Boxing Day

To Mrs K____, On Her Sending Me an English Christmas Plum-Cake at Paris

~ Helen Maria Williams 1761–1827

What crowding thoughts around me wake,

What marvels in a Christmas-cake!
Ah say, what strange enchantment dwells
Enclosed within its odorous cells?
Is there no small magician bound 
Encrusted in its snowy round?
For magic surely lurks in this,
A cake that tells of vanished bliss;
A cake that conjures up to view
The early scenes, when life was new;
When memory knew no sorrows past,
And hope believed in joys that last! —
Mysterious cake, whose folds contain
Life’s calendar of bliss and pain;
That speaks of friends for ever fled,
And wakes the tears I love to shed.
Oft shall I breathe her cherished name
From whose fair hand the offering came:
For she recalls the artless smile
Of nymphs that deck my native isle;
Of beauty that we love to trace,
Allied with tender, modest grace;
Of those who, while abroad they roam,
Retain each charm that gladdens home,
And whose dear friendships can impart
A Christmas banquet for the heart!

***

Charly and I got a bike for Christmas.  A turquoise beauty of sturdy contruction.  Today we shall have a test ride, eat fruit cake and wear-in Ro-Ro's new cricket gear.  I suspect the Boxing Day cricket commentary will be our sound track.  But at the moment, not everyone has roused themselves and there is peace before the day unfurls in a riot of colour, sound and movement.  The remnants of Christmas Day are strewn about the floor and in our memories.  We are blessed. 

Lights

 

The property in the Canberra suburb of Forrest in Australia is illuminated with 331,038 fairy lights making it the Guinness World Record holder for the Most Christmas Lights on a Residential Property.

Crazy!

We were there.

In the queue.

So hallow'd and so gracious is the time

Hamlet, Act 1, Scene 1 ~ William Shakespeare  Marcellus to Horatio and Bernardo, after seeing the Ghost Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated, This bird of dawning singeth all night long; And then, they say, no spirit dare stir abroad, The nights are wholesome, then no planets strike, No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm, So hallow'd and so gracious is the time. *** A blessed, quiet day at home to celebrate Christmas.  We baked a turkey for the first time ever and it was a roaring success.  But we now have a surplus of exquisite macadamia and dried fruit stuffing which was just not going to fit in that bird's cavity.  The children couldn't stand the suspense waiting for official present opening time.  We dragged it out as long as we could (until a reasonable hour for drinking champagne) and carefully opened each gift one by one.  We spent the rest of the day playing with Lego, giving phone calls and pottering about until the rains came in the late afternoon.  Then we snuggled up to watch Home Alone.   We were too relaxed to grapple with reading and absorbing the instructions for some new board and card games.  That will have to wait until another day in this glorious stretch of holidays.   Image: By me.  A nativity display in a garden adorned with Christmas lights somewhere in Kambah - the deep suburbs of Canberra.

Books Bought and Borrowed: The Nutcracker

One of our favourite Christmas classic books is the Young Reader's edition of The Nutcracker from the story by E.T.A Hoffman and illustrated by Don Daly.  We scooped up a sturdy hard-backed copy from the Sydney Opera House shop after the Australian Ballet's astounding performance of the same ballet a few years ago.

It's a longer version than might suit a single bedtime reading, but comprises five easily digestible chapters.  The book is unusually typeset in two columns which, as it turns out, is ideal for reading out aloud so you can scan ahead and adjust to the appropriate theatrical voice or facial expression.  The illustrations are a major treat; rich and detailed.  The sort of book you should read sitting snuggled up side-by-side with a child so they can absord the impressive full-page pictures while you bring the story to life.

The Three Drovers
Across the plains one Christmas night Three drovers riding blithe and gay, Looked up and saw a starry light More radiant than the Milky Way; And on their hearts such wonder fell, They sang with joy. 'Noel! Noel! Noel! Noel! Noel!'
- * -
The air was dry with summer heat, And smoke was on the yellow moon; But from the heavens, faint and sweet, Came floating down a wond'rous turn; And as they heard, they sang full well Those drovers three. 'Noel! Noel! Noel! Noel! Noel!'
- * -
The black swans flew across the sky, The wild dog called across the plain, The starry lustre blazed on high, Still echoed on the heavenly strain; And still they sang, 'Noel! Noel!' Those drovers three. 'Noel! Noel! Noel! Noel! Noel!'
- * -

Words by John Wheeler.
Music by William G.James.

School's Out!

Dashing through the bush in a rusty Holden ute,
Kicking up the dust, esky in the boot,
Kelpie by my side, singing Christmas songs,
It's summer time and I am in my singlet, shorts and thongs.

Oh! Jingle bells, jingle bells jingle all the way,
Christmas in Australia on a scorching summer's day,
Oh! Jingle bells, jingle bells, Christmas time is beaut,
Oh what fun it is to ride in a dusty Holden ute.

Engine's getting hot, we dodge the kangaroos,

The swaggie climbs aboard, he is welcome too.
All the family is there, sitting by the pool,
Christmas day in the Aussie way, by the Bar-b-cue. Oh!

School's out.  Summer holidays have begun.  We celebrated with an early evening scooter ride up and down a dodgy path by Lake Burley Griffin.  Tried skipping stones across the water's edge while dodging legions of black swans.  The pressure is on this morning to go to the pool or Big Splash.  I'm busy sorting school supplies, surveying the volumes of art works which have come home and contemplating the menu for Christmas Day.  Too late for cards, so I may have to compose an apologetic email to relatives and friends.  Still got up early this morning primed to make school lunches.  Seems quite bizarre not to have to set up the factory line of sliced bread and carrot sticks. 

Half-decorated by the children.

 

http://melstampz.blogspot.com/2011/11/free-tag-label-round-up-printables.html

http://melstampz.blogspot.com/2008/09/wee-houses-35-templates-tutorials.html

The Weary Blues
~ Langston Hughes

Droning a drowsy syncopated tune,
Rocking back and forth to a mellow croon,
I heard a Negro play.
Down on Lenox Avenue the other night
By the pale dull pallor of an old gas light
He did a lazy sway . . .
He did a lazy sway . . .
To the tune o' those Weary Blues.
With his ebony hands on each ivory key
He made that poor piano moan with melody.
O Blues!
Swaying to and fro on his rickety stool
He played that sad raggy tune like a musical fool.
Sweet Blues!
Coming from a black man's soul.
O Blues!
In a deep song voice with a melancholy tone
I heard that Negro sing, that old piano moan--
"Ain't got nobody in all this world,
Ain't got nobody but ma self.
I's gwine to quit ma frownin'
And put ma troubles on the shelf."

Thump, thump, thump, went his foot on the floor.
He played a few chords then he sang some more--
"I got the Weary Blues
And I can't be satisfied.
Got the Weary Blues
And can't be satisfied--
I ain't happy no mo'
And I wish that I had died."
And far into the night he crooned that tune.
The stars went out and so did the moon.
The singer stopped playing and went to bed
While the Weary Blues echoed through his head.
He slept like a rock or a man that's dead.

Early In The Morning I Hear On Your Piano
by Robert Louis Stevenson

EARLY in the morning I hear on your piano
You (at least, I guess it's you) proceed to learn to play.
Mostly little minds should take and tackle their piano
While the birds are singing in the morning of the day.

The Piano Man

PIANO TUNER, UNTUNE ME THAT TUNE

 ~ Ogden Nash

I regret that before people can be reformed they have to be sinners,
And that before you have pianists in the family you have to have
beginners.
When it comes to beginners' music
I am not enthusiastic.
When listening to something called "An Evening in My Doll House," or "Buzz,
Buzz, Said the Bee to the Clover,"
Why I'd like just once to hear it played all the way through, instead of that
hard part near the end over and over.
Have you noticed about little fingers?
When they hit a sour note, they lingers.
And another thing about little fingers, they are always strawberry-jammed or cranberry-jellied-y,
And "Chopsticks" is their favorite melody,
And if there is one man who I hope his dentist was a sadist and all his teeth
were brittle ones,
It is he who invented "Chopsticks" for the little ones.
My good wishes are less than frugal
For him who started the little ones going boggie-woogal,
But for him who started the little ones picking out "Chopsticks" on the ivories,
Well I wish him a thousand harems of a thousand wives apiece, and a
thousand little ones by each wife, and each little one playing "Chopsticks" twenty-four hours a day in all the nurseries of all his harems, or wiveries.

***

This was Little Wanna's end of year piano concert held in her classroom.  She played "Nobody Knows the Trouble I've Seen" (which I always call "Nobody Knows the Trouble I've Been") and Jingle Bells.  Months of lessons and practice, and all over in the twinkling of an eye.  So entranced was I by Ro-Ro's rendition of "Cockles and Mussels" that I completely forgot to take a photo.  It was a proud mamma moment.  Good effort kiddos and hearty thanks to the Piano Man for this adept tutoring under sometimes trying circumstances.  We ARE getting better at practice ... truly.

I love that our school offer music lessons during After School Care and enlists young musicians from the ANU School of Music to be the teachers.  It's a convenient and affordable option for working parents and a nice little earner and good experience for the teachers.  We've had doctorate students of the flute and ambitious young people whose aim is to make a living as professional musicians.  It will be as thrilling to watch their career trajectories as our own children's progress with their instruments. 

Christmas Memory

Candlelit Heart

~ Mary E. Linton

Somewhere across the winter world tonight
You will be hearing chimes that fill the air;
Christmas extends its all-enfolding light
Across the distance...something we can share.

You will be singing, just the same as I,
These familiar songs we know so well,
And you will see these same stars in your sky
And wish upon that brightest one that fell.

I shall remember you and trim my tree,
One shining star upon the topmost bough;
I will hang wreaths of faith that all may see --
Tonight I glimpse beyond the hear and now.

And all the time that we must be apart
I keep a candle in my heart.

***

Remembering my Mum and Dad at this time of year.  The children are thinking of Grandma too.  When I was a child we would have cut down our casaurina tree Christmas tree by now and ordered the ham for boiling in the copper tub down the back yard.  The dining room would be festooned with paper decorations and Chinese lanterns with thin tassles.  The wreath would be on the front door and Aunty Val in England's goblet candles would adorn the coffee table.   Mum would have made the Christmas cake and stirred in the threepences.  Whole watermelons and trays of mangoes would be chilling in the downstairs fridge.  Good memories.

Stories by the Christmas Tree

Christmas Cheer

~ Thomas Tusser

Good husband and housewife, now chiefly be glad,
Things handsome to have, as they ought to be had.
They both do provide, against Christmas do come,
To welcome their neighbors, good cheer to have some.

Good bread and good drink, a good fire in the hall,
Brawn, pudding, and souse, and good mustard withal.
Beef, mutton, and pork, and good pies of the best,
Pig, veal, goose, and capon, and turkey well drest,
Cheese, apples and nuts, and good carols to hear,
As then in the country is counted good cheer.

What cost to good husband, is any of this?
Good household provision only it is:
Of other the like, I do leave out a many,
That costeth the husband never a penny.

***

Haven't organised a thing for the holidays.  School ends next week and I'll have to arrange leave or book holiday programs by the end of next week.  While I'm faltering on the large-scale plans, we do have the gorgeous (real) Christmas tree half-decorated and have been playing carols and reading Christmas stories.  Our favourite is "Harvey Slumfenburger's Christmas Present" by John Burningham (2004).  We have a modest collection of seasonal stories that we drag down from the book shelf each year.  This one is a lovely tale, a real keeper, and the illustrations are charming; a point of conversation in themselves.   What DID Santa leave Harvey?   That rectangular box is the right shape, but too fat, for an iPad2 we decided.

It's Christmas Eve and there is one present left in Father Christmas's sack. It's for a small boy called Harvey Slumfenburger, who lives far, far away on top of the Roly Poly Mountain. But no journey is too far for Father Christmas!

Goggle-eyed, boggle-eyed

There was a Young Lady whose eyes,
Were unique as to colour and size;
When she opened them wide,
People all turned aside,
And started away in surprise.

~ Edward Lear

***

Poor old Little Wanna.  She wants a Christmas tree badly and right now.  She'll have to wait until the weekend when I hope we can make it to Santa's Christmas Tree Farm out yonder near Sutton or Gundaroo to pick our own live beauty.  Meantime, I bought a white, artificial tree with flashing lights for a table top.  I love a seasonal light show indoors. Turning it on in the morning and when we get home in the evenings.  But nothing beats the real Tree.   The rest of Christmas, notably the shopping and the catering, is nothing short of torture for me.   With overbearing work commitments for the SSO, it looks like it will be a quiet summer this year with no road trip.  Everyone is looking forward to staying put.  We need a rest, but I suspect some shorter trips to the beach and Sydney (for the Harry Potter exhibition or bust!) will be in order.  We have nothing planned or booked of course and the holidays are just around the corner!  Maximum disorganisation.

 Felt ornament on Etsy (Yellow Bug Boutique)

Local Places of Learning

I keep six honest serving-men

(They taught me all I knew);

Their names are What and Why and When

And How and Where and Who.

I send them over land and sea,

I send them east and west;

But after they have worked for me,

I give them all a rest.
 I let them rest from nine till five,

For I am busy then,

As well as breakfast, lunch and tea

For they are hungry men.

But different folk have different views.

I know a person small –

She keeps ten million serving-men,

Who get no rest at all!
She sends ‘em abroad on her own affairs,

From the second she opens her eyes –

One million Hows, two million Wheres

And seven million Whys!

***

We called in on the National Library of Australia (NLA) on the weekend to see the new exhibition, Handwritten Ten centuries of Manuscript Treasures from Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin and the permanent exhibition featuring Treasures from the library's own collection.  Both were excellent, but a bit of trial to enjoy thoroughly with three children in tow who were more eager to get to Questacon next door.  Congrats to the NLA for the online booking system too.  It worked a treat.

When finally we made it to Questacon, we marvelled at the new exhibition space called QLab.  It features a laboratory with microscopes and other hands-on activities which really get to the pointy end of science.  Very exciting.  But the good old sideshow exhibition with its simulated roller-coaster ride is still hard to beat for my superficial lot.

Both these national cultural institutions have significantly improved their interface with the public over the past year or so, and we are very grateful beneficiaries.   The landscaping around these national institutions has also undergone a transformation, so if you need a place to gather for a BBQ / picnic / rest on a lake walk, we heartily recommend the space between the NLA and Questacon.  With bonus grassy knolls for rolling down.

Poem: from The Elephant’s Child, Rudyard Kipling (1902)

Cinderella

We feasted on ballet yesterday.  It all began with a magical matinee performance of Cinderella by the West Australian Ballet Company.  It was my littlest ballerina's first-ever viewing of a professional ballet and she thought it was terrific despite the fact that interpreting the mime was a bit challenging at times.  "Are they going to speak?", she asked.

Japanese dancer Anna Ishii played the lead. But the two comic step-sisters really stole the show. There was no misinterpreting their expressions, gestures and characterisation.  A very clever, modern depiction of these traditional roles. The 1920's inspired costumes were also refreshingly different.

Here's what the company has to say about the production:

Choreographer Jayne Smeulders spins a tale of magic and delight in her first full-length choreography for the Company, whilst Allan Lees, designer of the spectacular 2010 production of Don Quixote, has created sumptuous new costumes and a beautifully restored and re-imagined set for this family ballet classic performed to Sergei Prokofiev’s evocative score.

Later that night, our budding Dame Margot participated in the National Capital Ballet School's end of year show which had the theme "Romanticism".  It was a thrilling experience for her and a credit to the teachers and management.  We were completely blown away by the talented young people, the magnificent costumes and clever sets.  Our little preparatory dance class performed a piece based on a Madeline-inspired group of children visiting an art gallery on a school excursion.  Cuteness abounded. The audience sighed. We applauded loudly.  Bravo.  Encore!

#aubama

Lincoln

~ Vachel Lindsay

Would I might rouse the Lincoln in you all,
That which is gendered in the wilderness
From lonely prairies and God’s tenderness.
Imperial soul, star of a weedy stream,
Born where the ghosts of buffaloes still dream,
Whose spirit hoof-beats storm above his grave,
Above that breast of earth and prairie-fire—
Fire that freed the slave.

***

Well, what a blast. President Obama on a whirlwind visit to Canberra. Since 3.30pm yesterday we've been transfixed with the unfolding narrative. It's been non-stop entertainment with Air Force One and the Beast, choppers and F-18 hornets overhead, high rhetoric and corny gags in Parliament House.  (We'll be looking out for the introduction of 'ear-bashing' into the vernacular in Washington.)

Speculation was rife, starting with conversations in the sandpit on the school oval and reaching fever pitch in the corridors late yesterday, that #aubama would visit our school but it was not to be.  He called on Campbell High School instead, dash it.  But I'm so glad it was a public school warts 'n all.  You've got to admit that BO is mighty charismatic.  We've been swooning all day in the office following twitter feeds and ABC news. Tragic isn't it! And now he's gone, it's all a bit flat.  Imagine if the First Lady had accompanied him.  We'd have been completely starstruck ;)

Still, he dedicated a white oak tree planted in grounds of the American Embassy so there's evidence it was not a mirage, and here's what he wrote in the visitor's book at Parliament House. 

"To the People of Australia, with whom we have stood together for a century of progress and sacrifice. On this 60th anniversary of our alliance, we resolve that our bonds will never be broken and our friendship will last for all time. Barack Obama." 

Poem: From General William Booth Enters into Heaven and Other Poems | 1913

Creative Collections

Pied Things

~ Gerald Manly Hopkins

Glory be, glory be, glory be to God for dappled things
Glory be, glory be, glory be to God for dappled things —
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Glory be, glory be, glory be to God for dappled things

Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches' wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced — fold, fallow, and plough;
And all trades, their gear and tackle and trim.
And all things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Praise him.

*** Little Miss M. is practicing styling on her dresser complete with rocks or rather a pile of builders' rubble amidst the girly trinkets.  She's quite a bower bird and makes shrines out of her found objects. But I don't know how she managed to smuggle this lot of rocks in.  I'll regularly find wrappers, pebbles, sticks, flowers and Shrinky Dinks* in her pockets and at the bottom of her school bag.. and then have to discreetly dispose of items.  Unless she catches me, then all hell breaks loose.

Right now she's making Beados** so that will be more creative material to add the installation art.

* Trade name of a children's craft kit which appears to involve drawing etched designs on lethally sharp pieces of a material designed by NASA.   Usually the by-product of After-School Hours Care or Holiday Programs.

** Tradename of a children's craft kit which involves the decorative placement of tiny coloured balls which adhere to each other when wet.  Falls apart easily and stray balls can be found for months later in strange places. 

Both need to be recalled in the interests of parental sanity... along with the dreaded Hama Beads.

Painted Nymphs

Haste Thee, Nymph
~ John Milton

Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee

Jest, and youthful Jollity,

Quips and cranks and wanton wiles,

Nods and becks and wreathed smiles

Such as hang on Hebe’s cheek,

And love to live in dimple sleek;

Sport that wrinkled Care derides,

And Laughter holding both his sides.

Come, and trip it, as you go,

On the light fantastic toe;

And in thy right hand lead with thee

The mountain-nymph, sweet Liberty;

And, if I give thee honour due,

Mirth, admit me of thy crew,

To live with her, and live with thee,

In unreproved pleasures free ...

***

We are gearing up for the end of year ballet performance with lots of rehearsals on the next few weekends. Unlike Charly's short-lived ballet career (and my own), this time we have stuck it out for a full year.  The show this time is a bigger affair too with paid seating in a proper theatre and costumes with make-up.  I'm not so sure about the need for foundation and mascara for girls under ten -- even for performances and under stage lighting.  I queried the necessity of this (not to mention the accompanying $30 price tag) with the Ballet Administration and the clerk looked at me like I was deranged.  Perhaps I am.  But honestly, we propel children towards adulthood so early, and we are a long way from signing on to a professional dance career at this stage.  Why not keep it fun and light-hearted?  We will no doubt bow to peer pressure and end up pirouetting in with a little face fully painted. 

Ro-Ro is also having group dance classes at school.  A source of much wincing and cringing when it comes to the partner dances.  The thought of make-up would be too much for him to bear.   Charly would also look like a doll in a horror movie wearing make-up.   It doesn't match her tomboy personality and wardrobe of shorts and leggings (worn together). 

So glad it's the weekend. I can even see beyond swimming lessons tonight and the bucket loads of laundry -- a gallery visit and a bike ride perhaps?  Walk 'round the lake? A few episodes of Glee Season 2?  Very excited about President Obama and Princess Mary of Denmark coming to town this month.   Mary is off to the National Arboretum I see.  Must put that on the agenda too. 

Oops.  Must dash.  As Charly would say, "Out".

  

Soft boiled googie eggs

The Man from Ironbark

~ Andrew Barton "Banjo' Paterson (1864-1941).

Poet, ballad writer, journalist and horseman.

It was the man from Ironbark who struck the Sydney town,

He wandered over street and park, he wandered up and down.

He loitered here, he loitered there, till he was like to drop,

Until at last in sheer despair he sought a barber's shop.

`'Ere! shave my beard and whiskers off, I'll be a man of mark,

I'll go and do the Sydney toff up home in Ironbark.'

The barber man was small and flash, as barbers mostly are,

He wore a strike-your-fancy sash, he smoked a huge cigar:

He was a humorist of note and keen at repartee,

He laid the odds and kept a `tote', whatever that may be,

And when he saw our friend arrive, he whispered `Here's a lark!

Just watch me catch him all alive, this man from Ironbark.'

There were some gilded youths that sat along the barber's wall,

Their eyes were dull, their heads were flat, they had no brains at all;

To them the barber passed the wink, his dexter eyelid shut,

`I'll make this bloomin' yokel think his bloomin' throat is cut.'

And as he soaped and rubbed it in he made a rude remark:

`I s'pose the flats is pretty green up there in Ironbark.'

A grunt was all reply he got; he shaved the bushman's chin,

Then made the water boiling hot and dipped the razor in.

He raised his hand, his brow grew black, he paused awhile to gloat,

Then slashed the red-hot razor-back across his victim's throat;

Upon the newly shaven skin it made a livid mark --

No doubt it fairly took him in -- the man from Ironbark.

He fetched a wild up-country yell might wake the dead to hear,

And though his throat, he knew full well, was cut from ear to ear,

He struggled gamely to his feet, and faced the murd'rous foe:

`You've done for me! you dog, I'm beat! one hit before I go!

I only wish I had a knife, you blessed murdering shark!

But you'll remember all your life, the man from Ironbark.'

He lifted up his hairy paw, with one tremendous clout

He landed on the barber's jaw, and knocked the barber out.

He set to work with tooth and nail, he made the place a wreck;

He grabbed the nearest gilded youth, and tried to break his neck.

And all the while his throat he held to save his vital spark,

And `Murder! Bloody Murder!' yelled the man from Ironbark.

A peeler man who heard the din came in to see the show;

He tried to run the bushman in, but he refused to go.

And when at last the barber spoke, and said, `'Twas all in fun --

'Twas just a little harmless joke, a trifle overdone.'

`A joke!' he cried, `By George, that's fine; a lively sort of lark;

I'd like to catch that murdering swine some night in Ironbark.'

And now while round the shearing floor the list'ning shearers gape,

He tells the story o'er and o'er, and brags of his escape.

`Them barber chaps what keeps a tote, By George, I've had enough,

One tried to cut my bloomin' throat, but thank the Lord it's tough.'

And whether he's believed or no, there's one thing to remark,

That flowing beards are all the go way up in Ironbark.

***

Marvellous eggs from the backyard chooks of my friend J.  We lopped their humpty-dumpty heads off and enjoyed the brilliant, sun-orange yolks; looking and tasting unlike any supermarket googie.

I've noticed that chooks are the new 'trampoline' for backyards in Canberrra (as in, a popular feature).  A decade ago it was pergolas.  Now every-one is getting a chicken coop.

Nigel Featherstone, a Goulburn-based author, columnist in The Canberra Times and blogger, recounted having heard them described as 'just like having an open fire in the backyard' - as mesmerising to watch - which I thought was beaut.  The SSO, however, does not agree and our clipped garden would not lend itself to having hens scratch up the lawn.  So it looks like we'll be sticking with the trampoline and badminton set.

No Hens Allowed.

Livin' and Lovin'

“Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.” ~ Mark Twain

“It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live.”
~  J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone

“How many slams in an old screen door? Depends how loud you shut it. How many slices in a bread? Depends how thin you cut it. How much good inside a day? Depends how good you live 'em. How much love inside a friend? Depends how much you give 'em.”
~ Shel Silverstein

***

Home again with a sick child.  I'll be so glad when this year is over.  I'm hoping all the illnesses will be over and done with so we can start afresh in 2012.  We even had our first experience with the Emergency Department this weekend as a result of a child with a croupy cough and laboured breathing. It was not a reassuring experience. 

Seven hours later, without having seen a doctor, the Strong Silent One, in consultation with nurse, decided to bail out at 4.30 am and come home.  There were still people ahead of us apparently.  Just keep her calm, they said. No magic elixir. Indeed, she is much better now after a home-nursing regime of rest, fluids and paracetamol.  On the night in question, I stayed up restlessly reading The Briny Cafe (still on my Susan Duncan binge), sipping hot milk and ironing like a woman possessed.  Charly and Ro-Ro displayed such loving care and concern for their little sister, that it made me wilt.  There were anxious questions and resolves to maintain a vigil until Daddy phoned in from the hospital.  She was equally desperate to see them when she woke.

Not having brothers or sisters of my own, this is the closest I've come to experiencing the intimate ties that bind siblings.  My three demonstrated this weekend how dearly and deeply they love each other.  I also noticed quite starkly, for the first time, how naturally they complement each other in temper and talent.  When one is not there, it's like a vital cog is missing.  It's been a sentimental (and tiring) ride these past few days.

Photo by me.  Gnome painting at Floriade, October 2011.

Baseball has the great advantage over cricket of being sooner ended.

~ George Bernard Shaw

***

Ain't that the truth.  Now that Wednesday soccer practice has been replaced by cricket practice and Sunday mornings will henceforth be dedicated to the sport.  Not to mention the televised version which will no doubt become our summer wallpaper music. The drone of the commentators. Strangely comforting nonetheless.  Nostalgic. Ro-Ro has decided to take his plastic cricket bat to school for lunchtime matches.  It sticks out of his backpack with pride.  Meantime I have grass stains to wash from the knees of white trousers but that is the extent of my commitment. 

Photo: By me.  Cricket practice at the local nets.

Wedding anniversary

To My Dear and Loving Husband

  ~ Anne Bradstreet (1612-1672)

If ever two were one, then surely we.

If ever man were loved by wife, then thee.

If ever wife was happy in a man,

Compare with me, ye women, if you can.

I prize thy love more than whole mines of gold,

Or all the riches that the doth hold.

My love is such that rivers cannot quench,

Nor ought anything but love from thee give

Thy love is such I can no way repay;

The heavens reward thee manifold, I pray.

Then while we live, in love let’s so persevere

That when we live no more, we may live ever.

***

Thanks for the ferris wheel rides, home delivered pizza, televised rugby and all the other things that drive me nuts.  

Photo by me: Floriade, Canberra. October 2011.

A meditation on the sea

In my Kitchen in New York

~ Allen Ginsberg

Bend knees, shift weight

Picasso's blue deathhead self portrait

tacked on refrigerator door

This is the only space in the apartment

big enough to do t'ai chi

Straighten right foot and rise--I wonder

if I should have set aside that garbage

pail

Raise up my hands and bring them back to

shoulders--The towels and pyjama

laundry's hanging on a rope in the hall

Push down and grasp the sparrow's tail

Those paper boxes of grocery bags are

blocking the closed door

Turn north--I should hang up all

those pots on the stovetop

Am I holding the world right? That

Hopi picture on the wall shows

rain and lightning bolt

Turn right again--thru the door, God

my office space is a mess of

pictures and unanswered letters

Left on my hips--Thank God Arthur Rimbaud's

watching me from over the sink

Single whip--piano's in the room, well

Steven and Maria finally'll move to their

own apartment next week! His pants're

still here and Julius in his bed

This gesture's the opposite of St. Francis

in Ecstasy by Bellini--hands

down for me

I better concentrate on what I'm doing

weight in belly, move by hips

No, that was the single whip--that apron's

hanging on the North wall a year

I haven't used it once

Except to wipe my hands--the Crane

spreads its wings have I paid

the electric bill?

Playing the guitar do I have enough $

to leave the rent paid while I'm

in China?

Brush knee--that was good

halavah, pounded sesame seed,

in the icebox a week

Withdraw and push--I should

get a loft or giant living room

The land speculators bought up all

the square feet in Manhattan,

beginning with the Indians

Cross hands--I should write

a letter to the Times saying

it's unethical

Come to rest hands down knees

straight--I wonder how

my liver's doing. O.K. I guess

tonite, I quit smoking last

week. I wonder if they'll blow

up an H Bomb? Probably not.

***

Actually, this is tai chi, Karate Kid-style, on a quiet road in a sleepy outpost by the south coast of New South Wales.  The photo was taken months ago when we last had a weekend away. I can't tell you how much I miss the beach, stuck here, land-locked on a warm, bright and cloudless day. I can hear the bush birds call from my vantage point in bed looking out across the treetops.  If only the ocean was on the other side.  We could go for a morning walk along the shore, eye the horizon and inhale the tangy air.  But it's the start of the cricket season and the first match begins today.  The boys have headed off early, faces glowing with sunscreen. The girls and I are lolling about, doing our own thing.  There's no milk.  The thought of Monday has already inserted itself into the lazy morning and dictated the chores that need to be completed before sundown. It seems like a harsh, unnatural rhythm; unlike the ebb and flow of the tide.  Pesky practicalities intruding on a meditation. 

Bikes in History

Mulga Bill's Bicycle

~AB (Banjo) Patterson

'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that caught the cycling craze;
He turned away the good old horse that served him many days;
He dressed himself in cycling clothes, resplendent to be seen;
He hurried off to town and bought a shining new machine;
And as he wheeled it through the door, with air of lordly pride,
The grinning shop assistant said, "Excuse me, can you ride?"


"See here, young man," said Mulga Bill, "from Walgett to the sea,
From Conroy's Gap to Castlereagh, there's none can ride like me.
I'm good all round at everything as everybody knows,
Although I'm not the one to talk - I hate a man that blows.
But riding is my special gift, my chiefest, sole delight;
Just ask a wild duck can it swim, a wildcat can it fight.
There's nothing clothed in hair or hide, or built of flesh or steel,
There's nothing walks or jumps, or runs, on axle, hoof, or wheel,
But what I'll sit, while hide will hold and girths and straps are tight:
I'll ride this here two-wheeled concern right straight away at sight."

***

A while ago we had a weekend excusion to the Australian War Memorial which has a marvellous children's section complete with replicas of whirring helicopters, smelly submarines and life on the home front.  It is a very worthwhile place to visit but I do need to remind my son of the horrors of war rather than the Boy's Own excitement of all the battle dioramas and display cases full of dashing military garb and real artillery. 

Here we are peddling away on a stationary bike in one of the social history displays - a rather spindly affair which reminded me of my own trusty, childhood steed; back in the days when bikes had front and rear mud guards, skirt guards and a levered contraption above the back wheel on which to strap your school bag, in addition to a snazzy wire basket on the handle bars and a bell.  There were no gears or hand-brakes and we seemed to get around quite fine without them. 

We hardly ever go cycling these days.  The children don't ride to school and as we are at the top of a hill with busy roads nearby, we don't allow them to ride unaccompanied.  It is usually a big production to strap the bikes onto the car and drive to one of Canberra's spectacular bike paths for a short ride.  A quite unfortunate predicament.

Welcome Your Majesty

Queen Elizabeth II is in town.  It is her 16th visit to Australia.  I'm a bit sentimental about the Queen; not so the institution she represents, but the woman herself.   I'll also confess to having soft spot for official visit programs for Heads of State and Heads of Government, with each item on the itinerary listed in impeccable detail -- every step accounted for, the security protocols, the gift exchanges, speeches and hand-shakes.

She'll be visiting Floriade and taking a boat ride along Lake Burley Griffin today.  She has picked a fine day for a bit of sightseeing.  Perfect Canberra weather.   I wonder if we'll catch a glimpse of her entourage at some stage over the next week or so?

Photo:  By me. Dress-ups at the Museum of Australian Democracy, October 2011.

xxx

October School Holidays: Howzat!

Twice a Week the Winter Thorough

~ A. E. Housman

Twice a week the winter thorough

Here stood I to keep the goal:

Football then was fighting sorrow

For the young man's soul.

Now in Maytime to the wicket

Out I march with bat and pad:

See the son of grief at cricket

Trying to be glad.

Try I will; no harm in trying:

Wonder 'tis how little mirth

Keeps the bones of man from lying

On the bed of earth.

***

School holidays are almost over and we've had a relaxing time at home for most of it.  Ro-Ro participated in the Kookaburra Cup cricket series at Manuka Oval and a separate, junior cricket clinic.  He's come home with two decent cricket hats signed by Ricking Ponting, two souvenir shirts made of a synthetic, breeze-through material, $10 off voucher from the Sportmans Warehouse and a couple of ornamental cricket ball key rings as part of the kit.  I hope he also picked up some decent cricket skills. 

The rest of us have enjoyed a semi-open house arrangement with the neighbouring children which has involved lots of competitive DS and Wizard 101 tournaments, zipping over the lower part of the fence at the back of the yard to bounce on our respective trampolines and probably eating twice as many snacks as strictly necessary as they blithely saunter into each other's kitchens and raid the pantry.

I've been cooking up a storm myself in order to use up left overs.  Rather like the daytime TV show which involves a chef and a member of the studio audience having to devise a menu around a handful of ingredients, this has resulted in some unexpected creations such as almond friands from "out of the fire and into the frying pan" - a collection of recipes from the Duffy Primary School community and friends - October 2003, Nigella Lawson's Mughlai Chicken and Susan Duncan's "House at Salvation Creek" Lemon Cake.   The results have been varied.  I blame the oven.  It has been fun trying though, without the pressure which normally accompanies the after school and work, weekday rush.  I could so get used to this more moderate tempo, in which I can hear and listen to bird calls and notice the flowering azaleas and lavender in the garden, rather than leave it all behind each morning unnoticed and unappreciated in a workday blur.  Would I miss work?

Ode to Birds

Ode to Bird Watching

~ Pablo Neruda

Now

Let's look for birds!

The tall iron branches

in the forest,

The dense

fertility on the ground.

The world

is wet.

A dewdrop or raindrop

shines,

a diminutive star

among the leaves.

The morning time

mother earth

is cool.

The air

is like a river

which shakes

the silence.

It smells of rosemary,

of space

and roots.

Overhead,

a crazy song.

It's a bird.

A little while ago, we trekked off to the Jerrabomberra Wetlands to investigate the walks and bird-watching huts.  There's a bit of re-vitalisation work going on to remove willow from the waterways which is not so attractive, but there is also a charming bike path connecting the suburbs of Russell to Kingston which threads its way though prettier sections.  It turned into a scout's adventure.  We did spot a few birds but, alack and alas, we did not have our copy of John Gould's Birds of Australia and cannot recall what they were.  

I'm on a mission to take the children on similar exploratory ganders around Canberra especially now that the weather is warmer and the days longer.  Just an occasional short walk beyond our usual orbit to make us appreciate how much open space we have in the Bush Capital.   I'm inspired by Tim the Yowie Man who writes a highly informative column about local places roundabout these here parts in the Panorama magazine which falls out of the Saturday edition of The Canberra Times.  He also tweets.  Heh, like a bird (sorry).  We also admire his hat.  Check him out and get walking.