Since my last post I have purchased a new work van, a Renault Kangoo which goes well so far, touch wood. I would have gone for another Suzuki but the APV from 2005 have not been built to take a tow bar so I went for the next cheapest small van. It was a pleasant trip second half of last week to Lakes Entrance to meet up with our old mate Willy to build a new deck on the side of the house. The Kangoo is full of electronic wizardry like cruise control and CD player, aircon, digitized display showing fuel consumption, range, fuel used, average speed and so on, all at fingertip, so long as you know where the button or lever is.
We've started lighting the open fire in the evenings, and I've had a few good feeds of wild mushrooms. The autumn leaves have all but gone to ground and the days are short, we are only a few weeks to the shortest day. I picked pittosporum garneti and calendulas and climbed a tree to pick Mexican hawthorn berries today and went to my computer class. It was a bright moon coming home, I turned off my headlights and drove easily without, so good the illumination, just for fun, but quickly turned on again if a car came the other way.
Winter is nearly here. Winter is lovely. In its own way. Bees rest, weeds slow down. It's good to snuggle into a bed heavy with blankets. For a while. I'm dreaming a lot. Earthquake dream the other night, real and scary. A football playing dream another, back at Greta. A funeral dream, in the country, a lady I knew well died. Lib was with me, we argued, I stormed off before the service, took the car, Lib can walk 20k's back, then softened and left the car for Lib and walked, thinking nothing is better than walking anyway.
It's late. I watched Q+A about religion. Interesting. Bill Gates tomorrow. Martina Wainright next week, musn't miss that, will have to leave comp class early. After Q+A I watched Footy Classified, then caught up on email. Must go now to seek dreams, to fly in the unconscious, if lucky, at worst some hours of solitude, and drifting in out of with pleasant thoughts in the conscious. I think of many things and many people in the wee hours. The mind needs the dark and quiet. I love quiet.
So ends this day. Good night.
Tuesday, May 28, 2013
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
Down to the Nitty Gritty
I so needed a haircut. Hairdresser Leanne snipped, clipped, buzzed
and nudged as I told her that my last haircut was exactly two months earlier in
Auckland, New Zealand. It was on the day of our flight home and I was attracted
into the shop by a sign I’d seen the night before, offering 50% discount, just
as the shop was closing.
It turned out the discount applied to haircuts done by students
from the hairdressing school, and none were in at opening time next day, so I
had to pay full fare. Never mind. The barber had enormous implants in his stretched
ear lobes and was heavily tattooed, including his face, but he was congenial
and gave me an excellent cut.
Leanne is a mobile hairdresser. She told me she met her husband
when she was training. He volunteered to get a free haircut and was her subject
in an exam. It’s amazing where a cheap haircut can lead.
They married and moved to Gembrook 30 odd years ago and Leanne
worked at Lillian Granieri’s Gembrook Hair Centre, which was located in Redwood
Road and also in Emerald in the main street, I think in the old telephone
exchange. Lib was a customer. In those days Lib cut my hair to save a few
dollars but I couldn't return the favour.
After Lib tired of cutting my hair I became itinerant and grabbed
a haircut anywhere when I had a little time, or when the hot itchy feeling of a
bushy head of hair in warm weather drove me to urgency.
These days I ring Leanne whose two girls went through school with
our boys. She’s an avid Richmond fan so we talk footy too. She isn’t always
available when I need her so I still pop into barber shops and hairdressers
where I might be when the urge to be refreshed and invigourated by a clipping
takes hold.
It’s one of life’s little pleasures.
Footnote - I’m told there was a men’s barber shop and billiard
room in Gembrook in the 1930’s, where the supermarket is now.
Wednesday, May 08, 2013
Henryk Rejmers
Lib and I have been down to Lakes a couple of times lately, last weekend, and about a month ago. The first visit was a bit of R+R and our friend Will was going try to get to get there to look at options for building new steps/deck at the rear side as the existing were removed due to the substantial excavations that went on to do the new retaining walls. These walls are up but backfilling has not yet been done as the contractors are busy with emergency work elsewhere. The cost of the work is now tallied to $93,000 which is staggering and demoralizing, this cost shared by three families as the house is owned by Lib and her sisters.
As it turned out Will couldn't make it then so we arranged to go on the weekend just gone which was his first available opportunity. We drove down Saturday and came back Sunday. We discussed a few options with Willy and he's been given the green light to get it done asap which will be in a couple of weeks from now.
On our visit in April we met neighbour Dorothy one day who is now on her own after her husband Henryk died last year of mesothelioma, that ghastly form of lung cancer that is contracted through exposure to asbestos dust and usually takes about 30 years to manifest. Tears welled in her eyes. Henryk was 87 and had an amazing life story some of which I had heard about previously as Dorothy and Henryk were good friends of Lib's parents Molly and Bill.
I found a little book at Lakes house which I brought back with me. It was an account by Henryk of his story, beginning in 1925 at birth in Poland. He was the youngest of thirteen children born to his mother and father who lived in Warsaw at the outbreak of WW2 in 1939. Henryk and his family survived the bombing and strafing but Henryk was arrested in 1941 aged 16 while he was out shopping for material for his mother and press ganged by train to Germany where he was sent to a work camp. He was never to see his mother and father again, indeed it was some 47 years before he went back to visit his siblings. He escaped the work camp eventually and travelled far, eventually being captured by police and put to work on a farm where he was when the Russians came. He wanted to get out of Russian occupied Germany get so he took off and managed to get through the Russian lines.
After quite a while in refugee camps he migrated to Australia and ultimately and worked off his two year obligation to work where he was told with a team in the south east of SA cutting down trees so that pine forests could be planted. The only tools they had was an axe each and a sharpening stone and a file and it was very hard work. He met and married Dorothy whose father worked in the forest camp and eventually moved to Adelaide where he worked for the Council then bought a service station. After several years this was bought out by a neighbouring company who then employed Henryk and Dorothy. They bought a house in Adelaide and lived there till the mid sixties, raising three kids. Henryk was a motor mechanic but had no trade certificate.
Morwell was the next call. Dorothy's sisters married two Italians and Henry and Dorothy visited them in Morwell where they lived, and decided it was time a move to Morwell where there were good opportunities. Henryk started work with the SEC at the power stations and sat exams to have his fitting and turning certificate approved. He worked there until retirement in the mid 1980's, when they moved to Lakes.
Hendryk had a hard working life beginning with slave labour in the German factory. For years he did not have enough to eat and suffered all manner of hardships along the way. He never saw the inside of a hospital as a patient till his mid eighties. He must have picked up some asbestos dust cleaning brake drums out as a mechanic or in the power stations where its use was extensive. A sad end to a fine man.
The inside cover of the little book I read had writing by Henryks hand-
'To Bill and Molly Meek, from Hendryk - November 1996'.
In his acknowlegements he thanks Molly and others for inspiring him to write the book. I'll never go to Lakes without fond memory of Hendryk, and Dorothy, whose house is for sale, she's planning to move to a unit closer to town where she won't need to drive if she chooses not.
As it turned out Will couldn't make it then so we arranged to go on the weekend just gone which was his first available opportunity. We drove down Saturday and came back Sunday. We discussed a few options with Willy and he's been given the green light to get it done asap which will be in a couple of weeks from now.
On our visit in April we met neighbour Dorothy one day who is now on her own after her husband Henryk died last year of mesothelioma, that ghastly form of lung cancer that is contracted through exposure to asbestos dust and usually takes about 30 years to manifest. Tears welled in her eyes. Henryk was 87 and had an amazing life story some of which I had heard about previously as Dorothy and Henryk were good friends of Lib's parents Molly and Bill.
I found a little book at Lakes house which I brought back with me. It was an account by Henryk of his story, beginning in 1925 at birth in Poland. He was the youngest of thirteen children born to his mother and father who lived in Warsaw at the outbreak of WW2 in 1939. Henryk and his family survived the bombing and strafing but Henryk was arrested in 1941 aged 16 while he was out shopping for material for his mother and press ganged by train to Germany where he was sent to a work camp. He was never to see his mother and father again, indeed it was some 47 years before he went back to visit his siblings. He escaped the work camp eventually and travelled far, eventually being captured by police and put to work on a farm where he was when the Russians came. He wanted to get out of Russian occupied Germany get so he took off and managed to get through the Russian lines.
After quite a while in refugee camps he migrated to Australia and ultimately and worked off his two year obligation to work where he was told with a team in the south east of SA cutting down trees so that pine forests could be planted. The only tools they had was an axe each and a sharpening stone and a file and it was very hard work. He met and married Dorothy whose father worked in the forest camp and eventually moved to Adelaide where he worked for the Council then bought a service station. After several years this was bought out by a neighbouring company who then employed Henryk and Dorothy. They bought a house in Adelaide and lived there till the mid sixties, raising three kids. Henryk was a motor mechanic but had no trade certificate.
Morwell was the next call. Dorothy's sisters married two Italians and Henry and Dorothy visited them in Morwell where they lived, and decided it was time a move to Morwell where there were good opportunities. Henryk started work with the SEC at the power stations and sat exams to have his fitting and turning certificate approved. He worked there until retirement in the mid 1980's, when they moved to Lakes.
Hendryk had a hard working life beginning with slave labour in the German factory. For years he did not have enough to eat and suffered all manner of hardships along the way. He never saw the inside of a hospital as a patient till his mid eighties. He must have picked up some asbestos dust cleaning brake drums out as a mechanic or in the power stations where its use was extensive. A sad end to a fine man.
The inside cover of the little book I read had writing by Henryks hand-
'To Bill and Molly Meek, from Hendryk - November 1996'.
In his acknowlegements he thanks Molly and others for inspiring him to write the book. I'll never go to Lakes without fond memory of Hendryk, and Dorothy, whose house is for sale, she's planning to move to a unit closer to town where she won't need to drive if she chooses not.
Friday, May 03, 2013
Mellowing
Last Friday, the day after Anzac Day, at writing class, a discussion was had re the dawn service at Anzac Cove, which is of course held on the anniversary of the first landing on Turkish shore in 1915, in line with Anzac Day services held all over Australia.
Teacher Maria presented an opinion piece by a writer whose name escapes me- there was a big crowd in for the first class of the term and not enough handout sheets and I was late so missed out- but from memory the guts of the article was that the correspondent had no desire to visit on the day to be among a crowd of tourists who were there largely for the celebratory party atmosphere and the 'notch on the belt'.
I sympathize with the author's view. I don't like crowds for starters and I have reservation about Anzac Day anyway as a means of paying respect and remembrance to our fallen soldiers. The Gallipoli campaign was the first major military exercise of our new nation and was a disastrous failure costing 8,000+ Australian lives. I don't for a moment dispute the hardship, grit and heroism of our soldiers. As a kid in school in the 50's and 60's Anzac Day it was drummed into me. The preparations at school must have happened the day before because I think it was a public holiday then as it is now, and I recall being home on Anzac Day watching the television and being fascinated by the historical portrayal of the landing and the stories such as Simpson and his donkey.
Memorial services and marches on Anzac Day were first held in the latter years of WW1 and were used as recruiting drives for enlistment. After the war the fallen were remembered in solemnity and the day was an opportunity for reunion for veterans wishing to participate. Many did not including my grandfather who served three years in Palestine and France and who was teetotal and disapproving of the boozing at the reunions.
World War 2 followed, then Korea, Vietnam, and Afghanistan and Iraq and peace keeping force participation in various parts of the world, and Anzac Day has been expanded to include all those who suffered and served in all of these conflicts.
At class last week one member, Big John, voiced his objection to the article, calling it the most pompous thing he'd ever read. Big John said the writer came across as thinking he was above the service at Anzac Cove with the throng of young people. John said, "Good on them I say, they are only trying to connect to their ancestors. I have been there, it's the most moving experience, one that changes the lives of those who attend forever."
I remain loathsome of violence and war and the flag waving patriotism that accompanies it, which is where it hatches from its egg. Yes, I would like to visit Anzac Cove. But not on Anzac Day. I'd like to go there to contemplate the horror and stupidity of war in my own solitude, and grieve for the soldiers who lost their lives and those maimed and scarred emotionally for life. Not only for the 8,700 Australians and the 2,000 plus New Zealanders killed, but also the 10,000 French, the 21,000 from the UK, and God knows how many Turks (Wikipedia does not give a number) who were, as God knows, protecting their shores from invasion.
But I doubt I ever will go there. I can grieve the fallen from here. And I prefer to carry my loathing of war and violence with me daily. I would prefer to see national reverence for Remembrance Day, which marked the end of the conflict, and is appropriately named.
However, I am mellowing. Big John is entitled to his opinion. So are those who choose to go to Anzac Cove on Anzac Day.
Just as I'm entitled to mine. I'm no wowser, but when I see retired Major General Cosgrove advertising beer on the television in the lead up to Anzac day, I can't help but feel I'm not in step. Thankfully.
Teacher Maria presented an opinion piece by a writer whose name escapes me- there was a big crowd in for the first class of the term and not enough handout sheets and I was late so missed out- but from memory the guts of the article was that the correspondent had no desire to visit on the day to be among a crowd of tourists who were there largely for the celebratory party atmosphere and the 'notch on the belt'.
I sympathize with the author's view. I don't like crowds for starters and I have reservation about Anzac Day anyway as a means of paying respect and remembrance to our fallen soldiers. The Gallipoli campaign was the first major military exercise of our new nation and was a disastrous failure costing 8,000+ Australian lives. I don't for a moment dispute the hardship, grit and heroism of our soldiers. As a kid in school in the 50's and 60's Anzac Day it was drummed into me. The preparations at school must have happened the day before because I think it was a public holiday then as it is now, and I recall being home on Anzac Day watching the television and being fascinated by the historical portrayal of the landing and the stories such as Simpson and his donkey.
Memorial services and marches on Anzac Day were first held in the latter years of WW1 and were used as recruiting drives for enlistment. After the war the fallen were remembered in solemnity and the day was an opportunity for reunion for veterans wishing to participate. Many did not including my grandfather who served three years in Palestine and France and who was teetotal and disapproving of the boozing at the reunions.
World War 2 followed, then Korea, Vietnam, and Afghanistan and Iraq and peace keeping force participation in various parts of the world, and Anzac Day has been expanded to include all those who suffered and served in all of these conflicts.
At class last week one member, Big John, voiced his objection to the article, calling it the most pompous thing he'd ever read. Big John said the writer came across as thinking he was above the service at Anzac Cove with the throng of young people. John said, "Good on them I say, they are only trying to connect to their ancestors. I have been there, it's the most moving experience, one that changes the lives of those who attend forever."
I remain loathsome of violence and war and the flag waving patriotism that accompanies it, which is where it hatches from its egg. Yes, I would like to visit Anzac Cove. But not on Anzac Day. I'd like to go there to contemplate the horror and stupidity of war in my own solitude, and grieve for the soldiers who lost their lives and those maimed and scarred emotionally for life. Not only for the 8,700 Australians and the 2,000 plus New Zealanders killed, but also the 10,000 French, the 21,000 from the UK, and God knows how many Turks (Wikipedia does not give a number) who were, as God knows, protecting their shores from invasion.
But I doubt I ever will go there. I can grieve the fallen from here. And I prefer to carry my loathing of war and violence with me daily. I would prefer to see national reverence for Remembrance Day, which marked the end of the conflict, and is appropriately named.
However, I am mellowing. Big John is entitled to his opinion. So are those who choose to go to Anzac Cove on Anzac Day.
Just as I'm entitled to mine. I'm no wowser, but when I see retired Major General Cosgrove advertising beer on the television in the lead up to Anzac day, I can't help but feel I'm not in step. Thankfully.
Wednesday, May 01, 2013
Chook Drama
Not long after we returned from NZ Lib's chook Myrtle went AWOL. On the first day of its absence I was concerned at lock up time when Henny hungrily followed me to their pen but Myrtle was nowhere to be seen. She'd been scarce for a day or two and reluctant to go in the previous couple of evenings so I thought she must be broody and have a nest somewhere.
Oh well, Foxy Loxy'll have a nice supper, I'll get another young bird, a brown one like Elvie's. She says they don't get broody as much as black ones.
A couple of days later I spotted Myrtle briefly, eating some of the bread I'd left out for Henny.
You little bugger.
No sooner had I seen her with some amusement on my part that she's survived than she was gone again, not to be seen for another couple of days. This time I'd returned from my walk and put the dogs dishes down to feed them then turned and walked a few paces back towards the shed when I heard a flapping noise and a dog squeal. Turning around I saw bully Myrtle hopping into Snowy's breakfast. She has it all over Snow who runs the other way when she employs the charge she learned from Rooster Lemon, whom you may recall met his demise last year.
You horrible savage chook.
I shoohed the thing away for poor Snow and stood guard while she ate her food. Pip is oblivious to all Myrtle's aggressive tactics and therefore the chook does not trouble her. There's a pecking order with the chooks and the dogs and Snow's at the bottom.
Over the next couple of weeks I looked high and low in the garden and shed for Myrtle's nest a number of times, and crawled under the house with a torch more than once looking for the stash of eggs. It was baffling me. Then one day I saw Myrtle on the deck, I had been nearby and hadn't seen her approach, then she disappeared again so quickly. So for umpteenth time I looked under and behind everything and being more thorough than previously I got down low and looked into the back of Pip's kennel. Sure enough there was the black feathered fool. As I reached in to pull out the bedding the stench hit me. There was a dozen and a half eggs in there some of which were broken.
You stinking horrible idiot chook.
I threw everything into a garbage gag, bedding and all. Rotten eggs exploded as I did this and it still stank to high heaven so I triple bagged it and put it in my neighbour's bin - they have moved out and their house is for sale so that was OK. Pip's kennel has a flat roof with a bit of carpet on top and I'd seen her lying on top of her kennel. I thought it was because of the warm balmy weather, but I now knew better, and also why a fox hadn't got it.
Within a day or two Myrtle was back to her normal nutty self; harassing, aggressive, noisy, always after food when you walk out the door. Both chooks are now laying in the shed, next to the fridge, against the back wall. I don't mind that. It's a stretch to get the eggs but at least I know where they are.
Oh well, Foxy Loxy'll have a nice supper, I'll get another young bird, a brown one like Elvie's. She says they don't get broody as much as black ones.
A couple of days later I spotted Myrtle briefly, eating some of the bread I'd left out for Henny.
You little bugger.
No sooner had I seen her with some amusement on my part that she's survived than she was gone again, not to be seen for another couple of days. This time I'd returned from my walk and put the dogs dishes down to feed them then turned and walked a few paces back towards the shed when I heard a flapping noise and a dog squeal. Turning around I saw bully Myrtle hopping into Snowy's breakfast. She has it all over Snow who runs the other way when she employs the charge she learned from Rooster Lemon, whom you may recall met his demise last year.
You horrible savage chook.
I shoohed the thing away for poor Snow and stood guard while she ate her food. Pip is oblivious to all Myrtle's aggressive tactics and therefore the chook does not trouble her. There's a pecking order with the chooks and the dogs and Snow's at the bottom.
Over the next couple of weeks I looked high and low in the garden and shed for Myrtle's nest a number of times, and crawled under the house with a torch more than once looking for the stash of eggs. It was baffling me. Then one day I saw Myrtle on the deck, I had been nearby and hadn't seen her approach, then she disappeared again so quickly. So for umpteenth time I looked under and behind everything and being more thorough than previously I got down low and looked into the back of Pip's kennel. Sure enough there was the black feathered fool. As I reached in to pull out the bedding the stench hit me. There was a dozen and a half eggs in there some of which were broken.
You stinking horrible idiot chook.
I threw everything into a garbage gag, bedding and all. Rotten eggs exploded as I did this and it still stank to high heaven so I triple bagged it and put it in my neighbour's bin - they have moved out and their house is for sale so that was OK. Pip's kennel has a flat roof with a bit of carpet on top and I'd seen her lying on top of her kennel. I thought it was because of the warm balmy weather, but I now knew better, and also why a fox hadn't got it.
Within a day or two Myrtle was back to her normal nutty self; harassing, aggressive, noisy, always after food when you walk out the door. Both chooks are now laying in the shed, next to the fridge, against the back wall. I don't mind that. It's a stretch to get the eggs but at least I know where they are.
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