Leaving the Farm

Memories of the Farm as You Leave it Now, Forever.

Just a tip of the iceberg of memories from me to you, my beautify daughter, Julie.

It is nearly three years since my daughter lost the love of her life, her husband, Anthony. The agonizing decision to sell the farm, fortunately to wonderful dairy farmers who are next door neighbours, has been made.

The white kitchen table

The black and white kitchen tiles

The very green bathroom tiles

The deep comfy easy chairs

The grandfather clock

Anthony’s smile

The dogs

The many wooden picnic tables in the garden

The roses

The artificial tomatoes hanging in the kitchen

The fan whirring

Lunches at the white kitchen table

Driving down the farm track with anticipation of Sunday roasts

Playing table games with Anthony watching but not taking part

Playing “Thank God You’re Here” endlessly

Anthony’s smile

Admiring batch after batch of Ming’s intricate and exact drawing of the hundreds of Pokémon characters

Wondering what new hairstyle Ming would greet me with all through primary school

Anthony’s benign and constant onlooker smile

Christmas ,recreating your own childhood with bulging pillowslips at the foot of the bed, and even more packages piled high around the Christmas tree for an only and much beloved child, Ming.

Ming sitting on Anthony’s knee at every stage of his life, the huge teenager nearly swamping his dad

Baby days watching Ming attempting to crawl, toddle, tip over, run in the green lawns

Looking through the trillions of baby photo books

Generations of sausage dogs

Family parties in the garden or crowded into the kitchen

Ming wishing the cousins would come and then hoping they’d go

Anthony’s amazing 75^th birthday party and the crowds of well wishers

The speech Ming made about his dad before running off and bursting into tears

Anthony’s smile

Your post wedding party when so many turned up to wish you well

The many pizza parties with truckloads of pizzas delivered

Anthony proudly showing me the once a year flowering shrub….once a year

Anthony presenting me with the best and biggest bloom from one of his amazing azalea bushes

Watching Anthony through the windows as he slowly circumnavigated the huge garden changing the hoses

Games in the old dairy with the little cousins intrigued with the circular gate

Dear old Arthur, the hired hand, and seeing you take out to his little farm hut, delicious meals on a plate

Going with you to all Ming’s primary school events

Watching Anthony, so unwell, attempt the long walk over the oval to watch Ming’s sports day

Anthony’s glee when you served him lashings of crayfish with your special thousand Island sauce

The special meals you made for every birthday of Ming or Anthony and always asking me to come

Ming doing his daily spelling homework….reluctantly

Baby Ming confined to the dog’s yard, his playpen

The splash pool and how Ming could only swim underwater

You playing footy with teenage Ming until you were crippled

When you turned the property into a bird farm, the exotic white peacocks displaying their incredible tail fans , the masses of other exotic birds, the ducks, the fierce gander, the peahens, turkeys, pheasants, emus, the losses and tragedies, the visitors coming to look, Ming’s hatred of the poo

Gasping at the parklike vista after each mowing

You being first time Mum at my 60^th and baby Ming stealing the show

The pet miniature pig that grew to epic proportions

Ming’s two primary school amigos, always so courteous and sweet to his Grandma

Ming running to open the gates when he heard my car turn into the driveway

And doing the reverse for me when I left

The two gentle Llamas with wool to be clipped once a year

Ming’s two huge back surgeries and the anxious care as he recovered at home

Watching your face crumble as you watched the taxi carry Anthony back to the nursing home time after time, when it got too hard to drive him yourself.

Looking through dozens of baby photo albums

Taking the injured pet turkey to the vet to be fixed, just at Christmas time one year, a huge irony

Being cared for by you on the farm, as I recovered from my broken hip

Meeting Gar, the autocratic mother, who became devoted to this unique young housemaid

You sitting by Gar in the hospital as she died, something too hard for her family to do

Meeting all the older siblings and relatives over the early years, and the young ones like Simon and Christine, Biddly and Macca

Auntie Dorothy. The dozens of times she came to stay.

When your book was published and my pride

Anthony’s beloved garden and lawn

Anthony holding toddler Ming up on the fence so the old cow, Reject could suck his fingers almost to the elbow

Anthony’s smile

You sitting cross legged in the hall, behind the closed door, while Ming mused on things important, as he sat on the loo

The way you and Anthony adored each other, he the much older man, your hero, and for him, the lovely young thing, waiting 16 years for him to notice you’d grown up to become his bride

The death of Inky, Ming’s first beloved sausage dog

Ming’s green hair in Year 4,and his comment that now the kids would respect him

Admiring the framed footy jumper presented to Ming when his number was retired with honours, as footy was no longer possible after back surgery

Sitting next to you at his final Grammar School assembly when he was called foward to receive the special Headmaster’s Award.

And these last years…..

The absence of Anthony

Oh, the absence of Anthony

And Anthony’s smile.

“I’m Sorry Grandad Died”

Short story

I wrote this story for my grandson, Menzies (Ming), about twenty years ago, when he was five or six. Every word is true.

Menzies loved to think.

His teacher thought it was wonderful.

His mother didn’t.

It made him ask too many questions.

……………..

Menzies lived on a farm with his mum and his dad, Anthony.

He called his dad Anthony, because that’s what his mum called him.

Doc and Inky lived there too.

They were sausage dogs.

Inky had white eyebrows.

She was old.

But Doc was black all over, even his eyebrows.

Inky was Doc’s mum.

That was funny because they were exactly the same,

Except for the eyebrows.

……………

Menzies wondered about everything.

Sometimes his mum said, “Oh Menzies! For goodness sake!”

And sometimes his dad said, “Go and ask your mum.”

Menzies did his best thinking on the loo. Naked.

He could think better if he was naked…..on the loo.

“Mum, come here. I want to ask you something.”

She’d have to sit on the floor outside the loo

While he wondered about things.

“Why do I have hands?” he’d say.

“Does poo come down from my head or up from my toes?”

“Are Pokemons real?”

“I want them to be real.”

“That’s my boy!” said Anthony.

………………

Sometimes he wondered while Mum was driving him to school

in the little red bullet.

Anthony said it was like a bullet ‘cause she drove it so fast.

One day on the way home from school

the car drove through a thick white mist.

He wondered if Digimon was true.

…………….

His teacher, Miss Lindy, said they were having a Grandparents’ Day soon.

They had to write invitations.

She gave them green paper with spaces for the words.

She told them, “On the top, you write, “Dear Nanna or Pop or Grandpa

or whatever you call your grandparents.

Menzies thought and thought.

He knew Grandma lived in a house with red bricks,

but what about Grandad?

Grandad’s picture was on Grandma’s bedroom wall.

His face was big and smiling.

Grandma said he died.

Menzies wondered where he was.

Mum said he was her dad.

She said he used to do a funny walk like Charlie Chaplin, that made her laugh.

She said he talked on the radio with a posh voice.

She said he used to be a teacher, then he stopped so he could fix people’s backs.

He had to go to Canada for a long time, to learn how.

She said he was big and tall, but not as big as Uncle Mark.

He’s HUGE!

…………………

Menzies wondered why his grandad died.

Did he live in heaven?

He’d be too big to sit on a cloud, ‘cause he’d fall through.

If he got too close to the sun he might melt.

Did he fix people’s backs in heaven?

Uncle Brin fixes people’s backs now.

………………

Mum works at the university.

She teaches big people.

She doesn’t fix people’s backs.

Sometimes she takes Menzies when there’s no school.

School’s OK but university’s better.

Menzies could do stuff in Mum’s office, and discuss things with her friends.

Some of them wondered about things too.

He liked to pull a chair over so he could climb up and watch the big people having school.

There was a little glass window high up in the door,

and if he stool on tiptoe, he could see inside the whole room.

Once there was a really pretty teacher with big hair and big boobs.

He liked watching her.

Anthony said, “That’s my boy!”

………………….

Some nights Mum took Menzies outside to look at the stars.

Once, the moon was broken.

It was just like a tiny fingernail.

The next time she took him out at night, the moon was huge!

He thought Anthony had fixed it.

“That’s my boy!” said Anthony.

………….

Menzies liked his friends to come over.

One day his mum asked nine at once.

She said it was to get it over in one go.

After a while Menzies wished they would all go home.

“I wish they’d be dead,” he whispered to his mum.

……………….

It was good living on a farm.

One of the cows was called Reject.

It was big and old and when Menzies was little, Dad would lift him up

so Reject could suck his fingers right up to his elbows!

“That’s my boy,” said Anthony.

………………

Menzies could nearly touch the sky on his trampoline.

Higher and higher he’d fly with his Pokemon friends whooping beside him.

They’d laugh and shout and poke him in the ribs.

In the summer, Menzies turned into a fish and swam laps under water in the round pool.

He didn’t know how to do it on top yet.

Sometimes his fingers got all wrinkly if he stayed in too long.

Anthony said, “That’s my boy!”

………………..

Menzies didn’t believe in eating.

Anthony said it must be against his religion.

Even after he was born in the hospital, he wouldn’t suck.

The fierce nurses pushed and pulled till his little mouth was shaped like a bee sting,

but nothing worked.

He just didn’t like it.

When they tried bottles he just chucked them over the side.

Everyone told his mum what to do.

“Try this. Try that.” But nothing worked.

He just didn’t believe in food.

The doctor said he’d be OK when he was bigger.

One day when he was four, he ate twelve Wheatbix!

“That’s my boy” said Anthony.

………………

Mum decided Menzies needed to play lots of sport.

She took him to soccer and sometimes he kicked the ball very far.

Once he forgot which way, and kicked a goal for the other side!

She took him to Tai Kwan Do, but when Greg quit he didn’t want to go any more.

Next it was basket ball.

There was a hoop on the pepper tree near the wash house.

Bang! Bang! Bang! He practised,

Anthony said, “That’s my boy.”

…………………

Sometimes when Grandma came over for Sunday roast, they all played Uno.

Menzies had to stand beside Anthony to show him what to do.

Grandma loved to play Old Maid, but she always screamed when she got the Old Maid card.

Menzies giggled.

She also liked to play Croquet in the back yard with all the cousins.

…………………………

Menzies sat at his desk in school, pushed his tongue between his teeth,

held his pencil just so, and wrote on his green paper,

“Dir Gaandad, I’m soree yew diyed”

The End.

Featured

Toby.

Another dog story but in a very different vein from my Bonnie story. I hope it brings a smile.

Let me introduce myself. My name is Toby, and I am the four footed aristocrat who owns the two humans living opposite Meg in her cul de sac.

Anne and Bill (that is their names), have decided to go off to Europe for some unknown reason. They, the aforesaid Anne and Bill, seem to think Meg can’t manage without them, so I have been commissioned to do the honours while they are away gallivanting.

Each day I have to attach Meg to my lead and walk her across the road from my house to hers. She can’t be trusted even for this small journey, and I have to continually tug her back from chatting to the neighbours or pulling a weed.

I have several complaints about the way I have to spend the days while my humans are away.I hasten to add that I insist on returning to my own bed at night. Aristocrats like me are quite unable to adapt to strange beds.

But I digress. On complaint that I have is that at my own home, I have a proper canine entrance as is befitting for the rightful owner of my palatial corner block dwelling. (There is a sort of stained glass contraption that allows the human entrance at the front.)

Meg. however, has no such provision, and I am forced to stand patiently waiting at her back door, with the occasional and very polite”Woof”, whenever Nature calls me into her backyard. Meg frequently ignores my polite request until I need to raise the volume slightly, and her impatience astonishes me.

Another complaint is that when I do venture forth, the two yappy and rather undisciplined little creatures (of a very inferior breed I might add) who live next door, go quite hysterical with joy at my appearance.

I attempt to suppress their enthusiasm with my deep baritone reprimands, but usually to no avail.

My humans keep sending Meg photos galore on her tablet, of churches, museums, stately homes, their ceilings (I ask you!), and paintings and not a Shih Tzu in sight. What possible interest is it to me when I could just as easily look at one of their coffee table books.

Meg needs exercise so I make sure I distribute my royal bundles at different locations in her back yard each day. She finds the bending. scooping and disposing far more beneficial than Pilates classes I am sure. and a lot cheaper.

In the evening when I take Meg back, again attached to my lead, she rather offends me, when I baulk at consuming the little white pill she attempts to hide under the rather boring meal she provides each night. I inform her that one day, when she reaches my age, she too may be forced to rely on a little medication for the occasional aches and pain, and then who’ll be laughing!

Five more weeks for me to be carrying out these responsibilities . I have a good mind to tell my humans when they eventually do return, that I am quite over my Meg sitting days for life!

Featured

Picture This

She’s all of 2’6, shaped like a TellyTubby, straight back, protruding tummy, little tree trunk legs planted firmly on tiny fat feet, pearly toenails and a delicate gold chain around one fat, little ankle.

Her hair has been pulled up on top of her head, and silvery golden tendrils fall in curls round her perfect little face. Eyes of clearest blue, she is beautiful, but totally unaware of her power.

Five huge adults provide her adoring audience, spellbound and slaves to her every whim.

A moment ago she was playing with her three life like baby dolls, carefully laying them side by side and attempting to cover them with a blanket twice her size, lifting it above her head and then tumbling over tangled up in it, and deciding to lie down with her babies instead as a much better option.

But something one of the giant adults said must have annoyed Her Tiny Majesty!

She stood up, her offended back to the giants, stock still, eyes downcast, head averted……silent.

The royal courtiers fell silent too, eyeing each other nervously, and wondering who the guilty party was.

The little pocket dynamo continued her statuesque pose, and the room held its breath.

A sigh of relief, as the decision to forgive travelled through her little body, and she once again became the universal little Mother.

All the girl power since creation seemed to be embodied in this tiny figure.

Little heroine. Hope of the future.

Featured

The Perm.

An anecdote from my Memoirs.

The Perm.

When I was 15, my mother and I decided it was time to improve my looks, by giving me my first perm, a home perm.

Because we were away on holidays in the Blue Mountains, we decided to do the deed in the first week, so it would have time to “die down” before we went back home to Sydney. Little did we know!

Obviously neither of us had any idea about the mysteries of the permanent wave. We bought the home perm kit at the chemist and read the directions carefully when we got back to the holiday unit. We laid out the towels, the cotton wool, the glass jar, the lotions, curlers, combs, rollers and little tissue papers, and made a start.

As soon as the first fumes of the chemicals wafted into the air, my father and sister took off for a long walk.

My mother being totally inexperienced, was all fingers and thumbs and the process of separating the hair into sections, soaking it with the lotion and then attempting to wind it onto a tiny narrow curlers, took her forever. Trying to keep one wound up section in place while she tried to force another section onto another roller, was like a episode of “I Love Lucy.” When it was finally finished my head looked like a untidy pink hedgehog. We put the timer on. We’d better leave it for the maximum time, after all it had cost a lot of money, and we did want it to work! But of course we hadn’t taken into account the length of time my mother had taken in the winding.

Later on at the required moment my mother poured warm water over my head, with the rollers still in, and applied the next chemical, meant to fix the curl. After 5 minutes I was to take the curlers out and rinse under warm water until the water ran clear. At this point my mother decided to go out and post a letter, leaving the last part to me.

I knelt over the bath, pulled out the rollers and ran the soothing warm water over my head. But horror of horrors, as my fingers ran through my hair, it seemed to come alive. It grew and grew and grew and grew! My hair was turning into an afro that would have been the envy of Tina Turner.

Appalled I turned off the taps, and madly towelled my hair. Worse. It grew inches more! It was a huge halo around my head and I didn’t recognize myself as I looked, startled and aghast, in the bathroom mirror. My face seemed to have shrunk in size, surrounded now with the world’s biggest hair.

Wide angled combs hadn’t been invented in those days, and there was no way an ordinary comb or brush could attack such an amazing outcrop.

As I stood near to total despair, my family walked in, took one look and began to laugh, rolling around the floor until they cried. They just couldn’t stop.

When they saw my real tears, however, they tried very hard to be sympathetic, but the gurgles escaped each time they sneaked another look.

The package said don’t shampoo for several days, so in the hope that the thing would go away if we disobeyed these instructions, we rinsed and rinsed day after day, but nothing worked .In fact the afro seemed to grow at each washing.

In 2 weeks I had to go back to my friends and my new boyfriend. I’d rather die. My life was ruined. I would never get over it. Never!

Beginning

My name is Meg and this is the first post for my new blog. Well, it was supposed to be! It looks like I have now posted three times with this Beginning somehow lost in the flurry of anticipation that always comes with something new. I was excited about blogging to begin with, but setting this up has proved to be a marathon effort with my daughter, Julie (a seasoned blogger who doesn’t like ipads), trying to show me the WordPress options on my old, slooooow laptop (which she loves of course), and both of us befuddled by what was supposed to be so easy.

Beginning

Again