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The Walls Are Splattered With Blood
The walls are splattered with blood.
My blood
my husband’s blood
too much blood spilled tonight.
Grey ghosts we call them, or
White walkers
New arrivals, pale, nearly invisible,
evilA gentle snore,
maybe human or canine
Not loud enough to keep me awake
I begin to dose off
Nervous system spiked alert
by the spine chilling zzzz in my ear
Smack, smack
with a back hand whack onto the pillowToo awake now,
I read
begin to relax again
My glasses hurt my face as I smack myself in the head
That’s it!
Switch on the light, slipper in hand
Whack, whack
Fresh blood on the walls
Die grey ghosts,
die -
Dandenong Ranges Botanical Gardens, A place of friendship, beauty and healing
“What are those phallic looking ones there?” my friend Kathryn asks.
“They’re Echiums, the bees love them. Echium cobalt towers I’d say. I’ve got some in my garden. If you stand near them on a sunny day, it’s so loudy-buzzy.”
“Loudy-buzzy? Is that a word?”
I make a sound a bit like a closed mouth sneeze.
“And what are those?”
“Ajuga reptans. Oh, and that’s a beautiful Acer.”
“A what-er?”
“Acer, Japanese Maple.”
This is part of the regular repartee when we come to one of the lovely public gardens in the hills. I can’t help naming my favourite plants, and Katherine is always encouraging me. I wonder if this time she’s gone too far and is humouring me to cheer me up. Life has been tough and my heart heavy these last few weeks. What I need is a good dose of distraction and humour.
Today we are at one of our absolute favourite places, the Dandenong Ranges Botanical Gardens in Olinda. The displays of rhododendrons and azaleas are nothing short of spectacular at this time of year. Something we make sure to visit at least once, when they are in bloom.
We’ve been to these gardens many times before. Occasionally to picnic with the kids, once working the sausage sizzle at a school fundraiser, but mostly to walk the winding paths, talk about life and appreciate the beauty. What a godsend these world class gardens were, within our five kilometre exercise zone, during those months of pandemic lockdown.
“Look, camellias,” Kathryn says matter of factly.
“Mmm, yep.”
“I only know that ‘cause I read the sign.” I turn and see the large sign announcing the Camellia section, and we laugh.
“One day I’ll learn all these plant names,” she says.
“Well I wouldn’t worry. You know a whole lot of other stuff!” It’s true. Anyone highly medically trained and who can speak a couple of foreign languages has bucket loads of lexicon on me, with my handful of botanical names.
“I need to reinvent myself,” I say, feeling like a walking cliché. “Find a passion project, a new hobby, something else.”
“Yes same,” says Kathryn.
“I’ve always wanted to do pottery,” I say.
“Yes, me too!” Kathryn enthusiastically responds.
So, a seed is planted to go to pottery classes.
As we walk, the morning is warming up. Sun on my face, the immense blue sky and so many beautiful flowers is doing me good.
What’s the opposite of a perfect storm, I wonder? Like a reverse perfect storm where all things enjoyable come together to make something extra fabulous. I tick off some of the top items in my go-to blues-buster bucket list.
Seeing a friend, tick.
Exercise, tick.
Sunshine, blue sky, gardening or looking at gardens or visiting a garden centre, tick tick, tick.
Laughter, big tick.
“Oh look at this one! It looks like there should be fairies living there.” I can’t remember ever seeing this plant before. It’s so perfectly sweet, we stop as I take some photos of the darling little pink, campanula shaped flowers.
“I wonder if it’s a type of rhododendron,” says Kathryn.
“No, I shouldn’t think so.” I reply, dismissively. It doesn’t look at all like a Rhodo. The flowers are like single bells on the end of thin branches, not the big showy mop of flowers of the Rhodos.
“I wonder if it could be Rhododendron Williamsianum?” she says hopefully.
I snort! “Oh. Is there a sign?”
We laugh again, when I discover the tiny little name plaque in the ground amongst the leaf litter.
What is it about friends that get you, and play to your strengths? We’ve all got the party people friends, the really nice to see you friends, the you used to be my friend but we don’t have much in common anymore friends, that you can’t seem to let go. And then there’s the ones who know you, know when to stop asking questions, don’t try to fix things, don’t tell you that things could be worse. They are the friends that you might not see on a regular basis but when you do, you just pick up where you left off. And they are the friends who when you leave, you feel better than when you arrived.
Continuing on our walk, we talk about schools, kids, house renovations, holiday plans, or lack thereof, and of course, plant identification and appreciation.
We’ve taken a different route today than our usual one, but return, as always, by the same path to get the best view of my favourite section of the gardens – The Kurume Bowl. As the name suggests, it’s a bowl shaped hillside, with tier upon tier of brightly coloured azaleas leading down to an ornamental lake. I take more photos, bemoaning what a frightful photographer I am. The photos really don’t do it justice.
As per the tradition of an unspoken rule, Kathryn comments on our luck at living in such a beautiful part of the world, as we soak in the sight.
Leaving via the gift shop I pick up a potted azalea. My plan is to create my own Kurume Bowl in my Kalorama garden. Maybe this can be a new passion project?
“Well that’ll be impressive,” says Kathryn, nodding toward my lone pot.
“What? It’s a start! Shut up!”
We plan our next walk and say our goodbyes.
“I’ll send you a link to the pottery classes!” I call over my shoulder, as I put my one lone azalea carefully into the car.
Plan your visit to the mountain’s most spectacular Botanical Gardens, here; https://www.parks.vic.gov.au/places-to-see/parks/dandenong-ranges-botanic-garden
Or read about what else to do in the Dandenong Ranges when you visit, here https://www.racv.com.au/royalauto/travel/victoria/dandenong-ranges-botanic-garden-victoria-guide.html?edm_id=&cmpid=edm:racvathome:Update:20250130&mid=3008868&sf_id=0036F00002TS80NQAT
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Mum’s Caff
The golden afternoon light shines into the living room. I love this time of day. My pattern says there should be 240 stitches by the end of the row.
“Nobody talk to me for a minute,” I announce, “I’m counting.”
Ah, dear. Too late now, I realise I’ve made a school girl error – never announce your intentions!
“One, two, three, four,” I say under my breath as I crochet the next round, counting each stitch as I go.
“Go Bulldogs!” screams the crocodile.
Really? What the hell? He doesn’t even go for the bulldogs, why all the enthusiasm now?
“Eleven, twelve, thirteen.”
“Whaaa! Watch it.” That’s Dad, he wasn’t expecting the football in his face from close range.
“Twenty three, twenty four.”
“Polly scares clumsy moose,” says the unicorn, pleased with herself.
“Bulldogs, Bulldogs, Bulldogs,” sings the crocodile.
“Emily walks silly fish.”
“That’s random,” says Dad.
“She’s playing that word game.”
My second mistake, contributing to the auditory chaos and the beginning of the slippery slope of my loss of focus.
“Yeah, random though.”
“Thirty five, thirty six,” getting louder now.
“Mum! Mum!”
“Hang on, thirty nine.”
“Mum! Muuum!”
“Do you like their onesies?”
“Mmm, yeah, forty five.”
“Mummy!!!”
“Can you wait a sec, I’m counting?”
“Speccie!!! See my mark Mum? Here Dad, handball!”
“Aaahh! Watch it!”
“Fifty nine.”
“Twenty five dollars.”
“Mmm, sixty two, sixty three.”
“Queen Mary eats wobbly cars.”
“Who ate all the brownies?”
Each animal blames the other.
“Dogs back in front,” the television tells us.
“Yeah!! Go Dogs dogs, dogs doggie dogs!”
“Seriously, I’ll ask you again, can you get off my arm please, I can’t crochet with you lying on me. One hundred.”
“OK.” The cuddly crocodile moves maybe 2 centimetres.
“Have we got any kindling?”
“No, one hundred and oh no, it shouldn’t be an odd number on the chain stitch, I knew I’d lose count. I’m going to my room to count this again. You lot are hopeless.”
“What’s for dinner? Mum’s Caff?”
“No, Mum’s caff is closed, you are too annoying. You can have stone soup!”
“Noooo! Not stone soup!”
The soothing golden light shines into my room. I love this time of day. Shadows of my hand dance long on the bed cover.
OK, so let’s see. “One, two, three.” I take it slowly, and this time use the cute little stitch markers that the unicorn has made for me.
Crocheting in bed always seems so indulgent. I put it in the same category as day drinking. Something that only ever happens when I’m on holiday.
I can just hear the noise from the living room but it doesn’t distract me now.
“One hundred and ninety eight! What, why?” I say aloud. This is annoying, as it means the error started many rows back. I’m not going to be able to fix it in a hurry, so I sit for a while and watch the changing colours in the sky. I remember my Mother’s voice saying “Everyone get up and look at the sunset.” I’m tempted to say it myself, but I’ve learnt that I don’t get the response I’m hoping for. I was probably just the same at their age.
When I emerge I’m surprised to find the living room silent and devoid of animals.
I sit back down, trying to work out where I went wrong with my stitches. But it’s getting dark, and seems too quiet. I head to the kitchen to open Mum’s Caff, not stone soup after all.
It’s our Friday night tradition. If we’re not at the football or at the clubrooms, Mum’s Caff provides the yellow food, so I have a night off cooking and the kids and Dad get to eat junk. But not too bad tonight, it’ll be box lasagne.
“Muuuuuuum! How long’s dinner?” Bellowed from several rooms away.
“I can’t hear you. Come here and ask me.”
A face appears around the corner. “How long’s dinner?”
“Well, I haven’t measured it but I’d say about a foot.”
I’m hilarious, and also, it seems, turning into my mother.
“Huh?” He doesn’t get it, but moves on. “Do you like my onesie?”
“I love it! Do you want to help me?”
“Nah,” he says, and skips off to find some mischief.
Oh well, he’ll be back.
I switch on the oven and the lights overhead. I love this time of day. -
That Time I Thought I Might Die at Sea
The Florida morning is warm and the sea is calm. Just like every day since Harry and I arrived at Key West. Walking onto the marina we look at each with excited grins and agree that it’s perfect weather for a sailing trip.
I love looking at the boats and can’t help feeling a bit nostalgic. I tell Harry about the last time I went sailing. I was a teenager sailing at the mouth of the Tamar River in Tassie, with my father in our little Cherub racing skiff. These are probably the happiest memories I have of time spent with my Dad. The two of us out on the water together, reading the winds, leaning out to stop the boat from capsising as the wind catches the sails. Me holding the jib sheet and Dad holding the mainsail sheet and the tiller. So excillarating!
I’ve never been sea sick in the Cherub. I love sailing and I’m eager to be heading out in a sail boat to the reef for some snorkeling.
We’ve heard that the reef isn’t brilliant, compared to our Great Barrier Reef in Queensland, but we’re still keen to go. Harry had seen a flyer for a trip out in a small sailing boat rather than one of the bigger motorised ferries and thought this could be a more pleasant way to travel. And if the reef was disappointing at least we’d have a lovely time boating.
We find our yacht, “Coral Belle”, and fellow snorkellers. To say our Captain greets us heartily like a jovial old seadog would be a complete lie. The captain is a cranky piece of work and we do wonder slightly at his career choice.
Our small party is made up of four middle aged American friends, two pretty Scandinavian looking girls, a few solo travellers and a young German couple. We board without too much fuss and it’s not long before we’re bobbing about in the waters of the Gulf of Mexico.
That wonderful feeling of wind in your hair, and lunging motion of the yacht is positively euphoric! No wait, it’s positively sickening. Oh my god I want it to stop! I want to dive overboard and swim to shore! Who’s dumb idea was this anyway?
The skipper puts down anchor, in what appears to be the middle of nowhere in the sea. He allocates snorkelling equipment and tells us to get going into the water. It takes me longer than usual to get set up because of my queasiness. El Capitan (as I’m now calling him in my mind) gruffly tells that we haven’t got all day.
Not long in the water and I still feel very nauseated. And bobbing about in the waves makes it worse. The two minute lesson on wearing your snorkel and mask didn’t cover what you do if you needed to vomit. So here I am, treading water, clumsily yanking off my snorkel a little too slowly and spewing into the water I’m swimming in. I feel a little better for it though, and reapply my mask and snorkel. I look down into the water looking for some beautiful coral or colourful fishies, and only see sand and a shark. I really don’t know what type of shark it is but in my current state my brain is racing and thinks of how I’m providing some lovely chum to lure the shark and all her mates and that they are all going to come and eat the spew and then eat me.
Barfing into the sea and fearing my imminent death, I don’t notice that the sea is getting rougher and the skies are looking ominous.
I look down again hoping the shark has moved on. No such luck. Popping up to look for an escape route I hear El Capitan yelling for everyone to get back on the boat. Of course, I think it’s due to the woman eating sharks circling the boat and nearly hyperventilate into my slightly chunky snorkel.
Many of the party don’t seem to be quite so terrified as I am and are taking their time. It’s only been a matter of a few minutes that we’ve been snorkelling, and ears are down under the water.
“EVERYBODY GET IN THE BOAT NOW!” Bellows El Capitan. “THIS. IS. NOT. A. DRILL!!”
Several snorkellers race to climb the little metal ladder into the boat.
I’m about second on board, as I’m already heading that way because of the shark. Harry, being the chivalrous type lets every one else on before him. Which only adds to my fear. Will the sharks eat him? Will the Captain take off without him? He seems in such a hurry to depart.
Questions start flying about why the trip is being cut so short. El Capitan points north east toward mainland Florida. As he’s yelling I see a massive twister that’s touched down on the water, creating a water spout. El Capitan attempts to articulate this and the news that it’s heading straight for us.
I think “Cool!” (I’m a bit of an extreme weather fan). Then, Oh hell! When I look again I’m scared it could pick up our little boat and fling it across the ocean to Barbados.
El Capitan pulls up anchor and sets sail to port. The skies and sea are increasingly rough as the storm builds. My seasickness isn’t going to get any reprieve on the return trip.
This twister looks huge to me, but still a fair way off. Even so, the sight is a lot to take in.
Our calm in a crisis Captain gives us more instructions .
“GET YOUR HANDS OFF THE RIGGING!! WHAT YOU’VE GOT THERE IS A FUCKING 30 FOOT LIGHTENING ROD!!” He shrieks, flailing his arms at the mast while trying to pilot the yacht.
Well at least he’s living up to the stereotype of a surly old salt. I’m half expecting him to yell out “Avast ye, you scurvy scoundrels!”
We urgently look for ways to hold on to any non-metallic parts of the yacht as it tosses and pitches in the roiling sea.
So now I mentally add to our inventory of possible ways to die today: electrocution by lightning, sucked into a twister, falling overboard and either drowning or being eaten by sharks, and being captive on a small wind propelled craft headed up by a slightly deranged Captain. Oh and not to mention what anyone who’s ever been sea sick will tell you, that you’ll actually consider death preferable in that moment.
I’m trying to stay calm but I just can’t keep my eyes off that tornado. I feel like I’m playing “What’s the time Mr Wolf?” If I take my eyes off it to grab hold of something, or look at Harry, I look back and it seems to have jumped so much closer.
Eventually we see our little port ahead and there’s a glimmer of hope that death won’t be the outcome today. This hopefulness doesn’t last long as El Capitan starts to really freak out that in the wild seas, he can’t berth the yatch.
He navigates his way into the marina, but each time we get near the wharf he pulls away.
By now the mainsail is down and he’s just using motor power. But the water, even inside the marina is just too rough.
“I’m not going to be able to bring her in!” He yells into the wind, to no-one in particular. “This sea is going to smash us to pieces against the dock.”
Oh, so glad we’ve picked this confident sailor to take us to sea in a tropical storm zone.
Sadly, the harbour master is equally reticent about the chances of the yacht being safely berthed.
What the hell?! What’s the other option? Is he going to fling us off the boat to make a swim for it in the churning sea? Do we set sail for the Florida mainland, through the storm to find a safe haven somewhere else? Just when I think we might get off this vessel of doom, death still seems the inevitable result.
On the positive side, I can’t see the twister anymore. But the storm appears to be gaining more ferocity and the Harbour Master is telling El Capitan to stay away from the dock.
I remember that I’m not the only one onboard, but looking around at the fearful white faces of the other snorkellers doesn’t bring me any comfort. Strangely, no one has any advice or wants to offer any assistance. We sit quietly waiting for our salvation. The water bottles have all run out. I can’t remember ever being this thirsty at the same time as having a busting urge to pee. Eventually we sink into a fearful, but subdued state, as we bob about in the marina.
Then finally there’s a tiny lull in the storm and the skipper manages to bring her in close enough for ropes to be thrown, amid a lot of yelling between wharf and El Capitan, and the yacht is pulled in and tethered.
El Capitan is anxious to get us all off his boat. But there’s a few more nervous minutes because we are all anxious not to get squashed between the dock and his lurching yacht. Miraculously it seems, men appear and grab an arm each and haul me, and the rest of the party, from the yacht onto the wharf.
With wobbly legs and pukey churning stomach, I’m finally on dry land. With no time to take stock of what did, could’ve, or didn’t happen, we head back to our villa confused and traumatised.
………
Key West is a party town and comes alive at night. Our favourite evening activities include wandering along Duval Street to choose our restaurant for the evening. Or maybe it’ll be watching the sunset from a rooftop bar with prawns and beer? Or a visit to Sloppy Joe’s, famous for being a regular haunt of Ernest Hemmingway. Or my favourite, Turtle Kraals Oyster Bar, sitting over the water, watching the fish beneath, eating oysters with the late evening sun shining on my margarita.
Tonight we don’t even consider doing any these. Harry and I barely speak, but we know it’s going to be a quiet night in. We feel wet, weak and fragile. We buy a bag of chips and jerky, and a bottle of medicinal brandy from the liquor store. Then hop into bed, turn on the TV for the first time and watch the football game. The tropical storm rages outside, but like all things, eventually passes and settles to a heavy rain. Falling asleep has never been so welcome.
To visit more places at Key West: Click here for Hemingway House. Here to see snorkelling adventure trips. Sloppy Joes Tavern. Or general Key West travel info.
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Once there was a Village, now there is Selfcare
Meet Jane
Jane is struggling to keep things together
Jane reaches out looking for help
The People shake their heads and say I know it’s tough isn’t it?
It’s normal,
We’re all struggling.
The People say Selfcare is the answer, are you looking after yourself?
Jane asks What is selfcare?
The People tell her to go away on a weekend alone, go on a date, take up yoga, a hobby,
meet up with friends… at a day spa
Jane wonders Don’t you get it? If I could do these things, I wouldn’t need helpNow Jane feels even worse, her to-do list just got longer,
I see now it’s all my fault, she thinks.
She needs to be more responsible!
The jumping in her gut starts again.
The greyness in her head with flashes of red,
Sighing, irregular breathing, panic.
I’m a failure, she thinks, I even fail at failing
It’s all my fault, she thinks
The People have told me so.A Person says Let me know if I can help.
Jane thinks I don’t know what help I need?
I don’t know what help there is,
My mind’s too shattered to make basic decisions
Don’t ask me to make decisions for you too!
Jane says, No no that’s ok, I’ll be fine.
Well you look after yourself, says The Person as they walk away,
feeling good for making the offer.One day Jane moves away from The People and goes to The Village
Jane reaches out looking for help
The Village says, We will give you authentic support, not advice
We’ll take your kids out for a few hours when you need.
The Village says We will bring you fresh food and some cooked meals
Jane says No no you don’t need to do that.
The Village says Shut up, we are doing it.
One day, when Jane is injured
A Villager comes to her house, and quietly cleans it
They didn’t say Let me know if I can help!
They said Shut up, I’m coming.
Jane feels at home in The Village
She can breathe normally and her head feels a healthy shade of pink
She decides to stay. -
Nanna, Fanta and Withering Looks
“Oh dear, I think we might be lost,” says Nanna.
Poppy wakes from her daydeam and turns sharply to her grandmother. The faint ghost of a smile removes any tiny spark of fear that they could be in danger.
“Oh no! What are we going to do? How’ll we get home?” Poppy plays along. Nanna was always getting lost on these back roads, but miraculously seemed to find her way home before dark.
“I’ll try down here,” says Nanna, turning left onto a gravel lane at yet another set of cross roads.
There seemed to be way too many roads to choose from, and no real reason for them to exist. It was ages since they’d been through a town. Where are all these roads going?
“Heavens to Betsy,” says Nanna, “a few signposts wouldn’t go amiss!”
The warm air blowing from the open car windows felt delightful on Poppy’s face. It brought with it the sweet smell you only get from freshly cut spring grass. Nanna encouraged Poppy to take notice of her surroundings, especially the changing smells of the countryside.
“Tell me Popsie, what’s the point of all these people driving around with their windows up?” Nanna says once again. “They might as well watch the television with the sound turned off. Or eat their dinner through a straw.”
Poppy squints a bit, as she tries to think how you’d eat your dinner through a straw.
“The smells and the sounds are just as much part of the picture as what you see with your eyes,” and she waves her hands around, as if rounding up all the bits and pieces of nature into the car.
The road is rough and narrow. Hedges along both sides temporarily block Poppy’s view of the countryside. But she could tell from the deep earthy smell of manure that they were passing a dairy.
Poppy’s focus returns to inside the car. She studies Nanna’s face carefully, looking for any signs that they were in fact lost. Poppy loved that face more than nearly any other face in the world. It wasn’t what you’d call a jolly face, like the old people in picture books. If you drew a picture of Nanna’s face and put it in a picture book, it would probably be accompanied by black robes and a witch’s hat. Poppy imagined drawing the slightly hooked nose, pale watery blue eyes and long silver hair pulled back into a loose bun revealing rather large ears. It didn’t give off the homely look that her other grandmother had. But curiously enough, it was this grandmother that Poppy felt closest to and loved the most.
Homely-looking Granny seemed to have all her niceness just on the outside. There didn’t seem much niceness on the inside at all. Poppy felt unwelcome and unloved at Granny’s place. There was never any funny conversations over cups of tea and biscuits, like at Nanna’s. And rather than sharing her philosophies of the world, Granny would look for ways to put Poppy down.
“Poppy, what a funny name! Sounds like something you’d call a dog,” Granny would frequently say.
So when asked where she’d like to go this day, that her parents had to go to a meeting, Poppy quickly made it known Nanna, not Granny, thank you very much!
“Ooh, windows up,” says Nanna. There’s a dust cloud ahead, created by a mob of sheep being herded down the lane. It’s one thing enjoying the fresh air, quite another having your car filled with sheep dust.
The two wait patiently as what seems like hundreds of freshly shorn sheep baa and slowly make their way around the car. A black and tan Kelpie runs back and forward, amongst the sheep, with alternating barks and tongue lolling out. Then a man on a grey horse follows up behind. He’s wearing a dark blue singlet and a filthy Akubra hat.
“Afternoon, Maggie,” the man smiles and waves at Nanna with an arm that’s nut brown to just above his elbow where it sharply changes colour to white.
Poppy wonders how it is that everyone seems to know her Nanna.
“It’s just the way of the country Popsie. Everyone knows everyone. Trouble is, everyone knows everyone else’s business too.”
The travellers continue on, chatting amiably and fostering their in-jokes.
“There’s a house for you!” Poppy points to an abandoned cottage sitting alone in a paddock. The roof is half caved in, and sheep wander in and out of the gap where the door once was.
“You could do that one up.”
Nanna was always looking for houses to do up. The more dilapidated the better.
“Yes but that looks too good. What about that one?” She points to what is basically just a chimney surrounded by rusted iron and crumbling foundations.
“Oh yeah, you could make that really nice,” agrees Poppy grinning at Nanna.
Poppy is fascinated with the way the loose skin on Nanna’s upper arms hangs low, and jiggles as they bounce along the bumpy road.
“How old are you Nanna?” asks Poppy, not for the first time.
“I’m as old as my tongue and a little older than my teeth,” says Nanna.
The girl gives the old woman what she’s been told is a “withering look”. Mouth set, head on one side, shaking slightly, eyes looking up under her eyebrows.
“Oh you look just like your mother when you do that!” exclaims Nanna and the two laugh hysterically. This old joke is always so hilarious and Poppy tries to work it into the conversation whenever she can.
They stop for a bottle of Fanta and a bag of mixed lollies at The Toddle Inn. Not an inn at all, just a petrol station with a little milk bar attached.
“It’s a play on words,” Nanna explains.
Poppy isn’t sure if she understands or not, but nods sagely.
Soon the scenery becomes more familiar and Poppy realises they are nearly home, but arriving from a different direction than usual. Coming down the long driveway to her house Poppy wriggles in her seat and tries to ignore that odd feeling in her tummy. Things hadn’t been the same at home lately. Her parents, seemed to be a bit weird and extra polite. And Dad had been spending a lot of time with Granny and Gramps.
Jenny and Richard, Poppy’s Mum and Dad have arrived home as well, and are just getting out of the car as Nanna pulls up at the front of the wide, low house.
“Hello darling,” Nanna greets Jenny with a hug, held slightly longer than usual.
“Hello Richard,” says Nanna, hands on hips. She won’t be giving him a hug, it’s clear.
“Yes, yes. Hmm, hello Maggie,” he replies, looking at the ground. He shrugs and walks off towards the sheds. He’s wearing his only suit and proper shoes. It seems strange to go to the sheds dressed like that but Poppy is finding a lot of things strange at the moment.
“How did it go?” Poppy overhears Nanna asking her mum in a low voice.
Mother just shakes her head sadly, her eyes glistening in the late afternoon sun.
Then in a forced cheery voice she thanks Nanna for having Poppy for the day, and gives Poppy a big cuddle.
“Don’t thank me darling, I’m not the hired help. Poppy and I had a lovely time, didn’t we Popsie? She should stay the night with me next time. It seems there might be quite a few next times? Lucky for me.” Nanna says with raised eyebrows. Mother gives Nanna a withering look, and says something through gritted teeth.
Nanna does side eyes at Poppy, and they both start giggling again.
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Silverleaf Cottage
Went for the Hot Springs, will return for the cottage
After yet another long, wretched stint in lockdown, Husband man and I were in great need of a holiday. Somewhere to relax, and reconnect and forget for just a while, our failed attempts at home schooling our recalcitrant children.
The last time we’d been away as a couple, I had brown hair and a slim figure, so yeah, it’s been a long, long time. The kids were booked into camps, so that’s their holiday sorted. And whilst another lockdown wasn’t out of the question, we took a punt to book a place down the Mornington Peninsula so we could have a relaxing day at The Peninsula Hot Springs.
Only trouble was, a massive storm came to blow us all down, put out the lights, block the roads and destroy people’s homes. Luckily for my family, it was only loss of power and communication and blocked roads that was a concern. But as the days and nights continued in the cold and dark we started to think that our plan to have a friend look after the dogs, cat, chickens, bunny and our oldest child was not going to be feasible. Could you ask someone to move out of their perfectly fine house and bring their own young child into this cold, dark lifeless situation? When we got the latest update from the electrical company estimating another three weeks without power, we sadly postponed our getaway.
The owners of our booked accommodation were extremely understanding, and although this situation was not covered by their cancellation policy, they were happy to give us a credit for a future booking.
Then a few days later, as I was topping up the generator, there are cries of “The power’s on, the power’s on!” Woohoo, we’re back on for a getaway! Luckily I was able to rebook everything for our escape.
The website for Silverleaf Cottage is filled with words like whimsical and romantic. So, heading down a pretty path lined with tea trees, we’re excited and hopeful that it will be as lovely as it looked in the photos.
The garden is indeed very romantic, with lots of enchanting touches like a fire pit, birdbaths and private seated areas. A climber surrounds the beautiful French doors and in the midst of winter we’re surrounded by flowering plants. I got the feeling this was a four seasons garden and whenever you went, there would be something in bloom.
But if I thought the garden was romantic, the cottage had so much more to offer. I couldn’t wait to see inside. Same with Husband Man. Although I’m not sure if it was to rest after the drive or to stop me banging on about architecture and the cute design of our temporary tiny home.
Even opening the door made me feel happy. A big old-fashioned key turns and one half of the French doors opens into the main room. We push open the other side to take in our luggage. Looking around is an absolute feast for the eyes! Every detail is consistent with the style and over the next two days I continue to see more and more loveliness.
From the doorway your eyes are drawn to huge decorative library heading into the pitched roof. I know they probably aren’t real, but the suggestion that someone could just kick back and read all those books fills me with joy.
I explore the rest of the cottage, ooing and aahing to Husband Man about the beautiful French inspired design details.
I would’ve been very happy to just hang about and enjoy the cottage, however, stomachs were rumbling and a fabulous dinner was on our wish list. Confused by too many options on the Peninsula website, I messaged our host Bernadette to get some insider knowledge. She was quickly back to me with some suggestions, but the obvious winner was Steam, “walking distance from the cottage with rave reviews from previous guests.” Let’s go!
Steam delighted right from the start winning our award for the most friendly greeting ever! With full bellies, we wove our way back wondering aloud if we should’ve stopped at one fewer plates of tasty morsels. Banter and in-jokes that only a couple finds amusing, together with unseasonably warm weather, we felt a million miles away from our devastated mountain.
Back at the cottage we head up the cast iron spiral staircase to the loft. The tiny attic-like space is mostly bed, and very comfy bed at that. The gothic window, tongue and groove walls and pretty pressed tin ceiling make for a very romantic setting. Let me be clear – there is no room for anyone else. No kids. No friends. No family. Just us.
The next day was dedicated to the stunning Peninsula Hot springs. A special place where the hot mineral waters melted locked-up lock-down muscles. Again, the weather was kind and under the beautiful blue sky, we took our time to enjoy the different pools, leaving our favourite, the Hydrojet Pool to last. But even with the disappointment of the jets not being on that day, you couldn’t wipe the smile from our faces.
Refreshed, we decided not to go out but stay in and enjoy our lovely cottage. Dinner would be take-away pizza and champagne. Mmmm. Whilst we can’t help wondering about the kids, there’s something so essential about spending time together just as adults. Partners, not parents.
The final day was a short trip to Sorrento for breakfast and a leisurely return home stopping off for walks on the surf beaches of the Mornington Peninsula.
So, although I was going to tell you more about Peninsula Hot Springs or some of the other fabulous places where we ate or visited, I’m not going to. Because, whilst the purpose of the getaway was the springs, the star of the show was our accommodation itself. As I’m writing this, I get an email from Peninsula Hot Springs suggesting “It’s time to refresh!” Only if I can stay at Silverleaf Cottage.
Silverleaf Cottage, 57 Valley Drive, Rye Victoria. Link to Silverleaf Cottage, Rye here.
Link to Steam restaurant here.
And click here for link to Peninsula Hot Springs.
For more information about spots to visit on the Mornington Peninsula click here.
Photos of cherry blossom and loft by Silverleaf Cottage, other photos by Amanda Gambas
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Don’t You Think That’s Odd?
You’ve never met my kids
Don’t you think that’s odd?
I flew interstate to see your new baby only weeks after she was born
But I didn’t give birth did I?
My kids who are not of my womb
But very much of my heart, my thoughts, my all
These children who I’ve dedicated my life to
Given up my career for
Relinquished opportunities of travel and adventures
Are they not worthy because I did not carry them?
Do you not think it odd?
I think it’s odd
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My Mother Was Six Foot One
My mother was six foot one. When she was nineteen she had fall from her horse and suffered terrible spinal injuries. After two years of rehab, she made a full recovery, to be walking. The staff would say she had a will of steel. Mother would say she had a back of steel, due to all the staples, rods and fusion in her back.
She would forever find it difficult – some days, impossible – to bend. I loved to watch her feed the dogs, of which we had many. Their food was dropped from a great height, practice and wishful thinking guiding most of it into the appropriate bowls. The cat, Ferdinand, was always there to lick up any opportunistic windfalls. Whilst small for a tom cat, he had no fear of the dogs, and they had a healthy respect for him.
I often wondered if this unbending physicality contributed to her inflexible nature. But later I learned that sometimes life throws us spurious correlations, just to mess with us.
My mother was christened Fleur, which is one of those cases of the name totally not suiting the person. At the age of eleven she looked up female names meaning intelligent and strong. Berdy was a Russian name that she chose. I don’t think anyone even knew her as Fleur.
Others found her at once fascinating, and also a little terrifying. She always seemed to have a swarm of fans surrounding her, most of whom she paid little attention to. It was sort of comforting to see that she was popular, but kind of irked me at the same time because she was so offhand to nearly everyone. But instead of working against her this air of disinterest only seemed to make people try harder to get her attention. What joy they took if she looked down at them, dark eyes and hair giving a crow like impression, and showed them that little closed lip smile!
“People are such sycophants,” I’d think to myself, “basking in reflected glory. They wouldn’t be hanging around so much if she was dumpy and plain looking.”
But plain looking she was not. Nearly a foot taller than many women of her generation, I could always find her in a crowd. Which is lucky because I was always losing her. Or she was losing me. Always moving with purpose, her long strides out strode me in no time. Eventually she’d stop and with a swish of long black hair, look all around with a tiny scowl until she saw me. Then with a quick tilt up of her head, as if to say “catch up,” she’d be off again. Her posture was always perfect. I don’t know if this was because of all the structure in her back or just because she was Berdy. Needless to say, she made an enchanting sight, and turned many heads.
Her striking looks aside, my mother had the sharpest brain that I’ve ever encountered. It didn’t matter what the topic, she knew something about it. And it wasn’t just general knowledge, or fun facts, but authentic researched and documented information. If some poor fool dared to challenge her, she could quote her source, and correct any misconceptions, urban myths and propaganda without a moment’s hesitation. Her memory for facts and details was phenomenal.
As a child, I took this for granted. Weren’t all mums a fount of knowledge? All wise, all knowing, unwavering in their beliefs and opinions? I realised the truth of this when I was old enough to mix in the world. But I never thought other mums to be inferior to mine, just different. In many ways I wished my mother was more like some of them. But I digress.
She and my father met as teenagers at pony club. My father, whose name is James, tells stories of how fearless she was as a young rider. Mother always gets a strange look, that seems to be a mixture of proud reminiscence and sad regret. As if it was her fearlessness that contributed to her life-threatening injuries.
The truth, it seems, is that it was simply a terrible accident. Berdy, was a champion Eventer. You might say Three Day Events are the equestrian version of a triathlon. The first day is dressage, and second is an arduous cross country course with challenging jumps along the way, and finally show jumping. As expected, Berdy was in the lead after the dressage event. Then in the cross country section, that was usually her strongest leg, her horse stumbled before a jump. Berdy went over his head and landed on the edge of the jump and the horse followed and ended up on top of her.
My father was one of the first on the scene because he was officialling at the previous jump and had watched it all unfold. Berdy couldn’t recall any details of that day or the next ten days. But others who were there all remark on how calm and in control Dad was. Everyone knew he was in love with her, but secretly thought that with his homely farmer looks and soft gentle ways he was no match for her. That my dear reader is the remarkable nature of love looking to fulfil its yin and yang.
Berdy was in an induced coma in intensive care for eight days. She had sustained many injuries in the fall. Five cracked ribs, both shoulders dislocated, a broken clavicle, three damaged spinal vertebrae, cracked skull with bleeding on the brain and a compound fracture of her ulna, resulting in the grisly sight of bone erupting through the muscle and skin of her forearm.
She would wake from her big sleep to see Jimmy, as everyone called him, sitting by her bedside, reading Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. He later confessed that he didn’t understand what the hell it was all about, but thought that Berdy would be impressed to see him reading it.
The accident was definitely a major turning point in Berdy’s life. Sometimes people have arrested development from the point of a great trauma and don’t seem to fully mature. Berdy’s long recuperation time gave her the luxury of introspection born of boredom. She set upon a path of self-discovery that would take her from a very quirky and awkward teenager to a charismatic, confident, and yes still rather quirky, young woman. Mothering was probably something that she wasn’t suited to, but hey, if she hadn’t gone there, then I wouldn’t be here telling you this story.
I could say, “and the rest is history.” But that would imply a kind of “and they all lived happily ever after,” type of ending. I’d be guilty of downplaying the chaotic, multigenerational bubbling pot that is the story of my family. So instead I’ll finish with “there may be more to this tale, but that will have to wait for another day.”
To read more from Amanda Gambas and other Mountain Ash Chapter writers, please click here; https://mountainashchapter.com.au
To learn more about Eventing in Australia click here;https://www.equestrian.org.au/Eventing
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The Doors Are Permanently Locked
The doors are permanently locked now. I ring the buzzer and we’re eventually allowed in by the security guard. Stepping inside I’m hit with the blast of fuggy air from the heat pump above the door. Even though it’s a clear warm autumn day, inside it feels like a dying sauna.
The next thing to hit me is the smell. What is that? Stale urine unsuccessfully masked by antiseptic, a fake sickly vanilla scent, with the lingering odour of bulk packet gravy? Actually I made that bit up. I’ll let you in on a little secret. I’m actually anosmic. Can’t smell a thing! So the smell is kind of a Schrödinger’s cat. Until it can be proven by someone else it is both there and not there. Just goes to show, the size of the equipment doesn’t necessarily reflect the efficacy of it.
9936, the code to let us through the first door. “Why can’t you ever remember that?” asks my husband incredulously. I pop out my eyes and shrug my shoulders. It’s the same question every time, with the same answer. We like our little routines.
Half way down the corridor two women in their 80s have heads together, talking and laughing like school girls. They see us coming and start to wave elegantly, a cross between a royal wave and screwing in a light bulb. I’ve never seen them before but their beaming faces encourage me to be playful, and I flap my hands in greeting.
Deep in my gut, however, is apprehension of what will come.
My father in law is lying on a low bed with padded grey mats on the floor either side of the bed, in case he rolls out. He doesn’t look as if he is rolling anywhere soon. We take a minute to absorb the sight of his thin motionless frame, skeletal beneath the white cotton sheets. The only visible sign of life is the regular movement of air through his toothless mouth. We’d been told that someone had stolen his teeth, but the sight is unsettling, like a death mask.
My brother in law Kosta is here. Pacing the room like a big bald lion, then standing at the end of the bed, glowering and roaring. “Why was he in a wheelchair anyway? Why wasn’t he in his chair? He wouldn’t be lying here on his deathbed!”
My dear sweet husband takes his father’s hand and tries to placate his brother.
While angry shots are fired above my head, I sink to the soft mats on the floor and take his other hand. Instinctively I feel his pulse. His hearts blood reaches up to meet my fingertips in a strong even beat, more suited to a 19 year old boy, not a 91 year old dying man.
The doctor comes in and checks the usual vitals. I run my own checks with her; No, he won’t wake up. Yes, all medications have been stopped. No, they won’t be feeding him.
He’s unconscious and there is no consideration of a feeding tube. It looks like if the bleeding on the brain doesn’t get him first, then a slow death by starvation will. For fucks sake!
The doctor leaves and more pot shots are fired from the end of the bed. Peow, peow, peow!
I drop to the soft edges on the floor again and lean in. “Hi Dad” I say, even though he is not my dad, it is the Greek way. “Can you hear me, it’s Amanda. Are you in there? I’m here with Angele and Kosta. You look very comfortable there. “
One eye lazily opens. Although I say lazily, it must have taken a lot of effort to do that.
I’m about to speak again when two nurses come to attend to him and we are ushered out.
The three of us sit in the corner of the rec room. There hasn’t been any rec going on here for as long as I’ve known it.
“Ruby Red Legs is making her move up the outside, My Chagrin is boxed in and Lambsgobarr still leading.” The tellie is deafening, I can’t see the screen but the sound blasts straight in my left ear. Angele takes a work phone call and bellows above the noise into my right ear. In between, Kosta and I are talking about what we tell the children. Do we let them see him like this? Kosta tells me what he’s told his kids. He tells me 3 times. It seems to be a family trait. Always the same story 3 times. Yes 3 times.
I try to keep my face neutral but I know there is pain all over it. Annoyance from the din around me, the moaning, shouting and indistinguishable cries from the residents, discomfort from the relentless muggy heat, sadness at the living dead staring into the unknown.
More nurses and staff come and go into the room, it seems to be taking a long time.
Finally one comes to the door and says “you can come in. He’s up!”
And there is dad, seemingly risen from the dead, sitting on the edge of the bed. His unseeing eyes do not stop him from knowing we are there or who we are. He chats, he remembers everyone, he has some strange coma hallucination memories that he thinks are real, but in general you’d never know there was anything wrong.
“Nero, nero” he repeats. “Water, water.” Such very thirsty work being unconscious for 4 days without eating or drinking.
More staff, including the doctor come to see the miracle. Yes, they will reinstate his medication. Yes, he can have something to eat. No one offers any prognosis. A few have theories of how it happened. Kosta says its because the sedatives the hospital gave him wore off.
Hmm, I know what I’m going to believe. And it’s not that.
Addendum:
My father in law stayed with us for 2 months, reminiscing and giving all a chance to say goodbye. So he satisfactorily beat that 2 day prognosis we were originally given. However, it’s difficult to say that it was worth the pain he went through after having two more falls. The last fall broke his hip. The death sentence for so many elderly, and so it proved to be for my father in law.
So tomorrow we lay this beautiful man to rest. Such a gentle man, kind and forgiving.
I can only fit pieces of his life together. Those bits he wished to talk about. Or that I was privileged to witness. Like how important bread was during the war!
How he worked as a taxi driver, paid off the house and retired early, to tend to his garden, take long walks around the park and surrounding streets, go to the Greek club every Tuesday and Thursday, the markets with Soula on Friday and Church on Sunday.
He grew the best tasting tomatoes you’ve ever had, heartily enjoyed Soula’s fabulous cooking, played tavli (backgammon) with his family and made the most dreadful wine with his neighbour Dominic.
“Amenda, have some wine!”
“Awe, gee thanks George, but it’s a bit early for me.”
“It’s good for you!”
“I’m sure it is, but I’ll get too sleepy if I have any now”
“Here, pour Amenda some wine” Passes the bottle to Angele who fills a tumbler and hands it to me with a wicked expression.
He didn’t talk about the hardships of coming to a new country, learning a new language and marrying a girl he’d never met. Nor the devastating grief of losing his only daughter to a car accident at only 24 years of age.
We did hear quite often about the bread though, did I mention the bread?
Rest in eternal peace George Gambas. We shall share some bread and raise a glass of wine in your memory.
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