Mamalade

Miles (my three-year-old grandson) got into a cardboard box and set up his shop again.

“Come and buy your little boy a Buzz Lightyear!” he invited.

I approached the box. “Do you have a Buzz Lightyear for my little boy?”

“No,” I was told, “Only teddy bears.”

“Isn’t this a Buzz Lightyear shop?”

Miles pointed to the imaginary sign above his head. “It says ‘Teddy Bear Shop.”

“But my little boy wants a Buzz Lightyear. Where can I buy a Buzz Lightyear?”

Miles sighed in exasperation “At the Buzz Lightyear shop.”

“Where is the Buzz Lightyear shop?”

“Over there!” He jumped out of the box and quickly dragged it across the yard.

I walked over and knocked on the box. “Is this a Buzz Lightyear shop?”

Miles indicated above his head. “It says Buzz Lightyear shop.”

“Good. I’d like to buy one for my little boy.”

“There’s only this big one left.”

“My little boy will love that!” I handed him my imaginary money. “Can you put it in a bag for me?”

Thee shop keeper suddenly dashed back across the yard with the box and announced “Your little boy is back again!”

“Look, I’ve bought you a present!” I handed him the imaginary bag.

Miles peered into it. “It’s only a Buzz Lightyear.” He said flatly.

“But you wanted a Buzz Lightyear. It can fly.”

“It doesn’t work,” said Miles. “It doesn’t have any batteries.”

“I’ll have to buy some. Where can I buy batteries?”

“At the battery shop” The box was whisked across the yard again and the sign above it now proclaimed “Battery shop.”

“Can I have batteries for a Buzz Lightyear?” I asked. “It’s a big one, so I’ll need big batteries.”

As soon as the transaction was completed the box swiftly travelled back to its original position.

“Your little boy is back!”

“Here you are,” I said, “I bought you some batteries for your Buzz Lightyear.”

Miles fumbled with imaginary objects for a moment, then announced in disgust, “They don’t fit. You got the wrong size!”

Some days it’s just impossible to buy what you want!

Here in Australia, we are fifteen hours ahead of New York.

The world was still normal when I went to bed on Tuesday night. I don’t know what woke me just after midnight. I felt restless, so I reached out and switched on the radio. I keep it turned down low – the effort of listening usually makes me doze off again.

But not this time. Fragmented words jarred my consciousness. “Explosion” … “running out of the building”… “National disaster”…

Whatever were they talking about? I turned up the radio. A plane had hit the World Trade Centre.

I turned on the TV in the lounge room and watched in horror as the dreadful drama unfolded.

How far from New York is California, I wondered anxiously. That’s where Ben and Agnieszka are.

Oh my God, the second tower was hit! This was no accident. I watched as both towers collapsed in a cloud of smoke and ashes.

Another two planes were still unaccounted for. Then came the news that the Pentagon had been hit. Surely it was a bad dream? A little later, they announced a plane had crashed in Pennsylvania.

Oh God! Oh my God!

I wasn’t being blasphemous. For the moment, it was the only prayer I could utter.

Oscar cat came and curled up in my lap. Cats always seem to know when humans need comforting. We watched together for several hours. No use going back to bed. I knew I wouldn’t sleep. I wondered if I should phone Ben and Agnieszka. I was pretty sure they wouldn’t have been anywhere near the tragedy, but I wondered how they were feeling, so far from home in a country that was now under attack. Ben was probably at work. Was Agnieszka sitting alone in their apartment, watching the horror on their TV?

Better not phone, I decided. So many frantic people would be trying to get through. I didn’t want to unnecessarily add to the congestion. I got out my atlas and was relieved to find California was on the other side of the continent.

But so many people killed and injured! Our world will never be the same again. I wept for the families and friends of those killed.

Before finally returning to bed I cut myself a piece of cheese. As I placed the cheese on the kitchen table, a furry white arm reached up and grabbed it.

“You little monster,” I said to Olive. I had forgotten she was sleeping on the chair under the table. Olive purred. She thinks cheese will fix everything.

I wish she was right.

It didn’t feel like the first of Spring yesterday. It was a grey, heavy day. I changed the sheets and did a load of washing, but nothing dried properly. I took it all off the clothesline just before nightfall and hung it in the back shed.

Today was different – clear and sunny, after a brief storm through the night. When we were preparing Sunday dinner at Mum and Dad’s, the first fly of the season arrived “It must really be Spring,” said Mum, as she shoo-ed it out through the open window.

It’s a real challenge, thinking what to give Dad for Father’s Day, particularly when he’s just had a birthday. I bought him three pots of miniature gerberas – red, yellow and apricot pink. Jan brought a book on the Goodwill Games. (Dad has been following them on TV.) Lea brought an enormous bag of potato chips – they’ll keep him going for months. Relle gave him a book and a big bottle of oysters, which he likes.

We were discussing them later.

“I’ve never eaten oysters,” I said, “And I’ve never felt like trying them. I heard it’s like eating snot.”

“It’s not!” said Relle, and everyone laughed.

Miles is sick

There are a lot of nasty bugs going round at this time of year. My son Joel phoned last night to tell me they were at the hospital with Miles. (He’s 3.) He hadn’t been able to keep anything down all day and was dehydrated. They thought he might have to be put on a drip. It was such a relief when Joel rang back much later to say they had brought Miles back home with them.

I called in to see Miles this afternoon. He was very listless, but eager for me to read him some stories. He kept patting my arm, telling me, “You’re my best friend.”

It’s sad to see him so sick. Only a few days ago, he was at my place, full of energy. He had climbed into an empty cardboard box and invited me to come to his shop.

“What kind of shop is it?” I asked.

Miles pointed to an imaginary sign overhead. “It says, ‘Buzz Light-year Shop.’”

“And what do you sell?”

“Buzz Light-year.” (Stupid question!)

“I’ll buy one for my little boy.”

Miles carefully placed an imaginary Buzz Light-year toy in an imaginary bag and took my imaginary money. Then he climbed out of the box and announced, “Your little boy is back.”

“You’re just in time!” I exclaimed. ” I’ve just been to the shop. Look what I bought for you!”

Miles peered into the imaginary bag. “Ooh… it’s Buzz Light-year! Thank you, it’s just what I wanted!” He raced around the yard, flying his new toy, then got back in the box and invited me to come and buy another one. We repeated the sequence over and over.

I hope his Buzz Light-year Shop will be open for business again soon.

Literary Lunch

I’m reading Catherine Hamlin’s new book, “The Hospital by the River.” It’s about the Fistula Hospital that she and her husband founded in Ethiopia for women with dreadful childbirth injuries.

The Fistula Hospital is one of the projects that our World Vision Club has been supporting for many years, so when her book was launched last week, several of us attended the Literary Lunch, which was held at a hotel in Brisbane.

It was good to see Catherine in person and to hear her speak about some of her experiences. But I can’t say I was impressed with the food. It was $35 for champagne and a “light lunch”. They weren’t exaggerating about the “light” part. It was a tiny bit of seafood in a funny little basket made of biscuit, 1 tiny lettuce leaf, 1 tiny piece of silver beet, a bit of water cress and 3 slices of pickled cucumber. Oh, and a piece of cake for dessert that must have been made about 2 months ago! And I don’t drink champagne.

Coming home on the bus, I met Joyce, an elderly woman I know who is crippled and almost blind. But she’s an amazing person – the things she manages to do. I sat beside her on the bus. After a while a ticket inspector got on. I rummaged around in my bag, but couldn’t find my ticket. “Don’t worry,” said Joyce. She held up her “Travel Free” pass and told the inspector, ‘This is my carer with me.”

I wondered what would happen when he saw Joyce get off the bus without me, as her stop was before mine, but luckily the ticket inspector got off first.

Joyce was telling me she listens to “talking book” tapes late at night when she can’t sleep. Her neighbours stopped speaking to her and she eventually discovered that someone had heard men’s voices in her flat at night (the tapes) and spread the story that Joyce was entertaining men.

“Even if you had been, it’s none of their business,” I told her.