Guildford

We took my sister-in-law and her partner to Guildford the other day. This is Guildford Castle.

New Home

The view from my bedroom window, two pigeons deciding on a new home.

My cyber friend!!

My Jonathan Seagull
by Wisp
My dear friend....
You came into my life so unexpectedly..
Little did I know what was to lie ahead
For the longest time you were a click of a mouse, words on my screen
Hugs that warmed my days.. and secured my nights
Within the many hours of our private room,
You showed me strength, when I showed you my weaknesses.
You taught me the importance of believing in myself,
When I thought there was nothing to believe in
You taught me so much, in ways I never knew
You stood behind me when I began to fall.
Along side of me when I needed a friend
In front of me when I needed a guide
You showed me my ability to fly...
How to reach places I had only dreamed of
You saw me with your heart and not your eyes
But more importantly you gave me a piece of you
A gift worth far more than money could buy.
You gave me a floor to dance on..
A song in my heart that I finally understand the words to
And a peacefulness in my heart...
where you will live forever..
I hope everyone finds a "YOU"

Says it all !!

St Mary's – the movie!

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Anna to Government House, the movie!

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Media pack

I am the fourth person to arrive, I give everyone a cheery "good morning" but am met with silence. Oh well, nothing has changed. Gradually, Channel 9 arrives, various photographers with enormous lens I lust after come and begin to check their apertures, shooting off the odd image for practise. Some rehearse a pan move, others just joke and chat with each other. I stride the flowerbeds, I am above, and behind, exactly where I want to be.

Taxis arrive, men who should be slimmer get out, eventually; I am a little stressed, hurry up, get out of the way, will I get my shot, and then another cab arrives. This takes ages to leave, and finally Channel 10 erect their aerial to transmit the live images.

'Here she is!' the cry goes up.

A huddle, jostling, all decorum out the window.

I shoot and forget to turn on my video, even though I have the wretched phone held up. *click, *click *click.

She doesn't wind the window down, unlike Beattie, who did.

Turning quickly I shoot from behind, getting the scrum and the two receeding cars driving up the driveway. I am striding towards my car and on the way home as they are still checking their images. All good.

Anna Bligh to Government House

Heard on the radio that Anna Bligh was on her way to ask the Governor to allow her to go to the polls, so rushed out the door with my camera and phone.

My dad's work in the church

My dad was a priest in the Anglican church, after 6 years of war on the frontlines, after raising 5 children and living on an aboriginal community (Lockhart River Mission, I named my son after this place, we loved living there despite its tremendous hardships) for 9 years as superintendent; ensuring everyone has clean running water, proper housing, food, education, job training and self empowerment by starting the first aboriginal co-operative in Australia. All stuff Noel Pearson is now trying to implement. Dad did it 50 years ago.

He built a church in 6 weeks, from bush materials. Six weeks! It was a beautiful church, St James. He was still planting banana plants at the front as the Bishop’s boat sailed around the point to consecrate it.
He was aged then around 35, and was very much a can-do man.

He struggled for aboriginal land rights rights for years in Rockhampton. He set up Bolsovler Street, a haven for homeless and travelling aboriginals coming in from Woorabinda, somewhere to rest and refresh, to shower and to eat. It nearly killed him, they wore him out with constant demands. It was what is was. Later, after numerous fights with council, police, neighbours, dad started Milby Farm, another place out of town where brain damaged aboriginals and the homeless could go and grow their own vegetables, and live in peace without fear from others.

He lived in constant criticism of his work, we all did, from people who should have known better but we all believed that what he was doing was good, and right, and we wouldn’t have had it any other way. But it did take its toll on our own family. He went guarantor for peoples cars, many times losing money. “Oh dad!” we would all shout, but in our hearts we knew we were always destined to be poor, to remain poor, as dad would give all our money away. Money? What money, priests don’t earn that much, gees.

No one could fault his passion and commitment though, and I admire him now as an adult and hope some of my energy and enthusiasm comes from him.

He marched in the legal, and the illegal land rights marches during the Commonwealth Games.

He was awarded Queenslander of the Year in 1987 for his work. Later that night, in the men’s toilets, a black tie’d man came and said to him “You shouldn’t have won”. People have no respect or manners.

I understand commitment and struggle. Lived it. Breathed it. Gave our mouldy bread to the sick and homeless at the back door of the Rectory. “But dad,” I would say, “this is all we have to eat ourselves.”

“We will eat tomorrow, “ he would reply, “but they might not.”

Lived it Breathed it.

I understand commitment and passion.

St Mary's – West End.

Sitting on a small hilly rise, in the setting sun and a slow Sunday afternoon, St Mary’s waits for my friend CJ and I to arrive. Outside, agitated flags flap, and people congregate to talk and chatter and exchange news.

There are two dome tents set up either side of the entry. They look expensive. Next to them, t-shirted women lean placard signs against their shins.

FATHER PETER FOR POPE.

They discuss politics of the Church.

Inside, the building is gloomy and dark; people shuffle to find a good seat. CJ wants to sit to the back near the door for coolness, but I want front row. I have come to watch, to witness, and so I shall.

A Church lady – a kind Church lady – brings 2 folding chairs for us to sit on. We are both impressed with her welcoming manner, and sit close to the front, instead of on the ground. I just can’t sit on the floor for extended periods now.

We both have a printed out Service to follow, and so we sit and people-watch until the time has come to start. People continue to flock into the room. Seated behind us are a couple who have travelled down from Toowoomba, they too are Anglican like me.“Anglicans rock!” shouts the man to me, I grin and make the V peace sign to him. Odd thing to say, really, but we are all here to see and witness and support in our own ways.

Older men in various stages of baldness, young toddlers in various stages of behaviour, a small white fairy-bride girl dances around her seated mother, placing a rainbow bracelet on her head like a crown. The mother beams. To my left, another bub, his hair kissed in blonde down. To my right, two young girls looking fashionably un-trendy; there, a boy on the threshold of his teenage angst, skin so smooth is glows in the afternoon sun. He looks interested, alert. I wonder what he will be when he grows up?

Such a selection of humanity sits before us.

I see Fr Peter over to the rear of the Church, speaking to various members of the community. Helen Abrahams is there (I think it’s her anyway) and chats, Sam Watson is there, taking up room of three people in his pew.

I take photos and email them to myself. And then we begin.

Aunty starts the Service with a welcome to country. She appears apprehensive and shy. She welcomes us to her land under the various tribal names. She has trouble remembering them all. Smiling sheepishly, she explains she is nervous. Although it’s a nice touch to be welcomed, I wonder if it’s all necessary, really.

Someone speaks into a mike, and the crowd start clapping madly, I can’t see who is speaking, but the mood is energetic and charged. Fr Peter also welcomes us, but I can’t see him either; everyone is standing; it’s a sea of heads, I can’t see the man I really came to see. We are all asked say hello to the person next to us, expectations are high.

Soon we are into the swing of things, the usual responses, hymns and so on, we stand and sing Alleluia, it’s lovely, I throw my head back and “sing loud” enjoying being in the flow.

We are asked to hold hands. I grab the woman next to me, and we strangers pray together for this and that. Five hundred people breathe in and out as one.

Breathe in.
Out.
As one.

Interestingly, we say the Lords Prayer, the old version, the one I know and love. A radical Church saying the Old version, love it.

Then it’s Communion time, and I crane my head to watch the proceedings. Shocked at what I am seeing, not Fr Peter Kennedy, but some other young bloke wearing a stole and holding the alter bread up high.

“We are the body of Christ, for we all partake in the one bread.”

I nudge CJ. Look. Look! Is he a priest? He must be, he MUST be, surely. I continue to watch. Several stations are held to distribute the bread and wine. I move up to receive my communion, but the wine is over there, and there’s no way I can realistically get to it. A disabled man in a huge wheelchair holds the bread wafers for the communion. I am not in his queue, so my bread is given by a tall man. I am half blessed today, I didn’t receive the wine. Another day perhaps.

Then it’s homework time, Fr Peter says “I am a media star, I am a media tart!” and I nod and hiss to CJ, “boom boom”. He is loving it, the crowd clapping everything he says, everything he sings, they clap in between fanning themselves, to the rhythm of their heartbeats. He has even taken singing lessons for a solo he croons us with. It’s extraordinary stuff, this singing priest and his offshoot, the pony tailed bloke with the communion. They are an act, laughing and playing off each other like comrades.

He jokes “I did singing lessons because I might have to give up my day job” and the crowd love it.

They even have a cd of songs to sell! A few more plugs, a young girl pleading for sponsors to shave off her hair for cancer, a cursory nod to the bushfire victims, but not really, even though it’s a nation day of mourning. This evening, as lights flicker on finally, it’s all about St Mary’s and the poor-bugger-me attitude. We are all victims.

We sing a final song or two; my foot tapping in time, my hips start to sway in a figure eight, despite myself. ‘We shall not, we shall not be moved” and at the last paragraph I place my words on the seat and sing loud, clapping in time.

I have joined them.

I wonder how it will all end.

Rockhampton Trip Feb 09

9.15am Valentine’s Day Eve. Jetstar.
“Lovely flowers,” she says.
Yes, it’s my husband’s and my wedding anniversary, I lie. She doesn’t need to know it was only our first date. An anniversary is an anniversary.
“How long have you been married?” She’s almost interested.
Twenty three years.
***
The plane takes off urgently.
I think I can, I think I can. I must! I must! I must!
The engines whine until suddenly we are up, over the industrial sheds, over the yellow trucks, over the emergency fire station, looking very ‘Tonka-ed’ and neat. In an emergency, neatness counts.
Over the bay, the salty land reclamation, the muddied Moreton Bay waters.
It stops raining.
***
“Have a good weekend with your mum,” she smiles.
Our hands reach out, but don’t touch.
It’s the thought that binds.
Thanks darl, it’ll be great, I chat back, grinning.
From nowhere, tears.
Shocked, thinking, trying to justify.
I am better loved, in Rockhampton.
It’s silly being with my 89yo mother instead of hubby for our anniversary and Valentine’s Day. But I am better loved.
***
I check the pockets in front of me as we taxi to the stop. I know there’s nothing to find, but I check it anyway – it’s what you do at my age. I pat them down.
***

Leaving Rockhampton
The plane stops at the runway’s end. Takes a deep breath.
Jiggling, we run and run until our skirts are lifted, the wheels kookaburra, laughing their way to safety, retreated. Within.
This morning at home, a crow laughed the sun up.
Ha. Haa. HA. HAR. HARR.
I can see the Fitzroy River, running to the sea, to the ocean and clean waves, to wash the silt and very brown ordinariness of itself. To refresh.
It winds its way, this way and that, undecided, loose and free. Where it flows past the city of Rockhampton, it is a straight-up, well behaved river…by the time it gets to Lakes Creek, past the meatworks and fatalistic cows, it’s gone mad.
Like a cut snake.
Like a river gone mad.
Affected by the town. The town’s people. Tired of behaving, the river kicks and bucks giddingly to the sea. A wild child.
It almost sings in its freedom. Free at last!
Free at last!
It regurgitates it’s contents to the ocean. The waves roll it back, unwanted. The river flows on.
There is no sound.
***
Clouds
Puffing fat-bellied across the sky. Chuff! Chuff! Chuff! They gather in groups to gossip on what they have seen from their viewpoint. Gently they bump, and part, old friends and newly acquainted.
Longer clouds wait like dropped stitches, ready to sew the sky together with weather.
Below, the paddocks and grass and land and solid earth preens itself in glorious colour.
Deep emeralds, brilliant greens and jewelled sapphire blue of mountains and shade. The clouds remain white. Silvered. Silenced.
***
We make a deliberate slow return to earth. A slow motion controlled nose dive. A rehearsed and much practised crash. It’s a beautiful day in Brisbane. I can see the bay below, way below, with its whales and sand dunes and dugongs feeding on grass under the water. The houses are arranged in demographics. The fighters. The single mothers. The dead. The married. With kids.
In between, lumps of green gasp, choked among the housing.
Magician’s clouds roll past - “and now ladeez and gentlemens!” - and are gone in a puff of smoke. Or cloud.
***
If I stare long enough I can recognise suburbs and districts. Below me my husband answers his telephone with a crisp and workman-like “Chris”.
Plump mangroves sit idly in the river, waiting for a tide.
There are six ships offshore. I count them twice, in case one moved. I would hate to miscount.
It is what it is.
Six.
The flat greenness of the airport yawns towards me; soon we will land, but not before we tickle the city with our fitted wings and annoy the neighbours. Letters to politicians might be written.
Then we will land, engines screaming, passengers silent. The odd white knuckle like a honeymooned bride; a quivering virgin tourist/traveller.
The wind makes skid marks on Moreton Bay seas. It won’t last. The wind will swing to the west bringing heat and mosquitos tonight.
We land.
***
The plane thunders across the tarmac. We roar! ROAR! I am mankind; see me defy the gods, the angels.
I too, can fly.
Chick Chick Clunk. We unbuckle our belts.
***
I can see the Qantas plane land in a puff of self-importance. This area is a masterpiece of science and technology. The engines whine shut like a dying animal – a low growl and the whiff of kero greets us.
I am home.

Johnno on way to Ceduna

Johnno is now winging his way to Ceduna, a 5 hour flight. This is his Perth souvenir.

Street Cleaner

I was in the city when I noticed these blokes all standing around a new street cleaner. (Hubby was going to buy one of these 100 yets ago) and I watched the driver put on his seatblet.

Really?

It's going that fast you need a seat belt?

Better issue him with a mouthguard too in case he bumps into something and chips his tooth. What about a hat? A ear muffs for noise?

Bushfire Tribute

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Over Spencer Gulf

Our Johnno continues his flying adventure with his brother, what a wonderful expereince for them both.

Nat's 30th Memories

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Taking off from Melbourne

Do Not Cry, by Jennifer Margaret Mcphillips

I found this poem when looking for a verse for my brothers eulogy, I think it is so simple, yet so beautiful.

Do not cry

Do not cry for me, my dear……

My last wish is for you to
Carry me with the breezes
When they swirl delicately
Beneath the storms you’ll
Gather amidst your spirit.

As rain pelts harshly against your heart,
Let the soothing trickle calm your soul,
When you feel like your drowning,
Lay down quietly and savour
The tranquillity of memories,
Allow them to cleanse your pain.

I’ll speak to you through nature’s gifts
And I’ll never be far from your door.
When colourless clouds surround your mind,
I’ll paint them brightly with tones of love.
I’ll ask the birds who sing so sweetly
If I can borrow their voice
To remind you that I haven’t gone far

Every leaf or feather you see floating
Is me, asking you not to cry,
Each pebble you see washed upon the shore
Is your reminder that I didn’t die.
The rippling waters are my giggles
And the wave tops are me saying hello,
Never forget how much I love you………

I’ll be here till you ask me to go.

This poem by Jennifer Margaret Mcphillips

To Perth and back in 7 days

This sunday my brother and I are off on a trip in our Beech craft Barron to visit our shops in the other southern states 7 days of flying...woot!

North Queensland Flood version

Victoria wildfires

http://www.news.com.au/perthnow/

The Victorian Bushfires

The fires have been very bad, some are still out of control. There are 107 dead so far and there will be more before the week is done.I am glad we are not in Kalorama now even though there was only one fire there its always a nervous time. The fires have been close but we where not that worried here just watchful.I find it hard to believe that those towns are gone.I was up there for lunch two weeks ago and now its just smoke and ash its so sad.All those families without a home to go.There are also lots of dead animals.Its great the way people are willing to give during these tough times.
To all those people giving there time and risking their lives to make us safe I thank you all so very very much.

AMAZING TIMES WE LIVE IN

So it’s early evening and I am waiting to collect my tribe of friend, neighbour and eldest son from the Peter Singer Lecture at State Library, when I notice this young girl sitting cross legged, in a deserted courtyard area, on her laptop.

Looking a little more closely, I note that she has her mobile phone, and what looks like a mini modem? Perhaps it was an ipod thingy, not sure. She also has on bright green headset with a microphone, and she’s laughing and nodding and looking into her laptop, at her friend’s image.

“She’s on a live video chat” I think to myself, and I slowly turn and take her photo with my mobile. The image is quickly emailed to my home computer, and I know it will be waiting for my in my Inbox when I return soon.

Gone are the days when people wrote on postcards, and kissed them before popping them in the letterbox, destination unknown. Now collectors find new homes for old cards found in antique shops. I have a collection myself, sewn and embroidered war cards, fading inked writing pleading:
“Where are you and why don’t you write back to me?”
“Leave tomorrow for the Front, I wish it would stop snowing, I am so cold.”
“Please give my love to mum and dad and tell them I miss them.”

Gone are the days when you would buy a small block of airline paper; usually blue, and thin and fragile, to be filled with delicate handwriting before licking and sealing the glued edge. I wrote to my older sister in London for years using these. We were always impressed she would receive them within three weeks.
Three weeks!

My friend’s father collects stamps; he has done for years and his collection fills an entire spare bedroom of his home. Neither sons nor his daughter are interested in the collection, but it’s this man’s life and love.

What will happened to it I wonder? It’s in the past, the future is digital and no stamps are needed.

Having just closed my own website of 10 years, I now find myself Twittering at random times during the day. If not Twittering, then there’s Facebook, and a host of other applications I haven’t bothered or had the time to learn.

We can only do so much, and learn new applications or sink in the mess of humanity.

Interesting times indeed.

Bridge Climb

I came, I saw, I climbed!


The Story Bridge Climb is now open.
When I was a Roving Reporter for Radio 612 ABC, one story involved climbing the Story Bridge, to see how it was painted. After a few phone calls to City Hall, permission was finally granted on the basis that a) I was not to ask people to "look up and wave to me" for fear of a car accident in early morning traffic rush-hour, and b) I was all care, no responsibility - in other words, look out for myself!
As usual, I was in the Studio around 5.30am, to say good morning to Peter Dick, and to grab my phone and spare batteries. The last thing you need is a flat battery, after this effort, and believe me, it was going to be an effort. My phone pack, weighed around 5 kgs. In one of the phone calls to the Supervisor in charge, he suggests I use a mini crane to "get up to the first row - don't worry, the previous Mayor also used it when she climbed too" which immediately puts me right off the suggestion.
I shall climb it myself, I announce proudly. Foolishly.
I park at the end of the Bridge, a tricky tight corner where my 4wd barely manages to sit, and I meet the two blokes who are to escort me up the Bridge. It's now 6am, perhaps we can make the first 'cross' at 6.20am, after the news and a song?
We walk along the pavement, to where we are to climb. "Up you go Patty" the men suggest, and I look blankly at them.
Where? Where is the staircase I had imagined? Where was the enclosed ladder I thought we would be using? As it was, I had to begin to climb hand over hand up this giant Meccano set, with the bridge supports at 45 degree angles. Making very sure my feet don't slip, I mutter to myself "I am a mother of two small children" and will myself not to die today. I shove the phone pack to my left hip, and begin to climb.
"And you will die!" the men say cheerily, "If you fall, you will hit your head on the supports, and if that doesn't kill you, a car will run over you, and if that doesn't kill you, you will drown in the river!"
Hmmm....I climb very purposely, carefully, up, up, we must be nearly there surely? My hands are aching and sore from gripping the cold steel, and I am shaking - whether it's from fear or the cold, I'm not sure, but I am shaking!
When I also mention this to the blokes, they laugh and say "Oh yes, and the whole Bridge shakes too, in fact, if it stops shaking, run like hell!"
We do the first cross halfway up, I sound breathless and scared but excited, and I am. My arms are wrapped around the steel girders, and I have to also interview one of the men and hold the microphone under his mouth. So one hand around the Bridge, one hand with the microphone shaking with fear as we go to air. Cars immediately start beeping and honking, it's amazing how many people are listening. (In those days, Breakfast used to rate 22% which has never been beaten, or equalled. Now they rate around 9 -11%)
The noise from the cars, trucks and buses fills my head. When we reach halfway, the men tell me to go through a trapdoor hole. It's very tricky, as I have to manoeuvre myself to climb forward, then reach backwards and then stand up. My legs are jelly, and I am out of breath, but the worst is now over. The rest is an easy doddle up using a proper staircase, to the highest point.
The view is spectacular, in fact I can see my suburb and imagine my sleeping kids and hubby, still fast asleep. It's now about 6.45am and we have time to kill before our next 'live cross' in half an hour, so we chat, and take photos, and watch the traffic, the faces of the drivers just recognizable as they wind their way into the city.

Going to air for the second 'cross' a listener rings in to tell me she can see my through her binoculars in her home at Newfarm. Really? I wonder for an instant about my lipstick, but soon smile and wave to her, somewhere in the distance. Coming down was a whole new ballgame, as we did everything in reverse, including the tricky trapdoor opening.
The traffic was flowing north to south, the river was flowing east to west, and passenger ferries travelled in both directions. My head was spinning. Whoa!
I take my time and don't rush anything, this is when mistakes happen. Left foot, placed. Right foot, placed. Hands, hands, left foot, placed. Right foot, placed, and so on, all the way down.
Made it! The relief is palatable. I drive home on a natural high, for breakfast and a cuppa, before making my way back to the Studio to recharge the phone and see how the Show went. By the time I get home, hubby and kids have left for school, so I sit there and think about the day, think about the Bridge, and make myself another cuppa.

MY GIRLFRIENDS' PANTRY

My pantry is full of girlfriends’ food.

Each son has brought home women who love food: to eat, or look at, or both, and they have stocked up our pantry with my money for their dietary preferences.

I have three bottles of vanilla essence from Hannah, who loved her cakes. Mention cupcakes and she would squeal. Seriously! Hannah also bought three large packets of sugar. I haven’t bought sugar for 12 years, and at this rate, I won’t be buying sugar until I am an octagarian! I don’t eat it, I don’t cook with it, I don’t put it in my tea, but I could bath in this. And that’s just white sugar.

I also now have brown sugar, castor sugar, three packets (you guessed it!) of icing sugar, and sugar cubes, for goodness sake. There are three bottles of balsamic vinegar on the high shelf, and two bottles of sweet chilli sauce. *faints.

In my ‘plastic cupboard’ (more like a morgue for Tupperware and takeaway containers of chicken and almonds) I can count 8 vanilla ice-cream buckets. There are only 8 because I threw away the other 14, in various colours. Blue (Pauls) white (Streets) and green (extra creamy). The brown ones were Sara Lee and cardboard, so out they went.

Hannah grew from a size 10 skinny girl to a size 18 making her own clothes. I have lost count of the number of safety pins I gave her as her waistband/zip/buttons all pooped with her increasing girth.

I tried not to show judgement, but my teeth were gritted. She should have tried the same trick.

Beth – my youngest son’s friend is on a heath kick. So far she has stayed the same weight, but it’s early days.

She’s very much like my son; intelligent and nice, but serious, studies too much and thinks a great day is laying in a darkened bedroom for eight hours watching tv shows downloaded onto his computer. *So that’s where my bandwidth went.

Beth’s donation to the world’s growing food shortage is to stockpile it in my fridge. High up, on the shelf I used to keep my eggs and pate, there are blocks of Haloumi cheese, feta and tofu.

I have two containers of rice milk. Rice milk! There are two packets of oats and three packets of natural muesli.

Can’t these women buy in singular units?

Regularly she buys mangoes/peaches/avocadoes and soy bread. My possums have never eaten so well! I must tap her on the shoulder and remind her to eat the food she brings. No wonder she’s skinny.

My fridge too, is groaning with fresh mushrooms, (hey, I am not complaining, I love fresh mushrooms) and sad little herbs in plastic. It’s always fascinating to watch them turn into slime, I never tire of it. I have a complete science lab and evolution in my crisper drawer. Did I mention the fish sauce?

My pantry - and fridge - are full of girlfriends’ food.

Pity they don’t cook for me. Dinner anyone?

*Names have been changed to protect the innocent but the ingredients stay the same.

GARDEN SEAT

I have a seat in my garden that’s so old, it is rotten. I bought it to sit with my friends and family in the garden, 14 years ago.

My husband wouldn’t sit with me; he was too busy.

My two sons didn’t sit with me; they were too embarrassed to be seen with their mother.

My friends couldn’t sit with me; they had their own families to raise.
I sat there each week, regardless; watering my plants and watching them die in the endless drought.

Hosing off the white ants.
Washing off fallen leaves.
Watering my plants in the heat of summer.

Sitting there in spring smelling my rose I managed to grow in a pot, one year.When that died, I planted pink petunias.

Occasionally, usually my birthday, or such, my friends would come and we would gather and laugh and play and take photos.

I have a seat in the garden, that’s so old, it’s rotten.

Now that our children have grown, and our husbands are still busy with work, I now find time to sit with my friends and we prop ourselves on our elbows.

Just don't rock the bench too much. It's rotten.

Crossword Hands

These are my mothers hands that held me and didn’t wipe away my childhood tears. My father did that job, and then I would blow my nose on his large white hanky.

My mothers hands instead; checked the stock market, and picked out winning horses for the next race.

It kept her busy.

My mothers hands grew vegetables, and snipped cuttings to grow in the garden.

My mothers hands were still and quiet at dad’s funeral, holding a simple handkerchief, which stayed dry for the whole service, but my mother’s hands became more agitated as time went by.

“The days are so long to fill” she would tell me down the phone, almost daily.

Her hands would tap on the arm chair as she watched the time tick-tock by, noting each click on the clock, measuring each minute melt into an hour, each hour merge into a day, each day murmur into a moment, each moment emerge as another memory.

My mother’s hands do crosswords now, the silver pen poised above 20 down and 5 across. They flutter above the black squares, hovering like a hawk, waiting for a word to come to mind.

Holding her place within the puzzle with her left little pinky; her opal wedding ring - now loose and spinning around her finger -peeks over an arthritic knuckle.

My mothers hands. I kiss them.

Now THIS is snow

Posted by Trevor, pics are of snow in Quebec, Canada.