One would have to concede that visual art is the preferred option for the general public these days, while the written word has been relegated to the status of “poor cousin” in the artistic stakes…and sure, in a busy lifestyle, the impact of the picture on the wall or on the screen is of immediate impression to the senses, while it can be a tedious chore to wade through a plethora of words seeking artistic satisfaction. Tragic really, for while a picture may say a thousand words, unless it has clear elocution and is a decipherable painting, it could be “talking to deaf ears”!…and some of the more abstract art we see displayed these days is quite mute indeed!..
I have a friend who paints..and very nice pieces they are too..they hang in his lounge, entrance hall etc…I see them as I go in…can’t help but see them…I sent him some stories and asked if he enjoyed them..;”Oh..I never read stories” he replied…So I said that the next time I visit, I shall close my eyes as I walk past your paintings!…for why should I be forced to consume his art unasked, if he in return does not feel the need to consume my art offered….isn’t that fair enough?
Was listening to a couple of tossers on the National Broadcaster the other day while having lunch…(the national broadcaster here in Aust’ is The ABC)..or rather, I was forced to listen to it…my partner has the radio fixed permanently onto the station all day, every day…from the waking hum on the radio alarm clock until bedtime in the night…so I have to endure the booring received pronunciation of those elite commentators and their booring elite academic “experts” all day, every day…That is not to say the guest talkers aren’t clever at what they deliberate upon, but their analysis is SO tunnel visioned so as to even get on the channel with approval of the woke, politically correct management, so fearful of anything remotely litigious, that they too are as predictable and booring as those who interview them.
But the other day, while enjoying my lunch, I was outraged by the topic de jour of these experts on child management talking about “guiding” young boys away from any path that may lead them into that dreaded disease; “Toxic Masculinity”!…W-T-Fuck??…and it proceeded into the realm of boys behaving badly possibly becoming men behaving worse!..and I tell you what..at 75yrs old, I have never heard so much bullshit in all my life!
Which is the raison d’être for that poem just posted on my blog : “Love in a cold environment”…
I am full to my back teeth of these arseholes from the pampered middle-classes trying to socially engineer our culture, society, men, boys, women, girls, economics, education, arts etc, etc, etc ad infinitum until there will be nothing left but a blancmange shadow of what a healthy, vibrant culture ought to be…sure, there are faults..some bad, but there are also very good things that come from the reaction between opposites…you know it, I know it, and would someone PLEASE tell those gormless dupes running the show to please go back to their Gay celebrations , leave the kids alone, Shut-The-FUCK-Up and mind their own pathetic business!
We know that mysterious spirits do twist and spin,
With eddys and currents, past river cliff and bend,
To lazily tease a dreamer’s dreams,
From away upstream, to the river’s end.
A selection of poems and stories by local writers.
Our motto: “Art not just for art, but for culture’s sake”.
Selected and edited by Helen Tuxford and Joe Carli.
Dear Readers.
I invite you to immerse yourselves in a revitalised arts movement we are attempting to create with this humble review. It can be called ; “The Romantic Movement Reborn”..yes, reborn into the twenty- first century, reborn into a cynical and materialist age where creative arts and crafts are only considered for their “bottom-line value”, ie; what is it worth and is there a market for it?
Art has a social obligation…a social objective , but it has been perverted by a market mechanism. There is a serious distortion of our perceptions of achievement within the realms of creativity once we accept the lie of “art for art’s sake” , this is a postmodern prescription and debasement of a noble act. We have given over both riches and recognition to those who ill deserve and abuse both and we receive (unlike our caveman ancestor with their rock-art paintings) little or no representations of our collective struggles in return.
“art” does not exist in itself, but rather as an adjunct to physical experience and cultural existence!… it is not a separate construction of the imagination. No longer do we aspire to the heroic deed or moment as depicted in The Odyssey or The Aenied, or even in the later mythologies of modern people just going about their everyday lives, easier to descend to the lowest common denominator of cruel brutality. Elitism that has captured our culture in “art” has created a dearth of imagination in the population, a denial of the humanist / emotional centre needed in all creativity.
With this humble publication, we wish to revitalise that emotional centre most lacking in the bigger world of “corporate art” or as it is called; “The Art Industry”. The editors want to encourage the promotion of an older age of arts and craft along with creative writing that best examples and fulfills that knowing hunger for a more emotional involvement, a more romantic viewing of the world around us and our culture in the community.
“Onward, Excelsior!”
Index…
Stories: 1) Snips and snails and puppy dog tales….Joe Carli.
2) The Third Alternative…………………Helen Tuxford.
3) A pasta meal of fusilli ai ferri……….Erik Heldzingen
Intermission of poems and pics……………………Helen Tuxford, Kateri Duke, Joe Carli and Clarice Proudthorpe.
Part Three:
Topical Articles and such: …………………………Pietr Howse, Joe Carli.
To get to one of our favourite play-spots, that is the Phantom’s Cave, you had to crawl through and under a large swale of the huge foliage of wild artichokes that covered much of the gully owned by Mr Ivan Coleman. It didn’t pay to fall foul of Ivan Coleman, as he was a garrulous old man who seemed to be unable to be complimented or pleased…I know this because one day I sidled up next to him just before descending to join the other kids at the hidden, darkened entrance to The Phantom’s Cave at the bottom of the gully. He was standing quietly and pensively staring out over the mass of overgrown wild artichoke thistles that covered most of his back property. He was silent as I approached and it took a little while before he spoke in a kind of sad, fatalistic voice.
“You know, I worked my backside off digging holes in this hard, bloody shaley ground to plant dozens of trees so they would grow thick and tall in this gully..I planted them, I watered them, I pulled weeds out around them..and now look at it…nothing…not one survived..nothing but wild artichoke from stem to stern…” and he just stood there in deep reflection. Myself and the other kids saw those artichokes as so wonderful..we would create hidden passages under their leaves as entrance or escape routes to confuse our eternal foes; The O’Niels, who lived on the corner of Newland Ave. and Frank street, just over the road from the Misses Bones..The O’Niels were keen to capture our Phantom Cave and claim it as their own, hence the hidden tunnels under the wild artichoke fronds, so I didn’t share nor have an inkling of the hatred Ivan Coleman had for the artichokes…until I innocently and cheeringly blurted out in their defence a compliment I heard my mother say to Mrs Potts about her ability to grow such a lush garden..”Oh, but Mr. Coleman the artichokes are just so thick and healthy..I think you must have a real green thumb!”
The Phantom’s Cave was in reality a culvert that ran under the old railway embankment that was there before the local council filled in the gullies with their mega hard-rubbish dumps.It existed as a branch of our imagination from reading the old “Phantom” comics of the era. The flat, concrete masonry that framed the entrance of the culvert, itself around ten feet in height and width, with a flat floor, we emblazoned with what we thought were scary images to frighten away any uninvited intruders to our domain.
There were large skull-like images scraped of black coal dust from discarded lumps of coal fuel from the steam locomotives that passed overhead. These images were crude, childish drawings of a skull, looking more like a two-dimensional outline of a lightbulb, with darkened splodges for eye sockets and instead of a pin-socket as in a regular light-bulb, there were a series of vertical strokes of black coal dust that represented skull teeth.
We kids would congregate at that entrance and using the long, straight stalks of the flowering stems of the wild artichokes, mould from the natural clay in the side of the gully, spearheads which we used to frighten away any of the gang of the O’Niels mob.
Any kid who wanted to join “The Phantom Club” had to go through “initiation”. This involved swearing allegiance to a set of principles involving loyalty to the point of death, the principles of “Phantom Lore”…a dogma that was never truly revealed, it being a most fluid thing changing with the circumstances and mood of the older kids in the group. It also involved the inductee being given a flat slab of shale picked off the ground all around the gully, with his first name initial written in coal upon it and commanded to walk to the darkened end of the “Phantom Cave” and place the piece of shale upon a ledge there without crying out running or flinching in fear from this ordeal. While the tremulous child was walking slowly toward what many thought was their doom in the dark, many skulls and other rough sketches illustrated tunnel, the other kids at the entrance would beat sticks upon a piece of corrugated iron and scream harrowing yelps, moans and cries to try to frighten the inductee to abandon his mission, throw the piece of shale into the unknown blackness of the culvert and flee back to the light. Once the initiated placed their marked piece of stone on the ledge at the back of the culvert, they could…and for the love of life SHOULD..flee as fast as their little legs could carry them back to their friends. Upon success of their initiation, a coal-dust streak was smeared upon each of their facial cheeks and they were whoopingly welcomed into the circle of the “ Phantom Fellowship”.
This method of initiating new members continued for one whole summer, until a local girl..Cyglinda..suddenly turned up uninvited after crawling down one of the many hidden tunnels under the wild artichoke fronds. Cyglinda was a stout, plump girl with one of the loudest voices heard on a girl.
“Watcha doin’?” she asked, her sudden and uninvited appearance making the little clan of boys jump in fright.
“You’re not allowed to be here!” the oldest boy, Trevor Klink replied.
“Why not? It’s not your property” Cyglinda sassily replied. “And what are you yelling for?”
This intrusion just as a new member was being sent down the culvert for initiation was inconvenient, so after a quick instruction to the intruding girl, they continued yelping and moaning and banging the sheet of corrugated iron.
Cyglinda thought it fun, so she decided to join in..and standing with her feet firmly planted on the flat cement entrance of the culvert, hands cupped either side of her mouth did so with the most harrowing howl of female falsetto, banshee-like fearsome screech that made even those boys at the entrance shrink away in fright and the inductee flung away his initialled stone and and with a cry of terror, fled quickly back to the others at the entrance, thereby technically failing the indentureship.
We say; “technically”, because the boy in question filed a protest that among all the fearsome threats and distractions he was compelled to face, no-one warned him that a girl was going to be one of the threats. This incontestable fact was considered and the protest upheld on the grounds of excessive cruelty..Cyglinda was chased away with clay-dobbed spears and threats, but not before yelling ; “Your play stuff is dumb and stupid!”.. and the boy was once again allowed to contest his initiation.
But such a practice soon faded after the Cyglinda incident and the whole initiation ruse fell away at the end of that Summer…there was consensus among the boys that keeping any girls from joining their games was best to maintain their “manly” independence.
Little did we know that those days of carefree boyish adventures were slated, numbered and doomed to suffer that inevitable, unstoppable fate of all childhood imaginations…: that of growing up.
The Dump.
( “No Grapes”..;From, Playground.com..a free AI image generator)
The dump.
The existence of The Phantom Cave was made possible when the local council closed off the other side of the culvert under the high embankment and placed a series of concrete pipes there leading down to the river to take the run-off winter water that flowed down the creek, and on top of these pipes, they commenced to infill the gully with a mega hard-rubbish and domestic waste dump.
This dump became a mecca for the local boys to rummage through the hard rubbish on the weekends..through the week, there were workers and trucks and a bulldozer working the site so they couldn’t congregate there to fossick..so imagine their horror when after six months of such bliss, in the space of a week, there appeared a makeshift cyclone fence right around the dump, replete with a sign on the gate stating : “NO SCAVENGING!”..and ; “TRESPASSES PROSECUTED!” this was a disaster for the kids and they could be seen leaning against the wire, their fingers clasping the mesh and looking like so many refugees in rags.
But if the kids felt bad, spare a thought for the tractor driver..for there were no air-conditioned cabins in those days..no cabin at all!..and the driver would sit there pulling the levers of the machine as it pushed the garbage from the dump-trucks into the hollows..all he had to protect himself from the heat, dust, flies, noise and stench was a set of ear-muffs, big eye-goggles of the type worn by motor-cyclists and a scarf around his lower face..come winter or summer. Crows and other scavenger birds could be seen hovering around him and his machine, like gross, enlarged flies also seeking those morsels to snatch from the miasma of domestic detritus.
It was on one of these summer days of excessive heat, when Alistair, standing hopefully at the fence with several other boys, suddenly felt an affinity for that bulldozer driver..and excusing himself from the gang, he made his way quickly home, picked the biggest, fattest, ripe bunch of muscatel grapes from his home vines and made his way back to the dump fence. These grapes he held up as high as his small arms could lift them, for it was a big bunch while he was small and they were heavy. He held the bunch up so the bulldozer driver could see them.
This did not take long, as the driver was indeed dry, thirsty and fed up with the stench…He spotted the little boy at the gate just holding the most attractive bunch of grapes he believed he had ever seen..Alistair just held the grapes up a little higher..The driver stopped the machine and slumped back in the seat, he pushed the goggles up to his hairline and flung the face-scarf off with a tiresome gesture, with his foot resting on the dashboard of the machine, his eyes drawn between the soft, juicy blushing glow of those grapes and the big eyes of the little boy..a confederacy of camaraderie immediately formed between them..as man to boy, for there is a continuity of “knowing” between us men..the driver admired this kid’s initiative and he smiled to him.
Swinging his legs over the controls of the tractor, he slid off the seat, stepped onto the caterpillar tracks and made his way to the gate where Alistair held the grapes. Without a word, but with a nod and wink of acknowledgment, the driver opened the gate, letting only Alistair in. He took the bunch of grapes from Alistair’s arms, broke it in half, one half of which he placed on the seat of his ute, the other he held and knelt on one knee in front of the boy and softly said..: “When I finish…you finish…ok?” and he let Alistair loose on the hard rubbish dump while he leant against the bulldozer track and delightfully dropped one grape at a time into his mouth.
Oh how the other boys still outside the wire wailed and lamented…howled and wept at Alistair’s fortune..then started crying out to him to “please get me this!…see if you can find that!” and other desperate cajoling..
When the driver finished the last grape, he gave a loud whistle to Alistair, who gathered up his box of swag and made for the opened gate..At the gate, the driver stood with a big smile on his face as he let the boy through..Alistair paused on exiting, looked to the driver, thanked him and then asked..; “Do you like nectarines?”…the driver thought for a minute then answered, not with words, but with lip movement only..:”Love ‘em!”…and that was all Alistair needed to hear.
Joe Carli.
JEAN–BAPTISTE–MARIE PIERRE : c. 1745.
THE 3rd ALTERNATIVE
PART FOUR
Many of the phrases and expressions which he used were unfamiliar to me, so that I found it difficult, on occasion, to grasp the exact meaning of that which he described. And having no experience and but little knowledge of the worlds that he had known, I can only recount, in my own words, all that he told me of the events which shaped his life.
He had been born in Iada, where he had spent his youth and grown to manhood. Though the livelihood in which he was engaged was demanding, it was work that was agreeable to him, and he had been blessed, I thought, to have been a native of such a pleasant and ordered land.
I gathered that there had been a woman, whom he loved dearly, but that she had shamed them by her infidelity with another man. Angry and betrayed, yet heart bound still, he could not bring himself to break with her completely, and in this unhappy state existed for some time. Finally, in a moment of decision that set the course of his fate, he cut the last tie that fettered him, and left the place of his birth.
‘We were destroying each other,” he said. ‘It is cruel, the wounds that a man and a woman can inflict upon one once loved, when that love turns sour, and erodes all trust.’
These were passionate words, yet he spoke as one who, although he recalls clearly the event itself, has long since discarded the emotions attached to the memory.
After a period of wandering in many lands – and I am not certain if that period was of long or of short duration – he journeyed to Gartel Frere, to the middlemost province of that world. And because he had both military training and experience in the crewing of the vessels that traverse the distances between the known terrestrial spheres, joined the Dagr, the defence system which guarded Gartel Frere’s boundaries.
‘Routine work,’ he called it; protecting the transports which ferried crews and supplies to the mining settlements on Aethra, for Gartel Frere was deficient in many of the ores needed to maintain its civilisation.
By diligence and hard work – perhaps too, by his own personal skills – he rose quietly and steadily through the hierarchy of the Dagr, until he had command – his first command -of his own Realm Guard, of which I believe there are several classes, from the great astral combat ships, the symbol of Gartel Frere’s power, to the small attack craft which are so important to its autonomy.
Whether or not he gained fulfilment or like benefits from his chosen path, I cannot say. It may be that it was the setting of a goal, aiming, with endeavour and patience to its attainment, that had meaning for him, more than the achievements or the striving itself.
Gartel Frere had been once a green and shining world – the gem of the colonised planets – but it was dying. Not because of carelessness or ignorance, for its peoples had been good stewards of their waters and many lands, but of geological forces beyond their control.
They had long been troubled by earth movements, by landslides, and the gradual subsidence of low-lying ground along the margins of their coastal regions.
But came a cruel day when a terrible earthquake destroyed one of their most important cities – its havoc reaching out even to the surrounding tranquil boroughs and quiet sanctuaries. Earthquakes became more frequent and withal more violent and destructive, and much more widespread; the oceans hazardous for trading vessels; a volcano rose from the sea floor, and spread ash and hot, burning dust across large swathes of the green valleys of the adjoining peninsula, smothering crops and killing livestock and people.
These events were not entirely unexpected, for Gartel Frere’s learned men had known for some time that they were destined to occur. Its leaders, had not, however, expected them to happen so soon, so swiftly or so disastrously, while they were still recovering from the consequences of a recent war, and were as yet unprepared.
In this emergency, the councils of the many lands met to seek a solution to their dire situation. They arrived at three conclusions.
The first option available to them was to move the entire population to the few localities that were still stable. Those places, however, were relatively small, and it would be impossible to house and feed the inhabitants of Gartel Frere in such a restricted area.
The second was to live with the upheavals, and to repair, with all the technology at their disposal, the damage as it occurred. But faced with continual earthquakes which destroyed so much of their infrastructure, and perilously high seas which threatened their coasts, for much of Gartel Frere consisted of island continents, that choice quickly became untenable.
The third alternative was to build a home for at least some of their people on another world. This was not an impossible task, for they had explored much of the inner realm of their system, and established mines and rudimentary settlements on Aethra.
In the hour of their desperation, this was the alternative that they chose.
Aethra was not a large world, harsher in climate and poorer in terrain that Gartel Frere, and would have capacity to support only a little over three quarters of Gartel Frere’s population, but with time against them, its governing councils began the labourious and lengthy process of transporting materials, and builders and their families to construct roads and towns on Aethra; agricultural workers to establish the first flocks, and prepare the soil for growing food.
It was a huge and complex task that the leaders of those once pleasant and fertile lands had undertaken; manufacturing, in the time that was left to them, enough ships to carry the population of Gartel Frere safely to Aethra, and manufacturing them in areas that were still stable. But as the situation on Gartel Frere became increasingly critical, its governments were hindered often by frustrating delays in transporting materials over damaged and unstable roads, and with people forced from their lands by violent and increasingly severe earth tremours ; people for whom care and shelter needed to be found.
Complicating the desperate circumstances which they faced were the sly and predatory assaults launched against them by the people of Nothus, the fourth world. Nothus had always been an uneasy neighbour, its habitants clever and aggressive, and several times, conflict had erupted between the two worlds.
Not being strong enough, at that time, to attack Gartel Frere directly, the ships of Nothus nonetheless managed, on several occasions, to inflict heavy damage on Gartel Frere’s attempts to broaden their base on Aethra.
Perhaps, even then, the two worlds could, with some effort and a little of good will, have put aside their differences and co-existed, if not in harmony, at least without conflict.
But I have noticed, from my own reading, how often and how eagerly men channel so much of their energies into warfare, and give but scanty thought and resolution towards the more difficult problem of peace.
It was in these strivings and battles that the man from Iada was engaged, protecting the ships transporting colonists and labourers to their new world.
I have wondered often why he stayed, risking his life for a world and a people not his own. Perhaps he thought that in time he would return home, riot realizing that once a man has travelled far from his beginnings, has grown and changed, it is not always possible to go back.
(To be continued).
H.R. Tuxford.’
A pasta meal of fusilli ai ferri.
That was it, the “Decree Nisi” had come through, the “estate” divided down the middle…but the ex got the Family Ford, the big Blackwood dining table, most of the kitchen utensils and the family dog….she could have the dog..a hairy, aggressive Jack Russell bitch…she could have the dog!
A full year and a bit had already passed since that final separation, and now the divorce was finalised..I hadn’t even seen the ex for more than six months..I didn’t want to…the memory of so many trying years was enough to turn me away from ever wanting to see her again!
I retained the house as it was central to the final straw of that marriage..Meg didn’t like the house…or the postcode..both were too “low brow” for her..but then I suppose my enrolling in a mature entry course at the university to study Roman History/ Classics didn’t endear me to HER wishes of continually attending ad-infinitum many New Age Workshops run by this Eastern suburbs Guru tosser that while being rather vague about just WHAT was her central philosophy, knew for certain the value of modern currency!
But anyway, I kept the house…or rather, the bank let me stay in the house for the duration as long as I kept up repayments…I was having trouble studying at the university AND keeping up with the mortgage…There was only one thing to do…choose between Classical Studies and the mortgage…I put the house on the market.
This involved the necessity of preparing the property for the inevitable open inspections..now, I am not an expert on the subject of property desirability, but I do know that a vase of pretty flowers always makes the most drear room look so much brighter..and since it is an old adage that ; “A house without a woman is like a lantern without light”..flowers it would be.
I told you that the family car went with the missus, so I was reduced to Shank’s Pony for the short trips to the shops and the bus for the trip to the University..now it happened that right next door to that bus stop was a house that had in its front yard the most brilliant display of sweet peas I had ever seen..so bright!..so brilliant!…and totally overflowing the trellises and beds it was displayed in…I had to have some! I had seen the incumbent of that house pull into her driveway several times as I waited for the bus..and we did exchange smiles at different times..ok..I’m not a sorry looking character, I have kept my shape and condition from those many years as a carpenter in the building trade..and the lady in question was quite a looker herself..; rich, full, dark hair past her shoulder, full woman’s body, Italian, I thought..around fortyish..soft breasted with those Italian hips that would fill out with ageing…but for now SO rounded and full…a delight!…I had never seen a male attached to either the woman or the property.
So it was with some anticipated pleasure that I knocked on the front door to ask if I could please have some of her gorgeous sweet-peas to grace the front rooms of my house.
I was not disappointed.
Maria-Rosa ( for that was her name I was to learn) opened the door a little and instantly “looked me up and down”..having satisfied herself that I was relatively harmless and recognising me from my standing at the bus-stop, she smiled and with a sensuous wry tone said..
“Hello..fancy seeing you here…let me guess..you’ve missed your bus and you are asking for a lift to town?”…and she broadened her smile with the tip of her tongue protruding cheekily between her teeth. I gave a bit of a giggle at the instant humour.
“A lift to the university would be good, but no..not now…I have come to ask if I can have a bouquet of those lovely sweet-peas you grow in your front yard to put into my front room..”
“Entertaining, are we?” Maria-Rosa inquired.
“No…selling up.” I gave my truncated reason.
“Oh…” Maria-Rosa’s face dropped a little..”..that’s a shame, I was beginning to set my clocks to your standing there at the bus stop”….The lady had a sense of humour that I found much to my liking..but I was here “on business”…
And those multi-hued flowers did wonders to brighten the place.for Maria-Rosa was more than generous and clipped off enough stems with her secateurs and gloved hands to let me place a vase full in both the lounge and the kitchen..not only once, but several times over the period of ‘open display’ times…
My house was on the edge of a park and a path wound past my front fence across the expanse of parkland..I was not far from Maria-Rosa’s house and sometimes she would make her way across the park to the delicatessen over the other side..One day as I was turning over the soil under the hollyhocks, Maria-Rosa leant on the fence…
“I thought you didn’t have any flowers?…these look nice”. And she stroked the hollyhock stem.
“Yes..they are nice, but better here in the garden as a show than inside..Your sweet-peas are so bright and delightful..thank you very much.”
“Well, perhaps you can thank me by inviting me in for an afternoon coffee?” Maria-Rosa smiled..and of course, it seemed like a good idea to myself also..We sat at the kitchen table with our instant coffees and Maria-Rosa had a good squizz around at my kitchen, which I thought was neat and tidy..ready for inspection.
“Your kitchen smells funny”. She commented, with her nose wrinkled.
“Oh..” I was surprised and sniffed the air several times.
“I don’t mean it stinks” she explained “I mean it smells stale and…uncooked in”..
“Yes, well..I have been avoiding cooking here as I don’t want to dirty the place up before the inspection”.
“How many inspections do you have?”
“Once a week.” I replied.
“So what have you been eating?” Maria-Rosa inquired..I had to drop my eyes a tad shamefacedly at her question and hesitatingly replied..
“Maccas..among other things”…….Well…the look she gave me!..she then trulled her fingers on the table-top and looked at me disgustingly..
“Why cannot you men look after yourselves?…” she leant toward me “Look, I’ll do you a favour just this once and invite you over to my place for dinner tonight…the kids will be with their father for the weekend and I will cook you up a good pasta meal..you’re looking thin and underfed…” She stood to leave..”bring some wine..” she commanded, then raised her eyebrows in mocking inquiry and asked ; ”Shall I wash my cup for you too?”…and she smiled that beautiful smile she has and touched the side of my face affectionately with her hand..”Addio until this evening…six o’clock sharp!..and hey..”and she waved her finger “no funny business.”
At precisely the appointed time, I knocked on Maria-Rosa’s front door…there was a pause of several seconds, then a shout from inside.
“ ‘Round the back!”…
Upon that exacting instruction, I looked for the gate to the back yard and made for it unhesitatingly. Upon entering Maria-Rosa’s back yard, I was instantly overwhelmed by the sight of a profusion of home-grown vegetables..all that could be named of the season of local fruit and veggie shop produce was growing in that back yard..
There were thick, dark fronds of cavollo nero, still heavily laden broad bean plants looking toward the end of their season leaning over rows of lettuce interspersed with herbs of basil, coriander and several other unrecognisable condiments..New, half grown tomato plants hovered under halos of bamboo bracing stands ready to stake-tie the growing stems..Be-headed artichokes towered next to a side fence of wooden palings, a well mulched bed of asparagus stems pushing their inquisitive phallus skyward carefully kept separate from other plantings over the eastern side of a garden path, while fresh plantings of what must be the Summer vegetables filled the remaining area of a carefully tended garden…I was impressed..and I instantly recalled and recoiled from a disparaging comment made by an Australian teen I knew back many years ago who wrinkled her nose at the suggestion of growing one’s own vegetables..
“Oh no!…only wogs grow their own vegetables!”
“Hello!..” I called toward the house..Maria-Rosa’s head poked out through some sliding doors.
“C’mon in.” she gesticulated with her head “I’m here in the kitchen..”
I entered through those sliding doors into a world of wild, sensuous aromas, heavy with voluminous smells of heated olive oil, garlic, onions and tomato sauces…a steaming stainless steel pot of water stood slowly on the boil awaiting it’s burden of apparent pasta that I could see lying nearby on a cutting board.
But this wasn’t your ordinary spaghetti pasta that you can buy for a couple of dollars down the supermarket…these were obviously the home-made job…thick as and with what looked like a hollow centre…
I put the bottle of chianti (I had presumed on her nationality in a rather gauche way, I admit) on the side bench of the kitchen and went to gaze at the pasta there. Maria-Rosa picked up the Chianti bottle, turned it around and touched the reedy-husks type wrapping on the body of the bottle..she didn’t exactly wince at the pastiche of the product, but I could sense the scorn!…
“This is too good for now, let’s save it for another occasion…” and she placed it on a high shelf..”here, I have a bottle already opened…it is home-made by Franco, an Italian friend I know…he has really perfected his style…” and she poured some dark, rich wine into an ordinary drinking glass with fluted sides..” Salute!” she cried and we chinked glasses…I could see that Maria-Rosa was a no-nonsense woman…and as a recently semi-retired carpenter tradesman, I was very impressed with her “workmanlike” manner..
“What sort of pasta is that?” I asked.
“ It is Calabrian fusilli ai ferri..Maria-Rosa replied..what we in Australia would call “knitting- needle fusilli” it isn’t the same as those short corkscrews of dried pasta that most manufacturers produce. These are spaghetti noodles with a hole in the middle, created by rolling and stretching the dough around a very thin dowel…or perhaps a knitting needle..I use the long piece of a metal clothes hanger that a friend cut for me”.
“And you make it yourself?” I stupidly remarked..Maria-Rosa paused in her action of placing an onion into a small muslin bag and frowned at me…
“Of course I do…I have to..no-one else is going to do it for me.” And she relented her frown and turned it instantly into a broad smile to me..”Tonight I am making it for you”.
“Oh..I wouldn’t expect you to go to that much trouble for me.” I protested.
“But I am not doing it JUST for you…I am doing it for US both!”…that smile again..”If I am going to cook, I am going to enjoy WHAT I am cooking…eh?” and she pointed to a chair at the end of the kitchen table she was working on and upon my seating pushed a shallow plate of antipasti toward me..” Here nibble on these while I prepare the dinner.”
My word!…upon that large, shallow dish were several delicious looking helpings of home prepared hors d’oeuvres…there were artichoke hearts in olive oil, small bocconcini balls, some flans of chargrilled capsicum also in olive oil, broadbeans uncooked but prepared heavens knows how but tasting so wonderful!..there were olives, both green and black..small cuts of proscuito, rolled around small asparagus pieces and several other un-nameable treats that just washed my mouth with saucy flavour and thrilled the senses with promise of delight..there were slices of ciabatta bread to soak up the flavours of the olive oil and I was left wondering if this is the appertiser, what foundation of paradise would the main course be!
“don’t fill up on the hors d’oeuvres” Maria cautioned..content that I was gorging on her creations “leave a little space for the pasta”.
“But this is so beautiful!” I exclaimed..
“No…you must not say “beautiful”..in Italian, we do not use that word to describe food..that word is used to describe a beautiful object or person…like a woman…for food we use the word ; “buono”..: “good”…for food is good..good food is good for you..it is just that ..good.”
“Well then THIS food is very “buono”!”and I smiled to Maria…we smiled to each other. Maria-Rosa leant close to me and plucked an olive from the dish and slid…yes..that is the best description of her action..she slid that olive between her soft, red lips and while looking into my eyes closely, slowly masticated the olive then let the pip drop from between her lips onto a side dish…I did note that gesture most carefully.. after all, I convinced myself..I’m not a slouch.
“But tell me why you put in such work just to give a meal to a neighbour as myself?” I was indeed intrigued at the obvious spread of preparation in front of me, for while I appreciated the effort, I was quite amazed that Maria would make such an effort just for me.
I sat there in my chair for an extended silence from both of us after I had asked that question…Maria-Rosa’s face displayed little emotion and she kept at the preparation of the meal..she did turn to me after a short time and just looked to me and gave me one of those elusive smiles that women are so good at…what did it mean?…that sort of smile..
Maria-Rosa then took a medium sized red onion and placed it into a small muslin bag with a tie-string and placing it on a stout chopping board, took up a wooden meat-tenderiser mallet, smashed down on the onion in the bag several times with some force…She then opened the bag, extracted what looked like the skin and husk of the onion and tippled out the now shredded pieces of that onion…she had “cut” the onion without using a knife!…I had to admit I was amazed…I had never seen such a thing before.
“Why didn’t you just use a knife?” I asked…
Maria-Rosa again gave me that elusive lift of her lips…then she leaned upon her hands upon the table and explained the whole business of the meal and her and me.
“Do you know that in Italy..in Calabria where my grandmother came from..pasta is called the meal of love..because everybody loves pasta…everybody..but it has another connection where my people come from..My Nonna told us about the men of the village there on the coast whose working life was as fishermen…They would leave their homes and go to sea on the trawlers for months at a time…it depended on the catch as to how long they would be gone…plenty of fish meant a short season…less fish, longer out at sea…there was no point returning with an empty hold..the village depended upon those fishermen for both food and pay.”
Maria-Rosa then became busy with her hands breaking up and stripping the vegetables with her fingers while she spoke..never once did she pick up a knife to cut the food..even with the soppressa salami, and the cheese, she broke a large piece off and crumbled it in her fingers..all the sauce preparation and condiments were measured and done with only her fingers..
“Turns were taken by the old people to watch from the cliffs to see if the boats were returning..and when the cry went up that the boats were seen coming over the seas, great preparation was made by the women to welcome their husbands and sons home..and the food that was most prepared was pasta…and my Nonna always cooked the one meal to welcome my grandfather home..for as my Nonna said of those times and I suspect it is still relevant for these times..perhaps even now to yourself..When men are away from the home and their families for such a long time, living in cramped and wild conditions..catching, killing, gutting their kills, blood and guts and waste all around..not that clean or conducive to love and affection..living among only men..they go back to a wild state and become detatched from the needs and comforts of home life..they become brutal..as is their nature..so my Nonna..and the other women in the village welcome their men back into the life of home and family.
And it was this meal of fusilli ai ferri..that re-introduced her husband to the joys and comforts of home..and she cooked it with the touch of love…that is, she would not use a steel blade to cut the ingredients, as the taste and smell of steel was so familiar to those fishermen with all the fish they would cut and clean, they were sick of even the sight of it…and she showed me one day with a piece of chicken..she tore off a piece with her fingers and fed it to the cat, who gulped it down..she then cut a piece off with a knife and offered it to the same cat…and the cat smelt it and refused it as she could smell the steel..so to prepare the food with just your fingers, was to do it as an act of love..So also tonight, I prepare this meal for us with my fingers as I am making it for the love of good company..for is it not good and proper that a woman should enjoy the company of a man as much as the man for a woman?”…and Maria-Rosa smiled again that beguiling smile.. Maria-Rosa had already prepared the ingredients for the sauce and was adding such to a concoction of scented delight would make an alchemist writhe in ecstasy!
“You see so many food dishes served up that look very photographic and tasty, but in so many of those well-presented meals there is the one important ingredient missing that makes all the flavours an eating delight..and that is love..one cooks for those one loves with love..” and she then placed her index finger to her lips and licked the silken sheen of olive oil off it..she saw me look at her in this action and paused with her finger still between her lips..then spoke..”There”..she softly said.. “you will get to taste a modicum of me with each bite, but I am only to be satisfied with just gazing at you..”…again she teased me with her cheeky eyes.
I suddenly realised Maria-Rosa’s objective for inviting me to share this meal with her..this sultry woman, this gourmand of gorgeous sensuality was using the food, the preparation of , cooking, taste, smell and feeding to me as a vehicle of seduction….this Italian beauty was seducing ME with the taste and language of cooking..between the rich odours of the food, the appertisers, the sights, colours and the second helping of that rich, fruity wine, I couldn’t think of a better way to be seduced..”Press on!” I subconsciously concurred..and it was in this soporific state that I first noticed the music in the background…a soft but rhythmic beat along with a kind of soft wailing chant by some women..
“What is that music?” I asked Maria-Rosa.
“The Tarantella…a cultural thing of the region..the music accompanies the dance of the Tarantella..” and while Maria-Rosa tended a shallow pan of hot oil, she explained to me “The Tarantella is an excuse for women of the village to display their young bodies to potential men of the village…their suitors…the theory is that having been bitten by a Tarantula spider, the only way to rid oneself of the poison, was to dance in a voluptuous frenzy till in a state of delirium to drive out the evil poison..”..Maria tippled the onion into the pan and stirred the sizzling pieces…”Of course, in the process of dancing, the young lady would contort her body to show all her best curves and attractions to the man, particularly to her chosen man, watching…perhaps to even make him jealous of the other men seeing her body and so drive him to a frenzy of want of her…which, of course, he couldn’t have unless he wed the lass”…Maria-Rosa then threw in some more ingredients into the pan…I could see small pieces of the sopressa and the pancetta and along with these she tippled in a measure of whisky..she let these cook for a while to, as she explained, let the alcohol evaporate..when the meats were crisp, she added some peeled tomatoes and a rich paste-like tomato sauce she had preserved from the last season’s crop..Just watching the dexterous actions she was using to control the level and sight of those cooking ingredients was mesmerising…add to this the warmth of the wine and the soft-heavy drumming of the music of the Tarantella, I could feel myself being lured into a sensation of embracing delight.
To the simmering pot of boiling water, Maria-Rosa added the pasta..and from that deed, instantly switched back to the sauce and added some fresh porcini mushrooms that she had soaking in water..she stirred this sauce and waited for the pasta to cook..
I took this moment to examine this womanly delight here with me..and I couldn’t help but compare those dancers of the Tarantella to the svelte Italian body of Maria-Rosa..for I could now see she had prepared herself just as diligently as she had the ingredients for this meal..her tights sculptured her legs a curvaceous delight from the delicate, leather sandals that graced her slender feet to the firm, muscular thighs that disappeared under a light cotton shirt with a tail that modestly covered a full bottom and sweeping hips just made to be held in tight embrace…the shirt was buttoned just high enough to let the décolletage reveal the full, soft volume of her breasts and cleavage did draw my eye to that most inviting of a woman’s treasures..her long hair falling around and sometimes into that deep attraction between her bosoms…and I have to admit it was a difficult job to drag my gaze away when it seemed Maria-Rosa was doing her level best to display those choice mammaries to me.
Several times during this period of concentration on the cooking of the meal, we would top up our glasses of the rich wine and smile affectionately to each other..I could see where the evening was heading.
After the pasta was cooked “al dente” Maria-Rosa drained it and added it to the sauce..she mixed it in well and added basil and diced provolone…she let the dish rest to melt the provolone..then divided it so I had the greater measure…which she delighted in letting me see the favour to myself..and to the separate dishes, she then added the grated pecorino with a sprig of basil and placed that sumptuous feast in front of me…the scents that wafted from the meal into my nostrils was both sensational and sensual..
Maria-Rosa marked well my reaction and then whispered in a most instructive manner..
“Mangia!”
I confess to filling myself with that meal and then accompanied the taste with another glass of Franco’s wonderful fruity wine..I was totally consumed by the entire process of what had passed since first arriving at the kitchen of Maria-Rosa..and whatever her intent for this evening, I was fully prepared to satisfy her every demand and that demand was soon to transpire, for once the meal had been fully consumed, the residue sauce scooped up with spoon and finger from my plate and I fell back into my chair with that glass of vino in a most, well almost satiated appetite, I could see Maria-Rosa smile again that ever beguiling smile to me so that it lingered so sensuously on her lips for such a long moment that I could be certain she had a finale up her sleeve
And then it came just as the street lights turned on and one could become aware that the noises of the suburb had ebbed and mellowed so that a kind of peace descended over the penumbra of light.
Maria-Rosa looked to me with the hunger of a loving woman in her eyes, tossed down the last of the wine in her glass, placed it upon the table and leaned over to me to kiss me on the lips and to whisper into my ear..
“And now, caro mio..to bed…”
Erik Heldzingen.
Intermission of Poetry, arts and craft.
Battle scene.. Australian War Memorial.
R. W. Tuxford.
R.W. TUXFORD
21st Battalion.
Australian Imperial Force.
Died France, 3rd May, 1917.
Aged 22 Years.
‘There has been no grave
To shelter thee,
For a hundred years
And more.
A mother’s tears,
A father’s grief,
Died, many an age ago.
A few words
Engraved on a monument,
Are all that’s left
Of thee.
How long
Since flesh of your flesh,
Blood of your blood,
Traced your name,
Writ upon the stone?
Only the grass
Of a foreign field,
The stars
Of a foreign sky,
Know where you lie.
Is there, perhaps,
In the call of that small bird,
A faint echo
Of your fears, dreams, wonderings,
Of the hopes you cherished?
The songs you sung?
All lost, torn,
On one spring day.
But because of you –
Because of so many young men
Like you –
We have peace,
Are free from tyranny,
Live well.
Built once
From the ruins of the past,
A free, fair land.
Can came our country’s future,
And our fate
For good- or ill.
When we ,stand in silence
Before the dawn, remember,
That those who fell In that great war,
Marched into horror,
To a cruel, barbaric death.
Be vigilant, I pray,
Stay watchful,
Lest we forget the trust bequeathed us.
Lest we forget the sacrifices made.
Lest we forget their names,
Lest we forget.
Helen R. Tuxford.
2025
Kateri Duke…Images of Sacred Spirit.
My Lover’s Eyes.
My Lover’s Eyes.
’Tis the last time in this world I’ll see, my lover’s eyes loving me, The last time gently feel, her warming hands caressing thrill, The last time her breath whispers many sweet nothings into my ear, The last, soft touch of her hand, lay upon my breast so dear. For time has commanded with the coming of an age, For our moment of passion be left, discarded, upon life’s stage. For what needs be done, best be swiftly made, Linger not over the pain of lost and parted indefinitely, As, my love, these aged eyes can still weep profusely, At the inevitable, regretful, loss of thee, And time hath but scant regard dispassionately, In what becomes of the love that passed between you and me. …..
Joe Carli.
The Nesting Tree.
The Nesting Tree.
Come, friends, listeners, gather ’round me,
Together we shall hear of the story I plead,
Turn life’s pages with its entrancing scenes,
Witness the unfolding of one’s living deeds,
And tell you I shall, the story of “The Nesting Tree”.
*
At the back of the old settler’s hut, there you will see,
An old, so very old, gnarled branched mallee tree.
It’s central trunk long dead, smoothed and grey,
Time’s caress removed rough bark and did sand,
All sharp edges from that tall, trunk so grand.
*
There is a hollow up a dozen feet from the bole,
Just to the left of a greying spar, bone sculp’d,
That give nesting shelter every year to galahs.
Their red and grey colours matched as a pair,
Returning season on season to raise chicks there.
*
Now, every summer of the last twenty five,
The same pair made that nesting tree their hide,
Come back every year, for they mate for life,
There they’d patiently sit..lay eggs, raise a brood.
There they’d return each year to reclaim their abode.
*
Galahs were there when we first bought the place,
There when my parents built the first house,
They were there long after I was engaged,
They were there when I left in a marriage done,
There when I returned years later with my son.
*
For the marriage failed, my husband a beast,
When in drunken rage I would hide from his fists,
All too often he would strike out in raging hate,
But came the time when I no more would suffer,
Returning to my home..to my father and mother.
*
And I marked similar with those galahs I would see,
They too returned to reclaim their nest-tree,
That in the end I too did return to familiar territory,
Returned to that home where I could rest, be free,
Returned to safety in mine own “Nesting Tree”.
*
Is it our fate in a struggle to succeed,
That sometimes the odds fall so great against need,
So much hurt that leaves one’s heart to bleed,
That with the loss complete of all and sundry,
No choice but return to one’s own Nesting Tree?
*
And it was that year when loss I first redressed,
When I became more inured to life’s cruelness,
That I found a chick fallen from the galah’s nest,
Whether it be cat attack or just plain excess,
I never knew, but I held that chick in gentle caress.
*
I held that bird without hope, tender fledgling,
And I was of two minds as to what to do,
Leave it down and let nature deal the fatal blow?
Yet in its small, frightened eye, I could myself espy,
And who was I to refuse it balm, never had it done me harm.
*
Why not, with helping touch relieve its hurt,
With tender love & care, will it not sing its dirge?
“It will not fly free” you could say..but then, does a tree run away?
Does oyster glued to rock not wait in patience for its food?
So this bird too, some moments I’ll share, a little of life’s splendid air.
*
For its helplessness struck close to my heart,
Was I not also hurt in helpless compact?
And I thought it too I could grant a fresh start,
So I raised it up to a sprightly young bird,
And its company and song the comfort I did need.
*
Came the drought of those four long years,
The galahs never returned to claim their nest,
Very few remained in the paddocks and trees,
And I can only presume they left for fear,
Of dying in a land left barren and drear.
*
But my bird’s company and talk stayed with me long,
Long after my mother and father “passed on”,
Long after I had said cheerio to my son,
As he left to find work, another place, another town,
I could not in all fairness hold him down.
*
That left me alone on the farming property,
Alone with that galah as my only company,
For how many old folk had now passed away,
But it was alright, for I had my familiar ways,
My garden and church and community days.
*
But all this world of mine came crashing down,
Just when I thought the future I owned,
When my son, the father’s blood, took to drinking,
And in a state of drunken wild, a car-crash took my only child,
And left me with only my broken dreams to hold.
*
And it was on one day several years gone past,
Orchard and gardening the balm of my heart,
When the numbness of love lost had since passed,
Habit and routine had done its hard work,
Only leaving moments of sadness to burn its mark.
*
I watched my pet galah at the casement window sit,
Looking to the outside world in wistful sight,
And I couldn’t help but feel the moment had come,
Like my own search for a land of peaceful times,
To let her feel the strength of wind on her wings.
*
It was in the steadfast look of that galah I could see,
That it was looking, staring constant out toward a tree,
Its trunk bare, with a hollow, behind the old settler’s hut,
And following its gaze I could clearly conceive,
Its hungering sight falling onto The Nesting Tree.
*
It was many years that I kept as pet that galah,
Fed it, held it, laughed at its stumbling larks,
Cursed it for when it tore into packets of seeds,
And mocked it when it danced for its tea.
Its hobbling-bobbling a curious sight to see.
*
But on that one day it did dawn on me,
That I was now obliged to set it free,
For I owed it to myself to also believe in me,
So I kissed it’s crown and stroked it’s wings,
And opened the window and let it feel the wind.
*
There awhile sat the galah in steady repose,
As if deciding whether it worth the risk to soar,
Then turned to me and bobbed it’s crest..it knows,
Took a couple of times spreading wide its wings,
And flew away out to the sun in tumbling turns.
*
Two years passed and I thought I’d never see,
Again that galah that I came to set free,
Then one fine summer day near sunset I did glean,
Silhouetted against the brazen afternoon shine,
A shape of galahs outside my window screen.
*
And sure, there, as I stand so near to thee, my galah with a mate had come back to me!
We called out to each other with our own familiar chitter-chatter in repartee,
She pranced to me her mate by a nodding of her crest raised in laughing scree,
Bobbing and bowing in welcoming greet to me…..I reciprocated with exaggerated bow..”thankee”..
*
They then took to their wings, in resounding scream,
And I rushed to the window where I could discern,
They did fly true, fly free..returning once more,
As was done there first with her parent’s before,
To stake claim for their new home..near to my home..in The Nesting Tree.
Clarice Proudthorpe.
Section #3..Topical Articles of interest.
The passing of the amateur.
If I consult this little pencilled in book of a shopping bill from a Mr. D. Lambert & Son, general store and victuals supplier of Towitta, for the fortnight in February 1936, I see that a packet of Yo-Yo biscuits was a mere 7 pence, and while the entire shopping for that bill was a total of 1/14/7 (one pound fourteen shillings and seven pence) there was deducted for 4 dozen eggs and 6 pounds of butter as barter for a total of 9 /6 pence taken off the bill….and then Mr. Lambert would continue on his way in his horse and sulky delivery wagon to the next family farm to repeat the procedure…a round trip he did once a fortnight to deliver the grocery list and pick up bartered exchanged produce. A congenial and fruitful arrangement of the times.
These casual trades between shop-keeper and households were common fare in the times…there is also record of an Indian dry-goods trader used to do the rounds, selling or trading cloth and haberdashery goods, staying at this or that farm for a day or so then moving on. Of course, many of us from the boomer generations remember the “milky” with his plodding horse drawn cart running from house to house with billy-can and scoop…the ice-man and baker…of course, who could forget Mr. Hahn, the green-grocer, parked up in the suburban side street with a clutch of housewives at the back of his truck while he proudly showed them his cluster of fine fresh chokos!
All this was done in the most amateurish manner, the local trader, the (mostly) women of the house, the common supply of goods and the casual chiacking between them all….I remember staying at my auntys in Sedan and her delivery of groceries from the local store included one single biscuit..”Oh look…that silly man…just because I wrote ; biscuits / one…instead of a packet he sends me one biscuit!…silly man!” …such were the frivolous back and forth of trading in those times
The same could be said for the male side of the farm in the cropping and upkeep of animals and equipment. The farm blacksmith shop an integral component of farming practice, needed to repair or invent parts required for harness and wagon…sheds and homesteads…the entire structure, social and practical a continuity of the self-sufficient amateur application…local women as midwives…local apothecaries with their huge tomes of folk medicine and a head full of experience and old-wives tales and “cures” that must have cost as many lives as they saved..possibly an average equally contested by some modern medical practices and could compete with the traffic causalities of these times.
But what stands out most is the skilled amateurism of those times. The time-lapsed photographs for the post and beam “pioneer hut” to the cut-slab and thatch sheds of the first settlement to “The new house” bracketed the obvious faults of the DIY constructs of the first to prefer the hired trades to build the second…and it was the pause in between the original claiming of the property and the sweat and tears that built up the family fortune enough to bring in the tradesmen to make the growing family’s life more comfortable and life in general more liveable…for the burden of home life of the times fell solidly upon the shoulders of the women. Whilst on the farm, developments in agricultural machinery remained pretty static right up until the second world war…the cumbersome stump jump plough the major improvement while all else was structured for application to horse-drawn machinery and it’s risky use, for horses could be prone to fright and flight, taking chains, harness, equipment and handler on a wild unrestrained gallop across lumpy, ploughed paddocks and straight through fences toward the home stable…a most unsettling experience.
And it was about this time that with the advanced development of mechanical tractors that all this came to an abrupt end…and with that sudden killing off of a labour intensive era, was the decline of community connection, for the mechanic and his garage has become the “go-to” person for both fuel and expertise of machine maintenance. No more saddler, blacksmith/iron monger..no more farrier and horse doctor of even the exchange of local knowledge on animal husbandry and with the demise of intensive labour farming, went the families to the city or elsewhere and with them went the town choir, the town band, the town baker, bank, church and assorted community businesses, not to mention the sporting teams..and in the end in some cases, the town itself…for the once “family farm” being bulldozed and the property held in the portfolio of an Agri-corp absentee owner.
But by far the most damaging wreckage from this demise was the loss of the ethical creed associated with labour and its work…the mantra of : “Responsibility – Work – Reward “ …to be replaced by the capitalist cant of Debt, Chance, and Compound interest. For tooling-up for the demands of this new era of “Agri-corp” farming meant mortgaging the family farm and then the squeezing of the profit margins to compete within an open market of high-risk cropping…pre-sale of crops and borrowing to sow, to harvest even in some cases to just get their product to market…the final result ; collapse of family fortune, community structure and the town fabric itself.
Welcome to the new world of “professional consultants” and political influencers…high debt, high risk, low return, no future for the generational family farm.
Joe Carli.
The Epistles of Pastor August Gersch.
The first Journey.
The two men stood shoulder to shoulder on the precipice of the most Eastern knoll of the Mt. Lofty ranges, out before them spread the vast, vast and dark, green veldt of the Murray Mallee forest..here and there, at great distances apart, slim streams of smoke rose toward the morning sun, depicting what they were to come to know as campfires of the indigenous peoples of the region.. The Ngaiawang, The Nganaguruku and the various clans of the region.
A feeling of elation mixed with unease captured August’s body…he was the pastor and leader of this first small group of Germanic settlers assigned blocks of land by The South Australian Company, out there in that vast forest. He was to lead them into the wilderness.
He felt the elation of discovery, as he and his fellow pioneers were the first of their faith and peoples to set foot on this plain and the thought of laying the base for both a village community and a church to give praise to his God sent a thrill of the power of endeavour through his body and mind..But at the same time he felt an unease about whether he, himself had the measure and capacity to carry the responsibility and burden of strength needed to face and confront the unrelenting challenge of putting in train the necessity of setting up what was required for the protection, shelter, food and provision of the folk under his care….It was in consideration of this uncertainty, that Pastor August quietly said a personal prayer to his God seeking strength and encouragement…He then took a deep breath and returned to the present to attend to his flock’s needs.
“Julius”…he addressed the man standing at his shoulder “how deep is your faith?”
“I have absolute faith in my God” he answered, and then added ; “I have confidence in you, Pastor.”
The pastor turned and smiled to the man; Julius, father of four children, husband to Ada and brother to Wilhelm and gripped his shoulder..
“Then come, let us trust in our God and believe in ourselves and we will civilise this wilderness.”
The pastor then gathered the folk around himself, said a short prayer of encouragement and faith and then led the group down the long, shallow descent of the only marked track of the Moorundie Road that led toward the still unknown distance that was the Murray River…Pastor August Gersch led these first Germanic pioneers into the maw of the Mallee Plains forest.
Fifty persons including women and children, twelve families, ten single men, five single women, and their Pastor followed in orderly manner the lead wagon from a train of six German wagons fully loaded, each wagon pulled by two draught horses, down onto the flats to where the surveyed plots of land were allocated to them out deep into the forest of mallee bush and grasslands.
These pioneers carried on the wagons all they needed to survive the time they needed to clear the land and plough and sow crops for a first harvest as soon as possible, they brought supplies of flour, corn and seed, they brought cuttings and seedlings of familiar plants, both for decoration and necessity, they brought implements for cutting and clearing the mallee, harrowing, ploughing and seeding. They brought square metal tanks containing water and were hopeful of finding and securing waterholes in the nearby region.
The task of clearing the mallee trees had to be overcome, and this required a communal effort to complete, all the men, women and suitable aged children joining in to clear each other’s block of land..one to the next to the next, likewise in the harrowing and ploughing, sharing the horses for the heavy deeds, but first the heaps of timber and mallee-roots had to be burnt and levelled, all timber boughs suitable for building sorted from the scrap, the rocks and boulders cleared into heaps to one side..Shelters for the families had to be constructed of makeshift pug and native pine, with thatched roofs. These they first clustered together for security and protection, the whole enterprise becoming a community of singular ambition and intention.
The plan for a small chapel was marked out on common ground and after eighteen months of exhausting work, the small community was confident enough to expand their gathering from under a chosen tree as place of worship to set in motion the first rudiments of laying a foundation for their chapel.
This level of achievement would never have been possible if not for the learned capabilities and social acceptance of each member of the community. The natural inclinations of such a hardy ethnicity as these illiterate peasants, being led by a committee of more learned and read persons gave both solid knowledge of needed work-skills to direct and complete the basic needs of the community, combined with a scientific knowledge of how, where and when to apply those actions best suited for the survival of the group in such wilderness, these skills, combined with an unquestioned loyalty to their faith in God gave strength of body and mind to the community to overcome even the most catastrophic situations, like sudden death by accident or in birthing, or the variables of weather and passing illnesses. So the combined collective of the folk working together toward the one end brought about an evolution of a completeness of the singular community, which became the concentration of their collective humanism unstoppable and faith inviolate.
While these people toiled away in establishing their small hamlet, they were not completely cut off from communication with the outside world. Regular trips by horseback to the nearest bigger town (if it could be called such in the budding province) allowed post to and from relatives and family back in their old country. These letters bringing news from Germany were transcribed by the pastor both in the old country and this new with personal information to and from the relatives of those illiterate folk and then relayed to the relevant persons by the respective pastors. This way, personal news from abroad was delivered to the small community.
It was in one of these communications to Pastor August from the head Pastor Kaval, that he was encouraged to write uplifting letters back to the communities they left behind, telling of their improved life and situations in the new country and imploring others to make the journey along with their pastor to this new prospect and improved opportunity for themselves and their families.
Pastor August took it upon himself to fulfill this obligation by writing a series of open “Letters to the communities” explaining their lives in this new land, their hopes and situations and their growing faith that a new beginning had strengthened and given new direction to. He called the first of these letters, based upon the Letters of Saint Paul ; “Epistle to The Silesians” .
Pastor August Gersch..A Letter to my fellow Silesians.
The Pragmatic.
“Dear Brethren, by and under the direction of our sacred duty to God, I, August Gersch, disciple of Jesus Christ, servant to the congregation of God under the teachings of Martin Luther apostle to Christ our saviour, pastor to our collective of faithful souls dedicated to the faith, give greetings to you fellow congregationalists of Silesia, in this year of Our Lord 1856. May the blessings of God rain plentiful upon you there as it indeed has upon us in this new land.
I know of your situation and I feel for your sufferings, for I and my congregation also suffered under the tyranny of our sovereign governance. But be of good courage and hold steadfast to our beliefs, for there is now a choice for release at hand from your bondage, for I bring both hope and good news.
For has not God in his wisdom and glory not showered blessings and gifts down upon his brethren and faithful followers that we can rejoice in the worship of his son Jesus and raise our voices up in endless praise, my brothers and sisters. Even in the darkest times when we were compelled at threat of pain and death, did not God in his wisdom give his true believers a way to break free from the bonds of those who would force us to break with our traditions, our crafts and agriculture to be chained to the machinery of their factories to toil and sweat and break on their wheels of industry? Sever our contact with the earth and nature that brings us close to the plan of God..that our crafts and weaving and animal husbandry gives strength and honest character to our lives and families..take us away from our neighbourhoods and community to drive us into penury in overcrowded cities and slums to live and die in a rotting ghetto of slavery to their greed and cruelty?
For now I can tell you of this new land and life that awaits those with faith and courage to break from those bonds of slavery.
My friends and fellow believers, I tell you we, who have trusted in the will of our Lord, we who have travelled under the advice of Pastor Kaval and with the blessings of God, have walked into Paradise..for how else can one describe a land without want, a land evergreen with trees that shower petals of every hue of colour down on one as we pass under their wild and voluminous boughs..a land whose natives have never known disease or starvation..a forest never ending that stretches as far as the eye can see and the mind imagine..a menage of wild animals not one of which is ferocious or life threatening save the viper of which is present as a curse on any land.
Oh faith! That we can pray and give thanks to our Lord throughout any season of the year without fear of wild snowstorm or flooded valley or thunderous avalanche..And land!..God be blessed there be land here enough to satisfy a legion of settlers and double that number with their wives and children..let no man go wanting for food or shelter, as the timber available here in this region named “Mallee”, is long and straight, firm and strong and the grasses and boughs thick and plentiful to thatch deeply any roof! The limestone rocks can be burnt easily to lime for mortar and the larger to use as structure for the walls.
The sparsely populated native tribes be not marauding nor plunderers, it is true that in the bigger town near the coast, those natives there have been corrupted and poisoned with merchant’s wine and many struck down with imported diseases that we unfortunately have brought to them from far away. But the ones we have come into contact out here in the mallee forests, have been very helpful and have given much useful advice through mutual interpretation of language, gesticulation and demonstration how they treat and make food of those local animals suitable for consumption. They are quite willing to make exchange of their ways and knowledge of native craft, skinning and tanning of the fur of the Kangaroo for any of our useful implements like an axe or knife, for theirs is a nomadic life taking them to a distant river they tell of and places further afield..the agents that come to us from the English governors of this province warn us of the natives and implore us to do harm to them to drive them out of the land, but we have spoken among ourselves and see no plan of God in doing such harm to such generous folk, regardless of our opinion of their pagan and humble ways..After all, they have already moved aside in accommodating us in their hunting grounds and while they look askance at what they see as our futile labouring with fire and steel, wagon and wheel to grow food in a land already of plenty, and I am certain by the way some of their elders narrow their eyes or laugh at our explanations and deeds, they do think of us as the simpletons without knowledge enough to let nature take its course and for us to follow in example.
Indeed, those same governors of the province will use all their cunning to try also to take advantage of us settlers while we know not their language or ways, but we are of an old peoples, with knowledge aplenty to inform us what is correct in form and deed or what is right and proper in attitude..so we nod our heads in agreement when spoken to, but turn away from their advice when out of their sight. For what honest man would seek to compel another, regardless of skin or learning how to boil an egg or sharpen a stick? But these foolish men who sell us the land would compel us to adhere to their corrupt ways..and what a waste of time is that chore, for we people are of a race of men used to the slippery ways of dealers and swindlers that come with hands sticky with sweet honey, but leave with hands soaked with blood!..They be the fools that God will punish with damnation.
So indeed, my fellow citizens and brethren, while God has given breath to you and your arms and heart be strong and healthy, let you make similar decision as we who are now living this life here in a land of plenty, giving thanks to God and his son Jesus for lifting us out of the tyranny of those princes and merchants that want body and soul to burn as industrial fodder in their factories and cannon fodder in their armies, gather your families together under your Pastor and pray that you have the strength of faith to make the journey here to this new land where you can, like us fellow citizens of the church of Jesus Christ our saviour, and continue the life granted to the best of men and women, that we can work and live and make strong families like humanity has done forever through time and circumstance immortal and pray to God in our own churches that we can build to thank together for a new life under those familiar old, old stars that light the firmament of the heavens.
Bless you all..and I remain your servant as I am forever God’s humble servant in the name of our Lord Father, Son and Spirit of all things Holy, Holy, Holy….Amen!”
This being my first Letter to the Silesians in the year of Our Lord 1856..from Pastor August Gersch.
Pietr Howse.
(NB..If you are interested in contacting the editors of this publication for information or to submit an article, poem or story, please phone Joe Carli on 85652256..or mobile ; 0434355838 .thank you.)
I turned 75 yrs old a week or so ago…so I am now living on borrowed time..let us hope my credit rating in this area is still sound and promising! In saying that, I can also say that any capability I have in gaining wider public recognition for my efforts in the written words that I have placed on this blog are diminishing by the day, month and year, till I suspect I will, like the summer memories of youth, fade into obscurity along with name, and physical substance of myself and my labour.
It is not that I haven’t tried to get recognition through regular channels of publication, I have send stories or poems to places that call for submissions etc..I have even plunged several times into the murky world of writing competitions with no gain at all..I will cease here with any litany of lament on this area of personal disappointment, as that seems to be the everyday lot of the aspirant artist of whatever stripe..sufficient to relate a recent episode I had in communications with a small, local (to our capital city) publisher concerning the cancelling of the recent Adelaide Writers Festival..a situation all of you that are cognisant with anything “arts” ought to be aware, as it did make headlines in the nation’ dailys.
I won’t go into the controversy of that middle-class schmozzle, except to say that there was a degree of dummy-spitting all round!…agree or disagree, you’d think arts, like the Olympics, ought to rise above petty recriminations…but hey..we’re talking about an offended, intellectual middle-class..anyroad..an alternative writers festival has been quickly organised…called “Constellations-NOT writers week”…a writers festival organised by independent publishers and committee groups rather than the big corporate sponsors of the official writers week…so it has descended from “Un Grande Bourgeoise” event to a “Petite Bourgeoise” event..I saw this as a chance to push an idea I had formed to get some public space for those of us writers not considered in the hard-copy media, to present our works from personal blogs via a display at the writers week for “Unpublished Authors”.
I approached a publisher involved in the new writers week program with my idea for a section on just such an event..here is the email I sent..:
“… Good Morning, Ladies…Now that the Writers Festival has been unceremoniously dumped (thank you upper-middle class elites!), perhaps it would be a great idea and good publicity for your business if you announce an alternative event called : “Adelaide Festival of Unpublished Authors”…where you gather together a goodly number of authors who while unpublished in hard-copy, do have a decent portfolio of work ( like…for example..Yours T..) posted on personal blog sites or on other medium.
I envisage (lurve that word!) …envisage a setting of trestles or tables in an open area where these authors can bring along printed A4 samples of their work ( you may need to have some rocks or half bricks handy as paperweights if it gets windy) and the public can query the author personally on the genre, length, objective etc. of their work..and perhaps even be given a sample of such…then you, as organisers can invite selected ones into “The Big Tent” to give a short presentation of themselves and their work…perhaps there could even be a prize of consideration by a publisher to the better of the writers…anyway…I leave it with you..give it some thought…”You know it makes sense”…regs..”
Of course, you can read a bit of tongue-in-cheek cheek from yours T in the email…that aside, I did receive short an answer to my request..:
“Hi Joseph, most of the events will be community-organised – if you’d like to organise an event for unpublished authors that would be great, perhaps speak to your local library about hosting?”
Well, I did speak to my local library and that was not going to happen..I then suggested to those ladies..:
“What’s this about ‘Hosting”?…can’t I just front up with a folding card-table with my shingle at the front and then spruik my schlock?” …To which I have yet to receive a reply..I wait with bated breath!
So where does one go to present onself to the general public?..Does one have to enter a plethora of competitions?..join a legion of writing groups? Take up an apprentice in “The Yarts”?..How does the “Arts Industry” pick and choose who will be invited to join in their circus of tumbling clowns with all the bells and whistles of trundling calliope merry-go-round?
I am indeed curious, because as I said at the start of this piece, I have just turned seventy five years old..and have been writing for so many years without any notice at all from any “authorised” individual or group..and I wonder what one has to do to break into that circus world…NOT that I would want to break a leg in trying, it is just that I hear so many stories, poems and memoirs read out over the airwaves that are not all that good, nor memorable, yet so many of these personalities get lauded to the skies, while I have known quite a few writers who have gone to their grave without the slightest acknowledgement of their works..some of which is of excellent quality..
I cannot help but believe that The Arts Industry is called that for a very good reason, for to me, “Industry” implies the production of a manufactured product…a product that has uniform utility and cost effective outcome..ART, on the other hand, in my opinion is a creative organism..best described by Gertrude Stein as (to paraphrase) …” that which is the elements of raw material gathered together by the artist and with imagination, skill and deliberate force of hand, turned into a work that is neither driven by sudden impulse nor public consideration, but rather a creation of the artist’s intent and purpose…”
I am afraid much of today’s ”art” sits uncomfortably in the region of “bottom-line-consideration”…NOT of the creative product of the artist, but rather a PR publishers consideration of how good they can “SELL” the artist before considering selling their works…that or the plethora of what I call “Therapy Art” where the artist relates their OWN therapy journey rather than a work where one can find therapeutic comfort in a story..
Anyway…enough said…sufficient to tell that I will not be attending the alternative writers week this year..or any other year..I’m just not the joining in type.
(BTW..The header pic on this article is a photo I took of a Christmas card by one of those lost artists ; Rex Scorgie..now deceased, with his works being lost to the community save some few bits and pieces..He was a delightful artist, with a sense of fun which if you could look closely you could find in his paintings..the above pic doesn’t do justice to his “Naive” method of painting..the detail is so very good..He also was a fine singer and had wrote a number of books of poetry in the rhyming Australiana genre..but all that is now scattered..a sad indictment of Australian art and those who “manage” it).
It must have been one hell of an accident, because I evidently was kept in an induced coma for one and a half weeks..and then had to endure the confines of a hospital ward in recovery from a number of internal injuries and broken bones for another three months!..and now, six months later, after being let go home, I have only just started to reflect on the multitude layers of happenings while I was in that rather inconvenient episode of my life…to date.
Perhaps it would be best, considering the still precarious state of my health both physical and mental..(I did suffer severe concussion and head injury from the accident)..if I go back to the moment preceding that accident.
A warm summer day in December..I was returning from a regular dip in the sea there at Brighton..I am a single man of middle years, independent and financially secure in that I had my own house (paying off), secure employment as a ticketed electrician and had what I would call a positive outlook on life and the people in my life..in short, I was in that state of mind where a low whistling of a favourite tune playing out on the radio was about the only thing attracting my attention at that moment, so when the traffic light went from red to green just as I was braking to stop, and being the first car off the line, I just gently continued to accelerate the car into the junction……I recall no situation of alarm, screeching of brakes or any other sign of danger…all I remember is a slight flash of reflected sunlight that I must presume now was off the windshield of the approaching car, and THAT, is about where my consciousness of all things post green light ends. Sufficient to relate that having been informed of the circumstances of the accident, to wit that basically I was the innocent victim of a woman speeding in her car running the red light just at the moment of my crossing, shattering her life and nearly succeeding on doing the same to myself…I waved away any further details of the accident..such details would only defer my ability to concentrate on healing my broken body..the primary consideration of my current situation.
Now, I have to concentrate intensely to recall my sense of what I felt..what I felt as against what I have been told about that time when I was in the induced coma..for while it can be claimed that in such a state, the patient is out cold and there is little visible reaction of the senses happening to that person other than what is being recorded on the various monitors and instruments next to the bed, I can assure you that there were moments..small, intricacies of moments while in that coma when I could feel..I say; “feel”, for I obviously could not see, but of course I must have been able to at least hear and sense any movement in that private room at the hospital, for there were times I became aware of movement in the darkness that enveloped me in those days of numbness and desolation…and..and..I’m not so sure of this area where I shall now describe to you..for it is one of doubt and strangeness..but there were moments when beside the feeling of movement in that darkness, I could..smell..or at least sense I could smell the faint delightful scent of flowers..particularly, what I have lately become familiar with in my attempt to find out just what was that scented flower that kept haunting me from those times…it was Jasmine…and that scent was accompanied in my subconscious memory with the slight touch of a hand and whispered words..words that sounded like; ”tan tat sin loy”…words I have now been made aware of that are a spoken Vietnamese language meaning “I am very sorry”..(Thành thật xin lỗi)..I can remember those words, for they were whispered to my ear every day that I was in that coma and sometimes in some nights soon after when I was still in recovery..I can recall the words, because they were accompanied by that fine wafting scent of Jasmine coming from what I now am certain was a vase..a slender, red vase on the cabinet beside my bed..but there were times when I did think that I must have dreamed of the entire thing..
I said earlier in this conversation that I am a ticketed electrician…that word “ticketed” is important in that it tells you that I have been trained and approved to work with the power networks of the state to fix and connect people’s houses or industries to that network..it is a complex and dangerous business requiring a steady hand and calm attitude…you need to thoroughly concentrate on the job at hand when connecting those live wires to a switchboard…if you are silly, lacking in attention or reckless, the result could be catastrophic for both yourself and the structures around you..mind you, that is not to say that some sparkies ARE clumsy and reckless and I for one would approve of them being strapped mercilessly to their wired-up switchboards and the switch being thrown! But what I just wrote will tell you that I am not given to gross imagination or flights of fantasy..in my lived life, as in my employment, I approach situations with calm reasoning and logical application..so what I have related to you in regards to my sense of sound, feeling and smell while in that comatose state, I firmly believe and back with solid thought and reasoning.
The solution to those sensations I describe above, continued to haunt me as I worked through my convalescence. I was around six or so months into that recovery time when a scan on my badly injured ankle showed a bone alignment that necessitated another operation under a general anesthetic to correct what could become a debilitating ankle in the future. This required my being admitted to the very same hospital that served me in my accident recovery..and, by fortune, the very same ward where I stayed..but this time in a shared room rather than the single of my last stay.
I would have preferred a single room for myself, but my private health cover will only tolerate so much and seeing as the last six months had stretched the friendship about as far as the corporation would tolerate and the fact that it was only an overnight or at the worst a couple of days stay, I was prepared to suffer the intrusion of other patients snoring and farting or whatever as long as the privacy curtains were drawn around my cubicle.
It was into this cubicle that I was wheeled after the operation whilst still under the influence of the anesthetic, so I was not aware of my surroundings..but I was still in a state of subconscious sensitivity..and it was while in this state that I once again sensed and smelt the scent of Jasmine..and also at this moment became aware of a whisper in my ear of the words I recalled hearing at that much earlier time of sleep..”tan tat sin loy”…I believe it was this combination that woke me wide-eyed suddenly from the effects of the anesthetic, just in time to see a form slipping out between the join of the curtain around my cubicle…it was the form of a woman clad in long, loose trousers, with a kind of split-sided smock over them…I recall that because the smock opened at the sides as she moved through the curtain to show the pants under.
I tried to say “wait”…but my mouth had not yet become functional as had my eyes and so the only sound that came out was a sort of gurgled “oh!”..and the shape was gone..but the scent of jasmine remained and a turning of my head revealed a slender vase placed on the bedside cabinet with two or three stems of jasmine in it…it was a red vase with a slender, long neck and there was white, Chinese script printed vertically up the vase.. this sudden intrusion that woke me from my induced sleep, was too much for my tired body and so I rested back on the pillow and fell once more into a deep sleep.
The practical functions of the nursing staff upon my awakening from the operation gave me chance to observe my surroundings…the curtains had been pulled back to allow the nurses to attend myself and it was with relief that I found myself as the only patient bar one other sleeping in the far corner bed in the room..The attending doctor checked the chart and asked sufficient questions to satisfy himself that all was well as could be with his patient and then left me to the care of the staff..that work done, it was not long before a relief of silence fell upon the room…the other occupant must have been in no fit state to stir regularly, so I had the chance to relax and contemplate that recent vision that had momentarily swept from my space.
But try as I might, I could find no explanation for either the vase that I now recalled was very similar to the one that used to appear at various times when I was in that state of recovery on my first visit to this ward, nor the sensation of the whispered words in my ear.. nor, as I recall the vanishing woman in the unusual clothes that slipped between the curtain and away from the ward.
It was while I was in this state of cogitating those very thoughts, when a woman pushing a trolley loaded with magazines and books trundled into the ward..She was not a nurse and she was not a relative nor was she certainly a patient…she informed me that she was a volunteer of the “Friends of the hospital” who do small acts of assistance to patients to relieve the feelings of boredom and isolation felt on the wards..a thing that the nursing staff have no time to do…I thanked her for a couple of sailing magazines and it was then I noticed she was wearing similar clothing to my recent spectre visitor..I asked her about her clothing..
“Oh..this is our everyday workwear,” She replied. “ it is called an ao dai.”
“What nationality is that?” I asked.
“Vietnamese.” She replied.
“Were you in here earlier, then?” I pursued.
“Oh no..I have just come on shift”. She said..
“Is there another Vietnamese woman here then, before you?” I queried.
“No..I am the only Vietnamese woman on the ward”..she paused, seeing my wrinkled brow and then continued..”there was another Vietnamese woman..a young woman I took over from, who used to do the same job I do..but she died some time ago and that’s how I came to be here.”
I didn’t want to sound too inquisitive to this very polite lady, but there was another thing I wanted to ask..
“This vase..what does the writing on it mean?” I asked.
“Oh!” she exclaimed in a surprised manner “that is Mai-Lee’s vase..what is that doing here?…I’m sorry, I was supposed to return it to her grandmother along with the rest of her belongings..I’ll take it away”
“No..leave it, please..the jasmine has a very nice scent…but what does the Chinese writing say?”
“It’s not actually Chinese, it’s classical Vietnamese and it says, in translation..“Be true”..”
Now I was curious.
“The other woman you replaced…you said she died..what of, If I may ask?”
“Mai-Lee…it was a car accident..nearly a year ago now..it seems she was hurrying to get home after staying here late as she was asked to stay on to translate what a distressed patient was trying to tell the doctor..and in her hurry to get home, she drove through a red light…”
A sensation of shiver came over me upon hearing of this news..I couldn’t be certain, but somehow a sort of native intuition drew me to instinctively realise that the sounds and senses that I had experienced back in my comatose state and just recently with the slipping out of my cubicle of that shape gave me cause to consider that here was the solution to my confusion and dilemma..and this opportune appearance of the trolley volunteer was my chance to clear those mysteries up..
“Can you tell me, please” I asked the woman “what do the words..and excuse me if I don’t pronounce them correctly..but what do the words..”tan tat sin loy” mean?”…the woman asked me to repeat the phrase several times as she considered my crude repeat of those whispers that I heard..then her face brightened as she figured out the meaning..
“Oh..it is an apology…it means to say “I am so very sorry”…”
I sank back on the bed in a state of sad surprise…sad, for the girl’s loss of her life and surprised that it would appear the same girl’s spiritual presence had visited me to whisper that apology in my ear and to place the jasmine in the vase next to my bed..I dismissed the trolley lady and fell into a trance-like mood as I considered the improbability..to my practical mind…of the repeated vision and sense of a deceased woman visiting my bedside with flowers and whispers…it just did not compute with my personality..but at the same time, I could not dismiss the reality of what I heard and what I felt..I would have to consider some solution to this puzzle..
A month later…:
I still cannot rationally accept the idea of myself being visited by the spectre of a deceased person, no matter how delightful or sad the situation of the visit…but nor could I swerve from accepting the real sensations of what I felt upon my recovery from that accident..for how else would I know of the scent, vase and whispered words?.So I have come to the conclusion that I have to accept, like those words spoken by Hamlet, that..: “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy,”…and leave it at that…it is a personal dilemma that I will carry in my luggage for the rest of my life, and bore many people in my old age on the retelling of the mystery..as to the unfortunate Mai-Lee…I took that vase when I left the ward at the hospital…and with some diligent searching of funeral and cemetery records, found where the grave of Mai-Lee was and I went to visit her there.
It was a rainy day, but that just added another depth to the quietness of the cemetery, I was fortunate that she was a Catholic Vietnamese, so she was buried and not cremated…her headstone was a polished black slab with her name and birth place scripted upon it in both Vietnamese and English language, so I could read it…there was a small round visor to one side of the headstone with a picture of her underneath…she was a very pretty girl of around twenty years old..it seems she volunteered at the hospital so as to improve her English, as she was in training to become a registered nurse…It was so sad to see such youthful hope cut short..I felt a sadness for her.. but in the final act of her spiritual life on this earth, her gentle attendance to me in my precarious state..the scent, the touch, the sound of her whispered apology, I am sure were a primary cause for helping me rise from the despair of critical injury..for sometimes we fall into so deep a pit of injury or despair that more than just medical intervention is needed to lift the soul out of and above such injury..an injury of just a damn unfortunate moment of a lapse of concentration on Mai-Lee’s part..I hold no animosity..indeed, I am thankful of her spiritual kindness.
I took the slender red vase I recovered from the hospital, placed some jasmine flowers in the vase and placed it upon the washed black marble…I then kneeled close the headstone and bent to kiss the picture there under the glass visor..
“You have been true, Mai-Lee…very true..thank you.”
freef'all852 