Mamalade

It’s an uneasy feeling… when you hear sirens in the night. It means trouble for someone.

It’s a terrifying feeling…when the air is suddenly filled with sirens and simultaneously, your phone rings. What has happened?

It was my sister Relle on the phone.

“Evidently you’re all right,” she sounded relieved. “Where’s the fire?”

“Fire?” I realised now that I could smell smoke.

“It’s over your way – and it’s huge!”

“Hang on,” I said. “I’ll have a look.”

Everything was peaceful out the front. Then I looked through a back window. The sky was bright orange and great clouds of smoke billowed behind the neighbours’ houses. The lights were on in all the houses. Everyone was up.

“It’s over the back,” I told Relle. “I hope it’s not a house.”

“Probably the bushland,” she said. “Give us a ring if it gets too close.”

It’s not likely to come this far, I thought, but I’d better see if my neighbour over the back is all right.” I dialled her number.

“Girlie, where’s the fire?

“Oh, I’m so scared, I feel sick,” she said. “It must be near the Scout Hall. Do you want to come over and have a look?”

I grabbed my coat and ran over. Girlie was in her dressing gown.

“I was wondering if I should get dressed, just in case,” she said. “Come and look out the window!”

We still couldn’t see where the fire was, but we could hear the crackle and saw occasional flashes of flames that were fanned by the gusty wind.

“I ought to take a photo,” said Girlie.

“It probably won’t come out,” I said, “but there’s no harm in trying.”

She leaned out the casement window with her camera. “Should I use the flash?”

“No, it won’t reach that far.” It was just an ordinary camera like mine.

She took several pictures.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, telling me not to use the flash!” she said.

“You’re talking to the person who cuts off heads and walks all over Melbourne taking pictures without a film in the camera!” I reminded her.

“I think I’ll take one with the flash.”

The fire seemed to be diminishing.

“I feel better now that you’re here,” said Girlie. “I was so worried on my own.”

“I don’t think it would get this close.”

“No, but if the wind blew the sparks…”

Horrors! I hadn’t thought of that. I thought of my pine tree – way too tall and too close to the house. If a spark flew into that….

When I went home I found a new battery for my smoke alarm. I haven’t used it since that night it wouldn’t stop shrieking. But as soon as I put in the battery the alarm started to shrill. It must be faulty. Or maybe it was the smoke in the air.

I removed the battery and sat up until all the angry glow went out of the sky.

Next morning I drove past the Scout Hall. It was unscathed, but the bushland behind it was black and still smoking.

Everything around is dry. I wish it would rain.

Scrambled eggs

The shops were busy yesterday, after being closed for the Brisbane Show holiday the day before. Thanks to the flu, I didn’t get to the Show this year.

“Don’t buy milk this week,” Mum told me. “My neighbour brought us plenty from the show.” Mum’s neighbour has relatives who exhibit cattle at the Show.

There seemed to be a lot of muffled coughs in the aisles of the supermarket – which proves you don’t have to go to the Show to trade viruses. A woman I know had her trolley well stocked with boxes of tissues and was studying the labels on various flu remedies.

“I think I’m going down with it,” she told me.

“I took these cold tablets,” I advised her, “and zinc lozenges.”

“Did they help?”

“I don’t know yet. I still feel lousy.”

“I’m getting the horse radish and garlic,” she decided.

“We’ll exchange notes next time I see you!”

I had almost completed my shopping when I remembered the eggs. I pushed my recalcitrant shopping trolley to the next aisle and reached for free-range eggs.

Pity they’re so much dearer, I thought, but I don’t want to support the battery hen industry. If I reach further back I might get a pack with a longer due date…

Splat!! The egg carton slipped from my grip and spilled its contents onto the floor. I hastily scooped up as much egg as I could into the broken shells. The rest spread across the floor in a gooey mess.

A little blue-haired lady came up behind me. “Here’s a tissue, dear,” she said. “It might help.”

“Thanks,” I said, “but I think I’d better find someone with a mop.”

It took a while for someone with a mop and bucket to arrive on the scene. I watched from a discreet distance as shoppers maneuvered their trolleys around the mess. Someone made a barricade around it with cans of tomato soup.

I still hadn’t got my eggs. Should I go back, I wondered – or would everyone point and shout “There she is – she’s the one who made the mess!”

Finally I made a quick dash and grabbed the closest carton of free-range eggs. Never mind the date stamp! The blue-haired lady gave me an encouraging smile as I passed her.

When I buy free-range eggs it probably has as much effect on the battery hen industry as the little lady’s tissue would on the mess I made.

But just imagine…if everyone bought free-range eggs, all the hens would soon be free.

And if enough little ladies started mopping with a tissue…they could clean up the world!

Drink your milk

“Don’t forget your milk,” said Mum as I was leaving her place. She handed me a two- litre bottle. It’s from champion cows. They won a lot of prizes at the Show…but it will have to be used soon – it’s not pasteurized.”

“I’ll make a rice pudding,” I said.

“You could,” said Mum. “but it’s beautiful to drink.

Next morning I took the prize-winning milk from the fridge. It was rich and creamy. I unscrewed the lid and took a sniff…

Bleaugghh!!

I remember now … I hated milk when I was a kid.

Dad was a milkman when I was small. I used to love to go with him to a farm to pick up the fresh milk. But I couldn’t drink the stuff.

Mum gave me hot Milo made with milk before I went to bed. I remember one night she left the room, telling me my cup had better be empty when she came back. It was. I quickly poured it down the sink – and I’ve been feeling guilty ever since!

When I was nine, we moved to a small farm. I liked to help milk the cows, watching the warm frothy milk squirt into the bucket. But I couldn’t drink the stuff.

Then the government brought in the “Milk for schools” scheme. Early in the morning the crates of milk bottles would be delivered to our school and they would be left to sit in the heat until 11 a.m. – “Little Lunchtime.” It was revolting. Occasionally it had a really vile flavour when the cows had been eating some kind of weed.

But we were ordered to drink it – or else! Mum solved my problem by giving me a small bottle containing a mixture of cochineal, vanilla and sugar to add to my milk. I instantly became very popular. Everyone would crowd around begging for a drop to flavour their milk. I had to take extra supplies to appease the clamouring throng. I don’t know why no one else thought to bring their own – or why it never occurred to me to ask Mum not to colour the mixture with cochineal. I might have been left in peace if my milk wasn’t pink.

Pasteurization has almost made milk bearable these days. But there’s no way I could drink that prize-winning stuff from the Show.

So I’ve used it to make cakes for our next Street Stall. They’ll keep in the freezer till then. I made four Bran Loaves and two trays of Coconut Muffins. Better than drinking the stuff.

I used the 5 cup recipe for Bran Loaves – 1 cup bran, 1 cup milk, 1 cup dried fruit, 1 cup sugar (1/2cup sugar is really enough) and 1 cup Self-Raising Flour.

Coconut cake is 1 cup coconut, 1 cup milk, 1 cup sugar, 2 cups Self-Raising Flour. So easy, even I can do it!

Insult to injury

I thought I’d had my share of flu this year. I wouldn’t mind (at least not so much) if, by taking a double share I was saving someone else from the misery – but it doesn’t seem to work that way.

I’ve been out of action most of the week, tucked up in bed with a big box of tissues. But I’m starting to get my fighting spirit back.

I’ve just written a letter to our local council member complaining about pensioners having to pay to make their driveways usable. It won’t do any good of course, but I had to give my opinion.

To add insult to injury, someone made footprints all over my parent’s driveway while the cement was wet. Their neighbour smoothed it over with a trowel. But next morning, Mum was dismayed to find graffiti scrawled in the concrete.

“Well, at least it’s not obscene,” I consoled her. “And it gives your driveway more character!”

She didn’t find much comfort in the thought.

Special guest

We had a special guest at our World Vision meeting. Pam, our Area Manager has visited some of the World Vision projects and she came to share some of her experiences.

Her most moving story, I thought, was about the lace tablecloth that one of her group bought from a woman in India. As the sale was completed, the woman burst into tears, much to the concern of the group.

When questioned, the woman told them through an interpreter that she had planned to sell her daughter into prostitution the following week in order to survive. But the sale of the tablecloth meant that now she didn’t have to.

Pam also told us about the guinea worm in Sudan that finds a host in people who drink polluted water. When developed the three-foot long worm takes several weeks to emerge through a painful ulcer on the victim’s leg.

This has been a frequent occurrence, but World Vision is now providing a gauze cover for people to filter their drinking water. And it only costs twenty cents! Some problems can be fixed so simply!

A strange request

Friends who know I collect things for our Jumble Sales often call in with stuff for us – and sometimes they come with special requests. Last week a friend came looking for blankets for a family in need. I get quite a thrill out of finding what people need. As she was leaving, another one turned up with a bag of clothes and toys. She stayed for a cuppa and talked enthusiastically about her garden.

“You don’t have any worm poo, do you?” she asked, half in jest.

This must be the strangest request I’ve ever had.

Now remember, I won a container of worm castings in a raffle last year? Although I have plenty of plants, I still hadn’t used it. I was saving it for something special. I knew in that instant that this was the moment I’d saved it for. And it was really special just to see the look on her face when I told her,

“As a matter of fact, I do!”

She was so thrilled with the worm poo, she gave me an extra donation for World Vision and has promised me some plants.

Ah, that was worth it!

What name?

Pet owners are usually friendly. In the supermarket, for instance, when you are selecting a can of cat food, another customer invariably comes along and tells you about their own cat and its eating habits.

It’s was like that in the vet’s waiting room when Mum and I took Panther back to get the drain removed from his abscess. (I had been dreading this visit.) We soon learned the names and histories of all the other patients. Ash, the 6-months-old kitten had just been spayed. April was a silky terrier, whose former owners had mistreated her. The big dog was Mac and the parrot was Joe.

Panther wailed mournfully in his carry cage until Cici, the vet’s resident cat sauntered in and sat for a moment in front of Panther.

I don’t know what communication passed between them, but Panther suddenly stopped crying and waited quietly for his turn.

It took no time at all for the vet to take the drain out of Panther’s face. He rubbed some kind of lotion on Panther’s face. Panther purred and raised his chin for more.

Before we left, Mum made an appointment to come back in five days time to get the stitches out.

“What name?” asked the receptionist.

Mum hesitated. “Do you mean my name or the cat’s?” she asked.

We all laughed.

We were so relieved it was all over. And so was Panther once he was back home again!

Aid for Panther

My niece Shea turned twelve this week. We had a family party at Mum and Dad’s – a rather noisy affair, with the older boys getting over-excited, the little ones clamouring to be heard while the mothers reprimanded and the fathers talked loudly above the din. Just a normal family, I guess.

Panther came inside to join the party. He’s a sociable cat and doesn’t seem to mind the noise. We told the kids to be gentle because Panther had a sore face. Three-year-old Matthew ran into the bathroom and returned with a band-aid for Panther.

Fighting City Hall

The roadworks were still in progress when I went to pick Mum up for our Jumble Sale. They had finished digging and were working on the kerbing. I parked the car at the end of the street again and we clambered past bulldozers and cement mixers.

We had some interesting customers at the Jumble Sale. One lady told us about UFO’s that come from the centre of the earth. Then a man came in and said he’d come from a submarine. He had a bottle of Port and wanted a cup so he could mix water with it. I offered him a mug for fifty cents. He said, “I don’t want to buy one, I just want to take it with me!”

He finally selected a mug and promised to come back later with fifty cents. I said, “Don’t bother, this one is on us.” I felt I’d rather pay the fifty cents than have him back again. After he went, another man who had been listening to all this, told me “I’m sane – it’s just the way they dress me!”

The kerbing along the road was finished when I drove Mum home. All the driveway entrances had been concreted – except Mum and Dad’s. I thought they must be coming back to finish it, but Dad said, “No, that’s all they’re doing.”

This morning I phoned the City Council and was told they were only doing the driveway entrances that had originally been concreted.

“But some of the others didn’t have concrete before,” I protested.

“They asked us to do them.” I was told. “And they paid for it.”

That sounds fair enough – but Mum and Dad had a big double driveway entrance before, and the ground was firm to drive over. The council had reduced it to a very narrow single entrance and there were already deep ruts from the car wheels. And just imagine it in wet weather!

“It would have been nice if they’d been asked if they wanted it done.” I said.

“They can still have it done,” the man said, “if they pay for it.”

Mum phoned this afternoon to tell me their driveway entrance has now been concreted. But she had to pay before they did it.

And it’s still only a narrow entrance – not nearly as good as the one they had before.

The council hasn’t heard the last from me!