In For A Service

I went to the doctor last week. I thought I should have the PSA blood test again as it's been two years since I had one. I don't have full knowledge but as I understand it the reading can be much higher than previously which means you have a problem. I'm talking prostate cancer. My follow up appt is next week when I find out the result.

Doctor also said I was a year overdue for another colonoscopy so I'm booked in for that next Tuesday, meaning next Monday is total food fast day allowing me clear soup or bonox only, and nothing at all, not even liquid, on the Tuesday before the procedure, which is scheduled for 10.45am. Also on the day before you have to eat pills and drink 'stuff' to open and empty the bowel. A hell of a lot of fun I don't think.

Doctor also asked why I hadn't been getting prescriptions for the cholesterol lowering medication and the tablet for high blood pressure that I'd been on. I told doc that at $70 per month and a trip to the doctor every six months for a prescription it was getting a bit expensive for someone like me who pays $2500 p.a for family health insurance and a medicare levy on my tax, so I decided to take my chances on the understanding that I was going to die one of these days anyway. I wasn't trying to be a smart alec but I think doc thought I was. She took my blood pressure which was high of course, it always is on her machine, and she included blood test for cholesterol level. I walked out with a prescription for a new combined cholesterol /BP medication for double the strength I need which I can break in half and take a half a pill each day, therefore further reducing the cost. It will now only cost me $16.50 per month. I haven't taken them yet as BP is OK when I test myself at home, and I'll wait to get the results of the cholesterol test in any case, which I find out at my next appt which is the day after the colonoscopy.

Doc said saving money on the medications wouldn't be of much use if I had a heart attack and died. She said for every 4 people who didn't take cholesterol medication who had a heart attack, if they had, one out of the four attacks would have been prevented. Maybe so, but thinking about it later I realized that's a misleading statistic. What about the twenty other with high chol. who didn't have a heart attack? So are we talking about one in four or one in twenty-four? In the meantime I've saved $1500 and three trips to the doctor since I stopped taking them. I don't want to sound foolhardy but I realize that my life could end on any given day in many different ways.

As they say in racing parlance, there's a lot of ways to lose your money.

My Heart Beats True

An email came last week from the MFC inviting members to write about why they barrack for the Demons or a facet of their affection for the club and players over time, something like that. It was a competition of some sort but I can't recall the prize or the e address it was supposed to be sent to as the email was deleted from the inbox and then from deleted items. The bad weather on the weekend gave me the opportunity to write a piece and I include it here. I like it. I sent it to the club to their general info address but I know not if it will get to the person coordinating the competition. I forgot to include my name, but I guess they have my return e address if they feel the need.

MY HEART BEATS TRUE


I was 12 years old in 1964 when my best mate Bubs and I somehow managed to get standing room tickets to the Grand Final. We caught the first train from Mt. Waverley and queued till the gates opened. Some people had camped overnight to get a good possy at the front, right up against the cyclone wire in the southern stand. We rushed in and started our long wait as the crowd built behind us to a frightening monster.

In the seating in front of the wire there were plenty of red and blue scarves, blankets on laps, steaming thermoses and picnic baskets. The standing room area was largely a Collingwood stronghold. We dared not leave our place at the front for any reason or we'd be unable to see. When Gabelich ran down the ground bouncing and fumbling the ball to kick a goal that put Collingwood in front late in the last quarter the monster, erupting with the most deafening roar I've ever heard, surged forward. Bubs and I thought we'd be crushed to death against the fence. I truly feared for my life.

When 'Froggy' Crompton snapped the famous goal that regained the lead, the monster behind became an angry seething mass wanting to fight itself, but there was no elbow room. Fear and tension gripped right to the end. I think it was Barry Bourke, moved from full forward to stack the backline in the dying seconds, who took a saving mark. The final siren brought euphoric relief, but in fear of the angry mob dispersing we remained at the wire fence for some time.

The twenty men in red and blue that day became my lifelong heroes. Barass left the next year, we were OK early in '65, till a showdown with Bubsy's team, the Bombers, who went on to win the flag. Little did I know, we wouldn't make the finals again till 1987. I kept following Hassa and his men. New champs came; Stan Alves, Gary Hardiman, Greg Wells and Robbie Flower were great footballers. ‘Tiger’ Ridley and ‘Skilts’ gave us hope in the seventies. Big Carl was...Big Carl, Barass came home. Gerrard Healy was a beauty who got away. The Northey class of '87 let us dream. Balmy and Danners had a crack. Garry, Todd, Big Jimmy, Schwarter, Neita, Stinga, Febes, Wizard, Robbo, Jimmy Mac, they went close. Shwarter's knees, Garry's back, Prymke’s back, merger drama, financial crisis, wooden spoons, Big Jim's cancer; a rocky road.

I caught up with Bubs recently after a 30 year gap. He’s on the Gold Coast. We're closing on sixty now. His Bombers have won five flags since '64, he reminded me. I hope Bails and the new generation of young guns can give my sons lifelong heroes like the gladiators of '64 did for me. Wife Libby was eight years old then. She says she and her sisters chanted in the streets of Wangaratta, "We won the war, in 1964."

Shortest Day

The previous two posts have been saved as drafts for some time till today. I put them up briefly when I wrote them but took them down quickly afterwards, waking up not happy about them. In fact I've been suffering a complete lack of confidence for some weeks. I think we all suffer from loss off self confidence at different times. In my case lately there's probably more than one reason and they are too personal for this forum.

But I'm back. My friend 'Blossom' helped snap me out of it with a thank you card she sent me a couple of days ago. I visited her back in April and planted a few salvias in her back garden. Her birthday was earlier this month and I was late sending a card and the customary quick pick. I also printed out some months of this blog and sent it with the card, as she likes to read my news and thoughts but doesn't have a computer. A few days after her birthday and obviously before she received my mail, her card came in the usual graceful handwriting thanking me for the salvias which she says are thriving and make her think of me every time she goes out. Then she wrote, "Where's my blog, Mr. Carey".

A small thing to most, but to me at that point it was just the tonic to restore some confidence in my writing efforts. I'm so happy to bring 'Bloss' a little pleasure. She's a long standing friend who recently had a second operation for bowel cancer. She lives by herself and has done it hard for nearly two decades now.

I add a piece of local news. The President of the Emerald Museum, Hamish Russell, has resigned as of yesterday's meeting. The committee will possibly go into voluntary (or involuntary) recess while the council "assists" with some solution. I mention this on the off chance committeeman KT who's in London for two months happens to check my blog. He may be looking for some local news. I would post in detail about the EMNHP and it's tribulations over the last couple of years but it would take an application I fear I can't manage now.

Police Corruption Victoria

On the radio news a week or two back, Chief Commissioner of Police Simon Overlander said that he underestimated the level of corruption in the Victoria Police when he joined as an Assistant Commissioner in 2004. This followed the recent dropping of murder charges against a drug squad detective who was alleged to have been implicated in the the execution style killing of a Crown witness and his wife. The witness was to testify that the detective was involved with him and and another policeman in the theft of drugs. The murder case was withdrawn after the natural death of a witness and the ill health of another.

Pretty strong stuff right here in our 'great state', as ex Premier Steve Bracks described it, after receiving his Queen's Birthday medal.

The Chief Commissioner's comments came as no surprise to me. He first joined the Australian Federal Police as young man, in 1984 I think.  A person close to me had been married to a member of the Victoria Police for some years by then. I was a frequent visitor to their house for a meal and a relaxed evening, particularly before I married in 1981. I saw many on and off duty police visit to sit by the blazing open fire in winter, and the the back yard barbecue in summer. Beer flowed, tongues loosened.

There were exceptions who showed discipline and didn't drink while on duty. These were few. I formed the general impression that many police officers saw the public purse as something to be milked while doing as little work as possible. A comparatively innocuous example was one who boasted he hung on to his morning bowel motion till he arrived at work. He loved being paid while doing it. He'd take an hour and read the paper. He'd knock off the station's toilet paper, saying that if he had to go at home, at least he'd use their toilet paper. It's better I don't relate more serious examples of dishonesty and flagrant disregard for the law. It was a long time ago. I'm unable to substantiate.

It tarnished the image I'd grown up with, that of a squeaky clean police force ranking up there with the best in the world. I watched the corruption scandals in Queensland and New South Wales unfold in the 1980's and 90's, still with some expectation that Victoria was above that. That's shattered now also, after the gangland wars, drug caches disappearing from police headquarters, the execution of witnesses, and a couple of whistle blowers.

There's a bitterness that creeps vinelike over me if I dwell too much on the negatives. Better that I move on and open my heart. Police, after all, are flawed human beings like the rest of us. There's greed and corruption in other areas of public service and commerce. Ethical battles go on all the time, all of us face them.

I wish Simon Overlander all the best in what must be the toughest job of all, but perhaps also the most important. There's something rotten in the state of Victoria, for sure, and it must rooted out.

We don't want it.

Greta Football Club Reunion/ Leigh Candy

Last month there was a back to Greta for the 30 year anniversary of the 1980 premiership. I did mention it but not in any detail. I've struggled to find time to blog recently.

One of my old teammates is a fellow blogger. The enigmatic Leigh Candy and I had instant reconnection and learned we have more in common than we realized previously. We both love to write and are both bloggers although Leigh hasn't posted since Feb 2009. That's a pity as he's talented in my opinion, as he was on the football field. He had the knack of coming up with something against the flow of the game just when we needed it.

Leigh wrote a piece about the reunion which he sent me as an attachment to an email. I'm hoping he starts blogging again. I put his reunion piece here on my blog, not because he says nice things about me, but it makes interesting reading and shows his talent.

REUNION

Late Saturday morning I leave Mansfield via Dead Horse Lane, then drive through the arched canopy of eucalypts on the gently winding road toward Swanpool, green sunlit undulations through the trunks striping the roadside. I zigzag my way to Greta via Molyullah.

The ovals at Swanpool and Tatong are vacant: both teams are away today. The Greta Football Club is at home to King Valley and already at half past noon a big crowd is in. The gatekeeper recognises me—“Leigh, isn’t it?”—and relieves me of $10 despite my special guest status as premiership player returning for a 30-year reunion. I don’t mind.

I park away from the fence where the dog can be tied to the back of the car and not bother passers-by. Outside the clubrooms I scan for faces, adding thirty years’ wear and tear, but don’t see any in the crowd swarming at the function-room entrance or queuing for pies and beer.

Someone says hello and I winkle his name out of a crevice in the memory-box. “Hello, Paul.” We watch the second quarter of the reserves game. I comment that I might still get a kick at this level and he tells me that the standard has declined since our time.

Greta isn’t a town; on maps it’s designated as location. The football oval is Greta, the ground surrounded by late autumn poplars and oaks.

“I don’t recall it being this beautiful thirty years ago,” I say.

“Rain,” Paul says. “Been a good season.” He’s on land 500 metres up the road opposite the Catholic church, which is for sale, despite Paul being one of eight O’Brien siblings, surely enough to keep a small country church afloat.

At half-time we enter the function room. Half a dozen familiar faces, three more O’Briens—Bill, Frannie and Gerard. There’s Pat McKenzie, the full-back who single-handedly kept us alive in the prelim final against Beechworth. And Tony Fisher, the team’s youngest member, who liked jumping on heads to pull in speccies. Maxy George is chomping gum, Barry Tanner is big Barry now, Bushy Dinning greyer than the grey he was 30 years ago.

A table is loaded with food but vegetarians needn’t bother. Although there are rolls stuffed with olives and sun-dried tomatoes, some part of a dead animal adorns every one. I nibble dry biscuits and cheese.

Everyone asks where I am now, what I’m doing. Each volunteers a memory of me, most forgotten by me: walking barefoot across the mid-winter ground to the changing sheds on game days; cogitating in a corner with a billowing pipe before the game; sitting on the footy in the centre circle while 35 blokes biffed each other on the wing.

The club president climbs on a bench and welcomes the 14 of us who’ve made it, and four survivors of the ’48 premiership team. He doesn’t introduce himself, utters some appropriate words of welcome, and excuses himself to prepare to play in the seniors.

Bushy Dinning mounts the bench. Like the current president, Bushy was a player while president in 1980. He presents each of us with a plaque engraved with an oval and the team in starting positions. I’m in a forward pocket surrounded by O’Briens.

Three of the team are deceased. The year after we won the flag Brains stuck his arse out of a speeding car window and unfortunately the rest of him followed. Keithy Rowan was killed in a more conventional car accident, and Mark Kelly drank himself to an unhappy death, according to Billy O’Brien, who works with the ambulance.

Bushy gives Lace, our coach, the 1980 grand final game ball, our faded autographs barely visible on the pigskin. I have no memory of signing that ball all those years ago, but I vividly remember the five times I kicked it through the major uprights at Moyhu that day.

Lace says he regrets not coming to more games, but can’t because it’s too painful not to be out on the paddock. Ditto me.

I catch Pat McKenzie and thank him for keeping us close enough to stage a monumental reversal in the prelim final when we came from eight goals down at the long interval to beat Beechworth and win our way to the grand final against Whorouly who beat us by a point in the second semi. Pat tells me I won the game with five second half goals. I tell him Gunna won the game because he got us back in it in the third term. Gunna hasn’t turned up yet.

We disperse and go out to watch the main game. The Greta boys are now the Blues, but today they wear the purple and gold we wore in 1980 in honour of the occasion. They get off to a flyer against an opponent that knocked off last year’s premiers a few weeks before. I circle the ground with the dog, taking photos. Gunna’s arrived when I get back to the clubrooms.

Thirty years ago I heard the pre-season thuds of boots on leather and walked up the road from the old farmhouse I’d moved to with a woman and our new baby. I asked if I could join in and ran a warm-up lap. Someone came alongside and said a bloke on the other side of the ground reckoned he knew me. Gunna Williams. Never heard of him, I said.

Gunna’s real name is Carey. We went to school together, but he was a year below me and we didn’t really know each other. I didn’t know he captained under-age A teams, didn’t remember that he got expelled. He says he was a troubled adolescent, dedicated to nothing.

The man in his late 20s was a great footballer—compact, robust, ruthlessly efficient, utterly understated. He was the club’s centreman, my preferred position, but I never played it better than Gunna. I don’t remember playing in any team or with any bloke like I enjoyed playing with Greta and Gunna.

He was an apiary inspector based in Wang and the week before the grand final I drove him over half of Victoria—his patch—to meet beekeepers and inspect their hives. He lost his licence and had to pay drivers so he could do his job. We talked bees and football and life. Now we chat during the second quarter and he tells me he goes to a writing group and has a blog—“Just something in me I like to do,” he says.

At half time I venture back into the almost empty function room and photograph the premiership flag, my name on the honour board as the best and fairest player of 1980, and the team photograph—blokes with masses of hair and porn-star moustaches.

Davy Kemp, quiet unassuming half-back flanker, comes in, says he wouldn’t mind a cup of tea. I could murder one too. There’s beer aplenty and any amount of canned fizzo and luminous energy drinks, but no cups of tea.

During the second half I concentrate on the game while my team-mates suck cans and no doubt the stories get better and better. Not being able to talk with drinkers has always been a shortcoming. That I could play the game better than most was the only thing that made it possible for an unclubbable bastard like me to be part of the club, but there are still limits.

Greta plays an attractive attacking game romps to a 21.21.147 to 6.6.42 victory. During the final quarter I buy a muffin for the journey home and write my current details on a piece of paper. As the siren sounds I slip it into Gunna’s shirt pocket—the paper, not the muffin—and quietly mosey off to the car. The sun will set in half an hour and I want that time to meander through the hills

The Puzzle

Well I've been off deck for a week, away at Lakes, but I've been working away at the puzzle that is Life on Earth. My last few posts, miserable attempts at short poetry, were the result of coin in the slot internet cafe which keyed in neatly with Maria's request to capture the moment each day in a few lines for a week. Nobody can say I'm not prepared to have a go, something which is improving as age advances, or dare I say as I mature like good wine.

We did some good work on the house. I crawled around the roof, hanging over the edge to sand, treat and patch the fascia board which was flaking its paint badly, exposing bare timber and minor rot, then going round again twice with two coats of fresh paint. Lib and Gord painted the bathroom and put up new towel rack and shower curtain rod to replace the rusty 40 year old ones.

I then uncovered some of the steel plates at the base of the poles that support much of the house, where they are bolted into concrete, and cleaned the others. Years of  corrosion from the salt air has done its damage. I sprayed these with Kill Rust Fishoilene. This may arrest or slow the process, especially if repeated annually. I felt better for having done something anyway.

Just when I was feeling good about the house I wandered over to the steel pylons that hold the treated pine logs of the retaining wall at the back, to find them rusted to paper thinness in places. This wall is about 12 to 15 feet high, (the house being on a steep hill which led to large excavation when it was built) and will no doubt begin to fall down in the not too distant future. I think it would be an engineer's job and an expensive one at that. It was too much for me to contemplate that day. I walked away trying to pretend I hadn't seen it. Lib and her sisters own the house, I'll nag them about having it looked at by a landscaper or engineer.

Life on Earth. There's always maintenance. We left the Lakes house better than we found it. Next time it'll be something else. We have to keep having a go. Perhaps that might be part of the answer to the puzzle. To try and leave everything better than when you found it, while you can. Then it's over to the next bloke.

* This I wrote Sunday and saved as a draft, as I had to rush off to be on roster at the museum. A bus load of visitors was booked and I had to give them a talk. It's been full on since we came home. Nice to be back on the walking route though. I picked a big bag of pine mushies this morning, cooked em up and had a big feed, and fridged the rest. Maybe they freeze alright cooked. We played golf at Lakes one day and Lib collected a hat full of field mushies which we had for lunch. Jod picked mushies at the farm and he and Marion ate them on Saturday night and became violently ill and rushed to hospital. Elvie had some too but didn't like the taste and threw much of them out but she was sick for several hours also. They were more domed than usual, but smelt like normal edibles and were nice and pink underneath with no yellowing when bruised. All part of the puzzle. Apparently there are thousands of unidentified species of fungi which may hold all manner of medical and pollution clean up miracles. 

Cunningham Arm

Ibis, duck, crane, mudflat
Jetstream high
deluxe cabins
satellite dishes
new cyclone wire fence

Lake Bunga

Fifty-eight swans gliding
breeze rippled lake
lone gull
dragon head tree stump
rearing overseer

Day 2

Galahs,lorikeets
Banksia cobs, Pitto berries
Australian flags, trimmed lawns
Criusers, Patrols, Pajeros
Boats, golf buggies

Lakes Entrance

Early bird call
clear eyed dogs
sharp eyes
steaming breath
Let's walk.

Hello Young Carey

"Hello Young Carey," came the familiar voice one morning earlier this week. I was tying the dogs up at the post office/ newsangecy.

It was my friend Harry, coming out the door. We met 'on the walk' years ago. A friendship grew. Harry, about twenty years my senior, calls me 'young' Carey. I like that.

"The papers are late," he said, as he walked out the door.

I untied dogs and picked up my bag pack and some local papers that stand outside. It must have been Wednesday morning. "Hang on Harry, I'll walk with you," I said, wrestling with my raincoat and backpack.

As we walked up  Main St. I told Harry I'd had a ripper weekend, I went to Wangaratta, and a Greta Football Club 30 year reunion of their 1980 premiership. It was great to see my old footy mates I explained, some of whom I hadn't seen for 30 years. As soon as I saw them, I recognized them as if no time had passed and we talked as if  time stood still.

"You'd know all about it Harry, having all those reunions with your Club 52*."

"Yes it's a great thing. Sadly many of them have passed away."

We stopped when we reached Le Soueff Rd, where Harry lives, and talked a few minutes more. We looked out over the countryside toward the Warburton ranges in the distance, still visible through the patchy mist.

"No matter how beautiful the world is Harry, and how wonderful are the trees and birds, the clouds and the rain, it's great because we share it with people. You wouldn't want to be on this earth the only human being."

"That's for sure, " said Harry.

"Have you got much on today?"

"I'm going out to the airport later to pick up my daughter coming from Cairns. She's going to a 50th birthday party next Saturday and is having a week with us. Before that I'll sit and listen to some music."

"Good on you Harry. Have a good week," I said, continuing down the hill. "I'm going on holiday for a week on Sunday,  I'll see you in a couple of weeks if I don't see you again before I go."

"You too, Carey. Have a good holiday."

Harry died in his sleep on Friday night. I learned this Saturday morning when I went into the PO/newsagency to pick up my Weekend Australian. He was 78. He worked his acre garden growing vegies and fruit and walked every morning. He was fit for his age and health conscious. Goodbye Harry. I'll miss you. I don't think I'll ever walk past Le Soueff Rd without thinking of you.

* I posted about Harry's Club 52 back in..."Happy Solstice Harry' 21 June 2006.

Lara

I met a lady today while I was walking the dogs. She lives along my walking route and I've talked to her briefly a number of times so we weren't strangers. I've talked to her husband before too. They seem a friendly couple doing their best to raise their family well. She was walking down the hill in the main street with her younger son in the pusher after walking her older son to school. I was later than usual. Lib had her eight o'clock start day so I stayed back, then waited till the washing was done with the intention of hanging it out in the strong wind. It was sunny this morning, and oddly warm, the strong wind an indicator that a change was close.
We talked about the primary school, she asked me did I have children, how old they were, and did they go to Gembrook Primary. Yes they did, I told her. They were happy times, the primary school seemed so safe and friendly. Her son laughed as Pip's wet nose touched his leg while sniffing.

She was noticably pregnant. I asked her, without considering I may have been be too forward till after I said it, "Are you expecting another?"

"Yes," she said. "Mid July." She added something like being a sucker for punishment which I didn't quite catch. I was thinking already about how happy I'd be to see her after the birth with a new baby in the pusher and I told her so. I immediately felt some excitement about it. I asked her what her name is, because until then I didn't know.

"Lara". I told her that was a great name. She's heard there was a 'Lara' in the movie 'Dr. Zhivago', but has never seen it. She said she'd get the DVD from the library one day.

I feel a bit strange getting excited about babies coming. Maybe there's a grandpa in me wanting to come out.

Blimey!

Friends

Writing homework from the first writing class of this term, which I might add I didn't make last Friday, is to write about some aspect of friendship. It can be analytical, of memoir, or a fictional story. I picked up my class notes from teacher Maria on Sunday. Within the notes there's references from the Bible, a poem by Robert Frost, a sonnet by Shakespeare, excerpts from an Emerson essay and quotes from Benjamin Franklin, Norman Douglas, Seneca, Peter Ustinov and Pascal. My Anzac Day post about my late friend Fred Sargent was also there, due to its topical nature, and any of these could be a starting point.

It's easier for me to start with Fred, whom I first met in 1975. I was working for beekeeper/ honey merchant/equipment supplier Norm Redpath. One day he sent me from Melbourne to Boorhaman to pick up a load of honey. I jumped at the chance as it seemed a nice change and an easy days work. I reached Boorahman around lunchtime (actually Fred lived north of Boorahman about 15 minutes but I can't remember the name of the location, there being no town). We loaded the honey, from memory 70 tins, the square kerosene type tins that held 27kg, then Fred invited me in for lunch. It was no frills cold meat and salad. Fred's wife Beryl had already eaten but sat away little, smoked, and drank tea. She wore the thickest glasses I'd ever seen. Conversation flowed easily and I was as hungry for Fred's knowledge as I was for the lunch.

I left shortly after the post lunch cuppa. I already I had two new friends, who'd welcomed me into their lives telling me to come back and visit any time. Later that year Fred lent me a bee site on the Paterson's Curse over the border in NSW. I stayed the night at Fred and Beryl's a couple of times while up there working the bees. I recall at that site, surrounded by paddocks still purple with curse flower, going to the truck for a break and hearing on the radio that Gough Whitlam had been sacked. I laughed. Fred, a staunch Labour man, wasn't happy when I reached his place.

The next year when I moved to Wangaratta to take up the north east Vic. apiary inspector job, Fred was the only beekeeper I knew. He was a comfort and ally in my first couple of years there. He retired soon after and, to my disappointment as it seemed a radical step to leave his home where he loved the quiet isolation, moved to a house on  aquarter acre in Wangaratta on a busy road. He said he always planned to retire as soon as he reached 65, they told him at Repat after the war that the malnutrion he suffered as a POW would likely reduce his lifespan by ten years. He could get a TPI pension and Beryl pressured him to move into Wang. I guess it was a little lonely for Beryl since their daughter moved away after living in a house that Fred built for her and her hubby adjacent to Fred and Beryl's, the idea being the son in law was to take over the bees. He'd decided beekeeping wasn't for him.

Lib and I were married in January1981 and Fred and Beryl attended our wedding. We left Wang some months later but often visited Fred and Beryl when we were in Wang to see Lib's mum. One time, perhaps a year since our previous visit, when I knocked on the door strangers answered, saying they'd recently bought the house, and they didn't know where Fred and Beryl had gone.

Some time passed till I found out Fred had walked out on Beryl. His old place had come up for sale and he wasn't happy in Wang so he bought it. Beryl wouldn't go with him, she moved into flat in the heart of town. They'd had a running battle over Beryl's chain smoking all the time I'd known them. It got worse in town. Fred was a reformed smoker and he hated it. He spent the next ten years growing trees before his death in 1996. Beryl had died earlier, of lung cancer. On Fred's epitaph there's reference to his partner Flossie, whom I never met, but I'm glad he found a companion in his last years.

That all might sound a bit boring, but thinking about Fred, and Beryl, expands my thinking, understanding and compassion. That's what friends do for you. They are the most wonderful thing about life. I'm reaching an age that means I have many friends who have passed away. I have new friends, old friends, friends that live on other continents, friends on holiday in other countries, friends interstate, men, women, even some children. I have neighbours who are friends, also cousins, siblings, mother, wife, kids. It's a privilege to have them as friends. They are in my mind and heart, close to me always. Regardless of distance, infrequent contact, or death, they belong with me and are with me. They give meaning to life.

Our childhood friends and those of our youth, I would say, give us strong bonds and open our hearts. Then, as the pressure and stresses of making money, career building, raising kids, the burdens of responsibility grow, we lose some of it. Friends help us rediscover our hearts. Friends help us understand.*
Hopefully there are many new friends in my future I'm yet to meet.

*"Only if we understand... can we concieve of the seemingly paradoxical phenomenon that people who are afraid of living are especially frightened of death."  (Medard Boss)

Anzac Day

I always think about my old friend Fred Sargent come Anzac Day. He was taken prisoner by the Japanese in Singapore and spent 3+ years as a POW in Shangi and on the Burma railway. His brother, a patient in Singapore hospital, was killed in the fire that destroyed the hospital following the bombing raid. Another of his brothers, Albert, a commando on a mission to blow up Japanese ships in Singapore harbour, was captured, sentenced to death, and beheaded about a month before the atomic bombs were dropped on Japan early in August 1945.

Some years ago, in a newspaper article dated 7 Nov 1945, replicated in The Weekly Times book 'The Bible of the Bush', released in 1994 in celebration of 125 years of publication, I came across the story of 8 Australians who were beheaded by the Japanese earlier that year. I was moved by this story. Firstly because the Australian soldiers were reportedly "gallant to the end", dying with great bravery in a ceremonial execution respectful of their courage. Secondly, I was aware that one of the men executed was Fred's brother, the newly married Lieutenant Albert 'Blondie' Sargent.

A few years ago I came across a book titled 'Kill the Tiger', subtitled 'The Truth about Operation Rimau', first published in 2002. This book reveals that the 8 Australians and two Britons did not go cheerily to their deaths after sharing cigarettes. They were brutally hacked to death with bungling ineptitude by five guards from Outrim prison and thrown on top of each other into three graves, four in one and three in each of the other two, after five months of cruelty and degradation.

The book states that no one in the Allied forces wanted the full story of Operation Rimau, which went horribly wrong, to be publicly revealed. They all had something to hide. This includes the British Establishment, the Americans, the British Navy and the Australian High Command. It concludes the chapter 'The Final Betrayal' saying the Rimau cover-up, in place for nearly sixty years, can be traced right to the top of the Australian High Command.

It dismays me that history, war time or otherwise, can be distorted, and that for years I had been under an illusion. Fred, who died in 1996 when aged in his mid eighties, probably never knew the truth which is the least he deserved, given his and his family's sacrifice.

Fred spent most of his working life after the war as a commercial beekeeper. He had a great love of trees and birds. In his retirement he planted and tended ten acres of red gums, spotted gums and sheoaks at Boorhamen. I'm pleased that shortly before he died I visited him with Lib and the boys and he proudly showed us around his young mini forest. He was a gentle man and a wonderful friend.

Autumn

I reached for a jacket half an hour ago, the first time for what seems like many months. It's drizzling outside, yellow pokers are flowering in the garden and the dogwood trees that are away from the septic drain have their rich red, orange and yellow colours. They have had enough this season and are happy to disrobe for winter rest. Those close to the drain, with access to plenty of moisture through summer and March are still lush and green and will hold  for a while, till colder temperatures convince them to let go. They are heavy in flower bud, programmed for their October show.

Robbie caught four mice in a trap the other day, there's clothes on the horse in front of the gas heater; it was used on Saturday to help defrost the meat taken from the freezer for the barby; we haven't had that problem for a while. I resist yet, carting wood in and lighting the fire. Once I start it's a daily chore, for up to 150 days, with only the odd warm day's break.

I need a fine warm day to bed the bees down, then forget them, till spring rushes them to new life. Many eucs have a good budset for next season, it could be a biggie, honey wise. It may have been this season, but the good rains sent the trees into prodigious growth and budset for next year, robbing the flowers of the trees' energy.

I'll be busy pruning, renovating, planting into the moist ground, mulching, preparing for the promise of spring and the fresh start. Prospects are good and we are all in reasonable health. What more could I want? A little more time to read, to write, to watch a good movie*, to talk to friends. All that is possible over the next months.

*I've enjoyed movies lately, moreso than I have for years. It's an artform I never really embraced. I watched one the other night called 'Swingblade' starring Billy Bob Thornton, whom I'd never heard of. He wrote it and directed it too. Gee it was good. I'm reading 'Chocolat' by Joanne Harris and am enjoying that too. Maybe it's because I'm 58 now (as of last week) that everything seems better and life sweeter. I don't mind ageing at all if this continues. Maybe I speak to soon, I remember the words of a Simon and Garfunkel song, "How terribly strange to be seventy." But several of my septuagenarian friends seem to be amongst the happiest people I know, so I hope I get there to experience it. Could it be that inevitability is easier to accept than uncertainty, and the older you get there's more of the first and less of the latter, and perhaps that allows less anxiety on a daily basis?

I didn't start out to be searching like this, but that's the beauty of writing, thinking and blogging. You wind up looking for a perspective that can help you handle things. It's said, and I don't doubt it, that people often read many different interpretations of the same painting or poem. The longer I live the more wonder I see and feel, in everything.

Restoration

I've been flat lately. Too much to do. I almost sapped myself of energy.

I've been trying to get up a capital works grant application to the the Cardinia Shire on behalf of the Emerald Museam and Nobelius Heritage Park committee, to have replaced a delapidated concrete mishmash retaining wall in the park behind and to the sides of The Green Shed. I started out planning a stone wall replacement, gathering quotes and going through the paperwork. I was nearly there when a heritage consultant's report came in saying the wall could not be replaced with a stone wall, it had to be conrete/brick render as is the existing wall. Start again Carey, with 2 weeks before the April 5 cut off, Easter Monday, which makes it effectively April 1 it has to bein by. I'm still at it. I'm hoping two quotes come by email tomorrow, or my efforts will have been in vain.

The application may well fail, due to council's judgement on what are the most deserving and valid applications for council expenditure. That's OK, but if I fail to get the bid in, after so many hours of work and meetings with contractors, because I haven't met the criteria, well, that would be demoralizing.

As I've ploughed through, some good things lately are starting to give me a feeling of restoration, beginning to grow. Firstly, 22ml of rain on the weekend, perfect timing, Then, yesterday, because of the rain I worked late to get some seeds in at the farm. Violas, cornflowers, calendulas, brocolli, in some ground I forked over a week or so ago. The seeds I put in a few weeks ago, just before the big rain, are up and away and this is encouraging. And some salvia cutting I hastily stuck in some newly dug ground seem to be taking.There's something rejuvenating about putting in seeds and cuttings and seeing them grow. It's renewal.

Then this morning, walking down Quinn Rd. on my way home, I was feeling good that I was fit and well and able to walk and soak up the superb autumn atmosphere. Big John McCann came up the the other way.
We stopped and talked briefly, sharing our feelings of good fortune to live in such a place and walk in the morning fresh air. John's about 80 years old, a tall thin man with lifetime of rich experience and a bent for philosophy. He was once a minister of religion, has spent a lot of time in the bush as a pilot, and in New Guinea. Right up until recently he was travelling to Monash doing honours in a theology degree, I think, part time.

He said that last year he was in Shanghai on a holiday with his daughter. The air was that thick with pollution you could hardly breathe. We looked across to the Warburton ranges, breathing deep the fresh cold air, across green paddocks and forested valleys.

We are lucky indeed to live where we live!

Letter from Barry

The letter I wrote to Barry Heard about his book 'Well Done Those Men' in my 24 Feb post was sent a few days later addressed c/- the publisher. I was chuffed last week when a reply came from Barry thanking me. He said he gets quite a few and answers them all. Most people respect his honesty. He does a lot of work helping vets. There are many problems, especially alcohol.

Amazingly, when I looked at the return address on the envelope, Barry lives in the same street in the same town as Lib's sister Margaret. Marg and Phil are at no.26 and Barry's is 27.  He's not straight across the road but Marg knows him and waves when she sees him. They worked at the same TAFE for a while.

He's written three books. As well as 'Well Done Those Men' there's one about his chidhood growing up in the Tambo Valley, 'The View from Connor's Hill', and a novel TAG set in WW1. The publisher is Scribe, http://www.scribepublications.com.au/

I'll get 'Well Done Those Men' to send to my mate Ian in Canada and the others for my own interest.

St. Peter's Dome

I met Heinz on my walk this morning. He's leaving on Easter Monday on a trip back to Germany with his new partner. They go via Singapore, then the 13hour leg to Frankfurt. At Frankfurt airport, he told me they go underground to catch the train, a bullet train that trvels at 320kph. At Cologne station they get off. The cathedral is about 100 metres from the station.

He'll go there first. It was the tallest building in the world for 1000 years. It's construction started in about 900AD and continued for 800 years. 96% of the buildings in Cologne were destroyed by bombs and fire in WW2 but the cathedral survived. The city authorities took out all the stain glass windows before the raids and stored them somewhere safe. Four bombs went into the cathedral but it was of such strong stone and steel construction, and without windows to compress explosion, the damage was restricted internal. The structure remained standing. After the war the windows were replaced and repairs made inside.

Heinz isn't religious. I think he said he was an atheist. But he likes visiting churches. He said today," If there is a God then it is a God common to all of us. Churches and religion are man's work. When I go to Melbourne I go to St Paul's opposite Flinder's street station. I go inside and sit down. It's a respect I feel for fellow humans."

I asked him was the Cologne cathedral Catholic. He replied, "Yes it is, but I don't care about what type of church it is, it doesn't matter to me at all. It's called St. Peter's Dome."

I don't know if I'll ever visit Europe, but if I do the St. Peter's Dome at Cologne will be on my list of must sees.

Quite a Storm

The downpour yesterday started about 4.00pm. About an hour later when it eased there was 40ml in the raingauge. I hadn't even thought about clearing leaves from the spouts near the downpipes. That was a big mistake. About two minutes after the torrential rain started water was overflowing all the way along the spout onto the deck saturating everything.

I was a bit stunned at the sheer volume of water cascading everywhere when Robbie suggested I check the carport and driveway. Water was running down the hill depositing screenings and silt in the carport. I got wet through shovelling this aside so the water didn't build up. With the rain easing I stripped off shirt and trousers and climbed onto the roof in gumboots and underpants to clear the leaves from the downpipes. It was as slippery as all hell and I realised how easy it is for silly buggers like me to fall off and break their neck or leg or back. It should have been done before the rain started.

Why hadn't I done it before it rained? There'd been plenty of storm warnings and the sky had looked threatening on and off or some 30 hours previous. It was because my mind was focused on something else and I take the valuable lesson to be more flexible and respond more to the obvious and immediate. It'd been on my mind to work the bees and get a bit of honey off at first chance, after not being unable to do it for the past three weekends. When the expected rain didn't come on Friday and I woke to clear blue skies and warm weather on Saturday, I got into my head to do the bees.

It was after lunch when I got to them. I united two weaker hives. They weren't as weak as I thought, but again, I'd had it in my head to do it. It was messy, bees and combs were everywhere and robbers were quick to action. It's better to stay away from bees when a storm's brewing but I ignored this, thinking it was still warm and I'd be quick. It wasn't one of my better beekeeping efforts. Half way through I knew my mistake but determinedly kept going.

The rain kept up overnight bringing another 22ml for a total of 62 till now. I'm about to go outside to the shed and extract honey. There's possibility of more storms. At least the downpipes are clear now, but the tanks are already full so any more rain will overflow down the hill. I haven't seen rain as heavy as that for a long time. I'm grateful we missed the hail they had in other places. Hail can be a killer to the foliage business.

Well Done Barry

Lib and I, and G and R, tripped to Wangaratta on the weekend (13/14Feb-- I'm behind in my blogging, this sat as a draft for a week or more) to visit Molly. At 91 Molly is well but frail, and has various health issues that make her life awkward. Reduced mobility means it takes her so long to do things and of course there are many things she can't do. She relies on home help which comes twice a day, morning and afternoon. We took up an oxtail stew that Lib cooked during last week.

It was a nice little rest. I finished the book I'd been reading, 'Well Done Those Men' by Barry Heard. It's the memoirs of a Vietnam veteran who suffered Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. It details his experiences before his conscription, during training, in Vietnam, and then on his return to Australia, continuing through his studies and career as a teacher and his breakdown and recovery. I found his story riveting and I feel compelled to write to him, as follows.

Dear Barry,
                  I have just completed your book 'Well Done Those Men', and I congratulate you for your courage. It's an amazing and alarming story, well told. I too was conscripted, fortunately not till September 1972. I didn't go to to Vietnam; Australia had withdrawn most of the troops by then and I have never suffered PTSD, but your graphic detail roused me, as does your honesty.
                  Despite having about five years to get used to the possibility, and many months to the reality, I was shit scared when I fronted up to Swan St for the bus trip to Puckapunyal. I resolved to meet every challenge as best I could, but it was a strange feeling, one of losing control of my destiny from that point. I had been a student at Caulfield Tech doing business studies when the ballot took place, I could've had it deferred, but frankly the army at that point looked more exciting than accountancy.
                 The anti war protests and moratorium marches had been building to a massive scale. I sided with the establishment. Early in 1971, the 'love of my life' up to that point, gave me the flick for a long haired, bearded, caftan clad older bloke at Melbourne Uni, where she went after completing school. It was gut wrenching. I had no time for the protests and the hippy movement in general and spent much of my spare time away in the bush with a mate or two camping and fishing. A friend, Ian, had been to Vietnam, finishing his national service in 1971. Three years older than me, he went through school with my brother, as I did with his. He was a keen hunter and fisherman, we often camped and fished in the Victorian highlands. On his return, that's all he wanted to do. He left the railways, where he'd worked as a fireman on the trains pre army, also with my brother. If I couldn't go bush with him he'd go by himself for days at a time.
                As 1972 came and my number came up, I quit the business studies and had some months spare. Ian and I did a trip to the Flinder's Ranges in January 1972. It wet our appetite so we took off next to Alice Springs and Darwin. Before my whereabouts became the business of the army that September, I spent a lot of time with Ian which was somehow a comfort to my anxiety, as he'd already done it. Not that he talked about it much, and he said little about Vietnam. He didn't really show 'readjustment blues', other than lengthy morose, silent periods, and the odd angry outburst. One I recall when a country cop in Sth. Australia pulled up his car and wanted to look in the boot. When he found Ian's two rifles, what should have been a routine roadside check became a heated incident back at the police station while the cop asked questions and did his checking. Ian seethed with indignity, his anger obvious, and he worried me with the lack of respect he showed. The policeman to his credit seemed to read the situation and we ultimately left without further incident or impediment. Weeks later a fine from the SA Police arrived at Ian's house for driving a car with "excessive exhaust noise and emitting sparks." He flared and seethed.
                Another time I foolishly shot at a rabbit quite close to the camp after I'd been off on a walk, and he didn't know I'd come back. He was totally enraged. Looking back I realize that both these incidents concerned firearms and he was ultra sensitive. Fortunately he wasn't a heavy drinker. Before Vietnam he was a light drinker, afterward he hardly touched it, saying he drank that much beer in Vietnam that he now had no interest.
               The NCO instructors when I was at 2RTB were regulars and had all been to Vietnam, some perhaps more than one tour. To a man they seemed to have an alcohol problem, you never knew when one or more would turn up in the evening, drunk and nasty. The 'Parade 8' call would come and we'd line up in front of the hut and cop abuse. 'Shellshock' Murphy was the worst. We loathed and dreaded the sight of him. The others were bad but Murphy worked himself almost to a frenzy, spraying saliva from his purple face, his blood vessels and eyes bulging, telling us we weren't fit to sleep in the same beds as those that came before us, some of whom bled and died in some stinking muddy ditch in the stinking bloody jungle. They loathed us, we felt, and the society that had shunned, protested, marched, yelled abuse, and thrown paint. In retrospect I think they were all close to 'the edge' and it was only their 'togetherness' that prevented them going over. Perhaps some did later.
             Our march out parade at 2RTB was the same day as the 1972 Federal Election. I couldn't vote, the voting age was 21 then. It was an uncertain time. We didn't know whether we'd all be discharged or what if Labour got in. After a couple of weeks of sitting around or being taken out to the bush in trucks and having to find our way back, we learned we could leave if we liked or at any time before term by now reduced to eighteen months was up. If we left early we'd get the benefits the previous nashos got after they completed their term, eg training schemes, and if we stayed on the incentive was that we'd be eligible for the same perks as nashos that had served OS, eg cheap home loan. This annoyed the regular soldiers. I decided to stay on and finish my term. I went to Corps training, the Service (Transport) Corps for a short time, till some incident upset me, and with no compulsion to stay it all seemed a bit pointless. Morale in the army seemed to deteriorate badly after the election. My platoon sergeant called me an effing weak prick when I told him I was off. I felt like a jib, but I had a life to get on with.
             Ian had done a bricklaying course which ran for a few months with the intention of working with his uncle in Canberra. He finished the course and built a path and a wall at our new 'farm' but didn't set up as a bricklayer. He had a suspect back from falling off a truck in Vietnam. He came up to our farm everyday for months on end and helped planting trees and starting the garden. I'd signed up to do a beekeeping course at Qld Ag College in 1974, but he had no plans or ambition, and just hung around every day. In the end we got stuck into him a bit, his aimlessness was starting to irritate. One day, he said he was going to WA. His brother who went through school with me, was working for a plumber mate at Kunanurra. I felt guilty after he left.
            He wrote the odd letter, but we didn't see him for a number of years. Then he started appearing out of nowhere without any notice, every couple of years or so, when he came to see his mum in Melbourne. He'd want to see the garden he'd helped plant at our farm. That had given him a love of trees and planting them. He travelled constantly through Australia and Asia with long hair and a beard like a hippy. He went where the fancy took him if he could afford to get there. One time he turned up in a beat up old Toyota jeep with WA plates, a lot of rust, but no current rego. I told him he was foolish, he'd get picked up by the cops for sure. He said, "I don't care, what can they do?" I said they'd put a canary on his car and fine him and it'd cost him heaps. He said that didn't worry him. He'd just leave the car there and piss off back to WA, which is exactly what happened. Another time I questioned the wisdom of his lifestyle, suggesting he buy a house, with thought for the long term. We'd discuss things like that. He said to own a house was the last thing he'd want because, "Then they can find me".
             So your story rang a lot of bells for me. Like you, I married a nurse. Her family had, and still has, a holiday house at Lakes Entrance. I'm not much of a golfer but I've played a few rounds at Swift's Creek and was comfortable there while I'm not at other courses. I distrust authority and bureaucracy. Over time I've changed my view of the Vietnam conflict. We never should have been there, is my opinion now. It appalls me to think of the 500 plus Australians who died and the thousands wounded bodily and psychologically. Also the huge numbers of Americans and Vietnamese. I hate violence, racism, and injustice.
            Ian lives in Canada now, after marrying a Canadian lady he met on his travels. They have two sons, one about twenty and the other ten. He's on Vancouver Island for twelve months where his wife is doing a naturopathy course, but they have a house in Whitehorse in the Yukon where they live usually, and where the winters are about 6 months long. He still loves hunting and fishing, but now it's moose and salmon. He rings every Christmas and other odd times. The last time I saw him was March 2008. He came to Australia so his younger son could meet his mother who was turning 90. It was minus 40C when he left Whitehorse and 40 above here when he arrived and took his son camping up around the Big River arm of Eildon, where we used to go.
            Thanks again for the book. It's the best account and explanation I have read about something I have pondered about over time. There has been too much silence over the decades and I'm sure your book has helped soothe many who served in Vietnam. I wish you and your old army mates the very best of everything for the future. I'd send your book to my friend Ian but I have to return it, as I borrowed it. I'll keep my eyes peeled for one.

Carey Williams

I'll try to transfer the above letter to 'Word' and print it out and send it to Barry via the publisher. I'd recommend Barry's book. I hope Ian doesn't mind me writing about him in my blog, should he read it. Too bad if you do mate! As I said I'll send you the book if I can find one.

( Since I started the draft saying Molly is well, she has had bleeding from the bowel and has been in hospital and has had a couple of transfusions. She's being discharged tomorrow and Lib is going to Wang in the morning for a few days.)