I went in search of ponies.
I packed the kids in the car & headed up to Mansfield. I managed to drag the rain with me & it teamed all day yesterday. The ponies weren't very co-operative!
BUT...
I stopped at Pemberton's on the way up just to scope things out. You see this is where we used to keep our own ponies when we were kids.
My heart was in my throat as I snapped this pic.
Happy weekend all.
The Date & I spent the day clearing more stuff out of the old place. It was hot & sticky & pretty boring work.
Then I unearthed these teeny tiny riding boots. They belonged to the smallest when she was two. I can't even tell you how cute a little pair of size 2 jods looked over the top of these...
When we arrive in the delivery suite there’s a little crib set up with blue blankets. It confirms in my crazy labour mind what I already know in my heart to be true. This little bubba is going to be a boy.
After a fast and furious (but strangely enjoyable labour) he is here. Big blue eyes, long lashes and the most perfect Caesar haircut.
A mumma’s boy right from the start he makes the first few days pretty hard and I’m keen to get home. I loved the hospital stay the first time around and can’t understand why I’m feeling so trapped here now.
I’ve packed our bag and I’m just waiting for the squawk so I can feed him, change him and get him dressed to go home.
As I remove the little flannelette hospital gown I trace the outline of the love heart and the “C” on his chest. I tell myself firmly to throw it on the bathroom floor with the rest of the dirty laundry.
I can’t.
I’ve never stolen anything…ever and I’m feeling a bit sick. I try to justify to myself why it would be okay for me to take it home with me. I know it’s completely the wrong thing to do, but for the first time in my life I really don’t care.
I stuff the little gown into the side pocket of our overnight bag. I feel my heart begin to race. I can hear it thumping in my ears. The heat and redness in my cheeks has risen steadily from my toes. My breathing quickens and I stare anxiously at the telephone. I’m willing it to ring.
Finally, the phone does ring and I gather my baby, my bag and myself. I flick off the light and head for the elevator. I just want to get myself, my baby and my hospital gown as far away from the scene of the crime as I can.
With heart still pounding I walk briskly through the hospital foyer and out into the cold July night. I’m thankful for the darkness and the freshness in the air.
More souvenir stories here.
We’ve been in the car for 3 Sesame Streets. The car whizzes by Gnotuk Primary and I know we are getting close.
The bitumen turns to dirt and we pass the Delaney’s farm. We’re all bouncing in the backseat of the car now, not just from the pot holes but from excitement too. Only a few more minutes and we’ll be at the “country cousins”.
We reach the end of the road and turn left into the driveway. The car rumbles over the cattle bridge. I stare longingly at the Oak trees lining the driveway. They would be good climbers if they hadn’t had their lower limbs trimmed.
The drive comes to an abrupt end at the front lawn of Eddington. The car is parked and unpacked at the front door. We’ll only use this door twice this visit.
Once we’ve been welcomed we are reminded of the house rules. “No animals in the house, shoes off, scullery entrance only, eat everything on your plate, only 2 teaspoons of Milo”.
Bind and I will share Jen’s bedroom and Cal is in The Boys’ Room. We dump our bags, kick off our sneaks and head straight for the scullery. The grown ups are already enjoying a cuppa in the sitting room. The fire is roaring and Rod’s socked feet are toasting nicely. Marg and Rod and the four cousins are all wearing “homespuns”. I chuckle to myself knowing that Dad will have his on when we come in for dinner.
Mum jumps up from her seat and follows me out to the TV room. She grabs my arm and reminds me that “farm talk” is for the paddocks only. I nod and join the gumboot clad crew kicking gravel in the driveway.
We lose the afternoon in the woolshed, the shearer’s quarters, the machinery shed and playing in the cypress hedge. Bind and Cal and I are making the most of the “farm talk” rule. We swear like troopers and then giggle crazily.
Our stomachs tell us when it’s time to head back. Aunty Marg has dinner on the table when we get home. After dinner the boys make us Milo topped ice cream in a cone. It’s clear that they’ve learnt to get around the two teaspoon rule.
Bedtime is announced and we all scramble into our PJs and hop into bed. The sheets are thick and the beds are perfectly made. No doonas for the country cousins. Their blankets are heavy and warm. Aunty Marg knows all about hospital corners.
Mum and Dad kiss us goodnight and then Aunty Marg bustles in and bustles them out. She sets about tucking us in. She’s pretty strong and when she tucks those blankets in I roll a little to the left and then a little to the right. The tuck secures me in the centre of the bed and I’m aware that my eye lids are heavy. I feel safe knowing I won’t move until the morning.
More tucked up in bed stories here.
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I’m sitting in the kitchen watching the minutes roll over on the digital oven clock. It’s only been three minutes since I last asked "Is it time yet?". I don’t want to bug Non but I’m just about bursting with anticipation.
I can’t sit still. The swivel chair I’m sitting on is moving constantly. Swivel left, swivel right, swivel left, swivel right. Non is busy preparing something at the kitchen bench and peers over her glasses at me. I know the constant motion is annoying her but I can’t help it.
I’m not sure how I successfully negotiated an afternoon alone at Non’s, but I’m feeling extremely pleased with myself. We can’t ever get the precious dolls out when the littler kids are around because of a recent breakage by Cal.
Finally, Non gives me a little nod. I’m up and out of my chair before she can change her mind.
I open the sliding door to the dining room. The air in the dining room is cold and moist and smells like a mixture of Mr Sheen and liqueur. I wrestle with the aluminium step ladder, being careful not to bump into the sideboard or the dining chairs.
I climb up the ladder and cup my hand under the olive green key tassel. I love the way it feels, heavy and soft at the same time. I turn the key in the lock of the glass doll cabinet.
The dolls have been collected from all around the world. They are just souvenir dolls but to me they are so precious. I’m sure it’s got something to do with the fact that they are stored up so high, under lock and key. Their glass and mahogany home is so decadent. Surely they must be worth an absolute fortune.
I carefully remove each one and lay them one at a time on the velvet runner on the sideboard. Once I’ve made my selection (always leaving the broken marketeer and his wagon behind), I lock the cabinet and carefully carry the little figures back to the kitchen.
The next hour is filled arranging and rearranging the dolls on the kitchen table and listening to the stories of where they were purchased. It’s clear from the way Non speaks that they really are valuable. They are memory anchors for her and memory makers for me. They well deserve to be treated with such care and respect.
More careful stories here.
It’s a freezing Melbourne day.
I’ve got the heater going in the car and it’s nice & cosy. I have to force myself to turn off the engine. I’m staring across the road at the “manor” and willing myself to go in. I tell myself it’s too cold to get out of the car, acutely aware that’s not the real reason for my reluctance.
Non hasn’t recognised me for months. The visits are painful for me and I’m sure her as well. She’s not one of those sweet little old ladies who retain their social niceties and chat merrily about church, hydrangeas, cooking, suitcases and their cats. The visit isn't easy. I force the conversation and offer prompts.
Remember?
Warm moccasins, hand knits, sweet treats, close cuddles, leather gloves, working together, imaginary games.
Remember?
Pancakes, deep baths, silky pillowcases, strong perfume, daytime television, cross word puzzles, travel stories.
Remember?
Tic Tocs, shared dreams, dinner parties, Max Bygraves, the garden, Pop, your girls….me?
Non doesn’t, she can’t.
Occasionally I see that she is searching the far reaches of her failing mind, but she comes up blank.
She stares straight through me. When she does speak she is often angry and argumentative. I can’t blame her, I’m sure I’d be the same. I suppress the urge to scream.
This is no way to live.
I leave feeling completely drained.
The grieving began long before she died. I do remember & I cherish.
More remember? stories here.
I had a duffle coat when I was a kid. The arms were filled with souvenir badges.
I've been thinking about it a lot & wishing I still had it. Interesting because I hated it at the time. I used to complain that the wool was scratchy and uncomfortable. I much preferred the bright pink nylon parka that my neighbour wore.
I really love woven badges. I'm going to keep my eye out for a duffle coat.
“The Lodge” is a disused church camp with about one hundred acres of bush attached to it.
Our “more front than Myers”* mum has negotiated a lease arrangement with the owners of “The Lodge” and the bushland. She pays them an absolute pittance and in exchange we get full use of The Lodge and the bush. We build a holding yard so that our ponies can sleep overnight when we are up for the weekend. We renovate the bungalow and fill it with our belongings, we construct elaborate air riffle ranges with old cups and plates and cookware from the old kitchen.
It’s every kids dream and we have to pinch ourselves every time we drive through the gate.
As we approach the gate there’s a heated discussion about who will be on duty. It’s raining hard and it’s warm in the car. I “win” and haul my oilskin coat on before I dash out of the car to the gate. I wait for mum to drive through and then quickly close the gate and leap back in the car.
Mum stops the car but leaves the headlights on so we can see to light the gas lamps. We all rush into the bungalow. It’s absolutely freezing and the three of us are jumping up and down on the spot to keep warm. Mum sets to work unlocking the storage cupboard and pulling out all our belongings. She lights a couple of gas lanterns and finds that the mantels need replacing on a couple more. She leaves us with one primus and instructions to make our beds.
We roll out our sleeping bags and grab a blanket each. It’s going to be a really cold night. Once everything is organised in our room we drag on our gumboots and prepare ourselves for the mad dash over to The Lodge. We hold our primus up high and see that mum has created a fairly crude bridge system over the puddles in the wood shed.
The puddles and the bridges are negotiated easily and we open the lodge door to find the fire roaring. Mum’s had to rearrange some of the furniture to avoid the drips coming through the rusted roof. There are already a series of puddles forming in the sawdust floor. We are confined to our carpet square for the night as the rest of The Lodge is dotted with soggy sawdust pot holes.
We all head straight for the fire to toast our bottoms. The three of us stand too close to the roaring fire watching mum replace gas mantels in the half light and listening to the rain on the tin roof. We talk sleepily about how much fun we are going to have tomorrow and how full of tadpoles the swamp will be.
More rainy day stories here.
* for non-Australian residents: More front that Myers
I pack myself and my sweet as anything one year old into the car. We’ll be gone all day and we seem to have a lot of outing luggage.
It’s a perfect Autumn morning, crisp and fresh. The leaves from our Oak are crunching under my feet and whipping around my ankles as I circle the car making sure I’ve got everything.
We pull out of the driveway and I’m already dreading the drive home. I wonder to myself why that is. The drive out never feels so bad but the drive home is pure torture.
The trees that line the side of the road are being tossed around by a fierce wind. I smile, knowing that Megan will have a Hills Hoist full of washing by the time we arrive. “It’s a good drying day Koo, three loads already this morning”.
We pull up outside Megan’s place. She’s sitting on the verandah with a cup of tea. Her two little boys are clad in gumboots and parkas and playing in the leaves. It’s such a lovely sight.
The boys are called inside and I make a fresh cuppa each. We both have Earl Grey. Megan has hers milky with a sugar and mine is strong with a splash of milk. There’s no standing on ceremony, whoever is up makes the tea. When I’m at home I rarely drink tea but at Megan’s place I drink at least six cups.
Flo’s scones are in the oven and dinner is already in the Crockpot. The heating is up too high – just the way I like it.
I look out the back window and see the line full. The white sheets look so beautiful against the lush green grass. There’s something up with the drainage and Mike is slowly digging an “aggie” along the top fence. The kids really need puddle suits but make do with their gumboots and come in wet and cold and rosy cheeked.
We spend the day catching up on all the news from the week. Even though we talk on the phone every day a week seems such a long time. We lose the day in easy chatter, cups of tea and cuddles with kids.
After the sixth cup of tea I’m ready to face the drive and we pack up and head for home. I check my rear view mirror when we reach the bottom of the hill. Megan and the boys are waving madly and my worn out babe is sound asleep.
More catching up stories here.
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It’s 11pm. I’ve been walking for 15 hours and I can feel the tears welling in my eyes again. I wasn’t prepared for how emotional this experience was going to be.
The soup I forced down an hour ago is making me feel sick and I wish I was home in bed. I’m painfully aware that I’ve only walked about 3 kilometres in the last hour and am trying to calculate in my jumbled mind how much longer it will be until we reach Mt Evelyn Reserve.
I’ve no idea where the rest of my team is, I’m just following the person in front and hoping that it’s Viv. The team thing is driving me insane, I just want to run ahead and make it be over. Of course, that’s not in the spirit of the event so I trudge on and hope that none of the others want to chat. I’ve got nothing to say and I’m worried that if I have to talk I’ll burst into tears.
The rain is absolutely bucketing down. The Gortex jacket has been pushed beyond it’s capability and I’m soaked to the skin. I think it’s about 2 degrees and I can’t even imagine how cold it must be at the top of Mount Donna Buang. I’m aware that I can’t feel my lips, nose, fingers or toes. The pungent smell of soaked wool and sweat is overpowering and serves to reassure me that I do still have a nose.
I wriggle my toes in my hiking shoes. They are completely numb, I imagine that they must look like little prunes. With each step my socks squelch and the skin around my heel squeaks. I’m so thankful that the support team made me change out of my Asics. At least these shoes have got a bit of grip in the wet.
Each outward breath hits the light of my head torch and the rain. Until it clears I can see nothing. I’m just concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other.
I imagine that every corner we round will be the last and am longing for the twinkling lights of the Checkpoint. I’ve only walked this section in daylight and my memory has failed me. I’m getting used to disappointment.
step…squelch...squeak…step…squelch…squeak…step…squelch…squeak
More cold feet stories here.
The bell rings…another term over. I meet Bind and Cal in the playground and we walk home together. We’re chatting excitedly about our impeding road trip and what adventures we’re going to have.
We stop briefly to tease the mad, barking Rottweiler and snap imaginary pictures of his nether regions as he leaps against the gate. We laugh crazily until we get to the lane.
The banter all the way home is constant. Pauses are quickly filled with embellished and misremembered stories of past trips.
We’ve had our bags packed for a week and they are waiting in the hall. Mum will load them into the car tonight so we can get away early in the morning.
The TV is flicked on and the others flop on the couch, it's been a long term. They are all long terms when you're a primary school kid.
I’ve made my way over to our wall map of Victoria and am tracing our previous road trips with my finger.
As I trace the texta lines we’ve drawn in, I remember. I remember stalactites and stalagmites, gold mines, museums, long walks, scrap books, musty smelling hotels and cold toast breakfasts.
I wonder what we might discover about our state and each other on this trip.
We don’t know where we are headed. Mum will just drive, turning when she sees something that captures her imagination.
Mum wakes us all early. The car is packed with our luggage and we’ve all got our pillows in the car. I’m not sure why, we never sleep. The pillows cause us to niggle for space and draw imaginary yours/mine lines on the velour car seat.
When you’re one of three kids there always seems to be an issue about not sitting in the middle. There’s a lot of negotiation going on about who’s going to sit where and for how long. I’m thankful that Mum’s still inside because if she hears all this carry on she might just decide it’s all too hard.
Before the car pulls out of the driveway we’re all sporting corky bruises on our thighs and we know it’s going to be a long drive.
Mum’s woken me up and made sure I’m dressed in my very best outfit.It’s a pale pink suede A line skirt with a raspberry coloured love heart pocket. The matching waistcoat is getting a bit small and is starting to pinch my underarms when I walk. The pinching reminds me that soon I will be too big to wear it – I don’t complain.
My hair is brushed and plaited. The plaits are thick and tight and even. I stretch myself so that I can check my appearance in the mirror. I feel a bit sorry that my hair elastics look so bad. I wish that I had some raspberry ribbon to cover the frayed ends of the hat elastic cut and tied by mum in haste one morning.
We make it to Tullamarine with time to spare and I swing and climb on the guard rail in the entrance hall.
Finally, Non comes through the doors from customs, I can’t remember what she’s wearing but her smile is almost as big as her suitcase. I’m so excited to see her, she’s been away far too long. She cups my face in her hands and then plants a kiss on my cheek and gives me a giant squeeze.
We struggle to the car with the suitcase. I’m trying hard not to imagine the presents inside that case. I don’t want to seem rude.
When we arrive home Mum puts the kettle on and Non sets to work unlocking the suitcase and sifting through her clothes and shopping. There are plenty of international treats for everyone. The clothes and dolls are lovely but what I’m aching for is a tiny little package. I’m starting to feel anxious. I can’t see anything small enough to be a charm.
Non carefully unfolds one of her jumpers and pulls out a little package wrapped in tissue. She presses it into my palm and tells me the story of how she selected the charm and then negotiated and finally purchased the little cupid in Rome.
This little thing will be taken by Non to Precious Metals and soldered to my bracelet alongside the other charms that have been gifted to me from places far away. I resolve it that moment to have charm bracelets for my own grand daughters.
I’m lying on my tummy across the sofa. It’s one of those modular settings from the sixties. The legs are steel and the fabric is brown tweed with orange flecks. It smells a bit funky.
I’m wearing PJs bought from Myer in the previous school holidays. My socked feet are bouncing rhythmically against the wall furnace. They rest on the bars until the heat is too much to bear.
The curtains are drawn and Different Strokes is on the TV. It’s such a treat to be watching commercial tele. There’s a milky and very sweet coffee on the floor, tucked just beside the sofa leg.
Sitting beside me is my Non. She’s wearing an apron and too much perfume. The needles are out & she’s casting on a jumper (maybe for me). Two balls of Fantasy Eight knit together on big needles. It’ll be finished the next day.
Non’s needles flick at great speed, my feet bounce against the heater in time. The TV flicks too, but I don’t notice what Arnold is up to. I’m enjoying watching the knitting and chanting in my head “in, around, through and off”.
I feel the warmth of the heater and a room filled with love.
Cosy.
I like both words & pictures.
I reckon I'm OK with the pictures but the words don't come as easily. I really enjoy the words written by this clever girl & the wordy posts here are my favourite mikes updates.
What I really like is to take a nice long leafy walk down memory lane. "School lunches" has given me the chance to do just that.
I could blather on about this kind of stuff for hours. My mum was a bit of a control freak when it came to food so when she started working I took full advantage.
This was my regular order at the school canteen (written just as it would have been in year 8). I'm not sure about the pricing but you can be sure I was a cheap date.
No nutritional value whatsoever & this lunch order paved the way for Mars Bar breakfasts on the way to school...yick.
I devoured this "lunch" in about 5 minutes flat & then spent the rest of lunch time starving & staring longingly at the salad sandwiches prepared for my lunch buddies.
I've still got no self control when it comes to Nutella.
PS. I really enjoyed this wordy post & I think that I shall be a regular Lingo Franko visitor.