Getting Motivated

Several things have fallen by the wayside when it comes to so called New Years Resolutions, either because physically there's a problem or mentally there's a problem.  After another month of feeling almost murderous, I went to the doctor and told him I felt a little psycho and described various things to him and came away with a prescription for Lovan to try and assist.  I get home and find out it's another name for Prozac.  So here I am, the Prozac Princess, wondering what else is going to happen.

Turns out - I should have gone to the doctor months ago - if not years ago.  After two weeks on the drug, I started feeling like I wanted to 'create' something - do something....anything!  Then one morning I woke  up with a smile on my face....and I was happy, not just having a great sleep - but I was happy.  I had an epiphany that felt rather shocking to me.  I'd been suffering depression, not just premenstrual dysphoric disorder but depression as well. And the drug was helping.  I was really and truly shocked because I hadn't necessarily 'felt' depressed all the time.  Takes a while to remember and realise that that in itself was a problem because I'd been denying a lot!  Anyway.....we shall see how it goes at 'that' time of the month, whether or not the drug assists with PMDD as well as it's worked on my moods so far.  I'm noticing a slight change in how I'm feeling so I'm continuing to monitor as I go.

So on to the reason behind the blog.  I decided I wanted to get creative again so joined a Paint Shop Pro learning group.  I don't necessarily need to learn, but refresh - and I needed somewhere to post my results of my lessons - so this is it!  Hahahaha!   I might add - this first one below - that is NOT one from my course.  It's just one I did.  Doll by Cybrea Stock.  I've long since lost most of the 'how-to' so I've got to relearn so much!

Cheers!

Dog Days....

Dog Days....

A couple of times a year, I get the miseries up.   Don't know why - don't really care, I just wish they'd go away because they're not welcome.  They turn me introspective in a way that is not conducive to happiness. Random things pop into my head and make me wonder, was anything done in the past, actually worth the effort?  The question...no...the statement  that decided to take a stroll round my head was the realisation that I had become what I feared, and I feared what I had become. But when I thought about it - really thought about it, I didn't actually know what it was that I feared in the first place!  

If I go back to teenage-hood where at least if I said something, sometimes it did actually matter and have an impact, I couldn't really pinpoint what I feared.  I mean, I feared the dentist - but I did not become a dentist. That's not quite what I mean....it's something less tangible - like being alone in a crowd and lonely in a room full of friends. I now can see I'm not happy with what I've become and although many would say it's never too late to change, for me, I think it is.  I am too opinionated and too mercurial so if people are going to remember me, it's not necessarily for anything good. There will always be a qualifying "but" in every remembrance. 

Maybe it's the old dog, new tricks scenario. Maybe it's the realisation that if I have to break myself down into my 'component' selves, at some point, maybe some really important bits will get lost, or what friends that remain from my teenage days may either realise they were fooled, or that they really don't like certain components after all. That's what adulthood permits us to do. Walk away from our mistakes and hopefully, if we can't face them head on in the future, we at least can verbalise our reasons for walking away instead of staying and persisting to see if the whatever the problem is that creates the mistake, can be fixed.


Oh well, I guess I'll see.

Chrysalis

She sits silently, wrapped in pain

Gazing at the milky remains of coffee long gone cold,

Images of the past laid out before her

Like a mocking parade of beauty, seem to be

Silently laughing at her and her unrealized

Aspirations and hopes.

The chrysalis of youth is long gone

Ravaged by pain and bitterness,

Torn by misfortunes and failed dreams.

Smiling sadly she stares at a fading photograph

Taken in her youth, the sparkling eyes now dulled by pain;

The coquettish smile now gone and the joy on

The clear unlined face now vanished amid the

Ravages of wrinkles, pockmarked and marred by

Scares and sores from who knows when or why.

The chitter of little voices blend with the brash harshness

Of the television and the soothing rumbling hum of

The overworked washing machine.

It wasn’t that long ago that the photograph was

Who she was; young, laughing, smiling, happy and the

World at her feet.  But oh so fleeting.  Beyond her reach

Except by memories from captured moments,

Times now dissolved by time itself.

She glances at the clock; time again for yet more pills

To keep the burning in her body at bay.

Time for something to make her feel normal –

Or is it the something that gives the oblivion of sleep?

Either way, there is still more work to be done.

She picks up another photo, one taken more recently.

Her wedding dress glorious as such a gown should be.

Not a professionally taken image, just a snapshot really

As she waits, shows more peace than she now feels

Or has felt for a long time.

Where did she go?

Lost amid the years of pain and pills and rejections.

She pushes her c up away

And sweeps the photo’s to the floor,  uncaring, unwilling

To look at them any longer.

Let the children do what they will, she thinks silently.

Later, a little voice penetrates her solitude 

As she washes yet more dishes.

“Mummy, I do so love you.  Who’s the lady in the pictures?”

She grimaces to herself and turns to the beautiful little boy

Standing looking up at her waiting for a response.

“Just mummy when she was young and another person.”

The little boy wraps his arms around her legs

And stares up adoringly.  “She’s pretty, but I like you bestest.

You’re beautiful”

Her heart tears, like the chrysalis that hides the ugly grub

That grows inside, and out flutters a butterfly of emotion.

As she is wrapped in the soft wings of

Pure, unadulterated love for her son.

Have you ever had those days when you think…why can’t I do this like everyone else?  Why does everyone else make it seem so simple? Then comes the day or, evening as the case may be, when you attend a training course (in my case I gave in and attended a Magic 1, 2, 3 course) and you find out that those you thought had it all together, may only seem like they have it all together – they have the same issues with their children as you do.  Or, while waiting for school to let out you overhear one parent chatting to another about the latest tantrum, breakage etcetera that has occurred and they’re bemoaning the fact that their children just don’t seem to ‘get it’!  You suddenly feel NORMAL! That’s N.O.R.M.A.L.

 Granted, not a lot of parents, mothers in particular, are inclined to let just anybody know that their children aren’t the little darlings they seem to be. Take my four for instance.  All have the XY chromosome (the Y explains the “why, why, why do they do this?” factor) and they range in age from eight down to three and a half (going on 25).  Out of these four children, the three year old is the most useful, followed by the eight year old, should he be so inclined.  The seven year old is the only one who will make his bed, followed by the three year old who at least tries to do so.  The five year old, who is counting the days until he turns six will happily wash dishes, however the three year old likes to do that as well, so usually there are arguments and fighting and much water on the floor when the flour bucket gets dragged to the sink so the three year old can stand on it to ‘help’ at doing dishes.  As I said, the three year old is the most helpful.  He just adores vacuuming.   His Grandma brought a catalogue around one day that was just filled with vacuum cleaners.  This kid was in raptures with ear piercing and glass shattering squeals and screams of delight resounding throughout the house at the many, many vacuum cleaners on offer…..all out of our budget range.

I should have gotten an idea with regards to my temperament and my potential mothering skills, when I put my hand up (what was I thinking!!??!) about twelve years ago to coach – yes coach – the Under 11’s netball team.  What was I thinking?  What was I thinking???? Well, all I can say is I was in a state of rampant stupidity, happy in a long term temping job that I – and my supervisors – hoped might become permanent, I had a relationship that I thought might last a little longer than it did, and aside from hangovers which I decided were only appropriate when I wasn’t working or playing netball the next day, generally in good health.  Well, I was in better health than I had been physically.  I really should have known better, but that’s life.

So when I had my own children I thought – I could do this – truly I can do this no sweat.  I mean – breastfeeding was a cinch, my son knew exactly what he had to do to get his meal and all the while I breastfed him, if I were eating at the same time, he would eyeball every spoon/forkful that entered my mouth…from the time he was one day old.  He still loves his food and is this tall skinny streak of boyhood.  The GP told me the other week that I need to stop feeding him – he’s growing too fast.  My husband, who had children from a previous marriage almost threw a spanner in the works by trying to tell me how to do various things and I must admit – all those cloth nappies I would fold and put on everyone else’s babies all those years ago would not do as they were told. They would not fold! They were too big…crooked or whatever.  Thankfully it became apparent that cloth nappies gave him serious nappy rash and believe me – I was quite assiduous in my nappy changing. He never went very long at all in a wet (or even slightly damp) nappy. But he still got quite serious nappy rash, so – over to the disposables. 

Baby number two was somewhat of a surprise and made it even more so when he came three months early…disposable nappies were the only option and even they swam on him. They were huge. With him I suffered three months of breast pumping and driving in and out of the city to go to the hospital and home and back and home and back. I say suffered because that’s all I can say it was. Result, I didn’t really ever bond with him and I guess in a lot of ways I over compensated.  It didn’t help that as he grew I noticed, just some little odd things about him and as it turned out, my concerns were justified and he was eventually diagnosed as being on the Autism Spectrum.  I have a question to ask all those makers of baby clothes.  Why, why, why, when you make 0000 and 00000 and 000000 size clothes are the legs and arms next to nothing? I mean – these teeny weeny babies do have these limbs and they’re quite usually long when compared to their body. In fact I’m positive Number Two’s legs made up half the length, if not more, of his 930-gram body.  Needless to say, his teeny tiny jumpsuits – or onesies if that’s what you prefer to call them – looked totally ridiculous and were way too short for him. So I was quite happy to dress him in nightgowns. So much easier to change any tiny babies bottoms in the middle of the night as well.

Baby three was my little boy blue.  He was, absolutely and without a shadow of a doubt the most painful of all three labours.  Oh but he looked angelic! With a shock of dark possum fluff hair and these little pursed lips – adorable.  And he was my boy. The others were their father’s sons but this one was his mum’s boy.   Plagued with reflux and colic I spent two years on a mattress on the floor in the lounge-room either co-sleeping when he was older or with his bassinette at arms length away.  This has caused a rod for my own back….he hates sleeping in his own bed and will find a way into our bed at any given opportunity.  But – he gives great back scratches and there have been times where I’ve gone for a rest with a pounding migraine and he’s come in and snuggled up and just rested his hand on my head and voila….the pain is gone.  He’s done the same thing with his father.  This child is special.

 Aside from that –at one point I actually had a spare baby!  My husband’s boss had a son about a month younger than my number three and he had to go to New Zealand on business so he took the mother of his child with him.  Baby was a little unwell with a cold and seriously colicky and he was left with his grandparents.  Alas, grandmother found she could not look after the little chappie with his constant crying and tummy rubbing requirements and his upchucking I got a stressed phone call from New Zealand asking if I would please take on the task.  So I had a 5 and a 6 month old to handle – pretty much like twins.  First thing I did was take him off the formula he was on and put him on lactose free, simply because my understanding of colic (and my number 3 was on the same formula by this time) was that it was lactose fermenting in the underdeveloped intestine that caused a lot of this pain.  Poor baby still had reflux but with a little trial and error on various things to help with that I almost had it under control.  Sadly, he was a child used to being picked up whenever he whimpered and my husband really could not cope with an extra child in the house that was not only not his, but who required more attention than our own son.  So, poor “spare baby” was handed on once again to a friend of his mother. 

Number Four was also mummy’s boy and he WAS angelic.  He was the gentlest of labours…the nicest of all.  I’d actually been in labour a full day before we went to the hospital, and it really wasn’t until my waters broke that I decided, after a day of thinking I might be in labour and people saying that I should know because I’d had three babies before and me saying, well, really, I’m not sure at all!  He was born to the strains of Shania Twain’s “Man, I Feel Like a Woman” (I might add that three out of four babies were c-sections, due to a concern regarding a certain aneurysm clip on an artery in my brain), and this child, unlike the others who were all yucky and mucky with blood and in once case meconium, had only a small smudge of blood on him where his cord bled a bit when cut – otherwise he was covered in vernix and that was that.  He was handed to my dear friend who was honoured to be there for the big event – my husband was at home looking after the other three children – but even though she held him first, his head turned in my direction and his mouth opened and we tongue peeped out – searching for food.  Considering my now three year old is bigger height wise than his brothers at the same age and he eats like a horse, has the constitution of an ox and will eat almost anything…that should have been a warning.  When left un-rugged his hands and feet would automatically go into a prayerful pose.  As I said, angelic.

He is a very ‘useful engine’. He is the most independent, strongest, stubbornest, and useful child I’ve ever met at the tender age of three.  He loves to help do the housework.  He loves to stack wood – which he does correctly much to daddy’s awe – he wasn’t told how to do it, he just saw how daddy had stacked the wood already there and he continued to do it that way.  Same with the dishes once they’re dry; he just knows how to stack them, unlike his siblings who just throw things together any old how.  As previously mentioned, vacuuming is his forte and the biggest tantrums of the day will come when you won’t let him do it.  I will admit I find some of his help somewhat tiring, especially when I end up having to fold the washing (sometimes 7 or more loads of it) three or four times over when he’s in a silly mood and starts throwing it at me.  But – he will voluntarily carry/push/drag his own washing basket to his room and put his own washing away.  I do it one way – he does it the other and he doesn’t like me doing it my way so it’s his way or not at all.  Heaven help his kindergarten teacher next year.  Heaven help the school! All four boys will be there at the same time.  Do you think they can not kill each other for those hours they will be at school together? How many times will I be called to the Principal’s office?

That’s my brood.  You know, one day I’ll remember to have images all ready to upload instead of gads and gads of text.  But again – who has the time?  My fingers to the talking and the typing and the thinking!

MM.

Cats - the owner/occupier?

Our political parties in our state have decided to expand their so called 'Fox Task-force' to include feral and stray cats, as well as weeds and other bio pests. They are bleating to the public that they're expanding to encompass something that should already be encompassed by that particular Government Department.  I wonder, does the reward for proof of a fox in Tasmania still stand?

I recently read the local suburban environment newsletter and it informed me a fox had been sighted in our suburb....but no mention of that 'officially' that I could find.  So, it got me to thinking and thinking got me to writing a letter to the editor or our local newspaper that then had to be shortened down to 500 characters...how rude!  The question asked - how do they propose to tell the difference at a distance between a feral/stray cat and a domestic.  The original letter asked how they proposed to tell the difference at a distance between a feral and a stray, since a stray may just be a lost cat - or even a stolen cat....it happens you know....and then narrowed down to the difference between a stray cat and a domestic cat that has decided to leave the confines of their staff's property.

Yes, staff.  No - this is not a political rant - it's about being a cat....uhh....servant....oh goodness me - I don't know what it's about really. In all honesty, I'm just a staffer who isn't  out to make a buck by telling tales on her Feline Boss.  Yes, I admit it...I am owned lock, stock and barrel by that creation called Felis Domesticus (although it is I who is the domesticus).

Now, everybody who has a cat in their life knows darn well that it's not us human bi-ped's that own the cat, it's the cat that owns us.  Just ask that very well known Cat, Garfield.  We are, effectively, their staff.  My photo's of our cat (yes, staff are permitted to call them "our cats") are on other digital storage media, hidden among pictures of the now deceased devoted dog, multiple children and flowers, so putting one of said Queen of the House up for viewing and adulation, is a little difficult right now.

We run at their slightest meow - pandering to their every whim.  "No, I do not want dry food tonight" or "give me some warm milk you bleeding cow!", or her favorite - "I know you're planning on Tuna Mornay for dinner tonight so I'm just reminding you to GIVE ME THE JUICE, SERF! (yes - I use canned tuna because fresh is so much more expensive and she can't have it all her own way) I know what Ms Feefee wants...I can understand basic Cat - although speaking it is totally beyond me, which is just how she prefers it because she can then mutter under her breath to her hearts content, and I can't respond in kind.

I believe she has a touch of royalty in her - what cat doesn't....she is a fluffy, black feline with only a few strands of grey for her age. She is old....almost sixteen I believe (she doesn't tell her age but as you'll see later, I've worked it out) and a hand-me-down (shhh - I did not say that) from an ex wife of my husband.  Except I - who am allergic to cats, did not come to her....a rarity....she came to me.  I ignored her to the point of rudeness and when I wouldn't pay her any attention, she decided to force the issue and promptly climbed on my lap on my first visit to the house, and as is her perogative in her own castle, she went to sleep on this uninvited (by her) guest.  Needless to say - I stayed around - and she stayed too....sleeping on my bed and ignoring my friend (we were 'housemates' for a while), bringing me murdered non-indiginous rodents as well as skinks frightened to death with their tails dropped off....sad, but true...she was impressing upon me that I must stay! When it came to her vomiting up her hairballs and food in MY room - that was enough and she was sent outside until she knew to behave herself. She would apologetically lay another offering at the door and scratch politely until I gave in to her piteous look and permitted her entry to my room again.

Now, I'd been told about this cat who lived with my then new, newly separated friend, by an old school friend who knew him through a church they both attended.  "She hates people". I was told. "You can't play with her or talk to her...she just ignores you when you come into the house".  Fine by me.  The dog, Kahn - he was another story.....he was friendly and liked to be with people as most dogs do who are brought up to be human friendly, fear chickens and drive cars (don't ask).  

 As a person who didn't 'do' dogs either, it was neither here nor there for me.  My own dog, who had listened to the upset ramblings of a little girl under the tree where he had his kennel, and been very sympathetic I might add, had been put down many years ago due to deciding to taste the wrong Kangaroo. Well, he was a hunting dog and he really didn't know the difference between the 'roo Franklin, whom my Nan had raised from a little pouchling found on the side of the road by my Uncle (I think) inside it's dead mother...and the ones that ranged about and were shot as farm pests or during hunting season.. At least, that's what I was told pretty much. He got off his lead and Franklin was out of his cage....dog and roo met....roo survived...doggy didn't. Bye, bye Brasso. He's buried under the rose bush on a property up between Ouse and Strickland.  Anyway, Kahn decided I was good bi-ped and that was that although I believe he had some second, third and fourth thoughts when I introduced 3 babies to his house...he wasn't around for number 4.

Back to the Cat and her possible royal blood.  She is not large, but not finely built either...a medium bone structure but her face is somewhat...flat...more like a Doll Faced Persian or Peke Face Persian. It's not a pointy face. My father's cat, also of the black fur variety and a more neurotic, nervous and bossy creature you have never met, is very fine boned and has a very pointy face.  However, Feefee has a shorter coat than a Persian, so maybe one of her forebears dabbled in the dark on the wrong side of the fence one night, daring to break the life of a royal prince or princess.  She had been made sterile (for want of a better word - fixed doesn't suit me) at a young age so you would think most of her female urges would have been totally gone by this age.  But no....they're not.  

Now, I looked up how to calculate a cats age in human years...I found it on this site.  Feefee, by my calculations is about 78 human years old...give or take.  She has a bit of arthritis and my stepdaughter says she has a hip issue. Stepdaughter knows more about these things at the tender age of 21 than myself because she was brought up with cats and dogs and has seen their health problems at various ages. Her own adorable dog died recently...a King Charles Cav and he really was adorable with none of those disgusting habits some dogs pick up.....he knew I didn't like lickey dogs so he didn't.  By contrast...the little 'boy' Feefee is fooling with from next door, is a positive embryo! He would be, according to the aforelinked website, only 28 in human years, at the most.  

Randolph is a glorious slick, sleek, dark, muscular young man who lives next door with his four Staff and his Companion, Lucinda.  Lucy, as she likes to be called, is somewhat unremarkable in beauty....and as is sometimes the case when glorious meets goodlooking but not really interesting, Randolph's eye has wandered across the fence to the much older Cougar, Feefee.  She, in all reality doesn't do much to attract him to her side except flick her tail. Poor, foolish Randolph struts and postures along the fence line like the big man he thinks he is and Feefee just flicks her tail, stretches luxuriously (and probably hopes he can't hear her  joints popping and creaking with arthritis) and over he comes.  What, do you think, she used to first get him interested? Left over food perhaps? No.  It was a toy....a simple bath toy left outside by the children.  She told him he would find a huge fish in the back yard and if only he would go and hunt it down for her, they could share.  The gullible Tom that he is - he did....and he found a blue rubbery plasticky toy whale....which everytime he touched it, moved.  FOOL! Feefee got quite a giggle out of that I promise you.

Somehow, the said whale made it up to the balcony (I swear it was not by human hand!) where Randolph was spied pouncing and punching, teasing and taunting it - much to his embarrassment when he realised he was being watched.  Not long after that, the two black felines were seen conversing and bathing each other on the balcony, really getting into this mutual admiration society.  Feefee even permitted him to share her meals. Meanwhile, Lucinda would be in her own back yard wandering around seething, ringing her collar bell indignantly as she waited for this ancient, neighbouring Lolita of a Cat to release her Randy from the evil spell of  pussy-cat passion that Feefee seems to have cast over Randolph. The darker the nights got as summer came to a close this year, the better for Randolph as he would slink up to the balcony after dinner and the two of them would continue their little tete a tetes' alone and unhindered by children and jealous Companions.    And when she has had enough, Feefee sends him on his way by just turning her back....she does not feel the same passion as Randolph, it is not her style.  However she has enough left in her to want the attentions of a young gigolo for an evening of entertainment and devoted attention.

She hasn't always had it her way though.  A few years ago, before too many children entered the house (she moved to the outside when the children came, of her own volition), there was a huge Ginger Tom who ranged the suburb, instilling fear into potential rivals, non-rivals and children alike.  With his evil, wild screaming and raging he would pick a fight with any feline that crossed his path...be it on their own property or not.  My husband spotted him one night and said he was a huge beast and would not like to meet him outside at night without a pointy weapon in hand.  At one point he pointed the hose at said Rebel Tom and the Cat actually thought about taking this 6 foot plus human on!  To his credit, Tom thought better of it. He obviously didn't like showers any more than my seven year old does.  However, he did take Feefee on one night...or maybe she tried to take him on. She obviously isn't good with Macho Toms because she came off seriously second best with a gaping wound down her side, her skin ripped into a huge tear down to the muscle.  We did think she was a gonner then.  Without the money for a vet, we bought some spray that my husband had used successfully before on an injured animal, and hoped for the best. Although purpley pink suited her colouring, I really don't think she appreciated it at the time as I detected a gleam of disgust in her eyes amidst the pain that was there.  But, she's still here...so she's obviously forgiven my husband for the indignity that saved her life.

Now, she is entering her twilight years where, everytime we purchase cat food we wonder if she will use it. She's getting cataracts in her eyes and as said previously - her hips are going and she has arthritis.  Her kittenish ways are fewer and further between although she can still be tempted at times.  She hides from the children as best as she can and likes to now spend a lot of time laying at the side Kahn's grave in the long grass. The best of both worlds - peace and quiet from the children, a soft bed, warm sun....and a companion dog that no longer bothers her with his stupid butt sniffing that he would carry out frequently, much to her disgust and disdain.

I really must hunt down those photographs....or take some new ones....bear with me and some photo's may appear eventually.  I hope I've fixed all the typo's too...they sneak by us when the children are all a-chatter.

Cheers'

M.

Garfield (C)  Mr. Jim Davis

Making Daisy Chains_0001.wmv

Melancholy and Memory

No pics to speak of today - it would take way to long to hunt them down.  But it started off with a completely unrealated - kind of - and 'regular' convo with someone who also lived in my dinky little town where I grew up.  And that got me thinking about our personalities and what and who we would be if some things were different.

I loved to read.  I read a lot! But I often wonder why I felt such an affinity for characters for Jane Eyre (my favorite of all time), Anne of Green Gables, Polly Anna, Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm and later, another book which is hiding downstairs somewhere - the main character of which ran away from home.  Just why did I have such a weird affinity with Orphans and the unwanted? I would immerse myself in these stories, imagining and envisioning every step of the way.  I did read other books like Nancy Drew and Trixie Belden - detective novels - always trying to find out the big answer, but the ones I mentioned earlier I always tended to always go back to. I even felt the same about poor old Heathcliffe...again, and unwanted person.

I had no reason for this in the family matter....I was wanted - I was loved - I was cared for.  I had two sister - sorry, have two sisters, and two parents. But I also had a brother who was born early and who died not long afterwards.  I believe that same year, my beloved Poppy also died....right now my memory is shot to pieces thanks to a virus and my pain medication.  I have wondered recently if these two events, so early in my childhood - along with what seems to have been an insatiable curiosity - have kind of moulded the deep inside kind of me.

I often have to remind my husband, and the teachers and the grandparents, that just because someone is a little loud, silly, chatty etcetera, it does not mean they are not timid and shy.  Those of us like that put on an act - and in a sense we actually lose ourselves to our act because first of all, no-one takes us seriously in the end and second of all, we lose the ability to actually be who we really are with other people.  If we do try that, we're regarded as sullen, sly or gloomy.  I say this because I recognise myself in my eldest son. He came to me recently and said that when he has to do "sharing" (the old show and tell) at school, his eyes start to prickle and sometimes his throat hurts.  Instantly, I was thrown back to my school times, where teachers were not as sensitive as they are today and I could feel what he was going through.  I told him that it was okay, mummy felt like that all the time as well, and sometimes, she still does.  We just have to learn to try and ignore it.
Now the thing about small towns is, everyone knows everything about everyone....or at least they think they do. And really, that's true to a point.  The thing about industry towns - particularly ours, is people come and go and turn up in another industry town.  In my case, the industry was the old Hydro Electric Commission - the town - various, but in the main it really was Strathgordon, the place Greenies love to hate.

I've wanted for a long time, to write from the view point of those who grew up in these Hydro Towns - they "Hydro Brats" so to speak.  Someone else thought it a good idea that a series of books be done on the other side of the Hydro - there was ummm....the Construction side of it and the er...civil?? side - I'll have to ask him again about that.  A series of books was published by the HEC before disaggregation, on the construction of these towns giving all sorts of details and facts and the like.  And although some normal kind of stuff was mentioned, there wasn't a lot of anything about the people as a whole.

So you can imagine why, a girl who felt like she was seriously over protected while her sisters seemed to get to do or go where they kind of wanted to, would drown herself in books.

Take that healthy habit of reading into a very small town where danger was regarded as the infrequent car on the road and maybe a snake on the footpath, it got to be very difficult.

As most people know - small towns have in general a small town mentality.  In our case, I guess we did, but we liked our small town and would curse the 'terrorists' as we called the tourists, who would interrupt our summer days by driving round gawking at the locals.

Although I lived at Butlers Gorge briefly - I was so little I have only a vague memory but I'm told I did get my first kiss from a kid named Jason behind the shed, caught by his mother I believe - this was related to me by MY mother by the way.  But my memories there are vaguely of the work sheds and possibly a playground of sorts - I don't know. Who's to say - I was maybe 2.  I also lived at Tarraleah in a couple of different houses, and Lake Echo which, now, has some bitter sweet memories for me and the beautiful Poatina.

I regarded for a long time, Poatina as my home.  When we left to move on to Strathgordon, I was heart broken.  We got there just as people were beginning to move on to Tullah for the next big Hydro building schemey thingy.  My earliest memories of school there was firstly, maybe my first week at the school, was being told off by a Miss Bennett - for standing on what was, apparently, a row of seats.  She said to me - do you stand on the chairs at home? Well of course I didn't! Well don't do it here! It occurred to me - but obviously not her - that there were half a dozen other kids doing the exact same thing - actually, they were jumping up and down on a broken slat....but what could I do? I was the new kid in town quite literally.  The first day in that town that I really, really wanted to cry.  I just mumbled sorry and sat down with my chin on my chest. What on earth was the matter with the woman that she had to pick on the new girl in such a harsh voice?  Today I'd call it PMS!

My second memory was of the loveliest of teachers Ms Ann Baily. I had her for just a few weeks as we arrived very late in third term. For some reason - she bough a pile of icecreams - and I mean ICE-CREAMS not icy-poles - for all us kids in the class, and we were allowed to choose.  In my desire to finally be allowed to have something my parents would never let me have, I chose an Eskimo Pie....the ones in the wrapper without a stick!.  The rotten thing started to melt and I had it everywhere.  I was so embarrased I hid in the cloak room.  Towards the end of the ice cream eating episode she realised I was missing and came looking for me....to find me coated in it and again, almost in tears.  I recall she asked me why I was hiding..she would call me her little aboriginal girl....but that's all I remember...her gentle voice.  She took me to the girls toilets and let me clean myself up.  There was no chastising, but for a while after, she was very gentle with me as if she knew how fragile the weird bravado little girls put up, really was.  Sadly, she left too with most of the school and we were left with one wonderful teacher whom I would like to name, but I'm not sure he would appreciate it. Truly - my favorite teacher. Why? He was kind. He was honest. He wasn't horrible to people - to my recollection. And when I read my report that he sent home - he made me cry. Not because he said how bad it was - how I couldn't do this and I needed to work on that....this man was honest.  As I got older and re-read the reports he wrote, I wonder how much of that was an understanding of someone who had felt on the outside himself, and it was his way of urging me to join the circle.  But again - the thing that struck me most was his honesty.  I loved him and after he left to teach at another school - we wrote postcards and letters for a good while.

I'm guessing he did feel on the outer a fair bit now I know more about him.  Just like me....I always felt I didn't quite fit in the family....in the town....in me.  A square peg in a round hole maybe...always wanting to fit in but never quite feeling that I did.

Hmm....enough - time to return to motherhood and wake those who need waking so I can go and collect children from school.

I'll be back....Anarchy Brown is never far away - always trying to break through.

MWAH!

The Book of James - my latest exploration into writing an article for publication

I went to church a little while ago for the first time in ages...had that 'urge' to go.  Well, Laurie Rowston was speaking - he is the editor of the Tasmanian Baptist Advance Magazine, for which I'd written an article several years back.   He quoted Martin Luther  and sorta agreed with him. So I went up to him after the service and asked if he really didn't like the Book of James - technically a letter but that's semantics - whether he really did agree with Martin Luther.  He confirmed what he'd said during the service - so I gave my opinion...me and my big mouth...but also informed him I'd only glanced at it whilst he was speaking - I'd not read it in it's entirety and to be honest - although I didn't tell him that at the time - I didn't know who James was aside from a disciple or and apostle.   But - that my opinion was....yada, yada, yada.

He then asked me to write a 400 word article for the magazine on the Book of James.  So I did. And he has accepted it and it will be published in the March 2011 edition. (assuming something else doesn't fill that little gap).  So, here's the sneak peak.

The Book of James is generally agreed to have been written by tge ‘half’-brother of Our Lord, Jesus. It has been criticised by scholars and reformists alike ( Martin Luther refers to it as “a book of straw.)

To me, the Letter written by James to the “twelve tribes scattered abroad”, does not harshly condemn those who fall or have fallen away from God’s Word and Will as some other Books or Letters seem to. I feel James speaks gently, encouragingly and beautifully, using easily understood allegories, as he reminds us of what God’s Will is and what His Word says. If anything, there does seem to be a rather obvious thread of sarcasm when James speaks of the rich and oppressive, reminding them riches mean nothing in the Eyes of God – that money does not make a man good, nor will it save him from damnation.

James is very clear on what is right and wrong, urging patience and perseverance during times of trial and oppression, reminding us that all that is good can only come from God, that we be prayerful for those in need and asks that we help those who have turned away or against the Word telling us ”let him know that he who turns a sinner from the error of his way will save a soul from death and cover a multitude of sins” (5:20)

He warns against being judgemental, there is only One Judge, being boastful about tomorrow, saying “whereas you do not know what will happen tomorrow. For what is your life? It is even a vapour that appears for a little time then vanishes away.” (4:14) He also warns against pride, the “untameable tongue” and lust, not just of the sexual nature but of the pleasures and temptations of the ‘world’…all of which lead to strife, war and sins of every nature.

What this Book – this Letter, has made me wonder and consider, are the personalities of both Jesus and James – how similar were they? To me – and this is only an unscholarly opinion, James seems to echo how Jesus might have been. A gentle man with the ability to be stern as required. I do not like the term “meek” applied to Jesus as I prefer the word humble, but James comes across to me as almost like the “gentle Jesus, meek and mild” of our childhood night-time prayers.

(**referenced from NKJV Thompson Study Bible).I