Lost in the lovely chaos of Christmas and summer but better late than never.  I found a little time somewhere in the holiday crazy wonderfulness to write a little, but forgot to post.  I couldn’t leave it behind so here’s to a little late Christmas joy!

A white Christmas in Australia means sand between the toes! I have lived in the USA, the Middle East and in the UK and it is true that a cold, snowy Christmas or holiday season is truly exquisite for many. Steeped in traditions centered around crackling fires, delicious mulled wines, silly sweaters, beautifully lit churches, winter frolicking and snow sports, could it possibly get any better?

Well, not necessarily better – but certainly different, though still with all the joy and sparkle of celebrating family, friends and wishing to be generous and hopeful for all people.

Here in the summery southern hemisphere it’s all about the extended school holidays, beach, boating, chapel services under the stars and on the sand.  Bare feet rule! Mulled wines give way to icy champagne and cranberry cocktails and chilled beers peeping metal heads out from icy blankets!  Many of the trimmings are understandably different with an emphasis on outdoor cooking, seafood, seafood and more seafood. The retail organised chaos at the fish markets around the country claim the news headlines.

The handed down traditions from migration trails are alive and well this year and I tapped into them as I was hosting for the first time in our forever home having recently retired.  I cooked chicken on the bone resting on cranberries and basted with an orange, ginger and garlic sauce.  The potatoes were mashed with cream and parmesan and placed next to the sweet variety of spuds roasted in rosemary and garlic.

There was gravy, plenty of it – spiced with home grown herbs simmering as Paul Kelly’s, “I’ll be making gravy” blasts in the background interrupting the loop of more tradition Carols and the heavenly harmonies of ‘Na Leo’ from the Hawaiian Islands.  Cold sliced ham and a fresh take on the Caesar salad – crisp baby cos with tips dipped in homemade dressing then panko crumbs with lashings of crispy bacon and no less than a dozen fresh eggs cooked with still bright yellow yokes, gives us a hot or cold option for the day.  There has to be roasted carrots with almonds and plenty of greens tossed in butter.  We went old style with a twist and celebrated at our long table overlooking the lake. Happy days with all the kids/young adults and their partners home with us and at the table dressed in a variety of swimmers and t-shirts!  Christmas on the Sunshine Coast in Australia.  Bucket list worthy!

We started a new tradition this year.  Borrowed from a dear friend of Texan origin who spent this holiday season grieving the loss of her husband and the father of her three exceptional young wonders.  Shelly invited us to their home on Christmas Eve when we lived in Florida and we were warmly folded into their awesome long held tradition of Mexican fare for extended family and friends.  This year we used her authentic recipes and all chipped in to cook up a feast – our new tradition in honor of the good times and friendship we shared with this beautiful family.

One final mention of the boat.  Boxing day boating is a new treat for our family – new boat, new tradition.  We packed drinks and munchies and loaded up the ‘Patricia Joan’ (named for my husband’s dear Mother who passed this year) to take the whole lot of us in various groups across the Pumicestone Passage to the white sands of Bribie Island.  After such a wonderful but busy Christmas day, lolling about in the crystal waters was wonderful.  Later as we sat in the shade of the umbrellas watching our precious three and their partners playing beach cricket in the water we could not have felt more blessed.  Christmas and special holidays whether north or south of the poles are most special when shared with loved ones.

 

 

Voice of Frankie

I plan to kill a rapist, a liar and a politician.  Now I imagine that you might be thinking that you have discovered the first and far too obvious twist in this tale already and that you believe that all three are one and the same person.

Well, you would be wrong.  They are indeed three individual and very distinct people.   Now why would I want to kill anyone, let alone three people?  I have a simple answer for that.

They all, deserve to die.

Two for their sins and one because he was just too fucking stupid and busy whoring himself to the media to hear the truth and lacked the intellectual capacity to read facts and be advised. Thus, the far smarter liar got away with his twisted obsession and stripped the rape victim emotionally bare and inflicted selfish pain deeper and more life changing than any physical attack.

Let’s diverge for a moment and discuss the media. Incompetent, lazy, talentless lot that they are, feeding poisonous unsubstantiated bullshit to the 24/7 frenzy.  They missed the real story.  Political interference.  Illegal release of documents.  Lies and deceit.  Absence of protocol leading to misery for the innocent and an open crack for the snake of a liar.

My God I have been patient.  But all that has changed now.  I no longer have the luxury of time. I must say though; I have not wasted the time which has been served to me. Not a moment has been squandered in the wait to see each one of these cowards delivered to the oblivion they so deserve.  Oh no, I have been exceedingly patient, but do not, for one moment interpret that as inaction on my part.

Because I have been active.

I have used the years wisely.  And it will be my right and my pleasure to see each one of them take their last filthy breath with my eyes on them.

So, what is your question, your thoughts streaming ahead of my words?

Is there an order?  Are they to be killed together?  Which one is first? Just how are they going to die?

Well of course, there is a precise order! Details, years in the making.

You don’t go about planning murder without meticulous detail, not if you intend to get away with it.  And I do intend to get away with it.  Just not in the way that you might imagine.

I will tell you this much.

There will be a suicide, a murder and an assassination. At the end of it, I intend to get exactly what I deserve.  Plans such as mine require assets.  Not just financial capital of which I have abundance. Though with regards to money I have liquidated and distributed my wealth, to the worthy.  Contacts have been crucial.  My time in the east has served me well.  An eye for an eye – they get me.

*****

The rapist was first.  I knew he would be easy, living so isolated in his self-imposed prison of guilt and shame.  Well that’s not enough.  He has to pay more than that for the lives he wrecked.  Yes, more than one victim.  Usually young and naive with inexperience.  Boys in the bodies of men. The coward certainly stalked and picked his prey.  Fitting that he shot himself with a hunting rifle.  Such an unknown and uncared for old man, no one was looking too hard into the circumstances of his not so terribly unexpected end. People knew about him all right.  Alcoholic.  Exactly why no one cared much to see him finally in the ground.  But I had him on his knees first, blubbering over his sickness and thinking I could care less about the things his own Daddy did to him. That just made him all the worse in my thinking.

The next one was my specialty and the one that kept me going when I thought I might have doubted my own reserves to see this through.  And to think that it all became possible by a chance sighting of his unforgettable wife with a curly headed boy in a south side drug store.  One simple, unplanned run of the mill moment and I had the means to have access to the liar, by far the ugliest and most dangerous of the three cowards.  If you knew how he manipulated a victim, just a boy really, but a boy on the cusp of manhood trying to make his way in the world who fell prey to a vile monster only to be manipulated for decades by the liar, intent on covering his own back.

A cunning man is a dangerous man indeed, but one that is both highly intelligent and a pathological liar, well, now that was a challenge.

She sleeps separate from him, in a back room.  I know because I acquired an exceptional drone from my contacts.  The car is kept on the driveway – helpful.  It was a cold, dark morning – perfect.  Helpful too that he was the type to spend obscene money on a bicycle and liked it to be seen.  Timing was crucial and everything went to plan.  I rolled that car down the dark drive moments after him.  Snug in my beanie and blonde wig. Lights off.  My device worth the outrageous amount I paid to override the system – easy.

Perhaps he heard the familiar engine as at the moment of impact he turned his head.  There was not a split second of hesitation, the intention to be of brutal force with his orbit high and the road landing a guarantee of the end.  My last look was planned, I wore a long black coat, black pipe jeans with ten inch heels on my boots.  She is very tall, his wife.  I rolled him over with my foot and the universe rewarded me as he opened his eyes for the last time to see me.  I bent down close – the last words he heard – gutless liar.  Do you think I went too far framing his wife?  She knew, she knew from the days before and after as he lied and manipulated others in an attempt to hide his vast shortcomings.  She can see what it is like to be wrongly accused, have ugly press.  Shake up her pathetic life.   Any half decent lawyer should get her sorted out in a relatively short time.  Had I wanted to frame her and give her a jail stint, I certainly could have.

Now the big wig, interestingly that was the easiest of all. He personifies the term ego maniac. Thoroughly obsessed with himself, he likes to give off the persona of being an everyday sort of guy.  Just one who throws lavish expensive parties for his mates and their old school friends then hides it with other government funded shows.  He is unworthy and dumb.  Old, out of shape and past his due date but his assassination will ensure the book – the real story will roar up the lists with the proceeds already tied to victim support.

I have been telling you that timing and planning are everything.  Well, ironically not for this one.  He broke from schedule.  His ego served him to me.  He drove his own car with his wife to the main mall.  Maybe he is not so stupid after all, this act was guaranteed to give him a lot of media coverage.  Just an ordinary guy giving his extraordinary visitors a little family time in his own publicly funded palace.  The coffee shop is an open space.  Way too easy, almost disappointing.  There will be some minders around but they will hesitate here in public.  I look harmless, that age where a woman begins to become invisible.  My aim is better than good and I get close enough to look him in the eye, his face open to the accolades he expects me to bestow on him.  He may live.  If he does it will be with far reaching and life shortening disabilities.  I knew where to aim.  Most likely he will die.

The media would have loved that I sat down and finished his coffee.  The adrenaline which had propelled me dissipated quickly and the weariness I felt settled in my bones.  I was surprised that my removal was not rougher.  The hundreds of phones made my exit almost regal.  I kept my head high and my eyes conveyed no remorse, no fear.

The care here is more professional than I expected. End stage cancer is not for sissies and I am doing better than I would have in the public health system.  I won’t make trial and that’s ok for every detail, document and proof has already gone to press in my book.  Dedicated to the real victims, both of them.

*****

I come from a family of huggers and my husband comes from a family of kissers, well to be clear – peckers.  They deliver the peck on the cheek to everyone of the female species – family, friends, relatives, pretty much anyone who passes the five minute test.  I prefer not to be kissed or pecked by anyone but my husband and children or my parents when they were living.  I am blessed with three siblings and thankfully we hug hello and goodbye.

My Dad was a shy man and found public shows of affection difficult.  As with many traits he grew more comfortable with this in his later years but he remained a hugger. Now, that I think of it – I really love the idea that the only woman he kissed was his wife and our Mum.

I have never lost the feeling of unease at the awkward ‘kissy’ greeting and have plenty of small to epic ‘fail’ tales!  Even one with our pup, and yes there was tongue involved, yew! Think sloppy wet lips, disgusting beards, lipstick on my wedding day before entering the church, awkward left or right mistakes and all those ‘air’ kisses – please just quickly hug me, if  you must! I am envious of males who have the culturally accepted option of handshake.  I know it is no longer gender specific but there have been numerous times on meeting someone that my extended hand has been grabbed and used as a lever to be pulled in for the cheek kiss.  I am older and wiser and more confident to stand my ground on this now.

As a hugger (though to be honest I prefer to tighten my circle with giving those away too)  I cannot abide being pecked by randoms, sometimes twice or even three times if following European culture.  I would not be surprised if ‘kissers’ find a big ole’ hug repulsive.  Let’s face it, not everyone wants arms and all that goes with them – plastered in and around their personal space!

Diagnose me with OCD but to be honest I’d be happy if we all just smiled and waved! Ok, even I know that is a bit much.  It is wonderful to show those we love and care for our delight at their arrival and nothing beats a big goodbye hug.

I do not have grandbubbers yet and I will have no kissy hang-ups when those heavenly babies are in my vicinity.

My grown adult ‘children’ were kissed and hugged at every opportunity (and we still do) but not on the lips – we were a ‘lips off’ family.  There was never a discussion about this one way or the other – it just was what it was.

I have just started reading Jodi Picoult’s, The Storyteller and it was her talented writing describing the making of bread, “I love the fact that it needs to sit quietly, to retreat from touch and noise and drama, in order to evolve.  I have to admit, I often feel that way myself.”

That’s me, I heard myself saying aloud.  Thinking about how beautifully Picoult shaped those words started me on the track of Hugs or Kisses.  

I believe there is an art to great hugs.  They come from the heart and show themselves as arms wide open with an unmistakeable sense of warmth and welcome.  My dear friend Dave is a great hugger and he says to his kids, “my arms will always be wide open for you.”  He gives a genuine hug with no awkwardness – it personifies authentic.

For most of our two years in the US we had Canadian neighbours.    I recall Dean saying, “We’re Canadian!  Canadians are huggers,” in his booming, fabulous accent.  Though there was always more than a hug for his gorgeous wife when he arrived home from work – a kiss for her, the very first thing he did, then hugs for anyone else.  Fabulous!

I think I need a t-shirt which reads –

I am Australian – but I identify as Canadian – so hugs only!

 

 

 

Sun shinning, dogs sleeping and the promising new year all the way ahead.  One year ends and another begins.  It has been a big year full of joy, love and deep loss.  Today, the first day of the year started with extended couch talk as our eldest wonder and her Dad and I swapped stories and double coffees.  Not a bad start!

No resolutions as the goal list is ongoing – more writing, keep up with Spanish, well-being and fitness, as much time as possible on the water whether on the boat, in the kayak or standing on the paddle boards and being ‘present’.  I am chronically guilty of looking back and planning forward and forgetting to be in the moment.  Perhaps I have a resolution after all.

I do plan to take a contentment photo each day this year to compile into a visual journal of 2019.  The word ‘joy’ is one of my favorites although I decided that the feeling I want to record are those diverse moments in time where mind, body and soul are connected in contentment.

Today, I begin.

 

 

 

My mind keeps slipping to dark places.  Why?  It has been globally reported and each time I search for an update – to seek out the why, I see the images, replay the memories – the time of knowing the living life, an enormous life of wife, family and parents – dear sweet elderly parents, still living.  A life of substantial achievement, opportunity, adventure and purpose beyond the comprehension of those of us more ordinary.  So, why?

My closed eyes see her bouncy beauty, enduring elegance – mother, wife, friend and a woman of faith.  Where is she tonight and how can she possibly be able to draw breath with a heart that has been pulverized.  Her story of dedication, care and support altered into an existence Continue reading “Suicide” →

Recently I have been bestowed the most treasured gift that I could ever wish for – words.  I write because I love words, love writing with them, reading them, making up stories in my head with them, thinking about them but most of all I love receiving them. Especially when they are completely unexpected – what a true gift!

I received the unanticipated treasure from my husband’s Dad, Henry Alexander Caughey (always known and adored as Harry) who sadly passed to heaven on the first day of February, 2017.  Over thirty-five years I have written letters to my family, my husband’s family and dear friends.  Long before email and of course text message, I actually used to handwrite letters and cards.

My surprise was not only that Harry had held on to all or some of the letters, it was the magical experience of discovering that he had written a message on one of my letters, long stored in his beautiful wooden writing desk to be discovered after his passing.  The sentiment was simply beautiful.

I wanted to share a letter I sent to Harry when he was in his final year.  It was not handwritten as it took a very long time to draft, and many tears as I knew I was writing my final letter to Harry and deeply thinking of my own sweet Dad who had passed six years previous.

Dear Harry,

There have been important men in my life, my fabulous brothers, relatives by family and marriage, a few colleagues and a few select number of men I would name as friends.  Only four men, the four most impactful and dearest of men to me would I say that the term ‘important’ does not near enough convey the place in my heart and life that they hold.  They are my father Alex, my husband Shane, my son Harry and you, Harry.

My father held himself to the highest standard of human integrity and honesty that is possible.  He came from the poorest of backgrounds and yet money meant nothing to my father except in the sense of its essential nature to support his family.  He was beyond generous but never a fool.  His word was a given – always.  I am only beginning to understand how much of who he was as a man, husband and father was because of the fabric of his heritage.  I am very proud to be his daughter.

It would take pages and pages to tell you of the impact of Shane on my life.  There has not been a single day I have doubted his love, integrity and commitment.  A deeply private man who demonstrates his love of me and our children to his very core everyday in a thousand ways.  He is a clever man who has achieved a great deal, but only I can tell you Harry – he is a great man who has never wavered from being the finest husband and father that you could ever want of him.

My Harry, a man I know – but in many ways the boy of my heart and because I had just one son – I can freely love him as my boy, my best boy, my favourite boy and can never think of him without smiling and feeling that physical warming of my heart.  He is outstanding and for me packages up such good character with much of it coming from Alex and Shane and you.

Now Harry – you.  I always think of you with love, gratitude and thankfulness.  I am thankful for the man you produced in Shane.  There are too many attributes to name (even following AFL…it gives him such pleasure – ‘most’ of the time). 

You showed him how to be a man of character and purpose, with strength of will, impeccable morals, unflinching loyalty and worthy of trust.  He got it from you – thank you so dearly.

He did however, inherit a few other traits also – lost wallets, misplaced glasses, missing car keys, lateness (usually doing a good deed somewhere) – thanks for that too!

Harry – you welcomed me to your family without judgement and with an open heart – thank you.  You never interfered, but you were always willing to give honest advice when asked – thank you.  You are great fun and the best company.  I have seen you bear the weight of immense popularity at times but you always managed to spread yourself evenly somehow.  Thank you.

I am truly blessed to have such heroes of men to be in the most pivotal of roles in my life.  I wanted to put down some words to share with you – to show you my thankfulness for your loving part in my life.  To thank you for Shane and for my Harry.  You and my Dad are very similar in many ways and this is the biggest compliment I can pay you Harry.

Thank you for the wonderful, caring, cheeky, entertaining old boy that you are Harry Caughey.  XX xxx

Harry left me a message on a letter I wrote to him about the naming of our son – Henry Alexander Caughey born in March, 1992 and named after his grandfather (Poppy). Henry was not a popular name at the time and Harry was not the ‘hot’ name that it is today.  There had been a naming tradition in the family which had slipped in this generation so that when my husband told me that his deepest wish would be to name his son after his father, in my heart there simply was no decision to make.  Honestly, I too was not keen on the name ‘Henry’ – Jack, would have been my choice and when I was pregnant with number three I felt for sure I would soon be out and about with Harry and Jack, the Caughey boys.  My little family colluded and convinced me of a collie pup they were already referring to as Jack.  By the way, our third was a girl, confirmed early on by scan although I was convinced it was incorrect and I had a little ‘Jack’.  Though she is as beautiful and feminine looking as her big sister – she hated ballet and piano, could beat the boys at soccer and barreled through childhood never far from her brother.

Those words, that little message are a magnificent gift and legacy that I shall pass on to my Harry.  I too shall write on the letter and keep it safe for him for when the time comes. Hopefully, he will be a much older man with his own growing family and will more deeply cherish its significance.

This inspires me to remember to send more words, deeply loving thoughts to be shared.

It has never been quicker or easier to send sweet words – have you ever had beautiful words come to you in an unforeseen manner and will you leave words as treasures, gifts and legacy?

 

 

 

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

In 1984, George Ansell was the senior studies co-ordinator at the TAFE college in Townsville in far north Queensland.  He was a highly qualified accountant who had relocated from South Africa bringing his family to Australia and remains the finest teacher I have encountered in thirty years of education.

My path crossed with George all too fleetingly when in his co-ordinator role my application landed on his desk – as I had applied without including the $5 fee.  I had assumed that I would be able to pay on arrival as in 1984 there were no methods that I could access to pay an amount of money, 800 miles away.  As the enrollment deadline was pending George Ansell paid the $5 fee from his own pocket.  I recall receiving my documents with a little hand written note attached saying as such with no hint that I should pay when I arrived.  As though that was not wonderful enough, I was further blessed to have George as my teacher for a year of rigorous accounting studies.

This two-year course was streamlined into just two semesters over one year and with no assignment assessment was graded with two-three hour exams with a one hour break between exams.  The sealed tests were forwarded for external marking to the Queensland Board of Studies.  Students waited for close to three months for the results but when they arrived I had a near perfect score.  This result would not have been achieved except for the dedicated, committed and talented teaching from George and the selfless deed of paying an enrollment fee for a name on a piece of paper.

I did work hard that year.  I took senior economics, english and modern history which were all exam based only and marked externally.  All courses were by requirement two years of curriculum condensed into one year of teaching with all content covered assessed in split six-hour examinations.  Though set over two weeks, three of my exams fell on consecutive days.  Graduate and Post Graduate studies never felt unmanageable after that year!  George also received the results of all students and could not have been prouder of the achievements.

Touch n Go life had begun and four years later after completing the last three-year teaching qualification to be offered at the Teacher’s College which then amalgamated with the university, I left Townsville moving to the southern end of the state due to an Army posting.  Here I began my first teaching job at Wilston State School.  This beautiful school was my home for the next four years, my classroom next to the remarkable Special Education teacher Bobbie, my first year mentored by fabulous Molly in her final year and all those wonderful 8 years olds who taught me as I taught them.  I loved every minute of it!  My first kids are now heading towards forty years in age!  In the staffroom a teacher told me, “You must have done exceedingly well to get into Wilston.”  By then I knew that this government school was the choice for the Australian Cricket Captain’s children (Greg Chappell) who was kind enough to do some cricket clinics with my kids! Show and tell was a heart valve one day – Dad the most revered heart surgeon in Australia at that time.  It was a positive, achieving culture and certainly a privileged landing for a first year teacher.

I did graduate with distinction which was awarded only to students with a perfect distinction award for the final eight week teaching practicum and grade point average during the three years no less than distinction but mostly high distinction.  I was one of 7 students awarded that year with a cohort around 170.  Though no written policy existed, it was understood that these graduates would be offered placement in the state system first.  Wilson could afford to be picky and I was a source of curiosity coming in from far North Queensland.  They were terrific years with supportive colleagues, good administrators, fantastic kids and well-meaning if not extraordinarily ambitious parents.

I thought of George and wanted to let him know how his $5 investment had turned out. When I returned to Townsville in 1994 I discovered he had retired from teaching and was a minister.  As our family had grown and with two small ones and Miss number three on the way, thoughts of George faded for some time.

With a year of maternity leave (non paid for QLD teachers then – of course!) pending I saw the pilot part time Masters and Guidance and Counseling course advertisement for teacher candidates and crazily applied.  I still thought of myself as a newbie and was chuffed and terrified when I made it to interview.  The panel of three which had me shaking inside soon became friends and colleagues.  The next twelve months were Master of Education (Guidance and Counseling) studies on campus, training workshops for GOITs…Guidance Officers in Training…new borne Annie with me at most and then my school called to ask if I would consider returning early for a one day a week position. The year 7s consisted mainly of my former year 5s and there were major issues.  Yes, I did it.  Yes, I loved it.  Yes, I was crazy.  This was a tough school and home life was not always easy for kids.  There are times when deep down  you know you made a difference and I believe for me, it was usually in tough schools.

I had not forgotten George and found myself near to where his church was located.  On the spur of the moment I called in and found administration.  George was not well and no longer ministering.  Whilst I really wanted to contact him, I was young and did not realize that he and his family would most likely have welcomed me.  I felt I did not want to intrude and thus time passed, we moved on again and George became a fond memory.

So to my teacher George –

Thank you so much, I did really well on those senior exams and received a first round offer into my course of choice.

Thanks heaps George as I loved teaching and completed my Masters and qualified as a Guidance Officer back when they even trusted us to administer the WISC and the Stanford Binet.

I taught in primary in QLD, NSW and ACT.  I did some casual teaching in secondary. These schools were government, Catholic and Independent.  George, they all had their merits and I am proud to have such a diverse education legacy.

So George, I taught Foundations of Education Psychology in Hawaii, USA and I have never studied harder in my life to keep pace!  I also assessed student teachers across Hawaii and introduced a written reporting system to the University and School Principals (based loosely on my guidance training and reporting).

George, I tutored at UC in an indigenous program and made a world of difference for quite a few young people and in particular a talented young boxer – teaching, it just does not get better than this!

And George, my final year was spent at one of the finest schools I could ever hope to contribute to. Teaching the IB was a highlight of my career – and guess what George, I finished where I started with year 3.  Always my heart!

I know I cannot tell you all this now.  You were 60 something when I arrived in your class at 22.  But George, I wanted to let you know how your five bucks turned out.

Thank you does not cover it.  Oh and George, if I did not pay that $5 back…and I sure hope I did…but if not, I know you helped me pay it back in Education.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When I started this blog, I cited one of the main reasons as legacy – looking back for the benefit of looking forward.  For many years now I have particularly and deeply thought about my mother on my birthday.  Next month will mark seven years since my Mum died in palliative care in Brisbane.  I shared fifty years with Mum, those baby ones that I don’t recall, snippets of early childhood then a whole mash of memories and feelings which make up a life.

My birthday is the sixth day of September.  It was a home birth with a midwife in attendance at 848 Argyle Street in Glasgow, Scotland.  Incredibly, this was the common practise of the era.  If a woman’s first hospital delivery was without complications, subsequent births would be at home with the midwife in attendance.  Fathers were not present in the birthing room.  Certainly during those tough years in Glasgow, men were not necessarily able to leave work nor be in communication with the home.  Childbirth was a women’s domain.  I do know that my father was home given the early morning hour I made my entrance.  More than once my mother told me the story of how the progressive midwife called my father into the room and passed me to him fresh from the state of birth.  He did not receive a cleaned, sweetly wrapped baby girl!  When I was younger I was embarrassed by this, when I was older I wished I had asked my father what that was like for him.

I didn’t always think about Mum on my birthday.  Most of my birthdays were thinking about me – what would I get? What kind of cake would there be?  We did not have parties though there was always something a bit special about dinner and a cake from the fabulous cake shop at Annerley.  Just walking into this family run shop was a treat. Butterfly cakes with real cream and a dot of strawberry jam, buttery slices and trays of beautifully crafted cakes tempting locals from behind the spotless glass counter.  The cake shop only changed hands when the owners became too elderly to run it.  It turned into a ‘hot bread’ shop with sad looking mass produced buns and donuts.

Last night when I awoke after midnight, I did think of Mum.  I was trying to imagine how she must have been feeling fifty-seven years ago in labour with baby number four. My Mum was just twenty-five.  In the house that night my siblings would have been fast asleep.  My sister was five, my big brothers four and two.  In another hour my Mum would be recovering from birth with a new born and three little ones to look after.  At twenty-five I was in my second year of a teaching degree, working part time in the cash office at Target (back in the days where we would collect the cash from the registers – easily counting and banking tens of thousands of dollars on a busy Saturday morning when the stores closed at noon) and living nearly eight hundred miles from Mum and Dad’s home.  We were in our third year of marriage, we had a dog, hosted dinner parties that went into the wee hours and were not even close to thinking of having one baby, let alone a house load of kids!  My Mum had endless energy and could never leave a job undone though I must imagine that she would have had moments when she wondered how long it would be until we all grew up.

So today Mum is on my mind.  I have missed her for seven years and before that I lived a life that took me miles and continents away from her.  She was not perfect my Mum, nor am I – who is?  Mum was a softie, could be talked into most things, never ever set out to upset anyone or be hurtful.  She was clever but uneducated and nursed that missed opportunity with regret.  My Mum knew better than anyone how to have a roaring good time.  She was a fabulous dancer and as a young woman lived for the Friday night dance at the Palais in Scotland.  Mum sang beautifully, whether peeling potatoes or sitting on my Dad’s lap with a rowdy bunch of Scots at the Caledonian Club. She was happiest in the garden and grew marigolds.  Mum never complained about weeding and after three kids myself I discovered that if you are out in the garden weeding – everyone tends to leave you in peace!  I think Mum knew that too!

It’s my birthday Mum and I am thinking about you.  I’m not sad Mum though I miss you so much.  I’m just truly glad that I have so many stories and memories to put my mind on.  I know I am blessed to have those.  So thanks Mum, thanks for my birthday and Mum, happy day of my birth.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I have just finished writing a brief letter to the manager of my local supermarket. Interestingly we have two of the major players in our small shopping centre.  When we first arrived earlier this year we tended to divide our dollars between the two in order to support the employment of staff at both stores.

Over time though we have found ourselves more drawn to one of the stores because the customer service is more attentive, cheery and competent.  Family members have verified independently that there is a distinct difference between the customer service at the stores.

Like many of us, I can be quick to complain when things are not right, lacking or mistakes are made.  Over the years I have tried to make time to give positive feedback when it is warranted.  Admittedly, not often enough.

My letter to the manager has taken just mere minutes and I have pointed out that the customer service is friendly and seamless.  It strikes me that the training of staff must be exceedingly competent and customer focussed – a person or several people are doing a really good job of developing an effective service culture and I want to acknowledge their efforts.

I will provide a copy of my letter to the manager of the other store.  Whilst yesterday I huffed out of there after some snippy service thinking – that’s it, I’m not coming back here anymore.  Today I have decided that perhaps reading my thoughts on the shopping experience with great service just 20 steps down the mall may provide the constructive feedback I feel this team needs without taking aim at individuals.

It’s a small thing to do – acknowledge the good but do not accept the substandard in silence.  Do both!

 

 

 

When I consider this beautiful beach location which overlooks an island of which a large portion is uninhabited national park and forestry plantations, I define ‘happy’ as the contentment I feel along this stretch, how fortunate I am to live here and the sheer pleasure a simple walk beside this beach brings.  The stunning passage between the island and the mainland is a protected marine park.  It is possible on the stand up paddle to see an amazing array of fish but this water corridor is also home to dugongs, turtles and dolphins.

I believe that connectedness seeps into our soul allowing us to feel whether a situation is right for us or not.  We must however, be open to the message our souls may be sending.  How often have we heard a friend, relative or indeed ourselves declare how a certain house had a feeling about it the moment we walked through the door.  Real estate agents can never explain the phenomenon to potential buyers but they silently wish for it!

Some places just feel right and though I have not lived here for even a year, this little quiet patch is very much my match!  Though it’s not just my happy place because it is beautiful, or I have shared walks, kayaking, paddling and fish and chip suppers here with my family.  It has also been a place I have been pulled to in times of deep sadness, family loss and a cooling off spot when domestic bliss needs a breather.

There is a new pup in the family, still weeks from final vaccinations and clearance to romp out into the big wide world.  I have a child like impatience waiting to introduce him to this place in particular.

I have already informed ‘His Majesty’ (a family term of endearment for Mr Husband and Father) that they are to take my ashes out on to the passage at sunset, scatter when ready and toast with champagne – and make sure it’s the real stuff and out of glasses not plastic!

Where is your special place?  Perhaps it is yet to be found and felt?