Some of the stories published on David Chin's wonderful site, 1000 Words. Submit yours today too!
Love's heart,
a one-dimensional,
flat logo,
love in a hard place,
exposed to the unseeing public,
open, undemanding
no look at me,
but quietly always there.
Photographed in the suburbs, this graffiti gives me hope; that although surely
unwanted and uncalled-for by the building owner; the deep red, roughly drawn
heart shows passion where none should exist, on a retaining wall exposed to
traffic.
I am going to drive past there often, to look and ponder who drew it, and for
whom.
Perhaps for me?
Love in a hard place.
I knew you as a girl.
I knew you as a girl, with skinny legs, no boobs, and a great smile. I knew you
with armfuls of books, and a head full of assignments, and boys. Or at least -
the thought of boys. I knew you as a young girl, with hopes and dreams, of
midnight feasts on red concrete floors, of short skirts and gold badges and dark
blue ties, and gold berets worn when in public.
I knew you as a girl, in winter stockings, and blowing breath waiting for
breakfast to begin, so we can silently stir the coffee during the news. I knew
you as a daygirl, bringing treats and smokes, and stories of the outside world.
I knew you. Not very well, but I did know you.
I know how you throw your head back when you laugh, I know how you read poetry
out-loud, I know what paintings you created for Art, with Miss Jamison, and what
pottery formed under your hands for a Raku firing.
Thirty years ago I knew you. Nights in the library, researching some subject,
stale biscuits with cold cordial on a colder night, or walking through the
gardens on a hot summers afternoon.
I knew you. Sneaking swimming lessons in the school pool at night with silence
as your friend, the occasion muffled giggle enticing the Headmaster from his
home.
The assemblies, the singing, the school sports, the endless lessons.
"What are we working for, here at our lessons,
Why join together in book, lore and play?
Forty years on will be answered our questions,
If our School Motto speaks truly today."
I knew you. The letters written to lovers you married, and didn’t marry. The
songs to unborn children, to the hopefulness of the future. To your ending as a
daughter of scholarly learning, and the beginning of your life as a person of
independence and life-learning.
"Hearts bright with hope, with ambition high burning, Hearts of true women
our school time prepares."
I heard your tears, I watched your smiles, I saw you looking into the void
conjuring up your future. I was there.
"Parted are those who are singing today
When we look back and forgetfully wonder
What we were like in our work and our play."
My memories are not your memories, but they do include you. At times sisters, at
times just friends, at times - nobodies, just getting on with our own lives and
looking towards the future that beckoned its crooked finger to us.
Come. Play. Live. Learn. Experience!
"Then it may be there will often come o’er us
Whispers of notes like the catch of a song."
And now here we are, all grown up, adults, women!
Embracing our colourful, admirable, interesting lives like a second skin, our
outer public layers…. Dealing with illness, departed family members and ageing
parents, schooling, children, travel and life and Tim Tams moulding and shaping
us to forms we cannot have imagined.
"Vision of girlhood will float then before us,
Echoes of dreamland will bear them along."
But I do recognise you. I knew you as a girl.
It’s time for bed, the night before Doc can source
online, his OP score, which will be critical in his choice of university
subjects and courses. Everyone is apprehensive, but positive. Anxious and ready
to sleep - so we can pass the time quickly. Hurry up!
Doc is the only cool head in the house, lying in bed reading his book. “Family
hug!” I call out, and Chris, Bear and I lunge at a very startled Doc,
squashing him between his pillows and doona. Lots of screaming and giggling and
playful yelling, and then it’s off to bed.
In the morning, I search for the newspaper among the garden foliage, and notice
that Doc has set his alarm to wake in time to find his OP online, at 9am. I can
tell his alarm is set, as it is placed 3 feet away from his bed, on the floor,
so he actually has to climb out of bed to turn it off. An old rowing trick -
with our 4.30am starts.
At 8.45am we are jumpy, happy, impatient and wanting to know. Finally, at 9am,
Doc logs onto the net. Taps in his password, and …bugger! No go. Try again.
Type student number. It’s an 11-digit number, but the login only allows us to
type in 9 characters. Bugger! He trys again and again, whilst I start to dial
the phone number to find out the magic score.
Engaged. Time and again. Bear, younger and keen to see what lays before him,
offers advice.
Typing in the Student number, unable to accept, time and again. Argh!
Finally, the phone goes through, as Doc trys it once more. He listens, fiddles,
and listens again. “Three” he says, with a smirk.
“Three?” we repeat, digesting this information. “Three! Woo hoo!!”
And we hug and slap him on the back and repeat “THREE” and start to dial
phone numbers of family.
Well done mate, we are so proud and happy for you.
Three!
Beyond
the Gate It looks charming, and it
is. A simple wooden gate, painted white, the typical "picket fence"
attracts the eye, but looking around, the scent of the frangipanni flowers
also attracts the senses.
This is the gate that leads to my father’s room... beyond this gate, my
father lies dying.
It's part of a beautiful Nursing Home in Rockhampton, and I grow to both love,
and eventually dread, this gate.
The frangipanni tree offers me large clumps of flowers - their heads bowed in
respect. The path is swept on a daily basis, so that any flowers that may fall
are fresh and clean, unbruised, unlike my heavy heart.
Will he remember me today? Will he still be there, in his mind, in his body?
I pick a frangipanni and place it behind my right ear, so it shines out
happily when he sees me.
They have always been my favourite flower, in their pureness and simplicity,
the heady, giddy perfume enclosing me within a safe world of childhood
memories, of hanging upside down in a huge old tree, marvelling at the
hugeness of the world in my front garden.
Wonderful memories of reading books and eating apples, running around the
frangipanni tree kicking up the leaves in autumn...waiting patiently for the
first signs of new growth, the dark green tips sprouting from each barren
stem, holding the promise of another summer, more glorious flowers, more
hanging upside down to compare if my world had expanded during the winter.
This gate, this white, simple gate leads to where my father lies dying.
I took this photo as a precaution to a hazy memory, I wanted to savour every
detail about my dad before stress and loss dimmed my memory.
Now I look at it, and although I am smiling with my love of the tree with its
daily offerings of fresh perfumed flowers for me to enjoy, I am reminded of a
softer, sadder time, where breathing becomes a chore, where time not only
stands still, but runs backwards, as we the children become the adults and
vise versa.
I push the gate open, and stoop to collect my flower...
Tahiti
Training
Each afternoon they come like clockwork, 5.10pm. You hear
them first, the grunting, the shouting across the calm, glassy waters of
Tahiti's Morea Island.
Soon, their black bodies, hardened with honest work and gleaming with
perspiration, glide into view, their arms pumping the paddles on their sleek
outrigger canoes.
Legend has it Tahitians would race across the Pacific Ocean to the nearby island
of Bora Bora.
It tires me to even think of it, as we had just crossed the same passage a few
days before in our chartered catamaran, and believe me; the waves and swell are
huge out there, beyond the reef. The ocean currents run for thousands of
kilometres before hitting land, so the waves have time to build and grow in
size.
Our crew for this magical sailing holiday on the 12metre cat are our teenage
sons, who soon prove their worth and find their sea legs quickly. Sails are
hoisted, anchors set and retrieved with minimum fuss. The only trouble we have
is attempting to pick up a buoy outside the famous ‘Bloody Mary’s
Restaurant’ in Bora Bora. As we motor around for the third time, we find our
Skipper still distracted by the sight of a nearby naked Swiss woman, swimming
off her yachts stern.
After sailing for 7 days, now we are landlubbers, relaxing in the arms of luxury
in our gorgeous palm-fronded cabin. We can swim right outside our front door,
and often do, searching the coral for Nemo and his fishy friends. The sight of
the outrigger crews is our unexpected bonus, our afternoon entertainment.
The crews come each evening, straight from work, and train for an hour in the
lagoon. We pour cold drinks and watch them from our over-the-water-veranda; it
soon becomes my favourite habit, much to my husband’s amusement!
The coach for both crews calls out and encourages each man, to do his best, to
stroke! Paddle! Pull! Endure! Beyond the lagoon break, there are shells, growing
where the waves strike and fall upon the reef; there are huge swells, and
whales, passing on their way to warmer waters. The crews paddle beyond the
break, beyond the breaking, crashing waves, beyond the roar of white water and
leave the safety of the lagoon’s mirrored waters.
Massive outriggers holding over 200 men would paddle from Tahiti to New Zealand,
and return, navigating by the stars, pinpointing these tiny specks of islands
with their volcanic peaks reaching upwards, to the Gods.
The lagoons have formed as each island sinks under the weight of their own
volcanic mountains, forming a safety zone for fish and corals and shells and
people and lush foliage.
To enter the lagoon after being at sea, is to enrobe
oneself in a mantel of peace and tranquillity. Safe at last! Drop anchor! The
sea is a harsh mistress, at times.
We had planned our Tahiti holiday with as much precision and latitude as
possible, allowing for no delays, but plenty of surprises, and this was an
unexpected bonus, these outrigger training crews, and their bulging arms,
amazing energy and their calls and shouts of encouragement.
Gotta love being on holidays. Cheers!
Did you ever think
that the clear, solid notes coming from a trumpet would be golden?
This is me and Bobby McGee, except I am behind the camera, taking the
photograph.
His name really is Bobby McGee, just like the song, but not after the song.
Bobby was born in Scotland, and travelled to New York as a 12 year old to play
trumpet professionally with his older sister. Now just read that bit again. Left
Scotland when he was 12; travelled to New York; to play professionally.
I have to blow through my teeth to comprehend the circumstances.
Bobby has earned his living for the past 60 years playing trumpet, all over the
world. At one stage he was based in Israel, performing “The Sound of Music”
in Hebrew!
Now he is with my sister, and they are ‘an item’.
This photo was taken at our New Years Eve party, and when I downloaded the
digital pics, I thought I was either too drunk to work the camera, or the
battery is flat. As it later turns out, the flash synchronisation was on slow,
and the blurring lights are my cherished ‘icicle lights’ to decorate the
veranda for summer!
But I love how it captures Bobby McGee playing ‘Auld Lang Syne’ on his
trumpet, his trusty, around-the-world trumpet, playing for friends and family,
for his love, my sister, playing for his living.
Golden notes, who would have thought! But a camera never lies, eh?
Me and Bobby McGee.
The road
winds around some of the prettiest country we have seen for 3 days, and we pass
row after row of the stark Poplar trees, their golden leaves now fallen with the
winter winds.
Outside it's about 5 degrees, bloody cold in our language, as we are from
Queensland, and now we are racing towards Canberra, the capital of Australia.
Overnight the temperature plummets to minus 10.
Welcome to our Road Trip, or as I like to say now, Road Trip 2004, which means I
have already planned to make more of these delightful journeys with my sons in
the future.
This is our first Trip, and so far, so good. I am sharing the driving with my 17
year old son Doc, and at the end of our journey, we will have travelled 2,855kms
together, and merged a lifetime of middle-aged experience and youthful
adolescence enthusiasm.
We will talk, of course, filling the empty kilometres with discussions of
university, future travel, new girlfriends, old boyfriends (mine *cough) telling
jokes, and we laugh and shake our heads and say “Wherever the wind takes
us!” as we shout it to the sky, to the bitumen, daring us to follow it,
trusting it, unknown as it is, we drive on with blind faith and a full petrol
tank.
Our destination is Canberra, to deliver some car parts, but our true destination
is in each other's minds and hearts and souls.
Under
Soccer Skies
It was my first day taking my youngest son to soccer, and
I was a little apprehensive. We had spent all summer rowing, which we both
loved, and now soccer was an unknown sport. Would we like it? Would we fit in
and make friends?
My eldest son laughed and mocked me as I set off in the car, "Just think
Mum, you are now an official Soccer Mum, woo hoo!" he yelled. Great.
When I arrived at the fields, two other mothers were already there, setting up
their folding chairs, bringing out their flasks full of hot coffee, and placing
their identical Louis Vuitton handbags beside them. (I mean, the handbags
matched! Does that show a lack of imagination, or what?)
I pulled out one of my son’s old gym shorts he had left in the bag, and I sat
on those, cross-legged. Eventually another parent; a father, arrived; looked at
the two handbag ladies, and pulled up a blade of grass beside me. We introduced
ourselves to each other, pointed out our respective sons, and began to watch the
game.
As the sun shone, the boys ran around the field wildly kicking, head-butting,
shouting and generally having a great time together. I smiled to myself, this
wasn’t so bad I thought, and then I looked up and saw this marvellous piece of
skywriting behind me.
All is well with the world when you see sights like this. Elegance and hope
above a soccer field on a Saturday morning.
Meet my son and his two best friends.
They are putting our little "tinny" out for the day, blatting around the beautiful Noosaville waterways, enjoying their new-found lives and freedom from books, studying, Latin verbs, math 2, physics and biology, school ties ad-nauseum.
Do kids these days still have "best friends" when they also have 250 "contacts" on msn, all of whom they dit and chat to on a nightly basis?
Sure they do.
These 250 contacts aren't friends...well...most of them aren't, anyway. They are people you keep in touch with, so they don't spam you, knock you down, harass you on the net and generally make your life a misery.
Cyber-bullies.
But these two young men, and they are now; young men, are his best mates.
I have seen them grow from eager fresh-faced Year 8's, to the thoughtful and considerate, (not to mention, highly intelligent) young blokes you see before you.
My son has excellent taste in friends. And vice versa.
Freedom. It' not the birds gliding past; it's the kids; oblivious to their future calling - their wives/lives/unborn children and careers ahead of them.
For them, for now, it is simply mucking about in boats, with their mates on the water.
Life is sweet and free.
