Tag: writing

Word of the day

There is a common denominator when moving house in Australia: trip upon trip to Bunnings. For those unacquainted with this iconic fixture of Aussie weekend shopping, it is a hardware store that sells everything from nails, tools and build-it-yourself kitchens to paints, tiles and garden gnomes.

Bunnings is where you go to get cardboard boxes, masking tape and wrapping material before you move, then hire a ute for the move, followed by all the things you require after the move. Consequently, I have spent a sizeable percentage of my income at Bunnings over the past few months. I dare not keep track of the actual amount, to spare me from a visit to the cardiologist.

My laundry is filled with sample pots of paint in various colours as I struggle to choose the right hue for my walls. Of course I had to buy a bucket to wash out the paintbrushes, even though there must be half a dozen somewhere. Last weekend I went back three times – twice for mulch and potting mix and once for a spirit level and more paint. I’m already on first name basis with some staff at my nearest outlet, and can tell you the life story of one particularly helpful team member. He carted over a 100L of soil to my car, so we had plenty of opportunity to chat. I suppose it’s one way to get to know people in a new city.

Service can be slow at the paint counter as people like me agonise over their colour choices. On Sunday, I was waiting patiently for my turn as I overheard a lengthy conversation about restoring a bathtub which had been left outside for some years. Stuart, who was serving, went through all the possible products which could help the young man with his project. Jocular yet deadpan, he directed the would be bath restorer to the merchandise in stock.

‘Down the next isle mate, middle shelf, halfway along you’ll find a cornucopia of enamel colours to fix that old bath of yours.’

‘Great word,’ I said, unable to keep my teacher’s voice in check. Lucky for him, I didn’t have a sticker at hand or I may have put one on his lapel or sent him to the principal for an award.

‘Bet you didn’t wake up this morning and think, I’ll hear the word cornucopia at Bunnings today,’ he replied without missing a beat.

‘I certainly did not,’ I said, smiling, ‘but it made my day.’

Moral of the story: don’t underestimate old blokes working for Bunnings.

End of holiday blues

A six-week holiday is a luxury not many of us can afford. I took some extended leave so I could downsize, declutter, and pack before my interstate move. I was busy for the first three weeks and then time began to slow down to almost a standstill. Suddenly, there was very little to do until the last couple of days when things ramped up once more. And now that I am on the other side of the state border, there are dozens of things to organise, but now I have run out time.

I go back to work on Tuesday. It was a deliberate choice not to start on Monday. I knew I’d need that extra day. The electrician is coming at 8:30, I have parcels to collect and errands to run. The year has well and truly started, and that holiday feeling is but a fast-fading memory. Why does it always end so quickly?

Everything is gathering speed like a snowball about to become an avalanche. No matter how fast I run, I can’t get out of its way. There are now only two days left and I am caught between wanting to relax before work becomes all-consuming and wanting to get as much done as possible. Neither side seems to be getting traction.

Instead, I am plagued by anxiety dreams. They all take place at schools but not any school I recognise. I am either in charge and unable to make cogent decisions or I am in front of a class without planned lessons trying to control unruly students. In these dreams I forget to turn up for playground duties; my students miss their buses and I’m often the last one to arrive to class. This may sound as if I am plagued by anxiety, but if you talk to teachers at the start of a new year, many will have had similar dreams. I’m sure other professions have their own versions of these dreams.

It is not that I dislike my job. Far from it. There are many aspects I enjoy, like going into schools to work with teachers. One of the best things is watching teachers grow in confidence when they implement pedagogical changes, especially when they were sceptical or downright antagonistic at first. Not that I always succeed but when I do, it is magic.

So here I am with two days to go. I have a book I’d like to finish reading, boxes to unpack and I am longing for a lengthy walk amongst trees to replenish my soul. Instead, I fall asleep in my armchair, exhausted. I walk the dogs in the summer heat and return with a renewed determination to tackle whatever lies ahead. I remind myself of what Bob Marley wisely said, ‘Beginnings are usually scary, and endings are usually sad, but everything in between – that makes it all worth living.’

The ‘treehouse’

I have been planning this move for over two years. Thank goodness I had the foresight to buy this townhouse. At the time I really didn’t think I could afford it. Luck was on my side, and I purchased just before prices in Canberra skyrocketed. I certainly wouldn’t be able to afford it now.  

I am enjoying the city after seven years in the country. Mind you, it feels more like a large country town which has made it easier to acclimatise. I love that there are trees everywhere and from my study window, I can just see the roof of a solitary building.

A friend of my daughter calls my place the treehouse. I like that. The mosaic I made depicting a large tree will be affixed to the wall at the front door. It all seems so befitting now as l look over the canopies and listen to the warbling magpies. I am glad the Maggies have followed me here as have the Sulphur Crested Cockies. I do miss my Blackbirds though. Although they wouldn’t quite fit into the deliberately native landscape. There are no Silver Birches, Magnolias, Crab Apples, or Fruit trees. Instead, I look out over Eucalypts, Kurajongs, She-oaks, and Crepe Myrtles.

This makes me think about the possibilities for a garden. My courtyard out the back is presently filled with weeds. It has but a tiny patch of soil and I will have to think long and hard about what to plant there. It won’t be the roses of Millthorpe, nor brightly coloured flowering exotic species. I want to pay respect to the landscape around me so I will find out about endemic plants before I make my choice. There is much to learn.

I have been here less than a week, but it already feels like a lifetime. Maybe it is because I have spent so much time in this city over the past ten years. I may not know where everything is yet, but it feels very familiar. Familiar enough to feel a little like home.

Dakers Oval – Blayney

A small patch of mossy grass stands apart from weeds around a fenced oval. On the spur of the moment, I take off my sandals to feel the spongy softness under my soles. It has been a long time since I have taken off my shoes to walk in grass. In my own backyard there are bindis, thistles and countless other weeds that have invaded the lawn. But here, on this small patch, I stand and feel a spongy softness under my soles. I am reminded of times in my childhood when I would find a clearing in the woods and lie in a meadow of wildflowers, protected by tall trees and the birds of my youth. There were the chatty finches, the trill of blackbirds, monotone thrushes, and the incessant hammering of the woodpecker. I close my eyes and listen. Here there are magpies warbling to one another, repeating a melody that echoes across the field. They are accompanied by the incessant chirping of crickets, who provide a high-pitched drone above which the birds improvise their songs.

It is hard to believe I am standing no more than a hundred meters beside a large carpark and local supermarket. The dogs I am walking sniff the ground and roll with unbridled pleasure in a smell only they can identify. Their joy is palpable as they leap and chase each other around a field beyond the cricket pitch.

There are not many small places like this left where dogs are welcome. Ironically, it is more difficult to find open spaces for dogs in the country than in the city, where dog owners congregate in groups with their much-loved pooches in suburban parks. Still, I’m happy to have my own company without the intrusion of other peoples’ chatter.

Between the fences and the farms just beyond this small green space is where the Belubula river meanders, making its way to feed into Carcoar dam and flow on to Canowindra and eventually into the Kalari or Lachlan River, near Gooloogong. One of my dogs throws herself into a creek that feeds into this river, not for a swim but to wade and cool down. She heaves herself back up the bank, shakes and rolls in the dirt to dry off. For a moment I think of the back seat of the car, but I could never deny her the pleasure of a dip on a hot day.

Near the entrance to this precious piece of council land, I find discarded cans of ‘Mother’ and the plastic packaging of Arnotts Kingston biscuits. On previous walks I have seen young workers from the supermarket sit here to have their break, smoking, laughing, enjoying a little freedom. I’m saddened that they don’t look after this place, a place of refuge from stacking shelves or serving on checkouts. After all, they choose to come to here rather than the carpark where there are plenty of seats close by. Something must draw them towards this spot, surrounded by trees, birds and the burbling creek. Are they hoping that someone like me comes to pick up their rubbish or are they content to sit in their small, soiled nest?

I walk twenty meters to place the rubbish in the bin provided and decide not to let their actions befoul the pleasure of this scenic stroll. After all, it is a magnificent morning to be walking on this lush land.

Liminal living

The period between Christmas and New Year is betwixt and between. On the threshold adjoining the old and the new, it is a time of transition and much uncertainty. It is a time for introspection and taking stock of the year past and making plans for the year to come. On one hand, we know it is an arbitrary marker of time, on the other we eagerly await a new ‘beginning’.

This period can be disorienting. We hardly know the day of the week as one day flows into the next. We are both restless and grateful for a chance to slow down. Family ties are strengthened or strained. Sometimes both at the same time. We nibble on leftovers, go to bed, rise at odd times and may have visitors staying for extended periods. Or we may be the visitors wondering whether we have overstayed our welcome. Time stretches, attenuates, and warps which gives this interminable interval such a nebulous almost dreamlike quality.

I too am hovering in this in liminal state. I am ready to move house, but that time hasn’t arrived. Shelves have been emptied and boxes are packed and I am in limbo. My spirit has left this house but not yet arrived at its next dwelling. It is what I imagine purgatory is like – neither here nor there. I am restless, in a state of flux, a fluid, fitful phase which objectively will be over before I know it. In the meantime, I feel as if I am stuck in eternal twilight, like a somnambulist caught in that transitional state between sleep and wakefulness.

Christmas cake

My mother-in-law, Jean, introduced me to fruitcake. I had tried it before but could never quite understand what the fuss was about. The fruit cakes I had eaten up to that point were shop bought and mass produced. Pretty ordinary, I thought. And they were. When Jean began sending us fruit cakes several times a year, I began to appreciate a good fruit cake made with brandy, soaked fruits and nuts. She liked to experiment with various recipes, and I loved them all.

One day, Jean announced that she would no longer bake cakes. She was getting old and found the process increasingly difficult. I decided to step into the breach and began sending her the cakes she had taught me to make. In time, I perfected a fruit cake with chopped almonds that is just perfect. And so I carry on the family tradition of making and giving home-made cakes.

This year, I decided to bake fruit cakes for many of my friends. Over a period of about a month, I made 11 large cakes and more than 20 small, muffin-sized ones. The only restriction I placed on myself was that I wouldn’t post any. The cost of postage has become prohibitive over the years.

Making one cake after another took on a rhythm of soaking fruit, zesting oranges and lemons and watching the mixture froth when I added bicarb. I stirred in the flour and poured the mixture into baking tins which I then surrounded with brown paper and tied with twine. This helps to cook the cake evenly and stops the top from burning. Finally, it would go into the oven for a couple of hours during which I had time to start the next cake.

What I enjoyed most about this process was that I always had the person in mind for whom I was baking. I thought about each individual, their special qualities and the joy they brought to my life. It felt like a version of a Buddhist loving kindness meditation practice. I dedicated time to think about each person, added a little more of this, a bit less of that to suit their taste and wished them well for the coming year. I found it a lovely practice to think about each person, rather than bake all the cakes and allocate them randomly. This way, I could add a couple of magic ingredients to the mix – gratitude and love for recipients of each cake.

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.

Hurkle-durkling

To hurkle-durkle is a wonderful old Scottish term which means to lie in bed or lounge about when one should be up and about. It reminds me of words like shilly-shally, dilly-dally, argy-bargy, topsy-turvy and hoity-toity. Their humorous effect derives from the rhyme or alliteration. They are fun to say and capture a sense of their meaning.

I have come across hurkle-durkle from a number of sources lately. I first heard Susie Dent speak about it on the Something Rhymes with Purple podcast, then a friend reminded me of the word not long ago. Since then, I have seen it pop on Facebook and Instagram. It clearly accommodates a need in the English language.

Whether it is driven by jealous parents of teenagers who hurkle-durkle from their mid-teens through to their early twenties, or by blurry eyed workaholics who can only dream of such a luxury, it seems to have touched a nerve in the productivity driven twenty-first century. It is interesting to see the word make a comeback at precisely the time when the double-shot morning espresso has become a badge of honour for many.

As far as I’m concerned, we should all hurkle-durkle a lot more than we do. I’m sure we would be less stressed and more satisfied with life, if we allowed ourselves this little luxury more often. It is difficult to think of a hurkle-durkler committing road rage or being rude to shop assistants. We all behave better when we are well-rested.

We are now entering that crazy part of the year which we euphemistically call ‘the silly season.’ It isn’t silly at all. If anything, it should be called the frantic season. The list of things to get done before Christmas seems to get longer each year. Things ramp up at work as we approach the final weeks of the year and then there are all the social commitments, presents to buy and cards to write. No wonder we wind up cranky by the time we get to Christmas Day. You know my answer to this insanity. Sure you do. Go and spend some quality time hurkle-durkling and ride out the season in style.

Bird Song

One morning while having breakfast, I tuned in to sparrows chirping. They like hiding in an overgrown hedge out the back providing them with ample shelter. It is never one sparrow that sings but a host of them. Their simple song, made up of only a few notes, is sung mainly by the male to attract females or fend off invaders. I can’t help but smile at their incessant bright chirruping. It isn’t very loud and provides a pleasant soundscape as I sip on my cup of tea.

Soon another sound gets my attention. The blackbird’s song is one of my favourites, mainly because it reminds me of my childhood. I even named a dog after this bird. While its song varies for each verse, it always seems to start on the same mellow note. Their phrases are short and often include ‘djuk djuk’ clucks. No other birds have the same slightly melancholic effect on me.

Scientists have found that listening to bird songs is conducive to mental health. It surprises me that we need this confirmed through research. This revelation reminds me of the recent discovery of ‘silent walking’. Those brave enough to try this new trend have reported a reduction in feeling distracted. Who would have thought. It turns out that being in touch with nature is calming.

I can now hear my three tenors warble at the font of the house. This is what I affectionately call the magpies that come to feed on the front veranda. Magpies often get a bad rap for being aggressive. In a small town like Millthorpe, they know all the people and can distinguish between those who treat them well and those who do not like their company. I am often rewarded for being kind to them with their mellifluous warbles as they sit on the railing, necks craned, beaks raised skyward.

Nature plays a vital role in our quality of life especially for those who live in cities. We are seeing an increased willingness to consider the health of urban environments through improving biodiversity. I’d like to see a greater variety of birds in the heart of Australian cities beyond pigeons, gulls, and ibises.

Of course, not all bird sounds have a positive effect on us. Some can be downright irritating. Take the Koel for example. To be subjected to the coo-eee call of a Koel rising in pitch and fervour is akin to torture. The kindest thing I can say about them is that I am grateful that they are migratory birds. I’d much rather listen to a flock of local sulphur crested cockies. Noisy as they are, I have a soft spot for these larrikins. They are mischievous, funny creatures who relish play and pleasure. I love the way they hang upside down from the gutter to look through my window or find novel ways to open my garbage bins to see what is hidden inside. Curious, cheeky and utterly uncontrollable, they are the epitome of the rebel without a cause. Cockatoos often wreak havoc, yet I can never be cross at them for long. Theirs may not my favourite bird call but they make me laugh like no other bird can.

There is so much to learn from pausing to listen to our natural environment. Tuning in to bird songs helps me get out of my head and pay attention to my surroundings. I focus wholeheartedly on listening rather than looking. It’s a skill many of us neglect.

Bottled Ink

I have always loved the smell of bottled ink. It has a distinctive acrid smell that takes me back to learning to write in my first year at school. While today I find the smell nostalgic and comforting, the experience of forming letters on a page was torturous. Unlike children in Australia who learn to write using large, soft pencils, in Austria, we were expected to master the vagaries of the fountain pen at the age of six.

My memories of that time are shrouded in tears and ink blots on the page. Did I push too hard or was the pen leaky? Was the nib too thick or did I not hold the pen at the correct angle? Fountain pens can be tricky at the best of times. I don’t think I ever had ink free hands for the duration of my primary school years.

While quills have been used for centuries, the modern fountain pen was only invented in the early 1800s. It continued to evolve, with advances made by Lewis Waterman in America. His pens were able to be refilled and he invented a mechanism to allow ink to flow more freely. To this day, Waterman fountain pens are renowned for their style and reliability.

My pen clearly wasn’t a reliable one. My inky fingers no doubt made their way into my mouth as I turned pages. However, unlike with the forbidden book in Umberto Ecco’s Name of the Rose, there was no danger of any intellectual threat emerging from my scribbles. I was hardly going to be poisoned for my inattention by licking my blackened fingers. The only danger I faced was the wrath of my teacher for messy handwriting and blotting my copybook.

I am heartened that even King Charles has experienced the painful exposure to inferior pens even if he does own a Montblanc Solitaire among other prestigious pens. His outburst at Hillsborough Castle was beamed around the world. The newly crowned king was affronted by a leaky pen and let everyone know it. My own outbursts were met with a dressing down, a stern directive to stop moaning and to try harder. Not that any of this helped.

I don’t quite understand why I have persisted with fountain pens. Mine still leak and from time to time my blackened fingertips take me back to being a six-year-old. While I love all the wild ink colours that are available, I usually stick to black, just in case my signature needs to be validated or a page photocopied. Still, I love my Japanese murasaki-shikibu purple ink, named after the female Japanese writer who wrote the exquisite Tale of Genji in c.1010. This Japanese ink has a much more pungent smell than the inks I associate with my childhood. The shade of purple reminds me of my paternal uncle who would only write with a violet biro. Every time I use purple ink, it is a nod to my Hungarian uncle Lajos and his slight eccentricity which he maintained throughout his life. In a country where only blue or black were commonly available, it is hard to imagine where he sourced his pens.

I, on the other hand, am spoilt for choice. Besides the Pilot Japanese purple, my favourite Lamy colour is turquoise. In the Waterman range I adore absolute brown which is perfect for a nostalgic sepia look, harking back to the early twentieth century. For durability, however, I can’t go past Montblanc permanent black.

There is something almost subversive about writing with a fountain pen in the digital age where uniformity is prized over individuality. Colour is definitely not to be encouraged. But as always, I am happy to be counted among the renegades.