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

Andrew's Christmas Letter

FYI, No Action required

Security Classification: Personal

Corbett Family 2009 – Executive summary

Total – continued to create value by focusing on core business strengths, strived for best practice processes, maximised leverage and synergy opportunities to meet 95% of key deliverables in budget and on time

Business units:
Liz:
Ø Key successes – wrote 24/7, 52 blogs, 259 twitters, passed TAFE, 4 book reviews, 1 Short story prize (1st out of 1700 entrants) 1 publisher reviewing novel draft

Ø 2010 challenges – write 24/8, get publisher contract

Jack

Ø Key successes – Parliamentary placement, snow, beach and Vietnam holidays, caught a fish, offered PhD scholarships at Melbourne Uni and ANU

Ø 2010 challenges – exchange Public service tailored work suits for Uni style tweed coat with sleeve patches. Get a pipe.

Ness

Ø Key successes – Work promotions, holidays (refer Jack) Junior soccer coach and Senior Premier player and trophy champ, Melb shopping trips.

Ø 2010 challenges – support uni bum husband (refer Jack)

Phoebe
Ø Key successes – traveled to Switzerland, finished uni, got married (refer Andrew M), emptied bedroom, back feeling a lot better

Ø 2010 challenges – start Social work masters, marriage adjustment and cross cultural move - outer Melb suburbs (Z2) to inner suburbs (Z1)

Andrew M
Ø Key successes – kept job in GFC, paid down credit card, Tassie hiking, got married (refer Phoebe)

Ø 2010 challenges – keep job in GFC, make room in wardrobe for Phoebe’s stuff, keep credit card down

Seth
Ø Key successes – finished first yr Uni, got a girlfriend - Monique (Note: punching well above his weight)

Ø 2010 challenges – Asia holiday, work out a way to spend more time with Monique

Naomi
Ø Key successes – joined a drama production group (2 great performances) joined a new church youth group, watched 2,250 hours of TV/DVD’s

Ø 2010 challenges – go to school each day

Andrew C
Ø Key successes – kept job in GFC, paid the bills, OS work travel, 9 weeks on jury duty, Prom hiking, some nice gigs and song writing, solo bike ride Adel-Melb – ‘1000 kays in 7 days’

Ø 2010 challenges – keep job in GFC, pay the bills

Other:
Ø Chooks – production down due aging workforce. 2010 will see some older redundancies and possible new grad hires

Ø Dog – did nothing, needs to stop chewing own feet and start cleaning up own pooh

Mission – maintain some semblance of order, amidst chaos

A Librarian's Christmas Tree

Have a good one!