Weekend Rewind: December 2009 & 2010

Am jumping on the rewind bandwagon again (thanks to Allison @ Fibro - click on link above to join). But am being naughty and adding two links. Simply because I cannot choose between them. December 2010 was hard... let's face it, any month after October 2010 has been difficult, but December particulary as the first Christmas without Wise Woman in our lives. The post I have chosen from this year is one of a little fluff and lightness - my reworking of the old classic:

A Night Before Christmas

Just to put a little stimming into your lives, lol.

The second is one from the heart. Memories of my wonderful Yee-Haw Grandma. Written in December 2009 when my blog was still new-ish.

Drive

Enjoy.

P.S. I lost my Grandmother just prior to her 91st birthday. I am pretty sure beating her in age was part of my Wise Woman mother's ambition and once the milestone was passed she felt she could let her hold on life loosen. Mum had turned 91 two weeks before we lost her.

Memoir Monday - BOO! .

Only my love of the big Trav could draw me back to post a Memoir Monday whilst on holidays. Yes, you read it right, *cough*, holidays. Madmother has run away to her home of the heart to enjoy time with the family, catch up with old, dear, uh, did I mention old?, friends.

So, here I am sitting in my kitchen (this one) scroll down trying write a Memoir. The sadness of recent times has lifted being back on home turf. It is true, you can take the girl out of the valley but you sure can't take the valley from the girl. And being back in the area I grew up in has triggered a long forgotten tale. Or more - but I'll save the second one for next week.
So I present for your entertainment:

The Tale of Bluey.

Once upon a time... Oh, hang on, this isn't a fairy tale, whoops. This is a tale of a ghost. Maybe. A nearly forgotten tale from my misspent youth.  A couple of days ago we went out to a nearby (as in an hour's drive) friend's beach house. Now this mansion overlooks one of the haunts (hee hee) of my younger days - Blueys Beach.

Now when Madmother motored out to this spot it was truly in the middle of nowhere  - old farm house amidst cow scattered paddocks rolling on down from headland to beach. Glorious, untouched and decidely spooky in the late hours with only a bonfire to keep us teenagers company.

It was in these giggling, end of school/edge of adulthood, relationships-burgeoning evenings that I first heard of Bluey's Ghost. Over the dying embers the boys liked to put the fear into us wanna-be cool girls. It may have been in the hope of us scurrying closer under salt-crusted towels, or it may have been in sheer mischief, who knows. But in hushed tones the legend was slowly, spine-chillingly revealed as we sat wide-eyed around the dying embers. 

The ghost of Bluey was said to appear as a lantern-carrying apparition walking down the headland over the rocks and along the beach in the dark of night. Light swinging from side to side, if you stared closely enough you could make out the burley shape of the stumbling old man holding it high, peering into the gloom. Or so they said.

Many theories abounded about Bluey. One said he was an old farmer who helped many a ship-wrecked sailor in the old days, wading into the treacherous surf to pull the men to safety when their ships flounded until one day the angry sea took him to its depths. Another said he was a local fisherman who went looking for his wife and her smuggler lover only to drown as he waded after their boat alternately screaming obscenities and begging her to come back. The third, far more boring theory is that it is a hoard of fireflies who group together on the still summer nights when the conditions are right. This one was offered by our resident geek of the group, to many jeers and calls to shut up. Personally I think it would take one hell of a big party of bugs to look like a lantern, but that is just my opinion.

So, the other day as we sat on top of the hill in this beautiful house I told the story of Bluey to four boys with faces full of fearful fascination. I offered them all three explanations, and left it up to each to decide which they chose. As I will you. Who do you think Bluey was? Or what? This is my Memoir Monday.

Oh, and yes, I have seen the light. Bahahahahahahahahaha...

What Price Memories?

Last weekend Big Boy and I FINALLY managed to sort through the huge pile of boxes we have had sitting in one of our spare rooms for YEARS. The local RSPCA shop went into shock at the huge deluge of kids toys, clothes and other bits and pieces which landed on their doorstep. Well, actually the comment was: "Thank goodness the truck is here, we'll have to send some of this to the warehouse."

And that wasn't the all of it. Some I gave to friends, some I have kept to sell on eBay, some has been put into the appropriate space - that is either the bin, or its proper place. But one thing sorting through these boxes has done is pull forward a whole bundle of memories.

I am a hoarder. I freely admit this side of my personality, embrace it even. And as my mother, Wise Woman, tells me, you can't keep everything! I know they are just things, and that things are the physical not the emotional, but it is like a smell or a song can trigger a forgotten memory, a much-loved toy or a well-thumbed book can do the same. It is not necessarily the thing itself that is important, it is the emotion attached to the years of connection.

I sold my Giggles doll on eBay. She came complete with original box, wobbly letters with one reversed spelling out my name in a childish scrawl over one corner. I have boys, and thought it was silly to hold onto her, but that was wrong. I regret the sale though she fetched a pretty penny. I miss her, or at least the young girl buried deep inside me misses her. She took some lovely little girl secrets with her, and yes I shed a tear.

I still have my childhood guardian, he sits on my bed ready to listen in the dark hours. His fur has been drenched with tears, he is matted and his coat is dull. But his arms still embrace even this chubby adult body, as tightly as they did the frail frame of a five year old. I have fought my sons for him, and although he does do special sick bed visits, he is the one thing I have refused to surrender to those little thieves of my heart. In that Wise Woman does not nag, for she has Edward, her childhood companion. And at nearly ninety years old he is worth far more than a 1960's dusty old bear. And neither shall ever be sold, for they are items far more precious than mere money.

What about you? Have you discarded something and then regretted it? How do you put a dollar amount on an item of love? Or are you ruthless, one of those de-clutter your life gurus? What is your price for memories?

Oh, and I have someone here I want you to meet. His name is Pandy. He holds safe the heart of a little girl on her fifth Christmas morning.

A Memoir in Memory of Memoir Mondays, with Kudos to Thea for her Inspirational Post...

Yeah, I know, the title itself is enough of a novel without the post... But here goes, *deep breath*.

I was MIA for a few weeks as well you know, sunk into the quagmire of sadness and nursing a severely wounded spirit. And so I missed a couple of the infamous Memoir Mondays. Imagine my sadness when upon my return I read this post of Trav's on his aptly named  I Like to Fish... blog.

Now, whilst I understand the reasoning I am one who truly hopes this is a mere skuttlebucket in the Travisphere and that he hurries on back to us blog buds.

But in my own little world as I am, I am holding a Memoir Monday all on my lonesome. If you wish to add to this pseudo blog hop, feel free to leave link in a comment and I'll add ya at the bottom of this post. All you need do to join is:
Grab the button from Trav:

Do your memoir and link it here, it has to be a true tale, and either add a comment on Trav's Blog to let him know, or tell me to do it. Just so he knows we care...

Now, on with my tale... and the story behind the second half of the title.

In my google reader today, up pops a post from the lovely Thea at Do I really Wanna Blog? Now, this a subject near and dear to my heart, as not only do I have two terribly fussy eaters, but I myself was one such creature in my childhood (and even a little now as a all growd-up).

All those wonderful little jibes sounded so familiar, all those "Ooh, what do they eat then?"

comments we endured, not to mention the nasty holier than thou attitude of those "Oh, my kids will eat anything I tell them to" pariahs.

I choose my battles, and as long as they eat, and eat reasonably healthily MOST of the time I sure as hell don't stress over diet.

This brings me to my Memoir Monday Memory...

As I mentioned my children in their finicky fussiness taker after moi. However I grew up in a household where by hell, you ate what was put in front of you or else you will sit there until did! No, not Wise Woman, but Grumblebum imposing his formidible will upon his picky, stubborn daughter. Did I mention how much I take after him in lots of ways?

So, there we'd sit. Glaring at each other. Until I got smart. Learnt to always wear a top or coat with deep pockets, made sure I did a toilet run mid-meal (with masses of food buried deep in my stretched cheeks), brought the family pet in under the dining room table (though that little bugger hated most of the same things I did - bar lamb's fry... very grateful for his appetite for lamb's fry), ducked into adjoining lounge room on a quick ruse..

Wise Woman often remarks that she was still finding food stuffed down the back of the lounge decades later.

Did it change my eating habits? No. It wasn't until I was much older and moved away that my tastes expanded. But I grew up, as will my boys. I don't sweat the small stuff, as long as they eat reasonably healthily most of the time, then I am happy. I tell you though, the smell of fried lamb's fry still makes me dry retch.

And next time my darling sister-in-law makes snide jibes about my kids "And what on earth do they eat?" when they refuse her jam drenched cheese dip, I'll sweetly remind her of the times she bought McDonalds on the way to our place for a meal, when I had already checked and organised their favourite foods... How short memories can be.

See Thea, you are not alone in the kitchen as the short order cook (though I personally prefer to be called Queen), in fact I doubt there would be elbow room!

Schnitzel anyone?

  

Memoir Monday - Anzac Day: Lest We Forget

Now normally I use these posts to carry on about some of the stupid crap I have gotten into during my forty six or so years of life, but here in Australia this weekend is truly special.

Yesterday was Anzac Day, April 25th. Today we have a public holiday to commemorate due to it falling on a Sunday (not sure of the logic, but hey, any excuse for a BBQ, a long weekend and a little two-up). I have not attended  an Anzac Day march for many years, though we do watch the bigger gatherings on TV. Having a child with Asperger Syndrome is not conducive to attending such crowded, loud celebrations.

But, although I have attended many marches over the years right into adulthood, it is the ones of my childhood in my small, country hometown which stick vividly in my mind and can cause the tears to well.

I would swell with pride as I watched our proud diggers march, many who were not up to the walk were pushed in wheelchairs by other frail mates. My uncle was one of those who strode the path walking tall and proud. Head held high, medals proudly adorning his chest, he strode tall and true. A survivor of Changi, the horrors of war had physically and emotionally scarred him forever, but to me he was a loving part of my family. The typical Aussie larrakin, he lovingly teased and tickled, taking pride in my little big mouth attitude. It was not until I was older and allowed to help out at some of his soldier mates get togethers that I began to realise the horrors he had survived.

And so, on Anzac Day, many years after he has departed this earth, I dedicate this Memoir Monday to him.

Lest We Forget.

Uncle Jack

My Aunt was sobbing softly

In the kitchen’s dying light

As I hid deep in the corner

I just knew that things weren’t right

We kids had marched at daybreak

Up early on that day

Young children, oh so earnest

For the ANZAC Day parade

Uncle Jack strode strong behind us

Laconic smile at his best

With all the medals shining

Pinned high upon his chest

Every time I turned to look back

His cheeky wink was sent

And he blew me sloppy kisses

As along the streets we went

But now my Aunt was crying

When I thought she should be proud

Cause my Uncle survived Changi

He was a digger tall and loud.

Mum put her arms around her

Gently asking: “Is it worse?

Have the nightmares lessened,

Or does he still lash out and curse?”

He had survived such horrors

Watched most his good friends die

On that gruesome Burma railway

As it sucked away their lives

A gentle man had signed up

And died with all his mates

The man who had returned home

Broken, scarred and full of hate

Night terrors revealed so much

Of that he would not speak

Where he’d strangle all his captors

Whilst deeply lost in sleep

By day he’d still be funny

A loving family man

But nights were filled with violence

As he battled them again

 

My Aunt wiped away the tearstains

And stood up with a sigh

“Well, be best be getting cooking

It’s nearly their teatime.”

I walked out of the kitchen

To where the men sat in the sun

My Uncle Jack hugged then asked me,

“Whachya doin, little one?”

I held on so tightly

Words trapped within my mouth

Trying to say so much

But they wouldn’t come on out

Instead I said “I love you”

When I meant “You are so brave.

Thank you for coming home again,

And for this life of mine you’ve saved.”