There are no fireworks tonight

 It's the first thing that they will tell you.

And they'll be fast with the reasons that they ascribe it to.

But despite our ability to survive this life with some level of satisfaction, nay, indeed even joy on every other day of the year (ish), it seems the local council economic decision to not fritter many dollars not readily available from the coffers PLUS the exorbitant insurance hike from keeping the constituents body and soul relatively intact during an election year is lamentable.

And you know full well that the b-side to this folksong of the taxed would be offended no matter which way.

Nature abhors a void and has, free of charge, put together it's own lights show for our entertainment.

To the North at the horizon is the silent flicker of yellows and oranges.

On our right, beyond our peripheral, is the Pacific.

And it seems society also abhors a vacuum - or rather, some members of society make stupid decisions under the influence of alcohol, and this night gives licence to stupid decisions and indeed getting influenced by alcohol (although not necessarily together) and we heard the approach of one such member well before we could see him, with the screaming of a racing engine bolting towards our stage.

At the intersection closest to our view, there is a low floodway bridge at an angle that is not right.

Because of the issues with my eyes, I actually find it easier at times to eschew my glasses, and so again I got to experience the next few minutes of sound effects and V's commentary.

This young man (major assumption but statistics probably back me that a goodly many more males than females are making stupid decisions under the influence of alcohol these days, no matter how hard some try) completely missed the entrance for the bridge, over-corrected and ended up being airborne, hitting the cement bottom of the drain with an almighty crunching of suspension, entered the bank on on the other side before, miraculously righting itself on the flood flat beyond.

I went to find a phone as I was certain that an injury had occurred when the engine started revving and the driver started to creep away with a slink of guilt.

He did an imperfect circle back to the other end of the bridge (culvert V interjects and he may be right), successfully traversed it and in the sweep towards our street he has taken out the Stop (or is it Give Way) sign. Either way, he did neither and instead dragged it several metres along our road.

Who said we did not have any local entertainment?

Neighbours on one side went to investigate, as did one of the new neighbours on t'other with her dog.

(A) I was in my nightie, and (B) my own miss sensible anxiety kicked in on many dot points including but not limited to missiles, kangaroos, disapproval and storms, so I did not join the council.

And it's not even 12 o'clock (here - it is if you are from my right and before the international dateline fence)

Happy anniversary of planet Earth spinning around the Sun.

Tonight's Research

 So, while looking for the family story that has most recently piqued my interest, I discovered a Mr Luscombe had been one possibility's groomsman at his wedding to his second wife, described as his brother-in-law.

So I searched for this connection and discovered that Mr Luscombe left his widow

https://trove.nla.gov.au/newspaper/article/170778968

Also in the text below, the new head honcho at the Gatton Agricultural College was going to "probably arrive in Brisbane next week" and there was a new dentist in town.

The new article regarding the land parcels involved made reference to an area called by the same name as an area near here - but no doubt they were both possibly name for

Howard Arms, Carlisle

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you go from family history to keeping the munitions workers from getting drunk and running amok for over 50 years.

Where did you drift to (or in from) this fine day?

Standards, mysteries, grand plans, experiments and interesting competitiveness

A report card stating "Has made no serious effort" against the subject Scripture

Standards are something that people experience differently through their childhoods and families - which is why this surprised me when I found it in a family history box.

The person who received this report card (which has near perfect scores for all else) only had that one year of high school, away from his family and responsibilities. The whole year he was desperately trying to cram as much peer camaraderie, learning and growing up in as possible given his family was so far away - as well as mourning for his father and, indeed, mentor. Scripture apparently, is where his standards slipped, somewhat.

On both sides, his own grandparents and great-grandparents had been staunch - but of slightly different sects and mettle.

A 1970s photo of mounted police and a man in the foreground with a cigarette and a yellow taxi. This photo has the word "Bundaberg" written on the back 

I posted this,mystery recently on a local history forum

There was much discussion over when the mounted police had ever been to Bundaberg and why and who that man was and the type and colour of the taxi and the history of local taxi companies and who had worked on the switch and wasn't it down the road from that cafe that served those great pies. You won't find that on your tik-toks.

Ginger beer plant recipe printed in a magazine that every primary school student years 3-5 received just before very long Christmas holidays 

While my dance card may not have included quite so much sugar and quite so much waiting around and definitely not as many EXPLOSIONS as above, it was still more on the grand plan end of the spectrum.

One thing that I did do that was on the list (multi-check-boxed and in columns) was roasting many vegetables for salads and dips.

One thing that was on the list that didn't ALL get done was wrapping the gifts (although I am about 80%, which is about 78% better than most years).

If you are ever in the position where your oven has failed and you have leftover pfeffernusse dough and a ninja foodi 9 in 1 and were wondering if you could forgo the baking paper as they are such a firm dough, wonder no further. I have done the experiment on your behalf.

You will be pleased to know that there are another goodly amount rolled in the freezer until they are brought into proximity of a working oven either through distance or time.
 

@

I actually worked (& was flat out like a lizard drinking all week back) on the annual celebration of Paris's birth so the day was relatively low key but we did fulfil the wish - and "letting" her win. 

One of the things that I was brought up with is this weird unjustifiable competitiveness in such realms. But truly, the girl just hurls the ball - her only science being in the amount of hurl and lack of care.

Whereas I overthink every throw. I must admit that we all "used the bumpers" (and on only a slightly related note, the arcade had NO PINBALL MACHINE!)

So - twas the night before the night before Christmas here, another big list day tomorrow and "write blog" was not on either.

Happy Christmas to all (& who knows, wishing you a HNY too given my track record)

Taurus, Pfeffernusse, Christmas Shopping and Wee - or Whee - Jasper

 Has it been 11 days? It's been a ride, anyway, since I was last at work and yet here we are, on an evening before return to work musings.

So yes, had my plastic surgery - the good news is that we have all margins and nothing to worry about, nothing to see here but a bit of a scar where I was all pulled in a little tighter. 

Using dressmaker terms, a soft pleat has slightly developed and, using teenage girl vernacular, there appears to be a bovine look. Or perhaps that was her descriptor for my general attitude during one enlightening skirmish in the trenches of parenting an adolescent.

Allow me to assure you, there are some good moments too.

We live for the good moments!

But oh, how I beg forgiveness from my own mother as I see myself at 13 sometimes when we butt heads. 

Ahem.

(Photo description - a cooling rack of 32 very -messily white iced biscuits)

To the detriment of my own waistline I have discovered an absolute pearler of a cookie recipe. Pfeffernusse

Luckily the universe was able to yin my yang with a dose of "is-that-a-funny-noise-i-hear,oh, looks like the oven fan has died" syndrome.

My future joint health thanks you for that 🙏

Speaking of which, among the many "let's try to get ahead of the health mud that has been slung" issues in the last month, I had a bone density scan.

I went because one of the more-than-your-average effects of the medication that I take to minimise the possibility that the stimulus that assisted in my body to manifest cancer replicating the party trick is to aid the gallop to osteoporosis.

It is also that true women of my cultural heritage (pasty white crossed with more of the same) have a tendency towards a pretty fast canter as it is.

(Photo description: flyleaf of "The Book of Common Prayer" inscribed "Mr A Fleming" - and "Alex Fleming Glen?!???uarry Church")

A bonus of doing family history is finding out how ancient some forebears got - and how brief were the lives of others in the canopy.

I had a pretty intense day last Wednesday. It was about that point where what day of the week it was became a real blur.

It was the ONE DAY I had available for Christmas shopping. Those of you who have visited me in the past at this time of year and I happened to post will know that I am oft in such a position - not one of your "organised-in-July" (or even November) girls (not that there is anything wrong with that) - at the 11th hour.

I had bookended this "stress-free" spendfest (artfully arranged with an interlude for family and handover of parental target - I mean responsibility) with medical appointments. 

At the first, the GP gave me good news - clear margins, slightly good news (-penia is above -porosis in the osteo- food chain) and terrible news. She has to go to a different medical practice next year as it is part of her training (& even worse news from the receptionist - my regular GP prior to this one will NOT be returning from her extended leave).

Then I dragged Paris into several outlets that the daughter that, even 18 months ago (okay,  four years ago) would have delighted in going through with me. 

I was ditched at the door, however . Occasionally her shadowy figure sought me in the side aisles for whispered knowledge of "how much longer are you going to be?"

Luckily we are doing a Santa Steal this family Christmas. That means that I don't have to think of specific items for specific people except for immediate family. My brain would not have coped.

Finally we got to the shopping centre, so it was a larger space she could ditch me in.

The shopping centre is about a block from my work.

I bumped into three of the BIG Bosses while shopping. I almost felt the need to apologise for Christmas shopping on a work day!

(They know that I am on leave and why)

I was about 3/4 through my solo reconnaissance when the phone rang - "how much longer are you going to be?"

After a lunchtime saga I was a woman without responsibility but with great purpose. Shopping was ACHIEVED.

 I finally saw my surgeon who was very pleased with the margin news and excited to explain the engineering behind the skin usage and taping of the dressing. She will be happy to never see me again - but in a good way.

I have spent the last few days of my leave with my parents and extended family. I also got Taylor Swift concerts both ways cocooned in the car with a beautiful young lady. The glory of no signal - I will take that route every time!!!

The route Jasper has taken was one that had us on watch and see level alerts.

 Fortunately for us - but unfortunately for them - Jasper took a right (and right there) rather than a hard left (and a fair distance) and got the Cairns region instead. 

It seems in the last decade or so, the main problems arise when the cyclone becomes an ex.

It becomes a vindictive water-syphon scouring it's path.

 I am praying now for the people who are affected in so many ways - and also for those who will help them.

Food as medicine

 It has been a week two months a year (or two) of medical micro-drama around here.

I will not go into the minutiae, but broad brush strokes should paint an amazing big sister doing the hard yards, with me as her sous chef while we wrangled with parents and specialists and anaesthetists and radiographers and nurses and hospital administration.

I was with the Old Man while he broke fast on Tuesday.

He was an in-patient (haha very impatient) and had been in theatre the day before.  He had had to starve himself for a full 9 hours prior to surgery. You have to understand the Old Man is a STRONG advocate of breakfast and considers the missing of any very ill-advised indeed.

I am not sure if it was a "give them options" policy of the hospital or fulfilling the desires of a starving man, but the tray he was delivered had it all.

• Porridge, fruit and milk.
• Egg on toast - just one, well-hard and with only a smear of melted butter between egg and toast - cold and white.
• Another toast, a pat of butter and a small packet of Apricot Jam - "nobody's favourite" he declared.
• Tea, coffee and juice.
• Sugar, salt and pepper.

There should have been a page in that interminable package of forms to be completed whereby you could indicate

• if the patient was the sort who could not stand to see any food wastage; AND/OR
• would appreciate the economy of the insurance company picking up the hospital tab after all of the years of premiums (mind you, there were years in our childhood where he would make a profit on the insurance company).

Instead, there were very pertinent questions about drug and alcohol intake.

And yet what did I find while assisting filling out potential future meal forms?

There is a tick box for every option, for many courses and sides, soups and dessert options - and wine, beer and soft drink selections.

That truly felt so very strange.

Talk is cheap

 The cost of living crisis is kicking butt in Paradise as it is no doubt in your neck of the woods.

I make an assumption, of course, about who you are, where you are NOT - and indeed through what period of time you are reading this.

Although it would be very weird if you were here from the past.

I digress.

(Then remember that the mythical Yous are only figments of my imagination and I am calmed)

What I was starting to say?

 As I was saying before I so rudely interrupted, the cost of living crisis is kicking butt in Paradise.  Sure there's all the rest of the world $#!+= but also the more localised dollar dramas of the medical costs of becoming crocks in our fifties and the ageing affect of busying myself in genealogy.

But then I am reminded of a time when V and I scoured mobile deals to enact daily communication at a distance and I remember (a) to what lengths we took to make that contact, (b) how truly exciting we were to spend that time together, (c) how exorbitantly expensive it was if we missed a term or condition and (d) how, these days I will lay upon the couch in one room and fall sound asleep for a 40 minute snooze while purporting to watch 20 year old television shows with the teenager and he will be only a wall away.

Costs nothing.

And he can now talk to his Mum, face to face, for free as often as both - or either - feels the need.

I talk to my Mum and Dad every morning - they can see my face and hear my voice.

For free.

I even took my sister shopping with me today. Well, I tried. She needed to mow.  There are seasons when needing to mow is both a hallelujah and a groan,  which is better than an air of resignation and a sigh.

My Mum used to save her 50c pieces to pay for her weekly phone calls to her mother so her husband and her mother-in-law would not have any ammunition in snide commentary about the expense of a city girl. Which was apparently not just accepted, but expected behaviour towards a city girl in certain parts of the country. Consider it a term of endearment.

Her mother's mother-in-law would get an annual card from her son - her OTHER son, the one who moved all the way to the other side of the country - and she revelled in the receipt of that card and then looked forward to the next happy occasion for the next 10. All the while the family that she could talk to for free felt the loving hand of gentle criticism.

My daughters and I chat on messenger. From the next room. Or in a break at work. Sometimes.

We used to get up to 3 stamps at school per week, and one of those letters was to be to our parents.

I was a shocking correspondent. Believe me when I say that online communication has certainly improved my legibility. Even I can't read my writing sometimes.

We were allowed to call our parents - reverse charge - from the school payphone.

Dial 0-1-7-6 - speak to an Operator - "can I please place a reverse charge phone call to" and then spell our number - and after going through two telephone exchanges - barring "the line is busy" or "no answer" - you would hear her ask "will you please accept a reverse charge phone call from" and you would always hope that they would say yes.

Sometimes the boys school would get a phone call through to this phone, and there would be much drama in the relay of who's friend fancied who's friend and who wanted to go out with who and - as was the case the one time someone came to get me to join the conversation - what torrid affair d'Year 8 would come to a shuddering halt when someone dropped someone else (sometimes via an intermediary, as this chancer had hoped to happen - unfortunately a mortified me got to hear this missive in front of a phalanx of popular girls). 

I am over it now.

You have to hear this wind to believe it

 There is indeed one drawback to Paradise,  and that is it's ability to send you mad with the wind.

Oh you may scoff and think "meh, this is nothing, when we were tramping in the West of Scotland where the North Sea is taking a shortcut to Ireland" ((a) possibly terrible geographic reference as I can imagine that it would be but am too lazy to verify it and so I am using the "if I say this with enough oomph they will believe it to be the truth" technique on you, who may well (b) be figments of that same imagination) (and (c) I now doubt whether those from the West of Scotland use the term "meh" so apologies for the poetic mugging) (also (d) I actually don't think that I know anyone that uses the term"tramping" with a straight face) (not that there is anything wrong with it, I just probably don't know you) but had you lived here through these last few days, perhaps you would nod and say "not just ability, finesse".

It was calm enough this morning for me to get out of the house on my walk. I always have a better day when that happens, and yet every morning is a battle fought between good and the thousand excuses as to why it might not be.

I went on Wednesday as well. Then we had a most romantic wedding anniversary. I took the day off work - Lush - and dropped Paris to school, went to the dentist, the plastic surgeon, the park with a packed lunch, the Dr, the butcher, picked Paris up from school, had a cuppa with V, had a lovely anniversary stroll along the avenues of the local Woolies - until it was rudely interrupted by the realisation that we had left the sofa stream cylinder at home and I got to enjoy the last few rows alone - and demanded that dinner be something that ticked the below items off:

• Not prepared by me,
• Not requiring clean up by me,
• Not requiring me to dress up in any way from "at home" attire,
• and
• Not requiring me to drive any great distance to procure.

Another of Paradise's imperfections is there are very few options that tick those boxes on a Wednesday (or most) nights.

Luckily the few that there are weren't so few that the plan was abandoned.

Paris had a kebab from the decent little kebab joint recently arrived - recommended - and we had take away from the Thai joint.

But the plans to walk yesterday were blown away.

It blew all day.

I work in an office and so only get to experience the wind on the way to and from the car to and from work and at lunchtime, and swirly winds and a heatwave in the middle of the day should I venture forth.

Today also worked up quite a head after the lull mentioned above (way up near the top).

At night, however, when safely within the walls of home, it is sneaking all around the house seeking every chance,

 rattling at the louvres and whistling a windows dance.

Then it threw in a little pitter-patter ping ping ping percussion of raindrops -  developing a roll and a flourish enough to make Paris and I exclaim.  

This is a tune not heard enough this year.

(I have taken so long to edit this post that it's doing it again - must have been my cries of "encore")

Apart from that, right now, it just blows.

Still: It beats fighting fires.

Evening Rituals

In our house I have discovered how prone I (we) are to creating patterns of behaviour.

Is that also other people's lived experience?

16 years ago I enrolled 'Salina into guides (Proof) and the quick and easy dinner that I KNEW she would eat was Mexican, and Guides was Tuesdays and next thing is that we have had Taco Tuesday for at least 48 weeks every year (a conservative estimate) and over 770 TTs later.

Among Paris's many unique and unblogged traits is one that shapes another of my nightly routines.

She is somewhat reluctant to sleep.

My life has alarms and reminders set throughout the day.

• Call Mum and Dad.
• Five minutes to in the car for school/work. 
• Get in the car NOW. 
• Teams meetings and deadlines. 

You get the picture.

After the 6 alarms between dinner and Uno and lights out, you might think that I had an unstructured period of time.

But you would be wrong.

Thanks to our unwelcome visitors Anxiety and Insomnia, my domain is somewhat limited to the immediate region of the living room couch.

Resultantly I browse, I play sexaginta quattuordle and I investigate a bit more family history. Sometimes I nap.

And occasionally I blog.

And then she is asleep and so I can go get some sleep. For a few hours. If I am lucky.

What do you do?

Eddie-cat etiquette

This was a post in my drafts folder.

I had started it a few years before he died, and obviously opened it again last year just days after.

Was missing him tonight when contemplating my clockwise routine to bed.

Without further ado and with minimal editing:

Eddie-cat etiquette

1. I need food. 

2. Now. 

3. If you fail to comprehend the first two points, I will become insistent. 

4. You don't want to feel the insistent. 

5. Just because you give me food doesn't mean I will eat it. 

6. Just because you give me food you know I liked yesterday doesn't mean I will eat it. 

7. Give me some OTHER food. 

8. I can sulk, you know. Right here. Under your feet. 

9. That BONK you just heard was me escaping from the house AFTER DUSK!!! 

10. That bonk is me headbutting the door to request that you open it again for me. 

11. I need food.

Good thing he was cute.

The "you have GOT to be kidding me" post

 Firstly, I apologise for going on at length about my woes, but (a) technically, you are all figments of my imagination and, even if I say so myself, dang I'm good at that - and (b) it has now entered the realm of "if you didn't laugh, you'd cry" territory.

I have a bank of toiled hours that I have been steadily chewing through in the last few years, and my balance will be fully masticated by the New Year.

Today, I went for a skin check.

I go every year for my skin check. I am white. I live in Queensland. I grew up outdoors and even though my mother thrust sun cream at me all through the 1970s ( and yes, while I could reach for the cop out of "we didn't know any better", my mother was a pharmacist so she knew about stuff way back then and she tried very hard to implement it)  I was that kid: half-defiant, half-space-cadet.

(From the archives - skin checks)

I have a bit on my back and a scar on one arm and a circle on my driving arm (treatment was during COVID, so just the cream and instructions) - and last skin check I had, the young Dr was concerned about a spot on my chest - so concerned that he booked me in for his last appointment before paternity leave to check - but the baby had different ideas and so it was some weeks before he saw me.

When he looked - there was nothing there.

October last I arrived home from work and we had something yummy in the oven, so I bent down to check and the heat from the oven sort of superheated my workshirt buttons and I got two small burn marks from the buttoned shirts.

One never quite healed.

Many times I have been to the Dr (several different ones at the same practice) for one ailment or other and the "you should also look at this" item regarding the burn was often raised. But we all agreed that it was in a tender spot, I just needed to protect it and keep an eye.

Finally I made an appointment just for it alone about a month ago. I rushed back from my parents to get a scrape done one Thursday.

I had my skin check booked for two weeks hence.

A week later I got an appointment with the nurse to check the wound and my dressing it, and Dr popped her head in to advise pathology had returned and it WAS a BCC so she would have to go a little further at 3pm (medical terminology I now unfortunately understand) and so my skin check appointment became my re-excision appointment and my new skin check appointment was today.

Still didn't get margin.

Needs more from 12.

Because I "am still relatively young" and therefore my decolletage may have cause to be displayed, I am getting my own plastic surgeon. 

But don't worry. It's one of the good ones.

It's all relative.

The f eye thing.

 So part 2...

(& while we are on the topic of "my hasn't this year flown by too fast", hasn't it?)

After my "here is another thing that 2023 has handed me" in this showcase of middle-aged white woman August trophy attempt, (and September was one of those unblogged BCC dramas that are years in the production), October arrived and with it, my date with the Ophthalmologist.

I have often wondered at the extra "hthalmolog" at the expense of the "tometr". Is it a specific set of subjects required to elevate themselves?

You KNOW that you have entered a different realm.

No more sweet offerings of quality eyewear at eyewatering prices with pretty women of indeterminate age ranges a soft barrier between world and charts on walls and "is this clearer" CLICK "or this" instructions.

You get VERY clear instructions on what is expected of you for WEEKS out - apparently.

I would have known if I had opened the attachment when they sent me the appointment notification by email.

I blame the link that I clicked and the form that I filled and the sense of satisfaction that I had been soooo efficient as to be ready seven weeks in advance.

Go me. High Five!!!

And that is why, when I got my reminder the Friday prior, and the telephonist enquired about the eyedrops I was using, I was confused.

Hadn't I done the high five on how organised I was?

Unfortunately just prior to that happy dance, I should have heard ominous music playing and seen the long shot of the attachment...

She said with concern "the eyedrops that you are meant to have put in your eyes FOUR times a day for the fortnight prior".

Still a bit behind the eight-ball, I said "but I didn't get any eyedrops".

She then kindly advised on the attachment like this was the first time anyone had ever made this particular blunder, even though I had failed to SEE the attachment and they are APPARENTLY the Rolls Royce of eye specialists.

But we agreed that it might be possible to still attend the long awaited clinic appointment on Tuesday to get the right measurements and advice, and just come back for a remeasure if necessary rather than reschedule the whole thing.

Tuesday rolled around and through the generosity of my colleague I arrived there on time and without the encumbrance of a car.

I was directed to wait in the first waiting room. 

Their Tuesday clinic ran like a well-oiled operation.

Three small antechambers operated efficiently, with clinicians doing the basic checks. Boom. Boom. Boom.

I was spat out into the back waiting room. No pretence of opulence here. The rows of chairs had a screen as a focal point, and those who did not have the foresight to bring a book or perhaps some crochet had no choice as there was no internet connection.

The screen showed documentary after documentary of eye deficiencies and diseases with what appeared to be a family of attractive ophthalmologists.

I got to wait there a LONG time because I was the lucky last one of the day but eventually (about three and a half documentaries down) the girl who took me through my preliminaries also took me through the next round - a room with about eight stations of weird and wonderful machines that all measured things to do with eyes slightly different ways.

Guess what I then got to do?

If you guessed "get to sit in that scintillating second waiting room again" then ding ding ding - you are tonight's lucky winner 🏆

Finally (and yes, one of the technicians who had been in one of the antechambers - not mine - was mopping the floor and thinking of switching off the lights) I got to wait in one of the consulting rooms for the Dr.

I did get slightly better entertainment for this bit as there was an iPad given to me to watch the Dr going through lens options and the risks of surgery.

When the Dr comes in we exchange pleasantries. I mentioned that she had performed the same operation on both of my parents.

I asked how come they got into their 70s without yet I am only in my 50s.

"Welcome to Sunny Queensland with a side-serve of never having sunglasses as my eyesight is so f-ed" is my theory.

She checked in their files and looked into my eyes and said "hmm".

"Well" she said "you've definitely got cataracts"

"But" she said "you've also got" and then she said an f-word.

Fuchs’ Endothelial Dystrophy

So it is official.

My eyes are fuch'd!!

"Which means that it takes options off the table. I am sorry to say you may still need to wear glasses". Said the Dr.

"Lady" I thought "only people who have never REALLY had such bad eyesight would ever really dream of that mythical land ".

So there may be a blurry few weeks in January next year as she has to take extra care and attention with such a potentially volatile situation.

I did google and regretted it, choosing instead to go with the "it is just as likely to go well" Pollyanna about it all.

And it's a good thing she will be using extra care and attention. I mean, that's how I want EVERY dr who operates on me to approach things.

And it's a fairly regular and recovery time for these ops are short - just that the extra care and attention required equals more time between eyes which means more time that my eyes will be in disaccord.

But what is new?

Orb it!

 I have always had shocking eyesight.

I mean, I didn't have glasses for a good part of my childhood as I didn't realise that the world didn't look so fuzzy to the rest of you.

It was only because my baby brother blinked enough that my parents (mother) thought it warranted a trip to the big smoke that I ever stumbled upon the fact that I was severely short sighted.

(The big smoke in this instance being the nearby bigger town of my present. It's all relative.)

One of the "upsides" of myopia, I have been told by a reliable source on the internet, is that you can theoretically "improve" your eyesight with aging.

And in a way "they" are right, as I am currently doing this on my phone sans spectacles.

However the bar on non-blur options is non-existent currently. I blame it on the optometrist.

(This was from my last time)

If I hadn't belatedly made an appointment with him, I would not have had an appointment with him where he would rouse on me for not seeing him sooner.

I should have noticed, he said, of how much my eyesight had deteriorated and come sooner.

But how can you see how bad it's getting when it's always been crap?

I have mulifocals because I am blessed with both requiring assistance in making out the horizon (let alone individual facial features) AND the newer best feature of age-induced requirement for reading glasses - and I had attributed any blurriness to them being FILTHY or maybe me using them wrong (imposter syndrome on an ocular level).

I thought it very funny how I could see double when covering one eye.

Apparently, that Super-Power is called "cataracts".

It was then decreed that my eyesight needs to level up, and thus to another eye quack with an extra syllable.

(Part 2 to come..)

Is history rewritten better than no history at all...

 It's been a year, hasn't it?

It's been pretty much a year in a series of years, to be frank.

And it certainly isn't offering any signs of change for a bit.

Mind you, it's all perspective, isn't it?

I have just finished an audiobook "Three Sheets to the Wind" by Adam Courtenay

I think that William Clark would never have considered school holidays, care logistics for young and old, mobile phone curfews, hysterectomies, cataracts, dementia or curries much at all. 

And we have never had to consider how many people to leave behind as we headed across unknown territory- heck, we can order lunch on the way!

Indeed, making toss or keep decisions with Dad on the weekend don't seem to be of such import in the rest of society and timeline of world events, but it is a bit of a butterfly's flap.

We found a box of diaries. Dad has been a diary writer since he was 13. From 1951 to 2019 there is a record of days as it happened to Dad - and they have them most of them stored two drawers in their house - but not all, as some boxes remain from their last two shifts - and these are people who have only shifted twice in their 58 year marriage.

One of the boxes that we went through also had diaries. Many diaries. Some were missing diaries. We will have to check through them again but we are getting closer to the full set.

Some were diaries - with absolutely nothing in them.

There was a spate of some years where multiple people thought "I know the perfect present for old Bruiser" and felt so pleased with their purchase that old Bruiser didn't have the heart to advise of the duplication - nor the ability to regift through a combination of not wanting to hurt the feelings of others and guilt over the economic distress caused by frittering away all of someone's hard work.

Thus the subsequent festive season, multiple people thought "I bought  the perfect present for old Bruiser last year " and felt so pleased with their purchase...

And so they remained and have been packed and moved TWICE (although possibly never unpacked in the interim).

I talked Dad into doing the UNTHINKABLE and put some of them into the "get rid of" pile.

I even suggested - and got resigned agreement - that they be discarded completely.

And don't think for a moment that I didn't contemplate throwing in an environmental aspect, however that can lead towards more hoarding than reduction of clutter as you never know when something might come in handy.

He mused once we had finished drafting the box contents for the morning "you know, I think that I might go and fish those empty diaries out and get the same year and copy them neater. And maybe I can improve on the days a bit."

And that is why I have several empty diaries in one of the "give it to Jeanie to hoard at her house" pile.

The first one will be good for next year after 29 Feb.

My Lit-teral Update

 The wind is H. O. W. L. I. N. G. outside at the moment.

It's coming from the north-east on what my grandmother would call "a lazy wind" - too lazy to go around you.

I have to admit I am failing book club this month. I have so little confidence in my ability to attain the end of this worthy tome that I am not even entertaining the thought of guilt about it.

A lot has been going on.

I have, however, had some excellent audiobook immersions in the last line while.

Spinning Silver by Naomi Novik

This was a "relisten" and I would be willing to do so again. A lovely fantasy-fairytale.

Elizabeth and Elizabeth by Sue Williams

An engaging history of the colony of Lachlan Macquarie's governorship told through the lens of Elizabeth "Betsy" Macquarie's relationship with Elizabeth MacArthur, wife of John MacArthur, renowned for the Rum Rebellion and Merino sheep.

And finally, my current listen is a rather rollicking yarn.

Bwana, There's a Body in the Bathtub by Peter Whitehead & Tony Park

Anything caught you by the ear of late?

Rabbit Holes

 

I sometimes go down rabbit holes in my late night meanders in search of ancestors.

On of our forbears was an Alexander Fleming.

But not THAT Alexander Fleming.

The one who found penecillin on a petri dish.

Unfortunately. He would have been a far easier Alexander Fleming to unearth.

So he may have been the one who was looking for tutors - or the one importing rams - who by sheer coincidence another forbear ended getting a share of!

I found a big part of the story of his wife's life through a probate claim so tried looking at "estate" with Fleming and once I weeded out the real estate offers found this (not my forbear)

And then this

And if you need me I may be chasing riches in far off lands (& centuries)...

Lily, J. A. and Mamma

(trigger warnings: chauvinism, alcohol, dementia, death, birth and interminable warbling about old stuff)

One of the blessings of loving someone who gets clouded and confused is that occasionally you stumble upon a treasure trove while you are helping.

On the weekend, while zhoojjing a room for a much anticipated cousin's visit, underneath a pile of towels in a cupboard I found a wad of pages in my mother's hand - her transcript  from over 40 years ago of Lily May's recollections of her father's second wife's extended family. 

Great-great-aunt Lily was then 91 and a very unreliable witness.

She had the father's name (J. A.) and a brother's name (C. A.) confused. 

She told tales of a family tyrant (J. A.) who been expelled from school for throwing a book at his female teacher. His father then took his sons across the world to find their own way. She said that the father (J. A.) - or brother - had relied on self-education for himself and failed to educate any of his sons bar the youngest.

How there had been talk that that youngest son had swindled his uneducated brother - or brothers - of the family fortune.

Lily said that the marriage of my great-grandmother to my great-grandfather - Lily's father - was arranged over brandy after dinner.

J. A. - my mother's father's mother's father (great great grandfather) offered up his daughter -  a good housekeeper but 24 years old and had no prospects - to Lily's father - a widowed engineer and businessman who had grown children and needed a hostess for his dinners.

 I get the feeling that Lily wasn't a fan of her stepmother or indeed the family that she came from.

Lily said that throughout the marriage, Phoebe Emma - or Phoebe Ann - or rather Mamma from the tales told me as a child by my Grandma M and Mum - had 10 children.

I can only find records of four. 

The oldest son went to Perth and would contact his mother once a year on his birthday.  Mamma lived for that day.

The beloved daughter (who gave me half of my Jeanie)

The youngest - her son (my grandfather).

And one who was never talked about because he died before his first week was through. I have yet to invest enough money in this meandering quest to find out why.

But doing the math, were there six others within the 18 years of their marriage?

There is a photo of Mamma that I am yet to digitise. She looks stern and by all accounts was.

But I have also read an account of her hostessing an event that makes me realise that she was a force.

Lily also went through a quick appraisal of her own siblings lots in life.

Several married well. They all scattered. One was invited back to take his father's role at a sugar mill.

One was very taken by music and married a piano teacher who had 32 students before they wed. They didn't have children.

One married a ne'er-do-well (Lily's words, not mine) with a fantastic name (my words not hers) and they moved to Sydney and had one child.

It's funny - Lily didn't say how her own life fared.

"Who was that?" my mother asked as I read it to her.

My grandfather's story

 I grew up in a family of yarners.

Not of the material kind, but the kind that was long on laying down the folklore of their forbears through tale.

There was one who, as a boy, was given some money (a sixpence comes to mind, but I don't know that it's true) to go to a school for boys. There came a time when the boy in question had learned all that the school offered, and that time was far shorter than anticipated. He decided that his life would be better spent pocketing the money and going fishing every day.

Unfortunately this was not a permanent state of affairs as one of the parents of the boy went to the school for boys to see his son and found that his son was not there and this made him very angry because he worked hard to ensure that his son be better educated but the teachers assured him that he had been.

The father packed up his son and another and sailed to the other side of the world and sent them to their own adventures.

I do so wish that I could go back to my childhood and ask any of the generations of aunts available to me and say "which of my family line was that story from?"

It would certainly save me from picking at the threads of family history now and ask of them all "did you know this boy?"

One story that I do know is this one - and that is because it was of my grandfather - my mother's father- and a tale confirmed on Trove.

My grandfather, Field Andrew Ian, was the last born of a successful sugar mill manager and his second wife - he already had a grown family with his first.

When he was four his father died suddenly.

His distraught widow was visited by all of his colleagues and friends to offer their condolences - and request that she waive their promissory notes.

Without his income - and thanks to his generosity in loaning out the large dowry that she had brought to the marriage, without capital, his mother was forced to open her home as a boarding house and this little boy grew up with his much older brother, his slightly older sister, his mother and the boarders.

But she was a good housekeeper and made enough to send her very serious little boy to the local piano teacher as he seemed keen on the instrument.

Several months later the piano teacher came to my great-grandmother and requested a meeting.

"I am afraid that I cannot teach your son Ian any more," he told her.

"Whatever has he done?" she cried.

In the non-pc days of my childhood the next section of the story was not that shocking.

"I will thrash him with a whippy stick!" she cried but he stopped her.

"No, ma'am, no. I cannot teach your son Ian any more, because he has learned everything that I know. You need a better teacher."

My grandfather was rewarded for good marks at school with being allowed to sleep in his mother's bed.

These days again such statements are seen askance. 

At the age of 17 he was so bald he took a razor to the last few wisps and was forevermore done with hair.

He could pick up any instrument and play any tune if you hummed a few bars.

When my grandmother met my grandfather, he was besotted and requested her hand in marriage very soon.

"No." she said. "I will not marry a mother's boy."

He immediately moved to the other side of the country and did a 3 year stint at proving he was independent to the worthy young woman.

The proviso to the acceptance of the next proposal was that he was to get together the deposit for a house while she got the wherewithal to furnish it.

They married and 9 months and 10 days (it was very important to my grandmother that the "and 10 days" was included in the story) later my mother was born.

During that 9 months and 10 days, my grandfather won a competition with his singing. Apparently he had a lovely baritone (or was he a tenor?).

He was offered a chance to go and sing in London and even become perhaps a professional.

He was a sensible man. He had married the girl of his dreams. They had a beautifully furnished house. A baby was coming. He had a good job at the bank.

What if he got laryngitis?

He got a reputation at the bank for getting little banks up and running after they had hit rough spots. He would be transferred to an outpost of empire and my grandmother with a baby then a toddler and eventually a baby AND a toddler then two young girls would have to pack up the house, sell or store furniture, organise a house sale (you couldn't have a separate income stream while in the public service position that he held at the bank), move, find suitable accommodation, find a suitable house, get him to buy it (because married women didn't have property), refurnish and set up a garden he would be transferred to another outpost.

When my mother was about to leave primary school, he got promoted out of state.

"No," my grandmother said "the girls now need stability for their education." And so they stayed.

He performed the Messiah for the ABC Radio performance every year.

One year, he was on the tram when the woman beside him saw his promotional photo in the newspaper. 

"Look at that boiled egg," she chortled to him.

He removed his hat and bowed.

He sang at my aunt's wedding but never at my mother's nor her sister's. It still is remembered wistfully.

By the time my older sister was born he was suffering greatly from cholesterol.  He got to hold his first grandchild.  He died aged only 58.

My grandmother died at 93 - 35 years later.

My mother no longer clearly remembers him. My aunt probably does.

My dad remembers him also.

His diary refers to Boss and he often talks about how instrumental his father-in-law's advice and wisdom helped him.

A glass half full

 Today was an auspicious day as it's:

1. A pupil free day for school students in my state;
2. An RDO for me; and
3. The day 'Salina returns from the USA.

To this end, I had a plan to drive down from Paradise to the big smoke to collect her - given her car is my current set of wheels and she had performed such a service 3 weeks ago for us, it was the least that I could do.

Her plane was due to land at 6.30 in the am, so I sought accommodation.

It seems that we have a habit of choosing weekends of high demand in the big smoke whenever we descend - football matches (of various codes), concert events and the state agricultural show have affected our last 2 sojourns.

I did however find a "new listing" when asking for my 2 bedrooms for 3 people (2 adults+ child aged 13) that ticked all boxes (parking, wifi, kitchen) and was reasonably priced in a tight market, so I booked Thursday - Sunday.

The drive went well and we arrived just on 6 hours after leaving paradise (including a drive through the car wash and toilet/gathering of food from a fine fast food establishment).

My problems started when Google maps had me in the vicinity of the accommodation as I had completely forgotten about parking issues while booking in - and so I panicked and failed to read some very fine print regarding the requirement for a scavenger hunt.

Luckily a lovely young couple (with a lovely giant poodle cross) came by and he had vast international experience in such scavenger hunts, and after finding every lockbox eventually cracked the code on the correct one and I had my key.

My next hurdle was to access the free parking - and the fob proved to be non-compliant in the opening of the parking garage. Another resident came behind me in her car as I was starting to breakdown and offered me a lifeline (after checking that I was legit) and not only let me in to the garage but got me onto the correct floor as the fob also failed there.

(The designated park? Between two concrete pillars on a corner in the underground carpark!)

Finally we were in - but the problem now became how I would be able to (a) get back to the car and/or the unit when I was to collect 'salina early next morning. Not the relaxing night that I had envisaged.

On top of that, the "two-bedroom apartment" actually only had one bedroom and a sofa bed on the lounge. And only 2 towels because apparently the phrase "your 13yo can stay for free" means that she won't need to shower.

Many texts and emails were exchanged and I was told that a solution would be sought by the time I had to get her.

Luckily her plane was delayed and I eventually found an email in my spam folder that gave the right option.

On the upside, there are views - and apparently the event that I have inadvertently clashed with is Riverfire, so we will have front row seats tomorrow night.

There is a pool, so 'Salina, Paris and their younger cousin E have killed an hour (and some energy) wisely.

And there is a kitchen, so I can make Spaghetti Bolognese with salad and garlic bread as a welcome home feast for 'Salina.

different shaped world

 The world that Paris is growing up in is completely different to the one that 13 year old me inhabited.

Her days would be edged by constant cyber+stimulation were she to have her way.

I get that. In my day it was books. I read all sorts of tripe. And then it was writing. Ditto.

I also had a Japanese Cooking phase - it was the shelf up from the 700s in the primary school library. I had worked through that part of the library the Autumn just prior.

Unfortunately Paris has not yet had a cooking phase to any degree - the requirement for "cleaning up after yourself" equates to the requirement for "nagging her to clean up after herself" and it ends up being a pleasure for nobody.  (She is not the daughter of "Princess Grot" - as bestowed by Mrs Leahy the school matron - for nothing it seems).

At 13 I was known for arguing any - and every - point. I would deliberately break the rules to argue the injustice of instilling such regulations. Yet they were always minor misdemeanors because (a) I was trying to expand the edges not shatter them; and (b) I am actually an absolute rule follower AS LONG AS the rule makes sense. I love the cocoon of righteous governance. It's a pity that there is no such thing as a perfect one.

Paris does not have such a chance because the rules in her teenage world have exploded by being controlled by the digital feed.

I wonder was there such a fuss when television came in?

The telephone?

Literacy?

The wheel?

A Hurriquake and a Hugh

 As you (may or may not) know, last week we returned from Southern California - and this week 'Salina is visiting my MIL (lucky girl - miss them both)

Unfortunately she is not the only curly situation over there ATM, as Hilary was on the rampage.

To compound matters, school was meant to restart over there today - but has now been pushed back to tomorrow.

Parents driven to insanity.

Let's see, what else?

Oh yes, an earthquake.

(Reminiscent of our own XTC Oswald)

On a completely different subject - 

Discuss.

On Vegemite sandwiches, amazing women and the lure of sleep

We have arrived back in Australia - I am sure that I missed it as much as it missed me.

While in the US with extended family, Cousin-in-law D (hereafter referred to as CILD2 - due to him being the 2nd with that moniker to occupy such a seat at my extensive extended family table) enquired "what is a Vegemite sandwich?"

"A sandwich with butter and Vegemite" I replied, rather perplexed at such a bewilderingly simple question.

CILD2 was quite serious however, asking "do you mean that Vegemite is an actual thing?"

"Yes" I responded, pretty sure that he was now officially taking the mickey. "What did you think it might be?"

"I thought it was a punch or something slang."

 CILD2 (and others at the party) got to see an actual Vegemite jar and have some Vegemite with butter on on bread - neither he nor the majority of participants were fans - I blame the American version of the butter!

It's actually a pretty weird concept that some - okay many - people consider Vegemite weird.

It was such a staple in every cupboard in our area had a jar. Babies cut their teeth gnawing toast fingers with Vegemite; a delicacy for me as a child was a split weetbix with butter and crunchy peanut paste and honey on one half and butter with Vegemite on the other (I know a horse that was partial to it too); and CWA ladies would cater and give morning and afternoon teas with no table void of a plate of Sao, butter and alternating tomato, cheese or Vegemite toppings.

Just as I sat down to write about the above, V came in to tell me a story that he had just heard the first part of on the radio. It was regarding  Clara Barton.

After a traipse through that I was brought to mind of Joice Nankivell Loch.

Which brought me back to a photo

(Paris doing what the kids at her school were cooking in food technology while she was away - recipe used here)

Bed beckons. 

Question to ponder - what was commonplace to your childhood that others might consider quaint or strange?

Generations, celebrations, education and precipitation

Apologies for no photos yet. A lot were taken but not enough non-identifying in my phone files (and hey, you would probably think that I was some sort of AI if I had my act together that much, admit it!)

Amongst reasons to visit this foreign land were rites of passage for V's family.

Two have passed, some have been born and we have all gotten older.

One to a year of significance, a round number and the first in the family to have reached such a milestone.

Thus the opportunity to gather all of those from that part of the family - especially after events of the last few years - was grasped.

Of the about 60 descendants of V's grandparents, over half rolled up to celebrate this beautiful lady and the culture of the clan.

The table groaned under tributes to their shared memories mixed with the nostalgia for Denmark of a past generation through the medium of Wisconsin cheese curds and brats.

I attempted to convert an estimated crowd figure into units of indulgence through the medium of cake flavoured by the childhoods of Aunty L and her younger siblings, Uncle B and V's mum, Aunty (to a great many of the attendants) R -

Lemon Meringue Pie (or rather, Pies- I used the muffin pan and was forced to use the mini-muffin pan as well - I used a Splenda recipe so it was sugar-free);

Pineapple Upside-Down Cake (ended up being quite a slab and learned a bit about timing and the geometry of laying such a large square -footage of pineapple rings. Tasted good but); and 

Carrot Cake (with the birthday lady's desire of no nuts as she can't stand pecans).

There were many of V's generation, most in their 50s now, each with their own story of getting there from a generally similar starting point.

There were also many wonderful ring-ins - bringing to the gathering their own journeys with those who grew up with this influence.

And then there were the children of the children, although none the age of Paris. She did get star status from a younger fourth cousin (or some such connection).

Stories abounded of Grandma R (Paris's middle name is a tribute to this lady) and Grandad (who V apparently bears an uncanny resemblance to), Aunt G, Aunt B and the other Aunt L. 

I attempted a diagram of the family connections.

Swimming was undertaken, burgers and brats were cooked; there was car guy talk and baseball talk and glory days and reminisces; new insights made, old connections renewed and fresh understandings discovered.

I apparently did not convert any new recruits to the shrine of Vegemite.

We learned - or relearned - the card game "Dirty Thirty-one".

We had fun.

It did not rain, although the promise of such did break the heatwave of the few days prior.

Today it tried harder. We ate leftovers.

bon voyage so far.

Let's see.

Drive. Park. Plane. Auckland. 

Plane. Movie. Sleep. Princess documentary. Belgian lawyers. 10,000 steps. Queues. Customs. Telstra dramas. Luggage. Wi-fi dramas. Double parking. LA traffic. Freeways. Traffic. Traffic. Traffic. Townhouse. Five seater recliner lounge. Sister-in-law. Conversations. Portuguese Water Dogs. Psychology. Baseball. Music. Salad. Pizza. Directions. Traffic. Traffic. Traffic. Turn off. Turn in. Switch off. Shower. Sleep.

Wake. Woozy. Drink. Head fuzzy. Nausea. Phone dramas. Expletive -deleted. The curious case of painless migraine. Sleep.

Take 2. Wake. Telecommunications dramas. Swim. Chat. Relax with my mother-in-law (a pretty amazing woman). Reminisce. Pinot g. Poh's amazing no-cook tomato sauce with pasta and sweet potato ravioli and salad and garlic toast. Pool. Sleep.

Wake. Avocado and Vegemite toast (cooked perfectly to the right texture and colour, cooled enough to let the butter maintain integrity under a decent layer of Vegemite then plastered with avocado, ground pepper and a squeeze of lemon juice) (cut into fingers, the only way to eat such delight). School work. Photo albums. Pantry audits (it's one of the benefits of being related to me in any way). (& Yes, her plastics drawer too). Traffic. Red Robin. Sees. Sleepers. Target. Escalators for trolleys! Cereals. Spices?! Serious flaw in building design, centre parking management and store layout. 

Finding shade. Waiting. Waiting. Traffic. Home unpack. Regroup. V and Paris back in the pool while I dragged the mother-in-law to another grocery store. Differences in deli counter options. Veg selection. Brats. Carbonated water flavours. Traffic. You Tube surfs. Taco Tuesday. 

Pool.

Blog.

Sleep.