Mamalade

It was morning tea time when Jan and Callum arrived to bring us home. My aunt had made lots of pikelets and set them out with strawberry jam, gooseberry jam, cream, lemon butter- as well as cake and bunloaf…

“Have you been eating all the time you were here?” asked Jan.

“Yes,” I said. “Do I look any fatter?”

“Yes,” said Callum. (My scales at home proved him wrong, but it’s a miracle.)

We packed our bags in the car and before Jan had even turned on the motor, Callum started with “I spy with my little eye…” and so we travelled home again.

“I want to see your cats,” said Callum when we arrived back at my place.

Ingrid came to meet us, purring until she dribbled, but there was no sign of Olive and Oscar.

“Come on Callum,” said Jan, “You can see them next time. Grandma wants to get home.”

As I waved them up the road, Oscar and Olive suddenly appeared at my side, purring enthusiastically.

It was nice to go away for a while. But home is where the cats are.

“What did you do when you were a little girl?” I used to ask my mother. And she would tell me stories about the little pony she rode to school, and how the pony wouldn’t let anyone else ride it. Then there was a horse called “Music.” Mum and her brothers would stand on an old tree stump so they could climb on Music’s back, and Music would walk once around the stump and lie down.

I heard about the old cat, Georgina, and about the man from a neighbouring farm who would sit at their gate for hours, patiently waiting for someone to come and talk to him…

“Let’s go and visit the old place,” said my uncle, after morning tea. So off we went for a drive to Fisherman’s Pocket, where he and Mum had grown up.

They both reminisced along the long winding dirt road while Mum eagerly pointed out the places where her old friends had lived.

Finally my uncle drove through the gateway of the old farm.

“Is it alright to go in?” asked Mum.

“Yes, I’ve met the fellow who lives here,” said my uncle. “He’s friendly.” He was right. The present owner of the farm and his little boy came out to welcome us and invited us to look around. He seemed to be genuinely interested to hear what the place used to be like.

road

The road once travelled

“Was the road here when you lived here?” he asked.

“I made it!” said my uncle.

The old house had been replaced with a modern one, but the old landmarks were still there.

“Oh, look!” said Mum. ” There’s the stump we stood on to climb on old Music’s back!”

“See, down the hill, that’s where the old gate was where old Sonny used to sit and wait for us to come out and talk to him!”

rocks

The old landmarks

“See those two big rocks? We buried old Georgina in the space between them!”
The little boy who lived on the farm was a charming young man. He had just turned five, his father informed us.

“Have you just had a birthday?” Mum asked him.

“No,” he said seriously. “It was last week.”

He showed us his new bike, his pet chicken, and offered to share his potato crisps. He even lifted his shirt to show me that his shorts were actually pyjama pants …

“And see,” he pointed proudly to the fly. “You wee through here!”

One of my cousins called in during the morning and another came for lunch. Another day of good food, talking and looking at photos.

“Where would you like to go for a drive?” asked my Aunt, after a sumptuous morning tea.

She took us round some of the old familiar places. Up the hill past Grandma’s old house…

“Ugh, was the hill always this steep?”

“Remember how we used to stagger back up here with our shopping!”

Although the old house been altered, it was good to see that it was still recognisable and had been well kept.

Then round to the little lane where I had grown up.

Fifty years ago, there was a large Macadamia tree at the end of the lane. I used to gather nuts with my friend “Bubby Bev.”

It’s gone.

We used to walk down to the little corner shop and buy three-penny ice cream cones. Bubbly Bev and I would lick slowly, each trying to be the last to finish, because it was agony to watch another still enjoying their ice-cream, when your own was already eaten.

The little shop has gone. It’s been replaced by a large shopping complex.

In the garden, 50 odd years ago.

Fifty years ago,”Woolly”, the old lady next door to our house had a beautiful garden. I used to scramble through the opening Dad had made in our adjoining fence and keep her company while she tended the pansies and clipped the alternantha borders or fed the hens.Her house and garden have gone. The bright yellow brick wall of the supermarket comes right up to the edge of the road.

Same house, as it is now.

Our old house is still there on the bend in the lane. But the verandah has been closed in. There are no Nasturtiums or Calendulas near the front steps. The loquat tree that I used to climb has gone. There’s no sign of the “Rick-Rock Road” (the bumpy driveway the used to wind round to the back of the house) and there’s a garage in front of the house where Dad used to grow Poppies and Stocks.Ah, that’s progress!

Nothing ever stays the same, and yet we are still drawn to go back and visit the old haunts, hoping for some small detail that has resisted change, that will jog our memories.

We spent the afternoon talking and looking at old photos.

It’s about a three-hour drive to Gympie. My sister Jan picked up Mum and me early Monday morning. She had 8-year-old Callum with her.

“Who’s the oldest person in this car?” Callum asked as we set off.

“Well, it has to be either Grandma or me,” I told him.

“How old are you?”

“How old do you think?”

“Hmmmmmnnn….84?”

“No, 85!” I teased.

He didn’t look quite convinced.

“I know a good joke,” he said. “Some kids asked their teacher how old she was, and she said, ‘Pull down your pants’…” He had it mixed up.

“Oh, I know that joke,” I said. “Only the one I’ve heard is about a little girl. She asked an old lady how old she was. The old lady said she couldn’t remember, so the little girl said, ‘Well, let’s have a look at your knickers and find out – it says ‘4′ on mine!”

We whiled away the miles by playing “I Spy” and worked our way through the alphabet with “I had an Aardvark and I ate it” etc, with the recurring refrain of “Are we there yet?”

Finally… “It’s beginning to look like Gympie country,” said Mum. There’s no mistaking the familiar cleared plains and distant mountains. Mum had spent the early half of her life in Gympie and I had also spent my childhood there. We had been back many times to visit relatives, but it was a long time since our last visit.

We called in and had morning tea with Dad’s brother and his wife, then on to my other Aunt and Uncle’s place where we were to stay for the next few days.

After catching up on more family news and a three course meal (shouldn’t have eaten so much for Morning Tea!) Jan drove us to visit more relations on a farm at Goomboorian, about 13 miles out of Gympie. (I know we use kilometeres now, but I still think in miles!)

“I’d forgotten Gympie was so hot,” said Jan. “I’ll leave the car windows down while we’re here.”

“I’m going to watch where I put my feet this time,” said Mum. “Last time I stepped out of the car into a cow-pat.”

“Oh, look at the cute little dog,” I said, jumping out eagerly. “Uh, oh!… I just stepped in something!” I took off my shoes and left them outside.

Callum enjoyed playing with the miniature Fox Terrier and the cuddly little Chihuahua while we swapped family stories.

“How long is it since you’ve been out to the farm?” asked my cousin.

“Oh, I haven’t been here since my age was the same as the number on my knickers,” I told her.

As I explained, there was a rumble of thunder and rain pelted down. It was only a slight storm, just enough to drench the car seats through the open window.

After dropping Mum and me back in Gympie, Jan and Callum went on to Caloundra where they were staying for the school holidays.

My Aunt had another big meal ready for us when we got back.

I dropped Mum off at the bank on Friday, and drove round the block to find somewhere to park. I found a good spot in the car park behind the supermarket and walked through from the back of the fruit shop.

That’s when I heard it.

“Come, come, come and make eyes at me,
Down at the old Bull and Bush.
Come, come, drink some port wine with me,
Down at the old Bull and Bush.
Hear the little German band.
(Ta-ra-ra-ra-oompa-pa)
Just let me hold your hand dear?
Do, do come and have a drink or two,
Down at the old Bull and Bush!!
(bush, bush)”

An elderly couple were sitting on the seat in front of the fruit shop. He was playing an accordion and singing lustily. His partner was accompanying him with wild flourishes on a trombone. Their timing wasn’t synchronised and they sang way off key.

It was wonderful!

“Are they really that bad or is it a comedy act?” I asked the girl in the fruit shop.

“I think they’re just learning!” she laughed.

I walked along to the bank to meet Mum. “I was going to suggest that you wait hear while I bring the car around, ” I told her, “but you’ve got to come and hear these mad musicians!”

They were struggling through another tune when we arrived back at the fruit shop. Mum looked puzzled. “Is that Waltzing Matilda?”

“It was before they murdered it!” I chuckled.

The next one was “Botany Bay” – with a “toorili-loorili-addity” that really cracked me up. The expression of pure enjoyment on their faces was a joy to behold. They made my day.

Mum and I each threw a dollar into their hat.

It was worth every cent.

Hunt the needle

Last week was a week for remembering…

Sad traumatic memories for many people. I couldn’t bear to watch too many of the television programmes about the terrible events of last September. It seemed even more horrible than it did last year – probably because they’ve had more time to unearth more graphic footage and approach it from different angles.

Last week was also the 25th anniversary of the beginning of our World Vision Club. (I wrote about the history of our club when we had our 20th birthday.) We celebrated quietly this year with a lunch at a local hotel. No fuss or formality – we just ate and talked. I was going to wear my navy and white dress, but when I was looking through old photos I realised I’d worn it for our 21st birthday lunch. Some things just don’t wear out! Not only that – older photos showed me in a similar dress on our 10th and 15th birthdays!

So I got out the blue one I’ve been meaning to fix and put up the hem. Somehow, the needle disappeared while I was rearranging some pins. Now, I can never rest if a needle is missing. I’m always afraid that someone will walk on it and get it in their foot or something. I searched the area thoroughly, but had to give up & use another needle.

For the next few days I spent every spare moment crawling round the floor with a torch and magnet, playing hunt the needle. Quite a good activity when you are talking on the phone, if it’s a cordless phone.

That’s what I was doing, when a neighbour came to the door. I had my head and half of my body under the reclining lounge chair while using my free hand to search the recess. And I was chatting to a friend on the phone.

My neighbour looked almost as amazed as he did the day he came upon me lying at full length in the yard with my arm down a post hole – but that’s another story!

Olivebel

Olive goes to the vet

My little cat Olive wouldn’t eat on Monday night.

“I bet you’ve been next door stealing Squeaky’s food,” I told her.

But I was concerned when she wouldn’t eat the next day. It’s just over a month since she’d had a slight fever and went off her food. A course of antibiotics soon put her right, but now the same thing seemed to be happening again. I hoped it was nothing serious.

She didn’t seem to be very sick this time. She even wanted to play. I thought of waiting a bit longer, but she wasn’t drinking either and I was afraid she’d be dehydrated.

So off we went to the vet. Olive was very good and didn’t make too much fuss. The vet (a very brave man) opened Olive’s mouth wide and looked in.

“She’s got a needle in her mouth!” He exclaimed.

“Oh, I dropped a needle the other night!” I said. “I’ve been searching everywhere for it. Oh, my poor baby!”

I could see the needle lying along the roof of her mouth.

“We’ll give her a light anaesthetic and take it out,” said the vet.

“Can you do it today?”

“I’ll do it right now,” he said. “before she swallows it!”

I’m glad I didn’t wait another day!

I sat in the waiting room and played with Cici, the vet’s resident cat while Olive had her operation. Olive was a bit groggy when I took her home, but after a while she had a little bit to eat, then another little bit – until she had made up for all the meals she had missed.

I sat and cuddled her all evening. She is so precious.

The man across the road has moved out. I never really knew him. When I came here in ‘89, he had a family of three girls. One day I noticed that his wife and girls had gone and another woman with three boys had moved in. The boys almost burned the house down one day. They were smoking in the laundry, I heard. They have grown up since and left home.

Of course, none of that is my business. But Betty, the old lady who used to live next door to me was very curious about the man across the road. Not about his domestic situation – I don’t think she was even aware of it – but she was convinced that he was a detective and was worried that he might be spying on us.

It started when the globe in the streetlight out the front was replaced with a fluorescent light. It had a bluish tinge.

“Why is it a blue light?” Betty asked me every time she saw me. “It must be because the man over the road is a detective.”

“No, its just a fluorescent light,” I’d tell her. “They’re in all the streets now.”

“There’s a blue light at the Police Station,” she’d insist. “They wouldn’t put a blue light outside his house unless he’s a detective or something. He comes and goes all hours…. He has to be a detective!”

I didn’t think a detective would live in a humble cottage like the one across the street.

“What does he do?” I asked Joel one day.

“He’s a cleaner,” said Joel. “He cleans offices at night.”

Try telling that to Betty!

Betty also had a thing about airplanes. They flew too low over her house, she said. It was rusting the chrome on her kitchen chairs.

She was in an agitated state one morning when she called me over to examine them. The chairs certainly were rusty, which wasn’t surprising – she must have had them since the fifties.

“It’s the planes,” she insisted. “Have you ever heard of it happening before?”

“Yes. I have heard of it,” I said. I’d heard it everyday since I’d moved in beside her!

She was excited. “Have you really! Who told you about it?”

I couldn’t very well say, “You did – many times!” so I said, “I’m not sure.”

“That’s the trouble,” Betty shook her head knowingly, “When you’re getting older, you forget things!”

Betty has long since gone on to a better place where there are no streetlights or planes to bother her. The people who bought her house are pleasant and quiet – and not nearly as entertaining.

And now the man who might have been a detective has gone. The neighbourhood won’t be the same.