THE EARTHRISE DIARY (JUNE 2016)
DON DIESPECKER
© Text, Don
Diespecker (2016); guest writers retain their ©
In a village of La
Mancha, the name of which I purposely omit, there lived, not long ago, one of
those gentlemen who usually keep a lance on a rack, an old target, a lean
horse, and a greyhound for coursing.
Miguel de Cervantes: The
Life and Exploits of the Ingenious Gentleman Don Quixote de la Mancha.
Vauxhall Gardens was
long the most popular place of public entertainment in Britain, from 1661 until
it finally closed in 1859. …Every evening throughout the summer the gardens,
with their walkways, musical performances and supper boxes, would typically
play host to a thousand or more people who would stroll, eat, drink, socialise,
flirt and, in general, enjoy a carefully managed combination of virtus and voluptus.
Daniel Snowman reviewing Vauxhall
Gardens: A History in Literary Review,
October 2011.
I’m in Burketown at the moment getting ready for the trip across the
Gulf. We’re aiming for a small place called King Ash Bay right up in the
northwest corner. We’re also hoping for a smooth trip but expecting lots of
corrugations so have allowed a few days for the crossing. I’m also hoping for
some delightful camps by the water not infested with crocs. Dream on!
Kerry Smith: Top End Log, (Email narrative, May
2016).
CHARIVARI
Riverside
DD
Fewer
water
dragons
these days
Fat biting flies seem rare
Midges
cloud the damp air
A
black snake
sleeps lazily
The climbing goanna stares
down
Old
man sees
the changes
Burnt out summer slips
away
June 1 2016. Welcome
all Diary readers to the probably last of the “regular” Diaries. Dare I say we’re here on Planet Earth as visitors; mostly
we come and we go in moments timely or untimely and though it seems something
of a waste that we can’t forever hang out in a lively manner somewhere nice or
possibly splendid, our being here at all has to be a privileged pleasure. Just
imagine how much tougher it would have been for all of us had we turned up
expectantly a mere ten thousand years ago!
It seems a good idea that I not begin this Diary with
a series of dated ‘entries’ in which I describe sightings of brush turkeys
promenading on Big Lawn like black peacocks (though I recently for the very
fist time saw FIVE of them together, strutting like proprietors); or to mention
again that the high and dangerous flooded gums, Eucalyptus grandis, are super dangerous on windy days (despite my having been
bashed only two days ago by a deadwood branch falling from on high); or even
waxing eloquent on the beauty of cormorants in flight (because I marvel at the
cormorants each and every day)…
This “first day of winter” Down Under shall be the sole
dated Diary entry. I prefer to reminisce and remember. This Diary being also an
Invitation Issue I’ve included a potpourri of guest writings and I also draw
again your attention to further of my writings in various forms (even genres) in my list of E-books. For new
readers especially: my apologies for this notion of apparent abandonment: the
good news is that these Diaries go back for years and you may easily access
past postings simply by scrolling back. Also, all readers: if you scroll back
to the above epigraphs in this Diary
you’ll see that the first relates to fiction writing (novels in particular).
The second epigraph tags a theme of gardens and gardening, perhaps even garden
entertainment, and the third identifies that wanderlust and walkabout adventure
philosophy so widely enjoyed by Australians as well as by visitors from abroad:
off-road or 4-WD driving generally in the Outback. And there’s an “extra” epigraph that I’ve hidden in the text
below for fear some readers could be deterred from reading any further into
this issue…
*
Yesterday having been the last day of “autumn” here (autumn
was almost entirely summery), the darkness at the back of my kitchen has been
made lighter by my friend Pete who has installed bold white storage cupboards
(their tops to be used also as bench-top working spaces). Pete and his family
live in the house built years ago by Geoff Cawardine who long ago also was one
of our students at The University of Wollongong, NSW; Geoff also had
chain-sawed a slab of river oak that once grew on the property and close to the
road and which also was deteriorating. I remember the day when Darcey Browning
felled the old tree when I then was standing behind him with a handful of
gravel ready to throw (quickly but gently) at the back of his safety helmet
were I to see enormous branches falling from a great height (nobody solo sawing
ought ever to be chain-sawing any tree whilst looking upward at the
same time). Long sections of the felled tree lay on the ground for some weeks
and until Geoff sawed what was to become my kitchen’s “original bench-top slab
(about 30 years ago)”. Pete will be sanding and then staining with a clear
varnish the old slab and that super-bench top will be seen as (at least by me)
Nicely Historical. The Earthrise house here was made with one of my principal
tools being my chainsaw (once Darcey had taught me how to use the machine
safely). You see how everything is connected one way or another at Earrthrise
as it often is in rural parts of the country like the Darkwood here in New
South Wales (Australia). For bemused readers in other parts of the world, the
Australian State of New South Wales does indeed look considerably like South Wales in Wales (United Kingdom).
*
While continuing faithfully to avoid dated entries in this
mid 2016 June there has been more drama than anybody perhaps expected in NSW:
for the first time (ever recorded) the entire coast of NSW has been on flood
watch and flood alert. The so-called East Coat Low that formed attracted moist
air that quickly became predicted 200-mm and 300-mm and even 400-mm falls of
heavy rain within a 24-hours period: cyclonic winds, thunderstorms, compulsory
evacuations (due to flooding, countless rescues of people in vehicles driving
into flood waters which the State Emergency Services (SES) and the Police had
warned against and prompting authorities to call these unnecessary rescues which effectively risked the lives of those who
had warned against driving into flood waters and were then required to risk
their lives rescuing the foolhardy)… There also were thousands of calls from
homes and businesses made to the SES for help, such calls made for leaking
roofs, fallen trees and unfortunate removals of very large roofs from big
buildings. There has been beach erosion and the collapse of some beachside
properties the consequences of high waves, storm surges and king tides. This
huge storm formed in the N-E of the State and continued moving south leaving
flooding rivers, flooded towns, power disruptions and more unpleasantness than
can be imagined. The river here began rising, the rain began and I moved my car
to higher ground next to my neighbour Victoria’s house and once home again I
fully expected a BIG flood here, electricity failures and much damage (none of
which has occurred). I got the
fire going in the slow combustion heater, dried wet fuel, wrote, edited, and
slept with one eye open… The flood came in the dark, peaked and then fell. By
daylight when I could see, had eaten breakfast and was fortified by coffee, I
saw that the bridge was intact (the deck still submerged), and from the debris
dumped on the damaged bridge approach next to Earthrise, that the river was again rising (from excess water in the
catchment and the effect of a king tide earlier on the Saturday night). Damage
here was minimal: flooding of the garden and lawns here fell short by one to
two metres. What luck! We at Upper Thora and The Darkwood had all dodged a very
considerable bullet. By late afternoon vehicles were using the bridge again
although some returned after a few minutes: Richardson’s bridge, the next
bridge downstream being the probable cause. On Monday morning here: a perfect
bright sunny day with no cloud. The bridges still have an abundance of logs,
branches and debris jammed against them.
During these stormy and worrying times the Earthrise house
provided shelter to six refugee micro bats sheltering from the weather: the
tiny six were a mere handful and they hung together on a structural beam that
was close to the outside of my bathroom window. The morning or sometimes dawn
view of the upstream river seen through my bathroom window encourages
contemplation of the coming light whilst shaving.
*
I want also to acknowledge here the genius of Charles
Dodgson (better known as “Lewis Carroll”). I’ve always admired the Alice books:
they have also inspired some of my writings, stories about talking insects
(Julie Craig may recall that I recently found and sent to her, some of my notes
and sketches about ‘talking ants’ that date to the late 1940s). More recent
adventures of very sophisticated speaking midges are fun for me to write,
particularly because my Midgeworld stories are set (mostly) here, at Earthrise.
I’d have included one of those stories here but it’s a 5,000 words-long
narrative. However; “A Leaf of her Own” may still be read in one of my e-books,
The Midge Toccata.
I was surprised and pleased to read in one of Simon
Winchester’s little books (The Alice
Behind Wonderland) that the meaning of the word “photograph” is light-writing (“writing with light”).
For years I’ve been describing as “shadowgraphs” the moving images of foliage
projected on to the inside of my toilet door by the setting sun. Though the
foliage is probably that of trees close by on this property it seems completely
otherworld or magical. The experience of seeing this is a delight: one’s “own”
silent movie, as it were. On one occasion there was included the silhouette
image of a distant bird sitting on a waving branch. These marvellous images
deserve to be filmed with a movie camera for they seem to me ideal examples of
local biology and history. Paradoxically the lighting required for filming (and
flash for still shots) would probably ensure losing the images…
Which brings me to gardens and gardening and the gardens theme in this Diary. I remember
clearly the gardens of my childhood the first of which was at 1129 Oxford
Street, Victoria B C (Canada). When last I visited Victoria the old house had
gone and had been replaced by one very similar to the big old house of the
early1930s that we rented… Also, those old gardens no longer existed and the
big vacant lot near Cook Street had also vanished: all had transformed into
real estate of various kinds. The old garden that I remember at 1129 Oxford had
a big backyard where my father grew prize-winning dahlias (and Durbyn had a
shoe-box-full of red and blue prize ribbons to prove it). Growing dahlias has
perhaps been a family tradition: old photos suggest that my grandparents
(Elizabeth and Rudolph) included them in their Adstock (UK) home and dahlias
have grown well here at Earthrise, too. Durbyn’s prize-winning dahlias were
grown during the Great Depression. Dad also grew vegetables. There were apple
and pear trees, the apples as big as large grapefruit, and there were
espaliered raspberry and loganberry canes in front of the garage’s timber wall.
One of the gold mine rental houses where we later lived in
Pilgrim’s Rest (then in South Africa’s Transvaal Province) was big enough to
grow large quantities of tomatoes: other residents would send their servants
with baskets, money, and notes requesting Durbyn’s excellent tomatoes. Years
later in Durban I helped my father make garden lawns at a newly constructed
family home: most of the grass came from runners that we planted: later, my job
was to mow the resultant lawns.
And there have been other houses and gardens in Africa,
Australia and elsewhere: when in the mid-1950s Pam worked at South Africa House
in London, I was working in our rented “flat” in an old Hampstead house and
learning to write fiction: I earned a little money by working as an itinerant
gardener around Hampstead: one of the sunny gardens belonged to the composer
Edric Cundell (1893-1961) and as I recall, I also worked there as an extra pair
of hands in his kitchen, long ago…in my scullery days.
The garden here at Earthrise was initially a labour of love:
lantana and buddleia covered the ground and had climbed high to infest the
riverside trees (the rest of this 10.2-ha or 25-acres property is steep terrain
and forested). And, Yes, I like
thinking and saying, “Part of Earthrise is a forest.” The Earthrise garden such
as it is now is a consequence of Jannelle and I having removed logs and flood
debris and destroyed the pernicious lantana and buddleia vines that initially
covered the area in front of the house site. The “original” lawn is now
archaeological having been buried and “preserved” by the big 2001 flood.
Earthrise has a “new” lawn now that was largely gifted by the flooding river in
2001 and by subsequent high floods delivering a variety of seeds and
plants…
*
What can be seen when we sit quietly and perceive landscape
also informs our “garden awareness.” What we each think we are, how we are and
of course, where we are, influences our perceiving. We each may see and become sharply aware of
difference, contrast, light in ways that are exclusively personal. It’s then
that we may with little or no effort consider imagining changes (that will certainly require effort in the
future). In those relaxed times when we enable the landscape’s speaking, as it
were, to us that we also feel enthusiastic about composing, creating, conceiving,
fantasizing how we can dramatically change through our own hard work some of
the landscape or scene or even the view. Such change as we each may bring about
through our own efforts will vary from the removal of wilderness (or in
Australia, The Bush) and replacing
that with garden, or a designed garden and, always, a made
garden. Gardeners are those who can’t
resist being active gardeners imagining and willing aesthetic and beautiful change. To garden is to be romantic and
loving, and very busy.
Everything changes.
CREATIVE WRITING
As a personal blog, and through the courtesy of Google, The
Earthrise Diary used regularly to be posted or published every month but now
time and age have diplomatically (and kindly, too) combined to recommend that I
post issues if I may call them that, infrequently. This is a respectful
indication to myself and to those who read this blog for me to change the pace
and to ration my writing time as best and as sensibly as I can. In plain
English: I intend my writing time now to be more efficiently prioritised so
that I can better use most of my time for personal creative writing. Until now
writing time has generally translated as being any periods or sessions spent at
the computer or in writing endless notes to myself so as to continue in the
email swim, or whatever. I don’t do social media and I’ve never played a
computer game: my pleasure is to write every day and I do so eight or nine days
a week. ☺ I heartily recommend this approach to life to
friends and to many acquaintances in the hope that others will understand the
joys of writing creatively, and that
the need to write now whilst the
going’s good is essential. In other words, writing, creative writing implies my
ability to write as well as I can in the time that I have available. I also
take the view that practically all writing
all written documents may be anybody’s and everyone’s works of art if we write as well as we possibly can. And that whatever
else writing might be it undoubtedly is therapeutic.
Diary
Contributors
DD: I was born in
Victoria, British Columbia in 1929. I grew up in South Africa, lived later in
the UK and together with my Australian wife Pam migrated to Australia in 1960
where our sons Nicholas and Carl were born. I used also to be an academic (The
University of Wollongong, NSW) as well as a trained psychologist as well as a
trained psychotherapist (trained in Australia and California). I’m still very pleased to have introduced
and taught relatively new subjects and courses, particularly “Humanistic
Psychology” and “Consciousness” possibly the first such subjects to have been
offered in an Australian university. I like to think that my imagination is
still in working order and I’ve been writing fiction and non-fiction stories
and narratives since I was ten years old (including verse/poetry, caprice, some
reportage, family history and military history). Drafting novels is a favoured
pleasure. Seeing the narrative emerge
is a delight; I also relish reading in my sunny riverside garden.
Kerry Smith is a retired teacher who lives in one of the best
parts of the world and loves to travel off-road with a caravan to parts remote
and beautiful.
John Morris spent much of his
working life in the armed services (Royal Australian Air Force and the
Australian Regular Army first in WW2 and then in Japan and in Korea). This
focused his mind such that the most astonishing array of bizarre and frequently
unbelievable events not only came his way but inclined him to believe that the
world was indeed ordered in this way. Following his service he re-treaded
and completed his PhD in Psychology at the University of California (Berkeley).
The same thing happened to him again. His world was indeed a bizarre
and infuriatingly funny place. He saw humor in every incident whether positive,
negative or even disastrous. He joined the Psychology staff first at Berkeley
and then at The University of Wollongong. Neither disappointed him and
since his retirement he replays "old movies" in his mind as he looks
out over the Tasman Sea and sips on a cold ale and a smile seldom leaves his
face and an occasional chuckle may be heard as the ridiculous and preposterous
plays out one more time.
Signe Jurcic: I was born in Duncan, B.C. on Vancouver Island and attended Queen
Margaret's School for girls (where I met your cousin Jill). We then both went
on to study Nursing at VGH and the University of British Columbia
(Vancouver). After graduation I moved to Montreal for three years. It was there
that I met my future husband who was studying to be an ophthalmologist. We
married in Vancouver where we built our home forty-six years ago. For the
last eight years, since my husband's death, I have been on my own, though
never lonely though thanks to family and good friends (Jill in particular).
Julie
Craig is a keen gardener, writer, ex-trainer and
motivator, artist and jewelry-maker. She has lived all her life in South Africa
and her home is in Bryanston, Johannesburg where her one-acre of garden is
situated.
Peter and Dee Thompson continue a life of
gardening on the banks of the Bellinger River in New South Wales, Australia.
Mandy Young is a special education
teacher who has designed and made her garden.
Sasha Fergusson is
Vancouver-based and is working this summer in Dawson City, Yukon. Her favorite
food is rice and peas (especially when made by her mother or her grandmother).
Her favorite animal is the Canada goose.
Rik Diespecker was born in
Vancouver, BC in 1929 and enrolled in the Canadian Army Regular Force in 1953.
He served in Canada, Egypt and Germany retiring from the Regular Army in 1979
and transferring to the Reserve Army until 1984 as Lt Col prior to retiring to
the Sunshine Coast in BC where he now lives. He was awarded a CD, the Canadian
Forces Service Medal.
The narratives:
1937
Don Diespecker
Idly ruminating in the garden and watching the downstream
river I glimpse native violets in the raggedy lawn grass and turn to their blue
and white sharpness and imagine picking a tiny bunch and setting them in a
miniscule container of water, the smallest glass milk jug perhaps; or ought I
let them be, lawn-held in the present? I nudge my garden chair to see more
clearly the birdbath because the natural world within which I’m fixed “compels”
me to. Two honeyeaters are in their birdbath pool celebrating water their safe
splashing a cheery ritual. How well they’ve chosen their bathing place knowing
the watcher to ignore and the Bellinger four jumbled metres below the lawn-edge
a tad too inconvenient for river-smart honeyeaters that know they may fly down
with ease despite needlessly burning energy to do that. The old gardener has
made it easier although that’s of no account. A reminder breeze runs upstream
rippling the surface. In this sheltered corner breezes always surprise. Do
cormorants admire downward views, aerial shots grandeur from above? A small kingfisher hits the water. I see the
dash and flair of the kingfisher while hearing the trilling voices of honeyeaters.
After these golden moments the honeyeaters move away refreshed. The splashing
reminds me of Welcome Swallows flying fast sorties downriver at Richardson’s
Bridge: speeding swallows hurtling through and under and over the bridge, fast,
so fast! Swallows air-hunting
in-flight dinners don’t splash down like kingfishers. So small a splash the
kingfisher makes: a workmanlike penetration of water, the professional hit then
the bursting re-entry flight into air and light. It’s learned behaviour
practised skilfully and how does the bird experience that? Might a cruise
missile feel the water when bursting up to the sky? And the kingfisher sounds
are so unlike the bigger sound of a water-slapping canoe. The notion of slap reminds me of a time long ago: the
old SS Bencleugh reappears brightly
in mind, the freighter with the almost German-looking Scots name. What became
of her? The breakers yard, perhaps? Atlantic convoys? A U-Boat?
*
I was thrilled being aboard and sailing away, the ship
surging grandly the waves in sun, wind and rain moving nearly always south then
southeast toward Cape Flattery, across the huge Atlantic down to South Africa.
Then, I’d sailed from the present into the future. Then, in a time long past I
vaguely was the cabin boy and almost a sailor.
Mom and Deirdre were stewardesses, Dad was a steward: all
the family signed on as crew: my
grey-eyed family crew in far-away 1937, that ancient time that historical time
of Amelia Earhart that long ago enlightening age of explosive awareness when I
was a kid of eight feeling the great world blowing at me, bearing me up on a
steel ship sailing! And all of that when I was just eight, a kid of eight
scores of years ago, the family four unlikely and un-necessary extra crew
paying their way on the 8,000 tons Scots freighter out of Leith her cargo of
lumber stacked bridge-high cramming holds and further packed bulkily covering
decks and hold covers except for the mid-ship’s open space and clear parts
around cabins and the dining saloon. I feel now her floaty mass throbbing and
pulsing from more than a lifetime ago!
The new image of an old scene flashes: the black-hulled Bencleugh a blond hillside of lumber
bound by great steel chains, unsinkable. What if taut timbers had swelled in
spray and broken the chains? What if a storm had capsized her? Like a cork
she’d have been surely?
The masses of lumber for South African ports were sawn
timbers for house building: great splintery rough-cut lengths taken from
forests and sent to sea. Canadian softwood in Africa would become roof trusses,
rafters, beams, joists and bracing, bottom and top plates, studs and nogging
far away; British Columbia lumber shipped all the way from Chemainus on
Vancouver Island. Gloomy grey that afternoon the family sailed away when Chemainus
was all damp docks and the forest’s softwood fragrance, and a dockside sign in
German: Rauchen Verboten. I’ve never
forgotten the sign: black letters on a white board in autumnal gloom. Dad said
it meant ‘Smoking Forbidden.’ Forbidden was
an awesome childhood word, my first remembered German beyond the family name.
I remember friends in 1950 Amsterdam their forearms tattooed
with numbers surviving and I remember Germany finding the family name in
holocaust records faded. I remember 1937, the grown-ups muttering, my
tender-age awareness of Hitler four years in power. We knew the Depression too:
everyone was in it and yet we sensed that grey time changing because kids know
more than they can say or tell. Now I remember visiting in the 1990s the old
Jewish Cemetery in Diespeck not trashed by Nazis that section with the stahlhelm memorial that upright marble
monument topped by the German steel helmet: German-Jewish soldiers in the Wehrmacht who served in the Great War killed, honoured and celebrated.
Why was Bencleugh’s
hull so memorably black, smelling of the sea and seedy ports, the anchors so
muddied? And there were galley smells too: luxurious bacon and eggs, unsubtle
vegetable soup. I can still picture childhood 1930s soup, Grace in the kitchen
at Oxford Street, the city of Victoria, slicing vegetables, cooking. Her soup
always smelled rich and alive. The stove in the big kitchen burned cordwood
from Vancouver Island forests. Mom fed the family well, made do with barley,
lots of vegetables bought from the old Chinese street vendor, two big baskets
on split bamboo shoulder-slung he carried. Up and down Victoria’s streets all
seasons. Dad’s garden lettuce and beans she used too storing them fresh and cut
in brine contained in earthenware pots that she shelved in the pantry, fresh
summer greens in winter. And incomparable big fluffy dumplings like snowballs
she made, boiled beef and ox-tail, vegetable soup, mutton stew and rice,
wheaten cakes pan-baked and steamed pudding with golden syrup.
Cape Town, Port Elizabeth, East London, Durban, Lourenço
Marques: two months to Mozambique the slow boat to Africa. We arrived in the
hot spring. So different the world was then! Departure must have been late
summer early autumn for our family that sailed away. September perhaps. I’d started a new class in Victoria, BC:
Grade Three with Miss Greig at Sir James Douglas School. Then left, pulled out,
unable to explain myself before shipping out forever to Africa: I was merely a
movie a celluloid fantasy, my life then so vague. How to explain my ignorant
self?
Bencleugh became
home for eight weeks. I see her still
through the mind’s eye in that remembered time while wondering at the tar and
ropes smells and cooking smells and the zesty smell of the sea. The best of Bencleugh’s special smells was that
heady scent of Douglas fir and pine and cedar, so strong everywhere on board: a
sawn forest gone to sea. Such cargo: it seemed more cargo than ship. Suddenly I
now can visualize her from above as if seen from an aircraft: the ship so bulky
and top-heavy-looking imaged most of a century later and still so ponderous in
all seas.
Dad signed the papers on the green baize of the dining table
in the varnished saloon, as did the unsmiling or maybe dour Captain Shipton.
There was to be a mutual dislike between Captain and cabin boy. The Captain was
reputedly descended from Mother Shipton, the prophetess, seer or psychic
(Ursula Southeil born 1488, the record showed; married Toby Shipton,
carpenter—and no kids).
There was that imagined loud sound again from nowhere but
memory, that reverberating walloping SLAP!
And an image to go with the sound: the Atlantic in storm weather about halfway
through the voyage, grandly visualized again: I hold hard the mid-ship rail in
the relatively safe cargo-free space, the Captain staring down from the port
wing of the bridge, his piercing gaze, his watching seemingly grim, unfriendly.
And I remember the mighty SLAPS on
the mid-ship hull high up when we were down in a trough Bencleugh wallowing, the wind driving right-angled at the ship
bashing beam-ends resonantly loud and
I could see again myself the inoffensive cabin boy, my small form turn to see
more waves hurrying in my direction fast. There were enormous wallops as waves
pounded the side, then each wave falling to the flecked windy trough oddly
reminding me of the upstream rippling Bellinger breeze over the water but those
Atlantic waves were hugely so much more. I seem to hear it still those slaps
although there are no sounds quite like that in the present except when the
garden-adjacent Plains Crossing Bridge is pounded by logs in floods when
strikes on the bridge make the earth tremble and are felt in the house always
as a great thud! In ocean storms
froth skittered across the ocean’s flat parts, the spindrift flying; Bellinger
storm winds urge rippled patterns and the sculpting of small waves and local
heavy rain in the Darkwood makes myriad small spouts like naval shells falling
on the ocean.
Dad loved Bencleugh
breakfasts, those scents of curry and rice so well remembered. The Chinese
stewards, the real stewards their
cabins re-allocated to the family, served that breakfast hot curry Durbyn
relished and fluffy rice and porridge too and tinned creamy milk and strong
black coffee. No hot curry, no coffee for The Kid who thrived on luxurious
crispy bacon and fried eggs in those Depression times and pancakes and butter
and maple syrup so delicious! I close my eyes to see the butter melting on
pancakes: it used to float a little on the maple syrup and the wonderful aroma
filled the dining saloon still unforgettable decades later.
Outside in the sea wind there were remembered smells of
ship’s paint too: Japanese crewmen painters who re-painted precisely decorative
designs on the panels of cabin exteriors in a sort of faded gold or apricot
colour: their flat-handled brushes were like wide spatulas, the short bristles
tautly tucked into the thin wood.
I liked most of the crew: a favourite was Sparks the Radio
Officer who liked to chat with Deirdre, she all of sixteen, her dark hair, her
marvellous grey eyes, both warily watched by Dad. The First Mate was very
Scots: Wilfred was charming to Grace because all her family were Scots though
she was Transvaal-born like Deirdre and like Durbyn. And the second engineer
what was his name? I’d liked him too. Captain Shipton didn’t like his real crew
socialising with the pretend crew: he watched us all closely and as I recall he
had a quirky pastime. Not for him music or painting, chess or bridge or
poker: he had crewmen construct a fishing machine, a mighty mast and boom quite
unlike the Chinese fishing machines at Cochin on India’s Malabar coast, those
works of art mechanical. The Captain’s machine was like a big blunt derrick,
one high pole an upright mast and with a swiveled boom sturdy enough to catch
whales you’d think. He or the machine hooked a shark one morning on a bright
day beyond Trinidad, the ship hove to the engines stopped possibly to clean the
boilers. It was too deep to anchor too deep by far and Bencleugh would have drifted for sure, the ship near the equator
still and silent, unpowered. The Captain had liked catching that shark and he
was thrilled to watch it die gutted on the golden cargo, its crimson spilling
across the lumber, but strangely there seemed no point. It was a quiet morning
over dark water deep and all aboard had sport flinging away flat cigarette
tins, those metal ones. The empty tins that held 50s, tailor-made smokes with
silver foil tobacco smells inside: to the Deep the silent ocean swells they
flew, Gold Flake one kind Herbert Tareyton another (Herbert, a top hat and
monocle chap the logo depicted on the lid). It was a compelling scene that day
the swells surging blue and no land seen. Glittering tins skimmed away glancing
the sea’s surface closing to sink dully slowly fluttering down, the dark sea
down. Some few stayed open wide
their insides gaping shone and twinkled down the Deep eerily winking glinting
diminishing falling away to faintest glimmer. All watched noisily then fell silent
seeing the shining dwindle: that out of sight twinkling to final blackness. I
never can forget those fading images the imagined far seabed Gold
Flake-littered. Did the shark’s carcass fall as fast to blackness, faster than
those flat tins fading?
I still wander parts of the old ship vividly in my
mind as if remembering a significant movie. Off the dining saloon was a
pantry/storeroom with tobaccos and cigarettes for the crew to purchase. There
were big round tins like paint tins, their labels blue and white. Inside was
chewing tobacco, tight-packed plug and suddenly there’s the peculiar
realization of not ever having seen anybody chew tobacco since then. At night
in bed as cabin boys do I’d lie thinking in the top bunk dark and sometimes
through the cold closed porthole see bow waves hissing swiftly by, glimpse
froth flying and in storms hear those big slapping waves pounding, the ship
shuddering sometimes in and out the troughs and hear also odd pauses quite
silent strangely till water drained down the scuppers and I heard it falling
back to sea sliding along the sides. Some starry nights I was allowed up later
and with permission sat right up in the bows. I so loved the crowds of stars
and chatting with the bow lookout ready to bell-ring sightings. Once I saw a
vessel’s light I was sure was dead ahead and told the lookout who saw it not
but rang for me and The Old Man came out on the bridge to see for himself his
binoculars sweeping then later ticked the lookout off shouting and it was all my cabin-boy fault, I the lookout’s
misperceiving assistant.
The chained timber felt rough and splintery even
through shoes. We had to climb up from cleared deck space to the chained cargo
then walk carefully to the bows that rose and fell ahead, spray cutting back
all the way to the bridge and no safety rails then back again and the same to
the stern where the red ensign slapped and streamed in the wind. Durbyn’s
basket of pungent limes was stowed in front of the bridge held there by the
lumber’s ends together with his crate of crisp apples from Oxford Street, all
in the cool air, the British Columbia apples the limes from Panama or was that
Cristobal, Colon and a deception of memory? The marvelous scent of limes
supposedly helps stave off scurvy. I’ve always since then finger-nailed lightly
a lime for its scent, so volatile that whiff so sharp. How had everybody
avoided falling over the ship’s side there? It was wildly dangerous surely that
walk over bucking cargo; I hadn’t been allowed to at night, not alone. And never
alone down to the hot engine room, the engine room that cavernous hold so loud,
the roaring furnaces flaming, the stokers shoveling coal and hurling it
headlong to red flames down in the stokehold. And remembering how deep down it
was there below the sea’s surface and even deeper down along that tunnel where
the screw’s shaft turned to its noisy end the great propeller thrashing undersea inches away!
Again I remember departing Chemainus, that first late
afternoon tea with the Captain, tea and biscuits before darkness came then Bencleugh easing out away from Vancouver
Island from home from Victoria and from Cowichan and the forests threading
through islands then swinging starboard near Victoria Dad’s four brothers
flashing from the headland their car lights fare-welling, never to see them
again in life. We sailed along Juan de Fuca Strait to Cape Flattery then open
sea turning to port and sailing south. In bed that first night I heard the
engine room’s ash disposal dumping to the black seabed the noisy ash-bucket
banging. In the top bunk listening, I felt the rumbling ship’s motion,
breathing ship smells wondering at voyaging and puzzling at life. I conjure now
another memory: that new ocean blueness of Mexico’s Pacific coast and down to
Panama in that late summer near autumn the time cool and breezy, changing to
the first warm tropical nights. I was allowed to stay up late. Shore-close the
new air packed tropical scents, all fragrant all exotic. There was a new kind
of radio music, dance music heard while we anchored off Panama City and there
were golden harbor lights to see, one a searchlight shining straight up.
Excitement came with the morning light the crammed steamer entering the Canal
majestically slowly. Much later the family took shore leave to shop then
boarded again laden with fruits. There was that drizzly evening rain in
Cristobal and everywhere the luscious new fruits, their scents, their novel
tastes so lively.
Through the wind and beneath the blue sky, our
blue-ocean freighter thumping across the Caribbean and in the greyer Atlantic
the mighty albatrosses hanging at the stern languidly balancing the wind their
wings strong as sails. I saw the albatross seeing me, eyes gleaming. They hung
lordly looking down, great-ocean grandees. A seaman bucket-washing clothes
cursed and threw blue-mottled soap at one his bad luck entirely. The Atlantic
seemed a lake the shores no distance for the ranging birds. The loaded steamer
rolled, surged, swung, pitched and tossed. Ships and ocean birds sailed in and
out of weather while humans remained grounded on ships built to penetrate
varied weathers. Ships seemed more natural than our trying to fly. Magically
there were flying fishes to see, flying up next our bows. Nowadays we fly
sealed in sky-sailing tubes. And it was in 1937 Amelia Earhart flew the Pacific
to vanish long seas ago and I remember.
Still we make pictures in the mind always shall for
evermore. Imaging pictures so far back so strange yet there was I in that time
there and then that cabin boy kid, my self. It’s always so easy to see
ourselves easily with closed eyes we make anew the snapshot scenes from years
ago our minds repeating even thoughts thought then and even sounds still heard:
Mom’s voice her tone or Dad saying ‘Tomorrow morning we arrive in Table Bay,’ I
still recall him speaking knowing now Table Mountain was a remarkable symbol
for him. I remember his voice was husky then. And I hear too Deirdre’s voice,
conjure up her 1937 face, see her features her lips moving then hear her tone,
see again her expression and understand. Long ago in that Great Depression era
my teenage sister wanted nothing more than a strawberry shortcake for her
birthday made by Grace for her, layered with whipped cream. Depression luxury.
I can almost taste it even now; she always shared. Long ago those long days of
tight times when she was sixteen and I was eight. The Thirties were so long
lasting for a kid of eight. Probably time went faster for Sis changing from
girl to woman. She loved Thirties music, Deirdre as we all did. Imprinted,
those ‘30s songs linger in memory. The best tunes ever. I grew up with them.
Unforgettable was Cole Porter’s I’ve got
you under my skin those crazy words ensured we’d remember. I can hear that
clearly now in mind and Jerome Kern’s, Smoke
gets in your eyes, that first line: They
asked me how I knew my true love was true? And Kern’s The way you look
tonight and who used to sing it then, was it Fred Astaire in Swingtime? Fred and Ginger. And: A fine romance. I remember too
Gershwin’s Love walked in and the
first line, Love walked right in and
drove the shadows away. The lyric was written in 1937, too. Lines of clever words remembered.
In Cape Town
we visited Durbyn’s friends, there were bright lights the slopes of the
mountain grand and American dance music on the radio. Even then words from popular love songs, made sense. And there
were those great movies of the Thirties, all entertainment and remembered
music. Our family used to go together to the movies. Flying down to Rio. I was only three or four and those times are as
clear as old memory can be. I remember the actors on the wing of that airliner,
all of them dancing! The Movies, capital M! The Pictures, Moving Pictures!
Romance long ago. An airline ticket to
romantic places. I’ve always been a romantic.
I’m still here in 2016 in the everlasting present. The
Kid is filing stories from 1937. Watch me carefully and you’ll see me blink and
look vague but I’m just visualizing, picturing. I’m just remembering, dreaming
of old memories filed in a snug cognitive corner in a backwater of my mind.
That distant kid of eight’s still partly eight in 2016. I hold him up to the
light; he’s still filing 1937 stories to the 87-years old guy in his garden.
I’ve been opening the lines to 1937, scribbling information on mind’s Copy Desk
then storing that. They’re like old photos those pictures in the mind, though
you can’t take anything with you.
And I can see myself sitting here in my garden in 2016,
reminded of that book by Julian Jaynes The
Origin Of Consciousness In The Breakdown Of the Bicameral Mind a title
unforgettable. There’s a part about introspecting when you last went swimming,
you yourself swimming and you’ll see yourself swim, something you simply didn’t experience back then when then you
swam! Remembering makes us all magical animals. You’re easy to remember and so hard to forget.
Through my mind’s eye I glimpse a Saturday afternoon in
1937, a time when the ocean, the entire world was sunny and peaceful. It must
have been when Bencleugh was hove to
or soon after. There were islands off the port bow. They shimmered, seemed to
float and looked so vertical and they wavered as I watched. Caribbean islands?
I remember them distinctly and those long ago bright days on the sunlit sea and
that strong ship superb bound in chains. I remember too the way scents and
smells remind one. Now I remember my cousin Louise and image us in 1995 walking on Dachau’s springtime streets suburban
admiring fragrant fruit blossom. And recalled there at that time the
apple-blossom scents in our old garden that last Canadian summer in 1937.
And here now I see too the Bellinger River’s present breezes
and ripples while remembering old sea storms and the 1930s, moving images in
the mind screening comfortably fast and the ship’s prow plunging and the bow wave’s
flying fishes all dazzling!
[Also in: Here and
There: Home and Away Essays. eBook. © Don Diespecker]
LEAVING LAWN HILL
Kerry Smith
Evening All,
I’m uncertain if this
will make much sense as we have been having final drinks over our last dinner
in Lawn Hill. We head off in different directions tomorrow and the start of the
next leg of the adventure begins.
The boys, Jim and Colin
left today as they have a limited time to get home so they’re in Julia Creek
tonight escaping the heat in an air conditioned pub. The rest of us leave
tomorrow morning. Deb and Les head for Julia Creek on their way to Normanton
and Dick and Jenny and myself turn north for Burketown to top up the tanks and
do some washing before heading across the Gulf.
These last few days in
Lawn Hill have been wonderful despite the hot weather. Every day has been above
34˚C and most have been 36˚ or 37˚. Thankfully the mornings are cool so walking
the tracks and taking photos have been done early. Even the paddle up the Gorge
was a dawn start as soon as it was light enough to launch the kayak.
I had a great paddle up
both pools stopping to portage the kayak above the first set of falls. It's a
carry/drag from the first section up to the second and that opens up another 2-km
or so of beautiful water. It was in this section that I saw my first freshwater
croc (it was quite beautiful and not nearly as ugly as a salty). I have a
picture to prove it too.
I was told that there
was another section that was navigable above the second section but try as I
might I couldn’t overcome the rapids and had to give up. There was no way to portage
around the last set of rapids and it was too fast for me to paddle up so I had
to give up and allow the river to take me back to the portage area. Probably
just as well as I was alone up there and had something happened no one would
have known.
I’ve done almost all of
the walks and enjoyed the Island Loop walks the most. Unfortunately the bridge
is out so we had to paddle down the river to a spot where we could get out and
then drag the kayaks up the bank before joining the walking tracks. It was well
worth it and even the 200m-scramble up the cliff face to the Island Loop track
was pretty easy.
Jim and I did those walks
and we completed the whole three in the one morning without too much exertion.
It was a pleasant morning and we still managed to get back in time for a
coffee. Mind you the rest of the day was spent swimming and lounging away from
the heat of the day. The average temperature in the van has been around 33˚ to
34˚ each day so the fixed fan has been a boon. It’s still too hot for snoozing
and too unpleasant outside with the flies.
We went to Adel's Grove
for dinner last night to farewell the boys ... and because we didn't feel like
cooking. They have a great deck area under a huge tree that looks a lot like a
jacaranda so we enjoyed a few drinks and shepherds pie with a banana, apple and
walnut cake with custard for desert. Simple fare but tasty although I wouldn’t
have added as much mashed potato to the top of the pie. It certainly
makes it go a lot further though!
We ate after a group of
25 Year Five children from the School of the Air. They were from all over the
Top End and had been gathered at Adel's Grove to bond a little and do some
schoolwork. They were the most delightful kids and behaved beautifully. There
were six teachers to manage the 25 kids so a good pupil/teacher ratio. It was
lovely to see them all cheerful and excited. It would have been wonderful to be
able to learn where they were all from and their stories. Despite being from
all aver they got on well together. It was good to see.
Deborah cooked fried
rice tonight. A huge pan of it so we all joined in after nibbles and drinks. I’ve
done most of my packing up and only have a few things to do in the morning
after my cold shower and breakfast. It's been great and despite the unusual
heat, quite pleasant weather. It's a mild night tonight with a few wispy clouds
covering the ¾ moon. Nights are delightful as are the early mornings. If one
can find a cool place in the day the whole experience can be excellent.
According to the staff
at Adel's Grove this is unseasonably hot. Normal daytime temperatures would be
25˚ to 28˚which would be glorious. I’m glad I came and despite moments of sheer
panic about the trip home alone it’s proving to be a pleasant experience. It
would be so much nicer to share it with Susan but that's not to be so I need to
make the best of what I have.
Tomorrow we head back
out along the dirt to Gregory then turn left and head north to Burketown so I
can catch up on some laundry and provisions. Then we head west across the
Savannah Way towards Booroloola and King Ash Bay. Hopefully we’ll be able to
stop at some rivers for a fish - taking much care to avoid the saltwater crocs.
There’s probably not
much coverage across the Top End so this may be the last email till we get back
on the main roads again. Stay well and take care.
Much love
Kerry. (Dad/Grandad).
[The saltwater
crocodile (Crocodylus porosus), also known as the estuarine crocodile, Indo-Pacific crocodile, marine crocodile, sea-going crocodile or informally as saltie,
is the largest of all living reptiles, as well as the largest terrestrial and riparian predator in the world.
Males of this species can reach sizes up to at least 6.3 m (20.7 ft)
and weigh 1,360 kg (3,000 lb) and possibly up to 7.1 m
(23.3 ft) in length and a weight of 2,000 kg (4,400 lb)]
Wikipedia.
[The freshwater
crocodile (Crocodylus johnsoni or Crocodylus johnstoni; see
below), also known as the Australian
freshwater crocodile, Johnstone's
crocodile or colloquially as freshie, is a species of reptile endemic to the northern
regions of Australia.
Unlike their much larger Australian relative the saltwater
crocodile, freshwater crocodiles are not known
as man-eaters and rarely cause fatalities, although they will bite in
self-defense if cornered] Wikipedia.
NAME THE GARDEN BUT IT WILL
NEVER BE YOURS
Mandy Young
My memories involve a lot of gardens. Out-doors, outside, the sky overhead
forever and ever. Clouds, slowly and fast. Birds. Sounds. Delicious fruits.
Tasty flowers. Prickly parts, too.
I experienced many aspects of life outside. I learned how to
look, large and small. I also
learned how to explore and find: sometimes the not so wonderful, but often the
unexpected. It’s all there,
outside. Is it waiting: maybe not. That’s the thing about a garden: it’s wild.
And all the control and expectations we place on it are lost in it. It’s a part of life that has no
bounds. Better than love, better
we think when we pour hours and hours of love, lives hard work into it; more
controllable that loving another.
But like everything it is
complicated and needs to be seen for what it is.
Could it be seen as a multi-layered bed of desire? We approach it with everything locked
into place: the way we see, experience, what we want in the end. It is never what you think it is,
usually something else. Sometimes
it turns out the way you thought it might, but leave it for a while, go away,
then come back and it’s all changed. Gone. Irreversible.
There are not enough hours in the day or years in a lifetime. Now.
I created my garden with a thought involved. The thoughts are layered and I’m not
sure which one to tell about.
Should I tell you about the thought of beauty? Beauty is everywhere; it’s
chemical. It’s within me. When
beauty arrived in my garden I wanted it to stay forever because I felt lovely
being in it.
Then there is the thought of control. The thought of control
is a bit itchy. I give it a good
scratch but it comes back even stronger.
When I thought I had control over my garden, I looked very hard. There
were always those parts that responded joyously to growth, then whoosh! Out
goes the control. Maybe, maybe it
was never present.
Night and day: sound.
I don’t have to think about sound in my garden. It’s there already whether I want it or
not. Sounds and sometimes the lack
of sound float across the surface are amplified and give the garden another dimension. Sound is mixed up with thoughts. But
every second of sound in the garden is new, like a brand new second in
time. Does sound flow? Or is it
like the river, without beginning or end? Just all at once, in your face. Can’t escape the now, the now sounds
are always present. Even in your
sleep. Floating through the
window, across the moonbeams right into the now-ness of my sleep.
Smell. The garden is a place to sniff and ponder. Think newness and dying. Life and death
is indicated by smell. Like it or
not smell is its own boss. It
knows no bounds. It can delight or
repel. I read a book about a famous perfumer who had no smell. He became a god
because he could control the way he smelled and therefore could control the way
others reacted to him. Of course
in the end he had to go, torn apart by the ones who loved him; a bit like a
garden, really.
I had a garden once.
For twenty-five years. It
grew itself really and inured me to
live amongst it. It was full of
huge trees, which turned into dendrites in my nervous system. Beneath the trees was a garden full of
wonders. I tiptoed around and gazed and gazed. It provided me with everything I’d ever wanted in a garden.
What was that? Privacy. Happiness. A sense of wonder, like the universe. It was all there in that garden. It’s
still there in my mind forever and ever.
I think, therefore my garden is.
LIGHTLY SWIMMING
Don Diespecker
He knew he would remember much because the Bellinger flowing
by was means enough, at least for him. Once in it the flow would open lines to
memory and real connections to imagination. The river was like that. Perhaps it
was like that for everybody who got into the flow or perhaps it happened only
in this river and only on hot days. He would keep it in mind.
Over the salad-green lawn he went carefully watching for any
lone snake in the still-damp grass where it remained shady. Snaky days became
warm early and hot in no time. Although it was barely mid morning when he
stepped down to the grey metalled road the heat smote him in the face heavily.
It reminded him of being hit by a fist enclosed inside a pillow glove. Like
that, he thought, gasping ah!
For him, memory was as odd a thing as could be imagined. It
was also sometimes certain and sure and at other times memory faltered, usually
in the short term, but sometimes the old images looked a bit ragged around the
edges too. Despite age and accompanying occasional confusions most of his
memory was instantly available, or so he thought, and it was also as clear as
crystal - as shining, as sparkling as flickers of early morning sunlight
twinkling downstream on the dark surface of the river. He supposed that the
flickering of light was universal and that it would probably be a reasonable
sort of general description of the universe. How could that be explained to
somebody from a different universe? ‘We have light here: it shines and beams and glows and illuminates and
flickers. Is it like that where you come from?’ What would the other being say
assuming that were possible? Probably: ‘Yep, we’ve got that stuff too.’
Something like that, he supposed. Humans seemed always so anthropocentric and
that kind of thing seemed absolutely like a human signature, a Homo sapiens footprint in the cosmos. Could the
other guys not be anthropocentric also? Perhaps they could be in their own
particular ways.
The heat was a stifling blanket descending and it kept
coming down. He had had to interrupt his thinking because extreme heat made him
concerned about animals trying to survive extreme weather. At least there was
no desert here. Here there was abundant growth and rich forests. There were sub
tropical rainforest creeks. There was everything that most creatures needed but
now global weather was extreme and here the heat was stifling. There were
billions of microbes in the baking soil. There were infrequently seen birds
trying to survive. Brush turkeys continued to stalk his garden like black
peacocks. Wallabies still bounded across the early morning lawns. They had that
thick fur, though; night and dawn were better for them. Bandicoots liked the
night and the fruit bats always worked in the cool dark. In September the damp
air flashed greenly with fireflies. That green glowing seemed hot to his mind.
He was projecting his own concerns onto creatures more sensibly adapted than he
was. He would have to be more aware about that, more knowing.
He went slowly over the timber bridge, by his reckoning
feeling about 150 years old and wilting, then he carefully stepped down to the
water on the other side of the river, shedding years. He again wondered about
snakes in places various: they could appear suddenly, even on a reasonably
clear path at any time of the day or night and in all kinds of weather.
Strangely, and although predicting the manifestations of snakes, he knew, would
never be a science, exact or otherwise, there certainly were (in his
experience, anyway) days that were undoubtedly snaky. On a snaky day there
would be early heat in the air, usually dry heat, but not invariably. He would
walk extremely carefully on those days, obsessively so, and use his eyes
excessively and sometimes he’d have been correct: there would have been a snake
and he’d have avoided it. The snake usually reacted in much the same way.
Neither of them had been looking for trouble. There was that time in far-off
Durban when he damn near shot himself coming out the back door to find the
black mamba and because the mechanism was faulty and the shotgun discharged as
he closed the breech. Damn, that was close. What was it old Daniel Defoe wrote
long ago: ‘the good die early, and the bad die late’? He knew he wasn’t
entirely bad or completely good but somewhere in between as most people surely
were and he knew that he was continuing to amass experiences of many kinds.
What could one do with amassed experiences all so varied, if not use them but
how best to use them if they were to
be used at all? That was the question. Well then: there were various answers to
that but he knew exactly which one he invariably wanted to employ because it
was obvious, easy and wonderfully compelling: to write from one’s experience,
ones experiences, rather. Indeed, yes
and not forgetting to do it creatively. There were probably many other answers
to the question, but the writing one worked for him.
It was still warm, the river, from yesterday’s comfortable
run down the valley although at first it seemed cool on his skin and then in no
time at all it was acceptably cooling and soothing because one’s whole entire
body would be in it, moving, and the water moving too, against one or with one
if one - who is this silly one? Never
mind that for now. There were conventions in all things. There had been only
storm rains to keep it moving moderately and the fresh running through the
black rock rapids bubbled brightly and went rushing away to the dark of the
forest downstream. The mainstream flow swirling through the rocks looked full
and felt good once he got close to it and could feel its swirl against his
legs. More years fell from him and seemed swept away flowingly, like flowers
cast in memoriam. The lower the river was the slower it travelled and the more
it was warmed on its passage. Today the fresh was pointing to the left, to port
as you might say, pushed that way by the channelling mainstream that came out
angled in a metre-deep trench through the bedrock. On days when the river got
up higher the fresh was conducted across to starboard, to the right, and
sparkled a lot more, more widely more expansively, the front of it waving from
side to side like a big questing creature. And in the early morning it was also
a beautiful white from the rapids.
He would step in from the sloping gravelled bank and wade so
far until the mainstream pushed him out of control and then he might dive,
barely a teenager again, eyes open to see the coloured sand and gravel made
more clear by rounded pieces of singular white quartz, or he would breast it in
the strong morning sunlight feeling the caressing cool as it swept up his
protective old T-shirt ballooning it for moments while the swirl tried to shove
his hat off. He always wore a hat and T-shirt and old tennis shoes as well as a
fancy pair of black trunks he once bought for a float in the Dead Sea. There
was nothing dead about this river: it was full of life: even the exposed
bedrock pieces that made the rapids had small creatures ambling about on them.
Dressing up to have a swim always made sense in New South Wales. There was the
roasting sun and there were spiky creatures with spines that broke off in your foot.
He often thought the same thing repeatedly: the river is more than its surface,
moving. This marvellous live thing has length and width and depth. It was
necessary to be in it, it was
essential to penetrate that surface to experience it properly. There were a few
magic places in the windowed house where if he stood, barely breathing, and
squinted a bit, he could just glimpse the upriver bend beyond the bridge, see
also the bridge in front of him, see the pool as well, and, straining his eyes
to the right, see the green top of it rolling down to the next bend through the
forest. He was surely the only human standing in one of those cosmic places
where so much of the river could be seen in one breadth of seeing. It was quite
the same, he decided, as having divine powers. Why else had seeing been
bestowed upon us? But that was from up there in the house. Once you were in it the experiencing was penetratingly
different.
In the late summer days of humid February and contained by a
few airy metres above the water there were white butterflies that moved slowly
bobbing gracefully even languidly and they sometimes came lower toward the
surface but never touched, never landed and there were whirring dragonflies,
heads down like dipping helicopters, always really close to the water seeming
to touch it every so often and they all flew about like that whenever he
glanced at the water, all through the day. Although they all moved endlessly
and were busily alive they also all seemed movingly embedded in the supporting
air. The butterflies reminded him of other ones, yellow, so much quicker, that
bounced, bobbed and weaved for most of the late summer days up there over his
garden, stationed in different, waterless air and they in turn reminded him of
the Welcome Swallows cutting through their other pockets of air down at
Richardson’s, the next bridge along the road. The swallows seemed to be feeding
on the wing but there was surely some free time too some need for flighted
games perhaps, an ego-like thing that compelled flying displays even under the
bridge they swooped and then dashed straight up before breaking away like Air
Force acrobatic teams. The yellow garden butterflies bobbed differently and so
surprisingly fast, changing direction, seldom solo and almost always there were
two, three or four of them and sometimes more than that. At such frantic rates
of climb and darting manoeuvre they were hardly feeding and what they seemed to
be doing in their ten to twenty metres of altitude and airspace, never higher,
strangely, around the gardens was being intent
on mating and maybe evading mating. Was that like flirting? They were really
fast. Maybe the gardens were a sort of butterfly reserve or a trysting place, a
pick-up joint for yellow butterflies. And maybe the Welcome Swallows were
mating too. Would they do that in winter, which was when he saw them being most
active? He didn’t think so. Were those yellow butterflies choosing to mate in
the late summer, in the hot and humid February? He simply didn’t know the
answers. He had lived there for 20 years, longer than he’d lived anywhere in
the world and although he had learned a few things in that time he really knew
very little. In the house he sometimes reflected on a river-stone paperweight
on his table when he paused in his writing and he would see laminations and
striations and little pinprick holes and think ‘mudstone’ or maybe ‘sandstone’
and wonder why the original strata were not all parallel…and he would always
enjoy the colour and the clean surface untarnished. How had it come to be? For
all his varied experience he knew how little he really knew about anything but
he daily thanked God that he was able to see
the world.
The butterflies and the remembered swallows also reminded
him of the big pool next to ‘Jasmine’ below Richardson’s where several hundred
years ago, it seemed, he and the Gestalt group always swam and after the last session of the day there were often one
or two who did some ‘river-work’ there…those who were ‘blocked’ or stuck in
‘resistance’ and they were invited to pose for themselves appropriate
liberating questions then dive deep to the bottom and stay there till they had
their answers and after a while they’d burst up to the surface, gasping. Those
were the days of express-like ways to super-quick awareness. How useful the
wise river could be! River-work always succeeded, spectacularly.
There’s the big pool here too, he kept thinking. We used to
call it the Champagne Pool because there were bubbles in front of the rapids
and you had only to dive under, eyes open, to have a champagne experience,
tickled.
In the water swimming or floating in and out of sunlight and
shadows, particularly in the changing lights of mid or late afternoon, he
sometimes imagined himself upstairs in the house, writing and pausing between
sentences and when pausing glancing out the window to see the white top of the
water and lines of light across its surface, depending on the time of day. When
he was in the river swimming he would sometimes look up to where his writing window
was and even seem to see himself sitting there thoughtfully looking out and
down to the water, even imagining then that he could also see himself down
there in the river as well. He knew too that being too free with his
well-connected imagination was wildly narcissistic but he ignored that because
he knew that in the years of being alive, butterfly, bird, water dragon, man,
the contents of all lives lived were also lenses, windows on the world, the
universe, everything. One had to be not only there, but fully present too. The
imagination was not something to be stifled or even attenuated. It had always
made sense to use what could be used. It had always seemed almost a duty.
If he timed his river visits well he sometimes had the place
almost to himself. He allowed his ‘own’ high river banks to remain well covered
in everything growth-full that might deter crazed fishermen from plunging along
them or up and down them struggling with, snakes for example, or other unknown
horrors. But that seldom worked well because the fishermen (one seldom saw a
fisherwoman) would simply scramble over his stone river wall and invade his
garden, over the gravity wall he had intended as a stone fence, coming in
determinedly from the road and then marching with profane aplomb through his
private paradise. Damn: the nerve of some people! ‘The River’ was popular with
visitors, naturally, who often turned up in droves (it was everybody’s river,
nobody had personal swimming rights except all the creatures of the natural
world who lived in it, on it, over it), especially in the summer holidays.
Thus, having exclusive use of the river and on a hot
Saturday afternoon, was a surprise to him. Where were they all and was there
something demanding (tennis perhaps) on TV to have kept them away? For then he
could do exhibitionistic laps and he could swim in place at the edge of the
mainstream, his face in the water, his soaked hat keeping the sun off his head,
seeing down to the bottom of the flow where there were snags and sunken logs in
the gravel, sometimes the flash of a small fish going by. When he floated he
sometimes had the company of little fish that flopped about on the mainstream
surface, always the mainstream rather than the smaller flows burbling through
the rapids running right across the river and curiously the bright silver
flashing of the fish reminded him of his cabin boy days on the old Bencleugh - and the time when she was
hove to on a still Caribbean, the south part of it, near Venezuela and because
it was deep there and the boy was fascinated, more than fascinated: in thrall,
to and by the deep ocean, he begged some empty flat cigarette tins from the
crew, opened them out, skipped some over the rails into the sunlight to see
them flutter down to the fearsome dark reflecting the sun briefly, winking then
dwindling to the black abyss, yet here the deepest pools were only three metres
or so except there by the rapids (the stepping-stone rapids also much used by
hopelessly addicted fishermen who absolutely had to hop over and across if they
could without slipping and falling or hooking themselves in one of his
riverside trees because they always paused and perched and tried, unbalanced,
to cast a lure) and just below the same rapids if it were quiet enough and not
too many people going by in cars or walking he could prop himself on part of
the bedrock right in front of the rapids and hang out there getting buffeted
and patted and massaged on the back because he had to face downstream bracing
himself, his feet up against another big broken part of the bedrock so he
wouldn’t be swept away. Then in the later afternoon with the light patterns
changing constantly shade from the garden trees high up on the starboard bank
and the big fifty plus metres eucalypts casting blurred shadows he could sink
down a bit in the swirl of green water and see what life there was in that
narrow zone 200- or 300-mm above the surface (the yellow butterflies had more
degrees of freedom): there were the dragonflies and other kinds of fly that
reminded him of his trout fishing days: fly-fishing in the Snowy, all over New
South Wales and before that in Africa. Exciting it all was but deadly for the
fish and that was why he stopped fishing altogether. In that narrow band of air
he could see there was a wonderful variety of winged small life moving
constantly, drawn to the moving water, flitting in and out of the dappled
light.
There was something moving on him, on his arm. He bent his
head solemnly, straining to see politely and without fuss, without making too
great a demand on focus. Now his chin rested on the top of his T-shirt where
squinting he could also see part of the faded green design where the words
‘Gestalt Training Centre, Wollongong’ remained a solemn, teasing and faded
emblem. Somehow a tiny green spider had manifested on his left forearm,
plodding through and across and along his curved hairs, seemingly unconcerned
and perhaps blown down from the banks or possibly even brought to this
unexplained and surprising meeting, midstream, an unexpected traveller along
what must have been an oceanic river and so feeling compassion and care flow
through him he floated away considerately to the port-side bank, arm up dry to
the dry shore and let him or possibly her off where the wee beastie might be
safer, perhaps, although in this wild world who could say if the spider might
have been happier left alone? He remembered that days ago in midday heat he had
met a snake swimming toward him, not that he knew what it was until close
because there was only this odd little upstart head like a periscope that made
him veer to starboard to find out and of course it was a black snake - gasp -
but only a metre or so long so hardly a monster yet and it seemed that the
snake had much the same idea because of its breaking away to starboard too and
so it came for a closer look and they each in their own odd ways checked each
other out, in passing (in the man’s mind, at least) and then resumed their
courses and swam on. Mutual curiosity. Perhaps that was how one should exchange
courtesies with snakes, both on land and in rivers: simply smile and nod
politely and keep going (although that
water-borne snake had not smiled). Meetings with snakes were otherwise fraught,
he mused in the embracing water. For really, there had been no problems at all
with the young black snake: it seemed almost a congenial encounter. Four metres
of thick red-bellied black snake in the water: that would have been somewhat different. Up above on the river-side
edge of his lawn where he frequently sat there was very often a single water
dragon who began the season a surprising orange and had only two or three bars
of it left but in the early days of spring and summer when the biting flies
were hunting tasty humans this little dragon became almost tame, using the
man’s boot as a hunting perch. He sometimes fed a kill to the dragon and
chatted a bit, casually swinging his leg, the dragon looking up at him,
unblinking, while boot riding. The dragon was most friendly, he thought. He
knew that reptiles weren’t invariably bad: even the younger goannas (that ate
big snakes for breakfast) were decent enough not to single him out for a snack.
Respect, the man thought guardedly, (and always keeping a sensibly safe
distance), respect was the key.
Now in the late afternoon and during the third, or was it
the fourth, swim of the day with the surface water quite warm and the lower
levels of the river deliciously cool and still nobody, amazingly, arriving to
join him the sun had turned widely and now was casting its late afternoon light
through the old trees high on the crest of the hill downstream and he
remembered that of course it was the end of February and the light at that time
of year was always wondrous because when the late sun glowed reflectively on
the downstream surface the soft colours made the river’s surface in long
stretches seem like beaten gold, like gold leaf with some soft green there too.
What might that look like from beneath the surface, eyes open, looking to
heaven? Drunk with words he could see that the lights of the late afternoons of
late Februaries were seemingly beyond words.
He swam again through the swirling fresh, remembering the
little spider now further removed in its great travels, and from the corner of
his eye, splashing through the surface he saw in clear light a bigger perch
jump, not once, but some five or six times, high like a trout and coming
upstream toward him but on the far side of the river in the sunlight and he
thought of seeing salmon running in the bigger rivers and greater torrents of
Vancouver Island, long ago, and trout in the Cowichan, in the Princes Pool
downstream from the cabin in the woods long ago, and then he made a slow
breast-stroking swim toward the shadowing rapids and changed halfway to the old
side-stroke that his father used when they all went swimming in the Cowichan in
the mid-‘30s and by 1937, when swimming too in the Blyde, high in the
Transvaal, long, long ago also, and then he got to the rapids again and was
about to perch himself there once more for the cool refreshing feelings offered
by the familiar river of the ‘80s and ’90s and the new century present and so
without realizing it at first he felt the rapid’s effervescence running giddily
up his legs, the lighted bubbles at the head of the pool by the rapids that so
irresistibly enabled he and Olejay to call that part of the river the Champagne
Pool, so then he stopped,
remembering images, and then turned around carefully again, remembering his way
anew into that layered ambient place that seemed less well remembered a mere 20
years before, that lively zone of filled space now unmistakably visible
immediately over the water in ’04, immersed in the luminance of it, the
luminosity of whirring life, the greens of designer bodies, the translucent
blues of wings, the congregation of tiny creatures blurring without collisions,
the multi engagements of the aerial micro-world there in the river’s aura
- something he was a part of
and also in - because when he used his eyes gratefully he saw that he was
seeing a divine world transparent, a filled thin space he could both see and
also be part of seeing into and through life that was only as high as his head
in the water in that long lighted place like a glowing portal that was simply a
living layer of the earth and an ambient window too, that was filled with
flying life flying in and out and along and through a long lens of afternoon
air just above the surface of the river on a late sunny afternoon in February
and so he continued moving about in it instead of sitting and watching apart
from it all because he knew he could never be separate from any of it and then
he also knew that he knew much more because he could see he was lightly
swimming in light -
[© Don Diespecker (2004, 2005, 2016). Previously published
in ISAA Review [Independent Scholars Association of Australia] (2004) and in International Journal of
Transpersonal Studies, (2005)]
THE SIXTH TEASPOON
John Morris
Corleone fixed his one good eye on the person opposite: this
was Giovanni, Head of Secret Communications
and Codes. Carelessly he
knocked the ashes from the end of his cigar and they fell amazingly accurately
onto the froth of his cappuccino as if it were just another shot of nutmeg. ‘Giovanni,’ he said, puffing a smoke
ring into which he blew yet another and another…
The silence grew as mesmerized they both watched the trail
of smoke rings.
‘Ah yes,’ Corleone finally said. ‘To the matter in hand: you
will take the bus to the destination.
It will be number 555 and upon conclusion of your mission you will
return on the 666. You will go to
606 Fiftieth Street, remember, and not to 505 Sixtieth Street.’
Giovanni locked this information into his greatest weapon:
his brilliant mind, and the neurons and synapses closed upon the data like the
pincer grip of a giant spider clamping on a hapless fly.
Corleone continued, ‘Remember the apartment will be bugged
so we work in code as always. You
will knock on the door and make only five knocks, not six, and you will be
admitted by a lovely lady who will invite you to tea. You will gratefully
accept and when she asks if you take milk you will say six, not five,
teaspoons. This is the code for
the number of days from now till when the five massed armies and six mechanized
divisions will move and the assembled fleets set sail on their missions. All ICBM's will be recoded with this
number.’
Giovanni's sharp mind recoiled at the thought of the
enormous trust and skill implied by this mission. He felt sure that the apparatchiks had forgotten the affair of
The Twenty Sugar Cubes (and since that time sugar had never again been taken in
the HQ code room). His mind once
again opened to the real work as Corleone continued.
‘She will also give you a small gift: a symbol that the
message has been received and will be passed on. You will then return to this base and give me the token.
Giovanni left on his mission and later was admitted by the
most beautiful lady (and unknown to him, the most successful double agent he
had ever encountered, Elle de Camelot).
She was drinking a heady mixture of Creme de Menthe and Benedictine. It
was apparent that this was not for the first one. She sank into a chaise longue and artlessly enquired if he
would like a drink.
Averting his gaze which had been riveted until now upon her
more than ample décolletage, he replied, ‘one of those would do fine thanks.’
However, his years of training and attention to detail now stood him in good
stead and he recovered quickly. ‘No thank you, a tea would be fine.’
‘Tintsin or Mandalay?’ she enquired and watched for his
reaction.
This is a test Giovanni thought; whatever I say will be
potentially a fifty percent fail.
‘Do you perhaps have Twinings English Breakfast?’ he asked, feigning
indifference.
‘No,’ she said, casting her mind to the pantry that she
seldom entered, ‘but I do have Persimmon-Blackberry.’
He shuddered (he was allergic to persimmon) and his mind
flew to the consequences of the South American Fruit Conspiracy. ‘Tintsin is fine.’ He went for the
50/50 and waited to see if a Smith and Wesson would appear in her manicured
hand. It did not and he was
quickly out of the tea quicksand, but his razor-sharp mind was distracted by
the strange metaphor, tea quicksand.
He dwelt upon this for quite some time until he could refocus on her
reappearance with a cup, milk, and sugar.
‘How much milk do you take?’
The steel trap opened. ‘Five teaspoons,’ he said. He did a quick mental reset, as he
always did in these circumstances, and yes, the boss had said make sure it’s five and not six…
She took the tray away and returned with six teaspoons
beside the jug.
His ice-cold nerve held as he added the five teaspoons
spoonfuls of milk.
‘Not six?’ she asked.
‘No, five is fine,’ he replied and drank the tea.
‘Are you sure?’ she asked again, mentally rehearsing her own
instructions: get the information and
terminate the courier well away from your location. She took the tray and excused herself
for a few moments before returning with a small box. ‘This is a symbolic gift
to you and your cause - do not open it on the 666 but take it to your
destination.’ She kissed him lightly on the cheek, causing him to knock a
priceless Ming vase to the floor.
‘I'll have this fixed,’ he murmured considerately as he
picked up the pieces and put them into his courier bag. He recalled that
beautiful women had always had this effect on him and it had been a matter of
discussion at Code HQ, when the Case of the Scented Brassiere had almost ruined
him.
Giovanni made the 666 in good time and returned to Corleone.
‘ - È stato bene, Gianni?’ Corleone
inquired in his disgusting Chicago-style Italian.
Giovanni looked down through the series of smoke rings and
identified Corleone.
Corleone took a gulp of his cappuccino. ‘This stuff tastes more and more
like very stale cigars,’ he snarled.
Giovanni produced the little case.
‘Open it,’ said Corleone.
Giovanni recognised the clip on the outside of the box as
being identical to the one used in the Case of the Dismembered Code Agent. ‘I
must put that on the backburner,’ he muttered to himself. ‘It could be
significant.’ He then became fascinated by the little cord with a clip which
ran from the silver object to the back of the box where lay 50 grams of the
most powerful explosive known to man. His mind went into overdrive. What significance could this have he
wondered? He pulled the spoon from
the clip and in a mystified voice asked Corleone: ‘Tell me one more time: was
it five or six teaspoons?’
LETTERS TO PATRICIA
Rik Diespecker
[Excerpts from letters written home by the then Capt Richard
Diespecker at Camp Rafah, Egypt, when serving in the United Nations Emergency Force in the Gaza Strip March 1966 –1967].
April 15 1966. Sorry I haven’t
written during the last few days but things have been pretty hectic. On Monday
morning an RCAF Otter crashed in the desert and burned. One Yugoslav Lieutenant
was killed, one RCAF Corporal badly injured and the two RCAF officers both very
badly burned, one 70% the other 90%. By the time they were rescued and in the
UNEF Hospital here it was late in the afternoon and ever since I have been very
busy arranging blood at all hours of the day or night, flying in fresh milk
from Beirut and getting extra medical stores from Beirut and Cairo. I was in
Beirut for two and a half hours on Wednesday but only to arrange for a shipment
of milk and then right back with 40-litres of it. The father of one pilot
arrived from Canada two days ago and the parents of the other arrive via Beirut
at midnight tonight. The boy whose father is here died as a result of his burns
at 10:30 last night and I had to complete all the arrangements for a Military
Funeral for 09:00 tomorrow. The Flying Officer who is still alive is completely
burnt from the waist up and his chances are pretty slim. I expect I’ll be
organizing a second funeral before the next couple of days are over. I know
this sounds morbid but is has been a morbid week. Everybody has been wonderful
and I have received full cooperation from anyone I have approached. However, in
spite of the tragedy we must still maintain the Force and the normal day-to-day
operation continues.
April 17 1966. The weekend is
over and what a weekend it was. I just took a tranquilizer so that I have a
good nights sleep and can start the week off refreshed. We buried one of the
Air Force officers yesterday and then last night at 8 pm the other one died. I
was up all night organizing the funeral and we had the same service and burial
this afternoon. All went well but I am exhausted. As a result I’m behind in my
work but hope to catch up by Wednesday.
Yesterday we had another wind off the desert and the temp was 135˚ F.
The cactus along the roads here are in bloom, yellow and red. Next week
I hope to get some pictures of them. My first roll of film isn’t back yet but
I’m expecting it on the Hercules due in on Wednesday. I’ll shoot them along as
soon as they arrive.
January 16 1967. You’ll never guess where I went yesterday
afternoon: I went to a circumcision party. One of the barmen in our mess was
host and held the party in honour of his two-year-old son who had been fixed up
a few days earlier. Apparently it is quite a big time in a boy’s life here. It
was an all male affair. There were 20 Canadians (half officers and half
sergeants) given permission to attend by the local Egyptian authorities. We
arrived by bus about 5-pm at our host’s home in the Khan Yunis Refugee Camp
(midway between Rafah and Gaza) where he and all his relatives met us (dirt
floor, cement block walls, corrugated iron roof). One room about 40 x 60. No
plumbing. The wives and daughters were somewhere else. In addition to us there
were about 25 Palestinians there also. We sat around the edges of the room
drinking 7-Up and smoking cigarettes and after about 40 minutes two belly
dancers appeared and they danced and sang for us for about an hour and a half.
They were young girls about 19 and every second tooth in their heads was
gold-capped. An old woman playing a castanet, one middle-aged woman playing a
drum with her fingers and a man playing a two stringed instrument accompanied
them. We clapped to the music while they danced. We then left about 7-pm after
much hand shaking and returned home for supper. It was so interesting as we
otherwise never get into the home of a local.
We played football
against the Sergeants yesterday and lost 1 – 0. It was lots of fun. No tempers
were lost and no one was hurt. They scored their single point on a kick in the
last minute of play.
I’m booked on a UN
tour of Jerusalem starting on Jan 23 for four days. While I’m there I will be
spending time with Lt Col and Mrs. Johnston and I will pass on to them your
very best regards. On these conducted tours we go to Bethlehem and the Mount of
Olives. I will let you know all about it. I will be with a Canadian Medical
Officer and a Canadian Captain from the Service Corps. I still haven’t seen the
pyramids but do want to see the Holy Land. After this trip I will have three
days leave left and I’m saving that for a final shopping trip to Beirut before
I come home. I’m off to dinner now and a show (“Butterfield-8”).
February 7 1967. I have just
showered and changed to go out to dinner after one of the most interesting days
I have spent in the Middle East. This morning at 7-am I picked up a jeep from
Supply and Fred Berge (a RCD Captain who is the Welfare Officer) and went over
to the UNEF hospital where there were two other jeeps waiting and the three
vehicles with Fred, myself, the hospital Matron, one nursing sister, the senior
surgeon, the pharmacist, a Canadian dentist, a Danish armed guard and a Danish
driver headed out into the desert for the bi-monthly sick parade. All in all we
covered about 120-miles across sand, through old minefields and oases. It was
fantastic. About 10 miles or so at a spot usually marked by some old oil drums
were anywhere from 20 to 100 Bedouins waiting patiently for the doctor. They
pulled teeth, treated burns, infected eyes, ears, worms, amputated fingers and
toes and all without anaesthetic. In some cases the wounds were covered with
camel dung and very infected. I was pressed into work cleaning and disinfecting
wounds before inspection by the medical personnel. About 5% of them had TB. I
was able to get some pictures of both men and women. The latter usually won’t
let you take pictures but it was a way of saying thank you. A lot of these
people suffer from malnutrition and anaemia. We went as far south as Fort
Saunders, a Brazilian outpost on the international frontier between Israel and
Egypt. Ruth and Peter should enjoy the pictures I took of the Bedouin tents out
on the desert. When you see how the Bedouin children are suffering it sure
makes you realize just how fortunate we are. They live in rags. The women look
sixty when in fact they are really thirty. One twelve-year old girl had her two
children with her. I was a very interesting day but sad as well. I had a good
hot, soapy shower and felt much better.
I have a nice red antelope leather hassock, which came in from Port Said
yesterday. I will mail it off to you along with a few other things in a day or
so. It saves me bringing home a lot of stuff. I’m off to dinner: my face is
burning from the wind and sun after a day out on the desert in an open jeep.
MY VANCOUVER ISLAND GARDEN
Signe Jurcic
I do love my
garden and it gives me lots of enjoyment. Like you, wildlife, pests, diseases
are all problems for gardeners and I have my fair share of bears, deer,
raccoons, squirrels and mice. To try to solve the problem, a few
years ago my fruit trees were replaced with flowering shrubs and trees.
Two attractive high gates were installed on either side of my house
and in some areas a higher fence was built, mainly to keep the deer out. I
still have raspberry and blueberry bushes. I try to pick the
fruit before the birds but usually the birds win, though sometimes we
can share.
When my husband was
alive we used to put up an electric fence around some of the garden to
keep the bears out. It then became too much of a chore once I was on my
own. That's when the bears made my garden their home base. One time as I
walked happily down the garden path I suddenly came across a lazy bear lying
under the raspberry bushes picking off the berries handfuls at a time. Another
time I awoke to find one of my greenhouse panes was broken. The bear had
climbed the espaliered pear tree next to the greenhouse, took all
the pears and in the process his huge paw went through the greenhouse
glass. And there were other catastrophes. But hopefully now most of these
problems have been solved.
You recently sent
a photo of your attractive home and surrounding vegetation. It was
lovely. Perhaps I'll send a couple of pictures of my garden. The photos
were taken 2-3 years ago so now the plants are much bigger.
READING IN MY GARDEN
Don Diespecker
I often sit in my riverside garden to read and sometimes to
write. I recently completed my reading of Cormac McCarthy’s Blood Meridian and had first to be in
context with my almost distracting location: the garden, its huge trees,
cormorants flying downstream, the river. One of the Plains Crossing bridge’s
four spans is debris-blocked from a recent flood and the river is unfavourably
pinched in my direction: this Right Bank is undercut and scoured and big logs
have piled over my boundary corner and will need chain sawing. From my modest
belvedere four metres above the falling flood I watch small waves and the ways
that they break and partly run back against themselves. There will be a
beautiful mathematical equation explaining the dynamics of small waves but once
I start reading I’ll see the waves in
glimpsed moments of page turning: I don’t need an ability to explain wave
actions. The waves and the roar of the passing river will become an
accompaniment to my reading. In this enlivening place I read for four hours to
complete the book and am refreshed by its grand prose. Reading in the garden is
more inspirational than distracting. (Drafted June 2011).
It is the end of autumn and I sit in my garden chair at
Earthrise, a different book open on my lap, and watch white cedar leaves falling
like golden snow. Spent leaves tickle my head and I’m able to catch a falling
leaf, inhale its dry leafiness then let it go. I want to see the leaves
falling: to feel them, try to hear them and smell them; I need to be outside
for that. The compelling sight of leaves falling stimulates memory and
imagination and adds excitement and feelings to my reading.
There are attractive ways of reading that feel receptively right and other ways that have no appeal
and feel entirely wrong. My reading benefits from compatible actions and
phenomena. I have choices as to how, when and where I read. Normally reading
and writing inside leads to enchantment made by the interior stillness of the
house. Reading in bed is my least favourite location: the pillows scrunch inappropriately,
warmth and comfort, position and light make re-focusing annoyingly frequent.
Reading inside the house in daytime is easier, but my house has mute and
lulling distractions: pictures, photos, books, and powerful but static views
from most of the windows that feature the river at my doorstep. I can see the
river and the trees at any time simply by glancing away from the page, but I’m
separated from everything outside when I’m contained by the house. Reading
inside is habitually pleasant, reasonably safe and less distracting than
reading in the garden, but I learn less. The house interior is akin to
background implying passivity, the world seen through windows being almost
silent. When reading I want to be outside together with my books (one to read
from, plus a dictionary, and a clipboard or exercise book and pens) and
contained by the landscape. My garden is entirely distracting in every way: the
river’s rapids roar close by, the high flooded gums threaten to drop deadwood
branches on me, and there are snakes and goannas to watch for but there are
benefits: I am inside Nature, reading and reflecting, seeing, hearing and
feeling. There is no place on Earth I would rather be, reading or not reading,
than in my garden. My book requires my active participation in an active and
enlivening location: reading is dynamic.
The weather has been wet for weeks and the serpentine
Bellinger is still well up after a flood and days of showers. Earthrise is
flood-prone and nothing concentrates the mind more urgently than a flood. Flood is a lively lexical word, an
action word: I must sleep with one eye open, as it were, particularly during
heavy local rain and the threat of flash flooding. Ordinarily in wet weather I
stay indoors writing and reading, but when the river rises I would be foolishly
careless were I to focus exclusively on text.
Early in June some of these wet winter days have turned
almost summery and today the sky is a vivid blue. The white cedars are leafless
now but there is a filigree canopy of yellow berries on the high branches.
Brown fruit pigeons knock down more of these seeds or berries than they can
eat, and the berries turn the lawns into seedling nurseries. Songbirds trill in
the flooded gums overlooking the river. I have a host of outside jobs to do,
having been stuck inside for days, but I’ll ease into that gradually. It will
be 20˚ or 21˚ today: an opportunity to read in sunshine; I grab my books and
hurry down to Big Lawn. Building the new 12-m long gravity wall will have to
wait and clearing the remaining debris from the most recent flood will be
further postponed. I have a new book to read: de Waal’s: The Hare With Amber Eyes: I’ve saved it for a garden read.
Reading and writing outdoors demands alertness, sensory
awareness and sensitivity to place. There are attractive reading and writing
and viewing places here and it’s both wise and prudent in an outside reading
location to become orientated by sitting quietly for a while, seeing the light
and shade, the movements of trees, the state of the river. Were it summer I
would seek shade on the belvedere above the river and risk drifting from the
intended reading, at least for a while, but winter is more enlivening. I intend
reading and likely some note making so I resist the belvedere view. Although
the flood has passed showers have brought the river up again, this time by more
than a metre, an unsettling warning for anyone living close to the water.
Another flood is probable.
I sit in a sunny area of Big Lawn, a place more often used
for autumn reading. My vulnerable garden chair sinks slowly into the wet earth.
I sit here in autumn or early winter because Earthrise has a scant 50-m of
river frontage and this sunny patch varies with the seasons and the times of
day. Here I see one of the biggest and oldest eucalypts from lawn level where
I’m close to its creamy trunk. There are wild violets and pink clover flowers
in the lawn, muddy grasses and flattened groundcovers, and orange cup-sized
flowers that have fallen 35-m from the African Tulip Tree. Close by, dun-coloured
butterflies visit the ground from a higher cruising zone, testing their wings
in the sun. These small creatures have yellow ‘roundels’ or markings on their
wings and no two butterflies have identical markings: some are almost-straight
bars parallel to the butterfly’s body, others are puzzling blobs and some are
scattered and others look like elaborate little maps of Mediterranean islands.
One butterfly’s wings have blobby yellow island markings the largest of which
looks like Crete. I register these because this majestic winter day is a day
for reading amongst the sounds of honeyeaters trilling against the background
roar of the river churning through the rapids. Perhaps because I’m sitting in
an unfrequented spot to bask in rare sunshine I see what I don’t usually see
except at a distance. Perspectives change when we alter our positions by a few
millimetres and moving several metres profoundly changes the views. The sun
tracking behind me shines through leafy branches casting blurred shadowgraphs
on the pale trunk of the old eucalypt. These shadow pictures can be viewed from
ground level to about 30-m so I must also now look up. Our physiology discourages looking upwards, but the garden urges it, even while reading.
Up is otherwise a dangerous place: high
trees like e. grandis, the flooded
gum, shed their leaves and shed their barks in December and their branches at
any time. Reading outside demands my attention as crucially as if it were a
flash flood and dozing could prove fatal: a deadwood branch falling from 40- or
50-m will likely kill a reader. Garden reading is urgent, exciting and
directed: parts of my brain must concentrate on reading; other parts must pay
attention to the busy environment.
Earlier this autumn and prior to the wet weather I read Anna Karenina, and the three Stieg
Larsson thrillers. Although I read in several locations, the best of these were
outside on sunny days during my lunchtime break. Anna Karenina is a wonderful read, a novel with everything: city
and country, love and betrayal, horse racing, politics, poverty and riches,
hunting, farming and even a detailed description of reaping a grass meadow with
large scythes. In Canada during the Great Depression I used to pass a vacant
lot on my way to school and there was an old man who sometimes cut the grass
there with a large scythe: I visualize that while reading without interrupting
myself. Every reader will visualize according to his or her experience.
Reading in the sunny garden enables learning stimulated by
the natural world: breezes, flora and fauna. Reading here in summer would mean
accommodating snakes and goannas as well as cheeky water dragons that use my
legs as a stalking horse for hunting insects. Summer is crowded with
adventurous cicadas, mosquitoes, midges and bull ants. Seen from inside the
house the river flows by in the sunshine but I can’t hear it clearly; reading
outside is value-added by incidents. I want to describe my surroundings while
I’m reading because nature’s stimulations also enable reading.
My intuition is that I will enjoy de Waal’s intriguing
narrative of the Ephrussi family and their artworks, so I’m motivated to read
comprehensively while also staying alert. Soon I discover that what encourages
me has also guided de Waal when researching his ancestor’s art criticism in Gazette des Beaux-Arts:
My eyes hurt. The type
is eight-point, less for the notes. At least my French is returning. I begin to
think that I can work with this man. He is not showing off about how much he
knows, most of the time. He wants to make us see more clearly what is in front
of him. That seems honourable enough (The Hare With Amber Eyes, p 37).
That statement is perfectly in accord with my intention: I
want to see (and later describe) my surroundings while reading and writing, to
record what is in front of me because ephemeral stimulations from nature also enable reading and writing. I want you, the reader of these words, to see
some of what I see when I read outside.
Because summer’s end and autumn are turning points, they are
times that inspire reading. Birds and insects demand attention and the colours
of the day vary with the stretch of shadows. Autumn’s changes here are subtle
and so quick that displays by the Japanese maple or the liquidambar alter
within hours. And when there are fewer people on the river I glimpse cormorants
using the dense air along the river’s course to ascend and descend. Cormorants
flying deserve a book of their own. And there’s the open sky; house views of
the sky are partial and framed by windows and the tallest of trees are
truncated.
I open my book while acknowledging the vertical dominance of
big trees that make views of the canopy almost remote. Again I’m compelled to
look up. But de Waal’s book is both compelling and very engaging. Looking
directly up when turning the page takes no time and offers me a moment of
refreshment because up is filled with
movement and life. The June butterflies that bob so quickly do so in leafy
zones 4-m or 5-m above me and perhaps more freely than they do down here: up seems liberating and safe for
butterflies. Just as certain butterflies cruise at a particular altitude
honeyeaters trill at definitive heights in the big eucalypts: and light breezes
breathe through the canopy but are scarcely felt down here on the lawn. My page
turning encourages my learning of the zoned garden, so now there are two
narratives in train: the de Waal narrative as well as my story that includes
butterflies and honeyeaters at high levels.
De Waal’s partly illustrated book is about family and
dynasty, place and the world of art, high living and high finance in Paris,
Vienna, Odessa and Tokyo. The author is a famous ceramics artist; his prose is
magnificent and the story evokes memory (both his and mine). I affirm this
because I enjoy de Waal’s style; parts are written in the present tense when he imagines
the lives and behaviours of his past
ancestors. In reading about small ‘plaything’ old Japanese carvings called
netsuke (made from a various materials): the
collector, Louis Gonse, described a particular boxwood netsuke beautifully as
‘plus gras, plus simple, plus caresse’ - very rich, very simple, very tactile
(de Waal, p 50).
The button-sized netsuke as charms or playthings, once attached
to belts or sashes. The language reminds me of my own hand-made stonewalls
nearby in the garden: I realize there are relationships between handling large
wall stones and tiny carved netsuke. Stonewall makers like netsuke carvers are
essentially tactile creatures who allow their hands to feel and inform in ways
that are like seeing - similarly with readers and writers turning pages and
tapping keys or buttons. Making gravity walls from river stones is my
meditative garden hobby. I remember, while reading de Waal, building the first
2-m high wall here: I see the text I’m reading and I visualize my remembered self making the wall 25 years ago. And
while enjoying de Waal’s prose I also re-vision my remembrance of similar
Parisian apartment blocks in tree-lined streets. And turning the page triggers
personal memories of working in Paris in 1951 when I walked from Malakoff to
the Métro station, buying a baguette and a banana en route and breakfasting on
the wing before stopping to drink a coffee at the bar above Port de Orleans
Métro station before heading off to collect waste paper and unwanted books to
sell for cash (apartment buildings in the best residential districts always had
gate-keeping concierges and diplomacy was essential). Those were fine days. I’m
reading de Waal’s narrative, seeing my garden, its walls and remembering parts
of my own story in a fluid sequence of images.
Reading outside enlivens my remembered past and present
experiences: it is as though I, currently the reader, have voluntarily become
embedded in the busyness of nature. Not only can I see and hear the Bellinger a
few metres from where I sit: by moving my head slowly from side to side, I’m
aware of the colours of the river, her high and low tones, depending upon the
amount of water coursing by: the purling of low water running the rapids, the
variable roar of high water. Every river will always imply other rivers; this
river, this garden supports remembered other rivers and gardens and stimulate
the reading and visualizing of particular texts. Reading in this garden is delightful
because so little seems to be background; the reader, like everything else that
is alive, is obliged to interact within the natural world. Reading in the house
seems like extraordinary work because
it requires seeing, thinking, imagining and an intellectual appreciation of
what is read within a static space, in an undemanding location. Reading outside
demands awareness and attention yet is more like ordinary work because the reader, like everything surrounding him
(including the demanding book) is also an active participant within the garden
environment. The garden reader necessarily interacts with the garden/natural
world environment. Inside a house, she is an almost passive part of a built
environment: reading outside equates with being in the world.
About 5-m above and in front of me are the layered branches
of Spathodea campanulata, the African
(Uganda) tulip tree growing here to nearly 40-m. When I look up and through its
branches I see pairs of leaves on every branch, some green, some yellow-green,
some that are dark because they’re shaded. On bright autumn and winter mornings
the effect is similar to that seen when wearing Polaroid glasses because of the
shades of green. It is as though some great hand has gently arranged the
branches for me to see, overlaid them with care and playfully tweaked the
lighting to ensure that I see these leafy branches at their creative best. By
moving my head a little when gazing up, I also see the high flooded gum’s
branches and some of the dark branches of a nearby old cheese tree. I could
easily photograph this scene but the camera would require special lenses to
capture what I see in context: the foreground greenery of up, the middle ground canopy that also contains the butterfly fly
zones, the close-by ‘ground’ of the e. grandis
tree trunks and their slightly blurred shadowgraphs, and the splendid blue of
the cloudless sky. The high “flooded gum” apparently vanishes above assorted
canopies about 40-m up but continues a few more metres to somewhere beyond 55-m
(my guess). And this scene is not only visual: there are sound effects.
Honeyeater trilling has necessarily to rise above the pure white noise of the
unsighted rapids. The air, if not filled, is close to crowded with small
insects, many of them attracted to me because I may be radiating either
goodwill or heat or both. Sometimes I gape upward for much longer than the
moment that it takes for me to turn a page. We have to learn to risk cricking
our necks to see up and Up There is
where there is so much bountiful life and movement.
I’m outside again, reading in pure light, listening to the
river and when the sun and time end my reading I stand slowly to admire the
river, but the glare from the page has made the river colours look darker so
that fast water from the pinched river and the rapids flowing into the pool
looks dark blue-black and purple although a few metres downstream the water is
again green and gold in the afternoon sunlight. The sun moves on and I walk to
sit in the last sunny spot next to the birdbath (on the belvedere) where a
flycatcher complains of my being in his way, but I ignore him and he relaxes.
Having written above about sitting in my garden, all I’ve been doing was what
the imagined ancestor was ‘doing’ in de Waal’s engaging book: ensuring you the
reader may also see clearly what is in front of me.
References:
De Waal, Edmund. The
Hare With Amber Eyes, A Hidden Inheritance; London: Vintage, 2011.
McCarthy, C. Blood
Meridian, (first published by Random House, 1985); London: Picador, 2010.
[Written
Nov 2011; also in the eBook Scribbles
from Earthrise. © Don Diespecker 2016]
REDESIGNING THE GARDEN
Julie Craig
A year ago, after I was recovering from both a cardiac
event and a severe kidney infection I was scratching around, looking for
something rewarding yet inexpensive to do. I have a largish suburban property,
the house built on an acre of ground. When we purchased it the garden was
non-existent, mostly long grass with a few trees and some rocks. It was a major
effort to transform a sloping piece of land into a garden – with no money. The
process involved asking friends and family for cuttings of plants, and anything
they could spare. Naturally, the result was not very orderly. Plants need to be
put in place with care, short ones in front, taller ones behind, and so on.
Trees were desperately needed. The only ones I was offered were golden
stinkwood, about which I knew nothing. These flourished with virtually no input
from my side, but I discovered to my horror why I'd been given them: they are
like weeds. Once the lovely golden yellow blooms are over, the tree produces a
shower of seeds that germinate whenever there is rain . . .
On a more positive note: I designed and planted a
circular rose garden. Initially this grew well but I discovered that there was
tons of builders' rubble just below the surface, which meant the plants
couldn't establish a proper root system. So this had to be abandoned and the
roses moved. They are still alive and blooming, twenty years down the line. They
are in beds without rubble and they are doing fine now.
With the plants I was given, borders and other beds
were dug out. Did you know that one of the hardest things to do in a garden
(apart from removing builders' rubble) is to remove grass? With much effort the
beds were ready to be planted. Most of the cuttings I'd been given were rooted,
grown on, then more cuttings taken once they were planted out.
I spent what money I had on trees, mostly indigenous
trees, because these are drought-hardy. This is a dry land, with sun almost the
whole year round, which means water is essential to keep the plants alive. From
almost no trees to about a hundred took time, money and lots of effort. There
are indigenous wild apple and pear trees, pyracanthus, jacarandas (self-seeded
and not indigenous), paper bark thorn trees, various fichu, some wild date
palms, a couple of liquidambar trees, a camels foot with a flush of mauve-pink
flowers, fever trees, a few leopard trees, and a syringa. Most of the flowerbeds
had seasonal flowers: poppies, petunias, Californian poppies, Namaqualand
daisies, portulaca, fygies (brightly colored succulents). And I made an aloe
garden on a steep slope. The aloes are blooming at the moment and what a
pleasure to see the flower stems reaching for the sun.
I have about ten different types of aloes and each one
is different; some leaves are plain, some are speckled, some small, others
tall. This country has a wealth of aloes, all of which are water-wise and
drought-hardy. The kiepersol has survived,
as have the red and pink Australian bottlebrushes.
I have agaves, which add variety to a bed and root
readily from cuttings; and succulents that grow so big they have to be pruned.
And plectranthus: about six varieties of this pretty indigenous plant. All
flower from late summer through to spring. Flowers are white, pink, lilac,
purple and blue. And they're water-wise. Twenty year's ago I bought a couple of
Queens of the night (Datura) which
have been a pleasure. They're fast growing and prolific bloomers; I've rooted
pieces given to me: the blooms continue throughout the year – a delicate night
scent that wafts through my window.
At the moment the lemon tree is laden with fruit that
we eat daily, mostly in tea and on food to replace salt. Lemons are essential
for me and help to alkalize my blood, which tends to acidity.
I nearly forgot the carob trees. There are four, all
of which produce seeds that can be ground into a pleasant chocolaty powder. And
also the broom tree (not its botanical name): it's one of the acacias with
finger-like leaves filled with a toxic sap. It makes a sturdy addition to the
beds and is virtually indestructible.
My part-time gardener and I worked hard. We took hundreds of cuttings, grew them on and
planted them out from August into December. The beds were re-dug and reshaped
then composted. Some plants had to be moved and others remained. All the
indigenous shrubs and trees are thriving, as are the aloes, and ground covers.
I should take photos of the new beds. At the
moment I have some shots of the garden as it used to be. The transformation is
almost complete but not much can be done in winter.
The vegetable garden has spread from an area
under shade cloth to fill a border outside the lounge with green peas, spinach,
mustard greens, radishes, and a mix of poppies scattered in between – this
reduces the amount of watering.
A LIFE OF GARDENING
Peter and Dee Thompson
My earliest memories of becoming conscious of a garden date
to 1966 when I was about five years old. We had just moved into a new redbrick
home at the edge of bushland on Sydney’s North Shore. Mum and Dad busily
created new garden beds bordered by bush rock (Sydney Sandstone) collected on
weekends and brought home in the family car, we as kids jumping in for a bit of
an adventure. The luggage compartment (or “boot”) was filled with the
lichen-covered bush stones.
The gardens, mainly ornamental beds of flowering annuals and
perennials, covered the street side of our large corner block. The backyard was
smaller but with enough room for an outdoor table setting and where a fence was
covered in passionfruit vines and where there was also a lemon tree. An
incinerator for burning rubbish and our compost heap were hidden from view in a
latticed corner of the garden. We spent many Sundays in our garden as kids
playing or helping Mum and Dad with plantings or weeding and even helping push
the Victa lawn mower around the vast lawns. I don’t recall a vegetable garden:
there were just a few fruit trees and perhaps a parsley bush.
Mum’s mum (our “Nana”) had also been a keen gardener. She
lived in the Sydney suburb of Manly on a rocky block with huge slabs of
sandstone in the backyard. My sister and I loved exploring Nana’s garden: it
even had a sandstone cave that we could hide in. Grandpa had passed on by that
time; he’d been a farmer in western New South Wales. Nana had lovely lawns
regularly mown by a local surfing identity. There were perennial beds and a
strange looking Yucca plant sprouting from a sandstone outcrop and set in front
of the 1950’s house but alas there was no vegetable garden there, either.
Grandma (who was our Dad’s mum) lived in a home-unit in the
nearby suburb of Queenscliff. She had a very small garden beautifully tended
and planted with a mixture of flowering perennials and kitchen herbs. Grandpa
had also passed on not long after my birth and he’d been a very active gardener
in his spare time: apparently he had grown or produced all the fruit,
vegetables and chickens and eggs for the family table and also for an endless
run of invited home guests when they lived in western NSW.
Sometimes during our annual
family holidays we visited “open-gardens” and when we were in any of the cities
we also visited botanical gardens. During the 1980’s I travelled with my then
girlfriend (Dee) and worked in numerous locations around Australia (from the
deserts of Central Australia to the Tropical North) and if we were to stay
anywhere for longer than a few weeks we would start a garden of herbs. I remember when living on a Great
Barrier Reef island finding a mature pawpaw plant that was more than two metres
high. We dug it out and carried it to our coral garden about a kilometre away
where we replanted it and it then thrived under our care. It was during this
travelling and gardening time that my girlfriend gave me my first gardening
book (actually a book on self-sufficiency). We also subscribed to Australian
gardening and self-sufficiency publications: Grass Roots, Earth-Garden
and later, Organic Gardener, Acres Australia, Permaculture International and Biodynamic
Growing. We were inspired and
longed for the day when we could start a proper garden that would be all our
own.
Having travelled the world
viewing many of the magnificent gardens in Europe and England as well as
beautiful tropical gardens of South East Asia, it was time for us to settle
down into suburban life. We chose Terrigal in NSW, Australia and we were ready
to start our own gardens. First we planted privacy plants and shrubs along our
boundaries and then a Native bushland garden between our house and the street.
We started our first real vegetable garden (just 3- x 2-metres) and planted our
very first vegetables using Esther Deans No-dig method. On Friday and Saturday
evenings we regularly and religiously watched gardening and lifestyle
programmes, Burke’s Backyard and Gardening Australia.
Our gardens grew in size and
variety of plant species and soon we craved additional land so we purchased
2.2-ha of semi-tropical rainforest that had once been owned by a botanist from
the Royal Botanical gardens in Sydney. Over the following seven years we added
hundreds of food shrubs and plants as well as ducks, geese, goats, beehives -
and children. We craved even more garden space, moving to the subtropical
Bellingen area of NSW where we set about planting our ultimate gardens that now
comprise hundreds of fruit, vegetable, herbs and medicine plants.
Here we are some 35-years
later realizing that we have finally achieved our dream of owning and living in
a large and beautiful garden. As I look back now 50-years later I remember
those sunny Sunday afternoons as a five-years old child, collecting bush rock
and loading that in the back of the family motorcar.
SEEING LEAVES FALLING
Don Diespecker
I used always to assume that leaves fell either when they’d
had enough of doing leaf work or that they became so drained of energy by the
end of summer and autumn that they were obliged to let go with or without the
help of a passing breeze. And when I was very young in British Columbia, seeing
autumn’s coloured leaves blowing past the windows was a sure sign of my
learning to know that autumn (or Fall, as Canadians invariably call this
colourful season) was arriving. Fall
begs an upper case F perhaps because
winter and summer seem relatively different when compared to a simple word like
Fall and when I think about it now
(in the Southern Hemisphere’s winter), Spring
with an upper case S looks like the
kind of word that might well be a close relative, a cousin perhaps, of that
other different-looking word, Fall.
Over the years it became clear to me in quick a-ha! moments
that leaves died and that Nature has a simple way of resting them more or less
in peace. Nature enables her spent leaves to let go, allows them to fall to the ground naturally during most
autumns. And now from the certainty of old age I’m sure that naturally is a key word and that I was
perhaps much wiser in my early childhood than in many of my adult years.
Natural and nature go well together, don’t they? And to a three- or four-years
old kid a used or spent leaf has no alternative but to let go, to fall and be blown away or to lie
stubbornly in repose to litter the garden. Dad was always handy with his bamboo
rake (remember those impressive bamboo
rakes that we used prior to plastic
ones?) and so I learned, when less busy, that there was a great deal that was
quietly going on naturally in the world. Stuff going on quietly all around me
suggests that if I want to become more aware or even more enlightened of some
of these goings on I’d be wise to sit quietly outside in my garden and to allow
Nature to pass information to this willing participant. And now I remember
sitting in the Luxembourg Garden, that beautifully intimate foreign garden
adjoining boulevard St-Michel in Paris when leaves were falling and there were
many people and kids were playing everywhere. I remember because it sticks in
my mind: a sunny Saturday afternoon. A few leaves blew and bounced in the
breeze across the gravel and there was a small child chasing them until the
little one stopped suddenly and stood with her arms out waiting for a leaf to
fall on her. And a leaf did. And she laughed long and loud, delighted.
In more recent times and not resisting at all the word naturally, I heard somebody on the radio
assuring listeners that leaves tend to fall in clusters at the appropriate time
of the year when the tree decides the
leaves are ready to be let go. As a busy adult I simply had not slowed down
sufficiently to consider such a possibility. I see clusters of spent leaves
falling here regularly. Now and in this day and age I have no doubt that leaves
falling in clusters do so generally after the
tree decides when the time is right.
[Also in my e-book, Reflecting.]
REMEMBERING NEW ORLEANS
Sasha Fergusson
The first thing that
happened when we arrived in New Orleans was we popped a bottle of
champagne on the sidewalk outside the van right off Frenchmen Street. Barely
anyone turned their head - New Orleans people are used to random bursts of
celebration. For us everything was new.
We had come from the
North down hugging the coast until we came out of the winter and into the
summer in California. We saw the cloudless sky laying flat on top of the
ocean and couldn't believe our eyes - went running straight for the surf
and got sunburned right away. Then in LA the beautiful old beater that
we'd been driving died on us and we spent a week stranded in Santa Monica until
the boys made a couple of grand playing jazz on the pier and I took a long bus
ride to East LA to buy the big white van. We drove through Arizona
and into the mountains near Santa Fe, New Mexico, where tiny dry
snowflakes fell on our faces as we slept in the sand and the
dust. After that we drove for two days straight. Through Texas, Oklahoma,
Arkansas and finally, by night, into swampy Louisiana where the highway
was dark and empty, the air was humid and we could make out the
rustling shapes of willows dipping over the road.
We came into New
Orleans on a grey late morning and I was half asleep, watching out the window
as if still in a dream as we drove up Bourbon Street past curlicue iron
balconies with people waving and rainbow flags flapping and I had the
impression we were driving alongside the ocean, which of course we weren't. We
had no plan or place to be, at first. It felt like we drove around in circles
without ever coming to the same place again. The smell of deep-fried fish
filled the van and made us hungry. It mingled with another scent,
musky and mysterious, like the smell of a compost bin behind a flower
shop.
We were looking for a
place to stay. I drifted to sleep, head on my knees and woke when we pulled
over to the boulevard separating two sides of what might have been Claiborne
Avenue. A couple of tattooed, face painted hula-hoopers stood with
their bicycles waiting to cross the street. One of my friends got out of the
van to talk to them and returned, slamming the door, with the name, "Miss
Pearl" and the words "bywater" and "bunkhouse." These
words led us to the corner of Royal and Alvar Street. The address we were
looking for belonged to a shotgun shack covered with vines that looked
like it was sliding off a cliff but wasn't. The yard was partially paved and
the concrete was cracked and jutting up at different angles. On a big piece of
it was painted in bright purple letters, "NO VEGANS." We cautiously
opened the gate in the chain-link fence, stepped up the wonky, rotten staircase
and reached through the wrought iron door to knock on the wooden one beneath.
Miss Pearl opened the
door: only a crack, at first, then a little more, just enough to
see her wide dark eyes.
"Who is it?"
said in a low voice from behind the eyes.
"Hi, we're looking
for a place to stay the night. We're from Canada -"
"You
musicians?" she said suddenly.
"Ya we play
jazz." Someone held up a trumpet.
"No vegans?"
she asked opening the door now wide enough to see her small frame swimming in a
black Hoodie cinched tight around her soft wrinkly face.
"No. No
vegans." The door swung open. Miss Pearl grinned childishly, revealing
gums and no teeth.
As we sat around in her
lamp-lit living room that evening, it came out that apparently, we had been
sent to Miss Pearl’s doorstep by good spirits. Miss Pearl was a voodoo woman. A
metal dish of magic powder smoldered in the open doorway. We'd been warned not
to touch it because it was bad-luck powder - she aimed to curse the mean woman
across the road that wanted to have the bunkhouse shut down. Miss Pearl said
she had prayed the night before for a jazz band to arrive because she needed
one for a funeral. So we were invited to stay as long as we liked for five
dollars a night in her shed under the condition that the boys learn the funeral
songs and play the parade on the funeral day.
The funeral was for a
kid named Cody who got killed in a car accident on his way to New Orleans with
his best friend Jake. Jake stayed at the bunkhouse, too and became our good
friend. He was a longhaired wanderer from Arizona who scribbled
poetry in a composition book and worked as the assistant to an old antique
dealer. Miss Pearl affectionately called him Shake-Jake because he would rock
back and forth when he got excited.
"What if it
rains?" we asked Miss Pearl the day before the funeral. The weather in New
Orleans is wildly unpredictable and the clarinet couldn't get wet or it would
break.
"It won't be
raining," said Miss Pearl simply, not looking up from her stirring of a
giant pot of red beans on the stove. When asked how she could know for
sure she declared with wide, serious eyes, "Maybe it will rain in the
morning, but it won't be raining at five!"
It was a perfectly
gorgeous, tropical evening. We filed out of the bunkhouse at 5 o'clock, the
boys in clean white shirts bought from the corner store, with their instruments
in their hands, and me in my best dress, even if it was wrinkled and torn at
the bottom.
Miss Pearl was
covered with silver paint from head to toe and carried a dramatic black lace
umbrella - she was what they call a "crate-monkey," somebody who dresses
up and makes money on the street by having tourists take their picture.
Jake was the most
important participant in the parade. He marched up front with a picture of Cody
and Miss Pearl had painted his face white with a black tear under the left
eye. He wore a dark vest and a tie with tiny roses on it.
They really know how to
do a funeral in New Orleans. At first it’s somber and the band plays slowly Stormy
Weather, then A Closer Walk with Thee. People came
out of their colorful houses to stand on their stoops with their children and
watch us. It seemed like they were on boats passing by. The parade gained in
numbers. Soon we had fifteen, twenty people with us. I looked down the train
tracks, dark and straight, and the choppy pavement with dandelions growing
through and I remembered that all of this was under water eight years before.
It made me sad to think about how the people here knew death much better than
me. Many of the buildings were still marked with spray paint, a red X and a
line to show how high the water got.
Then all of a sudden
the band started playing You Are My Sunshine and all of these
people began dancing and clapping their hands. Jake danced the most out of
everyone - big goofy steps with his elbows high and a big smile on his face. I
danced too. When we reached the end of the road all the people inside Flora's
Café came into the intersection and clapped along. I've never seen such a
beautiful scene in my life. I had to thank Miss Pearl for praying for a
jazz band and when I die, I want a funeral like that one, with strangers
dancing in the street.
DOG DAYS
Don Diespecker
Some Locals said simply and not unkindly: “shoot him” but I couldn’t and wouldn’t
do that. The Locals aren’t unfeeling: some country folk speak that way, sometimes.
I remember reading a book when I was a teenager - it might have been The Story of San Michele - that the way
to farewell a faithful old dog was to stroll out with him as if on a walk then
give him a piece of good meat and simply shoot him, when being killed was
probably not in the dog’s awareness. The notion is that for the dog owner
sudden death for the dog is a useful alternative to pain and suffering but such
an ending is messy and seems to me a salve for human conscience. No dog would
have time to dwell on that or feel betrayed or have any time to reflect on the
awareness of having been faithful to its ultimately faithless “master.” There’s
an appropriate Latin word for that: perfidia,
meaning both treachery and faithlessness. Shooting is a violent ending and unlike
asking a vet to put the dog “to sleep.”
The vet had done all that he could but Henry was beyond
medical interventions. The other choice was to let Henry die in his own way and I could show the old boy
consideration when he was slow or tired or when he would surely be in pain and
feeling wretched because dogs are smart and we can be sure they sense an end
approaching whether they have a name for that or not. So there was a problem. A
Local wouldn’t necessarily call it a small problem or a big one, just a problem
because most people I know care about their dogs, particularly working dogs and
we don’t want them suffering needlessly. We all will rush the family dog to the
vet if we suspect the animal’s been bitten by a snake or we’ll try and save a
puppy succumbing to a tick and likely to die because the tick wasn’t seen in a
daily inspection. A tick will kill a pup in a short time but we don’t begrudge
the time and expense in trying to get the vet to stop him dying prematurely
before he’s grown enough to run flat-out through a well grassed paddock, one
that’s bursting with lush growth from good rain. Young dogs deserve their
puppyhood and the freedom to discover that they’re born to run through grass
that smells of summer.
Because I couldn’t shoot him I allowed him to die naturally:
he was a small dog but a big problem. Some said later I was cruel. Maybe Henry
was thinking that too because the look in his golden eyes was far beyond sad,
beyond pain and hurt. Dogs surely do
know when the end is nigh, feel it in their bones. But I couldn’t kill him. In
the end I held him in my arms, held him up to see the gleaming river once more
when he was struggling and maybe thinking in his old doggy way that he’d get on
his feet just one more time for a run around Big Lawn the way he and his great
mate, Eartha used to run: full tilt, tails well down in their grooves to avoid
being nipped as they’d play chasings for the joy of that. Eartha was like a
mother to Henry and also his teacher and somehow like a big sister but never
his benevolent partner (or lover, as some humans might imagine). Eartha was a
little older than Henry when she came to Earthrise as a pup and she grew fast:
she was a big black Alsatian/kelpie cross with a white blaze on her chest and could
knock a man down if she ran hard at him. Now that they’ve both gone I’m
inclined to think that as far as Henry was concerned he had no doubt he was a
blue cattle dog; he wasn’t quite that but he had enough character to be one.
The two dogs grew up together. Eartha, who by some strange means knew a lot
about the wild, used to take Henry on mysterious forest tours, riverbank
rambles and even wallaby chases on land and in the river. Thank God nobody shot
them when they were enfolded by the wildness of country life and intent on
being the fine dogs that they were.
They had house privileges during the day, so were a bit spoiled.
Eartha was stoical, as though she didn’t want to embarrass
us with old age and sickness and she died first, uncomplainingly after
breathing difficulties and during the night when both dogs were on their leads
over at their night quarters next to the “ute” in the carport. There was no
howling, no barking. Henry was standing forlorn over her stiffening body when I
went to them in the morning. She was too heavy to carry so I put her on the floor
of the truck in front of the passenger’s seat, Henry sitting over her and we
drove down the track in style for the last time to Big Lawn. Then Henry lay on
the grass and watched, his head between his paws, only his eyes following every
move as I wrapped Eartha cosily in her blanket and then dug her a good-sized
grave. I buried her deep in pristine river gravels a few metres from what was
once an old riverbank where we’d made the original campsite and placed the
first caravan before we started building the house. I put heavy river stones
over her grave to stop anything wild from digging her up.
Henry joined her several years later. When Des Willis gave
me a tabebuia sapling, a tree from the tropical Americas, the two graves had
their summer shade. There are roses and dahlias and impatiens there now too and
a stonewall surround. I like to think that the tree flourishes because the dogs
have been nourishing it for years. The Dog’s Garden has an honoured place in
the centre of Big Lawn. When there are high floods the plants get torn out and
scattered and helter-skelter logs wreck the wall but there’s no great trouble
in putting everything back together afterwards. The tree likes it there and
produces her pink flowers each spring.
As with all dead dogs their photographic images seem more
realistic as the years pass: through the mind’s eye they both look unmistakably
like the dogs they once were. And there are many associations that similarly
remind me of their aliveness: Eartha would never get into the canoe but would
always walk directly into the river, summer or winter, before swimming
downstream and sometimes crossing to the opposite bank. Henry was always first
in as soon as I steadied the canoe and he’d sit grinning in the front seat,
turning frequently to encourage me to paddle, his tongue lolling, a sparkle in
his eyes as he watched Eartha, tracking her, glancing back to urge his crew to
paddle harder. We’d meet Eartha further downstream; Henry would disembark in
the shallows and the pair would go charging away along the bank through all
kinds of undergrowth and somehow avoiding the big black snakes that sometimes
were sunning by the water; and the dogs would be waiting for me at home,
panting, looking pleased and happy. For some strange reason I always think of
Eartha walking confidently into the river and swimming whenever I hear the Lakmé Flower Song duet sung; it seems her song, in a strange way.
Both dogs were always relaxed when visiting the house:
conserving their energy by snoozing worked well for them but they seemed to be
on hair trigger alert outside which meant that if they startled a water dragon
exploring the lawn or gardens they’d charge the little fellow with a chorus of
exultation and often enough the dragon would come racing frantically past me to
plunge over the edge of the belvedere and down to the riverbank to avoid the
bully dogs. That sort of incident was purely fun for Eartha and Henry: I had to
teach them not to harm the dragons and on hot summer days when we sat in the
shade or at the Outlook Table on which I’d carved Beyond this place there be Dragons the dogs were obliged to sit as
still as possible, ignoring those fat biting flies as well as the dragons
because water dragons are partial to fat flies for whom they’re like Nature’s
Fast Food. The bold little dragons quickly learned too and used the three of us
as stalking horses, bouncing from a dog’s flank to the leg of my jeans where
they’d hang by their elegant claws. We were merely two- and four-legged sources
of nourishment. The water dragons at Earthrise have always manipulated
warm-blooded creatures for their benefit; after a slow or defensive start in
early summer they perhaps remember past summers and hop uninvited onto my boot
for an advantageous view of their belvedere killing ground.
Snakes were fair game for the dogs. I had to be quick when I
heard their snake attack barking because Henry and Eartha invariably attacked
all snakes except big red-bellied blacks and the lethal browns and drove them
at frantic speed to where I sat dreamily studying the downstream view: several metres of red-bellied black
hurtling between my legs was always a thrill, but one that I never fully
appreciated.
In happier times I used sometimes to speculate about reading
dog stories aloud to the dogs in case they could understand. Quirky, I suppose.
I still smile at the thought of reading aloud Metzger’s Dog to them (although I never did) because had they
followed the narrative they’d have laughed their heads off. And that reminded
me of Sir Percy Fitzpatrick’s book: Jock
of the Bushveld; Jock was the runt of the pack that became a faithful
hunting companion; every page was beautifully illustrated by excellent drawings
in the margins. There was a full colour picture of Jock at the beginning and
there was the heartbreak ending.
Both Eartha and Henry are long gone now. I miss them for all
kinds of reasons. They seemed always to understand what I said to them,
comprehending my mood, inclination or intention and offering comment by way of
their body language, a lazy half wagging of tails while prone; or an immediate
claws-rattling jump to their feet if a walk or a swim was suggested. Their
torpor on hot days was evidenced by their proneness and lack of interest in
everything except the sharp jab of a biting fly. The dogs’ joy and satisfaction
was marked by their sitting upright while fixed on something interesting: their
mouths drooling, their tongues lolling and offering the most generous of toothy
grins when they turned to acknowledge me and remind me of how good life truly
is. Those two dogs enabled me to learn to think in ways that were less rational
and almost more balanced. Their brief and endearing lives in this beautiful
landscape and waterscape was a blessing.
*
You all know the wild
grief that besets us when we remember times of happiness.
Ernst Jünger: On the
Marble Cliffs, 1947.
*
More About My eBooks
One of my novels, The
Selati Line, is a South African railway story, a mobile or even picaresque
story and also a road story. Several of my novels start as if in the minds of fictive characters in airplanes (usually a
Tiger Moth): somewhere up in the clouds above the Bellinger River. The imagined flyer (usually a quite
elderly person who once was a teenage young woman in the Air Transport
Auxiliary) imagines the story
unfolding in a place beneath. Happiness,
for example, begins on the
nearby Trunk Road between Bellingen and Thora and soon makes a second start on
Darkwood Road (right outside the house where I’m now writing this). The Overview (a novella) starts in the
air (directly above my house). The new sequel to Happiness, Success
starts in the air, too. That most distinguished American writer, the late James
Salter (who once was a Korean War flier) uses the device of ‘the unnamed
narrator’) to tell some of his stories: I like the notion and also employ a
variation of that ‘technique’ or device.
(1) Finding Drina is a light-hearted sequel to my two print novels (now also available
as eBooks) published in one volume as The
Agreement and it’s sequel, Lourenço
Marques). Finding Drina is
written in three parts and in three different styles that also are intended
homage pieces (to GG Marquez, Ernest Hemingway and Lawrence Durrell); thus this
little book is also meta-fiction (novella, about 30-k words).
(2) The Earthrise Visits is an Australian
long story set at Earthrise (about 20-k words): an old psychologist meets a
young literary ghost from the 1920s (his girlfriend meets her, too) before a
second old literary ghost, unaware of his
spectral state, arrives unexpectedly.
(3) Farewelling Luis Silva is an Australian
dystopian long story partly set in Australia, Portugal and France (about 23-k
words). A sniper meets an Australian Prime Minister, an old lover and a
celebrity journalist; three of them meet a terrorist in Lisbon where there is a
bloody assassination.
(4) The Selati Line is an early 20th
century Transvaal train story, road story, flying story, a caper story and also
a love story sequel to The Agreement
and Lourenço Marques, lightly
written and containing some tongue in cheek magical realism. A scene-stealing child prodigy keeps
the characters in order (novel, about 150-k words).
(5) The Summer River is a dystopian novel
(about 70-k words) set at Earthrise. A General, the déjà vu sniper, the
Australian Prime Minister and the celebrity journalist witness the murder of a
guerrilla who had also been an Australian university student; they discuss how
best to write an appropriate book about ‘foreign invasions’ (novel, about 70-k
words).
(6) The Annotated “Elizabeth.” I examine
and offer likely explanations as to why my uncle (the late Dick Diespecker) published
a mixed prose and verse novel in which his mother is portrayed as the principal
protagonist and I suggest why the book Elizabeth
(published by Dick Diespecker in 1950) is
a novel and not a biography, nor a memoir nor factual history (non-fiction,
about 24-k words).
(7) The Overview is a short Australian
novel set at Earthrise (about 32.5-k words) and is also a sequel to The Summer River.
(8) Scribbles from Earthrise, is an
anthology of selected essays and caprice written at Earthrise (about 32-k
words). Topics are: family and friends, history of the Earthrise house, the
river, the forest, stream of consciousness writing and the Earthrise dogs
(Eartha and Henry).
(9) Here and There is a selection of Home
and Away essays (about 39-k words). (‘Away’ includes Cowichan (Vancouver
Island), 1937 (my cabin-boy year), The Embassy Ball (Iran), At Brindavan
(meeting Sai Baba in India). ‘Home’ essays are set at Earthrise and include as
topics: the Bellinger River and floods, plus some light-hearted caprices.
(10) The Agreement is a novel set in
Mozambique and Natal during December 1899 and the Second Anglo-Boer War: an
espionage yarn written around the historical Secret Anglo Portuguese Agreement
(1899). Louis Dorman and his brother, Jules, feature together with Drina de
Camoens who helps draft the Agreement for the Portuguese Government. British
Intelligence Officers, Boer spies and the Portuguese Secret Police socialize at
the Estrela Café (about 62-k words).
(11) Lourenço Marques is the sequel to The Agreement. Mozambique in September
1910. The Estrela café-bar is much frequented by a wide range of patrons and
now also provides music: Elvira Tomes returns to LM from Portugal and is
troubled by an old ghost; Drina and her companion return with an unexpected new
member of the family; Louis faints. Joshua becomes a marimba player. Ruth
Lerner, an American journalist plans to film a fiesta and hundreds of tourists visit
from the Transvaal. Drina plays piano for music lovers and plans the indelicate
removal of an old business associate (novel: about 75-k words).
(12) The Midge Toccata, a caprice about
talking insects (inspired by ‘Lewis Carroll’s’ i.e., by Charles Dodgson’s Alice
stories). This book has a splendid new cover designed by my cousin, Katie
Diespecker in British Columbia (fiction, caprice, about 26-k words).
(13) Happiness is a short novel set at
Earthrise. The ‘narrator’ is again the very elderly ex-ATA flier who
unexpectedly meets and rescues a bridge engineer requiring urgent
hospitalisation: she gets him safely to hospital in his own aircraft. She also
‘imagines’ an extension to her own story, one about a small family living
partly in the forest and on the riverbank: the theme is happiness. Principal
protagonist is a 13-years old schoolgirl, apparently a prodigy: she befriends a
wounded Australian Army officer and encourages his plans. Her parents are a
university teacher and a retired concert pianist. The family pets can’t resist
being scene-stealers in this happy family (novel, about 65-k words).
(14) The Special Intelligence Officer is
part family history as well as a military history and describes the roles of my
late grandfather (Capt Rudolph Diespecker) in the Guerrilla War (1901-1902) in
Cape Colony. The Guerrilla War was the last phase of the Second Anglo-Boer War
(1899-1902). The title of the book is taken from Cape newspapers of the time:
Capt Rudolph Diespecker was a District Commandant; his responsibilities
included intelligence gathering that led to the capture, trial and execution of
a Boer Commandant who was wrongly framed as a ‘Cape rebel,’ when he was legally
a POW (Cdt Gideon Scheepers was never a Cape rebel, having been born in the
Transvaal (the South African Republic,) one of the two nineteenth century Boer
Republics (non-fiction, about 33-k words).
(15) The Letters From Earthrise, an
anthology of my columns and other essays and articles written for the Australian Gestalt Journal between 1997
and 2005 (non-fiction and some fiction, about 70-k words).
(16) The Darkwood
is a dystopian novel set at Earthrise in the not too distant future (about 80-k
words). Earthrise is again central to other themes.
(17) Bellinger; Along
The River is an anthology of personal essays relative to my home and the
property, Earthrise, and the river at my doorstep (aspects and descriptions of
the river, including flooding) (non-fiction, about 28-k words)
(18) Reflecting:
an anthology of personal essays about the gardens, butterflies, a caprice, and
other motivating factors at my home, Earthrise: mostly non-fiction (20-k words)
(19) Idling: is a
collection of personal essays about seeing; a military history essay; a
speculation about lawns; a working visit to Griffith University; periods of
enforced idleness as “Don’s Days Out” in Coffs Harbour (mostly non-fiction;
about 36-k words).
(20) Bear Fat A
Memoir by Durbyn C Diespecker (1896-1977) with
Notes and a Biography Edited by Don Diespecker. (This partial memoir that I’d invited in 1950
was written by my father between 1950 and 1969 and describes aspects of his
life in South Africa, the UK and British Columbia, Canada; non-fiction; about
48-k words).
(21) Love. Selected Stories is an anthology of short stories old and
new. Of these narratives three are set or partly set in Bellingen, Dorrigo, and
the Bellinger River Valley; others are set in Africa, Greece, France, Iran and
Spain. “The Bellinger Protocol” is a (magic reality) caprice. ‘Dragonfly’ is an
interior monologue set in an imagined Vietnam; ‘Season of Love’ is largely
interior monologue and set in the mountains surrounding Pilgrim’s Rest (then in
the Transvaal). Several stories are fictionalized non-fiction (e.g., ‘A Circuit
of Fields’ is excerpted from a non-fiction essay and set in pre-Revolutionary
Iran) and most of the narratives derive from real people and real locales
(about 36-k words).
(22) Success, a novel, begins in the air,
gets under way in the familiar house on the Bellinger River, moves to Vienna
and Paris and is apparently narrated by several writers including one or two
who appear unnamed or unidentified. The story develops around Martha Haley, now
in her seventeenth year and her new friend, Tom Pearce, a musical prodigy, aged
seventeen: both Martha and Tom as well as their parents are on vacation in
Europe (about 107-k words).
(23) Excess, a novel, begins at Earthrise in
NSW, moves to San Francisco, where 22-years old blue stocking Martha Haley
meets the 24-yerars old look-alike French journalist Melissa Bonnard. The pair
join entrepreneur publisher Avra Palin in La Jolla where the trio avoid
kidnapping and work together to document some violent history. Martha, before
returning home at a slower pace rests briefly in Paris and changes her life’s
plan in Montignac (about 98-k words); Happiness
(13), Success (22) and Excess complete the trilogy.
(24) Mayfield is a stage play in two Acts
(about 24-k words). Mayfield
is an anti-war narrative set in the Newcastle, NSW (Australia) suburb of
Mayfield in 1967 (during the Vietnam War). The play was given its first rehearsed public
reading on July 24 1968 (sponsored by the University of Newcastle English
Society) and read by members of the University. Production was by Joyce
Williams. Although
Mayfield is a suburb of the City of Newcastle this narrative was earlier and
more distantly inspired in South Africa. The play is partly based on the true
histories of some young South African soldiers of the Second World War who had
been born in Pilgrim’s Rest (then in the Transvaal Province of the Union of
South Africa). Pilgrim’s, as we
used to refer to the village, was central to the oldest continually operated
gold-mining district in South Africa. Those young men were the childhood heroes
of the younger schoolboys, of whom I was one; some were killed in one of the
Western Desert battles of the North African campaign of WWII. They included
Dennis White and Waldo Boyes both of whom were killed on the battlefield and
Radford Fullard who was seriously wounded at Sidi Rezegh and repatriated to
South Africa where he died of his wounds in the TGME Mine Hospital at Pilgrim’s
Rest. Prospectors in 1873 preceded the first gold mines at Pilgrim’s Rest. The
prospecting and development of the mines that followed predate the discovery of
gold on the Witwatersrand in 1886 and the establishment of Johannesburg.
Pilgrim’s Rest is now a provincial heritage site in Mpumalanga (formerly the
Transvaal) and part of the Republic of South Africa. One of the blurred
parallels between the Pilgrim’s Rest of 1941 and the Mayfield of 1967 is that
Pilgrim’s Rest was very much a “company town.” The hospital and many of the
houses and other buildings in addition to the Central Reduction Works and all
of the mines, transport and infrastructure, were company-owned by TGME Ltd.,
(the Transvaal Gold Mining Estates). Mayfield, NSW is adjacent to what was the
BHP (the Broken Hill Proprietary Company’s) Newcastle Steelworks (which began
operations in 1915). In 1997 BHP Billiton announced the closure of steelmaking
in Newcastle and the Steelworks closed in 1999 with the retrenchment of many
employees and contractors. The Hunter Development Corporation on behalf of the NSW
Government in 2009 announced its remediation strategy for the land on the
former BHP Newcastle Steelworks site at Mayfield. Everything changes (from the
Prologue).
*
BELLINGER SUMMER
D D
On January 28 2008 at summer’s end
That liquid season of showers and storms
Allowed one sunlit Darkwood afternoon
The Bellinger high and nobly gleaming
A flood descending in summer’s-end softer light
And radio music in the house for one watcher as
An off-road vehicle stops with a family of four
Two olds and two youngsters primed to raft
On red blow-up mattresses that wildly bounce
Them high over the deep rapids swirling them
Through The Pool at Earthrise around the bend
Beaching them to repeat the shouting cycle
One boy and his sister and sentinel parents
Relishing the river the last day before school
The sibling rafters yelling to hold summer in
That one sublime afternoon
*
Wishing you all wellness. Thank you to all of my guest
writers. Best from Don: don883@bigpond.com