

‘But I came to Australia when I was four and a half, didn't I?’

I had a strange kaleidoscope feeling at this point. My identity breaking up an shifting. Last week, I did my first ever author interview with a magazine called Venue. It has a readership of around 20, 000. I told the interviewer Mum was Welsh and Dad was English. That we emigrated to Australia when I was four and a half years old - had I lied?

‘But, Mum,’ I said. ‘I would have been five years of age on 21st of July 21st, 1969.’

Silence on the end of the line.

I did a quick finger count.

‘Are you sure you’ve got the date right? Mum, can you hear me?’

‘I might be seventy two, Elizabeth. But I know when we emigrated!’

I did another finger count, slower this time. Mathematics has never been my strength. But I know I was born on July 3rd 1964. I’ve seen the birth certificate. I also know that nine take away four equals five. Now correct me if I’m wrong, but that makes me five years of age the day Neil Armstrong walked on the moon. It would have been 3:50 on July 21st, GMT, and I would have been tucked up in bed.

No wonder I don’t remember the moon landing? I was asleep. Mum and Dad were preparing to emigrate, selling furniture and packing boxes. About to embark upon their own momentous journey, leaving home, family, friends, and flying to the other side of the world. Henceforth to communicate with loved ones by infrequent letters and breathless three minute phone calls. The moon landing would barely have crossed their radar. Let alone an insignificant detail such as their daughter’s age.

But it matters to me – I was five years of age when I emigrated. Did you hear me, five!

Why has it taken me forty five years to work that out? I can’t answer that question. It’s a black hole in my experience. But I do know where I was when the moon landing took place, even if I can’t remember it.

Bristol Short Story Prize

Here’s the thing about competitions. They mess with your head. Especially when your short story, Beyond the Blackout Curtain, gets shortlisted for the Bristol Short Story Prize.

You tell yourself. I won’t win, over and over, because you don’t want to be disappointed. But all the time you know that the award ceremony for the Bristol Prize will be at 8pm GMT, on July 11th at Waterstone’s. It’s like one of those little black boxes orthodox Jews wear strapped to their forehead.

No matter where you are, or what you’re doing, you can’t forget.

At work, when harassed mothers phone the library to find out whether there are any vacancies for the school holiday activity on July 3rd, you think: that’s eight days before the Bristol Short Story Prize is announced.

When an elderly gentleman calls to ask the due date of his books, you check his card, and tell him the due date is July 11th, you think: how could you possibly forget that date?

On Friday 10th, when workmates ask what you're doing over the weekend, you say, ‘Oh, we’re having friends for dinner Saturday night,’ but in your mind you think: I will be waiting.

On Saturday July 11th you rise late, have breakfast, go for a jog, bath the dog, make dinner and enjoy the evening with friends. But you don't mention the competition, and no one in the family mentions it, and you aren't sure if they’ve forgotten or just are just being kind. But you can't get it out of your mind. It's like one of those subliminal messages on Beatles records: Bristol, Bristol Bristol ...

You go to bed knowing, while you sleep, people will gather at Waterstone’s in Bristol and the award will be announced. You don't mention it to your husband, because, if I you don't win, and by this point you're convinced your story is rubbish, you want to be able to mourn in private. To be able to say casually, without a wobble in your voice, ‘well, I didn’t win the Bristol Short Story prize.’ But at the same time you're calculating the difference between GMT and Australian Eastern Standard time, and trying to remember whether Joyce has a mobile phone and, if not, how long it will take her to get home, and you know the call will come around 8’o clock in the morning.

And the phone does ring!

You leap out of bed, annoyed at yourself for caring, and thinking how silly you'll look if was a tele-marketing call and hoping, fingers crossed, for second or third place, maybe ...

Then you hear the loveliest accent in the world on the end of the line, and it's Joyce, and she's even more excited than you are, and she says you've won the Bristol Short Story Prize, and you can't believe it.

You just can't believe it.

Even now, sitting in bed, in your old green pyjamas, with your laptop resting on your knees, you can’t believe it. But you close your eyes, and lean back against the pillows, smiling, and think: yes, someone liked my story.

Not the Mother of the Bride chronicles

We have found a reception place (that welcomes dogs of the family), set a date, booked the minister and made arrangements for the dress. Phoebe and Andy will be married on December 18th

Liz will be a Mother of the Bride.

She’s started a diet, joined a gym, and made secret enquiries about foundation garments (just in case).But she's been reluctant to blog about it.

‘Go on,’ I said, ‘snuffling up to her with the idea. ‘You could call your blog the Mother of the Bride (MOB) chronicles. ’

‘No,’ Liz shook her head. ‘I want to focus on my novel.’

‘Yes, but sometimes you need a break,’ I said.

‘I’ve had too many breaks,’ she said, scratching my ear just the way I like. ‘I want to finish this draft. Besides, it would be unscrupulous to capitalise on Phoebe’s happiness. Look what happened to A. A. Milne. Christopher Robin ended up resenting all those Winnie the Pooh stories.’

‘But, Liz, I said, ‘How will the world cope without the nitty-gritty of our pre-wedding lives?’

She laughed and said: ‘The world will cope, Biskit.’

I went away and thought about this, stretched out on my mat beside the fire, my legs twitching with doggy dreams. But even after a long nap, I woke up worried. For a start, Liz writes about everything. Finishing the novel must be weighing on her terribly.

Secondly, I thought: Liz is wrong – the world does need to hear about our wedding.

Then, I had another thought. Perhaps I could help Liz. She wants to work on her novel, and I like to write. In fact, if I’d done better at Alpha Dog Training I might have gone on to be a journalist. I have a way with words, the other dogs tell me. They like the way I whine at the door, and bark at the window. When I moan with a squeaky toy it is apparently breathtaking.

But what about this scruples thing?

I had another nap (you have no idea how hard a dog’s life is), and woke up still worried. I mean, is it wrong for a dog to capitalise on its owner's happiness?

Fortunately, at that point, Liz suggested a jog.

I’m not a great jogger (although, I’m faster than Liz), but I do find it clears my head. As I raced around the streets, with my ears back and my tail streaming, wondering if I might have a touch of greyhound in me, I began to feel more confident. Never mind Winnie the Pooh, I thought, I am a wordsmith – a Dog of the Bridie. The world needs me. As for scruples, I couldn’t think of a single case in which an owner resented their dog blogging about their wedding. Why would Phoebe be any different?

I stayed awake for a long time that night, wrestling with my destiny. I have great owners, I thought, they are like a litter of puppies. I have a warm bed in the laundry, fresh water in my bowl and an endless supply of Porkettes to chew on. But it is not enough. I want to do something with my life. Give a canine view of things. I want to be the first dog in history to keep a blog of its owner’s wedding.

Yes, I thought, that is my destiny.

Introducing Cherry Ribbon

Thursday before last I bought a new cardigan. It's cherry red with a little black fleck through the wool. If it were a plant, you might call it variegated. But I'm calling it Cherry Ribbon. It has tiny diamond cut black buttons and a wide gathered ribbon around the V neckline. I bought it from that shop with a lady's name that has an E at the end.

I simply had to buy it.

Last night I wore the cardigan for the first time. That's one week and two days after the initial purchase. In between I have operated according to my standard, how-to-roll-a-new-cardigan procedure of which I thought the world might benefit from hearing.

Firstly, I must point out that to a librarian a cardigan is a most important accesory. I mean with contact lenses and permanent rinses, the profession has been in danger of blending with the general population. A tendency towards cardigans may be our sole distinguishing feature in the twenty first century.

Secondly, I would like to say that I work part time and write the rest of the time and, quite frankly, I should be shopping at Dimmeys. But when it comes to cardigans, the queen of all garments, I sometimes lash out no matter how badly the price tag reads.

That's the way it was with Cherry Ribbon and me.

Anyway, back to the roll out. It's a four step process and you must follow it exactly, or it won't work. It's like one of those post-cards-from-all-over-the-world, chain letter things.

Step one: throw out an old cardigan. Now I know that sounds harsh. But even a librarian can have too many cardigans. Fuschia Pink simply had to go. I bought her nine years ago. She no longer did up at the front. Well, she did at a pinch,but the effect wasn't flattering.

She is now at the Op-shop, readjusting.

Step two: talk nicely to last year's best cardigan. In this case, Tealy Ruff. Tell her how much you've appreciated her contribution to your sleek professional appearance. But now you've found a new cardigan, things have changed, she will no longer be your best cardigan anymore.

I advise, a strict, no nonsense tone. Cardigan's on the way down have a tendency to whine. Tell her the news is not all bad. That a second-best cardigan gets worn more than a best cardigan. Tell her you'll still be friends, that there will be a new freedom to your relationship.

Step three: wait

Now, I expect this step is a surpises. You imagined, having made such a signifcant purchase, I would leap out of bed Friday morning and don Cherry Ribbon immediately.

But that isn't how the program works.

You must wear your newly demoted second-best cardigan the morning after purchase. It sets the tone, demonstrates the benefits of her new role, and proves what you said about freedom and friendship.

Don't for a minute think I didn't consider Cherry Ribbon that first Friday morning. Taking her out, standing, head to one side, smiling at my good fortune. I did. But you can't wear a new cardigan the morning after purchase.

You have to wait.

It's one of those law-of-the-universe things.

Then you have to wait, and wait some more - until you've almost forgotten you have a new cardigan.

So that one day you step from the shower all fresh and steamy, wipe your feet on the bath-mat, towel your hair, walk still dripping from the bathroom, and fling wide the wardrobe door, and think: What shall I wear today?

You scan scan the hangers, going from black, to green, to blue, then purple, pink and red (yes, it's important to colour code your wardrobe), then your eyes alight upon it and realisation floods you anew, and you think, yes, this is it. I will wear my new cardigan.

Step four: You pull it gently from its hanger and lay it on the bed. You pick out the skirt that'll match it best, the stockings and the shoes. Apply make-up and blow dry you hair, never rushing, though your heart pounds and anticipation flooda your senses.

Then, when all is in place, you don your new cardigan - and the moment is deeply satisfying.

Engagement Party and some Pics

We've had the party - and eaten the cake. I have posted some photos and a copy of the speech I made on behalf of all the parents.

Andrew McCann – the name first hit my radar about a year ago.

My husband, Andrew and I had noticed Phoebe was happy, very happy. She had good friends and good fellowship. She was a Hype leader, a regular attendee of fam. dinner and was enjoying uni. She had finally settled down after her overseas exchange. There was no evidence of a boy friend but, I have to admit, I had begun to suspect there was more to her mood than simply good Christian fellowship.

Last June, Phoebe spent a week house sitting with Courtney. We missed her, terribly but had begun to brace ourselves for the inevitable – one day Phoebe would leave home.

But I must say things have happened quicker than even we could have imagined.

Phoebe and I were enjoying our morning coffee, chatting over our plans for the day, when I first heard the name Andrew McCann. Phoebe had some small errands to perform, she said. Then she was going to have lunch with Andrew.

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Andrew who?’

Phoebe had this little smile playing about her mouth, seeing straight into my trying-not-to- appear-too-curious mind, knowing she was about to deliver a bombshell.

‘Andrew McCann, she said. ‘You know his parents. They go to Crossway.’

Well, I knew exactly who she was talking about. Peter and Cathy always sat on the left hand side, just in front of us when we went to Crossway. Cathy always helped at the Vermont Secondary College text book sales. Peter was on school council. Bec was Amy Comben’s friend. Dave used to be Seth’s Kids Church leader. Oh yes, I knew exactly who she was talking about. But unfortunately, I didn’t knew anything about Andrew McCann.'

‘Is this just a friendship,’ I asked. ‘Or something more?’

‘A bit more,’ Phoebe said, a little smile skipping across her face.

Well this was news! I was having trouble balancing my coffee. For some reason my hand was shaking.

‘What’s he studying?’ I asked, aiming for nonchalance.

‘He’s not studying, he’s working.’

‘Oh,’ I put the cup down. How old is he, then?

‘Twenty seven,’ Phoebe said, he smile breaking into a grin.

I kept my composure (until Phoebe left for lunch) then I raced out to the studio where my husband Andrew was working. ‘Phoebe’s got a boy friend,’ I said. ‘His name’s Andrew McCann, you know Peter and Cathy McCann’s son, he’s twenty seven, working, place in St Kilda – he’s got his own dog and everything.

Now I must say up front, neither Andrew nor I were worried about Andrews’s age. But its implication was not lost on us either. This was a young man from a loving family whose faith and values would match Phoebe’s, someone who would believe in marriage, someone whose younger brother and sister were, in fact, already married.

This could get serious pretty quickly.

We weren't at all worried about a small age difference. But I did wonder how I would relate to Andrew. I mean, I work with people who are twenty seven, they are my peers, my colleagues – this wasn’t a boyfriend, Phoebe had got herself – it was a man.

She might be old enough – but I wasn’t sure if I was.

Of course, I needn’t have worried. My first thought, on meeting Andrew, was: Oh, it's fine, he's just like one of my sons.

From the first, Andrew felt like a good fit in our family.

This is a sentiment Peter and Cathy have both echoed. When Cathy and I were talking on the phone last week, in preparation for tonight’s party Cathy said, she felt like Phoebe had completed their family. When I chatted to Peter about the speeches, I asked if there was anything in particular he wanted me to say on their behalf, he said, only that we’re delighted – absolutely thrilled.

I think that is the main thing we want to say tonight.

We are thrilled.

In Andrew, Phoebe has found a man who is honest, sensitive and kind, someone who will walk beside her on life’s journey. In Phoebe, Andrew has a young woman who is caring, compassionate and true. They will seek God together. Take their place as a couple in the life of the church and in the wider community.

Andrew, Peter and Cathy and I, are immensely proud of them. Of the choice they have made in each other, their belief that marriage is the framework in which they want to make that commitment, and that their relationship is part of their wider faith journey.

It is everything we would have wished for them.

I would therefore like to conclude this speech, by inviting Peter McCann, Andrew’s father to lead us in prayer. On our behalf, Peter will thank God for bringing Andrew and Phoebe together, and seek God’s continued blessing for their engagement and their marriage.

My big boast ...

Okay, here's the thing.

At Balwyn Library we have a magazine called the Writing Magazine. It's a British publication, and I read it avidly. It has articles on writing, short stories and competitions.

A few months ago, I entered one of these competitions. It's called the Bristol Short Story Prize. This year in 2009, they had 1,729 entries from around the world - and my story has made the shortlist!

Yes, that's right - and it's quite a short list.

I am in the top twenty.

Top twenty - do you hear that.

I am very excited - and scared! It is one thing to sit in your office and dream about being a writer - but now it is actually happening. Yikes!

My story is called: Beyond the Blackout Curtain. It is going to be published in a British anthology - I even won fifty pounds.

I am going to post the link here so you can all smile with me.

http://www.bristolprize.co.uk/2009/05/06/2009-longlist-announced/

From Wonthaggi

Here I am at Wonthaggi Library. I have 33 minutes Internet time remaining - so we will keep this brief.

Actually, I may get chucked out before my time because, quite frankly, I stink.

Why do I stink? I hear you ask. I am not going to tell you yet.

It is a hook - one of those clever writerly things.

I hope you keep reading.

I got down here about 3 pm Saturday. After shopping at Brentford Square, Safeway, I belted down the freeway singing. Actually, I didn't belt. My car isn't capable of belting. But I arrived, eventually, with my throat hoarse, set my computer up, loaded my food into the fridge and started writing. Yeah!

When dinner time came. I had an number of appetising choices. But I opted for fish.

As well as writing this week, I am doing the health thing. I had bought one block of chocolate - fair trade, of course - to last me the whole week.

I had my first piece at 4pm.

My second piece at 7pm (admirable restraint, you will all agree)

By bedtime the whole block was finished - yes, I know pitiful.

I brought a bottle of wine with me. I opened that at 5pm (sort of a family tradition)

But I didn't have any until 8pm because I wanted to be able to type straight.

I had one glass, followed by another and went to bed smashed!

Actually, that's a lie (but I always wanted to write it - one of those alter ego things).

I only had half a glass of wine and went to bed stone cold sober - Phoebe would be proud of me.

As I said, as well as writing, this is a health week. I have come up here to Curves in Wonthaggi. that is one of the reasons that I stink - but not the only reason.

So keep reading.

I also had to send a short story to the editors of a new Melbourne writers magazine [untitled]. They are going to publish my story and I have been busy re-writing sections. I'm completely snowed under by editorial deadlines.

Actually, that's a lie, too. The editor of [untitled] said there was no rush (but I always wanted to write the deadline thing).

I meant to go to Curves after my Internet session.

But I mistimed the journey and got lost in Wonthaggi (is that possible?).

So after a rigorous workout, I slunk into the library, stinking. I wouldn't smell so bad if last night, just after I went for a jog, a house pipe hadn't burst. If I hadn't had to turn the mains water off and go to bed without showering. If I hadn't got up this morning, to let the plumber in and, looking at the clock, thought no point showering before I go to the gym.

Yeah! That's right disgusting.

But here I am with 13 minutes remaining - and no one has kicked me out yet, although, for some reason the Internet room has emptied, rather suddenly.

Oh well, I wrote my blog, sent my story, now I'm going straight home. I am not even going to think about going into Safeway for another block of chocolate!

Are you proud of me? I am finished. With only seven minutes remaining.