Misunderstood

The eight year old girl never felt that she could tell her Mum or Dad how she was feeling: her mother always seemed so busy with the younger children at home and she didn't want to bother her any more than necessary, and her father was always so tired and distracted when he came home long after dark that she didn't talk to him either.

She continued to ask herself for many years why she always felt she could never talk to her parents about what mattered in her life, what frightened her and what didn't, what she was proud of and what she was ashamed of. 

Finally the answer came to her: as the eldest child she was always told that she was the big girl, older than the others, able to cope; but all she ever wanted was for someone to get it, to understand, to say, " I know how you're feeling."

If only someone had sat her down and asked some questions about how she was feeling and what was bothering her, she may have learnt to cope with change more readily at a much earlier age, because sometimes she didn't feel so grown up and just wanted a little babying. 

She wasn't looking for someone to fix the situation, just another person who could understand and let her know they understood. 

Neighbours

 From the time I was born until I was ten years old I felt nothing but unconditional love for our next door neighbours.

I was extremely fortunate to live on a farm next door to my father’s parents and I saw them almost every day of my life.

In my memory we are always seated around the large kitchen table having morning tea, afternoon tea or lunch. There is always a crowd of people there - my uncles, aunts, grandfather, Dad, and sometimes also shearers and other workmen. 

The kitchen always smells of delicious meals, soups, roasts, and of course fruit cake and slice. I always have a cup of cocoa with the adults because my grandfather makes it deliciously sweet and creamy, just the way I like it.

Soon after, my grandfather died, my uncle married, my aunt returned to live at home with her two children, and then we moved far away from that encompassing circle of family love.

The magical spell was broken but those happy times will remain always in my memory.

Best of GrandMarg's Blog week 3

Celebrating three weeks of continuous blog posting

This week I have continued with my plan to alternate photos and writing, and although I have not yet had anyone comment on my posts I have had a few more lookers. I am happy that I have managed to post something every day for the past 3 weeks.

Here's a brief run down of what you missed if you  haven't yet discovered my website.

Day 16: Best of GrandMarg's Blog - week two(ish)
Day 17: Deep Sleep - written on a tired Friday
Day 18: Flowering succulent - photos of my beautiful cactus
Day 19: Language - addressing a writing prompt
Day 20: Spider webs - photos of spider webs taken this year
Day 21: Bus stop - how I hated going to school on the bus

In the next week I plan to combine writing and photos of my European trip last year, and by the time I have finished that my 30 days of blogging will be complete.

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Bus stop

I hated going to school as a young child, especially having to travel on the school bus– having to get onto the bus in front of so many others who often jeered at me, being squashed into the bus, sitting next to people I didn't like and didn't want to sit next to.

The bus was noisy and hot in summer and cold in winter; someone always seemed to be having ‘wars’ with someone else and there was always some ill feeling in the air.

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The timid six year old waited anxiously for the bus to arrive, fighting bravely against waves of dread at having to say goodbye to Dad or Mum. Getting on the already crowded bus packed with noisy kids who would invariably jeer or make fun of her was the biggest challenge she faced each school day. Every morning it was something different – the colour of her jumper, the shoes she wore, the size of her school bag, how her hair was parted – so she never knew what she could have done that day to try and avoid criticism.

She just wished that she didn't always feel so different to everyone else.

 

Once she arrived at school the day would go smoothly, as she usually got top marks for her spelling and reading. However this also drew attention to her and gave her enemies more fodder for tomorrow’s teasing; but still she was never deterred from trying to always do her best.

Going home on the bus every afternoon was another harrowing experience to be endured. If she had had a successful day at school there would certainly be comments made about how ‘brainy’ she was, how she must read encyclopaedias for bedtime reading, how she was just being so smart to show everyone else up.

Somehow the half hour bus trip to her stop passed before the next hurdle came. Would someone be waiting to meet the bus or would they be running late?

If there was no one there to meet her she knew the ritual – get off the bus, and walk about 500 metres down the dusty country road to the first house where Mr & Mrs Byrnes lived.

“Gran” Byrnes and her husband, “Grand Mister” were old people about her grandmother’s age who had never had children but loved everybody else’s as their own. Gran Byrnes was a wonderful cook and always had lovely fairy cakes or chocolate slice or date scones for afternoon tea.

It was a long lonely walk in the heat anxiously scouring the roadside for suspicious creatures and jumping at every rustle in the grass, but she knew that once she reached the house she would have fun waiting for Mum or Dad to pick her up.

Language

She continued to listen to her iPad, trying to implant the once familiar French phrases into her subconscious. Each phrase she heard made the language more real to her and she could see the words written in her minds-eye. 

This preparation was for the much anticipated trip to Paris, another item to be crossed off her bucket list.

The plan had been to travel in June of the next year, stay with the young people in London and then cross the Channel, explore Paris and have a bus trip around France. 

The savings plan went well for a while but several unexpected expenses dented the nest egg and now she was facing the prospect of having to defer the trip. 

This was not a particular concern to her as she preferred to travel when she had adequate money, but she was dreading the disappointment in her son's voice when she had to tell him of her changed plans.

2.12.12

Best of GrandMarg week one(ish)

I've been doing the 30 Day Blogging Challenge since Saturday of last week. Here's a round up of the posts I have published so far, one a day, every day for the past week.

Day 1: Describe a grandparent - memories of my grandmother Daisy
Day 2: Crown - a fairy tale for my grand daughters
Day 3: Millie - talking on the phone
Day 4: What I started over again - my 3 exercise bikes
Day 5: What I know - an unnumbered list of some of the things I know
Day 6: A memory associated with a bicycle
Day 7: Bushfires - travelling through burnt out country
Day 8: Taste - what is it?

These posts have all been based on writing prompts that I have addressed over the last 3 years.

Never miss out on another blogpost, subscribe here http://grandmarg.blogspot.com.au.

Taste...what is it?

I can feel the spicy after taste before I even bite into the dish but that does not deter me.

Perhaps I hope that this time I will be able to have that taste and enjoy it and not suffer from heartburn afterwards.

Taste is definitely a strongly developed sense in most people. We can know and recognize a taste even if we cannot put a name to it. 

The sense of taste can transport us back in time so easily – a taste of crunchy peanut butter and I am back in the school yard having recess under the gum trees at Kywong School.

With a piece of chocolate cake, any chocolate cake, in my mouth I still taste Mum’s chocolate cake - firm but moist, always with her own chocolate icing sprinkled with coconut. 

On rare occasions I taste Wendy’s wine and I go back to the bad days in my past life when I would struggle home at the end of another traumatic day and drink one or two large glasses of Merlot before I could even start cooking tea.

Sometimes smell and taste are closely linked; I can often smell something and immediately taste it. 

When I cut a lemon or even think about cutting a lemon I immediately feel the bitter taste on my tongue. 

The smell of a pizza shop makes me imagine a fresh pizza, crisp and tasty, warm and waiting to be wolfed down immediately.

Then there is taste as in “good taste” or “bad taste” – who decides whether something is tasteful or not? I think it is really only whatever the society of the day deems to be acceptable.

Another taste I love is freshly made toast with melted butter and Vegemite and the feeling of being cared for that goes with it. 

Sometimes when we are not sure of whether or not we will like something we will ask for “just a taste”.

Several weeks ago David brought us some persimmons. I had never really tried them before but was willing to try. 

I found that the taste is similar to a tomato but sweet, and the texture is similar but smoother. 

I think it’s an acquired taste but I don’t think I've acquired it yet!

12.7.13

A memory associated with a bicycle

Whenever I trim my toenails and try to tidy the horny bits of nail on my little toes I remember the day my foot slipped on the pedal.

I used to ride and ride everywhere I could around the farm. Around and around the large circular driveway of almond trees, down to the chook yard and across to the cow shed.

My bike was red, possibly a Malvern Star and almost definitely second hand. I don’t remember learning to ride a bike and I'm sure I didn't ever have trainer wheels. It was just something I could always do (or thought I could.)

One day, pedalling fast, my foot slipped on the metal pedal and ripped my little toenail.

Furious pedalling back to the house, blood streaming from my foot, at age seven I imagine an emergency trip to the hospital 17 miles away.

I finally reach home and rush inside to Mum: she comforts me, bathes the foot with Dettol and bandages the toe.

Emergency averted, all over, no need for panic.

The toe healed, a new nail grew but only a short while later the same thing happened again, this time to the other foot.

 19.10.13

What I know

"What do you know? Put in everything you know. Forget about what you do."

(Natalie Goldberg. Wild Mind p. 142)

What do I know? 

What is everything I know? 

How can I write it  all down in 20 minutes?

I know: 

• that the sky is blue.
• how to use a computer and trouble shoot basic problems.
• how to drive a car and fill it with petrol.
• about gardening, when to plant certain plants and how to protect some from the extremes of weather.
• about companion planting.
• a lot about my family history and I am keen to learn more.
• how libraries work and I understand how much goes on in their management.
• know about managing staff although I am not a manager (I prefer to be a cooperative underling).
• about raising children and I know I would have been a more confident mother if I knew then what I know now.
• about keeping pets, especially cats, as I have been responsible for quite a few in my adult life.

As I write this I begin to wonder how I know all of these things...

Some I have learnt because of an interest in the subject, some like parenting I have learnt out of necessity, and still others I have learnt almost by osmosis, by being around others like my parents and picking up knowledge.

I know that I have several strong food aversions - veal, rabbit, artichoke, offal; but now I wonder, "did I ever try these foods and dislike them or have I just made up my mind that they would be offensive?"

I did a Reiki training course recently and the teacher helped me to identify that I am not CLAIRVOYANT but rather CLAIRSENTIENT - I don't see things, I just know them. 

This discovery was a real "aha" moment for me because until then I had always wondered why I sometimes feel psychic but can never see the things I know are there.

 22.10.13

What did you start over again?

I have owned a total of three exercise bikes in the past eight years and I have sold or gotten rid of a total of three exercise bikes in the past eight years.

In my mind I am a capable athlete able to run effortlessly, swim lengths of the pool easily, walk for an hour a day and return home invigorated.

In reality I am none of these things and no matter how much effort I put in I know that I will never achieve more than a mediocre level of fitness.

My first exercise bike was bought in 2002 after a visit to the surgeon who advised me to build up my fitness by cycling before having a hip replacement operation. I rode this bike dutifully for some months until the operation was due. The continuing ache in my knees and feet and buttocks was becoming too much to bear and I gratefully stopped before sheer exhaustion overcame me. That bike came with me to Wendy’s in 2007 but it was relegated to the back veranda, was never used again and soon found its way to the tip.

The second bike had been my mother’s and it sat in our lounge room for about six months, unused except for the occasional draping of nearly dry washing that needed airing. I don't remember whether I sold it or gave it away, such was my lack of dedication to that bike.

I bought my third bike from a friend in a fit of fitness frenzy as I approached my 60^th birthday and vowed yet again that I would ride every day and build up my fitness, as well as numerous other impossible goals. This time I rode dutifully for some four weeks, noting each day’s distance and time taken as my fitness record. 

Then I turned 60, went to Tasmania and became a grandmother and of course my fitness regime went out the window. I never really settled back into the routine and yet again my aching legs and general exhaustion gave me a handy excuse to not start again. After a couple of years of attempting to ignore the bike trying to tempt me back onto its seat, I finally advertised it and turned this failed project into some ready cash.

30.10.13

Crown

This story is for my 2 grand daughters who love princesses.

Every princess has a crown or a tiara, so because I have several crowns I must be a princess. These crowns are secret and so well hidden that only one person can ever see them properly, and twice a year I go to visit him so he can check that they are still safe.

My crowns are small, well made and sensible; not showy or bejewelled, but they make my life much easier. They are made for everyday use, not just for glittering balls and other special occasions.

Surprisingly, many people have similar crowns, also well hidden, so there are many, many secret princes and princesses in the world. You could pass a person on the street and never know that he or she was also a member of royalty.

Perhaps the truth is that only the showy, extroverts wear their crowns on the outside for all the world to see. The rest of us are happy to be secret royalty and keep our crowns hidden.

I am participating in the 30 Day Blogging Challenge to try and limber up my creative muscles...https://www.facebook.com/groups/30DayBloggingChallenge/.. and this is only Day 2!

Describe a grandparent

My grandmother Daisy was always an old lady to me; perhaps because she was around 65 when I was born. I could never imagine her ever being young.



Why did I think she was old? She wasn't particularly wrinkled and never seemed to look any older.

Maybe it was because she always walked with a stick, the legacy of a broken hip in her 40s which never healed properly.

She was a tall woman, always standing erect, using her walking stick to maintain her balance.

Looking at photos I can see a distinct resemblance between my mother and Daisy and her mother Hannah.

She always wore glasses and was always well dressed. I can’t remember ever seeing her in pyjamas (or nightie) and dressing gown with her hair dishevelled, but I must have at some time.

What colour were her eyes? I don’t remember, but I imagine they were blue because her father was Swedish.

Her face was covered in soft peach fuzz and sometimes I notice in the mirror that I am developing the same look and I remind myself that I am nearing the age she was when she first became a grandmother.