Childish pursuits

When we were kids

 ~ Clive James

When we were kids we fought in the mock battle

With Ned Kelly cap guns and we opened the cold bottle

Of Shelley’s lemonade with a Scout belt buckle.

We cracked the passion fruit and sipped the honeysuckle.

When we were kids we lit the Thundercracker

Under the fruit tin and we sucked the all day sucker.

We opened the shoe box to watch the silk-worms spinning

Cocoons of cirrus with oriental cunning.

When we were kids we were sun-burned to a frazzle.

The beach was a griddle, you could hear us spit and sizzle.

We slept face down when our backs came out in blisters.

Teachers were famous for throwing blackboard dusters.

When we were kids we dive-bombed from the tower.

We floated in the inner tube, we bowled the rubber tyre.

From torn balloons we blew the cherry bubble.

Blowing up Frenchies could get you into trouble.

When we were kids we played at cock-a-lorum.

Gutter to gutter the boys ran harum-scarum.

The girls ran slower and their arms and legs looked funny.

You weren’t supposed to drink your school milk in the dunny.

When we were kids the licorice came in cables.

We traded Hubba-Hubba bubblegum for marbles.

A new connie-agate was a flower trapped in crystal

Worth just one go with a genuine air pistol.

When we were kids we threw the cigarette cards

Against the wall and we lined the Grenadier Guards

Up on the carpet and you couldn’t touch the trifle

Your Aunt Marge made to go in the church raffle.

When we were kids we hunted the cicada.

The pet cockatoo bit like a barracuda.

We were secret agents and fluent in pig Latin.

Gutsing on mulberries made our lips shine like black satin.

When we were kids we caught the Christmas beetle.

Its brittle wings were gold-green like the wattle.

Our mothers made bouquets from frangipani.

Hard to pronounce, a pink musk-stick cost a penny.

When we were kids we climbed peppercorns and willows.

We startled the stingrays when we waded in the shallows.

We mined the sand dunes in search of buried treasure,

And all this news pleased our parents beyond measure.

When we were kids the pus would wet the needle

When you dug out splinters and a piss was called a piddle.

The scabs on your knees would itch when they were ready

To be picked off your self-renewing body.

When we were kids a year would last forever.

Then we grew up and were told it was all over.

Now we are old and the memories returning

Are like the last stars that fade before the morning.

Images: Rockhampton, Queensland, Australia by Frank Hurley  (1885-1962)

It's my early day to knock-off work and collect the children from school, and it's wet, wet, wet outside.  We are bunkered inside at home.  The bags have been unpacked, music practice has been completed and four hot chocolates have been made.   We are about to cuddle up to watch the next (recorded) episode of Junior Masterchef.  TV might be high definition, in colour and on a flat screen but it's still the classic after-school indulgence.  What's a childhood without the telly?  We rarely watch it, so this is quite a treat.  "C'mon Mum!"  Better scoot.

Old Canberra Streetscapes: Inner South

 

 

South of my Days

~ Judith Wright

South of my days' circle, part of my blood's country,

rises that tableland, high delicate outline

of bony slopes wincing under the winter,

low trees, blue-leaved and olive, outcropping granite-

clean, lean, hungry country. The creek's leaf-silenced,

willow choked, the slope a tangle of medlar and crabapple

branching over and under, blotched with a green lichen;

and the old cottage lurches in for shelter.

O cold the black-frost night. the walls draw in to the warmth

and the old roof cracks its joints; the slung kettle

hisses a leak on the fire. Hardly to be believed that summer

will turn up again some day in a wave of rambler-roses,

thrust it's hot face in here to tell another yarn-

a story old Dan can spin into a blanket against the winter.

seventy years of stories he clutches round his bones,

seventy years are hived in him like old honey.

 

 

Yesterday I went for a walk with my trusty pocket camera. I so needed to clear my head and get some exercise. I also wanted to capture some authentic Canberra streetscapes and vernacular architecture. The location is one of the most expensive postcodes in the country - unbelievably, since there are no ocean views. It was interesting to discover some sneaky back streets, ramshackle houses and new building works going on amidst the planned thoroughfares and embassy residences as well as some historic remnants of Old Canberra. Well, "old" in a modern sense. 

The Australian Capital Territory (ACT) was declared on 1 January 1911 and an international competition to design the new capital city of Australia was held. More than 130 entries were received in the competition and the winning entry was submitted by American architect Walter Burley Griffin and his partner and wife, Marion Mahony Griffin. 

My meanderings took me around these original, early streets of this young Bush Capital. The majority of the precinct was constructed in 1926 – 27 to meet the urgent need to provide housing for public servants prior to the opening of the provisional Parliament House in 1927.  The street layout is directly derived from Griffins 1913 plan which defined the major axes of Melbourne and Hobart Avenues radiating from Capital Hill and concentric circles.  The latter always has me completely baffled and it is almost impossible to navigate even with a map.  I took it slowly on foot determined not to get lost.

Saturday Morning Bliss

 

 

Eternity

~William Blake

He who binds to himself a joy

Does the winged life destroy;

But he who kisses the joy as it flies.

Lives in eternity's sunrise.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This week I'm grateful for:

Saturday morning cricket

 - gets the boys outa the house early

Impromptu ball games on the back deck

- the sound of bounces ~ ka-thump ~ giggles and no broken windows so far

Invitations to birthday parties close to home

- a very best friend, no distance to drive and a mermaid theme party with an entertainer.  Even I'm excited! 

Home-made birthday cards

- dictating the spelling for sweet personalised messages. "How do you spell 'hope'?"

This is one blissful Saturday morning. 

Playing along with Maxabella

{this moment}

{this moment} - A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember.  SouleMama

Hairy situation

Combing
 ~ Gladys Cardiff

Bending, I bow my head

and lay my hands upon

her hair, combing, and think

how women do this for

each other. My daughter’s hair

curls against the comb,

wet and fragrant— orange

parings. Her face, downcast,

is quiet for one so young.

I take her place. Beneath

my mother’s hands I feel

the braids drawn up tight

as piano wires and singing,

vinegar-rinsed. Sitting

before the oven I hear

the orange coils tick

the early hour before school.

She combed her grandmother

Mathilda’s hair using

a comb made out of bone.

Mathilda rocked her oak wood

chair, her face downcast,

intent on tearing rags

in strips to braid a cotton

rug from bits of orange

and brown. A simple act

Preparing hair. Something

women do for each other,

plaiting the generations.

I'm in such a rush in the morning, and leave so early, that the children are still asleep or groggily emerging from their rooms by the time I've got my bag over my shoulder and am heading towards the door.  Alas, little Wanna still wants Mummy to do her hair.  Nothing more intricate than plaits or piggy tails, but still, for me, a complicated affair trying to get the partings straight, not pull knots and not produce 'bumps' as she calls anything less than completley slicked back.  It's fraught.  Yesterday, I quickly produced two small, dangly side plaits which satified her requirements, although when I picked her up in the afternoon it appeared that Daddy had quite expertly combed the whole lot into a ponytail.  Morning hair has clearly a become a team effort.

Sniff

Sneeze

Sneeze on Monday, sneeze for danger;

Sneeze on a Tuesday, kiss a stranger;

Sneeze on Wednesday, sneeze for a letter

Sneeze on a Thursday, something better;

Sneeze on a Friday, sneeze for sorrow;

Sneeze on a Saturday, see your sweet-heart tomorrow.

It's official Ro-Ro has hay fever.  He's never had it before. Maybe it's something to do with the street trees around here.  Or perhaps it's just an exceptionally bad season for allergy sufferers.  I've heard such speculation among adults afflicted with the condition.  Anyway, following a trip to the doctor yesterday we now have a regime to adhere to, involving an uncomfortable-looking nasal spray and regular steamy showers. (Thanks Daddy, since Mummy is consumed by work commitments.) We also have to trip off some time today to get Little Wanna's wrist x-rayed after her fall on the ice rink.  Just to be sure. We're all at the end of our comfort zone this week. But according to the rhyme, we should expect 'something better' tomorrow.

Kitchen as metaphor for life

I Chop Some Parsley While Listening To Art Blakey's Version Of "Three Blind Mice"

~  Billy Collins

And I start wondering how they came to be blind.

If it was congenital, they could be brothers and sister,

and I think of the poor mother

brooding over her sightless young triplets.

Or was it a common accident, all three caught

in a searing explosion, a firework perhaps?

If not,

if each came to his or her blindness separately,

how did they ever manage to find one another?

Would it not be difficult for a blind mouse

to locate even one fellow mouse with vision

let alone two other blind ones?

And how, in their tiny darkness,

could they possibly have run after a farmer's wife

or anyone else's wife for that matter?

Not to mention why.

Just so she could cut off their tails

with a carving knife, is the cynic's answer,

but the thought of them without eyes

and now without tails to trail through the moist grass

or slip around the corner of a baseboard

has the cynic who always lounges within me

up off his couch and at the window

trying to hide the rising softness that he feels.

By now I am on to dicing an onion

which might account for the wet stinging

in my own eyes, though Freddie Hubbard's

mournful trumpet on "Blue Moon,"

which happens to be the next cut,

cannot be said to be making matters any better.

Painting: Australian contemporary artist Julie Byrnes

Soundtrack: Art Blakey and the Jazz Messengers

Not that I'm doing any cooking lately since work has spun out of control.  The Strong Silent One has been master-minding in the kitchen with his three chef assistants.  The menu has recently featured prawn risotto and Moroccan lamb.  I am indebted to Junior Masterchef for cultivating an interest in food preparation among my children and a willingness to sample new flavours.  Meantime I'm running around like a blind mouse.

The Royal Game of Goose

 

'It is perfectly true, as philosophers say, that life must be understood backwards. But they forget the other proposition, that it must be lived forwards.' (Kierkegaard, Journals)

It was games night last night.  After a round of Pictionary we moved to reacquaint ourselves with The Royal Game of Goose.  The game board comprises 63 coded boxes arranged in a spiral. It is a race between players with rewards going to those who land on a goose and penalties for those occupying the other pictures. Stakes are won or lost until the player who first reaches the end wins everything.
 
Apparently, the first mention of the game comes from Francesco dei Medici, Grand Duke of Florence in Italy in the 1500s. He sent a copy to King Philip II of Spain where it caused great excitement at the court, and the adult gambling game spread rapidly to other parts of Europe.  It reached England by 1597, when John Wolfe entered "the newe and most pleasant game of the Goose" in the Stationers' Register.  According to the letters of Horace Walpole, it was played by Duchess of Norfolk in 1758. 
 

We picked ours up at a garage sale.

DESCRIPTION OF AN AUTHOR'S BEDCHAMBER

~ Oliver Goldsmith, Anglo-Irish writer, poet and physician (1728-74)

The Red Lion flaring o'er the way,

Invites each passing stranger that can pay;

Where Calvert's butt, and Parsons' black champagne,

Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury-lane.

There in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug,

The Muse found Scroggen stretch'd beneath a rug;

A window, patch'd with paper, lent a ray,

That dimly show'd the state in which he lay.

The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread;

The humid wall with paltry pictures spread.

:

The royal game of goose was there in view,

And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew;

The seasons, fram'd with listing, found a place,

And brave prince William show'd his lamp-black face:

The morn was cold, he views with keen desire

The rusty grate unconscious of a fire;

With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scor'd,

And five crack'd teacups dress'd the chimney board;

A nightcap deck'd his brows instead of bay,

A cap by night--a stocking all the day!

{this moment}

{this moment} - A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember.  SouleMama

Neutral language

THE EDITOR'S REGRETS

~ Norman Campbell

Although we're quite respectable,

And virtuous, and old,

We love a lie, delectable,

If it's discreetly told.

A libel that is hot with spite

Affords us infinite delight.

But, oh! the Law's severity

Holds as an iron band;

It curbs our wild temerity,

And stays our dauntless hand.

Much defamation we would dare,

But Damages make us forbear.

Our duty to society

Is ever in our mind;

We stand for strict propriety -

For fear we should be fined.

We keep our sheet from libels free

Because it pays us best, you see.

We ever strive to stimulate

An arctic air of probity,

And virtues oft we fabricate

From nauseous necessity;

The pen is greater than the sword -

But Costs are things we can't afford.

First published in The Bulletin, 13 May 1915
Cartoon by Michael Leunig.

My week?  There have been some challenges but we are working with stakeholders to ensure a positive outcome. Code for 'flying by the seat of my pants'. At least there's swimming tonight. Some things stay the same.

Paths taken

Advice

~ Ella Wheeler Wilcox

I must do as you do? Your way I own

Is a very good way, and still,

There are sometimes two straight roads to a town,

One over, one under the hill.

You are treading the safe and the well-worn way,

That the prudent choose each time;

And you think me reckless and rash to-day

Because I prefer to climb.

Your path is the right one, and so is mine.

We are not like peas in a pod,

Compelled to lie in a certain line,

Or else be scattered abroad.

'T were a dull old world, methinks, my friend,

If we all just went one way;

Yet our paths will meet no doubt at the end,

Though they lead apart today.

You like the shade, and I like the sun;

You like an even pace,

I like to mix with the crowd and run,

And then rest after the race.

I like danger, and storm, and strife,

You like a peaceful time;

I like the passion and surge of life,

You like its gentle rhyme.

You like buttercups, dewy sweet,

And crocuses, framed in snow;

I like roses, born of the heat,

And the red carnation's glow.

I must live my life, not yours, my friend,

For so it was written down;

We must follow our given paths to the end,

But I trust we shall meet--in town.

Getting ready

Patience

~ Lisa Gordon

Stairs that rise to unused rooms, their amber afternoons:

hours that bear the weight - mahogany as patience -

of a bed made smooth and leather-bound books sequestered

like shoes queuing - the wrong way - to step out;

goods that wait in dressing-table drawers,

pink shimmer lipstick stubs, a sunset blush,

your hair still tangled - fast - in tortoise shell,

a silver compact - of flesh-coloured dust.

Rooms as expectant as looking glass. Even their windows

waiting for you - to step into air and speak.

On ice

Performance

~ Les Murray

I starred that night, I shone:

I was footwork and firework in one,

a rocket that wriggled up and shot

darkness with a parasol of brilliants

and a peewee descant on a flung bit;

I was busters of glitter-bombs expanding

to mantle and aurora from a crown,

I was fouéttes, falls of blazing paint,

para-flares spot-welding cloudy heaven,

loose gold off fierce toeholds of white,

a finale red-tongued as a haka leap:

that too was a butt of all right!

As usual after any triumph, I was

of course, inconsolable.

We went ice skating yesteday.  Complete novices all, except Charly who has been to the rink once before with school.  Ro-Ro clung to the edges the entire time.  Charly didn't stop for the full two hour sesssion. Little Wanna was quite ambitous and by the end was stepping out in the middle.  During the last few minutes however she took a tumble and fell on her outstretched palm - a strict no-no, we know, and had been reminding them constantly to fall by collapsing and not to put their arms out.  Now we are nursing a sore wrist.  Signs are it's not broken but we will keep close a watch on it.  So that was the end of Jane Torvill's first day on ice!  More ice.

Poem from Subhuman Redneck Poems, 1996

Bike ride to the gallery

We went for a bike ride yesterday.  Well, they did, while I scampered about the National Gallery of Australia checking out the new extension.   It was great.   High ceilings, lots of glass and as it was close to closing time, there weren't many visitors, just the odd tourist in shorts and local ladies in straw hats.  I almost had it to myself and smiled at the guards.

I thoroughly enjoyed the exhibition of photographic works by Australian-born Anton Bruehl from the 1920s to 1950s,  According to the gallery spiel, he "created inventive and perfectly realised colour photographs for Condé Nast magazines such as Vogue. His work ranges across advertising, images of stars of stage, screen and socialites to his personal photography in the classic documentary tradition."   Check out some features from the exhibition online.

The bike ride was great hit too.  A perfect day after earlier rain and the paths along the lake were quiet. The grass was so green and the canopy of trees provided ideal shade.  We all went home afterwards for ice-creams in cones.

{this moment}

{this moment} - A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember.  SouleMama

Ahhh-chooo

The Sneeze

    ~ Anon

I sneezed a sneeze into the air

It fell to the earth I know not where

But hard and froze were the looks of those

In whose vicinity I snoze.

Boy sneezes disperse across a larger surface area than those emitted by the girls in our household, we have discovered.  But they are not as noisy as you might expect given their velocity.  Poor Ro-Ro has chronic sniffles and emits double-bunger sneezes, usually at meal time.  They stop us all in our tracks.   Heaven help his long-suffering teacher who during the course of the day must surely witness his, and others, repeated, long nasal draw-backs interspersed with sudden explosive sneezes.  I hope he doesn't use his sleeve or the hem of his shirt!   

There are apparently linguistic differences associated with sneezing.  For example: 

In English we usually say "Atishoo or A-ch-oo"

In French the sound is "Atchoum."

"Hapsu" in Italian.

"Hakushon" in Japanese.

"Atjo" in Swedish.

Of course we also bring our individual style to a sneeze. Some have asked whether sneezing represents the "tip of the Sapir-Whorf hypothesis, whereby language controls or influences what you think? [That is], do people from different cultures and languages make a vocalisation that matches their lexical item for the action performed, as it is being performed?

Some observations which tickled my snoz are:

" I sneeze "Atchoo!", as do my English and Commonwealth friends. My wife and my boss (both Chinese - and meant here to signify different people) sneeze "Ha Chi!" Now it's hardly a coincidence that "da ha chi" is the Cantonese phrase for 'sneeze', nor that English nursery ryhmes feature such words as 'a-tisshoo'.

"My sneezes are just unintelligible garble: GAHZHXBBBRRRTTHEHAH!!! Always followed by a "whoa" as my synapses reassemble. None of those wimpy articulated sneezes for me."


"When I was a kid I decided I wanted to be a jungle commando, so I practiced learning to sneeze almost silently by making a sneeze silencer out of my fist. I subsequently thought better of my vocational choice, but still sneeze quietly."

Source: The Straight Dope
Image: Norman Rockwell

"In a minute"

MY HANDS WERE BUSY

~ Anon
 

My hands were busy through the day.

I didn’t have much time to play.

The little games you asked to do,

I didn’t have much time for you.

I’d wash your clothes. I’d sew and cook.

You’d ask and I’d read from your book.

I’d tuck you in all safe at night,

And hear your prayers; turn out the light.

Then tiptoe softly by your door,

I wish I’d stayed a minute more.

For life was short, the years rushed past,

A little boy grows up so fast.

No longer is he at my side,

His precious secrets to confide.

The picture books are put away.

There are no longer games to play.

No Teddy Bears or misplaced toys

No sleepovers with lots of boys.

No goodnight kiss, no prayers to hear.

That all belongs to yesteryear.

My hands, once busy, now are still.

The days are long and hard to fill.

I wish I could go back and do

The little things you asked me to do.

Boy this one rings true.  The working mother dilemma.  Yesterday I was in a flurry of cooking after school and shoo-ed everyone out of the kitchen.  I did pause while there were loud screams and giggles and arguments over whose turn it was and tears over wounds and requests  - puhleeasse - to play the DS, to remind myself that one day I will not hear boisterous children racing up the hall and nor will I have infinitesimal disputes to arbitrate, and I will miss it all madly.

Louisa's rock

The Rock and the Bubble

~ Louisa May Alcott

Oh! a bare, brown rock

Stood up in the sea,

The waves at its feet

Dancing merrily.

A little bubble

Once came sailing by,

And thus to the rock

Did it gayly cry,

Ho! clumsy brown stone,

Quick, make way for me:

I'm the fairest thing

That floats on the sea.

See my rainbow-robe,

See my crown of light,

My glittering form,

So airy and bright.

O'er the waters blue,

I'm floating away,

To dance by the shore

With the foam and spray.

Now, make way, make way;

For the waves are strong,

And their rippling feet

Bear me fast along."

But the great rock stood

Straight up in the sea:

It looked gravely down,

And said pleasantly

Little friend, you must

Go some other way;

For I have not stirred

this many a long day.

Great billows have dashed,

And angry winds blown;

But my sturdy form

Is not overthrown.

Nothing can stir me

In the air or sea;

Then, how can I move,

Little friend, for thee?

Then the waves all laughed

In their voices sweet;

And the sea-birds looked,

From their rocky seat,

At the bubble gay,

Who angrily cried,

While its round cheek glowed

With a foolish pride

You shall move for me;

And you shall not mock

At the words I say,

You ugly, rough rock.

Be silent, wild birds!

While stare you so?

Stop laughing, rude waves,

And help me to go!

For I am the queen

Of the ocean here,

And this cruel stone

Cannot make me fear.

Dashing fiercely up,

With a scornful word,

Foolish Bubble broke;

But Rock never stirred.

Then said the sea-birds,

Sitting in their nests

To the little ones

Leaning on their breasts,

Be not like Bubble,

Headstrong, rude, and vain,

Seeking by violence

Your object to gain;

"But be like the rock,

Steadfast, true, and strong,

Yet cheerful and kind,

And firm against wrong.

Heed, little birdlings,

And wiser you'll be

For the lesson learned

Today by the sea.

Yep - it reads a bit like a sentimental Hallmark narrative but contains a good message nonetheless.  We are tackling Good Wives at the moment, after having zipped through Little Women, so it was time to include a reference to Ms Alcott, the poet.

Country airs

Before green apples blush, Before green nuts embrown, Why, one day in the country is worth a month in town.  ~ Christina G. Rossetti

Well, Canberra's not quite 'country' but many would think it was still a good sheep paddock ruined.  We have two ornamental pear trees towering like sentinals out the back and a battened structure to hide the clothesline.  The trees you will note have grown lush and beautiful (perhaps looking a bit Michelin man)but not well placed to disguise the ornamental telegraph pole (despite the expensive landscaping... grrr, in hindsight).  The blossoms also emit the most foul smell at the height of the season.  I thought there must have been a dead animal stuck in the fence.  But it was truly the country smell of Spring blooms in all their putrid glory.   Thankfully it has now subsided and instead we have the cheep of baby magpies which the children think sound like Ron Weasley's owl.  With all this rain the handkerchief lawn is emerald and the creepers are going wild springing in all directions.  Our city glimpses have disappeared entirely.

Right, I'm off to chew a corn stalk... or cook dinner.

Papercraft

Two Children

    ~ Spike Milligan

Two children (small), one Four, one Five,

Once saw a bee go in a hive,

They'd never seen a bee before!

So waited there to see some more.

And sure enough along they came

A dozen bees (and all the same!)

Within the hive they buzzed about;

Then, one by one, they all flew out.

Said Four: 'Those bees are silly things,

But how I wish I had their wings!'

I love paper crafts but, like my profound lack of dexterity with a needle and thread, I am incapable of folding a straight line or using those sliding cutting devices (that I own one, shows I have not abandoned hope!).  This does create problems as I have three children eagerly expecting me to tutor them in creative pursuits, at the very least in card making, and I simply end up in a bigger mess than them and get all cranky.  The expressions and general demeanour of the paper dolls above mirror those of my children while witnessing my misguided attempts to go all Martha Stewart on them.

However, thankfully there are clever and enterprising people who give step-by-step instructions and free templates online.   One particular site is that of Marilyn Scott-Waters, a talented US book writer and illustrator, who has a website dedicated to paper toy-making with an abundance of free templates, including toys that move, gift boxes, paper dolls and maths and learning toys.  Gorgeous illustrations and lots of whimsical inspiration.  A visual feast.

Image by Marilyn Scott-Waters

Old things

You Are Old, Father William

      ~Lewis Carroll

"You are old, Father William," the young man said,

"And your hair has become very white;

And yet you incessantly stand on your head-

Do you think, at your age age, it is right?"

"In my youth," Father William replied to his son,

"I feared it might injure the brain;

But, now that I'm perfectly sure I have none,

Why, I do it again and again."

"You are old," said the youth, " as I mentioned before,

And have grown most uncommonly fat;

Yet you turned a back somersault in at the door-

Pray, what is the reason of that?"

"In my youth," said the sage, as he shook his grey locks,

"I kept all my limbs very supple

By the use of this ointment-one shilling the box-

Allow me to sell you a couple?"

"You are old," said the youth, " and your jaws are too weak

For anything tougher than suet;

Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the back-

Pray, how did you manage to do it?"

"In my youth," said his father, "I took to the law,

And argued each case with my wife;

And the muscular strength, which it gave to my jaw,

Has lasted the rest of my life."

You are old," said the youth, "one would hardly suppose

That your eye was steady as ever;

Yet, you balanced an eel on the end of your nose-

What made you so awfully clever?"

"I have answered three questions, and that is enough,"

Said his father. "Don't give yourself airs!

Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?

Be off, or I'll kick you downstairs!"

Seriously people, I am going to sort and get organised today.  There are bags of outgrown clothes stashed in the garage and boxes of toddler toys and books looking for a new home.  Rather than dump our old but good quality gear at the charity shop, (particularly as they seem to have become fashionable places for middle class 'thrifting'), I prefer to donate to organisations whose missions align with my values.  Some of my favourite ones in Canberra include Karinya House for mothers and babies, St John's Care at the parish in Reid and the Refugee Resettlement Committee at St John the Apostle in Kippax.  Small groups of people doing specific work to meet practical needs.  

Photo by me: The Strong Silent One's work boots.  He probably thinks they have a few good years of service left in them.   Intended to depict the old and worn, not an item suitable for charity, although I daresay these boots would be welcomed by the very poor in the Third World.  Sad thought really, and one which always bothers me when we need to discard our used and outgrown things.  

{this moment}

{this moment} - A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember.  Soule Mamma.

Well read and fed

Tea Party

I had a little tea party, this afternoon at three

Twas very small, three guests in all, I, Myself, and Me

Myself ate up the sandwiches, while I drank up the tea

'Twas also I who ate the pie and passed the cake to me!

Pretty much sums up the day.  But I did learn about Twitter via the marvellous Leigh Sales' regular Friday post on ABC's The Drum called the Well Read Head and mused over a great edited transcript of a talk by Annabel Crabb on 'The End of Journalism as We Know It', while I nibbled a mince pie and rocky road with instant coffee.  Both sort of work related (the online reading, that is, not the snacks) and an example of the absorbing treasure out there with links upon links that could consume hours, or I daresay, days while the children go unfed. 

Box of crayons

Box Of Crayons

~ Original Author Unknown

 While walking in a toy store

The day before today,

I over heard a Crayon Box

With many things to say.

"I don't like red!" said Yellow.

And Green said, "Nor do I !

And no one here likes Orange,

But no one knows quite why."

"We are a box of crayons

that really doesn't get along,"

Said Blue to all the others.

"Something here is wrong!

Well, I bought that box of crayons

And took it home with me

And laid out all the crayons

So the crayons could all see.

They watched me as I colored

With Red and Blue and Green

And Black and White and Orange

And every color in between.

They watched as Green became the grass

And Blue became the sky.

The Yellow sun was shining bright

On White clouds drifting by.

Colors changing as they touched,

Becoming something new.

They watched me as I colored.

They watched till I was through.

And when I'd finally finished,

I began to walk away.

And as I did the Crayon box

Had something more to say........

"I do like Red!" said the Yellow

And Green said, "So do I !"

And Blue you are terrific!

So high up in the sky."

"We are a Box of Crayons

Each of us unique,

But when we get together

The picture is complete."

Crayons never seemed to get used much in our household. They are messy and produce broad strokes of thick waxy colour unlike the thin clean lines of texta. We've tried all manner of drawing media from propellor crayons, novelty 'Mix 'Em" pens to glitter glue and watercolour pencils but we keep coming back to good old fashioned colour pencils and a tub of textas (or neo pens as we used to call them in the dark ages). Now, of course, I'm imagining those crayons sulking in the back of the craft cupboard while the pencils gloat.  Add to that the crayons' indignity of being recyled in patty cake tins and I think I can hear a riot brewing.   The art materials' version of Toy Story.

Photo by me: Mediocre attempt at melting old crayons in the oven / microwave to make fancy new multi-coloured ones.

Valuing Diversity

There was a small boy of Quebec

Who was buried in snow to his neck

When they said, "Are you friz?"

He replied, " Yes, I is —

But we don't call this cold in Quebec"

A bit of flurry this morning finalising the 'costumes' for the Valuing Diversity Parade at school.  Charly and Wanna wore our interpretation of Chinese national dress featuring mandarin collars and pig tails, while Ro-Ro donned a bucket hat and tee-shirt from Canada and professed his genuine love of pure maple syrup.  It was, admittedly, a bit of a scratch effort.  I expect the local diplomatic community will show us up with authentic outfits and impressive accessories.  I can't wait to hear about it. 
 
The school is also having an international children's lunch where students get to sample foods from around the world.  I expect my lot will hone in on the lamingtons and decline to sample anything remotely spicy, pale or odd looking.

Yesterday they experimented with a variety of craft activities depicting a foreign culture and came home with an interesting assortment of lanterns, paper rhinos and Venetian masks as well as an outstanding Egyptian collar made from beans and seeds which would go very well over my black polo sweater.  I took a photo of a  small collection I curated, for posterity, as these works will eventually, and possibly sneakily, find their way to the 'archives'.

Photo by me: {Pardon the socks}

Limerick by Rudyard Kipling

Racing away

The Old Timer's Steeplechase (an excerpt)

~ Andrew Barton Paterson

Then the last time round! And the hoofbeats rang!

And I said, "Well, it's now or never!"

And out on the heels of the throng I sprang,

And the spurs bit deep and the whipcord sang

As I rode. For the Mooki River!

We raced for home in a cloud of dust

And the curses rose in chorus.

'Twas flog, and hustle, and jump you must!

And The Cow ran well -- but to my disgust

There was one got home before us.

Old curmudgeon that I am, I really don't like the Melbourne Cup and the frenzied enthusiasm and forced workplace socialising.  I'm thinking I need to do some library research today, or volunteer for the audit commitee, or book the dentist, or help... schedule something, anything, to escape the fascinators, sellers of sweep tickets and trays of chicken drumsticks. Grandma loved a flutter on the gee-gees and did very well betting on the jockey's colours, but I just don't get it. 

It's also Valuing Diversity Day at school which is an opportunity to celebrate other cultures.  Today it involves various activities in rotation and tomorrow a food-fest. That sound like more fun. 

Photo by me: Zebra by Canberra scupltor, Alan Aston.

Weekend Witches

"Eye of newt, and toe of frog,

Wool of bat, and tongue of dog

Adder's fork, and blind-worm's sting,

Lizard's leg, and owlet's wing'

For a charm of powerful trouble,

Like a hell-broth boil and babble

'Double, double, toil and trouble,

Fire burn, and caldron bubble."

Little Wanna sat forlornly by the door, then peeked through the timber venetian blinds in the study and still no-one came knocking for Halloween. Ro-Ro gave up and went to bed.  I think because it was a school night, and last year the street was completely overwhelmed with trick or treaters - some of whom received a less than favourable reception around the neighbourhood - that folk decided to lie low.  Private parties seem to be the fashion this year. Thankfully one group of witches rang the doorbell so we were able to dispense some sweets.  I've mixed feelings about this imported custom. Still, the girls got into costume with the next door neighbours and whizzed back and forth between the two houses giggling excitedly.

Charly was completely pooped after a two day, two night Guide Camp in no-less-an-exciting venue than Queanbeyan High School. (It was meant to be the show grounds originally but changed for some inexplicable reason.)  Three hundred girls dossed down in a gymnasium and assembly hall ... in the rain. I take my hat off to the organisers.  Charly didn't know a soul but made the best of it and joined a sweet Unit of Junior Guides from Weston Creek.   Bravo girls!  So nice to have her home.

Verse: The Witches' Caldron from Macbeth by William Shakespeare.

Photo by me: The Mummy and the Witch in Princess Slippers.