tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18498314451687395212024-03-13T13:41:12.864-07:00Reading, Writing and a Few Dog StoriesGaby Gardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15801062680314947577noreply@blogger.comBlogger63125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1849831445168739521.post-80836144611174731892021-12-13T22:11:00.001-08:002021-12-13T23:14:52.621-08:00Lefty Loosy, Righty Tighty: the steep learning curve of a new widow<h1 style="text-align: center;"> </h1><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: center;"><o:p></o:p></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;">I’m not really a ‘new’ widow. It’s been nearly 3 years now; I should be getting used to it. But when my husband died so suddenly I lost not only the love of my life but my ready access to a whole lot of other support options I’d thoughtlessly taken for granted for decades. He wasn’t what anyone would call an enthusiastic home-maker – happier with a guitar or an Apple Mac than a paint brush or an electric drill - but as a fixer & rescuer he was tops. Whatever went wrong in my life he seemed to be able to fix. He knew how things worked and if he didn’t he’d nut it out. As my chief tech support he was unfailingly helpful and pretty darn brilliant as well. No computer problem, no sound system glitch, no electric appliance was beyond him and he tackled these with serene confidence. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;">For any and all purchases he would scrupulously file the warrantee and – get this – read the instructions!!<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;">I’ve never done this in my life. I’d just wait for him to do it and then tell me how it worked. Or, as my mother had advised, 'just chuck it in, Dear, and see if it floats'.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;">So, alone, I noticed the things I couldn’t do start to multiply, rearing their little heads and waking me up at 2 am to ponder my incompetence and wonder what the heck I was going to do about it.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;">The get-a-man-in approach I’ve resorted to willingly and often but it's not always easy.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiSB2U8GcARPy0bixsW2UCQhi0vA3k-WoJtdl4SntbwUo9PIy0qP19LHiBs3xPxoUVOYV4jCtp9YTFSFhDaDIZojk4va5dERso0uJ8rpZo-OhOdGEJoi_SkvSmloxjikGdE6Ppe4JWedu4rrMzgxnQwLH4-rNFanj6_dVzgPce0qhGZMbJcMjXvcFJzBw=s332" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="332" data-original-width="251" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiSB2U8GcARPy0bixsW2UCQhi0vA3k-WoJtdl4SntbwUo9PIy0qP19LHiBs3xPxoUVOYV4jCtp9YTFSFhDaDIZojk4va5dERso0uJ8rpZo-OhOdGEJoi_SkvSmloxjikGdE6Ppe4JWedu4rrMzgxnQwLH4-rNFanj6_dVzgPce0qhGZMbJcMjXvcFJzBw=s320" width="242" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;">A recent dilemma emerged when, on a frosty 4 degree morning, my ducted gas heating failed to ignite. Not keen to start fiddling with gas pipes, I called the professionals. His first question? “How long since you cleaned the filter?” What? And yes, there was judgement in his eyes. The ‘filter’ (ha!) so clogged with dust and dog hair that no self-respecting air could’ve got through to be cleansed, heated and recycled back to keep the house warm. I sheepishly thanked him, paid up and promised to clean it regularly for the rest of my days.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;">I’ve since found someone to clean the windows, a task Philip did willingly. With his 6’ 3” frame, a formidable wingspan and no fear of heights he quite liked the satisfaction this job presented.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;">When he'd been gone for a year and I could hardly see through the front windows I knew I had to act.<br /> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh5cK8VsO9Hw7EI6Mz5jyQ8u9uy24BSuw3z-kl4_XgznhHUX5HVK3mEXA32fh2wuqgT_TdoZGBsk-HQRojuvjaaEpMv8sU-CJbiM4N6rIphF62k2t6VK0cYra8WV0h4-Jl7qZnkLZvxCQL9OhOxbXWNJw_iHJ5QIeXx9CUxxAZCrEbjoXDHPEcVGPCX_g=s516" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="516" data-original-width="271" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh5cK8VsO9Hw7EI6Mz5jyQ8u9uy24BSuw3z-kl4_XgznhHUX5HVK3mEXA32fh2wuqgT_TdoZGBsk-HQRojuvjaaEpMv8sU-CJbiM4N6rIphF62k2t6VK0cYra8WV0h4-Jl7qZnkLZvxCQL9OhOxbXWNJw_iHJ5QIeXx9CUxxAZCrEbjoXDHPEcVGPCX_g=s320" width="168" /></a></div>Cars got cleaned, gutters got purged and giant bins heavy with green waste got dragged up the hill to be emptied and brought in again – all without me really noticing or appreciating his diligence with these jobs that were not in his natural realm. <p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;">For all of these jobs I have had to, with great tenacity, do them myself or find someone to help.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;">But with other things there’s that little spectre that keeps muttering out the side of its mouth, “C’mon, how hard can it be?”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;">In the heat of last summer a back external security door dropped and would no longer lock. Call a locksmith? None available. Buy a new lock and find someone to fit it? “Maybe late next week, Madam”. Buy a new door! (I was getting desperate.) Or, put on my glasses and examine the problem. (How hard can it be?) Chisel, hammer and a few screws later I’d reset the hole the little locky bit goes into and all was well. (Terminology is not my strong suit.) God knows how secure it actually is now but it's fixed to my standards anyway.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;">YouTube, of course, is the single person’s saviour. <i>Everything</i> is there.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;">Recently there loomed a big one. After a week of visitors for various celebratory birthday lunches the dishwasher - top brand, not that old - got a bit of a workout and as I unpacked the latest load I noticed that it hadn’t done a very good job. Memories of the gas heating surfaced. There’s sure to be a filter and I’m not going to be shamed in front of another tradesmen as he realises I probably haven’t cleaned it since my husband died. YouTube to the rescue and even that didn’t quite appease my fear that, even if I got it apart and cleaned all the bits, what if I couldn’t get it back together again?<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;">It took me till lunchtime to pluck up the courage to get down on my hands and knees and Just Do It! I invoked that old maxim of Lefty Loosy, Righty Tighty, got it all dismantled, cleaned it thoroughly and put it back together again. Okay, the first attempt was upside down but in the end I triumphed. I set off in the rain to walk my dog, feeling as if I’d just won the Pulitzer Prize.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;">My baby chainsaw, my pride and joy, recently lost its chain as I, down on my hand and knees in the dirt, face-shield in place, attacked a suckering out-of-control lilac tree. No panicking this time, I dismantled it, smugly put it all back together again and – it wouldn’t work. Left Loosy Righty Tighty didn’t take care of the back-to-front, upside down option but I do have good friends I can occasionally call on. Which was clearly necessary.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgp_o9QPoLtVJq_x8NC3v0meh_IX0EIzWGilKLATIrmR7K0A7ZQTUISslgq__1IBDcDlU6KXIUYtxo-QvsWGbK-iNwSw6kRxXqqJlV7-qijUAWrdykp-HQ8cgs25GdtBeXoMl_Oya2Bay9uyr_rImBUTT_xSTqeBOn41W_MJDSpFKNiunpsOhd4bPlcLQ=s4032" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgp_o9QPoLtVJq_x8NC3v0meh_IX0EIzWGilKLATIrmR7K0A7ZQTUISslgq__1IBDcDlU6KXIUYtxo-QvsWGbK-iNwSw6kRxXqqJlV7-qijUAWrdykp-HQ8cgs25GdtBeXoMl_Oya2Bay9uyr_rImBUTT_xSTqeBOn41W_MJDSpFKNiunpsOhd4bPlcLQ=s320" width="240" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;">Scoff if you will, all you natural-born handy-persons out there, but for us novices, while there is certainly a time to call in help, there’s also a time to put our hands on our hips, look the problem in the eye and ask, “How hard can it be?”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: center;">~*~<o:p></o:p></p>Gaby Gardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15801062680314947577noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1849831445168739521.post-7033280106725880342021-05-08T00:33:00.006-07:002021-05-08T17:12:52.099-07:00Ask Your Mother<h2 style="text-align: left;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilLREX0oHEoEfDZjK6QIbpA1dHeNCLaYyN5Ag2Fbb444qs_suROwHwJIowXz6mKFVxAV0S3mI5MUy82Laq2IiHvEP-kwydFfalG_8WWqYHgGs2eK_zgIFisG25LKGhmZlKNzGGqo0EHAIQ/s650/Screen+Shot+2021-05-08+at+7.18.18+pm.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="436" data-original-width="650" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilLREX0oHEoEfDZjK6QIbpA1dHeNCLaYyN5Ag2Fbb444qs_suROwHwJIowXz6mKFVxAV0S3mI5MUy82Laq2IiHvEP-kwydFfalG_8WWqYHgGs2eK_zgIFisG25LKGhmZlKNzGGqo0EHAIQ/w529-h269/Screen+Shot+2021-05-08+at+7.18.18+pm.png" width="529" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />The Tweed River, N.S.W.</td></tr></tbody></table></h2><br /><p>A wise woman once said to me that one of our enduring goals ought to be to die with no regrets. I've blown it already I'm afraid and, with another Mothers day upon us, I realise that one of my biggest regrets is that I didn't ask my mum more questions about her life while I had the chance.</p><p>At 17 I went bobbing off on a bus with 18 of my just-graduated school mates from Murwillumbah High to the University of New England 400 kilometres away, all compliments of Commonwealth scholarships which few of us, including our parents, knew much about at all. The comparative luxury of Mary White College was handed to me on a plate and I've never lived at home since.</p><p>Perhaps if I had I might have developed the wisdom or the maturity to become curious about my mother before it was too late. But too late it is and I'm wracked with questions that nobody can answer, least of all her.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj40a7sTOnyhYzlAl0DwqgYJneO2ay2Bcz8iXjr-gduq0DVo18oYEQzlfVwLy7kAqJNkM5jUoZ0KImrQNvS3VJFiu9sE_igma-mjuMtkke11NqZdO-J7qo3QiPmcOHhLUtcKzvfEefUihvf/s335/Screen+Shot+2021-05-08+at+4.44.49+pm.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="295" data-original-width="335" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj40a7sTOnyhYzlAl0DwqgYJneO2ay2Bcz8iXjr-gduq0DVo18oYEQzlfVwLy7kAqJNkM5jUoZ0KImrQNvS3VJFiu9sE_igma-mjuMtkke11NqZdO-J7qo3QiPmcOHhLUtcKzvfEefUihvf/s320/Screen+Shot+2021-05-08+at+4.44.49+pm.png" width="320" /></a></div><p>Left motherless 3 days after her birth in a family self-described as bog-Irish catholics she grew up with a feisty disrespect for authority if their rules didn't align with her own innate beliefs or logic. She was fearless, articulate and a bit quirky, my mum. She painted our shoes with stove black, left conditioner in her hair because 'it feels so lovely' (only until it dried) and encouraged us to rub charcoal on our teeth instead of the much more palatable toothpaste. Salt water would cure anything, as would jumping in the sea. She regularly dismissed the need for precision with a carefree 'Oh don't fuss. A man on a galloping horse won't notice!' I blame her for my own sometime cavalier attitude towards attention to detail. </p><p>At our small house opposite an arm of the Tweed River two green tree frogs lived in the tin letterbox out the front. Mum used to chat to them whenever she went out to check for mail. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZtTl2OcfF8CUzls1wuQic0XnHOO4IkcBH8YPc1VdZniGmAgb0zAf4lf2luAQOEGxLCCKFkisRkndfCSoz2pbmokZzWhQYLZWrK-ZiGP7nlQN68vIzmkRSIR8msbABNversQ5oH71BppfB/s239/Screen+Shot+2021-05-08+at+5.02.27+pm.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="157" data-original-width="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZtTl2OcfF8CUzls1wuQic0XnHOO4IkcBH8YPc1VdZniGmAgb0zAf4lf2luAQOEGxLCCKFkisRkndfCSoz2pbmokZzWhQYLZWrK-ZiGP7nlQN68vIzmkRSIR8msbABNversQ5oH71BppfB/s0/Screen+Shot+2021-05-08+at+5.02.27+pm.png" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: left;">When a passer-by once looked at her askance she happily explained that no, she wasn't talking to herself, she was talking to the two resident frogs - as if that made it all okay. (I was recently told by my sister-in-law that an old friend of Mum's once borrowed the two frogs to deal with a cockroach problem she was having in her garden shed. None of us knows how that turned out.)<br /><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">The mystery is that this woman who left school at 13 could, and did, recite poetry at length and with great expression, was familiar with the works of Alexander Dumas, Emile Zola and Dickens - "Barkus is willin''' was a favourite expression - was a faultless speller, regularly made up games involving grammar and punctuation to entertain us in our television-free evenings and had a boundless repertoire of spine-chilling stories which left us wide-eyed and breathless. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif">And I never thought to find out how this could be. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;">At her funeral some old chums were discussing their own memories of my mum's life.</p><p style="text-align: left;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif">'Remember Maisie and the spelling prize? She first won the whole school medal when she was only ten.'</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif">'That was when they were living over the fruit shop with their Aunty Bub.'</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif">What?</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif">I ache to know. What was it like growing up motherless? Why did she despise the church so vehemently? Why did she never value possessions and give away anything we gave her the minute our backs were turned? When did her family arrive in Australia, and how? What became of her father after her mother died? Where did she meet my dad?</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif">Tell me the stories. If only someone could.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif">At 17 I wasn't the least bit curious about her. Self-focused and wanting only to get away I just never thought to ask. </span>Of course I went back, frequently. The highways from Melbourne to the Tweed are as familiar as my own street - the monotony of the Newell, the hair-raising risks and beauty of the Pacific. But on arrival there was always the excitement of being together again, reunions, partners to introduce, old friends to catch up with. Never the right time to sit down with just my mum for heart to hearts and a sharing of her history.</p><div>Now there's a vacuum that will never be filled, an echo-free space where I might toss my questions as often as I like but no answers will ever bounce back.</div><div>If you have your mother still I hope you ask her all the questions you might ever want to have answered. Find out all the things she loved, feared and desired. Etch her history onto your own and have no regrets when you lose her because hers might be the stories you will one day treasure the most.</div><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm; text-align: left;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm; text-align: left;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXIBj2-zjeOv2-J0iXFQOx28n98W4e9I_l0-3eIjdurYaLkbHFICmhEEGADDPM21awmgAgOhL4RXsQxwAYSA-V_RtEmq-SGm50Ha0c-6oiVBTllbgZ3rerp0Yco-vzwinPMfSsGarwILdm/s2048/IMG_0562.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="358" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXIBj2-zjeOv2-J0iXFQOx28n98W4e9I_l0-3eIjdurYaLkbHFICmhEEGADDPM21awmgAgOhL4RXsQxwAYSA-V_RtEmq-SGm50Ha0c-6oiVBTllbgZ3rerp0Yco-vzwinPMfSsGarwILdm/w266-h358/IMG_0562.jpg" width="266" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm; text-align: center;">*~*<o:p></o:p></p></div>Gaby Gardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15801062680314947577noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1849831445168739521.post-47094402429512831442021-03-10T22:55:00.002-08:002021-03-11T16:13:46.774-08:00How Does Your Garden Grow?<p> *This piece first appeared in <i><b>The Big Issue</b></i> Vol. 632, March 2021</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK9oRUK-aiqfEuHHoazUSRKhxl8O2n1EzXRjxg_5Dk4gEDE5Ys47XX11XhNWqo4XSBY0WnLERJoMzEHxIhMPZnG5r5Mhq_nf1csFm3_M4gzAczsDlp-sb-912BgHqZw253OqhU_3MkTvrm/s2048/IMG_2590.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1697" data-original-width="2048" height="331" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK9oRUK-aiqfEuHHoazUSRKhxl8O2n1EzXRjxg_5Dk4gEDE5Ys47XX11XhNWqo4XSBY0WnLERJoMzEHxIhMPZnG5r5Mhq_nf1csFm3_M4gzAczsDlp-sb-912BgHqZw253OqhU_3MkTvrm/w439-h331/IMG_2590.jpg" width="439" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>When the first lockdown hit at the beginning of 2020 I had been a widow for just one year. The shock of my husband's early death was still all-consuming, his ongoing absence paralysing. I imagined him everywhere and thought constantly of things I must tell him. Our two dogs raced to the couch and leapt up to stare hopefully out the window every time a car approached our driveway. </p><p>I knew I could cope, knew I'd survive, but what for?</p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt181Fx7McH-UsNL0LrDsBpCEhewNUW83pf13W7OQOycx-bfBORBibOsfF4xM6lDbu2iRNbj3x30sGlNiaTzDN-COrjyHl6JNOhks64PImt_IjEXeRUQn_qiHQBOW2ah7fUqbGpIyP9qeT/s2048/IMG_1738.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt181Fx7McH-UsNL0LrDsBpCEhewNUW83pf13W7OQOycx-bfBORBibOsfF4xM6lDbu2iRNbj3x30sGlNiaTzDN-COrjyHl6JNOhks64PImt_IjEXeRUQn_qiHQBOW2ah7fUqbGpIyP9qeT/w240-h320/IMG_1738.jpg" width="240" /></a>I'd had a few awards and enough things published in the past to start to call myself a writer but with his death every creative thought dropped out of my head and has so far never returned. Every night for four months I sat alone at the table in silence, doing nothing.</p><p><span style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;">But one evening, sitting out on the old sleeper steps out in the backyard with Stella </span>I looked at the space where I'd had an old shed removed. Straggling trails of jasmine remained and one unstoppable white banksia rose. I wondered what the soil would be like and if I could perhaps plant something else there along the fence. Eventually darkness fell, the birds went wherever birds go at twilight and reluctantly I came inside. </p><p>Early the next day I found myself out in the new space idly pulling out jasmine which I soon discovered is not something you can do idly at all. I found the mattock and set about waging war on the jasmine roots that had commandeered the whole area. It was an ugly job.</p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBgVg8voZZsrfNJNLb7U2eNq3YxNLykFjPsis9Gfz8w0BjXoBFkoXTn0ttn3MzDdUufE_bfvaMN5vNzcwz0L_9cjfpZEtWJM9wdI850uzlVU_hohRkSx3-Bwh6x-knB_k5iJlMtrBZEQ91/s2048/IMG_1928.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="374" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBgVg8voZZsrfNJNLb7U2eNq3YxNLykFjPsis9Gfz8w0BjXoBFkoXTn0ttn3MzDdUufE_bfvaMN5vNzcwz0L_9cjfpZEtWJM9wdI850uzlVU_hohRkSx3-Bwh6x-knB_k5iJlMtrBZEQ91/w281-h374/IMG_1928.jpg" width="281" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>A challenging start</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><span> </span></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;">Now, despite the bad press it gets a lot of the time, I have an enviable network of people on Twitter, a lot of them writers, many of them nature photographers and nearly all of them avid gardeners. I started to pay closer attention to their posts about plants and gardens. In lockdown my Twitter pals became my best resource, commenting positively on the progress I made, posting inspirational photos of their own plants and gardens and sharing ideas for sourcing plants online while we could no longer make raids on the local nurseries. A highlight came when, unable to identify a deciduous blue-flowering plant hiding in my own garden I asked for help on Twitter. Within minutes back came a reply from an unknown person in California. It's caryopteris, she said, and so it proved to be. Seems gardeners know no borders.</p></blockquote></blockquote><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: right;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: right;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: right;">Before long and concurrently I started on the front yard. It was only a 'yard' - a struggling lawn labouring under the greed of some huge gum trees that sucked the life out of anything underneath.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: right;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN01SJnR-43xFh2Bx2y96UQvR4Zz5UrazttutkYRLa8d63nSdDr1rfkgLEjc4lXMrXGLvfgDeAvfK7fdrMQQn1tX5P9XvymA0eKKALc-7YdUrOVWrB8qGRQdfudCMduurtXVV4c0sQzF4u/s2048/IMG_2402.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="458" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN01SJnR-43xFh2Bx2y96UQvR4Zz5UrazttutkYRLa8d63nSdDr1rfkgLEjc4lXMrXGLvfgDeAvfK7fdrMQQn1tX5P9XvymA0eKKALc-7YdUrOVWrB8qGRQdfudCMduurtXVV4c0sQzF4u/w344-h458/IMG_2402.jpg" width="344" /></a></div><p>In the year that followed I created a whole new garden out the front as well as out the back where the shed had been. The fence now sports climbing roses and a variety of perennials that are growing like Topsy.</p><p>Soon I became aware that the more active I was outside in the garden, the more my head was filled with plans instead of grief. If anything kept me awake at night it was a visual journey of what things might look like if I spread mulch to kill what poor grass remained, dug in compost, created pathways through and under trees and chose plants that were as tough as old boots. The costs were not great - a load of secondhand bricks from eBay, cuttings from my own and friends' gardens, dividing and transplanting things from one place to a new location, soon saw my front yard begin to transform, as did I. </p><p>I came inside at the end of each day sore from digging and pulling weeds, from shovelling and spreading barrows of mulch and disposing of dead soil. But I felt better.</p><p>I know that many schools, prisons and various mental health facilities offer gardening programs and extol their success. I know I'm lucky to have the time and the ability to bend my knees and my back every day over my developing garden. As I respond to my garden, my garden responds to me. After a year I beam over it like a proud parent. I walk the new paths I created and I tend the plants with love. I seem to have reconnected to life.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm4NdCWrR0lYwu6dp02sg9BuM8L8mccb2R4hrk93GbJhQcrX0W3gQb7PH45r1t6F0ht_3oaP4OeUfdhf0kKyQyGzT9qdWrnnHj2tM568ZO5aNT4OIiK3fhaFwDk6t1Hrwx3jzSLaTg_yFv/s2048/IMG_1815.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm4NdCWrR0lYwu6dp02sg9BuM8L8mccb2R4hrk93GbJhQcrX0W3gQb7PH45r1t6F0ht_3oaP4OeUfdhf0kKyQyGzT9qdWrnnHj2tM568ZO5aNT4OIiK3fhaFwDk6t1Hrwx3jzSLaTg_yFv/w161-h214/IMG_1815.jpg" width="161" /></a></div><br /><p>If I were to find myself living in a high rise apartment the first thing I'd do is acquire a few pots and fill what little space I had with living plants that needed my care. I would hope that I could look out onto green space nearby, watching the seasons change and the gardeners at their precious work.</p><p style="text-align: center;">*~*</p>Gaby Gardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15801062680314947577noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1849831445168739521.post-41709946613077645002021-01-02T18:28:00.002-08:002021-01-02T20:11:15.538-08:00Treasure<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">Before Philip and I married I lived in a flat in an old single level Art Deco building in High Street, Armadale, with my dog Millicent. Philip still lived with his parents (you could tell) in a beautiful big weatherboard house in Brunswick with a fertile backyard full of fruit trees including a nectarine tree to die for. In season the fruit was given away by the bucketful and still more remained.</span></div><p style="text-align: left;">I loved my Saturday mornings in Armadale - an early tram ride down to Prahran Market then usually a wander up High Street which was then <i>the</i> antique belt of Melbourne. I'm sure most of the shops were antique shops. There was also a place called Marney's Secondhand Wares where I bought, for $65, a genuine Chesterfield settee which I still have today. Several re-coverings later it's always been the most sought after seat in the house.</p><p style="text-align: left;">Across the road from Marneys, up the Glenferrie Road end and very close, if not next door, to The Green Man, where Philip played guitar several times a week, was Kents Antiques. I was entranced by the things in Kents window but one item drew me back time and time again. I stared at it from the street more times than I could count and marvelled at its translucence and colour. I dreaded the day when I might walk past and it would be gone, sold to someone else. It was a lamp, hanging high from the ceiling on a long chain, emerald green and luminous and way out of my price range.</p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdT-Cfhdhtx1FJ3CTw27bAkAae3MDMC_ZGwPdpF2lIDmpei7VOYvjmFRjfO-256ZAGBUMHeahC-EMOzAI5ezGQlJZl_PjxyiBn9BbdGgEKufJfTgIIyAbnI5Pf5R4u-nCeivpoMPCWWAfm/s2048/IMG_2131.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1084" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdT-Cfhdhtx1FJ3CTw27bAkAae3MDMC_ZGwPdpF2lIDmpei7VOYvjmFRjfO-256ZAGBUMHeahC-EMOzAI5ezGQlJZl_PjxyiBn9BbdGgEKufJfTgIIyAbnI5Pf5R4u-nCeivpoMPCWWAfm/w338-h640/IMG_2131.jpg" width="338" /></a></div><br />One day as I stared up at 'my' lamp from the street the proprietor himself came out to talk to me. Well, he came and stood on the marble steps and looked at me enquiringly. Dapper always, this time in a navy blue blazer and red bow tie, <a href="https://johnstoncollection.org">William Johnson</a> invited me into the store and together we craned our necks to view <i>my</i> lamp. He told me it was Regency Venetian glass and was in fact originally a candle holder, still having traces of candle wax inside. He pointed out the tiny peacocks at the end of each chain that held the lamp in place. <p></p><p style="text-align: left;">I didn't know at the time that this was a rare privilege and that William Johnson himself could be a bit picky about who he fraternised with and who came into his shop. I told Philip the story and every time we left the Green Man where I frequently went to listen to him play, we'd stop by Kents window so I could gaze upwards and lust after my lamp.</p><p style="text-align: left;">After we married and bought a house amongst the gum trees out in the wilds of Eltham I was a bit wistful about having left the antique belt of High Street behind and especially about the inevitable lost contact with my lamp. Until, that is, one day Philip arrived home with it, packed in masses of straw and brown paper. I was speechless with surprise, filled with love and gratitude, but he was far more pragmatic. </p><p style="text-align: left;">'Well, I couldn't bear the thought of going back to High Street one day to see it had been sold, and you banging on about it for the rest of our lives. So I just bought it." </p><p style="text-align: left;">At this early stage of our lives together, having just bought a house, we had about $11 in the bank between us so this was a massive outlay, which, forever more, we both agreed was worth every cent. It hangs in our bedroom still and I love it beyond measure, and bask in the reminder of Philip's boundless generosity and thoughtfulness. </p><p style="text-align: left;">This month he will have been gone two years. I sometimes lie in bed and wonder how I will fill in the rest of my life without him but this light above me, this treasure, will always remind me of the joy he brought.</p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;">~*~</p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: right;"><br /></div><br /><p></p>Gaby Gardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15801062680314947577noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1849831445168739521.post-24501284164992203942019-12-15T17:11:00.000-08:002019-12-16T03:21:27.945-08:00The Year of Delusional ThinkingAnd so another year draws to a close. For me an unthinkable year, a year where loss and absence have been the backdrop to everything.<br />
All I've achieved is mess. The mess of cleaning out one house for sale, the much worse mess of filling up the other house with all the stuff I swore I wouldn't bring home. The awareness that this is the only goal I have - to somehow get rid of the mess.<br />
Belatedly, I read Joan Dideon's book <i>The Year of Magical Thinking</i>. I didn't read it when it first came out but a recent article in The Age about the stage version struck a chord and I immediately acquired and read it. Her husband died in circumstances almost the same as did my own. Suddenly, shockingly, unexpectedly. Two things she wrote resonated with me enough to make me quiver: the deep belief that of course he would come back, the total inability to believe that he was gone forever. The second was the daily assumption that later she would tell him things, report on the day, laugh with him about something that struck a chord. I do that still, eleven months later. There is a kind of undersong, a constant hum to use Alice Bishop's phrase, in which we talk and laugh and confer and nod, simpatico as always. That sly glance across a room to each other when the same thing strikes a chord with both of us, the telepathic nudge. 'We'll talk about it later'.<br />
But of course we won't. Maybe Joan Dideon should have called her book The Year of Delusional Thinking.<br />
She too dreaded the new year rolling over because then she'd have to say, he died last year, which seems so accepting, so ordinary, such a long time ago.<br />
<br />
One of the many consequences for me is the disappearance of any vestige of creativity. Not only have I written nothing and have no ideas for doing so, but all the projects that used to fill my time and my thinking have disappeared. Once I was forever seeing all manner of materials in terms of what I could make but this year, nothing. No interest, no plans.<br />
I don't buy anything. I've given away mountains of 'stuff and things'—even precious objects I've had for decades— with no regrets. Yesterday I farewelled my last crop of sweet peas which thrived every year in the beachside northern sun. I have no regrets about leaving them. That was then, this is now.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg47hdiXfnwHet1k2HjXtP0B7VgDnJZQ7SX9B3S67vhfKci3YhW_fL6MtaNiqV9nYCR1vJ2NdOAbgFr1hmsVzrYodBRBB0WPn84j01AFVE5X1huizLrjXkeM3x6VSCjBHqDT9OWRc0v3OgW/s1600/sweet+peas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg47hdiXfnwHet1k2HjXtP0B7VgDnJZQ7SX9B3S67vhfKci3YhW_fL6MtaNiqV9nYCR1vJ2NdOAbgFr1hmsVzrYodBRBB0WPn84j01AFVE5X1huizLrjXkeM3x6VSCjBHqDT9OWRc0v3OgW/s400/sweet+peas.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
My friends have been precious, constant supports. Some of Philip's friends have been so kind to me it's hard to fathom. And it's high time I crawled out of this hole and became me again. I will travel with my women friends again, I will be lured back into my garden. I will get back to being a transporter for <a href="http://www.startingoverdogrescue.org.au/">Starting Over Dog Rescue</a>, those extraordinary people who've let me off the hook these past months as I cleaned out a whole house and sold it. Now that's done I hope I can soon be useful again.<br />
Of course I dread Christmas and moreso, the New Year, where Philip was famous for his music quiz, which he spent weeks devising. I won't be there.<br />
But almost by accident, I did somehow grow an impressive crop of hollyhocks and cornflowers just recently, <span style="text-align: center;">a first for both. That was gratifying.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<span style="text-align: center;"></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmZnDEpJyZv7Pmh4DRp2GYCPXahftGrdsd8ufc-wqbmqWvnj3CIl1spEvMNOTHFDfG6qgVJEHweW1vP03eFEXJcZss31YtX6amPJZNJ55nRRRCU3WhaqLczR3wwu9w6Ennlt3elvCINC1Y/s1600/Screen+Shot+2019-12-16+at+11.42.51+am.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="757" data-original-width="1106" height="438" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmZnDEpJyZv7Pmh4DRp2GYCPXahftGrdsd8ufc-wqbmqWvnj3CIl1spEvMNOTHFDfG6qgVJEHweW1vP03eFEXJcZss31YtX6amPJZNJ55nRRRCU3WhaqLczR3wwu9w6Ennlt3elvCINC1Y/s640/Screen+Shot+2019-12-16+at+11.42.51+am.png" width="640" /></a></span></div>
<span style="text-align: center;">
</span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
And luckily, I still have my personal life support system which has never failed me.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9eElI1xCuesb8rmy042HzdLke_wxNt6V2diM15fpweg0oZYyEfMcmHkVr4pE5b_7nsFx9RmLl-DgFL-YOAHl7-EYJIwmf4qFdgUAe2domJfCcCRpgOlvE8EJGk4cKaALLh0wIFtGK9A8h/s1600/Life+support.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9eElI1xCuesb8rmy042HzdLke_wxNt6V2diM15fpweg0oZYyEfMcmHkVr4pE5b_7nsFx9RmLl-DgFL-YOAHl7-EYJIwmf4qFdgUAe2domJfCcCRpgOlvE8EJGk4cKaALLh0wIFtGK9A8h/s400/Life+support.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<span style="text-align: start;">Long may they endure, along with the friends and the friendships that have so faithfully got me through. To them I give my love and my thanks, my deepest appreciation for your patience and your kindness. 2020 can only be better.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="text-align: start;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="text-align: start;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">~*~</span></span></div>
<br />Gaby Gardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15801062680314947577noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1849831445168739521.post-23433368516110026942019-08-18T03:38:00.000-07:002019-08-21T05:43:08.174-07:00That September SmellI've tried many times to write something here that's positive and uplifting but every time I get about half-way through the first paragraph and the words dry up. Still, after seven months, it's only sad thoughts that can find expression and I know there's a point where even the dearest of friends might start to think - isn't time she started to get over it?<br />
But here I am, down at the beach where the blue sunny day of yesterday disappeared and produced heavy rain and wild South Gippsland winds. I'm clearing out cupboards, washing glass doors, sorting crockery and wondering again if this week any of the local tradesmen will ever turn up as promised. Because this beautiful house that we transformed from a humble fibro bungalow all those years ago will go on the market this spring to be emptied, handed over and farewelled, a chapter closed.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXFgtC-jNE2bxoPLEbZYWNIKpK_OyzpNvhJ59nMQZGq8RHvCxnSn1VTBbNAPMJQCz_bD3nzEwRhrrMj5xUo5y5K_687B6jd8A2nnqzOPbGsH2gWesOLeCi8uedBk8Uu8ibqXs_uPw3iQuN/s1600/House+from+foreshore+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1196" data-original-width="1600" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXFgtC-jNE2bxoPLEbZYWNIKpK_OyzpNvhJ59nMQZGq8RHvCxnSn1VTBbNAPMJQCz_bD3nzEwRhrrMj5xUo5y5K_687B6jd8A2nnqzOPbGsH2gWesOLeCi8uedBk8Uu8ibqXs_uPw3iQuN/s400/House+from+foreshore+2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
No, this is not a real estate ad. Most of you won't even know where this is but those who do might be thinking - "How could she?"<br />
And I do too. How can I close the door on all those sublime memories of beach walks, afternoon siestas, beloved dogs swimming in the sea, friends gathering for food and wine and laughter. Philip happy to get up early the next morning and wash load after load of glasses because he loved everyone to have a new glass for each wine. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSj1_JgJBQj7Z5nLaE9RiRsPn3aA-tH25ldKqNQXKTf7j06nH3-u05jFlvEuJesdEJXIaasz1Fw1VElrzysVHxTwz9Z9n8EyoSjmjG9Yja2amC95jLDARto5MGYkt8-H2ZRg3a7XeVk44z/s1600/friends+on+the+beach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSj1_JgJBQj7Z5nLaE9RiRsPn3aA-tH25ldKqNQXKTf7j06nH3-u05jFlvEuJesdEJXIaasz1Fw1VElrzysVHxTwz9Z9n8EyoSjmjG9Yja2amC95jLDARto5MGYkt8-H2ZRg3a7XeVk44z/s400/friends+on+the+beach.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
Friends to stay, neighbours to visit, Christmas breakfasts on the beach and everyone to help in the garden.<br />
<span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span>
<span style="text-align: center;">It's the silences I find so hard. Where once, when evening rolled around, there he was, playing guitar, singing snatches of the latest new song - 'listen to this and tell me what you think' - or taking over the cooking of dinner when I baulked at more crispy potatoes. Now, inside, there's a deadly silence; outside, just the wind, the blackness of night and the roar of the sea. </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6puXMUf3yiFAEtFMGl8U5nnS6nhcD0zVc2h6brw2pW37vWA42PRJsUKDZa9CZHoSEmzjfOqfvm8N6TVn-VibKPd6JpkbxLRp3S7Qp28wzplMXtvhfKfsdQJubbt5XHy3Mt1K-yf2CIaCk/s1600/Screen+Shot+2019-08-18+at+8.30.31+pm.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="693" data-original-width="1044" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6puXMUf3yiFAEtFMGl8U5nnS6nhcD0zVc2h6brw2pW37vWA42PRJsUKDZa9CZHoSEmzjfOqfvm8N6TVn-VibKPd6JpkbxLRp3S7Qp28wzplMXtvhfKfsdQJubbt5XHy3Mt1K-yf2CIaCk/s640/Screen+Shot+2019-08-18+at+8.30.31+pm.png" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
There were always dogs with us - dearest Barney, rescued late in his life and forever joyous, dippy Archie, barricaded out of the kitchen, virtuous Stella who loved a deep and meaningful conversation.<br />
Beautiful memories, too sad to indulge.<br />
<br />
With winter set to depart there are snowdrops at the gate, as ever. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
The wooden figures that we made in protest at the desal plant ("There are better ways!") still hang on the gate. When we head for a walk 'down the big sandhill' Stella and Archie race ahead to check things out. It's all predictable, all beloved.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhndgDOVfO5VAtTZFhRW7So2wd1b7u4y_uepiS-uScymjqcl0QHBVq30vAfrJHLBEoJLrNiBtQD5U9XqWcouuEe1QriEOKaWlFMMiOB31Xv0ED3P5lC-rHY5YeXR-htLyXTItXrtD9AqoCi/s1600/Screen+Shot+2019-08-18+at+8.00.55+pm.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="760" data-original-width="1262" height="384" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhndgDOVfO5VAtTZFhRW7So2wd1b7u4y_uepiS-uScymjqcl0QHBVq30vAfrJHLBEoJLrNiBtQD5U9XqWcouuEe1QriEOKaWlFMMiOB31Xv0ED3P5lC-rHY5YeXR-htLyXTItXrtD9AqoCi/s640/Screen+Shot+2019-08-18+at+8.00.55+pm.png" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsB-eDd70bE2EPRk-bRcIuTd0INEsWok_hJ7hDyp8IPg_68IrY9bdTy8dsYH2KK_IarWFA4ORQxZW9v7qR_qD3rWyLVDxTiGNCxuorpoicXhSffmyhW1KrUEVXiqs8FEl7IRQCjdWDaCSo/s1600/On+the+big+sandhill.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1442" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsB-eDd70bE2EPRk-bRcIuTd0INEsWok_hJ7hDyp8IPg_68IrY9bdTy8dsYH2KK_IarWFA4ORQxZW9v7qR_qD3rWyLVDxTiGNCxuorpoicXhSffmyhW1KrUEVXiqs8FEl7IRQCjdWDaCSo/s320/On+the+big+sandhill.jpg" width="288" /></a></div>
Today though, I knew I had to leave. Heading off down the big sandhill a perfume in the air grabbed me by the heart and made me falter. It was the smell of approaching September, the sweet honey-scented air surrounding the banks of the Bootlace Bush in full bloom. It was one of the first thing we noticed when we bought the place all those years ago and something we commented on to each other every year at just this time.<br />
<br />
A smell does powerful things to you and this one brought it all rushing back - the sudden decision to purchase this tiny house when we had nothing in the bank, bringing friends out onto the beach, through the just-flowering native shrubs, to ask their opinion, the annual arrival of that September smell. 'Spring's on the way!'<br />
It is, and should be, a beautiful memory, but one that I find hard to bear.<br />
<br />
So soon there will be a turning away - farewell house, goodbye remote and beautiful beach. The friends and neighbours I will keep, I know that. I love them too much to ever be without them. It's just that when the September smell fills the air next year and the bootlace bushes bloom, I need to be somewhere else, where the memories can't get to me and break my heart.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVw5PEb6QElFFV3EDZJ_1uyXV6TbKr9hVvlIUkzIdfwOOY14TDAJhtsk6qbUxCsLzowKdX9F0oHbGxMDotup1a5MkQ_lK-GnEp0usEjrxiJ0mP63ZTeGsdMDegZl-eDMe11R7pOHWdxm5o/s1600/Bootlace+Bush.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVw5PEb6QElFFV3EDZJ_1uyXV6TbKr9hVvlIUkzIdfwOOY14TDAJhtsk6qbUxCsLzowKdX9F0oHbGxMDotup1a5MkQ_lK-GnEp0usEjrxiJ0mP63ZTeGsdMDegZl-eDMe11R7pOHWdxm5o/s640/Bootlace+Bush.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Bootlace Bush - Pimelia Axiflora<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgObYEF9NEOKHL79GkxOPklHZwEyTkvcgofuXn15QFqU5HHA6aCGmZROlHY9dbCA-SC7yl5UXKFNf3ysmSzA6VZc1EnrLph3Tkyql9nF6KsuJxBHjo7pE96ywy4iXSj-QasmFIT6QzsaqeB/s1600/Philip+%2526+Stella.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1196" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgObYEF9NEOKHL79GkxOPklHZwEyTkvcgofuXn15QFqU5HHA6aCGmZROlHY9dbCA-SC7yl5UXKFNf3ysmSzA6VZc1EnrLph3Tkyql9nF6KsuJxBHjo7pE96ywy4iXSj-QasmFIT6QzsaqeB/s400/Philip+%2526+Stella.jpg" width="298" /></a></div>
<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
~*~</h2>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3FEugIVDtuhLFxCikbLm896Qo-MjVcHZHIqmukLVqs-jIiC29RCuH4trPX_Gs5tYuSLQQ5bhi6SO67_WLq5Z4TTdQtSpkKWeRg6d8_roNL6VTpBBds_cMnPyC11uqsaRXlzwvlvEc3hvE/s1600/cow+with+cranesjpg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs1P_kqGf3YxqxBE0JbOFAytd-Xt4bkJ2O0Ev8jd_dWzKP4hK_LTcB1Dzta0BQ_1ktwBgwgCAZ8aUGZlsR7eqYUvgQcX3-F9Z6TczhbDnLDMr7M5O4XLW94WnmNcQfC2Q80n3V9-LGy-Nf/s1600/Neighbours%2527+breakfast+on+the+beach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />Gaby Gardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15801062680314947577noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1849831445168739521.post-69185761074082751822019-05-02T23:11:00.002-07:002019-05-02T23:11:34.525-07:00Yesterday, Today and TomorrowPeak hour, Melbourne's notorious Ring Road, rainy day. What could make things worse? Oh yes, a plane to catch.<br />
Although I'm flying to the Gold Coast there's no sun-drenched holiday coming up, no running into the waves at Greenmount Beach, no getting burnt to a crisp on that silky white sand (the measure of a successful day back then), no cool shower, a splathering of Nivea, white dress, brown legs, a contented stroll down to one of the seafood restaurants on the front strip where you listen to the surf as you wait for your table, sipping a campari and soda and watching the passing parade. How easy it is to reminisce, to paint with gold those days back then.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_QV4GkX9rGz0Ki92H33T3Dv5yIaZl134WjelLuNRfJFIo0EmeHBYjeIX-qoKue_JBrYVVYwKgmJV-Zj6RzyNZoG0CpSJTc00J0lT2uiS_6NMLioLTGKCAGJso8fWm4oWw2PEkB-rWmXmN/s1600/Screen+Shot+2019-05-03+at+3.54.37+pm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="660" data-original-width="715" height="367" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_QV4GkX9rGz0Ki92H33T3Dv5yIaZl134WjelLuNRfJFIo0EmeHBYjeIX-qoKue_JBrYVVYwKgmJV-Zj6RzyNZoG0CpSJTc00J0lT2uiS_6NMLioLTGKCAGJso8fWm4oWw2PEkB-rWmXmN/s400/Screen+Shot+2019-05-03+at+3.54.37+pm.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
No, this is a visit to someone dear, now suffering from dementia. An hour after I leave she won't know I've been but her partner will have enjoyed this small respite and I will have grown wistful being back on home ground.<br />
Since my husband died so recently I often contemplate where I might live. Stay put in the house we filled up with the evidence of our lives over decades? Shift to the tiny Bass Coast beach community where I feel safe and loved, or head north to where I grew up, where there's family and some friends from school days with whom I can pick up a conversation as if we've never been apart.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrUTpXnsO_xwr9KZRoZEqsBrbA7NqRlcfQjCR-b7qdfCRv71xKN7t-KuhwLmHRpj-_1T5PPUydn4q0sXMJccs4t4aBQ2UCKRwDnDe5DuQwwzZ5-2iALgkacznZ1gwrjhAPikj0QlAI5vRJ/s1600/YTT+plant.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="463" data-original-width="584" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrUTpXnsO_xwr9KZRoZEqsBrbA7NqRlcfQjCR-b7qdfCRv71xKN7t-KuhwLmHRpj-_1T5PPUydn4q0sXMJccs4t4aBQ2UCKRwDnDe5DuQwwzZ5-2iALgkacznZ1gwrjhAPikj0QlAI5vRJ/s320/YTT+plant.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yesterday Today & Tomorrow plant</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
These days I'm doing a lot of things on my own, things I used to blithely leave to my spouse. You divvy up the jobs and duties in a long term relationship and when that ends there's a multitude of things that are unfamiliar, even if everyone else knows they're a breeze. I booked my car in, for instance, to one of those long term carparks where they park your car and drive you to the airport. A great investment as it turned out but on the way there you might have thought I was facing the hangman's noose. Will I find it? Will the GPS work? (It always does, but that's no guarantee is it, as every pessimist will know.) Will they have lost my booking? Send me away because I'm early? (I'm always early.)<br />
<br />
I follow the instructions (turn Voice Guidance On) and end up driving slowly along a wasteland of a suburb, passing a few 1970's brown brick veneer houses, some small factories and miles of brown paddocks where the brown crisp grass has turned soggy in the unfamiliar rain. I must be lost. They can't be here. Heart-sinking panic threatens. I'll have to pull over and ring them, try to follow their phone instructions for how I <i>really</i> get there. But no, Tom Tom announces that I have reached my destination and here, sure enough, is a small sign announcing A1 Airport Parking, where everyone is kind and helpful, my booking is on record and an efficient man is there to take my bag and drive me to the airport. How can it be that this was so easy?<br />
I never learn.<br />
At the airport - over an hour early - I check in my bag and head for the best coffee bar I can find, there to peruse the vagaries of other travellers. I see a large man in an official-looking white shirt, name badge attached, his large, very bald head shining under the lights from the great disco-looking balls hanging from the ceiling. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipr7R_sL7XNoiUyBsvhN6N5BwucucZTNqNp4I3YZ-ZZIVcfwTa_Gyb3d8DCiY3npa0vdtGqklAMinUz_0RJPnvP2EpfQbQHcd-TpI_SiLxGycjsYtOuvUx_beTk40mBsiR8Ly0g-cjjmOf/s1600/Baldy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1562" data-original-width="1600" height="312" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipr7R_sL7XNoiUyBsvhN6N5BwucucZTNqNp4I3YZ-ZZIVcfwTa_Gyb3d8DCiY3npa0vdtGqklAMinUz_0RJPnvP2EpfQbQHcd-TpI_SiLxGycjsYtOuvUx_beTk40mBsiR8Ly0g-cjjmOf/s320/Baldy.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
He's leaning on one hand, staring at his mobile phone as if his heart is broken. He must become aware that I'm looking at him as he straightens up, pushes away his phone and changes the expression on his face to one of swaggering confidence. I look away but soon notice that within minutes he's resumed the sad phone-face and his shoulders have sagged once more.<br />
<br />
There's a youngish man with a voice like a pneumatic drill, under headphones, waving his phone and shouting to his mates about his bets on the "f*^%$# neddies". I make haste to leave and get to my boarding gate, noting that the majority of travellers look anxious and uncertain.<br />
<br />
The last time I was in an airport we'd just arrived back from 3 sublime weeks in W.A. The time before that, sore and grubby but sublimely happy after walking through the Cinque Terra and Provence for several weeks. Joys and adventures I took for granted, assuming there were more to come for as long as I wanted. But what now?<br />
<br />
If I were a different person I might be making plans, the future awash with diverging possibilities. Me being me, the future is obscure, like something seen through a Vaseline lens. I can't make out the shapes, can't see what populates the landscape. I <i>can</i> smile at other people's successes, thrill to the thought of <i>Wolfe Island</i>, Lucy Treloar's new book, reading Nigel Featherstone's <i>Bodies of Men</i>, the fabulous success of <i>Boy Swallows Universe</i>. I contemplate a planned writers retreat in Tathra in July with my writerly friend Vicky. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVZhbOLQn6wK5g_pvI0Myb0cln91nEpyRjmNZoRQ-mriE8QC3MK7JKTQhy1QNgWf8aqO3e-urPb3f9jQ-w1RsxxOP9LRU2D0PttKf70dn_1IrPoIZiYQPxCsWUeiW5rgZawLA8hnfOOSYd/s1600/Writers.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="283" data-original-width="328" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVZhbOLQn6wK5g_pvI0Myb0cln91nEpyRjmNZoRQ-mriE8QC3MK7JKTQhy1QNgWf8aqO3e-urPb3f9jQ-w1RsxxOP9LRU2D0PttKf70dn_1IrPoIZiYQPxCsWUeiW5rgZawLA8hnfOOSYd/s320/Writers.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Writers retreat cabins</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I rejoice that I have good friends, wonderful neighbours and priceless indulgent, babysitters for my dogs.<br />
I just have to wait until the lens clears.<br />
<br />
But here, struggling up through the mire to the surface, comes a small realisation. See all those words written above, quickly and effortlessly? Seems there could be a small possibility that I might be writing again, and that's progress.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
~*~</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Gaby Gardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15801062680314947577noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1849831445168739521.post-30109141779110433892019-02-09T03:28:00.002-08:002019-02-16T15:16:57.214-08:00Widowhood 101<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqugLC8_nfN-BsjZ0mHgP63-kpOyksQACFk3Zl9i0lA5OQv4qDn6KtO_shQZZp8XFSQzEgYVAamsRl9c-d7Z5l2xQiSBmY8MQIHHxMzRlbTfhNx9rbgk4v4zmlddWX5J8r29YxwsqHoptu/s1600/P1070949.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqugLC8_nfN-BsjZ0mHgP63-kpOyksQACFk3Zl9i0lA5OQv4qDn6KtO_shQZZp8XFSQzEgYVAamsRl9c-d7Z5l2xQiSBmY8MQIHHxMzRlbTfhNx9rbgk4v4zmlddWX5J8r29YxwsqHoptu/s320/P1070949.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
I never expected to be a widow so soon.<br />
I never expected to be a widow at all really, being married to an apparently healthy man whose father and uncles lived long into their 80's and 90's. When, at frequent intervals over the years, I would say 'we must sit down and go through all this one day, Philip, because if anything happens to you ....', his reply was either 'Yeah, we must' or a jocular 'Don't be silly Gabrielle, I'll outlast you by decades.'<br />
So when he died suddenly in his sleep - a heart attack with no warning signs or preliminary illness - I was shocked into a state of total disbelief, unable to comprehend that he had gone.<br />
We'd never got around to having kids, like the greeting card says - 'Oops, I forgot to have kids!' We were so content with each other, with our jobs, our friends, travel, music, writing, that we just got on with life and loved every minute of it. So I am very alone.<br />
When Philip died he was as happy as I'd ever seen him, loving life, loving retirement, our friends, his music, planning a road trip with the dogs along the south coast, Robe, Port Macdonnell, maybe up to Coonawarra, perhaps Italy again next year. But no. Not Now.<br />
The day after he died I sat alone at the breakfast table looking out onto the garden where the two lorikeets arrive every day demanding apples. It was so quiet, the space around me so vastly empty. My enduring thought - 'this is what it's going to be like for the rest of my life'.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIfpEQuw-BtWzeMG6gIFGJhAv_NPT91u3_5IWDEhu8VR8HA2YDYpDTvS9CwVX82X6N0yJjU_V-sREniC22ScuS79l4dovXuc1BW_JqBsT-GbWdFZy4LWy_jlgTiP0to_HQHhPDytzgyUbt/s1600/IMG_5045.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1196" data-original-width="1600" height="476" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIfpEQuw-BtWzeMG6gIFGJhAv_NPT91u3_5IWDEhu8VR8HA2YDYpDTvS9CwVX82X6N0yJjU_V-sREniC22ScuS79l4dovXuc1BW_JqBsT-GbWdFZy4LWy_jlgTiP0to_HQHhPDytzgyUbt/s640/IMG_5045.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
But then the required action kicks in. There's a funeral to be organised, people to notify, and so many things to be dealt with that nearly three weeks on I've hardly made a dent in the list.</div>
When I finally got around to opening his laptop there were 758 emails to deal with. There are subscriptions to hundreds of groups to do with sport, music, wine and entertainment and oh how hard they make it to unsubscribe.<br />
The bank immediately froze our joint credit card because I was 'only No. 2' so the dozens of automatic direct debits found themselves suddenly declined. There, at Which Bank, I dealt with the coldest, nastiest man I've encountered in a long time. At my credit union the scene was very different and in the cool serenity of their building in East Hawthorn I was treated with all the care and kindness I could ever have hoped for and a hundred problems made to disappear.<br />
The online automated times we live in make it impossible, in many cases, to deal with bureaucracy. In all the options from which to select there's never one that says 'He's dead.'<br />
And as yet, no time to grieve. A dozen times a day I still think 'I can't wait to tell Philip'.<br />
<br />
Like the day, on my way home from the funeral home, when I was stopped by the police for driving an unregistered car (2 days out of rego.) It was too much and I howled like a baby, tears and snot pouring down my face while I yelled at them that old cliché 'Haven't you got anything better to do than this?' (I paid it - through the tears -when I got home; they rang later and apologised.)<br />
<br />
A dear artist friend spent days painting one of those wonderful LifeArt coffins only for us to find out the day before the funeral that Philip, at 6 ft 3 inches, wouldn't fit in it.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho-ULoa0GDbHBAG5cfE8ugNslvn54aRfqRLTgp3FGrb7NWfgynuLbGFPqpmhK9_YDby8jz1dncBybShRsEhH0GbrN88a4Daq7N8lgqzNq1Hlpp5hr1Fnucpum6WnvLq4Ikidt27G3d-j8O/s1600/IMG_7855.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho-ULoa0GDbHBAG5cfE8ugNslvn54aRfqRLTgp3FGrb7NWfgynuLbGFPqpmhK9_YDby8jz1dncBybShRsEhH0GbrN88a4Daq7N8lgqzNq1Hlpp5hr1Fnucpum6WnvLq4Ikidt27G3d-j8O/s320/IMG_7855.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
None of us had thought to ask or tell.<br />
But the funeral was magnificent and one of my dear friends from my <a href="https://www.rmit.edu.au/study-with-us/levels-of-study/undergraduate-study/associate-degrees/associate-degree-in-professional-writing-and-editing-ad016">PWE course</a> commented 'I think you nailed Event Management, Gab.'<br />
His friends and colleagues turned up in droves and expressed their love and admiration. Some sang, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g73mpArpQMc">Philip's own version</a> of Mr. Bojangles was played, others spoke, one conducted the whole service with humour, insight and love. They are supporting me still, every inch of the way.<br />
There are precious guitars to give away, and I love the fact that they will go to true friends he's kept since school days. His copious wine cellar will go to the young couple who, ages ago, promised to take our dogs if anything ever happened to us. Then it was a joke. None of us ever thought it would be realised.<br />
Tonight I sat alone watching yet another re-run of Maid in Manhattan. At one stage they played Eva Cassidy's version of <i><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9ofYzG66mbE">Kathy's Song</a></i>, a Simon and Garfunkel oldie that Philip himself played often and beautifully. I came undone then and sobbed helplessly until spaniel Archie intervened to lick my face in the hope that I'd stop.<br />
I know plenty of other women have been through this, maybe not so early, but they survive and go on with life, as will I. As yet I can't imagine writing creatively ever again. Who is there to tell, to be proud?<br />
But I try to remember that for over 40 years I had the unconditional love of this beautiful man. He wrote me the first love song in 1973 and the latest one at the end of last year. I shouldn't ask for more than that.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJC00XNRiEV0ImItmUZmQ09VwEwA3t55uR1SGa3dYyNk3If3KQNC4SYQjQ3YU6AziIYU-AgIxKEIl5xBHJg3vBZ5D7E3MAm8TyY2T7JOrOGzA_Gap9oOdSNjBBEbvxObXtegaHBMsgndo8/s1600/P1080527.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1433" data-original-width="1600" height="571" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJC00XNRiEV0ImItmUZmQ09VwEwA3t55uR1SGa3dYyNk3If3KQNC4SYQjQ3YU6AziIYU-AgIxKEIl5xBHJg3vBZ5D7E3MAm8TyY2T7JOrOGzA_Gap9oOdSNjBBEbvxObXtegaHBMsgndo8/s640/P1080527.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
~*~</div>
<br />Gaby Gardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15801062680314947577noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1849831445168739521.post-7355925468598015672018-11-10T22:13:00.000-08:002018-12-12T23:31:10.339-08:00Dog Rescue? - (Must Love Dogs)A while back I was tentatively approached by a lady outside Bunnings asking if I'd like to become a foster carer for dogs. I was able to say, with apologies, a firm 'no' - mainly because our own two ex-strays are now nearly 12 and we want their remaining years to be as easy and stress free as possible. No newcomers to the pack. Secondly, despite an enormous backyard, our fences are flimsy and held up mainly by rampant honeysuckle, and finally, I'd end up owning 20 new dogs by the end of the first month. Undaunted, bless her, she then asked if I could perhaps become a transporter of abandoned dogs to their foster carers, prior to adoption to their furever homes - (you dog people will know about this). This proposition sounded easy enough as I imagined me driving the occasional Jack Russel-cross from, say, Box Hill to Mitcham.<br />
<br />
Now you know how, when friends return from overseas travels you feel less than enthusiastic about the good stories? It's not exactly riveting hearing about how beautiful was Châtres cathedral, how serene the bike paths along the Rhine, how breathtaking the trip up the Eiffel Tower. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJjXobBg5k02YF7uWV3OuqU3jQGPT4MS_DnyHFqW9HqSrc9cdmFmKihbfhPkssP_mBzLdlaP8K2BhX8akx7JadjGF8Ug1-tWvUBZEI3yeJr94kT-XzpSfoWaQXxOVezXXZQ35cciyvduzs/s1600/Screen+Shot+2018-11-09+at+6.26.50+pm.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="379" data-original-width="289" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJjXobBg5k02YF7uWV3OuqU3jQGPT4MS_DnyHFqW9HqSrc9cdmFmKihbfhPkssP_mBzLdlaP8K2BhX8akx7JadjGF8Ug1-tWvUBZEI3yeJr94kT-XzpSfoWaQXxOVezXXZQ35cciyvduzs/s320/Screen+Shot+2018-11-09+at+6.26.50+pm.png" width="244" /></a></div>
No, the truly entertaining stories are about how they were robbed by a swarm of feral children at Rome train station or chased by bandits from an ATM in Buenos Aires.<br />
<br />
After an easy baptism into stray dog transport my nemesis came in the guise of The Fox, a beautiful animal, 8 months old or thereabouts, a cross between a mountain lion and a fox and completely, <i>utterly</i> uncontrollable. Three of us wrestled him into the back of the SUV - kitted out with comforts to please a king - where he proceeded to eat all the leads, chew through the water bottle & container and then bust through the metal barrier (since reinforced) into first the back, then the front seat. <br />
<br />
(He's recently eaten through 2 car seat belts I hear.)<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheXm3XwdhJjzCJpE0wVgyRtj8z4qJSrAOk1kV4-e4scjV0y3TgbbGlgKlwAJk0hBLicjWIzSM-1sTS6EIAOz56__8nAa4g-guU3bYozK_-nV05CK4xgLw45_qq39I7_ws5Yua9cqx6H8uM/s1600/Brer+Fox.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="593" data-original-width="512" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheXm3XwdhJjzCJpE0wVgyRtj8z4qJSrAOk1kV4-e4scjV0y3TgbbGlgKlwAJk0hBLicjWIzSM-1sTS6EIAOz56__8nAa4g-guU3bYozK_-nV05CK4xgLw45_qq39I7_ws5Yua9cqx6H8uM/s640/Brer+Fox.png" width="552" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
But his innocent aim was simply to get to sit on my knee. (Luckily I wasn't driving.) There he proceeded to mash my thighs, leaving me with bruises like a sunset after a storm. They started out red, then turned to blue, purple, brown and ended up that sickly dark yellow colour which took weeks to fade. I looked like I'd been the subject of some unspeakable assault.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEMflsdzMacwjIWtFwcYSxJMNxNLdDLDGeSgzuvbg3TNr1ytTdH69xR-Y94QdHdr79bgMgAoex1xgIFmYw0ph3q504tNSTkF8Nh4EcsjdgDVq6KU-uiBR-OixJiQIOwd81BvQ7kAgUTBLY/s1600/Brer+Fox%2527s+damage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="566" data-original-width="551" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEMflsdzMacwjIWtFwcYSxJMNxNLdDLDGeSgzuvbg3TNr1ytTdH69xR-Y94QdHdr79bgMgAoex1xgIFmYw0ph3q504tNSTkF8Nh4EcsjdgDVq6KU-uiBR-OixJiQIOwd81BvQ7kAgUTBLY/s320/Brer+Fox%2527s+damage.jpg" width="310" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After our trip with The Fox & an extra puppy</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
But this was a one-off. Don't let this account turn you off becoming a foster carer or a dog transporter. Mostly the experience is heartwarming and totally gratifying in all respects - a small part in arranging a new life for a predictable assortment of dogs whose stories could turn you off humanity forever. They all have a similar look of expecting the worst.<br />
<br />
The drop-off point is as far across the other side of the city from my place as you can get. Via the Ring Road, in peak hour traffic. Two men arrive at dusk in a truck towing a massive low caravan type thing full of caged dogs that they have picked up from pounds all across country Victoria - Swan Hill, Mildura, Cohuna, wherever. So the men (bless them) and the dogs have been on the road all day. (Many come with pups - 6, 8, and once, 12. Having your animal spayed clearly isn't a priority in the country, or maybe it's just too expensive.)<br />
<br />
At the appointed time cars start to arrive, gliding silently into the meeting place as if for some secret drug drop. (How would I know? I've never been on a drug drop.) People of all stripes emerge, hang around the truck until their assigned dogs are spotted, offered a wee and a drink then piled into a different vehicle for the drive back across the city to the allocated foster carer.<br />
And what a bunch they are! Unremitting kindness, never a complaint, nothing is too much trouble. Gorgeous young couples rush home from work to be there to greet their new charge. I love them all. I want to give them my house.<br />
And the organisation of this group is astounding. All done through Facebook, it's mind blowing to read. 'Anyone able to take a bull arab bitch and 8 puppies from Mornington to Hurstbridge tomorrow morning?' Several responses ping up within minutes. 'I can,' says Rose from Mount Eliza/Reg from Frankston/ Emily from Tooradin. Nothing is impossible. At every request from the co-ordinators the network springs into action. This group leaves MI6 for dead. With them onboard, the French Resistance would have won the war within days.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw7mxcW3_PQkYuxkg2UAq7lC_O_aBsYjmWyAeb1MfsihHvBwWiMks_BoLA3jsfKCSWoW3U2k8nZHGk5tarYxuFG4qii1LO_rRH9V0pdN4aKmLrSZtUb7w2sbt_1-HXnQgmVI-00im0fxOs/s1600/IMG_4407.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1196" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw7mxcW3_PQkYuxkg2UAq7lC_O_aBsYjmWyAeb1MfsihHvBwWiMks_BoLA3jsfKCSWoW3U2k8nZHGk5tarYxuFG4qii1LO_rRH9V0pdN4aKmLrSZtUb7w2sbt_1-HXnQgmVI-00im0fxOs/s320/IMG_4407.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not every dog has it this good.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
In real terms, this organisation rehoused 516 dogs in one year recently, on a shoestring budget raised from small donations and a few kind commercial supporters. In the same year a glossier, more famous rescue organisation with $millions in the bank rehomed 200+.<br />
I know it's not a competition but it does illustrate what a network of ordinary, generous people can do with little else but determination and good will. It also suggests that maybe...<br />
<br />
1) more resources should be directed to preventative strategies for animal welfare in the country<br />
2) one of the wealthier rescue organisations might work on a subsidised dog-neutering service for owners who simply can't afford it and<br />
3) any politician who supports the repealing of <a href="https://www.oscarslaw.org/">Oscar's Law </a>ought to be dragged out by the hair to witness the arrival of the poor puppy machines whose lives have been a misery from go to woa.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile <a href="http://www.startingoverdogrescue.org.au/">Starting Over Dog Rescue</a>, we salute you!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3wtiCejoy4Psj7U7RWasTTJs6VwlB3ltRWOICTmRUIgsiVmtd3ZT8NNrgOQybKNjedkX-SjmYlFhNZ_a4RfpgD_HYhjOyhIfyX1e9djgLMidlrBuTI4d6Oh3FPwlF-Fa-zGTJ0qLLXwyv/s1600/Screen+Shot+2018-11-10+at+9.28.58+am.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="392" data-original-width="556" height="449" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3wtiCejoy4Psj7U7RWasTTJs6VwlB3ltRWOICTmRUIgsiVmtd3ZT8NNrgOQybKNjedkX-SjmYlFhNZ_a4RfpgD_HYhjOyhIfyX1e9djgLMidlrBuTI4d6Oh3FPwlF-Fa-zGTJ0qLLXwyv/s640/Screen+Shot+2018-11-10+at+9.28.58+am.png" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
~*~</h2>
<br />Gaby Gardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15801062680314947577noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1849831445168739521.post-17898919639690047092018-10-28T21:30:00.000-07:002018-10-28T21:30:54.026-07:00Old Schools and Country Kids<h3 style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://dungay-p.schools.nsw.gov.au/">Dungay Public School</a></h3>
<br />
This weekend just passed I flew up from Melbourne to go back to my old primary school in the beautiful Tweed Valley for their 125th anniversary.<br />
Oh my!<br />
Most of my memories were happy ones but I look back now on being so small, shy and poor and struggle to fathom how I got here and got to be me - intimidated by no-one and all too willing to speak up, speak out and take on whatever life dishes out.<br />
<br />
At the reunion I hugged old classmates and we laughed about our funny little barefoot selves back then and marvelled at the time in between that made us what we've become. One of my dearest friends, who started school with me at Dungay, has just returned from Moscow after a trip on the Trans-Siberian Railway.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5pAyofv-p_SBM2T6wRJMCfaaQAJqtPkk08Nfg5Lw1d_xPVNI_FSOw6sNp4Arrvo87xIqod9E1irAI7pnofaT-td8o1OUrBSz6tGvlz3MvBezasu73YCyzpUpneITCQ2TWF18AsIr41fCu/s1600/IMG_2091_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1286" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5pAyofv-p_SBM2T6wRJMCfaaQAJqtPkk08Nfg5Lw1d_xPVNI_FSOw6sNp4Arrvo87xIqod9E1irAI7pnofaT-td8o1OUrBSz6tGvlz3MvBezasu73YCyzpUpneITCQ2TWF18AsIr41fCu/s400/IMG_2091_2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.800000190734863px; text-align: center;">Yet another Chianti climb</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
She was also instrumental in recently organising 8 of us old school friends to hike for 10 days through Tuscany. So yes, we've come a long way and friendships are held fast.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
But the school! I remembered the grounds as huge and beautiful but far from declining into neglect and dilapidation as some tell me their own schools have done, this one is breathtaking - lush, cared for, flourishing.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
The massive camphor laurels and jacaranda trees that I remembered are even bigger and more beautiful. The gardens are obviously cherished with raised garden beds, green with abundant growth, peppered across the lawns.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3fwI133RfdNGTWjuqY7kk0Qanhm2hQjqzuKGbNEHmE6Bj-_PP_HZ8DXvfOBGc74QhHGBcAIZMFoCBLh4kp1IPIP9vL_igHUadmcRNX-xcBAE6n14ZamV2EJGLfWvHM8dZ-DYeqjGcJvuO/s1600/IMG_7235.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1377" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3fwI133RfdNGTWjuqY7kk0Qanhm2hQjqzuKGbNEHmE6Bj-_PP_HZ8DXvfOBGc74QhHGBcAIZMFoCBLh4kp1IPIP9vL_igHUadmcRNX-xcBAE6n14ZamV2EJGLfWvHM8dZ-DYeqjGcJvuO/s640/IMG_7235.jpg" width="547" /></a></div>
<br />
The principal, Josh Stephens, who must surely have the best gig in the country, seemed to run the whole event effortlessly, though I'm sure it was a mammoth task to make this day happen.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCFvrwn7LF2z922RGOu1IGa2AX7AK4uzCw8tXxz4R56MwAqNmFa7ue7w5V7EHICDF_GCCGEKzv1tnQwWxF_GnZnYn0-amtx_3lKxgvzlEsYOdnhCIfL4PKrUEjHfOeseqwt_WhjTYtq74p/s1600/Principal%2527s+speech.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCFvrwn7LF2z922RGOu1IGa2AX7AK4uzCw8tXxz4R56MwAqNmFa7ue7w5V7EHICDF_GCCGEKzv1tnQwWxF_GnZnYn0-amtx_3lKxgvzlEsYOdnhCIfL4PKrUEjHfOeseqwt_WhjTYtq74p/s400/Principal%2527s+speech.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Principal's Speech</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
What struck me most was the demeanour of the kids. You may scoff at this but I didn't hear one person swear, saw no-one drop rubbish and not a sign of nastiness or conflict the whole day. The kids who greeted us were confident, articulate and friendly. I was mightily impressed.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Memories of having to master the maypole came back when we watched juniors and seniors, boys and girls, in impressive displays in costumes hand-made for the occasion.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRXG2WqBTvyPHO1GNBZ_XzVGFtW2FhNtAV1EvoAYXSGrUsNrc3OMUZTnkvM3c5Tr9XsAADoX-F_E2WPV0IJQzC8X0PF2d_y1xkryZQ6DX0syCm5xP6mvI4_Ybk8aLoCeiVS5cA0wrhQcPo/s1600/Screen+Shot+2018-10-29+at+2.56.28+pm.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="479" data-original-width="1103" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRXG2WqBTvyPHO1GNBZ_XzVGFtW2FhNtAV1EvoAYXSGrUsNrc3OMUZTnkvM3c5Tr9XsAADoX-F_E2WPV0IJQzC8X0PF2d_y1xkryZQ6DX0syCm5xP6mvI4_Ybk8aLoCeiVS5cA0wrhQcPo/s640/Screen+Shot+2018-10-29+at+2.56.28+pm.png" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
Oh I know! I'm probably romanticising just a little. But I came back from this day smiling and wondering if small country schools nowadays offer something very special indeed, maybe by virtue of their smallness, their ability to know every pupil's name, family, strengths and needs.<br />
When, at the end of the day, the principal and a sturdy volunteer executed the planting of a <a href="https://www.anbg.gov.au/gnp/gnp10/tristaniopsis-laurina.html">water gum tree</a> by the oldest and the youngest pupil, I sincerely wished for its endless survival, and the endurance of this small country school and all who have made it the model of education that it appears to be today.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtzpvFBu490IJHRcK5iZqPXPvi4bKwz9PFgr4NrK15qIvHH_QmeE0Jvgrj1CDqDyAVfpvr2k_1g5ZKBBIIbkbIqX6Mwbp5P-rWrPGjOS9gqgkvSqos0LgIZLO9TQru3ZrhVvEiXs1C3tA2/s1600/IMG_7254.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtzpvFBu490IJHRcK5iZqPXPvi4bKwz9PFgr4NrK15qIvHH_QmeE0Jvgrj1CDqDyAVfpvr2k_1g5ZKBBIIbkbIqX6Mwbp5P-rWrPGjOS9gqgkvSqos0LgIZLO9TQru3ZrhVvEiXs1C3tA2/s640/IMG_7254.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
~*~</h3>
Gaby Gardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15801062680314947577noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1849831445168739521.post-14075642171501358692018-09-20T02:25:00.000-07:002018-09-20T16:15:46.488-07:00National Reading day<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Today is National Reading Hour Day. I was unaware of this until I saw it on Twitter this morning and I can tell you, it took me some time to process the fact that there might be folk out there who<i> didn't </i>read for an hour a day. One lousy hour!! But then I took stock of my own assumptions and told myself that there were many people too busy, too ill or too uninterested to read for an hour or even ten minutes, reading just not being a priority for them. Hard to imagine, I know.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: , serif;">My attitudes to reading were, predictably, established within my family, probably before I could walk or talk. My mother read every day and we, as kids, could readily identify her impatience if we made demands on her time when, in her eyes, she'd done her duties and it was high time she was allowed escape with a book and read, uninterrupted by us or anyone else. If visitors arrived unexpectedly—it was the country and 'popping in' was common— we could see her getting fidgety, torn between the pleasure of company and the compulsion to indulge in her daily reading time.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Dad? Same. A labourer who left school at 13, he too read voraciously, every evening after work and before dinner, every weekend between chores and yarns with his mates. Wilkie Collins, Emile Zola, Alexander Dumas among others - oh and I confess, for contrast - <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Australasian_Post">The Australasian Post.</a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghmn1BLA97qidryp7B-uOfvek9-0IRANQJiasbBLEGniGamoUDykizqT9zQFGo2nf4pAJrDHQRXXk4H8kKDJby-ACWSqQ5fq-YQY8f_urF6Ly20AQZedRaBwkV_Gdan7v_XRJw8dxgLo2h/s1600/Screen+Shot+2018-09-20+at+7.14.31+pm.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="282" data-original-width="291" height="387" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghmn1BLA97qidryp7B-uOfvek9-0IRANQJiasbBLEGniGamoUDykizqT9zQFGo2nf4pAJrDHQRXXk4H8kKDJby-ACWSqQ5fq-YQY8f_urF6Ly20AQZedRaBwkV_Gdan7v_XRJw8dxgLo2h/s400/Screen+Shot+2018-09-20+at+7.14.31+pm.png" width="400" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">So my reading habits were set very early and have endured for a lifetime. But if I could only read for one hour a day I would fret mightily! I read every afternoon, every night in bed and any other times I can fit in.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I committed, on this website, to keep an up-to-date list of what I'd read. Well you know how that went. One anonymous person emailed me and said 'Oh but I count on you for recommendations. Our tastes are the same!' And all that did was make me feel doubly guilty for not keeping the list up to date.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">So - I try to read as many Australian debut authors as I can. (Tracy Farr's <b>The Hope Fault</b> my favourite this year.) I love to follow their progress, see on Twitter their joy when the book finally hits the shelves. Although it was sobering to read of one such writer who tweeted that she'd just got her first royalties check and blown it all on an electric toothbrush. So don't go into writing for the money.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Earlier this year, with much ambivalence, I succumbed to a Kindle. I figured it would be handy to read in bed when I can't sleep and don't want to put the light on. What I use it for is to read those things that I read just for the story - crime fiction often - but I still feel like a traitor.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">But when I want to read a <i>real</i> book (sorry crime fiction writers everywhere) I somehow acquire the hard copy from some wonderful city bookshop, loans from friends, secondhand bookshops, op shops or just those rediscovered in our own shelves at home.</span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9UGJMO17Jp_VnWINxQnkpTnA85OJiADT6ZYSOx5aj60k-OJmpCVpw2dwQdWRLFx3blpcbY2gQMQM2iJaitLPjSYTRxENN97QseyGfpdrIbTTgjdQWbx3m4Qhi-8g9i2Mnu_SMLIwV-5Po/s1600/Anita.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9UGJMO17Jp_VnWINxQnkpTnA85OJiADT6ZYSOx5aj60k-OJmpCVpw2dwQdWRLFx3blpcbY2gQMQM2iJaitLPjSYTRxENN97QseyGfpdrIbTTgjdQWbx3m4Qhi-8g9i2Mnu_SMLIwV-5Po/s320/Anita.jpg" width="240" /></span></a><span style="font-family: inherit;">In a Lifeline op shop in a country town I discovered a newish Anita Shreve - <b>The Stars Are Fire</b> (2017). <span style="text-align: center;">I was a huge Shreve fan for decades but then went off her when several books in a row proved disappointing. This one was good, original and satisfying. The cover would have put me off if I wasn't desperate for something to read at the time.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span>
<span style="text-align: center;">In the same op shop I discovered the new Christian White award winner </span><b>The Nowhere Child</b>, the VPLA winner for 2017. Great story, amazing debut, destined for stage and screen I hear.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">From the fabulous resources of <i>The Paris Review</i> I ordered American poet Donald Hall's endearing collection <b>A Carnival of Losses - Notes Nearing Ninety</b>. I don't read a lot of non-fiction but this is one I'll be foisting on everyone as soon as I finish it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrjeBdSZzkDdN8_0QLmH4drbResXq651J9K1GxctrFPQMJpRKHuSX9jIw-IslzbNfpufRgBNrk7QkGcLYt5zfQQ3lOaE05CI8-6dMw0Jb1uJ3zCI-2t0bYE_ke_cfvHXZv1srxA594P8qc/s1600/Donald.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrjeBdSZzkDdN8_0QLmH4drbResXq651J9K1GxctrFPQMJpRKHuSX9jIw-IslzbNfpufRgBNrk7QkGcLYt5zfQQ3lOaE05CI8-6dMw0Jb1uJ3zCI-2t0bYE_ke_cfvHXZv1srxA594P8qc/s320/Donald.jpg" width="240" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I would never have discovered <a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/donald-hall">Donald Hall</a> if I hadn't subscribed to the Paris Review newsletter and now I can't get enough of his poetry. He died just this year in June and I feel unreasonably sad that I'm only discovering him now that he's gone.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">One of my best finds recently was a <a href="https://www.irishtimes.com/culture/books/in-praise-of-jennifer-johnston-1.2168695">Jennifer Johnson</a> novel that I hadn't read - <b>The Gingerbread Woman</b>. I love its slightly browning pages and her capacity to immerse us deep into other lives. Along with Penelope Lively, Johnson is one of my favourite Grand Dames of literature.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="text-align: center;">My problem with keeping up the what-I-have-read list is that, as I approach the last quarter of a book, there grows a tiny simmering anxiety if I don't have the next book lined up at the ready. So instead of turning to update my list I'm fully occupied with finding what to read next. I know I should be borrowing books from some of the wonderful libraries in this city but well, I just don't like the responsibility of knowing I have to give it back. Foolish maybe, but there it is.</span></span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWEhy6HxjVWInWAnpu2ZOT8U1Ytz4NxeMZIA5zeQMnY-s1NpIay_rFz_-fDmZpm88XLBCr7uF3RxZnwjsi5uDsF4NFKvAtbf7PLn6MjlSkNtwlqlfvVCYosVHX_Jppn91la5WFiHslSzFS/s1600/Old+pages.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWEhy6HxjVWInWAnpu2ZOT8U1Ytz4NxeMZIA5zeQMnY-s1NpIay_rFz_-fDmZpm88XLBCr7uF3RxZnwjsi5uDsF4NFKvAtbf7PLn6MjlSkNtwlqlfvVCYosVHX_Jppn91la5WFiHslSzFS/s320/Old+pages.jpg" width="240" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The Gingerbread Woman by Jennifer Johnston</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I share a love of books with many friends but with one I also share a love of - don't cringe - knitting. We both insist that the finishing of a book or a craft project of some kind is not the best part. It's the starting. The adventure of diving in knowing what satisfaction lies ahead.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">This latest Jennifer Johnston isn't all that big so already I'm wondering what I'll read next. Luckily for me, every day is reading day and like the most committed addict, I just have to keep up the supply.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<br />
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
~*~</span></h3>
</div>
Gaby Gardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15801062680314947577noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1849831445168739521.post-23461007892678361462018-06-08T05:20:00.003-07:002018-06-08T05:31:26.681-07:00What Makes Us Cry?I'm not much of a crier. I very rarely cry in movies or at funerals. Like many others, I used to tear up at those old Telecom ads where the ancient Mediterranean grandma finally hears from her offspring over the ocean. The combination of the visuals, the music, the sentiment, all combined to do me in - but it was momentary.<br />
I didn't cry at the funerals of either of my parents although I was infinitely sad for each of them respectively, that they hadn't had easier, fuller lives and that I hadn't made more of my time with both of them. But that's regret isn't it, a different state of mind that sits, quiet and heavy, in our hearts.<br />
When my brother took his own life rather than spend 6 or 8 more hopeless weeks dying of cancer I was, more than anything else, immensely proud of him. At the funeral what made me cry, helplessly, was the sight of hundreds of his workmates standing outside the church, still in their work clothes, arms akimbo, many with the tracks of unfamiliar tears on their cheeks. Odd the things that get to you. Generally I navigate the sad things in life with anger, regret or a weighty acceptance that that's Life, as Ole Blue Eyes would have us believe.<br />
So why then, when I read on Twitter last night about the sudden death of a little West Highland terrier from Marsden, England, did tears fill my eyes and flow, unbidden, like streams down my face?<br />
I'd never met Busby Watson but I knew a bit about him. I knew that he was immensely loved by his folks, that he often accompanied his dad to a certain cafe for breakfast on Saturdays where the owner gave Busby sossidges. The spelling alone used to make me laugh every time. I don't wish to appropriate the grief of his beloved 'hoomans', nor to use any of the hundreds of photos of Busby and his glorious walks around the Yorkshire countryside but you can see for yourself, if you wish, what an idyllic life<a href="https://twitter.com/BusbyWatson"> Busby </a>led.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7kAhyEfs2Qo1MP9RUISqg5JbIx6VcZlnGOEChWvaKcmFymDDRX4lYrsfWT3LuP6PLkk4-2XbtdDx6bmvrd2bmoEcoHGVwHU8whed533yNqzJJAqr_flub6DT42cEUX_Mkw1LCmaXv6XnG/s1600/Screen+Shot+2018-06-08+at+10.00.46+pm.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="322" data-original-width="321" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7kAhyEfs2Qo1MP9RUISqg5JbIx6VcZlnGOEChWvaKcmFymDDRX4lYrsfWT3LuP6PLkk4-2XbtdDx6bmvrd2bmoEcoHGVwHU8whed533yNqzJJAqr_flub6DT42cEUX_Mkw1LCmaXv6XnG/s320/Screen+Shot+2018-06-08+at+10.00.46+pm.png" width="319" /></a></div>
I'd followed Busby on Twitter for several years and I know Twitter's not everyone's cup of tea. I have a number of friends who, if I mention Twitter in their presence, go all shifty-eyed, as if I've confessed to some shameful social gaff that doesn't bear thinking about. But on Twitter I follow any number of writers, readers, artists, photographers - and dogs. From the writers and readers I get loads of insights and information, funny, useful or amazing. From the artists and photographers I get instances of beauty from around the world. From the dogs I get to share that matchless privilege of observing the day-to- day doings of dogs and their besotted owners, across the globe.<br />
So I knew a bit about <a href="https://twitter.com/BusbyWatson">Busby</a>, mainly how unconditionally he was loved and how unexpected his death. I suppose the tears fell mostly for his owners and the grief they're going through. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3yoehvStf3UDHUox7ZfADvqlnufr0Ksxj46t76s-yxDMwyCyHv8VWj-fIEIPEaadstWhf5LMuAZLdeSfH1Ifk1jW8_MEDQv4pNQgiM4lH24q5wDaDGMsNN_EBree2iyGtKKs3in0dQmsd/s1600/Screen+Shot+2018-06-08+at+9.59.30+pm.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="581" data-original-width="522" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3yoehvStf3UDHUox7ZfADvqlnufr0Ksxj46t76s-yxDMwyCyHv8VWj-fIEIPEaadstWhf5LMuAZLdeSfH1Ifk1jW8_MEDQv4pNQgiM4lH24q5wDaDGMsNN_EBree2iyGtKKs3in0dQmsd/s400/Screen+Shot+2018-06-08+at+9.59.30+pm.png" width="358" /></a></div>
I saw the Twittersphere spring into action on the news of Busby's passing with messages of love and comfort from far and wide. Many of those would have known Buzzer personally, walked with him often, but others like me knew him only from a laptop screen.<br />
<br />
I have other favourites of the canine variety - <a href="https://twitter.com/springer_fun">Benson</a> the Springer spaniel from Canada, owned by a long distance runner, <a href="https://twitter.com/RalphyRua2">Ralphy</a> from Dublin (just had an ear operation), <a href="https://twitter.com/MaisieandMaude">Maisie & Maude</a>, 2 Westies from Derbyshire whose mum raises thousands of pounds for the RSPCA in Britain. We lost the beautiful Callista a while back, a golden spaniel belonging to a nuclear theory physicist and her scientist/photographer husband in Ohio. That was an extremely sad day too.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdi4KLaC737rKHKceLIINFdvGnE6kpCuupwB942i6T5Ame3KAckR7IPa9quhtw-5e_wQ7aylQ7mZHHyQn-giKGV5cu5mSmytaG1XGf0Qpacn4589vcONyK9TIVzz1lAXe1XEr1TK8PGst_/s1600/Screen+Shot+2018-06-08+at+10.08.19+pm.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="467" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdi4KLaC737rKHKceLIINFdvGnE6kpCuupwB942i6T5Ame3KAckR7IPa9quhtw-5e_wQ7aylQ7mZHHyQn-giKGV5cu5mSmytaG1XGf0Qpacn4589vcONyK9TIVzz1lAXe1XEr1TK8PGst_/s320/Screen+Shot+2018-06-08+at+10.08.19+pm.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Callista</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Years ago I rang ABC talkback radio to raise the issue of the cruelty of sow stalls in pig farming. A man rang in immediately afterwards and berated me for caring about <i>pigs</i> (he fairly spat the word!) when there were so many other important issues in the world more deserving of my concern. The assumption, I guess, is that you can only care about one thing at a time.<br />
<br />
But I do care about other things; I can grieve for the world and all its injustices. But right now what makes me sad is the loss of little Busby Watson. It makes me think of the vast inevitability of things, of enduring love and the end of a life, and I make no apologies to anyone for the tears that flow for his family way across the other side of the world, even though I've never laid eyes on any of them.<br />
Go gently, Busby, and thank you for the joy you brought.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
~*~</div>
Gaby Gardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15801062680314947577noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1849831445168739521.post-56413296641373741472018-04-22T02:26:00.000-07:002018-04-22T02:26:02.092-07:00Lincoln in the Bardo - my surprise love.<br />
Recently I flew up north with an agenda that I knew might be stressful and difficult. The night before leaving I was half way through a book that I had not really engaged with and knew I'd finish in a day or two anyway and then have nothing to read. But I'd recently (bravely?) purchased George Saunders' Man Booker Prize winner <i>Lincoln in the Bardo</i>. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLYuLDXQoRm0p9D2xPNxWlV8eJkWC8ry6Wy_M16wPz5TN4a9_QC63a5MPCV9VOoo-rcv_BnOlWAuS1_rrpbqq0JlxFEpUMrLUlddJV-TTdVcxrmyKNSS_GzaaYRz6NbIMn6T0LJOnW2Idq/s1600/Screen+Shot+2018-04-22+at+6.31.35+pm.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="809" data-original-width="597" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLYuLDXQoRm0p9D2xPNxWlV8eJkWC8ry6Wy_M16wPz5TN4a9_QC63a5MPCV9VOoo-rcv_BnOlWAuS1_rrpbqq0JlxFEpUMrLUlddJV-TTdVcxrmyKNSS_GzaaYRz6NbIMn6T0LJOnW2Idq/s320/Screen+Shot+2018-04-22+at+6.31.35+pm.png" width="236" /></a></div>
I wasn't confident of embracing it, much less finishing it, on the basis of what some people had said in their reviews. So I took it with me on my trip north - only a week - on the assumption that if I had nothing else to read I might stick with it.<br />
Much to my surprise, I was hooked within a few pages.<br />
It is, without doubt, the strangest book I've ever read.<br />
Multiple voices, some historically authentic, others fictitious. We're left to work out which are which - which isn't difficult and nor does it matter.<br />
The small fact of the death of Abraham Lincoln's beloved boy, Willie, is set within the whole terrible drama of the American civil war, encompassing race, class and horrific tragedy. While Lincoln himself is crushed by grief and can't stay away from the crypt where Willie's body is taken, Willie himself is trapped between life and release and in the course of one night a cast of characters of all stripes wrestle over his fate and his soul.<br />
The story is, at different times, heart-wrenchingly sad, funny, ghastly, cruel, and shocking.<br />
<br />
The text itself is very odd. Many (most?) pages are scattered only with lines of sparse conversation or comment. So here's a tip, with back story...<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJXwnwvFZMxfsAMaXlThlByfluauiFzg2ezxVgV8mRp5gSvwXByE_KTafYjD46gJhyCG7Jt3VisG72LLtNBOzA6-7TZ3BQFtwvFsJvseO7t8w0I1xv9ij2X9KKiEoPNGRGb5Li552wuv95/s1600/IMG_6134.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1196" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJXwnwvFZMxfsAMaXlThlByfluauiFzg2ezxVgV8mRp5gSvwXByE_KTafYjD46gJhyCG7Jt3VisG72LLtNBOzA6-7TZ3BQFtwvFsJvseO7t8w0I1xv9ij2X9KKiEoPNGRGb5Li552wuv95/s320/IMG_6134.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Many pages are sparsely filled</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
My spoken French is pathetic. I turn to stone when someone babbles at me in French, expecting an answer. I can bumble my way around if I have to, an experience that leaves me feeling like I've just come out of major surgery. BUT my translation of written French isn't too bad. I read through text quickly and don't stop to agonise over unknown words. And this was a bit like how I read Lincoln. I read predominantly for meaning, and didn't always stop to process who was speaking. Sometimes of course I did but the two Greek Chorus kind of voices of <i>hans coleman</i> and <i>roger bevins iii</i> were easy to read just as conversation.<br />
When I did take time to read more closely it was because of the beauty of the language and the imagery. The simplicity of it was immensely powerful:<br />
"They buried Willie Lincoln on a day of great wind, that tore through the roofs of houses and slashed flags to ribbons."<br />
<i>roger bevins iii</i> speaks of the many soldiers lying dead and wounded in open fields with their "rain-soaked/blood-soaked/snow-crusted letters scattered about them."<br />
There are "geese above, clover below, the sound of one's own breath when winded. The way a moistness in the eye will blur a field of stars..."<br />
It's a beautiful book, tender and dazzling, tantalising us with glimpses of a thousand different characters and their stories, all satelliting around the terrible grief of the President and the loss of his little boy.<br />
I think I'm going to read it again.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
~*~</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
Gaby Gardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15801062680314947577noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1849831445168739521.post-22806350893377800702018-04-01T05:33:00.000-07:002018-04-01T13:57:23.994-07:00Just A-Walkin' the Dog<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: left;">
<h4>
<span style="font-weight: normal;">
"Every dog knows how to love a person.</span><span style="font-weight: normal;">
Not every person knows how to love a dog."</span></h4>
<div>
<span style="text-align: right;"> Unknown.</span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: right;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCogO1hixNMKjCtzOp5QaMHkGw37AjTBjO2lOhfmTUKD9HCEURmuOdVE7ws4iSwq9URVaNT6bqIKFPRk5AdYR11lkAc1SoHsaWA-g06PVIJHgHucRoSYHoAea-m9Iser7u60gXhwGLSqkx/s1600/IMG_4115.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1196" data-original-width="1600" height="476" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCogO1hixNMKjCtzOp5QaMHkGw37AjTBjO2lOhfmTUKD9HCEURmuOdVE7ws4iSwq9URVaNT6bqIKFPRk5AdYR11lkAc1SoHsaWA-g06PVIJHgHucRoSYHoAea-m9Iser7u60gXhwGLSqkx/s640/IMG_4115.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
I often walk our dogs in an
expansive parkland that runs alongside the railway line in outer suburban
Melbourne. There's grass, a creek, birds galore and flowering trees to take your breath away. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlVmt3HokhtlSUId784hKAkTfaVSxBTTol5eHau5OsWNxJgM8_ZitP7o30XpZurvX40DdsIwc1Y-wWr26dyJM8dOOM0LXq-70WTcE7E6WdT23amSX95lV-z2XS39-Vg4Xar8wsHFFgFqid/s1600/IMG_5050.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1196" data-original-width="1600" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlVmt3HokhtlSUId784hKAkTfaVSxBTTol5eHau5OsWNxJgM8_ZitP7o30XpZurvX40DdsIwc1Y-wWr26dyJM8dOOM0LXq-70WTcE7E6WdT23amSX95lV-z2XS39-Vg4Xar8wsHFFgFqid/s400/IMG_5050.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I’m loathe to give its name as it’s an unofficial and much treasured
off-leash area though no signs attest to this and some kill-joy is bound to
come along one day and complain. But - so far so good.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
If ever a person felt lonely or bereft they’d have only to come here to be uplifted, entertained, puzzled or to laugh out loud. There are funny stories, sad stories and no end of observations to be made, about dogs and humans alike.<span style="text-align: center;"> </span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="text-indent: 36pt;">Take Rose. Rose
is a robust but unremarkable black dog who fancies herself to be part cat. When
I first met Rose she was pouncing into the long grass in what her owners told
me was a promising pursuit of field mice, an activity at which she excels. When
Rose is feeling affectionate towards her owners at home she will back up, lift
her tail in the air and do those schmoozing slow twirls around their legs, just
like a cat. She grew up with cats and kittens apparently and took on many of
their feline behaviours. It made my day, meeting Rose.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="text-indent: 36pt;">There’s Henry
the tradie’s dog who fell off the back of a truck one day and whose owner
sped along, oblivious. </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="text-indent: 36pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqONKIghCnIqAFLmE-3Wg2eys49LlTb_GFu_n8VsBGDc88-A0Tu9Y0HJkZQxag09RcKLne4nNNGKPDFPUI_WFB6GnBc6PHrulGFPwWwKz4zP6-_u6otThHc28gqYm_kUQMYmwxjGeGoWd_/s1600/Screen+Shot+2018-04-01+at+7.31.00+pm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="396" data-original-width="474" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqONKIghCnIqAFLmE-3Wg2eys49LlTb_GFu_n8VsBGDc88-A0Tu9Y0HJkZQxag09RcKLne4nNNGKPDFPUI_WFB6GnBc6PHrulGFPwWwKz4zP6-_u6otThHc28gqYm_kUQMYmwxjGeGoWd_/s320/Screen+Shot+2018-04-01+at+7.31.00+pm.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="text-indent: 36pt;">The absence of name tags, registration or the necessary
speed to get the number plate resulted in Henry now living in the lap of luxury
in a posh leafy suburb with his own couch and a penchant for watching the footy with his rescuer and now besotted new owner.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="text-indent: 36pt;">But not all
encounters are happy ones. There’s the elderly lady who for years walked two
beautifully behaved Airdale terriers, one spritely, one starting to dodder. We
chatted several times about doggy things—best food, best parks, vet bills—and
then one day she turned up with just the one dog. I knew not to say ‘I know just how you feel’—although I probably did— but this is not what the bereaved
dog owner wants to hear. They know that </span><i style="text-indent: 36pt;">no-one</i><span style="text-indent: 36pt;">
has</span><i style="text-indent: 36pt;"> ever</i><span style="text-indent: 36pt;"> been through </span><i style="text-indent: 36pt;">anything</i><span style="text-indent: 36pt;"> as bad as what they’re going
through right now. No-one. So don’t compete, don’t even empathise. Just listen
and know what they're going through. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="text-indent: 36pt;">Other behaviours
come as a surprise. A few dog owners get tetchy if you get the gender of
their dog wrong.</span><span style="text-indent: 36pt;"> </span><span style="text-indent: 36pt;">A well-meaning ‘What’s
her name?’ can bring on the pursed lips and clouds of offence if s</span><i style="text-indent: 36pt;">he</i><span style="text-indent: 36pt;"> is in fact a </span><i style="text-indent: 36pt;">he</i><span style="text-indent: 36pt;">. Short of doubling over in a true hairpin bend to check the
undercarriage for tell-tale signs of gender, it’s best not to commit. I’ve modified
Catherine Deveney’s advice from an old column for Greeting Ugly Babies in these circumstances.
Smile directly at the subject, look deeply indulgent and say ‘Well, look at
you! And what’s </span><i style="text-indent: 36pt;">your</i><span style="text-indent: 36pt;"> name?’ Thanks
Catherine. Works every time. Unless it’s called Dusty or Spot. The dog, that
is.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="text-indent: 36pt;">Of course some
owners don’t deserve to own a dog. There are the two regular, lycra-clad
runners who
pound on ahead of a poor little fluff ball in full designer doggy-gear but who
can’t keep up and frequently gets lost, needing to be rescued by some other
more observant and caring dog owner. I long for a falling branch to bring them
down or for that little bridge to collapse and send them plunging into the
drain below but so far, no luck. We can but dream.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="text-indent: 36pt;">There are the
owners who keep their dogs on a tight leash which they yank viciously if
another dog approaches for a friendly sniff. </span><span style="text-indent: 48px;">'C'mon Raymond!' they command, dragging the dog along mercilessly by the neck. </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="text-indent: 48px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWECUIxFmsPGU8hqw2KgxRXWk8PtyxEsbGF1bhB0GIOJLYX1BEn1546-LNzUmfVHeeNrGdcTsmDRAVa6pZ-X6ThdFcxI32xF6zO04kczn2TbH7ZrnK13SP2d2JWFhJNiqsCegnAD0TxRlS/s1600/Screen+Shot+2018-04-01+at+7.25.07+pm.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="292" data-original-width="392" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWECUIxFmsPGU8hqw2KgxRXWk8PtyxEsbGF1bhB0GIOJLYX1BEn1546-LNzUmfVHeeNrGdcTsmDRAVa6pZ-X6ThdFcxI32xF6zO04kczn2TbH7ZrnK13SP2d2JWFhJNiqsCegnAD0TxRlS/s320/Screen+Shot+2018-04-01+at+7.25.07+pm.png" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="text-indent: 36pt;">Presumably they believe that
decapitating their dog is preferable to letting it socialise with another. A
variation on this theme is to swoop down and lift the dog high, clutching it to
the breast defensively in an act of fierce protection. Unfortunately this
usually leads to the approaching dog leaping high and repeatedly, pogo style,
to get at the dog now cowering on its owner’s shoulders. Ah me, if only dogs
were left to their own devices.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="text-indent: 36pt;">The non-poo-picker-uppers are another source of entertainment if you approach them kindly and say 'Forgot your bags? Never mind, here, have one of mine.' </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="text-indent: 36pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiQlUhPkem2XFQWQFJNr_VnoE82JtY6JhFXrtsyLnB910UAnilSDVUKhIoA0AB8j-23Nd11-ueiEwJZEqI8T-HTaaPV95G_aq6ze6NLdp_arzGVWRgSG6y1JnsHzVoupR7-tkmpCSiTi-J/s1600/Screen+Shot+2018-04-01+at+7.17.52+pm.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="190" data-original-width="303" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiQlUhPkem2XFQWQFJNr_VnoE82JtY6JhFXrtsyLnB910UAnilSDVUKhIoA0AB8j-23Nd11-ueiEwJZEqI8T-HTaaPV95G_aq6ze6NLdp_arzGVWRgSG6y1JnsHzVoupR7-tkmpCSiTi-J/s1600/Screen+Shot+2018-04-01+at+7.17.52+pm.png" /></a></span></div>
<span style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="text-indent: 36pt;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="text-indent: 36pt;">Then stay and watch. Chances are they've never done it before and won't appreciate your interference one little bit.</span><br />
<span style="text-indent: 36pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="text-indent: 36pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="text-indent: 36pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="text-indent: 36pt;">Me, I often head
for this park to walk our dogs, always off-lead. Until recently we've had three and people would often say ‘Oh, you have your hands full!’ But no. They’re
friendly, full of fun and they come when they’re called.</span><span style="text-indent: 36pt;"> </span><span style="text-indent: 36pt;">I suspect this is because they’re all rescue
dogs and so far I’m the only source of Schmakos they know.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqdUzv0WIZQnfi_VrVXDKVd0PAppgCf_cym7B7gfP1wJum3UFeUSvUI8musiYxMY36W4D5DcW0fZIWsKavm28zUyh4fHoOZLRixQQ3IzVt8vLXCONoW_J6ErteZxrxnoiL0Y-wQ9fJMbVN/s1600/Screen+Shot+2018-04-01+at+10.07.36+pm.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="475" data-original-width="429" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqdUzv0WIZQnfi_VrVXDKVd0PAppgCf_cym7B7gfP1wJum3UFeUSvUI8musiYxMY36W4D5DcW0fZIWsKavm28zUyh4fHoOZLRixQQ3IzVt8vLXCONoW_J6ErteZxrxnoiL0Y-wQ9fJMbVN/s200/Screen+Shot+2018-04-01+at+10.07.36+pm.png" width="180" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
~ *
~<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: right;">
(A version of this article originally appeared in The Big Issue.)</div>
</div>
<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<o:OfficeDocumentSettings>
<o:AllowPNG/>
</o:OfficeDocumentSettings>
</xml><![endif]-->
<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:WordDocument>
<w:View>Normal</w:View>
<w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom>
<w:TrackMoves/>
<w:TrackFormatting/>
<w:PunctuationKerning/>
<w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/>
<w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>
<w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent>
<w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>
<w:DoNotPromoteQF/>
<w:LidThemeOther>EN-AU</w:LidThemeOther>
<w:LidThemeAsian>JA</w:LidThemeAsian>
<w:LidThemeComplexScript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript>
<w:Compatibility>
<w:BreakWrappedTables/>
<w:SnapToGridInCell/>
<w:WrapTextWithPunct/>
<w:UseAsianBreakRules/>
<w:DontGrowAutofit/>
<w:SplitPgBreakAndParaMark/>
<w:EnableOpenTypeKerning/>
<w:DontFlipMirrorIndents/>
<w:OverrideTableStyleHps/>
<w:UseFELayout/>
</w:Compatibility>
<w:DoNotOptimizeForBrowser/>
<m:mathPr>
<m:mathFont m:val="Cambria Math"/>
<m:brkBin m:val="before"/>
<m:brkBinSub m:val="--"/>
<m:smallFrac m:val="off"/>
<m:dispDef/>
<m:lMargin m:val="0"/>
<m:rMargin m:val="0"/>
<m:defJc m:val="centerGroup"/>
<m:wrapIndent m:val="1440"/>
<m:intLim m:val="subSup"/>
<m:naryLim m:val="undOvr"/>
</m:mathPr></w:WordDocument>
</xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" DefUnhideWhenUsed="false"
DefSemiHidden="false" DefQFormat="false" DefPriority="99"
LatentStyleCount="375">
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="0" QFormat="true" Name="Normal"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" QFormat="true" Name="heading 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="heading 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="heading 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="heading 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="heading 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="heading 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="heading 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="heading 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="heading 9"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="index 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="index 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="index 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="index 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="index 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="index 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="index 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="index 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="index 9"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="toc 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="toc 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="toc 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="toc 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="toc 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="toc 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="toc 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="toc 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="toc 9"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Normal Indent"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="footnote text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="annotation text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="header"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="footer"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="index heading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="35" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="caption"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="table of figures"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="envelope address"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="envelope return"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="footnote reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="annotation reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="line number"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="page number"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="endnote reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="endnote text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="table of authorities"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="macro"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="toa heading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Bullet"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Number"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Bullet 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Bullet 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Bullet 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Bullet 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Number 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Number 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Number 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Number 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="10" QFormat="true" Name="Title"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Closing"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Signature"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="1" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Default Paragraph Font"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text Indent"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Continue"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Continue 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Continue 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Continue 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Continue 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Message Header"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="11" QFormat="true" Name="Subtitle"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Salutation"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Date"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text First Indent"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text First Indent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Heading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text Indent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text Indent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Block Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Hyperlink"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="FollowedHyperlink"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="22" QFormat="true" Name="Strong"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="20" QFormat="true" Name="Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Document Map"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Plain Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="E-mail Signature"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Top of Form"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Bottom of Form"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Normal (Web)"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Acronym"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Address"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Cite"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Code"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Definition"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Keyboard"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Preformatted"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Sample"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Typewriter"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Variable"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Normal Table"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="annotation subject"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="No List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Contemporary"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Elegant"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Professional"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Subtle 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Subtle 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Balloon Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="Table Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Theme"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" Name="Placeholder Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="1" QFormat="true" Name="No Spacing"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" Name="Revision"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="34" QFormat="true"
Name="List Paragraph"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="29" QFormat="true" Name="Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="30" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="19" QFormat="true"
Name="Subtle Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="21" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="31" QFormat="true"
Name="Subtle Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="32" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="33" QFormat="true" Name="Book Title"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="37" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Bibliography"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="TOC Heading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="41" Name="Plain Table 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="42" Name="Plain Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="43" Name="Plain Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="44" Name="Plain Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="45" Name="Plain Table 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="40" Name="Grid Table Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46" Name="Grid Table 1 Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51" Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52" Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46" Name="List Table 1 Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51" Name="List Table 6 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52" Name="List Table 7 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Mention"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Smart Hyperlink"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Hashtag"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Unresolved Mention"/>
</w:LatentStyles>
</xml><![endif]-->
<!--[if gte mso 10]>
<style>
/* Style Definitions */
table.MsoNormalTable
{mso-style-name:"Table Normal";
mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0;
mso-tstyle-colband-size:0;
mso-style-noshow:yes;
mso-style-priority:99;
mso-style-parent:"";
mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt;
mso-para-margin:0cm;
mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:12.0pt;
font-family:"Cambria",serif;
mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;
mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;}
</style>
<![endif]-->
<!--StartFragment-->
<!--EndFragment--><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
Gaby Gardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15801062680314947577noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1849831445168739521.post-2439088250042808042018-03-14T03:58:00.000-07:002018-03-14T22:55:32.882-07:00There's reading and then there's reading...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfBmfYq6s3cadzpXgyAZuDIQPCnNL39wP9-q7dYVyZ3H9GOnzjJTwUVDDLtBEWEywfqCHQO1tCJMC9WimZHcl-bGFVZXTMm829boz4A0zdLdjo5sYeVH36-IaONfR7qBL3-O44KFaxnJiS/s1600/IMG_5974.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><br /></a>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfBmfYq6s3cadzpXgyAZuDIQPCnNL39wP9-q7dYVyZ3H9GOnzjJTwUVDDLtBEWEywfqCHQO1tCJMC9WimZHcl-bGFVZXTMm829boz4A0zdLdjo5sYeVH36-IaONfR7qBL3-O44KFaxnJiS/s1600/IMG_5974.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1167" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfBmfYq6s3cadzpXgyAZuDIQPCnNL39wP9-q7dYVyZ3H9GOnzjJTwUVDDLtBEWEywfqCHQO1tCJMC9WimZHcl-bGFVZXTMm829boz4A0zdLdjo5sYeVH36-IaONfR7qBL3-O44KFaxnJiS/s320/IMG_5974.jpg" width="232" /></a> <br />
<br />
In this household, where I live with my spouse and two hugely loved rescue dogs, we have multiple versions of every device Apple has ever produced. If I'd wanted to read books in electronic form I could've done so on my phone or<i> one</i> of the iPads just for starters. But I'd cast furtive glances at various devices used by friends who are avid readers, after which I quite suddenly persuaded myself that a Kindle would be handy for trains, planes and automobiles (when I wasn't driving) and also for reading at night on those many occasions when I wake to the demons at 3 am but feel bad switching on the light to read.<br />
<br />
Spouse loves little more than buying things online so I'd barely voiced my tentative interest in a little Kindle Paperwhite before one arrived in the post, rapidly followed by a girly-pink Bonjour Paris cover.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfBmfYq6s3cadzpXgyAZuDIQPCnNL39wP9-q7dYVyZ3H9GOnzjJTwUVDDLtBEWEywfqCHQO1tCJMC9WimZHcl-bGFVZXTMm829boz4A0zdLdjo5sYeVH36-IaONfR7qBL3-O44KFaxnJiS/s1600/IMG_5974.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlsx5M1OfJyvOehdbwRYB2q56rP3mSgJn5aoQTOKfXy9IulOYWPiuwoOyNjvrTRAh5CP1NSLpLXCaSpd1cNw36sf_mPlGxKrgyu23Xv1syzADjyNpxiDrNGmx-lIjXPRCPrlKGaRWCDIjn/s1600/Screen+Shot+2018-03-14+at+7.22.44+pm.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="473" data-original-width="292" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlsx5M1OfJyvOehdbwRYB2q56rP3mSgJn5aoQTOKfXy9IulOYWPiuwoOyNjvrTRAh5CP1NSLpLXCaSpd1cNw36sf_mPlGxKrgyu23Xv1syzADjyNpxiDrNGmx-lIjXPRCPrlKGaRWCDIjn/s320/Screen+Shot+2018-03-14+at+7.22.44+pm.png" width="196" /></a><br />
<br />
<br />
The lovely Sabine, a Twitter friend from Ohio, had put me onto the Brother Cadfael chronicles, a series of mysteries (21, I think) by Ellis Peters, featuring a Welsh Benedictine monk living in England in the early 12th century. They are historically accurate, linguistically authentic and Brother Cadfael himself is a gem, as well as a dab hand at identifying murderers and dishing out his own—usually fairly benign—form of justice. So he was perfect for my first foray into the use of my Kindle. I read one volume in hard copy then the next two on the Kindle. No drama.<br />
<br />
Very soon I discovered how alarmingly easy it is to buy books for this new device. Basically, identify the book you fancy and press BUY. (Here lies trouble, if you don't watch yourself.)<br />
<br />
But the next book (are they really 'books'?) I purchased was Tracy Farr's <u>The Hope Fault</u>. And here was a different ball-game altogether. It's a beautifully written story, though 'story' is perhaps the wrong word. Not much happens. A family heads off to pack up a holiday house that has been sold - a husband, an ex-wife, the new wife, a new baby, a son, a cousin, an aunt/twin/sister-in-law. Absent but significant is the matriarch Rosa, about to turn 100. The language is lyrical, the interior lives of all the players are exquisitely and quietly drawn - their talents, their secrets, their fears, their needs, their histories. Best of all, their care of and love for each other. The structure is clever and enticing. I read it very quickly. On my Kindle.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQuA3KGsBU7HnnkVdw2IYWTUfENP0W-oavJfhbHOFTDc0SEKasBF6rwhtTTSgZQGOT4FEbwGmoP2GuyfcmXfGUeBIo6b0FXfctniPVKvOnRVXJop3Tt3E4-BJy1-Ha9RMH5k5P4f4j0RDH/s1600/Screen+Shot+2018-03-14+at+9.52.23+pm.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="437" data-original-width="299" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQuA3KGsBU7HnnkVdw2IYWTUfENP0W-oavJfhbHOFTDc0SEKasBF6rwhtTTSgZQGOT4FEbwGmoP2GuyfcmXfGUeBIo6b0FXfctniPVKvOnRVXJop3Tt3E4-BJy1-Ha9RMH5k5P4f4j0RDH/s320/Screen+Shot+2018-03-14+at+9.52.23+pm.png" width="218" /></a></div>
<br />
But what a shock when I finished it! Oh there's a titchy little percentage sign down the bottom to tell you how far along the way you are but who looks at that when you're involved? So suddenly it's over! You can't close the book, look back at the cover, read the bit on the back again, flip back to that part where you'd like to check on something again and worse that that, you can't decide who you'll pass it on to next! No clutching it to your chest and thinking 'Sue's going to love this! I can't wait to hand it on.'<br />
So maybe I'll read some things on this new perky little device and other things I'll read in real books. That'll mean I can still browse bookshops for hours on end and never come away empty handed.<br />
<br />
I'm sure I'll get used to it, this Kindle device, maybe one day even forget how I ever got by without it. Meanwhile I have this nagging, slightly guilty feeling that I've betrayed someone. Therefore, all those fabulous writers whose books I've loved, and whose next book I await with such anticipation, their work will still end up on my bookshelves, on paper, with the beautiful covers they've agonised over, awaiting the orange spot I stick on the spine to remind myself in the future that I've read it. Then I can still have the joy of physically handing it over to a trusted friend and saying 'You must read this!'<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
~*~</div>
Gaby Gardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15801062680314947577noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1849831445168739521.post-88393747917635312362018-03-03T03:03:00.001-08:002018-03-03T03:13:35.161-08:00#Amwriting - at lastI am almost ready to start writing again. I'll stop wittering on about my garden, the things I've cooked, which birds are landing on the bird-feeders this morning. I will stop posting photos of my dogs on Twitter, stop following up endless reading recommendations from writers whose opinions I value and stop checking out obscure opportunities that I could never win in a million years - though that 4-week one in Ireland sounds like fun. (Thanks Varuna Alumni newsletter for making it sound almost feasible!)<br />
So after a six week lay-off where I've written not one creative word, I'm almost ready to tidy the desk, open the notebook to a clean page, check to see that the word count option is still working and hit the keys.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSpnl2U42lKRncOH1c7yPELrmG7u8meLXzMRAm5lGrvNvXv-V-N8QE8P0isQ-ngvaCf19akHVUvmYS3dIHrGNhJGGv_syXHJLsq0qiy3NpW4-saDz7Js-yLI3H3gpnIH5GVYrjtGQise-0/s1600/Screen+Shot+2018-03-03+at+9.49.04+pm.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="165" data-original-width="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSpnl2U42lKRncOH1c7yPELrmG7u8meLXzMRAm5lGrvNvXv-V-N8QE8P0isQ-ngvaCf19akHVUvmYS3dIHrGNhJGGv_syXHJLsq0qiy3NpW4-saDz7Js-yLI3H3gpnIH5GVYrjtGQise-0/s1600/Screen+Shot+2018-03-03+at+9.49.04+pm.png" /></a></div>
At the very end of January I submitted the final draft (yeah, right, of course it is) of my favourite manuscript to my agent. I had worked 4 or 5 hours a day for most of January on the final edits she sent me just before Christmas - 14 closely typed pages, in 2 sections, several weeks apart. The first section I tackled with gusto - minor queries to be addressed, issue of chronology to be clarified, a few darlings to kill. The second section though made me reel backwards in dismay. Big changes, big deletions, big issues of voice and character to be addressed. Then just when it seemed as if my shoulders might be permanently sagged, she rang me. "Don't be too alarmed," she said, "I just wrote down every thought that came into my head. I love it, I really love it."<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp-Jo700sObaWUWhZs1ELPkAfF5BCqX0ADXUdh5n97yd16ASLg1P3foM3PDf8jO_3poKVbmR25sw5_p4GaNqVo1u0e5QJCSE2uLvvrcASvKikvHGnHtTxNVsXoCkkqsbXNRyj0m4CHomMb/s1600/Screen+Shot+2018-03-03+at+9.46.00+pm.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="181" data-original-width="285" height="127" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp-Jo700sObaWUWhZs1ELPkAfF5BCqX0ADXUdh5n97yd16ASLg1P3foM3PDf8jO_3poKVbmR25sw5_p4GaNqVo1u0e5QJCSE2uLvvrcASvKikvHGnHtTxNVsXoCkkqsbXNRyj0m4CHomMb/s200/Screen+Shot+2018-03-03+at+9.46.00+pm.png" width="200" /></a></div>
<span style="text-align: center;">So, euphoric, made bold by praise, I started on the second lot of edits and in the following weeks I learned more about writing than I had for the past umpteen years.</span><br />
When finally I sent off the final draft though, there was no sense of relief or accomplishment, only that paralysing knowledge that it was now out of my hands. It might go nowhere, might never find a home. This significant milestone might signify only the beginning of another long and lonely wait.<br />
But the human spirit in an aspiring writer is indomitable, if you wait long enough. Today I opened up an abandoned manuscript that early readers had loved. It won a few awards, went through some workshopping at RMIT, had some good feedback and some big faults pointed out without mercy. But it's a good story and there's all that stuff I learned while working on the last one. I know the weakness is in the plot and so I'm taking heed of that precious piece of advice from the matchless Cate Kennedy: "Make Things Worse!"<br />
I'm girding my loins - planning to tear apart the plot, delete all that back story, up the tension, make all those poor characters suffer till their hearts bleed. I don't know how I'm going to do it. But I think I'm ready to start.<br />
<br />
Wish me luck.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi685TTx1yvuq1VnZUSyudhzSAmVDC7DBANGVUOeFj1NtGGa3oT9OzP4zuxPp4H-UlajsYspQcqfXVifRog3DBTBzTkoIW9DOD1W0JWEw6jJH3Lv1PjUTEfO9mv2QKNX0RvvQrLTjGQYUnn/s1600/Screen+Shot+2018-03-03+at+9.47.54+pm.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="166" data-original-width="241" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi685TTx1yvuq1VnZUSyudhzSAmVDC7DBANGVUOeFj1NtGGa3oT9OzP4zuxPp4H-UlajsYspQcqfXVifRog3DBTBzTkoIW9DOD1W0JWEw6jJH3Lv1PjUTEfO9mv2QKNX0RvvQrLTjGQYUnn/s400/Screen+Shot+2018-03-03+at+9.47.54+pm.png" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
~*~</div>
Gaby Gardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15801062680314947577noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1849831445168739521.post-71732264283501460222018-01-05T21:41:00.000-08:002018-01-06T15:49:29.158-08:00A Sense of PlaceI have always believed that there's a certain time of day when you are aware of where you really belong. Not every day, just sometimes.<br />
It happens, this feeling, at that twilight time of day, just before the sun goes down... that lurching, heart swelling feeling that grabs you when you look out the window of a car, a train, a plane and long to be home.<br />
I'm still very attached to the Tweed Valley where I grew up and where my family members still live, including my sister and her husband, with whom I spent a week little while back.<br />
The mountain ranges, the river, the flowering trees, the way most oncoming drivers still lift one finger off the steering wheel in greeting as they pass— all these made me glad to be back.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzYuGIupfF1CjkXpnpwSxaja9gsuViShCH9k8O3cq-slC36-cO7lCOe-8ykHABG26VOLGsaTGm2x5B1GWpoVOMI-GvXPNoZSG7C3fVI1wnrl3Dz819OKjDwICzByRlCjFaiUHx9edOGLpP/s1600/Screen+Shot+2018-01-06+at+4.43.06+pm.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="298" data-original-width="411" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzYuGIupfF1CjkXpnpwSxaja9gsuViShCH9k8O3cq-slC36-cO7lCOe-8ykHABG26VOLGsaTGm2x5B1GWpoVOMI-GvXPNoZSG7C3fVI1wnrl3Dz819OKjDwICzByRlCjFaiUHx9edOGLpP/s400/Screen+Shot+2018-01-06+at+4.43.06+pm.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Road to Mount Warning</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
But there's a downside too.<br />
One morning, hastening to get to breakfast, which my brother-in-law, Des, has on the table at 7.30, I grabbed the previous day's denim shorts, stepped one leg in, went to put the other leg in, only to see a giant huntsman spider trying to crawl out from inside. Now, I don't do spiders well but neither do I smash them with a shoe, and clearly this one was in trouble.<br />
I took him outside, shorts and all, called Des and together we freed him from the cobwebs that had bunched up and stuck like Minnie Mouse's shoes on the end of every one of his eight legs.(Lucky for me. This is what slowed him down.)<br />
Then began the tales of other near-misses with the local critters. Des recalled how he pushed a foot into his gardening boot one morning and felt it to be unusually tight. Investigation revealed a cane toad inside, firmly ensconced up in the toe of his boot. (Have you fainted yet? I nearly did.)<br />
So yes, there are indeed more critters up there than I'm used to in Melbourne—spiders, snakes, goannas, cane toads, ticks, to name a few—and they like to get up close and personal. The giant carpet snakes under the corrugated iron roof of their shed are spoken of with some affection.<br />
But the views do indeed make my heart lurch and it's hard to stop taking photos of the flowering trees as well.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjej-P1MJ_KpV0HoyBNl3npTwrytmLxRNMlApdL7-yJcP_S3NcB3yICEVPGaWATAvhhf_mTFIRRuixyO8xNkwFFaCRBKs9sjVbDt3IfXFCwqWBtEReT4USm3cO3JzwWkQ9iORTUeCBSUJji/s1600/Screen+Shot+2018-01-06+at+4.43.36+pm.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="518" data-original-width="477" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjej-P1MJ_KpV0HoyBNl3npTwrytmLxRNMlApdL7-yJcP_S3NcB3yICEVPGaWATAvhhf_mTFIRRuixyO8xNkwFFaCRBKs9sjVbDt3IfXFCwqWBtEReT4USm3cO3JzwWkQ9iORTUeCBSUJji/s400/Screen+Shot+2018-01-06+at+4.43.36+pm.png" width="367" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Illawarra Flame tree in bloom</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
All of which leads me to think about writers who write about place and landscape so evocatively that you feel their love for the place in every word.<br />
Tim Winton has to be top of the list. In all of his novels he evokes a sense of place that is almost palpable.<br />
He urges us to feel the ground beneath our feet wherever we are, to see the landscape as a living entity and to stop moving long enough to hear what it's telling us.<br />
<br />
If I'd been listening it might have warned me about that big spider.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
~*~</div>
<div class="separator">
<br /></div>
Gaby Gardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15801062680314947577noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1849831445168739521.post-89683320083726884752017-12-19T01:11:00.001-08:002017-12-19T12:04:57.180-08:00'Tis the Season (to hide bad stuff from your dog.)I've just finished a very long phone call with my dear friend Kathy in Brisbane, during which we reminisced about bad things that our dogs had done at Christmas time. We were younger then, working mad hours, trying to fit in everything that life could provide. So maybe vigilance and care went out the window from time to time.<br />
This conversation arose out of Kathy telling me that one of their gorgeous dogs, Buster, companion to Betsy, just stole and ate half of this year's home-made Christmas pudding. Her husband Peter, who is a bit of a chef extraordinaire, had cooked it and I don't doubt that it was divine, the result of hours, maybe days, of preparation. Buster—tall enough to reach the top of tables and benches—obviously thought so too. Hard to believe this angelic face (below) could be such an opportunistic thief...<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX9sjtc3g52hmSHaqtji535peB-xAz_AxS11sA6p7sUkYJVBWwBiVInMU_VuBawUuo2afp4nr_ja6IBsvv9FWZMDivVKS5hhFmheWqgTI5CfDYTikjYuTfrI8KzJp33wTpKpi7iBuZ4YXO/s1600/IMG_0410.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1279" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX9sjtc3g52hmSHaqtji535peB-xAz_AxS11sA6p7sUkYJVBWwBiVInMU_VuBawUuo2afp4nr_ja6IBsvv9FWZMDivVKS5hhFmheWqgTI5CfDYTikjYuTfrI8KzJp33wTpKpi7iBuZ4YXO/s320/IMG_0410.jpg" width="255" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Buster - Pudding Thief</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
This led to the memory of another near disaster one Christmas when Grace, a sweet and virtuous spaniel of ours, wreaked havoc with the ingredients of one of those chocolate Christmas trees that were all the rage a while back. I'd bought the ingredients on the way home - peanuts, marshmallows, icing sugar, glacé cherries and chocolate - and, after a long day at work, dumped the supermarket bags carelessly on the floor of the dining room. We awoke the next morning to the whole house decorated with swirling trails of icing sugar and torn cellophane bags strewn across the floors, spilling out the remnants of all the above ingredients. We do know by now that cocker spaniels have the guts of billy goats which must be why the beautiful Grace didn't even get sick.<br />
However our backyard <i>was</i> peppered with peanut-laden dog poo for days after, with the odd undigested glacé cherry for colour.<br />
I'm much more careful these days.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTGbLNDuwN92Mp8GqN3cjjyUf1ivpO1tWG0iVmgWRM0aYdzYal6kYp4xF0SlIh687WBc9TMEv2z7F0dBLaj7_r747KstxdwC_OBjdtX0yOeouCWo-LhejhMQtNmj997GG_4w8_acw2ER7x/s1600/IMG_5454.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1104" data-original-width="1600" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTGbLNDuwN92Mp8GqN3cjjyUf1ivpO1tWG0iVmgWRM0aYdzYal6kYp4xF0SlIh687WBc9TMEv2z7F0dBLaj7_r747KstxdwC_OBjdtX0yOeouCWo-LhejhMQtNmj997GG_4w8_acw2ER7x/s320/IMG_5454.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Solomon and Grace - 'It wozzn't her!'</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
The other memorable doggy disaster was at the hands - paws - of a later, beautiful black spaniel called Otto.<br />
Otto was a gentleman and a scholar whose good manners and behaviour put the other two dogs to shame. He was obedient, calm, beautiful and loving but sadly—the one glitch in the glowing list of attributes—a determined thief. He too somehow accessed the Christmas pudding while we were out that day and ate half of it. However, we had no evidence of which one of the three—a golden spaniel called Tessa, a cute terrier-cross called Vince, or the angelic Otto himself—was the culprit.<br />
I lined them all up with stern commands to 'sit' and smelt their respective breaths.<br />
And Otto it was - no contest. He proved to be a bit queasy that day but the vet found no lasting ill-effects.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrbHIZk9YCAKCU2uIT6KO5JEHqdpFiJNcfRRlMI7WiV2GUgI2X_9plA90Yd_MI6K0DajHKTM4Rfhyphenhyphen4s-u_vtjuEDMOZRgkjl7glpyjBXPObIKrYkBmB0I5j8PgRUzA6kOmumlIAj7VmIOe/s1600/Screen+Shot+2017-12-19+at+7.54.00+pm.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="433" data-original-width="596" height="464" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrbHIZk9YCAKCU2uIT6KO5JEHqdpFiJNcfRRlMI7WiV2GUgI2X_9plA90Yd_MI6K0DajHKTM4Rfhyphenhyphen4s-u_vtjuEDMOZRgkjl7glpyjBXPObIKrYkBmB0I5j8PgRUzA6kOmumlIAj7VmIOe/s640/Screen+Shot+2017-12-19+at+7.54.00+pm.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Otto, Tessa and Vince - the angelic one on the left, pudding thief.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I'm super vigilant now and count my lucky stars that none of these doggy misdemeanours ended badly, as they might have done. But as I've called this blog Reading, Writing and a Few Dog Stories, I suspect I'll never run out of material.<br />
Happy Christmas to you and may your dog have no access to bad things during the festive season.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0VM9W_zxCz5SALeLvG2bjomrV6ou0OSsKK-Qzf1V7lMHBCK99JhbJJPZrzvZs6GEgjZ0ytKPqjnnUbr9OUD24-S7cuhf2FONmDw7BmZnelLp_xbFnIdmbir1egspbviCHcUmYa7K7pjCF/s1600/Christmas+Archie.tiff" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="625" data-original-width="672" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0VM9W_zxCz5SALeLvG2bjomrV6ou0OSsKK-Qzf1V7lMHBCK99JhbJJPZrzvZs6GEgjZ0ytKPqjnnUbr9OUD24-S7cuhf2FONmDw7BmZnelLp_xbFnIdmbir1egspbviCHcUmYa7K7pjCF/s320/Christmas+Archie.tiff" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
~*~</div>
<br />Gaby Gardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15801062680314947577noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1849831445168739521.post-73145881342470165302017-11-15T18:40:00.000-08:002018-03-04T03:20:52.757-08:00The Water Diviner<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sometimes known as <i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dowsing">dowsing</a></i>, the art of locating underground
water with the aid of a divining rod has been subjected to scepticism, disbelief and often ridicule over the
years. I listened a few years ago to some scathing Melbourne shock-jock enjoy
himself on the airwaves, ridiculing the art, until I realised that someone must
have accidentally bumped the dial off the ABC and then I got rid of him.<br />
But I can understand people being sceptical. The process requires a person to walk across the ground with a divining rod - sticks or wire - until the rod of its own accord pulls unmistakably downwards, giving a clue to the diviner that there should be water in that place somewhere below ground.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMMdR38EL7n_uqWZkR0M_fHrNiGXMT4EHWrC3wQMKa7MG5EoKSc40EqCEtM7NSMkIjb5OStx8IfUpFwjc5BmOv8Bfodw9BPgoXBsNC5zi74lyp3-U8JBL-o1iiyq4cVH2StAuE282-xCWc/s1600/Screen+Shot+2017-11-16+at+12.55.29+pm.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="283" data-original-width="506" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMMdR38EL7n_uqWZkR0M_fHrNiGXMT4EHWrC3wQMKa7MG5EoKSc40EqCEtM7NSMkIjb5OStx8IfUpFwjc5BmOv8Bfodw9BPgoXBsNC5zi74lyp3-U8JBL-o1iiyq4cVH2StAuE282-xCWc/s320/Screen+Shot+2017-11-16+at+12.55.29+pm.png" width="320" /></a></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My Dad was a water diviner though as far as I can remember he never said the words. It was just something he did. We lived out in the country with a bank of willow trees growing down past the back stairs. (It was under these willow trees that beloved cats would be buried when their time had come and where I would weep and wail and lay flowers for weeks on end until someone inevitably found me another.)<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR-YE7LKK9vrC2Z7_V5tigeL_Un8p-V_b9-fb5y5L94K8Vq1FX0NEoh2EZ5XOU1pCsIe2pOhwtb6GC_cMMMwqNUrHSkKTBSbIkJSly1EE6Ao3dkoKuVQc26bpvqflkf51_PTINgueHnUuA/s1600/Screen+Shot+2017-11-16+at+12.52.53+pm.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="541" data-original-width="616" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR-YE7LKK9vrC2Z7_V5tigeL_Un8p-V_b9-fb5y5L94K8Vq1FX0NEoh2EZ5XOU1pCsIe2pOhwtb6GC_cMMMwqNUrHSkKTBSbIkJSly1EE6Ao3dkoKuVQc26bpvqflkf51_PTINgueHnUuA/s320/Screen+Shot+2017-11-16+at+12.52.53+pm.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
But the first my mother would know about Dad's next assignment (he never took, nor was offered, money) was when he would come up the steps stripping bark off a forked willow stick with his pocket knife. Then the conversation would begin with something like -<br />
'Yeah, old Bluey Traves has got hold of a new bit of land up the back of Chillingham. Wants me to see if it's got water.'<br />
<br />
And sometimes, if I pestered long enough, I would be allowed go with him. The stripped willow stick always had a distinctive smell that I couldn't describe now but could certainly recognise. Why it had to be stripped of bark I don't know. So once on Bluey's land Dad would start to walk very slowly, holding the forked stick exactly as above, pacing back and forwards across the acreage until, hopefully—not always—the stick would start to quiver then be pulled down unmistakably towards the earth. After he'd checked and double-checked he would give a nod to the men waiting away at the fence line and some time in the next few days the digging would begin.<br />
The deep freshwater well on our own property back then was found this way shortly after my folks had bought the land but before they'd built the house. Spring water was the prize, supplementing the tank water that might be erratic in both supply and quality - wrigglers and the occasional dead frog notwithstanding.<br />
<br />
So I get a bit tetchy with the sceptics. My Dad's water divining services were taken for granted for years. It's just one of the things he was called upon to do. He was the only one I knew in the district but there could have been others. No-one made a fuss, plenty of sources of water were found as new land was bought up around the district.<br />
It was a long time ago and Dad is long since gone. I never heard of any scepticism at the time and if he was present to hear it now he'd just shrug, grin and not waste a word in defence of this old, old art. Which is what I do too.<br />
I know what I know.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigCcdqN_Fw1gmhzjA8DPyj_A7Ki7VdXxeP9r67aJoS1RZbB1HXY8d9rwWh3ZUt7yxXd1NhBJ_bGhSXClbikBGgOTNnyhmUjBwB3nABUKSYeaztB_RAqufl1ITe0CKJnus4fm64Lo4WzGhF/s1600/Screen+Shot+2017-11-16+at+1.25.54+pm.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="253" data-original-width="395" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigCcdqN_Fw1gmhzjA8DPyj_A7Ki7VdXxeP9r67aJoS1RZbB1HXY8d9rwWh3ZUt7yxXd1NhBJ_bGhSXClbikBGgOTNnyhmUjBwB3nABUKSYeaztB_RAqufl1ITe0CKJnus4fm64Lo4WzGhF/s400/Screen+Shot+2017-11-16+at+1.25.54+pm.png" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
~*~</div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<h3>
</h3>
</div>
Gaby Gardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15801062680314947577noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1849831445168739521.post-30975716365278493592017-11-04T18:38:00.000-07:002017-11-15T02:12:21.224-08:00Change of PlansI'm not much of a traveller. Three weeks away and I get small niggles of wanting to come home. I occasionally have fleeting fantasies about heading off for months on end to see all of Australia but I don't think I'd last long. I'm a nester. Books, cooking for loved ones, big fat couches, open fires, a dog or two across my lap. And on a recent and wondrous jaunt around Western Australia I learnt that for me, coming home within Australia is different from coming home from overseas. The latter always seems to feature exhaustion, blocked ears and the risk of losing the will to live before you make it out of the airport. The former, like flying in across the Great Australian Bight a few weeks ago, really makes you think.<br />
We'd seen beautiful new things, taken a zillion photos and stood in strange places that filled the soul with wonder.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0RvKV3oV2Y8aA52OPxGgV_qsPBR77YQ9dMn-KmryaWon8nGVPWA0BX3T9bHBPSeub7BtxJHcNSGvo13wzerwzDtSGCYB8_PpYT6K36KSlREjhlbqfiaa6EKfTDsI_SvLCW1yt1YrxxOm1/s1600/P1070949.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0RvKV3oV2Y8aA52OPxGgV_qsPBR77YQ9dMn-KmryaWon8nGVPWA0BX3T9bHBPSeub7BtxJHcNSGvo13wzerwzDtSGCYB8_PpYT6K36KSlREjhlbqfiaa6EKfTDsI_SvLCW1yt1YrxxOm1/s400/P1070949.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vlamingh Head Lighthouse, Exmouth, W.A.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
At this place (left) we met a family who'd also gone up on the point to watch the sun set and their two little kids were alive with excitement at the prospect. Not an iPad in sight. That made me think.<br />
<br />
The flight in from Perth is a mere 4 hours, nothing like the interminable journey from Europe. But it evoked in me feelings that might best be described by a word I discovered only a few years ago -<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sehnsucht">Sensucht</a> - which is sometimes described as a deep and nebulous yearning for something we cannot even identify.<br />
I had a window seat on the way home and it was daylight so I peered out the window for most of the way. Seeing the country fold away beneath me made me think about life and death, friends old and new, the future, the past and what it meant to come home. Most of all it made me think of what I wanted to do when I got there.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio6_URSruS-7Bb0Z2H7PkBWVPSye8ZWDXTQvdIzH-yew4erq3E3Pbj9UBbKh7a40kPSfTzxIGucQGvs-oZ93YASofJRzSfpOtTQe_VEERyUiXSeYhYj7wzLHox7VEFaC0rmMhft6fipUz-/s1600/IMG_4503.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio6_URSruS-7Bb0Z2H7PkBWVPSye8ZWDXTQvdIzH-yew4erq3E3Pbj9UBbKh7a40kPSfTzxIGucQGvs-oZ93YASofJRzSfpOtTQe_VEERyUiXSeYhYj7wzLHox7VEFaC0rmMhft6fipUz-/s400/IMG_4503.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
For years now I've aspired to write. Ha! Who hasn't? I've had some successes, a few large, quite a few small, but staring out the window of the plane what came to mind was a tweet that went around a while back, and I apologise for not being able to acknowledge the author. What she said was something like "My friend asked me what it was like to be a writer, so now I wake her every night at 3 am and tell her she's not good enough."<br />
I was over the moon back in March when an email came from a reputable literary agent saying they'd read my manuscript, they loved it and they'd get back to me with "a few tiny edits" (I know the email by heart) in a week or two, then get it out to publishers. Bio provided, contract signed. Nearly 8 months later I'm still waiting. I know how busy agents get, how much reading they must to do, how many people clamouring for their services. Still - monumentally disappointing<br />
So my plan when the plane hit the ground was to quit writing altogether: to reacquaint myself with friends I may have neglected, to reshape my big rambling garden, to revisit the many other creative pursuits I used to love before I got the writing bug. Since then I've had an offer of publication of a non-fiction piece from The Big Issue and news of a place on the Scarlet Stiletto shortlist. Great fun but is it enough? And does that question make me a quitter or a realist?<br />
I'm aware of being a bit of an Eeyore about this and I might change my mind.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile I'm hoping my friends & family will love me anyway. I know my dog will.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPGediDTxCx08Hr531A-O8bzMm-rodoKa-ilk1zKWqH3Q56-FuAX1wJ97YRlEWZ7SrNMR9nzJxEp27cIYiCkP1Izvv2vILaRadnUjBwiDErwFR_T1MBTW7peo66bumeF5A2dgykFUJCPz9/s1600/P1070991.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPGediDTxCx08Hr531A-O8bzMm-rodoKa-ilk1zKWqH3Q56-FuAX1wJ97YRlEWZ7SrNMR9nzJxEp27cIYiCkP1Izvv2vILaRadnUjBwiDErwFR_T1MBTW7peo66bumeF5A2dgykFUJCPz9/s640/P1070991.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<h3>
~*~</h3>
</div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Gaby Gardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15801062680314947577noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1849831445168739521.post-14409419920017922162017-09-01T02:26:00.002-07:002017-09-01T19:35:20.768-07:00Would you read this for me please?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIYRHTDNMYMpMHDBWp8p5gOdUlA0rx9vG7d0i-HloIjN4EHT6_-uLXIgW5WL7Nq8sfM4VpWpr_6PdRUr-Q4dtUtYoEpt_3A2vXE6RYSZSf2KSNjdAj1TikJp0X5iqOD1ss-U989cj7V2Gm/s1600/Screen+Shot+2017-09-01+at+7.10.34+pm.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="276" data-original-width="523" height="336" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIYRHTDNMYMpMHDBWp8p5gOdUlA0rx9vG7d0i-HloIjN4EHT6_-uLXIgW5WL7Nq8sfM4VpWpr_6PdRUr-Q4dtUtYoEpt_3A2vXE6RYSZSf2KSNjdAj1TikJp0X5iqOD1ss-U989cj7V2Gm/s640/Screen+Shot+2017-09-01+at+7.10.34+pm.png" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
I'm so reluctant to ask this question. The reasons to refrain from doing so multiply the longer I wait.<br />
<span style="color: purple;">"I can't ask X because...</span><br />
<br />
<ol>
<li><span style="color: purple;">He/she is so busy </span></li>
<li><span style="color: purple;">It's not ready to be seen yet</span></li>
<li><span style="color: purple;">What if he/she hates it and is too polite to say?</span></li>
<li><span style="color: purple;">He/she writes very different stuff from mine...</span></li>
<li><span style="color: purple;">I'd rather take my clothes off and run down Bourke Street than show this to anyone"</span></li>
</ol>
<br />
The worst experience of all - after all this procrastination and excuse-making - is to ask someone to read what you've written and then never hear from them again. Oh, the shame! And if you do hear from them on another matter, the thorny issue of your current manuscript i<i>s not even mentioned. </i>Nothing. I for one don't have the courage to say 'Anyway, did you ever get around to reading the chapters I sent you?' What good could possibly come of this? The optional answers are:<br />
<br />
<ol>
<li><span style="color: purple;">Yes I read it and thought it was rubbish</span></li>
<li><span style="color: purple;">Oh no, sorry, I forgot all about it</span></li>
<li><span style="color: purple;">Well yes, I started it and then sort of got sidetracked</span></li>
</ol>
<div>
I ran a complex plot-problem past my spouse once when we were out walking the dogs, explaining my dilemma in detail. We walked on in silence for a while and then he said "Have we got any of that white crusty bread left?" So no, family may not be the answer for everyone.</div>
<br />
I love reading other people's work. This week I asked a friend and fellow-writer if I could read her whole manuscript - well, as far as she'd gone. I've been acquainted with random bits of it via writers' group workshopping sessions for a while now but could never get my head around who was who and where they fitted. So she sent me the lot and what a thrill it was for me to read it all. She was pleased too. It's very good. There are characters I immediately sided with, some I hated and others I was wildly curious about. I'll probably nag her a bit from now on to see where it's going. I hope I don't become a pest.<br />
<br />
But I've totally solved the problem of who to get to read <i>my</i> Work-in-Progress. I get one of my best friends in the whole world who is also helplessly honest and—best of all—a voracious reader. The fact that she's as busy as a bunch of bees in a bottle doesn't deter her. She doesn't give the time of day to a misplaced semi-colon, repeated words or the odd dangling modifier. What she sees are plot-line hazards, discrepancies that I've missed and possibilities that might never have crossed my mind. And she makes suggestions fitting to a reader who's used to having her reading needs satisfied.<br />
<ol>
<li><span style="color: #741b47;">What if X </span><i style="color: #741b47;">did </i><span style="color: #741b47;">come back in the end?</span></li>
<li><span style="color: #741b47;">Instead of Y being unable to find the stalker, what if there </span><i style="color: #741b47;">was </i><span style="color: #741b47;">no stalker?</span></li>
<li><span style="color: #741b47;">I think everyone will want to know more about Jack. </span></li>
</ol>
and so on....<br />
<ol>
</ol>
So here's to you K.W. I am more grateful than I can say for your conscientious input, your insight and your honesty.<br />
<br />
I value it more than I can say and I hope one day it all pays off, for both of us.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg940i6PvT3bGzPOdlWtfFUhk7LXlTU6amarZq37BaCEGLYkagoDSAE_Vy60a5T453fW9MmB9VPj5EZL_-bwEMugFvtXIq5gRQJfVG_Evm5gA0zUKoN1V8ZB5_Vh4-XEm93zokIesO8vtm8/s1600/Screen+Shot+2017-09-01+at+7.10.11+pm.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="486" data-original-width="373" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg940i6PvT3bGzPOdlWtfFUhk7LXlTU6amarZq37BaCEGLYkagoDSAE_Vy60a5T453fW9MmB9VPj5EZL_-bwEMugFvtXIq5gRQJfVG_Evm5gA0zUKoN1V8ZB5_Vh4-XEm93zokIesO8vtm8/s640/Screen+Shot+2017-09-01+at+7.10.11+pm.png" width="489" /></a></div>
<h2>
</h2>
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEtlaGt3xDT9q2TpH_qhgCqphM5dTC8Ly8_nLh0bpmsz87sQ_3VPypTP2rTmMgUlXBPDuIf2a9rzLyLcweKugvLn3yEFs_LtqgFs59FKi-6tc5kagRUtfFXS9ACBb6k5WLwmRD-9waW3xE/s1600/Screen+Shot+2017-09-01+at+7.16.02+pm.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="92" data-original-width="496" height="59" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEtlaGt3xDT9q2TpH_qhgCqphM5dTC8Ly8_nLh0bpmsz87sQ_3VPypTP2rTmMgUlXBPDuIf2a9rzLyLcweKugvLn3yEFs_LtqgFs59FKi-6tc5kagRUtfFXS9ACBb6k5WLwmRD-9waW3xE/s320/Screen+Shot+2017-09-01+at+7.16.02+pm.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Gaby Gardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15801062680314947577noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1849831445168739521.post-18822780715313199742017-07-30T01:07:00.000-07:002017-07-30T01:07:04.659-07:00Love the Kimberley<h3 class="post-title entry-title" itemprop="name" style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif; font-size: 30px; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; position: relative;">
Love the Kimberley</h3>
<div class="post-header" style="color: #997755; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 12.880000114440918px; line-height: 1.6; margin: 0px 0px 1em;">
<div class="post-header-line-1">
</div>
</div>
<div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-3977319773839784775" itemprop="description articleBody" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.52400016784668px; line-height: 1.5; position: relative; width: 568px;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<i>* This is not about reading, writing, or dogs but it is about storytelling and it answers a question people have asked over the years about the photo attached to my Twitter site.</i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<h2 style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif; font-size: 20px; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 0.5em; position: relative;">
In Praise of Tours</h2>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.498039) 1px 1px 5px; background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; border-collapse: collapse; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.498039) 1px 1px 5px; color: #333333; float: right; margin: 0px 0px 0px 1em; padding: 8px; position: relative; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="background-color: transparent; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjv8Hnw2sp7iPF2HAJ3FvwhEWvjJOoiEOEIe8R5I2r7WYhi9BZKsTysNyUmm1M1ELiYd7tw59mz-0afWChyeoZcqmt9IDJKgapQ3aZOrewFxeJLnwQoXAdFBJkmuWD8_Am_Tfrh_sSyvk7/s1600/The+Bus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="color: #993322; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Kimberley Wild tour bus on the road" border="0" height="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjv8Hnw2sp7iPF2HAJ3FvwhEWvjJOoiEOEIe8R5I2r7WYhi9BZKsTysNyUmm1M1ELiYd7tw59mz-0afWChyeoZcqmt9IDJKgapQ3aZOrewFxeJLnwQoXAdFBJkmuWD8_Am_Tfrh_sSyvk7/s400/The+Bus.jpg" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0980392) 0px 0px 0px; background-color: transparent; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; border: none; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0980392) 0px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative;" title="Kimberley Wild Tour Bus" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="background-color: transparent; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-size: 10.81920051574707px; margin: 0px; padding: 5px 10px; text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
A few years back we had a bit of a walkfest in various parts of the world. We walked the Cinque Terre in Italy after the heaviest rain in two hundred years had wiped out all the lower paths, forcing us up, up, up, into endless miles of rocky pathways through one teetering clifftop village after another.<br />
<br />
Then we walked the Luberon in the south of France, ploughing through dense forests hiding bronze-age stone huts in their darkness and more rocky pathways that only the ancient Romans could have loved.<br />
<br />
Eight days after arriving back in Oz I had (reluctantly) to fulfil a promise I'd made to an old friend to accompany her to the Kimberley, there to join a twelve day camping trip with a budget crowd called Kimberley Wild<br />
And to cut to the chase, the Kimberley left everything else for dead. No contest.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
Just the names can make you swoon: </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
</div>
<ul style="line-height: 1.4; list-style-image: initial; list-style-position: initial; margin: 0.5em 0px; padding: 0px 2.5em;">
<li style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0.25em; padding: 0px;"><a href="http://www.kimberleyaustralia.com/bungle-bungles.html">Purnululu</a></li>
<li style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0.25em; padding: 0px;"><a href="http://kimberleycoast.com.au/iconic-places/roebuck-bay/">Roebuck Bay</a></li>
<li style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0.25em; padding: 0px;"><a href="https://www.australiantraveller.com/wa/broome-the-kimberley/kimberley/the-buccaneer-archipelago/">The Buccaneer Archipelago</a></li>
<li style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0.25em; padding: 0px;"><a href="http://www.australiasnorthwest.com/events/staircase-to-the-moon-2017">Staircase of the Moon. </a></li>
</ul>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
And yes, we took a tour.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHc5rL5HTnYwiUDIL8hbnxBB2GK8XhS8Oi_tHF5sjzd9efkYgrfebpMKF267M5GczE7Ab_FLyEhSlrI9xF7Z_wZDgc4aOx7DvTIuOs7ZsiNChTg0xkNOP56AyoXQqZGApH9GjycdwVI1r1/s1600/Tourist+info+sign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="color: #993322; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Photo of large tourist information sign with map of the Kimberely" border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHc5rL5HTnYwiUDIL8hbnxBB2GK8XhS8Oi_tHF5sjzd9efkYgrfebpMKF267M5GczE7Ab_FLyEhSlrI9xF7Z_wZDgc4aOx7DvTIuOs7ZsiNChTg0xkNOP56AyoXQqZGApH9GjycdwVI1r1/s400/Tourist+info+sign.jpg" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.498039) 1px 1px 5px; background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; border: none; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.498039) 1px 1px 5px; padding: 8px; position: relative;" title="" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<br /></div>
Now if you have all the gear—the four-wheel drive that can negotiate the massive valley-like pot-holes of the Gibb River Road for six hundred kilometres, the camper trailer that won't get stuck or break an axle in said potholes, the capacity to change tyres and fix anything else that goes wrong, on your own in this unbelievably harsh environment—then go for it.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.498039) 1px 1px 5px; background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; border-collapse: collapse; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.498039) 1px 1px 5px; color: #333333; float: right; margin: 0px 0px 0px 1em; padding: 8px; position: relative; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="background-color: transparent; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRTRguMoCTb6vbI7lqnznhnhcy6n9HS4A8visg18CRkkHX_8vf26n7iCs2LLbVWF3U3wmFNNEiawiEwv2xNnOd3ll0A7brnry74ilEAJaQOtc2D-Ma8QgCq88dX5y45-673oMlEv_pXC5N/s1600/road+to+Cape+L..jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; color: #993322; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Photo of the red dirt road to Cape Leveque" border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRTRguMoCTb6vbI7lqnznhnhcy6n9HS4A8visg18CRkkHX_8vf26n7iCs2LLbVWF3U3wmFNNEiawiEwv2xNnOd3ll0A7brnry74ilEAJaQOtc2D-Ma8QgCq88dX5y45-673oMlEv_pXC5N/s400/road+to+Cape+L..jpg" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0980392) 0px 0px 0px; background-color: transparent; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; border: none; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0980392) 0px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative;" title="" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="background-color: transparent; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-size: 10.81920051574707px; margin: 0px; padding: 5px 10px; text-align: center;">The road to Cape Leveque</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Even so, what you <i>won't </i>get are the stories, the passing-on of knowledge that comes from living in this astounding place for years on end, researching its history, exploring its secrets, meeting its people, especially the indigenous caretakers, earning their trust and being privy to some of their secrets. This is what a Kimberley guide can do and the stories are what you take away. And they're never-to-be forgotten.<br />
<br />
<h3 style="margin: 0px; position: relative;">
</h3>
<h3 style="margin: 0px; position: relative;">
Our Kimberley Guide</h3>
Picture this.<br />
A woman squats in the red dust, bony knees poking upwards like some elegant praying mantis. The Akubra on her head is curled up on both sides, dark and greasy from years of wear and weathering. It dips low on her brow, throwing her face into shadow but she peers up at us at intervals to see if we're following the story she is telling. Behind her the dissected domes of Purnululu stretch out like a miracle, matchless and breathtaking. Her aim is to explain to us how the <a href="https://www.blogger.com/"><span id="goog_362789590"></span>Bungle Bungles<span id="goog_362789591"></span></a> were formed.<br />
<br />
With one finger in the dust she traces arcs and lines signifying erosion by wind and water over twenty million years. She speaks first with excitement of the play of sandstone, clay, ants and blue-green algae, then, with sorrow, she declares that in another few million years it will all be gone, swept away by the ravages of time as she has now sketched it in the dust in curves and dashes, lines and dots.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.498039) 1px 1px 5px; background-color: white; border-collapse: collapse; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.498039) 1px 1px 5px; color: #333333; float: left; margin: 0px 1em 0px 0px; padding: 8px; position: relative;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="background-color: transparent; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia9ilhLXNya4VQO1xKTIhn84RkKeFRAIxF98lufN1dvRoAusTpOyaO07A_4KijPJR_el9jaPpLypkT0oIfC6rihOpveDBsCd_fwwu5I06C3MweHkkJFDhwC9GMm8WYU21IhY7UrT3G42_4/s1600/Ria.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; color: #993322; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Photo of Kimberley guide, Ria, against Kimberley background" border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia9ilhLXNya4VQO1xKTIhn84RkKeFRAIxF98lufN1dvRoAusTpOyaO07A_4KijPJR_el9jaPpLypkT0oIfC6rihOpveDBsCd_fwwu5I06C3MweHkkJFDhwC9GMm8WYU21IhY7UrT3G42_4/s400/Ria.jpg" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0980392) 0px 0px 0px; background-color: transparent; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; border: none; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0980392) 0px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative;" title="" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="background-color: transparent; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-size: 10.81920051574707px; margin: 0px; padding: 5px 10px; text-align: center;">Ria - Our Invincible Kimberley Guide</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
This is Ria. She's not Aboriginal, she's a London Pom, to coin her phrase, arrived in the Kimberley eight years ago after a long stretch as a tour guide in Africa. A tall and rangy woman in her forties,<br />
Ria is strong and wiry and gorgeous.<br />
Nothing frightens her. We're all in love with her, men and woman alike. She runs the whole tour solo. For the next twelve days she is responsible for us, eighteen disparate souls with not much in common but a desire to get inside the Kimberly and drink of its magic.<br />
<br />
Within a day or two we've all had our photos taken in front of the bus with that Kimberley Wild sign writ large on the side. We all love the idea that we're setting out for the unknown, we city folk from Melbourne, Sydney and Canberra, sharing water, sunscreen and lip balm with country folk from Dubbo, Lismore and Bermagui.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.498039) 1px 1px 5px; background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; border-collapse: collapse; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.498039) 1px 1px 5px; color: #333333; float: right; margin: 0px 0px 0px 1em; padding: 8px; position: relative; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="background-color: transparent; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcJy6f1ALFLMNvey1gq6PGA2PvzhzJBmKwEp0uIvWPerICK-WUZUluH2ujO4DvDKkiYL1dLli_XDNEfshBI4kqNC8THaDSD4ZpXJum6x7lVXsj-z6yfMGJ1Sy95rP-AgtIlRTuuEZJ9uFO/s1600/Swag+rolling.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; color: #993322; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Author and friend on their knees rolling a swag" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcJy6f1ALFLMNvey1gq6PGA2PvzhzJBmKwEp0uIvWPerICK-WUZUluH2ujO4DvDKkiYL1dLli_XDNEfshBI4kqNC8THaDSD4ZpXJum6x7lVXsj-z6yfMGJ1Sy95rP-AgtIlRTuuEZJ9uFO/s1600/Swag+rolling.jpg" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0980392) 0px 0px 0px; background-color: transparent; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; border: none; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0980392) 0px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative;" title="Swag Rolling" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="background-color: transparent; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-size: 10.81920051574707px; margin: 0px; padding: 5px 10px; text-align: center;">Swag-rolling sometimes needs an extra pair of hands.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
We're on the road before 7 am each day, we get our own meals, wash up, roll our swags and pack the truck. No-one shirks their share of duties. If you want to sit around the campfire and get totally shickered at night, Ria will still pull you out of your swag at 5 am to help get breakfast.<br />
<br />
When you tell people you're off on a bus tour the common response is 'Oh I'd never get Dave/Jill/Max (insert partner's name) to go on a tour', as if tours are for wimps or grannies. I may have been of this mind-set myself before I met Ria, before we put ourselves in her hands on this 2,642 kms round trip up the Gibb River Road, through the Savannah to the sea and back to Broome via Kununurra, Halls Creek and Fitzroy Crossing.<br />
<br />
We'd all abandoned our feather doonas and heated bathrooms for canvas swags that we rolled out under stars like we'd never imagined stars could be. We were all made silent by the wonder of it all, struggled to describe it adequately, finally settled on 'life-changing'.<br />
Now, I know that anyone can describe the wonders of the falls and gorges, the chasms, lakes and tunnels, hot springs and underground creeks, the splendour of <a href="http://theelquestrostory.com.au/">El Questro</a> and the magnitude of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lake_Argyle">Lake Argyle</a>.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.498039) 1px 1px 5px; background-color: white; border-collapse: collapse; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.498039) 1px 1px 5px; color: #333333; float: left; margin: 0px 1em 0px 0px; padding: 8px; position: relative;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="background-color: transparent; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUG3_7SIlPMTDi2pXIRdTxJ4k6A-XIv6oBIXdb7YRtrrNlvWoKd7Ppbtkg7ssgpy8deR4w_m45zQ7T6BRo7pAnfywtiPWFFofwzRYn009VunZy_DrHdRxiRv2xOBmwWuN877_dSOArVGjQ/s1600/Lake+Argyle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; color: #993322; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Landscape photo of Lake Argyle between the hills" border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUG3_7SIlPMTDi2pXIRdTxJ4k6A-XIv6oBIXdb7YRtrrNlvWoKd7Ppbtkg7ssgpy8deR4w_m45zQ7T6BRo7pAnfywtiPWFFofwzRYn009VunZy_DrHdRxiRv2xOBmwWuN877_dSOArVGjQ/s400/Lake+Argyle.jpg" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0980392) 0px 0px 0px; background-color: transparent; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; border: none; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0980392) 0px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative;" title="" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="background-color: transparent; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-size: 10.81920051574707px; margin: 0px; padding: 5px 10px; text-align: center;">Lake Argyle</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
....but none of these would have been half so wondrous without Ria's presence. Her knowledge seemed boundless and her sense of humour never flagged.<br />
<br />
'Every tree's a lav-a-tree, that's the best you'll get from me,' she sang when the inevitable questions about toilets first arose. And everyone accepted this with good grace, sidling off alone into the bushes when necessary with Ria's cry of 'Watch out for the spinifex!' putting paid to any hopes of discretion.<br />
<br />
<h4 style="margin: 0px; position: relative;">
</h4>
<h4 style="margin: 0px; position: relative;">
</h4>
<h4 style="margin: 0px; position: relative;">
</h4>
<h4 style="margin: 0px; position: relative;">
The Storyteller</h4>
<div>
But her greatest feat was storytelling.<br />
The road between highlights was often long and arduous with hours between stops. But oh, the stories!</div>
<div>
<br />
On the long, long stretches of red dirt road Ria told us—among other things— of the history of the cattle industry and the famous Kidman empire, the deals done between the station owners and the Aboriginal workers, the history of the discovery of the first Argyle diamonds,<span style="text-align: center;"> the geological history and possible future of the Bungle Bungles and every other mighty gorge we climbed into. </span><br />
<span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.498039) 1px 1px 5px; background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; border-collapse: collapse; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.498039) 1px 1px 5px; color: #333333; float: right; margin: 0px 0px 0px 1em; padding: 8px; position: relative; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="background-color: transparent; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9wPbqTf90orAghLrUGjO-ykVZcEclkC4IVoykbzm8YGLD0z2v6aZLf12lKVMtQfMdHY3Ac9WxsNlqBLrXmxvezAQO2UVtFD4N4uhDAxS-ADwtXe4GRWCil8gZBaF_T_ydng6r_XZQlh6x/s1600/Bell+Gorge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; color: #993322; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Photo of Bell Gorge with reflections." border="0" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9wPbqTf90orAghLrUGjO-ykVZcEclkC4IVoykbzm8YGLD0z2v6aZLf12lKVMtQfMdHY3Ac9WxsNlqBLrXmxvezAQO2UVtFD4N4uhDAxS-ADwtXe4GRWCil8gZBaF_T_ydng6r_XZQlh6x/s400/Bell+Gorge.jpg" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0980392) 0px 0px 0px; background-color: transparent; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; border: none; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0980392) 0px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative;" title="" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="background-color: transparent; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-size: 10.81920051574707px; margin: 0px; padding: 5px 10px; text-align: center;">Bell Gorge</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="text-align: center;">She brought to life the heart-stopping story of <a href="http://www.jandamarra.com.au/jandamarratheman.html">Jandamarra</a>, a fearless Aboriginal freedom fighter of the 1800's, who attained mythical </span>status by his efforts to challenge the status quo and get away with it. As we tramped through the darkness of Tunnel Creek she pointed out the ledges where he'd hidden and made real the details of his escape.</div>
</div>
</div>
<h4 style="margin: 0px; position: relative;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.498039) 1px 1px 5px; background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; border-collapse: collapse; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.498039) 1px 1px 5px; color: #333333; margin: 0px auto; padding: 8px; position: relative; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="background-color: transparent; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmiqYNczPStzi5EWKGKdp9N0FbDDTpNr5jP-3L3wQtvDEVTYwCghB9AMzBn2KnZDSfLtll0102mtlVaXmCU_MZeLY2p_p-HDy2gnoLECzFXpQ_KRUchKyNcrfd_Clm9hN1rVUeDwetQMmE/s1600/Ria+%2526+painting.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; color: #993322; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Guide, Ria, sits on rocky ledge explaining aboriginal rock painting" border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmiqYNczPStzi5EWKGKdp9N0FbDDTpNr5jP-3L3wQtvDEVTYwCghB9AMzBn2KnZDSfLtll0102mtlVaXmCU_MZeLY2p_p-HDy2gnoLECzFXpQ_KRUchKyNcrfd_Clm9hN1rVUeDwetQMmE/s400/Ria+%2526+painting.jpg" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0980392) 0px 0px 0px; background-color: transparent; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; border: none; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0980392) 0px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative;" title="" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 10.81920051574707px; margin: 0px; padding: 5px 10px;">Ria explains Aboriginal rock art (with permission).</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmiqYNczPStzi5EWKGKdp9N0FbDDTpNr5jP-3L3wQtvDEVTYwCghB9AMzBn2KnZDSfLtll0102mtlVaXmCU_MZeLY2p_p-HDy2gnoLECzFXpQ_KRUchKyNcrfd_Clm9hN1rVUeDwetQMmE/s1600/Ria+%2526+painting.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; color: #993322; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmiqYNczPStzi5EWKGKdp9N0FbDDTpNr5jP-3L3wQtvDEVTYwCghB9AMzBn2KnZDSfLtll0102mtlVaXmCU_MZeLY2p_p-HDy2gnoLECzFXpQ_KRUchKyNcrfd_Clm9hN1rVUeDwetQMmE/s1600/Ria+%2526+painting.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; color: #993322; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmiqYNczPStzi5EWKGKdp9N0FbDDTpNr5jP-3L3wQtvDEVTYwCghB9AMzBn2KnZDSfLtll0102mtlVaXmCU_MZeLY2p_p-HDy2gnoLECzFXpQ_KRUchKyNcrfd_Clm9hN1rVUeDwetQMmE/s1600/Ria+%2526+painting.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; color: #993322; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmiqYNczPStzi5EWKGKdp9N0FbDDTpNr5jP-3L3wQtvDEVTYwCghB9AMzBn2KnZDSfLtll0102mtlVaXmCU_MZeLY2p_p-HDy2gnoLECzFXpQ_KRUchKyNcrfd_Clm9hN1rVUeDwetQMmE/s1600/Ria+%2526+painting.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; color: #993322; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmiqYNczPStzi5EWKGKdp9N0FbDDTpNr5jP-3L3wQtvDEVTYwCghB9AMzBn2KnZDSfLtll0102mtlVaXmCU_MZeLY2p_p-HDy2gnoLECzFXpQ_KRUchKyNcrfd_Clm9hN1rVUeDwetQMmE/s1600/Ria+%2526+painting.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; color: #993322; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmiqYNczPStzi5EWKGKdp9N0FbDDTpNr5jP-3L3wQtvDEVTYwCghB9AMzBn2KnZDSfLtll0102mtlVaXmCU_MZeLY2p_p-HDy2gnoLECzFXpQ_KRUchKyNcrfd_Clm9hN1rVUeDwetQMmE/s1600/Ria+%2526+painting.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; color: #993322; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmiqYNczPStzi5EWKGKdp9N0FbDDTpNr5jP-3L3wQtvDEVTYwCghB9AMzBn2KnZDSfLtll0102mtlVaXmCU_MZeLY2p_p-HDy2gnoLECzFXpQ_KRUchKyNcrfd_Clm9hN1rVUeDwetQMmE/s1600/Ria+%2526+painting.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; color: #993322; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></h4>
<br />
She told us who owns what and since when, including the history of the Durack family, the ownership saga of El Questro, how the hot springs there were formed and what happened in the floods. She covered the mysteries of the Aboriginal 'floral calendar', the protocols regarding Aboriginal rock art (she got us into places where individual travellers were denied permission to go) and was vehement about current efforts to maintain the integrity of Aboriginal culture.<br />
<br />
Often when we set up camp several Aboriginal people would appear out of the shadows and join us for dinner, greeting Ria like a loved sister.<br />
<br />
She never ran out of stories. Every time she began we settled back like kids on the kindergarten mat and let ourselves be immersed in her story-telling. We learned so much more than we ever could have done though books, brochures and information centres. At the end of the twelve days we were all smitten, struggling to remember it all, to take the tales home with us. As a group we didn't want to part, not from each other and certainly not from Ria. I'd love to see a Ria in every school in Australia, just to awaken in every child an awareness of the magic of this country and so make them want to head off and see it for themselves.<br />
<br />
But maybe they're all like this, these people who spend their days and nights making The Kimberley known to the likes of us. Maybe that's the gift the Kimberley bestows of you when you commit to settle and earn your living there.<br />
It's worth taking a tour just to find out.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
~*~</div>
<br />
<br /></div>
Gaby Gardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15801062680314947577noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1849831445168739521.post-17826318557644375122017-07-08T05:02:00.000-07:002017-07-08T05:02:16.929-07:00The Books We Leave Behind<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqargtgp51gNBgHywYDxL2zwLRapmLaOrMIlcqbjWQX7JxUVJfW-tW41cRwFYPswCaOL5bT1b-ZUeIiabx2req0uiBjpmnu2zepPzYGNrKl4fB0znRmLxLwocLs4ZdA7ivgT26J9tixpCb/s1600/Screen+Shot+2017-07-08+at+6.35.37+pm.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><br /></a>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUXGhel57u2MNj8tBf534GtF5gIIf9IsLAdtUxXOz3DR-aGBUYEygeiqOI_pb6YnYmABMbytQuT4fLxLCj-OCby-KvQCKu_4nWhnnjXp_VOW9PmP0M7k7Hy9fHQmhTEyIXlnq4jQgO99of/s1600/Screen+Shot+2017-07-08+at+9.39.24+pm.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="206" data-original-width="786" height="166" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUXGhel57u2MNj8tBf534GtF5gIIf9IsLAdtUxXOz3DR-aGBUYEygeiqOI_pb6YnYmABMbytQuT4fLxLCj-OCby-KvQCKu_4nWhnnjXp_VOW9PmP0M7k7Hy9fHQmhTEyIXlnq4jQgO99of/s640/Screen+Shot+2017-07-08+at+9.39.24+pm.png" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
Today, on Twitter (no, it's not all for trolls and airheads) I was alerted to this article in The Australian, an exquisitely beautiful piece by bookseller <a href="http://www.theaustralian.com.au/arts/books/only-bits-of-us-are-left-in-the-tomes-we-leave-behind/news-story/20d575ce01e0216130b79df86ddb17da">Michelle Coxall</a> that resonated with me and got me thinking about the books that form such a crucial part of our personal history.<br />
<br />
<br />
Those of us who love to browse secondhand bookshops get an extra thrill from finding an inscription inside the cover - "To our dear daughter, Dorothy, on the occasion of your graduation - Dec. 1964" or better still, a fading card slipped in between the pages "Dear Bruce, I hope this helps to get you better soon", or "Fay, in memory of the good times".<br />
<br />
The amazing Cath Crowley captured the spirit of all this in her recent, wonderful Y.A. novel <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/30336056-words-in-deep-blue?rating=4">Words in Deep Blue</a> , a romance set in a bookstore where readers leave notes, poems and letters for friends, strangers and lovers. Reviewer Emily Mead described it as ' A love letter to books, bookshops and words' which just about captures its essence perfectly.<br />
But Michelle Coxall's evocative piece brought back an early experience of mine which a psychiatrist friend assured me is now embedded in my 'residual traumata', never to be erased.<br />
<br />
From our country high school in northern NSW, I and 18 of my classmates won commonwealth scholarships (those were the days) and were packed off on a bus to the University of New England, there to live in residence for 4 years and learn some of the things we hadn't already learned on Greenmount Beach. However, when I came home for the first term holidays it was to find that my mother had given away all my books. 'They were just kids' books,' she said, puzzled, 'what would you still want them for?'<br />
<br />
In her defence, she was orphaned at birth, and in all our days together I never saw her put the slightest value on any material possession of any sort. Gifts that we saved up to buy her she gave away to the first person who admired them, completely unable to understand why we might be upset.<br />
<br />
So yes, there it is, and likely to remain so, in my residual traumata, the loss of all my childhood books to someone called 'the Ebzery kids' as I recall, so I guess they at least went to a home of some sort.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzlT_EfyKswNvPxW5MwjxoL7DAR5ttGJnHmFUS6ZLI7kf3rWwc1WeicRUFOeZNEFO7_fNfluxojEhYkHxIm8bLfPBjAsG0nMYK4hyphenhyphenx2oAU196VZFS7foCiDGzllrXiLLkgqdJ8pQtIADJY/s1600/Screen+Shot+2017-07-08+at+6.37.52+pm.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="315" data-original-width="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzlT_EfyKswNvPxW5MwjxoL7DAR5ttGJnHmFUS6ZLI7kf3rWwc1WeicRUFOeZNEFO7_fNfluxojEhYkHxIm8bLfPBjAsG0nMYK4hyphenhyphenx2oAU196VZFS7foCiDGzllrXiLLkgqdJ8pQtIADJY/s1600/Screen+Shot+2017-07-08+at+6.37.52+pm.png" /></a></div>
<br />
There was a collection of Enid Blytons - Enid, to whom I still attribute my undying love of books and reading - a pile of Schoolgirls' Own Library magazines, the whole set of Mallory Towers adventures, another set of books by Lorna Hill, all set in Sadlers Wells (<i>A Dream of Sadlers Wells</i>, <i>Veronica at Sadlers Wells</i>) and an early pre-school favourite, Professor Pringle's Pink Powder.<br />
<br />
Most precious of all was a very strange hard-back book unearthed from somewhere by an elderly uncle, I think, and given to me, called <i>In the Land of the Talking Trees</i>. I was way too young to read it or understand it but the full page colour pictures scared the living daylights out of me every time I opened it - and we know how much fun <i>that </i>is when you're eight.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifZO_864mnjcRedZAkbh9zVkdzMYfxhp8_zbPGYTPFwHsjLnAElK-ShhwK2mylfGfSP4-QVkl0NkRgGa2X9HFcH7xbs37ugm4mrCl_NMXuC3QMpYZtHDZQR7jN24yMJPZIMMP0QnLvEVgz/s1600/Screen+Shot+2017-07-08+at+6.35.37+pm.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="545" data-original-width="348" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifZO_864mnjcRedZAkbh9zVkdzMYfxhp8_zbPGYTPFwHsjLnAElK-ShhwK2mylfGfSP4-QVkl0NkRgGa2X9HFcH7xbs37ugm4mrCl_NMXuC3QMpYZtHDZQR7jN24yMJPZIMMP0QnLvEVgz/s320/Screen+Shot+2017-07-08+at+6.35.37+pm.png" width="204" /></a></div>
<span style="text-align: center;">My dear spouse, having heard the sorry tale of my lost books more than he probably needed to, set about finding a copy of it and - at great expense to the management - succeeded. I can't tell you the emotions it brought back when I opened the parcel. I pick it up now and what comes flooding back to me is the terrible shock, the emptiness, of coming home from UNE after that first term and finding my meagre little bookshelves irretrievably empty.</span><br />
<span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span>
<span style="text-align: center;">I love to share my books now. Read this, I say, it's sublime. Of some books we say, my friends and I, read it and pass it on; I don't want it back. Others I all but count the days until they're returned. I will always let you know which is expected.</span><br />
<br />
They're an integral part of us, our own books, as essential and as loved as anything we might possess. I'm still trying to understand that if someone has never owned anything much it might be incomprehensible to hang onto things and not set them free for someone else to enjoy. Setting free someone else's possessions is something else altogether. But I'm trying to understand that as well.<br />
<br />
No success yet, but I'm trying.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
~*~</div>
<br />
<br />
<br />Gaby Gardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15801062680314947577noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1849831445168739521.post-76831693869182087922017-06-01T21:56:00.000-07:002017-06-01T21:57:55.315-07:00Love Song - by Nikki GemmellI'd never heard of Nikki Gemmel until all the fuss about <i>A Bride Stripped Bare</i> blew up some years ago and then the string of manipulative tricks —well-publicised 'anonymity', clunky second person voice, 'shocking' exposition of a woman's sexual explorations—conspired to turn me off it after I'd read a few unconvincing chapters. When this one book developed into a sort of trilogy and anyone whose opinion I trusted rolled their eyes and said things like 'Oh puh-lease!' I put Nikki in the not-for-me basket. Popular, maybe with merit. Just not for me.<br />
<br />
Then last week I pulled from the shelves of a favourite secondhand book shop a battered and stained copy of her 2001 novel <i>Love Song</i>. I bought it because of the accolades on the front and back covers -<i> '...evocative, imaginative, lyrical— a joy to read.' </i>(The Bulletin). <i>'A lovely, lyrical creation that has melody and melancholy aching through its sentences... bewitchingly good.' </i>(Elle, UK) and <i>'A striking and memorable work...Love Song will reward a second reading with pleasure in its vigour and love for life and language.' </i>(Australian Book Review).<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjkOd_wOizlZFm63FCA1PZ1lhwpBIdfBhyJHPQ3OYWlRQnrl-l4WxpPeyO_FryUeA15Vpf9dmLnWI4UIFPok6Ily2IR60-fIiWrMJBQWU2IpaTijXrR0ZBVoYKTJkhgCYMk9q_4qKEJmFt/s1600/IMG_4207.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1272" data-original-width="1334" height="305" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjkOd_wOizlZFm63FCA1PZ1lhwpBIdfBhyJHPQ3OYWlRQnrl-l4WxpPeyO_FryUeA15Vpf9dmLnWI4UIFPok6Ily2IR60-fIiWrMJBQWU2IpaTijXrR0ZBVoYKTJkhgCYMk9q_4qKEJmFt/s320/IMG_4207.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Ah, there it is! The magic word - language.<br />
And that's what drew me in. It's not an 'easy' read if you want to whiz through just for the story, because the language, the imagery and the startlingly original use of words conspire to stop you in your tracks to reread, to savour, reflect upon and read again.<br />
<br />
There's no end of beautiful literary devices:<br />
'...like an anemone that's softened in the tide's silky swirl...'<br />
<br />
'...behind a first scrim of cloud there's a higher heaven and I smile at the optimism in the sky.'<br />
<br />
And the sky that hangs 'like the water-bowed ceiling of an old house.'<br />
<br />
<br />
But it's not all wafty lyricism. There are plenty of down-to-earthers: 'Yeah, but I belong here, mate, and you don't' and 'Oh for God's sake,' I snap, mother-old.<br />
<br />
It was the originality of the prose that brought to life Lillie Bird's craving to bestow and to receive love. In particular, what struck me most was Gemmell's use of the hyphenated descriptor and here's a small selection from the hundreds used:<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjShLTc4yWa5tNDkXOwOynCXmo76P05Bg0jWAm4tYbkh520pq_nILaJcH_7AvZ7CAbGvN76FWU3Kln5_x4h28JDz1yiRZfThdbHhD8IF342bdP-mZSXMXA9DF4Byt_Y3R9r4KRkW35I-ege/s1600/Screen+Shot+2017-06-02+at+2.40.05+pm.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="180" data-original-width="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjShLTc4yWa5tNDkXOwOynCXmo76P05Bg0jWAm4tYbkh520pq_nILaJcH_7AvZ7CAbGvN76FWU3Kln5_x4h28JDz1yiRZfThdbHhD8IF342bdP-mZSXMXA9DF4Byt_Y3R9r4KRkW35I-ege/s1600/Screen+Shot+2017-06-02+at+2.40.05+pm.png" /></a></div>
<i>flit-panicky hands</i><br />
<i>sun-fuddled sleepiness </i><br />
<i style="text-align: center;">full-moon-flooded night </i><br />
<i>sea-licked </i><br />
<i>sliddery-scrape</i><br />
<i>beam-webbed rooms</i><br />
<i>the rake-splay of bones</i><br />
<ul>
</ul>
These and other innovative arrangements of words are what will entice me to read it again, as the ABR suggests.<br />
This time though, I'll try and avoid stopping to reread the words and read just for the story which is gut-wrenching and drowsy-deep with emotion—part coming-of-age story, part tragedy, part mystery but always - a love song.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
So, Nikky. I loved this book. I'll nag a select few friends to read it so I can discuss it with them. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
And I'll live in hope that you might soon regress to your old ways and write another just like it.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAJ9y_Uzj5ybBpWRZoLOmZoxvMOsFjK6L6IBEG9O0xEDUSMZzmqzqpZTYhLzJbHyQOnkYlmKlHTvnoNNKByHcTeWjG9w9Qt1-2UfbSpWFYNnLJm4h-lYXkWcMeb6_dHIpKY5W7T_GAYH4O/s1600/IMG_4208+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="520" data-original-width="1588" height="104" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAJ9y_Uzj5ybBpWRZoLOmZoxvMOsFjK6L6IBEG9O0xEDUSMZzmqzqpZTYhLzJbHyQOnkYlmKlHTvnoNNKByHcTeWjG9w9Qt1-2UfbSpWFYNnLJm4h-lYXkWcMeb6_dHIpKY5W7T_GAYH4O/s320/IMG_4208+%25281%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
~*~</div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<br />Gaby Gardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15801062680314947577noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1849831445168739521.post-10554383978015282372017-04-29T20:11:00.001-07:002017-04-29T22:38:30.407-07:00Writers-on-Saturday<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4883yTW_1Cd3FQz8J27xF__njZ_2kmVvSNamEJ4_1fZDH7QN0gw6dJBR3ovwk5fZVmM0OunTsP7KyrRuVprIlX3xmyAxQBBFCpAMjuTdAqFlXYmsW8fmvh2cons2RFsnTmXEi-_3Ml01X/s1600/Screen+Shot+2017-04-30+at+12.49.30+pm.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="457" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4883yTW_1Cd3FQz8J27xF__njZ_2kmVvSNamEJ4_1fZDH7QN0gw6dJBR3ovwk5fZVmM0OunTsP7KyrRuVprIlX3xmyAxQBBFCpAMjuTdAqFlXYmsW8fmvh2cons2RFsnTmXEi-_3Ml01X/s640/Screen+Shot+2017-04-30+at+12.49.30+pm.png" width="640" /></a></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #999999; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px; text-align: right;">Photograph by ullstein bild via Getty Images</span><br />
<br />
At a dinner near the end of last year I got to talking with a group of fabulous<a href="https://www.rmit.edu.au/study-with-us/levels-of-study/undergraduate-study/associate-degrees/ad016"> RMIT - PWE</a> women about a <a href="http://nanowrimo.org/">NaNoWriMo</a> stint I'd done the year before with a group at the Abbotsford convent, convened by successful crime writer <a href="https://www.amazon.com/P.-D.-Martin/e/B001HMUYJM">P.D. Martin</a>. I had done a writing course with Phillipa some years ago and even though she's a crime writer and I'm not (one Scarlet Stiletto shortlisting aside) I found her so professional, generous and supportive that I jumped at the chance to join this group.<br />
I started a new manuscript and it was great fun - most of us managed to write about 8,000 words on each of the Sundays we met. Predictably a great deal of editing was necessary between sessions and—as Phillipa had warned us—there were often sections of the writing we'd produced where later we had no recall of ever having written it.<br />
So years later at the dinner, after some mutual moaning about not having the time/discipline/motivation to write as much as we'd like, we decided to meet one Saturday in each month to—for want of a better plan— just "shut up and write".<br />
We booked a room somewhere central, all chipped in to pay 6 months worth of the amazingly cheap fee they charged, and so began Writers-on-Saturday.<br />
Three sessions in it's been very gratifying. Some of us meet for coffee first and we do break for half an hour for lunch. Otherwise it's into the room with laptops, heads down and write, 11 - 4.<br />
It's true that most of us have no excuse for not doing this in the comfort of our own spaces or homes but it's helpful to have none of the excuses in this setting like the ones we resort to at home -<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<ul><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcxr1bodmSK5EH0XNN6-c9HCWfsU4iOV1d3WJ1nrlSo6TGdLd-SY8wcSYDe7_VlBOg90erhiNVEyEm6WWD1SgBFWpcdm0d2CkwQNceZB-_bkF4uY0JumzlELQDZm6H-hqnPxgJP_SyNhAm/s1600/IMG_3663.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcxr1bodmSK5EH0XNN6-c9HCWfsU4iOV1d3WJ1nrlSo6TGdLd-SY8wcSYDe7_VlBOg90erhiNVEyEm6WWD1SgBFWpcdm0d2CkwQNceZB-_bkF4uY0JumzlELQDZm6H-hqnPxgJP_SyNhAm/s200/IMG_3663.jpg" width="176" /></a>
<li>"I might just check my email/twitter/text messages/blog."</li>
<li>"I might just pop in a load of washing."</li>
<li>"What's that Archie? Pleeease take you for another walk? Oh all right then, come on."</li>
<li><span style="text-align: right;">"Surely it's time for another coffee by now."</span></li>
<li>"I might just check Dashboard for another word for <i>amazing."</i></li>
</ul>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVhVL3ntjxldvPM97qWXRxS-h1pIPLA1vkY_tIDBaZARdHplNcqN7kaA93Kz9C9h-RWOoVP8qmXRTVcU23Byuyi-eFdhDIXwl3RRl7rualbYPQe1fFw0D6pnGJKHw4G3PAnns9H1jSXZCM/s1600/Dashboard.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVhVL3ntjxldvPM97qWXRxS-h1pIPLA1vkY_tIDBaZARdHplNcqN7kaA93Kz9C9h-RWOoVP8qmXRTVcU23Byuyi-eFdhDIXwl3RRl7rualbYPQe1fFw0D6pnGJKHw4G3PAnns9H1jSXZCM/s320/Dashboard.png" width="320" /></a><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
...and so on.<br />
<br />
The room we've booked only takes 10, tops, and though others have expressed an interest in joining, unfortunately the spaces aren't there.<br />
<br />
But it's a lovely thing to do. We stay in touch, catch up with who's writing what, what plans there are for the next manuscript, competition entry, website or blog and the focus stays reliably on writing.<br />
<br />
I think all of us who attend so far would recommend it as a productive thing for any writer to do - unless you're fabulous, disciplined, successful and already an inspiration to the rest of us.<br />
Then you're on your own.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
~*~</div>
<br />Gaby Gardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15801062680314947577noreply@blogger.com0