Burnside Writers Group

Edie Eicas: Free Range

Free range kids not tethered by the fear of a parent explored the back blocks. School holidays found the group of seven to ten year old boys roving the hills of Glen Osmond. In a pack, it was safety in numbers. Anyone who thought they could abduct one of them was dreaming. They were loud and comfortable in their neighbourhood and with their bikes, able to ride further than they dared when on their own.

The hills of Glen Osmond, on the edge of the bush, held lots of adventures. Scouting for old silver mines, spotting sleeping koalas high in the eucalypts and finding sleepy lizards sunbaking on the road, meant stopping and huddling to discuss the ecology of their area. Recounting what they’d seen, all wanted to add something to the story. But as they described the spiders and snakes, it was their paroxysms of hysterical high-pitched laughter that revealed their new found courage was slightly fragile.

Before the mobile phone, their rule was to be back for lunch and later to return before parents arrived to shepherd them home. A stay at home mum, I was often left babysitting the boys my sons would bring home from school. While some stayed as friends or were there just because they were neighbours, others came and went instantly.

I remember walking outside to check on the boys only to find that Daniel had found the aluminium poles from the tent and, climbing onto the brick back fence, stuck the poles down his shorts and was about to jump. My heart beating madly, I demanded he take the poles out of his pants and give them back. Walking away, I felt faint with the thought that had he jumped, he could have speared himself and done a great deal of damage. When the nightmare returned, all I could see was a child dead on the back lawn. Needless to say he was not welcomed back.

Nell Holland: Dee Time

She wasn’t the best nurse in our student year, but she was the one we all wanted to copy for style. Dee would have been more at home on Carnaby Street than the world of a hospital training school. It was 1962 and with her geometric hairstyle fitting under her nurse’s cap like a polished helmet, she could have been the cover girl for ‘Seventeen’, the magazine that often had Twiggy on the front.

She was fashionably slim, moving through the hospital looking vaguely disdainful and the few patients who dared to ask Dee for anything as basic as a bedpan, were usually disappointed. That was left for the rest of us who were in perpetual motion, ever leaning forward in the vain hope we could arrive at the next job quicker. Dee glided. After being lectured by Sister Tutor that nurses never ran, we moved as speedily as we dared. Seeing a nurse running could create in patients the kind of panic we all experienced daily. No emotion could show that might disconcert others.

Worried? Smile. Tired? Smile. Our trained reaction to everything was a useful tool that helped through many scenarios. It was an implement Dee never utilised. Her face spoke silent volumes.

She only went out with wealthy males with cars. We were eighteen and the rest of us were simply happy to have someone to call a boyfriend. They were usually students as poor as we were who used buses and shared our fish and chips. Dee ate in restaurants.

Dee discarded. many suitors, but when she told us she was no longer with Tim we were stunned. MG-B Tim had looked and sounded perfect, but she’d discovered a flaw. On their last date he’d spent ages trying to kill a spider he’d found in his car, and she’d later discovered it was one of her false eyelashes. It must have fallen off in a moment of passion, before being battered with his shoe. Those eyelashes had cost her money.

Dee’s nonchalance was lost that night, but by morning, it had returned, and she was once again sublimely impervious to bedpan requests!

David Hope: Clichés

We are counselled to avoid the use of clichés in our writing, mainly because clichés are overused pieces of language that have lost any freshness of meaning, sometimes to the point of futility; they detract rather than add to the written word.

That injunction led me to muse on why we use clichés in our speech. And the musing led me to several potential reasons for their use. In no particular order (is that a cliché?), here are the musings:

We imitate an old or a new phrase we have heard someone say where we believe the speaker is worth imitating. As they say – imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. (Oh no, another cliché.)

We become lazy in our speech and instead of thinking about making a meaningful contribution to the conversation or discussion, because sometimes it’s a tough row to hoe, we don’t make the effort. (Yes, another one – but it could be two.)

We think the phrase is appropriate and everyone will understand what is meant, because they have heard it a hundred times before. (Wait, there’s more.)

We hear them often and convince ourselves they are popular, and we should use them – because we want to play on the even playing field. (They are endless, are they not?)

Enough of this musing, though I am sure we can all come up with many more reasons for using clichés. And to be fair, there are times when a cliché is apt.

A more important musing intrudes. We have read (and maybe, heard) the famous speeches, marvelled at the poetic word, been transported by the language that builds a magnificent picture in our mind of beauty or sheer terror.

Let us aspire to that ideal and shun the cliché.

Don Sinnott: House Hunting

They were rosellas. No doubt about it—dead ringers of those on the sauce bottle. The brilliant birds appeared in our yard a few weeks ago, paired off for the breeding season. But surely it’s still winter, the sap has yet to rise, avian ardour must lie dormant. Yet there they were, a devoted couple, clearly house-hunting for a nesting place where, in due season, they would produce and hatch their eggs.

We had a gap in the fascia of the house, rotted timber removed in anticipation of having a tradie make repairs. It was not really a rosella-sized gap, but with a bit of steady beak-work it could be made so. And it was. The birds took to their work over a period of days, littering the deck with woodchips until the hole was large enough for entry. Voilà, a home!

Not so fast, you feathered squatters! We’d love to have the beautiful birds nest in our yard, but on our terms, so I covered the hole and set about making a bird box to be installed on a tree. This proved a monumental failure—I must have misread dimensions suggested online as it appeared to be a standing-room only habitation. My granddaughter wrinkled her nose and declared it ‘far too small, grandpa.’ But I was saved: a bird-loving friend, hearing of my failed project, donated a surplus bird box of adequate dimensions and it was duly installed on the tree.

The final chapter saw our rosellas being coaxed to turn their attention to this purpose-designed accommodation. It took some doing; they remained preoccupied with attempting to regain entry to the hole in the fascia. Finally, an apple placed near the entrance of the newly installed bird box opened their eyes to this desirable real estate. So now they are in residence. And we await what Spring will bring.

Postscript: Spring has sprung and a listening ear near the bird box reveals that our residents now have a twittering family. We’ve been told that the family will simply vacate the box, no farewells or thank-yous, when the hatchlings can fly.

Maybe the parents will return next year and raise another family.

Nell Holland: Calladine

The Calladine brothers volunteered to fight in World War 2. Albert and Sid were killed, and George returned without legs. Tommy was ‘lucky’ with no obvious wounds, though his mind was gnawed with distress; folk called it shell shock.

In 1940 Tommy had been a self-assured eighteen-year-old, charming old ladies attracting girls and breaking hearts. Eight years later, he was unkempt, wandering unceasingly, giving children nightmares. He walked fields with the wind at his back, grey-streaked hair blowing in a tangle, mouth muttering words lost to the air that his restless arms parted before him Shabby boots were tied with string that dragged on the earth, and the ‘demob’ overcoat flapped as he walked, like the useless, fluttering hands of a drowning man. In the barbershop men requested a ‘short back and sides’, so Tommy’s long hair and beard were shocking to children warned to, ‘keep away from Calladine’. No longer Tommy, he was just called by his surname. Occasionally he’d scoop brook water and drink thirstily. There were minnows and ‘things’ in the water, but he was oblivious.

They’d become a gang because they lived on the same street of council houses, Manor Road. Children were everywhere in those years and ran unfettered, not questioning life or each other. No-one asked why Rita had so many uncles, why Marjorie’s dad was always angry, or why Richard didn’t have a dad. It wasn’t their business. Their business was running, climbing, or making holly bush dens to play in. There they drank bottles of tap water, ate jam sandwiches and planned adventures to fill the day. They wished for nothing more, without thought of the future. Together, they felt secure. They were ‘the Manor’ kids’.

But then they found Calladine lying on his back in their den, silent and still. Was he dead?

Nell Holland: Best of Times

The baby-breath touch of the zephyr lifted her hair, whispering softly over her cheek. She felt in harmony with this land, but she’d forgotten this summit was so popular. People had gathered to enjoy the view at this time of the full moon. and most were couples, just as she and Gavin had once been.

The journey by taxi up Kloof Nek Road had been slow and now she was here, her mood was reflective. She smiled, blissfully unaware of her surroundings, until someone turned on a small radio. The music was soft, and no-one minded the extra touch of romance on such a balmy night. She closed her eyes remembering when she was twenty and first heard that music.

She’d been newly married, and in the country less than a month. Gavin had started working in a town situated on the edge of the Transkei just after their wedding. Their relationship had caused much comment from her friends who were shocked at the rapid escalation of romance into marriage. ‘Too good looking– too good to be true’, were just some of the remarks. But she hadn’t listened. Gavin was 6 years older and so certain about what he wanted, so when he said they’d begin married life with five years in South Africa, she didn’t hesitate. She was in love.

The weather had been mild on that long-ago Christmas Eve when they’d strolled through crowds in the town’s main square. Everyone was in a festive mood, the streets festooned with greenery, bright ribbons, and Christmas decorations. At the head of the square was a cathedral with a belltower. From there, a loudspeaker was broadcasting Christmas Carols which drifted over the rooftops, adding happiness to a lovely day. Suddenly, there was a pause followed by a recording of Beniamino Gigli singing ‘Panis Angelicus’. His voice soared on high filling her with indescribable joy and slowing the bustling crowd. When the music stopped, it appeared the world held its breath for a long moment before everyone began once more to move, laugh, and speak. Gavin had kissed her as they stood in the square and promised he’d love her forever. She’d believed him.

Their first good years, and the family they’d made together, had been a comfort through many hard times. Life hadn’t always been perfect, but those early memories had been her own ‘Panis Angelicus’.

Her face still held a wistful smile when she felt a hand on her shoulder and turned to see Gavin. ‘I’m sorry I’m late but the conference has ended, so we ‘empty nesters’ have the week to ourselves. We can enjoy being back here before we return to London.’

She touched his lips with her fingers, ‘Listen’.

As the last notes faded, he kissed her gently, ‘Remember me doing this a long time ago? I promised to love you forever. Now it’s just the two of us again, and you’re still my only love. Do you remember…?’

But she kissed him back. The question was forgotten. And the moment added to her memory store of the best of times.

Lawrie Stanford: I’m a Corona-Conspiracy Theorist

Sitting at my desk this afternoon it became clear where the coronavirus came from.

As my vacant gaze drifted across the desk, the design on a box of tissues forced itself into my consciousness. The origin of the coronavirus was revealed! It was in fact trumpeted by the perpetrators—Kimberly Clark the producers of Kleenex tissues!

Kimberly Clark had revealed their involvement through the design illustrating the containment curves for the spread of the coronavirus. Not just the first phase, with its rise and fall, but also the emergence of the second phase.

The evidence on the tissue box was compelling. After all, I bought the tissues well before the coronavirus struck. So, Kimberley Clark had pre-announced the roll-out plan for the coronavirus. THAT was the role of the tissues box design. The arrogance of it! And, they put their name to this insidious plan!

Mr Trump, that fake-news conspiracy theorist, tried to put us off the scent with his own conspiracy theory—that the coronavirus was produced in a Chinese laboratory. And what now? Will the American President declare war on China? I don’t think so. His sole ploy is to deflect attention from the real perpetrator—an American company.

Sure, you can say it wasn’t too bright for a tissue-producer to create a virus that results in a dry cough but how else do you explain the irrational disappearance from supermarket shelves of two other Kimberly Clark products—rolls of toilet paper and paper towels? I’ll bet Kimberly Clark secretly printed braille messages on each leaf of their toilet and hand towel rolls, so users had the idea imprinted on them that they just had to buy more of the stuff!

Deflecting attention from the US perpetrators of the coronavirus pandemic goes beyond just blaming the Chinese. The US has one of the highest mortality rates in the world—so who in their right mind could accuse the Americans of perpetrating the coronavirus? The high US infection and mortality rates have been brought about by a lack of Presidential leadership. Contrary to containing the pandemic, Trump has made ludicrous forecasts, sacked the truth-tellers and encouraged the militants who have agitated against controls.

The staggering mortality rate reflects the ‘Dark State’ within the land of the free.

What the Dark State has preserved, is the freedom of US citizens to act in self-interest. Freedom to exercise brutish power over their fellow citizens. Freedom to carry weapons to enforce their own free will. Freedom to impose US values on the world. Comfort in privilege, insensitivity to the underprivileged and hence, a failed state in respect to social welfare. Rather, it uses the magic of marketing to ensure that illusions trump reality. But it DOES NOT mean freedom from the devastating impact of a viral pandemic. No! It’s actually a US multi-national, profit-maximising, pharmaceutical, aided and abetted by a self-serving leader, that has created the pandemic!

So where in the hell is James Bond when you need him? Eon Films deferred the April release of the latest film until April next year. Oh-no! Eon is a US company. Deferral was to prevent that pesky Brit, Bond, from destroying the US pharmaceutical plant where the coronavirus was created!

Don Sinnott: COVID Daze

Dan wasn’t a party a party animal. Never an expert in small talk, at social gatherings he either kept to himself or found a soulmate for a one-on-one chat. At work he was more attuned to planning business strategies in his own headspace than to the interactive ‘brain-storming’ sessions his management periodically called. His firm had once run psychological tests on its senior managers and when his results came back as ‘strong preference toward introversion rather than extroversion’ he agreed: the test had nailed it. He enjoyed his own company, and at week’s end, preferred to skip the firm’s TGIF drinks session and head off for a quiet restaurant dinner with Sally, on a baby-sitter-provided leave-pass.

But this COVID experience had cast a cold shadow. Working from home, he had become edgy, easily provoked to anger, negative. It came to him slowly that, introvert he may be, he was missing human contact with work colleagues. Terribly. The Zoom sessions, the new world of solitary work-from-home that was touted as liberating and flexible, were no substitute for the busy office environment that had been his grounding until just a few months ago. He now realised how important his chatty twice-daily walks around the open-space office had been. He followed this self-imposed discipline as a recommended ‘management by walking around’ strategy but now he saw how critically important it had been for his own wellbeing. Surprising as it was to him, he had to concede he needed work colleagues around him; he could not thrive in isolation and his productivity had hit rock bottom.

But what options did he have? He was aware he was getting on Sally’s nerves. It was draining plying a surly husband working behind the study’s closed door with periodic coffees while she continued to cope with the kids. And when he emerged after a day’s solitary work, they found little to talk about: no point asking, ‘How was your day?’

Sharon Apold: She Left Alone

My Grandmother looked at me. Her eyes shone in her pale face, searching for the comfort of recognition. I know she saw the silhouetted figure and heard the voice of a woman holding her hand. My hand. I could tell I was still familiar to her, but somehow difficult for her to trust between the wakeful dreams and emerging fears of her passage into death.

Coaxed into relaxation, enough for her eyes to close a moment, only to re-open, flutter and realise again that death had not yet come.

Minutes passed; hours went by. For her a hundred years had disappeared leaving her alone on the shore; waiting for the tide to take her tired body. To allow her soul to leave. To find her husband, her baby son, her young daughter, sisters, brothers. Her friends.

She said that God, to whom she had prayed for a century, had forgotten to call her. Or perhaps an unforgiven sin would draw her to hell. She floated. Here on earth, between dimensions.

I left as evening approached. My aunt and uncle were on their way.

Alone, tears wet my face. Childhood memories brought warmth and comfort. The wish that my mother was still alive resurfaced. The pain of her absence was freshened.

Between our shift change, my grandmother left us.

She left alone.

“As for me, I am already being poured out as a libation, and the time of my departure has come. I have fought the good fight. I have finished the race. I have kept the faith.” The Holy Bible: 2 Timothy Ch 4, verses 6 & 7

Edie Eicas: Gardening Tales – Part 5

I have a philosophy when it comes to trees and global warming. My position is that if you drive a car, you plant trees to offset your carbon miles. As a result, I proselytize; annoying a number of people but feel I have a responsibility, no matter what.

My friends will tell you I’m tangential; not able to follow a straight line or stay on point. I can be all over the place. That also comes with trawling the internet; I tend to get lost, follow links and then have no idea how I got there. Needless to say, somewhere somehow, I found a statement that said, “You need to plant 11 trees if you drive a car.” To that end, I’ve planted as many trees as I can, wherever I’m living at the time.

While in Queensland looking after my parents, I fell in love with the different varieties of frangipani I could see in people’s gardens. Triggered by memories of my mother’s huge frangipani with cream flowers that had perfumed the summer air of her kitchen garden in Rose Park, I was on a mission. In Queensland, what was on offer in terms of colour was extensive, and I was fascinated. I made a decision. While with my parents, I would plant additions to their garden.

I’m a propagator. Meaning I take cuttings and cultivate. My kids would say I nick, but I’ll always defend myself against that implication. I never take the lot; I only take pieces from the bottom of plants or branches that don’t disturb the symmetry of the plant.

While Alida, an old friend from Adelaide, and I were driving up Tamborine Mountain I spied a huge frangipani dropping apricot flowers over the verge and I was overtaken with desire. ‘Stop, stop,’ I yelled. Caught by my demand she did and to her shock, I jumped out of the car and ran back to the tree. I looked for the best branch to snap without destroying the structure, and then raced back to the car with my spoils.

Alida is my born-again friend who, at that time, was just finding her way into a different Christianity and was somewhat unprepared and horrified as I stuffed the oversized branch, leaking sap, into her car.

Getting back into the passenger seat, I yelled, ‘Go, go,’ and in shock, she planted her foot. My innocent getaway driver.

Where Alida was concerned, it was not one of my finest moments and all she kept saying was, “But I’m a Christian. I can’t believe I helped you.” Guilt was our companion that day and all she could do was ruminate over her assistance in a crime. Unable to reconcile her actions, she delivered a tri-colour frangipani to me in the hope I would stop my “propagating”. She missed the point. I was on a mission and hadn’t quite planted the 11 trees.

The last frangipani I found was one with pure white flowers. I planted it after my stepfather’s death and to record the developing dementia of my mother. In many Asian cultures, white is associated with death and, to the Vietnamese, the flowers become the ghosts of loved ones.

The tree left growing in the garden spoke of my feelings of loss.

David Hope: The Reader

 The reader imagining they have been
 Transported away to places unseen
 Experiencing things dirty and clean 
 Stuck in the mud with the African Queen
 Scoured from the sands by a wind so keen
 Washed by waters some clear, some saline.
  
 Mixed feelings of fear, feelings of joy
 The freezing cold of an Arctic convoy,
 Trembling at the villain’s devilish ploy,
 Moved by the love of a girl, a boy,
 The larrikin spirit of the tomboy, 
 Sentiment invoked by Leo Tolstoy. 
 
 Fiction, biography, history, truth
 Grist to the mill of the reader, forsooth.

Nell Holland: A Great Party

Too many friends had died. She needed cheering up, so Tony proposed a party. But the day arrived, and Ann still felt miserable. Preparations completed, she took ten minutes to try to find some serenity. Her eyes closed, and slowly she relaxed.

It seemed seconds later when guitar music opened her eyes. Howard and Rick were at the far end of the room, playing guitars and singing ‘Satisfaction’, accompanied by David when he wasn’t drinking from a beer tankard! This wasn’t how she’d planned the evening to begin but the room was already full of people and noise. Barbara was there with Roy. His arm was around her shoulders, and they were laughing at something with Monica and Sue. The last time they’d all been together Monica and Sue had been competing for the same man. Thank heavens he won’t be here tonight, she thought.

John, Barry, and Kevin were talking to Doug, as far from the music as they could get. Her cousins made a striking group with red-haired Doug the most handsome. But as always, John’s brooding presence was attracting all the female attention. He gazed lazily around but when he caught Ann’s eye, he raised his hand and gave a wide smile.

Familiar laughter identified Victor and Lois guiding Sheila and Vivienne to where Andrew was pouring drinks. The two younger women seemed intimidated by everyone’s easy familiarity, but the Victor/Lois combo was putting them at ease. And Andrew, she knew, would say something funny to make them feel included. Ann knew she should be the one chatting and mingling with her guests, but she felt detached and tranquil. She was happy being an onlooker.

A Scottish voice, that Ann recognised as Jean’s, was complaining about the music, saying it would be better if they could have an eightsome reel rather than this ‘noise’. Mike and Roy moved to her side and handed her a glass of whisky. As she sipped, Mike gave her a placating hug and Roy said that later they’d roll away the carpets and Jean could organise everyone to dance ‘Marie’s Wedding’. But in the meantime, perhaps this good malt would placate her? As always, charm, humour and Glenmorangie won her round.

The guitar music finished, and another voice called, ‘Clear a space!’ The sound of Elvis’s ‘Don’t be Cruel’ filled the air and Harry and Annette jived with the ease of practiced years. Their dancing created a circle of people clapping to the beat and watching with delight.

The doorbell rang loudly, startling Ann. She twisted her head to see Tony greeting guests, then quickly turned back to the silent room which had just been filled with music and laughter. As she looked, people evaporated like smoke. Only Rick stayed a heartbeat longer to say, ‘You told me it was au revoir and not goodbye. And you were right, Ann.’

As everyone disappeared, she heard their fading voices calling in unison, ‘Have a great party! We’re still all here. Love you!’

Don Sinnott: Dirac’s Lecture

Lectures—I’ve had a few. I recall some as soporific, mechanically delivered verbal sludge. Others had me hanging on every word from a skilled communicator. Yet one lecture I recall most vividly, although delivered in a droning style, had me on the edge of my seat.

A group of theoretical physicists emerged in the early decades of the twentieth century, upending the settled world of classical physics. It included Einstein, Plank, Heisenberg, Schrodinger, Bohr… so many European names; and one notable British physicist, Paul Dirac. The legacy of this group is modern relativistic quantum physics, which underpins all of our modern electronics, including the astounding computing power of the smart phones we carry with us.

My sole personal encounter with one of this group, god-like figures to physics students of my generation, was at a lecture by Paul Dirac, 1933 Nobel Laureate and one-time occupant of Isaac Newton’s chair at Cambridge. In 1975 I was at a radio science conference at the University of New South Wales when news burst that Dirac was visiting the university and was about to give a public lecture. A group of us immediately abandoned the conference and headed for the advertised venue. It was well we rushed to get a seat: the tiered theatre soon filled far beyond its capacity of 400 or so, eager students sitting on every available step and a disappointed throng at the door turned away.

On cue, an apparently old and stooped man, shabby jacket over his jumper and a scarf wrapped around his neck in the British style, was ushered onto the platform of the theatre. He began to speak, quietly, almost diffidently, wandering the platform with eyes down and with little apparent awareness of his audience. We strained to hear, transfixed not by his delivery but by his presence. He spoke of debates with ‘Albert’ and the robustness of exchanges with other peers of that golden era of science, always using the first names of those giants of physics whose surnames litter the textbooks.

‘The field was so open in those days that even second-rate physicists could produce first-rate science,’ he noted in self-deprecation. ‘Today the field is so developed that first-rate physicists struggle to produce second-rate science.’

He would turn to the blackboard from time to time to outline a mathematical proof, his voice lost as he addressed the board. And then, abruptly, the lecture finished. He ceased his wanderings and stood impatiently as the local professor of physics gave an effusively tedious vote of thanks. Ignoring the ensuing enthusiastic applause, Dirac repositioned his scarf, shed mid-lecture in deference to the over-heated theatre, and headed for the door.

By any measure, the presentation style was abysmal. Yet what a memory the lecture leaves. The medium was most definitely not the message.

Dirac’s memorial slate in Westminster Abbey

Postscript. Dirac, who was 73 when he visited Australia but appeared to me much older, died in 1984. In 1995 a memorial stone in his honour, showing his crowning achievement, the equation describing the inner workings of the electron, was laid in Westminster Abbey, where it touches the gravestone of Isaac Newton.

And a provocation for BWG poets: Dirac, the ultimate nerd, once said ‘The aim of science is to make difficult things understandable in a simpler way; the aim of poetry is to state simple things in an incomprehensible way. The two are incompatible.’

Sharon Apold: I Am Awake

Night…
we meet again
and again
and again.

In spite of my objection,
for hours we will joust.

Sleep, the elusive.

I will grasp my pillow, 
wring that comfort dry.

Night…
you will shine your moon.
I will toss,
turn, 
defy your silent gloom.

Awake…
In that awful hour.

The one of deathly quiet
when sleep should rest the mind, 
and dreams 
invade the place of reason.

I am awake.

Night…
I am your antagonist
I can’t comply,
no sleep
how hard I try.

Fingers grasp me
bring horrors
evil and dark, but I escape.

I am awake.

Edie Eicas: Gardening Tales – Parts 3 and 4

Murder

Another year and I still hadn’t learnt about scraps composting through the garden. The pumpkin seeds had generated again, and another group of vines spread through the front. At first it was water conservation and I ignored them but, with finding the first Butternut, a new plan emerged. I began watering in earnest. The vines in gratitude spread and began taking over. Now I was a detective searching for flowers. The routine known, no more scraps in the garden, everything into the compost bin.

With each female flower found, the search for a male, and the greedy program begun again: IVF. The morning ritual: coffee and an obsessive search meant the counting of my babies. Five formed balls of green Jap and two ballooning Butternut. But wait. What! Teeth marks. Tiny scrapings of baby skin. Ah no, they were not going to get my prize.

I have a glory vine over the northern side of my veranda to shade the house in summer and I’ve trained the vine to reach from one side to the other. While celebrating my birthday and standing under the veranda with a group of friends, I was distracted by a rat running across. Shock and shame left me speechless, but preoccupied, I instantly forgot what I’d seen.

The Coronavirus hit. It was self-isolation and I was back in the garden attending to autumn’s need and so found more evidence of crime. With the last experience of rats I’d showered my garage and shed with Ratsak, and so was not overly worried, until a friend rang from London complaining about her garden.

Mayfair was shutting down shops and restaurants. The call to stay home and be safe meant no food in bins or rubbish lying around. With demolition of nearby buildings disturbing nests, a migration of rats into her property was wreaking havoc. Across the street from me the Cohen’s were also demolishing, and the northern side of Burnside Village had disappeared. Life had changed. Ah, now I understood. I’d set the poison but I hadn’t recognised the potential invasion from across the street. I needed to protect my garden and to be proactive as I too was facing a growing menace. This was war.

Mitre 10, rat-trap and Ratsak, Coles and cheap peanut butter, I had a plan. Balling a pellet of Ratsak into the peanut butter I carefully set the trap placing it near the growing Butternut, and waited. Next morning: pjs, dressing gown, rubber boots and curiosity, I was in the garden early. The peanut butter was gone but the trap not sprung. Oh well, whatever took the bait would not be coming back, I hoped.

Looking through the garden another pumpkin had been gnawed, small incisions in the skin. Now on the lookout, I surveyed the garden. The tops of the snow peas were eaten, luscious new pumpkin leaves were bitten through. Something was eating the tops and new growth. Now guilt began to take over. Perhaps it wasn’t rats but ring tail possums. Out on the street I’d find them dead, zapped by the electricity wires and one day, I found one drowned lying motionless in my pond, having fallen off the water tank.

Was it rats or possums? Hmm, I needed a better plan. More peanut butter and Ratsak in poisonous balls strategically placed around the garden in hard to access places. I hoped their position was only available to an animal capable of squeezing through small spaces. I wanted to eliminate the rat problem not the possums.

More and more peanut butter disappeared. Now I was concerned. I shouldn’t have looked up Google and possums. They like peanut butter as well. Oh no–more guilt to add to my Jewish–Catholic conditioning. Now I needed a different way to protect the pumpkins. God, I hoped I hadn’t decimated the possum population. And please God, whatever that noise was in the roof, please don’t make it a dying animal.

Climate Change

Change came quickly. The cold blew in and frost killed my pumpkin vines; they burnt and disintegrated.

My neighbours, newly arrived, put their house on the market and disappeared. Not before they had wreaked havoc over their property. Most of the trees protecting the house and garden from the traffic noise, pollution and heat of Portrush Road were cut down.

They spoke little English, and I was unable to fathom why the destruction. They had filled in the swimming pool as it appeared a leak had left them with little option, but the garden?

The peach tree that offered juicy orbs: gone, the persimmon with its beautiful orange fruit in autumn on a tree denuded of leaves: gone, the feijoa that dropped its fruit over the fence collected for the sweet sour taste: gone; the hatchet job nearly complete on what was a beautiful garden cared for by its previous owners. Only the grape vine and avocado tree left intact.

What remains is a block open to the western sun with no summer shade, no perfume from the native daphne, no place for birds and no harvest for bees. Trees that took years to grow cut down. I’m left to speculate about the reason for such a tragedy. Did they hate the work of raking leaves, pruning and gathering fruit? Or did they want the block to look larger so the new buyer could speculate over future development and a bigger profit?

Now Burnside Village, across the street, stands as a glaring advertisement to Capitalism as it spills its lights into the night, and semi-trailers and B-doubles roar through the neighbourhood. With no protective filter of leaves, the denuded garden has opened the street to light and sound and we’ve lost the privacy of the cul-de-sac.

I guess I’ll just have to plant trees on the verge.

Lawrie Stanford: Stranger Danger

The officer was polite but firm while her male companion had a look that was more firm than polite. The female officer was the first to speak. ‘Sir, you’ve heard of stranger-danger, haven’t you?’

Earlier, I arrived home late from work, a little before 7pm. As I walked through the front door, I could hear the kids upstairs watching TV. I walked pass them into the kitchen where Mary was preparing the evening meal and said, ‘Good evening dear! What time did you get home—you seem to be running late?’

‘Yeah well, there was a special meeting called after school. I had to attend as a Team Leader.’

‘Oh?’ I replied.

‘Annnnd,’ she continued, ‘I had to pick the kids up from Michael and Robyn’s.’

‘Why? That’s way over in Fisher and the kids know the drill about getting home and doing their homework.’

‘Well you need to know that the kids were accosted tonight after school’.

‘Whaaa …’ was all I could raise.

‘They told me, or at least they told Robyn, that they were at home when a raving, half-naked, homeless lunatic, carrying an axe, knocked on the front door and tried to kill them!’

‘Go on,’ I said.

‘They said he garbled like a monster but thought he may have asked them if their father was home. They figured he wanted to know if they were by themselves.’

‘OK,’ I said, ‘I think I understand what happened here…’

‘Well you can explain it to the kids because they didn’t understand it at all. Melissa slammed the door in his face, ran screaming down the passage, grabbed Tim and the two of them bolted out the back door, down the side driveway, past this maniac, and onto the front road!’

‘So, they were OK! I….’

‘You bastard! Didn’t you hear me, someone tried to kill the kids with an axe!’

‘No, no, no—you didn’t hear me out. The other day, I noticed a tree lopper over the road at the Robinson’s. He was thinning out that old redgum of theirs. He was halfway up the tree and it wasn’t easy to talk to him—not just because he was up the tree but also because he spoke with an Eastern European accent. But, I managed to ask him if he would give me a quote to thin our trees. He said he would drop over in the next few days to talk to me about it. So you see—he wasn’t raving or demonic, he just spoke with a thick accent; he wasn’t a homeless lunatic, just unshaven; and he wasn’t a murderer, he was just carrying a tool of his trade. I presume he wasn’t wearing a shirt because he wasn’t wearing one the other day.’

Only partly satisfied, Mary said, ‘So you’re saying this was a misunderstanding, but I can tell you, it wasn’t just the kids’ misunderstanding—the whole bloody neighbourhood didn’t understand. Robyn didn’t understand, she rang the cops. They were greatly concerned in their misunderstanding and rang me. And, I didn’t understand, and got dragged out of a meeting—which didn’t understand why I ran out whimpering! So, there’s just a few who didn’t understand!’

‘Oh gawd,’ I murmured.

‘But don’t you worry your little head about it buddy. When I finally got home with the kids, and convinced them it was safe to come inside, Mrs Robinson came over greatly concerned, to ask if the kids were OK. She said her tree-lopper told her he’d knocked on our door to ask if you were there. The next thing he knew, two kids were screaming down the driveway, onto the road and had jumped onto a passing tractor coming down the street from the bushland at the end. After listening to a hysterical explanation from the kids and lots of furtive glancing at the poor tree-lopper stranded on our porch, the tractor driver took the kids to Michael and Robyn’s. So, you can add three more people to the list of people who didn’t understand!’

‘And,’ she continued, ‘I’ve spent all my time until now, explaining to everyone—who didn’t understand—exactly what had happened.’

‘Ah well, all’s well that ends well,’ I said as the front doorbell rang. ‘Don’t worry darling,’ I added, ‘I’ll get the door.’

Leaving a steely stare burning into the back of my head, I opened the door to find a cop and a community welfare officer standing there.

Georgette Gerdes: Plumbers’ Dream

The effluent was overflowing. Black sludge in the basin of the outside tap. Congealed, gritty and pungent. The plumbers’ dream. Rivers of black trickled from outlets. Sinks bubbled. Water pooled and slowly drained from showers and poos came back up decrepit toilet pans.

I need new pipes!

He comes six monthly to unblock. Heavy metal coils and noisy machines in tow. Just a cup of tea and the hefty fee in return for back-breaking work. Man versus bottlebrush tree roots.

We’ve got to know various plumbers over the years – the skinny scolding one, full of disaster scenarios-grumpy. The young, keen ripper offerer, wanting good internet reviews and now Chris, near retirement, who is just nice and likes my dog. You can judge a lot about someone’s character by the way they treat your dog. Dog people are good natured!

The show starts. Vibrating metal snakes are propelled down pipes. Thrust, shove, plunge, bulldozing their way through dark, icky tunnels, mashing nature’s revenge for urban living. Over and over. It’s touch and go. Like a grimy cardiologist, he delivers. The clot is unclogged, blasted down to the sewers and places we dare not think about.

All is passable and gushing. Sammy the dog can no longer eat sewerage from the sink. A petrified rat must suffice.

What a profession? A pretty damn revolting vocation but never ever short of customers. My house is a bonanza, a pot of gold, a plumbers’ dream.

Edie Eicas: Gardening Tales – Parts 1 and 2

The Garden

I like to think of myself as a perma-culturist, a euphemism for a haphazard gardener. I’m the kind of person that if I eat something with seeds inside, I save the seeds. I’ve had peaches, nectarines, pomegranates, tomatoes, cucumber, peppers the list goes on. But, like any fertilized seed, what you get is a bit haphazard as well. Take my peaches, soft, bland and horrible. But now the tree has established itself I consider it my contribution to greening Australia. The same goes for two of my three nectarine trees.

My process was: I refrigerated the kernels over winter, broke them open in early spring and finally, after smashing a number of the seeds, planted the survivors. The results have produced the peaches and nectarines but now the competition for the fruit is a game between the rats, mice, birds, possums and me. I netted the trees but still watched the decimation from the nightly raids.

When the nectarines looked and felt fit for human consumption, I started picking one for breakfast. One tree had flavour, the other two were never going to soften or sweeten. Finally accepting the fact, I looked to find alternative ways of dealing with the glut. I now have stewed fruit in my freezer. I was prepared for this lock-down.

I have a history with vegetables as well. I used to throw my leftovers into the garden working on the principle the rotting scraps would compost. Big mistake in that I attracted the rats, but I’ve learnt. I was a bit slow, but after a few experiences over the years I eventually got the message. One was the nurturing of a “big” Jap pumpkin I unexpectedly found. I watered and fertilized that vine watching as the pumpkin got bigger and bigger. Finally, it was huge and time to pick. Judging it as heavy, I prepared myself.

Cut from the vine, the pumpkin needed to be stored. Knees bent, I squatted, ready to use the power in my legs to lift it. Bracing myself for the weight, I lifted the “big” pumpkin. Pulling it off the ground, I staggered, nearly falling backwards into the roses. It was as light as a feather. In shock, I put the pumpkin down and looked at it uncomprehendingly. Turning the gourd towards me, I saw the problem. While nestled amongst the vines and rose bushes, it looked pristine from the front but, the back had a neat hole, and the insides were eaten out.

Feeding the masses

Before my lessons about gardening really came home to roost some years later, my scraps were still being choofed to compost under the roses. The pumpkin seeds were again generating vines throughout the garden and in awe, I watched them take over my front yard. In my excitement, I learnt how to IVF the female flowers. My morning ritual, coffee cup in hand was to go out to look for flowers, fertilize, then check my growing babies and count them.

When the vines died off, I pulled them back and started exposing the gourds to harden. Finally, the harvest, and I was overjoyed and full of pride at my accomplishment. I had twelve Butternut and six Jap, much too much for me so, as my Butternut pumpkins slowly hardened, some became a gift to family and friends. My last autumn effort pulling out the remaining vines held a surprise. I discovered the largest Jap of the lot, my eight-kilo beauty and I had to take a photograph of my harvest. Moving the Japs and the remainder of the Butternuts onto a table, I sought the best positioning to show off my accomplishment.

I wanted to foreground the biggest, the mightiest, and so, picking up the largest to place at the front, I dropped it. Straight onto my big toe. No shoes of course. #@$%#*& They say swearing helps the pain – bugga! No help at all. But, the pumpkin hadn’t split, saved as it was by landing on my toe, and so I persevered and got my photograph.

Now the evil pumpkin that had done damage, the eventual loss of a toenail, was my enemy. As no one I knew had a family large enough to consume it, I had to find some organisation that would appreciate my effort. Ringing the Hutt Street Homeless Shelter, I was informed it was unwanted. The huffy female voice made me resentful. I’d grown the monster and it was being rejected. What!

There was nothing to do but go back to my usual outlet. The one I used when disaster hit when making homemade Christmas presents, my nougat and pates. It was the Salvation Army Men’s Home in the city. Another phone call and, in my whining voice, I asked if they would be interested. Yes! They would be happy to take the offender.

I was let in through the gates of the Home and into the parking lot where, one of the staff came out to collect the pumpkin. Opening the boot, we both stared down at the magnificent Jap and then struggled to get it out. Finally deposited into the building I was happy to get rid of the giant, the gift that had kept giving.

Sharon Apold: Cake

I’m thinking of having friends over this weekend. There’s a birthday to celebrate. Cake? But which one? Ice-Cream Cake?

I’d have to make my own ice cream first. Perhaps a rich vanilla? The basic mix is somewhat like a custard. First, you take cream and full cream milk, simmer, then add a vanilla bean slit down one side and slide it into the warm mix.

The vanilla bean is filled with tiny seeds held in a viscous sweet syrup. Once the bean has infused the creamy liquid, the seeds are scraped from the pod into the milk. Left behind, are the tiny black flecks, so that you know the flavour is real.

A little sugar is added and stirred through for sweetness. Muscavado will dissolve quickly but leave a caramel note and a honey colour. The pot is taken from the heat and eggs whisked through.

Then comes the chilling and churning, finally the moulding, perhaps I could add a layer of fresh raspberries? The slightly tart favour would cut through the richness of the ice cream.

Texture is important. Our mouths are so sensitive. We like to experience different sensations against our tongues. We have the cold. The melting creamy . We need a crunch to complete the experience.

I think I’ll top the cake with a disc of hazelnut meringue. Yes. The crisp, if I get it right with the centre slightly chewy, almost gooey but not quite.

The warm earthiness of hazelnut would finish the flavour profile nicely.

On serving, a drizzle of hazelnut liquor, plus a few whole toasted hazelnuts and a quenelle of rich double cream would be perfect. The result should be almost sensual.

Yes, Ice-cream cake it will be.

Maarten van de Loo: Deaf sentence

 Listen how this fellow, getting older
 thought he would never be in strife.
 Fit and strong and a little bolder, 
 having posted the decades up to five,
 he couldn’t hear his wife. 
 
 ‘What is the matter now with you? listen!’
 ‘Yes, I do,
 if you play too!’
 
 ‘Ayeeeeh! What d’ya saaay?’
 that’s the cry the deaf man cries
 but who will play?
 
 Will they try, speak up for fun and laughter shared?
 move lips and love more dearly
 those who are impaired?
 
 Or just plod on the same old fashion,
 ignore pleas for compassion,
 ill feelings to be aired?
 
 Oh! How will this crazy world
 slow down and stop the rattle,
 enunciate, try hard, try harder
 for those who battle
 ill feelings so quickly hurled.
 
 ‘I’m hearing impaired’, the deaf man says
 to shop assistant, teller, any feller,
 ‘please play!’
 What happens? They only say,
 ‘that’s OK’.
 
 But do they?  Slow down, show some empathy?
 understanding, cooperation, sympathy?
 really want to communicate?
 ‘To me you can’t sell mate, if you can’t relate!’
 
 So on I plod, to read their lips conscientiously,
 embarrassing ladies young and old
 for focussing so strenuously
 on beauty they so richly hold.
 
 ‘Ah, but wait’, when in good company
 we share anecdotes,
 fun and laughter, jokes.
 It’s the same old story for deaf old blokes
 ‘don’t know why you laugh mate, hope it’s not taboo.
 I’ll join in ignorance and laugh too!’
 
 So life goes on, smile, be happy, there is no measure;
 bird song, koala grunt, kookaburra calls are past.
 No good moaning, no one listens, just treasure things that last

Nell Holland: Remember

I was born in England in a small Derbyshire town not far from a place called Eyam. It’s a beautiful area and I’ve always respected Eyam’s history, but now the world is gripped by a pandemic I applaud the forward thinking of its 17th century inhabitants.

In 1665 the villagers isolated themselves so outsiders wouldn’t catch bubonic plague, transported from London in flea-infested cloth. Tragically, over a period of 14 months most residents perished, and during that time the church recorded 273 deaths. When the last victim expired, only 83 villagers had survived.

In earlier days, this area would have thrummed to the sound of horse-drawn carts. Today the sound is of coaches arriving. Visitors wander down Eyam’s main street experiencing its beauty – and the full horror of the 17th century plague. Every picturesque cottage displays a plaque bearing information about the occupants who died during the 1660s, and yet every house is still inhabited. The occupants are living proof that life continues, no matter what.

Survival among those affected appeared random, and many who remained alive had close contact with the dead but never caught the disease. One woman was uninfected despite burying her husband and six children in eight days, and the village gravedigger survived handling infected corpses. We can only guess at the terror in which these people lived, and in many cases died.

Before the Covid-19 ‘plague’ we had a UK Easter wedding to attend. The nuptials have since been delayed twice, and as I write today the couple are hoping to have their celebration at Easter in 2021. We wait to see if we’ll be allowed to join them, but at this moment overseas travel appears unlikely. Along with gifts, I’d intended to give the bride the ‘horseshoe for luck’ I was given at my own wedding, but if we survive these times, we’ll be the luckiest of people without need of any charm.

Everyone says we’ll never take a warm embrace, kiss on the cheek or handshake for granted again. We say how we miss life as it was before this pandemic, and we’ll never again underestimate what we have. But it’s hard to appreciate how much we once missed something when we have it back! Those Eyam villagers isolated themselves to keep outsiders safe and bequeathed an example relevant today. Security, love, and family – perhaps that’s all we need. But will we remember to remember?

Nell Holland: This Man

He was by my side all week, and I laughed aloud as he attempted suicide. I know suicide isn’t funny, and I didn’t want him to die by his own hand, but every attempt was skittled in such ridiculous ways that I couldn’t help myself. Incompetence didn’t prevent his death, so it must have been a guardian angel. I believe his grudging kindness to others deserved to be rewarded, despite his unyielding beliefs, and perhaps that angel thought the same. Acknowledgement, however, was the last thing he looked for. His heart was always big, though hidden behind a curmudgeon exterior. But he was fair in everything, always.

Despite him being a stubborn man of principles, surrounded by annoying people who talked when he preferred to be left alone, he never turned his back on a problem. His view of life was uncomplicated and fearless, leaving no one in any doubt that his way was the right way. The only way.

Have I made him seem petty? I hope not because he lived in a world that had evolved without him being aware of its progress. He was too busy making sure his own part of the planet functioned in the way it always had. He gave competency and attention to the smallest detail. The bigger world was not his problem. His self-possessed approach made difficulties appear solvable, and people who didn’t recognise moral standards and loyalty he found incomprehensible.

For a week he dominated my thoughts. I couldn’t wait for moments I spent with him, and every moment was filled with laughter and delight. I loved this man until the moment he fell asleep and didn’t wake. And then came tears.

A Man Called Ove by Frederik Backman is a book of wonder and charm. And a joy to read.

Welcome

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From: the Burnside Writers’ Group team.