Tag: friends

The gift of friendship

‘Come and stay whenever you like,’ I tell my friends. And this week, I had the pleasure of four friends at my doorstep, each having come a long way to see me. I know these women from different times of my life and and their loyalty is astounding. I have moved hundreds of kilometres away but we still stay in touch.

They are all outstanding educators of one kind or another, yet I’m not sure they’d have much in common other than their teaching careers. I guess if they met, they would talk shop. However, I have a much deeper connection to each of them. I find a different side of me emerges in their company, not because I am trying to impress them, but because they speak to a part of my personality that resonates with theirs.

Michelle and her friend Claire’s visit brought out my rambunctious side. We could speak without a filter, mercilessly tease each other, drink gin, and laugh through the night without a care. There is something to be said for letting your hair down without worrying about the consequences when you know your friends have your back. Spending a night with them was like stepping into my carefree early twenties. Years and cares melted away. Yet they too have their share of hard times, but we can forget these for a while when we get together.

Lizzie was the next to arrive. I have known her for over twenty years, and she has been a loyal friend through jubilation and sorrow. Thousands of cups of tea have infused our friendship. Although her children are older than my daughter, we have shared our struggles and joys of motherhood, marriage and work life. I have always admired her loyalty to friends far and wide and her ability to find time to produce quality teaching resources, which she freely shares. There is also a deep spiritual side to Lizzie, which connects heart to heart. Her friendship has buoyed me over the years, and I feel blessed to be counted among the people she loves.

The last friends to visit were Kath, her husband, and their gorgeous Labrador, who simply wanted to play zoomies with my standard poodle. We don’t see each other that often anymore, but whenever we do, we feel nourished and affirmed by each other’s company. I worked with Kath for two or three short years, and they were the best years of my working life. She is thoughtful and generous, always inclusive, and gives the best hugs. Kath works harder than anyone I know and has made many personal sacrifices to run a high school with its fair share of complexities an hour and a half from where she lives. I have so much respect and admiration for her resilience, and I count myself lucky that she finds time to see me.

Seeing this many friends in a week is very unusual. As an introvert, I can get quite overwhelmed when I see too many people in quick succession. I was quite surprised that I didn’t feel drained at all. In part, this is because I have been on holidays, so I don’t have to juggle other commitments whilst having visitors. However, the other reason is that my friends have been so nurturing and aware of my needs that it hasn’t felt like hosting visitors at all. Each, in their own way, has filled my cup to the brim and beyond with love and warmth. My hope is that we can keep enjoying these precious times for many more years.

A trip to New Zealand

Or the long-lost friend, a tech savvy daughter and a generous birthday gift.

Wellington foreshore guerilla knitters

Annie and I met in 1989 while working for a private college teaching English in Sydney. Our clients were Chinese, and the massacre at Tiananmen square in June of that year affected them all deeply. They came from cities and villages, desperate to earn money so they could repay the enormous debt they had back home which funded their airfares and tuition fees. None of them knew about life in Australia or the cost of living in Sydney.

Annie and I gravitated towards each other and soon became friends. We spent many a weekend going to the Glebe markets, meeting up for coffee and going for walks along the cliffs at Bondi. I left the college disillusioned with the management and teaching. She stayed for a while longer before travelling to Canada and Nepal. We kept in touch throughout this time.

In my memory, Annie was footloose and fancy free, always looking for the next adventure and travel destination. I was three years older and in a steady relationship. I admired her ability to save money and her courage to travel to far-flung places on her own. I admired her freedom and her trust in finding work wherever she went.

I was one of many friends she had, but she was my best friend. When I was about to give birth to my daughter, Annie was the obvious choice to be my support person. At 8 moths pregnant, I remember driving over some speed humps in my ancient Beetle. We shrieked with laughter as I landed heavily back in my seat. I could always rely on Annie to boost my mood and have a good laugh. No need for nitrous oxide with her by my side!

As our lives became more complicated with partners, jobs and eventually children, it was more difficult to catch up regularly. By then we lived in different parts of the city and eventually my small family moved out of the city altogether. Not long after that, Annie and her family moved back to New Zealand, which she had always called home. We lost touch.

Years passed. I always had a framed photo of Annie on my bookshelf and often wondered where life had taken her. My daughter heard stories about this special friend who was there at her birth and knew how much she meant to me. So she found her on the internet and booked me an airfare to Wellington.

Little did she know I would arrive on the eve of Annie’s birthday. What a treat to celebrate this special day with her loved ones. I finally met her adult children, was reacquainted with her husband and was welcomed into their home.

For a week, we walked the rugged beaches of Wellington with Dexter, their wonderful and quirky dog, catching up on 25 plus years of our lives. So much had changed for us both, but that initial spark from all those years ago still ignited our friendship. We share the same values, care about the same things and, interestingly, experienced similar challenges. We both stayed in teaching; she became an early childhood educator while I became a primary teacher. After teaching adults for many years, we gravitated towards teaching young children.

I loved being taken to her favourite haunts, the supermarket down the road and the café she frequents on weekends. I can now imagine her daily life; the route she takes to work, the walks she takes to clear her head, and I have met the people who are dearest to her. 

We spent some time sight-seeing, but those aren’t the memories I shall hold dear. While I loved walking through the botanical gardens, the museums along the waterfront, and the quirky shops on Cuba Street, what I loved most were the connections I was making. Talking politics with Annie’s 93-year-old mother was definitely a highlight. I loved her joie de vivre and her passion for social justice. May we all be as erudite and passionate no matter our age!

I’ve now been back home for three weeks. Neither of us have contacted each other since the first couple of days. We both have busy jobs and parenting responsibilities. There’s not much time left at the end of the day, especially when there is a two-hour time difference to navigate. It is all too easy to fall into habits of neglect. But this time I’m determined not to lose our precious connection again.

Christmas Cake Pt 2 – recipe

(Based on David Herbert’s fruitcake)

Ingredients:

250g block of unsalted butter

1 cup brown sugar (adjust to taste)

¾ cup of brandy

½ cup of water or orange juice

1 kg of mixed dried fruit

100g mixed peel

100g of crystalised ginger (if your recipient likes a bit of a bite), if not, replace with 100g of more fruit or glace cherries or whatever you know your recipient likes

5 well beaten eggs

2 decent tablespoons of treacle

Zest of one lemon and two oranges (you can use the juice instead of water)

1¾ cups of plain flour

½ cup of self-raising flour

1 teaspoon of bicarb

2 teaspoons (or more) of mixed spice

200 g almonds (half to go into the cake and half to decorate)

A heaped cup or two of love and appreciation

Method:

Bring the person to mind for whom you are baking.

Use a large pot.

Chop the butter and heat with sugar, brandy, water or orange juice, mixed dried fruit, ginger, and mixed peel. After it comes to the boil, simmer and stir. Cook on gentle heat for at least 10min.

While mixture cools, preheat the oven to 150 Celsius. Grease or spray a 23cm round tin or use a square tin of roughly the same proportions. Line with baking paper and leave a generous amount extending above the tin.  Chop about half of the almonds.

Once the mixture is cool, add eggs, treacle, lemon and orange zest. After stirring, sift in the flours, bicarb and mixed spice. Stir until all the flour is absorbed. Add the chopped almonds and stir. Add the heaped cupful of love and appreciation and keep stirring.

Spoon the mixture into the prepared tin. Make the top of the cake nice and flat and decorate with the remaining almonds. I usually make a flower pattern. Fold some brown paper into thirds and wrap it around the cake tin so it sits a good 5cm or so above the top of the tin. Tie with twine. Bake for 2 to 2.5hrs. Turn the cake after about an hour so it cooks evenly. Check with a skewer after 2hrs. Cool on a rack and wrap in foil. Write the person’s name on the foil and give thanks for their presence in your life.

Hello and goodbye

Seven years ago, when I bought my house, it was under very unusual circumstances. Ruth, who sold me the house had only advertised it on Facebook. I turned up on her doorstep and decided to buy it on nothing more than the of strength feeling that this was the right place for me. I agreed to the price, we shook hands and began negotiating a long handover period. She trusted my word, I trusted hers and we kept in touch until three months later we could finally make it happen. We popped a bottle of bubbly and worked out moving days. There was no agent involved, just a couple of solicitors and banks. I’m sure we were both told that this was a crazy way to go about things, but we did it anyway and it worked out perfectly for us both.

This time around, I did get an agent involved mainly because he had worked closely with my late partner. I knew I could trust him implicitly. He too had his share of bad luck in the past few years – a stroke, which he survived, has left him with a lame leg and difficulty with movement. His once thriving business has suffered greatly from this setback. Yet his mind is as sharp as it ever was, and he is a good salesman. While I was close to becoming a nervous wreck in the process of the sale, he remained calm and optimistic and got on with the job.

When the eventual buyer came to look at the house, he was quietly optimistic. He answered her queries truthfully and when she requested to meet me after an inspection, he was happy to pass on the request and get out of the way. Gayle and I met and found that we communicated with ease and honesty. We had many things in common ranging from our love of books through to pens, inks and beautiful papers. There were other similarities too in our loves and our losses, in small, serendipitous moments that made one of us call out, ‘I was thinking about that just the other day,’ or simply, ‘me too!’ I knew she was the right person for this house while she felt the house calling for her. It had to be.

I have never forgotten Ruth’s generosity when I bought the house. She invited me to meet her friends, waited patiently for the sale of my house to go through and allowed me to store some of my belongings before we even signed contracts. It was time to pay it forward.

I invited Gayle to come up for a weekend so I could show her around Millthorpe and Orange, get a feel for the house and let her measure rooms and spaces. Unusual, yes, but also very sensible and welcoming to a new person in a village that is known for its inclusivity and friendliness.

Gayle arrived on Friday, and we took a stroll in the main street of the village. A couple of the local shopkeepers were sitting on a bench in front of their shops drinking bubbly. The moment we approached, we were offered a glass. We sat and chatted a while and met more people on our way back. Gayle was trying to remember the names of all the people she had met. Everyone had stopped to chat and welcomed her the way I knew they would.

The next night I had a couple of neighbours over for dinner. Over wine, cheese, and risotto we told stories and jokes, enjoyed each other’s company and parted with great fondness for the good people in the neighbourhood.

Today we visited the markets, bought Christmas presents and then took the dogs for a run. I showed her the closest large supermarket, hidden in a back street of Blayney, which only locals would ever know was there. Over the weekend, I showed her many little hidden gems that otherwise would take months to discover. Where to buy the best bread, how to get to the hardware store, the best cafés in town and the best op shops to find a bargain.

Why did I do this? I wanted to pay Ruth’s kindness forward and because I genuinely love this village and will shout its praises to anyone willing to listen.

I enjoyed having Gayle as a visitor to ‘our house’ and wish it were possible for more people to do business in such a civilised and caring manner. It was as important for my leave taking as it was for her arrival. I consider this handover as a rite of passage which will have ripple effects for us both for years to come.

A couple of suburban boys

https://www.bygonely.com/melbourne-1970s/

My first part-time job was in the deli section of Coles in Balaclava. But by 1976, I was looking for something more exciting. When I heard that the new McDonalds in St Kilda was looking for casual staff, I immediately applied. My friend Sharmaine joined me in working there, and for a while it was fun. 

One Saturday night, our shift finished at seven and it was already getting dark outside. We weren’t looking forward to walking home. 

‘There’s no dance on tonight, is there?’ I asked.

‘None we can get a lift to. Everyone’s already gone out. This’ll be one boring Saturday night!’ Sharmaine said.

We were just about to cross the Esplanade when we heard a couple of guys call from an ancient two-tone Holden. 

‘Where ya girls off to?’ the driver hollered.

Windows wound down, elbow leaning out the window, the driver looked us up and down. It wasn’t the most original pick up line, but our feet were sore and we were bored. A lift was appealing and we felt safe enough together. We casually walked over to the car and saw two young guys, probably only about two years older than we were. They were as nervous as alley cats hanging out in the wrong neighbourhood. They clearly didn’t come from St Kilda.

‘You girls doin’ anythin’ tonight? You wanna go out somewhere?’ the driver stammered as we approached. He had shoulder length mouse-brown hair and wore a checked flannel shirt. Not my type, I thought, but what was there to lose?

’Nothing planned so far,’ Sharmaine answered.

‘Why don’t you girls jump in and we’ll go for a ride. Wherever you want,’ he added quickly.

‘My dad won’t let me go out with boys unless he’s met them,’ I said. ‘But if you drive me home and say hello to him, I’m sure I can come.’

‘Sure, jump in. I’m Steve and this here is Glen.’

‘Hi,’ we said, giggling as we scrambled into the back seat.

We drove to my place first. I opened the door and invited the boys in.

‘Papa, this is my friend Steve,’ I said.

They shook hands. I was hoping Steve’s handshake was firm because my father judged a person’s character by their handshake. It looked as if he had passed muster.

‘We ran into these boys from school coming back from work,’ I lied. 

’And we’d like to go to a dance. They’ll bring us back by midnight.’

‘Won’t you Steve? Just nod will ya, I just told him we were friends from way back,’ I said turning to Steve. He nodded dutifully.

‘Sharmaine’s dad already said she could go and he is very strict about who she goes out with. Please Papa.’

‘Not a stroke after midnight,’ he said. ‘I’ll wait up for you.’

‘You’re the best!’ I said and kissed him on the cheek. 

This was one of the few advantages of having a father who could not speak English. I could pull the wool over his eyes.

We had persuaded one parent, now it was Mr Keogh’s turn. To my surprise, Sharmaine talked her dad around quite easily and we were ready for a night on the town.

‘Where d’ya wanna go?’ Glen asked. They were from the outer suburbs and completely out of their depth. 

‘Let’s go to the Outpost Inn,’ I suggested. 

It was my favourite place to go. The Outpost Inn was a basement folk venue at the top end of Collins Street. It was a cool place to hang out and listen to various folk singers. There were three or four windowless underground rooms, painted black with a small makeshift stage at one end and couches or cushions strewn around the room. There was always more than one artist performing and you could wander from room to room to listen to whoever took your fancy. Someone was always smoking a joint and the atmosphere was quite mellow. It was the coolest place to be on a Saturday night, if you were into that scene. 

The Outpost Inn was run by a crazy Russian called Stefan. He was an imposing figure with a full beard and a shock of black hair. He had a striking resemblance to photos of Rasputin. I always felt safe because I knew Stefan could sort out any problem. He wasn’t the kind of person anyone would willingly take on. It seemed like a great place to take a couple of suburban boys. 

Within the first twenty minutes we realised the boys had the completely wrong impression of the venue. It was clearly the first time they had witnessed an alternative scene.

‘Check out the black walls, Glen,’ said Steve, nudging him with his elbow. 

‘Smell that will ya,’ was Glen’s reply. ‘You reckon it’s what I think it is? We’ve scored us some wild chicks, man. Which one do you want?’

Sharmaine and I glanced at one another. This had been a BAD idea. 

‘Just going to the bathroom,’ Sharmaine said and pulled at my sleeve. We quickly made our way to the toilets out the back. 

‘I don’t think this was a good idea,’  Sharmaine said. ‘They think we’re the kind of girls who will go all the way with them. I know that’s what they think. Glen keeps staring at my boobs.’

I had the same impression. ‘You know, we could just leave them here,’ I said, ‘C’mon, I know a back way out.’

And that’s what we did. We we left them standing there waiting for us to return. We fled like spooked cats, laughing until we cried, running all the way down Collins Street, without stopping. When we reached Swanston Street, we doubled over laughing, caught our breath, and waited for a number 67 tram to take us home safely.

Easter Eggs

My father gave me a box of Easter eggs every Easter Sunday. He chose them carefully for their appeal and elegance. The boxes were usually silk lined and contained one large egg and occasionally some smaller eggs surrounding it. I loved receiving these eggs, but I never ate a single one.

‘The chocolate is there to be eaten,’ my father said each year.

‘They are too perfect, Papa. If I ate the eggs, all their beauty would be lost. This way I can look at the eggs and enjoy your gift for the longest time,’ I replied.  

My father just shook his head as my eyes feasted on the eggs in the box before I finally took them to my bedroom to be placed on top of my wardrobe with all the other eggs from previous years. The eggs faced into the room and whenever I got dressed, I looked up at the row of stunning boxes and the eggs they contained.

My friends couldn’t understand why I didn’t eat them. Every time they came over, they’d look longingly at the chocolate eggs, but I never relented.

‘You wouldn’t even miss it if one wasn’t there,’ my friend Stephen chided.

‘Can’t we just share one?’ Necef chimed in.

‘No! I love looking at those beautiful eggs,’ I said firmly.

One late spring afternoon I decided to clean my room thoroughly. I tidied, swept, and dusted. I climbed onto a chair to take down the boxes of eggs. To my horror, all that was left of the eggs was the coloured foil, neatly arranged to make it look as if the eggs were still there. I cried tears of rage, frustration, and utter betrayal. I knew who the culprits were.  

The following day, I approached my friends with righteous anger.

‘You ate all the chocolate. How could you!’ I cried.

‘What are you talking about?’ replied Necef and for a moment I doubted myself.

‘The Easter eggs on top of my wardrobe,’ I said. ‘It had to be you!’

Necef and Stephen looked at each other and began to laugh.

‘Oh, those eggs,’ Stephen said. ‘We ate those about six months ago and you are angry about it now?’

I was hurt that they had betrayed my trust, but I could see the funny side too. They knew I wouldn’t look too closely and that they’d get away with it.

That night, I complained about my friends to my father as I cleared away the cheerless, empty boxes.

‘So will you eat the chocolates next year?’ my father asked.

I shook my head. ‘No, Papa. You should know I need their charm to last all year.’

Gosling Creek Reserve

“The path reveals itself once you start walking.”
― Abhijit Naskar, Aşkanjali: The Sufi Sermon

The grass is long after all the rain. In parts of the reserve, it reaches past my shoulder. Rivulets of water course down the slopes to form boggy marshland and the creek runs fast and free to pool in a small pond. These are the things I forgot to mention when I invited my friend, Penny, for a walk with her two dogs. I have sensible walking boots; she wears flat slip-ons. Our dogs run wild while we jump across puddles or find grass tufts that take our weight as we cross the great wet expanse. Her shoes squelch and slide, but we make it across the worst of it with our balance intact.

Birds twitter in treetops and we hear a stream burbling not too far from us. As we approach a small bridge, the type you would find depicted in a Monet but without any of the charm, water rushes past us as if in a hurry to make it downstream. One of her dogs leaps in and lets the deluge wash over him. We can’t help but be swept along with his exuberance. After a while, he joins us on the path shaking the water off his loose skin, seemingly in both directions at once with a whip-flick motion that drenches us as he runs past. We laugh at his joie de vivre and watch the dogs bound through the high grass.

As we reach a well-trodden path around a pond, we hear a chorus of frogs in the tall reeds. Looking closer, we see a mother duck with five tiny ducklings drift towards the foliage for protection. The dogs haven’t noticed them. They are much more interested in a larger version waddling on the path ahead of us and make a half-hearted attempt to run after it. The duck launches itself into the pond and elegantly glides away. None of the dogs have an appetite for a serious chase, especially one that involves the effort of swimming. They are already running zigzag, following a new smell that has caught their attention.

On the other side of the pond is a park bench. We head towards it for a rest. The bench is dedicated to the memory of a girl called Mel, the same age as my daughter. She would have been 25 when she died. I think of her family and friends and the unspeakable loss they must continue to endure. My heart breaks for these nameless strangers. I wonder how this young woman died and why the seat was erected here. I can’t help but imagine various scenarios and fill the gaps with conjecture, but I will never know her true story.

We take a seat, but the dogs start barking and beseech us to keep moving. After a couple of minutes, we give in to their demands and begin our walk back. I decide that the asphalt track does have its merits, especially as we feel the first drops of rain, first on our arms and later, on our shoulders. Tree roots have cracked open the surface of the path and we tread carefully to avoid tripping on fissures and craters. At the same time, I’m glad nature is winning the battle here, and consider it likely that the trees will outlast the asphalt.

The path is suddenly steeper. We see hemlock growing up to two metres and it has invaded large tracts of the grassland. The plant is highly toxic and there is no antidote to hemlock poisoning. We call the dogs and make sure we don’t brush against it. This section of the reserve looks neglected, and we are aware that there may be snakes in the weedy vegetation. Best move on swiftly.

A galah flies across our path while a magpie struts in the next field, head bobbing forward and back until it sees our dogs. Begrudgingly, it flies to the nearest branch and keeps a wary eye on these bumbling, ground-sniffing predators. The birds, as ever, win against these domesticated, well-fed, and pampered dogs.

We reach a plateau where large fallen limbs of tress are neatly placed along the verge of the path. No doubt a storm has raged here not long ago. Some of the branches are horizontal while others lean precariously on the trunk of a tree. In time they will offer shelter to ground dwelling creatures and their sacrifice will not be in vain. Further, there are trees with protruding branches at crazy angles that remind me of some Halloween prank. They look almost human with one or two additional limbs waving in the wind. We marvel at their shapes and pick up our pace. We can feel the steady drops of rain on our faces now and head for the car.

The dogs have one final crazy dash across a field. They sprint in circles just as though they were running on an invisible racetrack. We call and they return, tongues to one side, panting and spent, content to go home. We laugh at their antics and know we must come again soon. At the carpark, we say our goodbyes and stomp to remove the mud from our shoes.