Swine Flu - Google maps the spreading pandemic

Swine Flu
The World Health Organisation on Wednesday raised its flu alert to phase five out of six, WHO chief Margaret Chan said, signalling that a pandemic was "imminent" following the swine flu outbreak.

"I have decided to raise the influenza pandemic alert from phase four to phase five," the WHO director general announced after an emergency meeting of the UN health agency's pandemic experts.

"This is a signal to governments, ministries of health... to the pharmaceutical industry, that certain actions now should be undertaken with increased urgency," she told journalists.

"Preparedness measures undertaken because of the H5N1 influenza was an investment and we are now benefiting from this investment," she said.

She underlined that the threat following the swine flu outbreak focused on Mexico and the United States "must be taken seriously".

Phase five, one step short of a full pandemic, is characterised as a "strong signal that a pandemic is imminent and that the time to finalise... the planned mitigation measures is short," according to the WHO's global emergency planning.

It also acknowledge sustained human-to-human spreading in at least two countries in a WHO region, in this case Mexico and the United States, Chan told journalists.

The move came after a meeting of scientific experts on the emergency flu pandemic panel recommended raising the alert level from four.

The US government is prepared to cope with a "full-fledged pandemic" of swine flu if necessary, but the public should not be alarmed, Homeland Security Secretary Janet Napolitano said on Wednesday.

"We have been preparing all along as if this is going to be stage six," she told reporters.

"Our efforts have been to stay ahead of whatever number WHO assigns. And therefore, our preparations are for a situation in which this does become a full-fledged pandemic," Napolitano said.

"We are preparing for the worst, hoping for the best," she said, after a Mexican toddler became the first person to die in the United States of H1N1 swine flu and the number of infections rose to at least 91.

But Napolitano, again rejecting calls from US lawmakers to close the nation's borders, said "panicking" was unhelpful and underlined that a regular flu season claims about 36,000 American lives every year.

Anzac Day '09 Continued #2

Peeved - Russell Morris

Long story short = peeved.

Anzac Day '09 Continued

Zizi cooks up a feast, blue skies watch over us for inaugural Anzac Day Service at Clunes, a wonderful day.

Anzac Day 09

We awake slowly from sleep in the spare room. Unsure of the time (it’s so dark) I visualise the clock, guesstimate – 4am. I hold my own private dawn Service in my head, still foggy from a dreamless night’s sleep.

Finally we both answer the call of nature and to our surprise, it’s 7am. So much for an early start, but I am thankful of the sleep-in. It’s Anzac Day, and we are in Clunes, a small township south-west of Byron Bay; the welcome sign boasts “Welcome to Clunes – proudly retaining Village Life”

A few cups of tea later, and we walk to the local park around the corner. They are holding their very first Anzac Day ceremony and we will be there to join in the spirit of what is to come. Zizi stays behind to cook our breakfast. We each have a job to do. Mine is to witness everything, so I begin to people-watch and take notes in my head.

A small crowd are gathered. The old women outnumber the old men. In the middle of a roughly mown paddock, stands a short stone monument beside a white flagpole. We stand in the shade of a huge Poinciana tree, gazing upwards I can see the spread of its branches, like a huge leafy umbrella.

Various men stand next to the monument, fiddling with a stereo system. There is no band, or drummer, but to my left there are five or so soldiers; beautifully dressed on their slouch hats and golden ‘rising sun’s badges.

People chat amongst themselves. Two school children - in white and red uniforms – rehearse their speech and mum fusses over her son. “He’ll need a chair, get him a chair” until even I turn to her and say with a smile “oh, he’s got young legs, he’ll be right!” but this isn’t enough, and she’s off, a helicopter mother in full flight, carrying her son in Year 7, a bloody chair so the poor boy can sit down. It must be a weight for him to hold his piece of paper, and wreath.

The sky is magnificently blue and clear; gazing over the far-away hills to the east I can see forever. Fat trees and knee-deep grass, lush after the recent rains.

Then we begin. To my disappointment, there is no hymn ‘Abide with Me’ but there is a small prayer, and I try not to note two spelling mistakes and one whole paragraph gone walk-about off the page.

The flag begins at half-mast; is raised and then lowered again for the Last Post. The bugler reads his music – holding a sheet of music out in front of him with his left hand - and manages to hit B-flat several times. We wince, and try to look respectful.

A minute’s silence is punctated by magpies warbling softly in the tree beside me, the bright red-roof of the cottage to my right grins cheerily as if to say “She’ll be right mate”. A semi truck roars past this huddle of strangers, the back reading “It’s cool” and I know that life does indeed, go onwards.

Later; at the pub, I watch the televised Dawn Service at Gallipolli; and then France; and note that their Bugler is so intent on playing his mournful piece so beautifully, his eyes close for the entire performance. When the last notes have played, he slowly opens his eyes, and then closes them again. He swallows hard, twice. He is in his own world remembering some time past. He blinks once, twice, and then retreats. It’s a beautiful moment, but for now, I am back in the paddock, with the sun beating down and the school children about to lay their only wreath. An old woman stands stiffly in front of me, her walking stick poised to support herself. Uh-oh I think, but when duty calls, she rises to the occasion with a stiff back and a quick gait. I am surprised!

We then sing the National Anthem, and then the thankyous begin. These seem to take almost the same amount of time as the entire Service.

The MC says in his strine voice “ Sterlo, thanks for the music – not!” and also includes the lawn-mowing men in his praise. “Gees good thing this paddock was mown, two days ago it was knee-high and looked like the bloody Vietnam jungle, if it hadn’t had been mown, I would’ve freaked out!” We all laugh, but I can’t help but wonder what he has been through.

Later, I chat to the remaining four soldiers and have my photo taken with them. A lone man stands beside the monument, reading the wreaths. I take his photo from a distance. Just him, the sky, the land, the green, the blue, the flag, the thoughts and memories, fresh and half remembered.

Lest we Forget.

Meeting Dennis

‘It. Robs. Me. Of. My. Dignity,’ he gasps, chest rising and caving with each word.

His thick fingers gently stab at his heart.

Holding his left hand, careful not to interrupt his oxygen flow, I hang my head and the tears fall.

He continues, and it’s such an effort for him. Eyes open and shut with the words: ‘I think of your dad, John, and how he battled.’

His fingers squeeze mine. I roughly wipe the wetness away from my face, and blow my nose.

‘My, how he battled. I think to myself: if John can do it, I can do it too.’ He believes this.

****

The hospital smells of hospitals; of death, and dying, and despair. Looking around, I count 23 pieces of A4 notices, and only 2 dreary artworks.

VISITORS PLEASE NOTE: IN THE RESPIRATORY WARD NO FLOWERS ARE ALLOWED.

It is silent except for a muffled chat show across the hallway. An old lady watches her television, her feet in lambskin slippers. I remember how dad’s feet were also wrapped like that, the heel splits; it’s the first sign.

****

The young cleaner bristles past, blue mop squeezed with such enthusiasm you have to see it to understand. A passionate mop-squeezer. We exchange smiles.
When I sit beside Dennis, the nurse warns me to ‘watch the wet patch’ in case I slip.

****

I let Dennis speak, it’s important to him.

He continues - ‘The days are in limbo, I look at the clock and it says 2pm, but it feels like the middle of the night. When I sleep I hallucinate. I dream I am sleeping in a garage’; and his eyes dart quickly around the room as if to confirm he is indeed in ward 2M at the Wesley, Brisbane.

‘I drift off, and have to struggle to recall which sentence I am saying.’

I glance quietly at his arms: thin, bony, once carrying his heavy pack and gun; in war.

‘I’m 89 and-a-half.’ He smiles briefly as his life memories fly past.

****

There’s not much to the room. Another old man, behind me, lays a silent witness to our conversation. It doesn’t even occur to me to say hello to him; something I regret now, but my thoughts and attention were for Dennis, my late father’s old Regimental buddy.

‘It’s my kidneys, they’ve given up, had it,’ and he flicks his wrist in contempt.

‘But there’s nothing-wrong- up -here.’ He taps his head. ‘ I’m 110%,’ and indeed, his mind is very sharp.

He asks me ‘How’s Chris?’ and I am delighted he remembered my husband’s name. Pretty good really. Mentally, I applaud him.

****

‘I have never lost the Faith,’ he tells me, and we discuss the realities of simply getting to church, the physical challenge of pushing his new wheelie-walker in the rain, and up the ramp. 'I used my new walker and they greeted me like I was the Governor,' he chuckles to himself.

‘Then,’ he whispers, ‘they started the happy-clappies, and I just won’t go.’ He breathes hard at the memory - it stings him - he needs to go to his church; and he needs to hold onto his Faith. It’s important to him, at the end. Old people don't cope well with change.

****

‘I’ve told my daughter, Susan, to just have a small private service for me - that’s what I want, but she might do something different.’

I joke with ‘You won’t know what’s going on, you will be up there with dad, having a beer,’ and we smile at the image of seeing John again.

‘He was always my Padre,’ he says. His eyes are closed. I wonder if he will nod off, and whether I should go.

I stand and stretch, leaning over the bed has pinched my back, and I walk to the Nurse’s Station to see if I can source some Blutack. The Nurse is unhelpful, so I then ask if she might have some sticky-tape instead.

‘What are you doing here tomorrow for Anzac Day’ I enquire. Her eyes narrow.

‘Nothing. Why?’

'Will the street march be on telly,' I persist? Yes. They can watch it on their telly.

Grinning, I walk back into this room, this room of old men and over one-and-a-half-centuries of memories. I tape up the little Chinese-made Australian flag to the end of his bed. He also has a paper red poppy, and I wind the wire of this around the top of his little flag. Dennis beams at me, now he is truly happy.

I hold his hands - both of them - and he grips them more strongly now.

We continue to chat about our children, and his grandchildren, now well into their 30s and 40s.

‘Oh, the times we had playing cricket at Marchant Park,’ he enthuses.

Outside, Brisbane turns on a spectacular autumn day, sky mad with the blue, no clouds. He tells me that when he gets out - and he will get out next week - that he intends to sit in the sun and enjoy its warmth.

****

I have brought a small packet of Anzac biscuits, store bought, not home-made, but it’s the thought, right? Some barley sugar jubes, and a small bottle of shiraz, so he can toast his buddies tomorrow.

Tomorrow is Anzac Day – Lest we forget – but whilst we continue to talk and chat to the living, we won’t forget.

Cannot forget.

I kiss his cheek, say a little prayer in my head for him, and let him sleep.

ANZAC Day 2004

Found this - was originally posted in my Old Blog, now gone, (thanks Google)

A red wine and a day full of memories, bear with me as I reminisce about yesterdays ANZAC Day Dawn Service and parade....

My eldest sister has never been to a Dawn Service, being a Nursing Sister, she is usually working, or sleeping, so I suggest that she stay at my home and we go in together as a family to reflect and understand our heritage...

The alarm sounds at 3.15am, my feet automatically swing to hit the floor, after years of being a radio reporter (and a rowers mum) and getting up at absurd hours, I know enough about myself not to simply lie there... I will fall back asleep.. so like a robot, I am up and on my feet before my eyes have opened...

We have pinned on Mum and Dad's war medal miniatures the night before, always on the right side if representing someone else, and we add rosemary sprigs...

Cups of hot tea, toast and Vegemite, and we are on our way, driving into the remnants of a black, still, autumn night... the two boys of mine and Sissy, making our way along the streets watching the late-night clubbers spill out onto the footpaths at 3.50am...

Park the car, a quick walk till we merge into the pedestrian mainstream of other families (like spawning salmon) with a common destination in mind... right next to the Memorial where the wreaths will be laid...

The clock behind us seems to slow like treacle. 3.33am. 4am. 4.10am. I imagine our young Aussie soldiers, like the scene from the Tom Cruise movie, kissing their photographs in their pockets, saying a prayer, finding God, willing themselves on because they are Aussies, and it's what you do. In war.

I turn around again, until I decide not to do it anymore...but I still do, I need to know how much longer. I am waiting for 4.28, the exact time our young men began their battle and became national heroes.

The last time we stood here, two years ago, sirens of an ambulance screamed past; and I was momentarily annoyed, but within its sound I found a safe secure feeling of being looked after.

This morning, there is only silence, 10,000 people breathing in and out and thinking and wondering and remembering and being quiet and reflective, young boys and girls, university students, families, oldies, all anticipating the arrival of 4.28am.

The Catafalque party stand stiff and proud, their uniforms ironed with utter precision, their faces so young, some with medals already pinned to their chest, perhaps Iraq, perhaps Timor, who knows?

In the distance there is a strumming, no…. It’s more like a drumming… That’s it… drums, lots of them… And sure enough the sound grows and expands as they approach the crowd. Soon a Pipe Band marches into view, no bagpipes, only the drums, urgent and demanding, rat-a--tat! rat-a-tat! The sound engulfs us till suddenly - nothing. The air hangs with expectation.

A young girls voice begins....

They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted:
They fell with their faces to the foe.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years contemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

Lest we forget.

The service begins, with the moving hymn, 'Abide with Me' God save our Queen, and so on... words from the Governor, my arm around my sisters waist, my two boys spontaneously breaking out to sing Advance Australia Fair, my pride in them, the Last Post, wreath laying, complete strangers brought together to remember our history... and so we turn and look at each other and go home...

It's now 5.15am, and nearly time to take Bear to his own parade, at another suburb, he changes into his Scout uniform, pinning on his Grandfathers medals, and then Sissy and I and Bear are driving into a blazing red sky sunrise... 'red sky in the morning, shepherds warning, red sky at night, sailors delight'.

Naturally I stop and photograph the sky, this gorgeous dawn over Brisbane, a celebration of colour and clouds and nature and God and things you and I could never know about....

Bears parade goes well, Wonga out the front of the Scouts, Joeys and little Cubbie Scouts, all looking very spiffy in their uniforms, Bear looking older and older as I stare at him in disbelief. When did he grow up so fast? He looks very handsome and mature, and manages to roll his eyes at me as I photograph him...

We have been there before, for the Scouts, but this is our last time, as Bear is about to graduate from Scouts and leave...

Singing Abide with Me again, I listen to my sisters clear pure voice, softly, quietly; holding the notes, saying the beautiful words, her voice mesmerises me, and I cannot sing, it is beyond me today, I am choked with emotion... my mouth opens and closes without a sound... I am mute.

Hold thou thy cross before my closing eyes;
Shine through the gloom and point me to the skies.
Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain shadows flee;
In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me.

Again the Last Post.

More tears, until my body is shaking with sorrow; no sound, I am wracked with grief, overcome and distraught....

I cry more at this service, than at Dad's funeral.

I sob, breathe, sob some more, until I run out of tissues... time to hug and hold each other in our grief, our first ANZAC Day without Dad, the first of a number of firsts...

We managed, it wasn't the same, it can never be the same without you Dad, but we managed...

Home to a huge breakfast of bacon and eggs and toast and tea and hugs and a candle lit for you Dad and for everyone else.

ANZAC day 2004. Lest we forget.

ANZAC Day 2004

Found this - was originally posted in my Old Blog, now gone, (thanks Google)

A red wine and a day full of memories, bear with me as I reminisce about yesterdays ANZAC Day Dawn Service and parade....

My eldest sister has never been to a Dawn Service, being a Nursing Sister, she is usually working, or sleeping, so I suggest that she stay at my home and we go in together as a family to reflect and understand our heritage...

The alarm sounds at 3.15am, my feet automatically swing to hit the floor, after years of being a radio reporter (and a rowers mum) and getting up at absurd hours, I know enough about myself not to simply lie there... I will fall back asleep.. so like a robot, I am up and on my feet before my eyes have opened...

We have pinned on Mum and Dad's war medal miniatures the night before, always on the right side if representing someone else, and we add rosemary sprigs...

Cups of hot tea, toast and Vegemite, and we are on our way, driving into the remnants of a black, still, autumn night... the two boys of mine and Sissy, making our way along the streets watching the late-night clubbers spill out onto the footpaths at 3.50am...

Park the car, a quick walk till we merge into the pedestrian mainstream of other families (like spawning salmon) with a common destination in mind... right next to the Memorial where the wreaths will be laid...

The clock behind us seems to slow like treacle. 3.33am. 4am. 4.10am. I imagine our young Aussie soldiers, like the scene from the Tom Cruise movie, kissing their photographs in their pockets, saying a prayer, finding God, willing themselves on because they are Aussies, and it's what you do. In war.

I turn around again, until I decide not to do it anymore...but I still do, I need to know how much longer. I am waiting for 4.28, the exact time our young men began their battle and became national heroes.

The last time we stood here, two years ago, sirens of an ambulance screamed past; and I was momentarily annoyed, but within its sound I found a safe secure feeling of being looked after.

This morning, there is only silence, 10,000 people breathing in and out and thinking and wondering and remembering and being quiet and reflective, young boys and girls, university students, families, oldies, all anticipating the arrival of 4.28am.

The Catafalque party stand stiff and proud, their uniforms ironed with utter precision, their faces so young, some with medals already pinned to their chest, perhaps Iraq, perhaps Timor, who knows?

In the distance there is a strumming, no…. It’s more like a drumming… That’s it… drums, lots of them… And sure enough the sound grows and expands as they approach the crowd. Soon a Pipe Band marches into view, no bagpipes, only the drums, urgent and demanding, rat-a--tat! rat-a-tat! The sound engulfs us till suddenly - nothing. The air hangs with expectation.

A young girls voice begins....

They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted:
They fell with their faces to the foe.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years contemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them

Lest we forget.

The service begins, with the moving hymn, 'Abide with Me' God save our Queen, and so on... words from the Governor, my arm around my sisters waist, my two boys spontaneously breaking out to sing Advance Australia Fair, my pride in them, the Last Post, wreath laying, complete strangers brought together to remember our history... and so we turn and look at each other and go home...

It's now 5.15am, and nearly time to take Bear to his own parade, at another suburb, he changes into his Scout uniform, pinning on his Grandfathers medals, and then Sissy and I and Bear are driving into a blazing red sky sunrise... 'red sky in the morning, shepherds warning, red sky at night, sailors delight'.

Naturally I stop and photograph the sky, this gorgeous dawn over Brisbane, a celebration of colour and clouds and nature and God and things you and I could never know about....

Bears parade goes well, Wonga out the front of the Scouts, Joeys and little Cubbie Scouts, all looking very spiffy in their uniforms, Bear looking older and older as I stare at him in disbelief. When did he grow up so fast? He looks very handsome and mature, and manages to roll his eyes at me as I photograph him...

We have been there before, for the Scouts, but this is our last time, as Bear is about to graduate from Scouts and leave...

Singing Abide with Me again, I listen to my sisters clear pure voice, softly, quietly; holding the notes, saying the beautiful words, her voice mesmerises me, and I cannot sing, it is beyond me today, I am choked with emotion... my mouth opens and closes without a sound... I am mute.

Hold thou thy cross before my closing eyes;
Shine through the gloom and point me to the skies.
Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain shadows flee;
In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me.

Again the Last Post.

More tears, until my body is shaking with tears, no sound, I am wracked with grief, overcome and distraught....

I cry more at this service, than at Dad's funeral.

I sob, breathe, sob some more, until I run out of tissues... time to hug and hold each other in our grief, our first ANZAC Day without Dad, the first of a number of firsts...

We managed, it wasn't the same, it can never be the same without you Dad, but we managed...

Home to a huge breakfast of bacon and eggs and toast and tea and hugs and a candle lit for you Dad and for everyone else.

ANZAC day 2004. Lest we forget.

Happy 50th Jen

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Mother's Day Tribute '09

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Teleprompter's gig

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Lachlan's 21st party

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My Easter Alleluia 2009- Chris Jackson

I stirred blearily on Easter morning to a remote buzz. Thinking slowly, thick headed. Huh. … uh, phone. In a blurr I locate my glasses -. right where I need them. God is good I recall to myself. With morning eyes, even with the help of the bed lamp, it’s so hard to read! ‘Happy Easter.’ Sandy, my beautiful boy; in Noosa for the weekend, is the first to call. I smile; content, and text back with kisses…and my Easter signature: ‘Alleluia.’’ Repeat text to his siblings in Uk and Sydney... no immediate response.

I’m content if we keep in contact! It’s deliciously early enough for a sleep in and still time to wash my hair and get to church by 9.10am. I’m to do the second reading and need time to reflect and prepare. Want to get the emphasis right.

Light rain is pattering. What a beautiful start to Easter…and we’re not camping!! Cuppa; read the paper; little nod off and then, enough indulgence. Bounce out of bed. Ron asks if I’m ok if he goes earlier. He has to sing and wants to go over the psalm. He is also helping with the morning tea, filling in for someone away for the hols. I smile and admire his ownership of the morning tea roster. He’s a doer, that man.

I’m out the door, ready for the day. My heart feels light and I’m excited. After the sadness reflecting on Good Friday, I really feel the joy of Easter Sunday, like a rising bubble. I am half expecting my friend Patty B. but will completely understand if she can’t make it. I just love it that my dear Anglican friend wants to come to my worshipping catholic community.

We have been to church together on our road trip and shared conversations of faith and the spirit and goodness of Jesus and the much maligned Mary, his mother. She’s the daughter of an Anglican Priest and no one does candles like Patty!!

I am welcomed by the meeters and greeters. Warm smiles and Happy Easters abound. You see, there is something special about today. My friend Lorraine asks if I would be a special minister.

“Love to, but I’m reading.”

“Don’t worry, there’ll be others to ask” she reassures.

I make my way to the sacristy where Richard and Mauve are discussing the readings.

“I‘m here for David.” The wide eyed response tells me this is news to them.
“David said he couldn’t read and that’s why were here.”

Back off. They have it all in hand.

“That’s good,” I respond, “because I might be needed as a special minister”. I tell Lorraine I’m right to assist.

I’m a little early and scan the crowd for my friend PB. She is always early. If she’s not here now, she probably won’t be coming. Momentarily drop lip but that’s ok.

Ron is busy ‘talking choir’ to the team. I see my friends A& L, and feel drawn to sit with them. We were at their wedding last night.

“Congratulations again.”

Kisses. Hugs. “Happy Easter.” Look along the pew to see Margaret and her husband, L’s half brother , a Pentecostal minister, who married them last night, in the presence of his birth mother, L’s 82 year old mother. He met for the first time only weeks ago. But that’s another story. It is also one of the reason’s I feel so happy, I muse.

Happy Easter. Big smiles.

Mass begins to Thea’s announcement, “This mass is our Alleluia.”

Yes, that’s my Easter theme. All is in sync and that inner bubble rises. I crane my neck looking for my friend PB. I sing loud... So happy. Feel slightly sorry for Peter in front of me, but I don’t change the volume. I take in the mixture of the crowd. Children, oldies, families with teenagers. Many have come out today. Lots of familiar faces and also many new to me. We have tried to squash together to fit everyone inside but many are outside and I’m glad the sound system carries to them.

Every word seems so significant.

The readers hold my attention. I wonder if my friend is here to witness my cherished community swelled for the Easter celebration of new life. I am also wondering why an overhead light is swinging so widely. Is that safe?

My friend Lorraine turns and says, “Carol has turned up we don’t need you.”

“OK” I say. Happy to be the relief. I sing the Alleluia even louder.

Mass continues. The effervescent Deacon Gary fires up. That man is never down. I love his love of life and spirit of enthusiasm. Looking for my friend...

“Oh stop it,” I say to myself, “concentrate on the Mass.”

Father Neil’s rich voice penetrates the morning. My goodness his ‘prayer to the minute’ count must be record cracking.

Anne leaves her seat to assist with the presentation of the gifts.

“Can you come and give me a hand?” she says. “I might need you.”

Head down, I turn to follow dutifully. “No, don’t need you.” Lindsay has picked up on the number of rejections and says, “Can you cope with all this rejection?”

“I’m happy to be the back-stop girl” I smile.

Peace be with you arrives and I turn with purpose to greet. And the people part to reveal my friend Patty Beecham, with her wink of reassurance.

“Peace be with you”. As I fall to my knees ready for communion Lorraine beckons me.

“We need you.” She points,. “Five 5 Chalices today- big crowd,”

“Fine.” I rise immediately. Head for the alter. Bow. Ascend. Wash hands. I know I don’t have to but it feels right for me.

“Lamb of God”. I look up directly in to the distant face of my friend PB. She nods and beams and for some reason I feel more than words can tell. Maybe it is as simple as our shared sense that God is good.

I share the precious blood from the Chalice that contains the precious stones donated by many women in the parish, and I’m pleased I know that. There is a strong bond to our past that binds our people today. I am delighted to share this with my friend when she appears in front of me. To serve is a joy.

I return to sit with my friend for the final hymn.

‘This is the day the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be Glad.’

And I am. We sing loud. Together.

Back in the kitchen, I help Ron and the team with morning tea. And Patty takes photos, of course.

“Happy Easter.” And I hum Alleluia, (the nuns chorus from the Sound of Music).

God is good! Again!!

Easter Sunday '09

It’s 6am Easter Sunday morning, and I am waking slowly from deep sleep to the cat kneading my pillow. It’s raining. So this is how it starts; gently at first, with gloves, until the Halleluiahs begin.

I lie snuggled in under my doona with my eyes still closed, and visualise the church, visualise my singing and how it will unfold. I always think this is why I am so tired; everything has to be played out in my mind first, and then for real, ha.

My husband cooks us an early breakfast and I in turn cook our youngest son his own breakfast before he goes to work; fried eggs with rocket, mushrooms and tomato. Taking the plate from me, he walks into the lounge room to eat it by himself. Then I am driving through the soft rain to my first port-of-call, St Barnabas at Red Hill.

After this service I hope to join my friend CJ for her church service in Ashgrove.

It’s going to be a busy day. Arriving at my Anglican church, I am expecting a packed service, but there are -if anything- even fewer parishioners than normal.

Old John, my pew friend- is missing.

Fr Tom rushes in before the Service begins, all handshakes and cheek kisses to his flock, and they warmly greet him with cries of Happy Easter Father Tom; and I also twinkle him with my fingers to say hello, but make no move to come closer, I am happy where I am.

The organist, her hair still pony-tailed up, recognises me, and we greet each other with a grin. I can see lots of hymns which I know, and as she softly rehearses each one, to my delight I find that I know most of them. Whew, I do want a good sing today.

Fr Tom comes over to say hello, and introduces me to another woman about my age, in fact she tells me, it was her 46th birthday yesterday. Her name is Wendy, and we chat for a while before the Service begins. Behind me is another couple, the man I instantly recognise, but from where? We remember that our children both attended Milton State School together about 10 years ago, and very slowly my mind clears and I remember he also took over from me as P&C President. In fact, I recall, my oldest son was school buddy to their young son, and we happily reconnect and chat about old times.

The first hymn begins to the tune of ‘Why was he born so beautiful, why was he born at all?’ and I stifle the urge to burst out laughing, oh dear, it’s going to be a long Service at this rate.

SING LOUD!

I totally nail a few halleluiahs!

Soon we are into the swing of things, and my new friend Wendy and I catch eyes and grin at each other across the aisle.

Old John finally shuffles in, very late, and he smiles and says “Happy Easter Patty”. I am thrilled he remembered my name, and relieved he is here. Safe.
The ritual unfolds: the calls and responses, pages flipping from 129 to 147 and back again. The chosen psalm today has the line “This is the day the Lord has given us, let us rejoice and be glad.”

It was dad’s favourite saying, and he said it most days. I glance at my watch occasionally, I am going to be late at this rate if we don’t get a hurry-up, and I can imagine my friend CJ turning around in her church waiting for me to arrive. Thoughts of leaving early begin, but I push them aside, I can’t: my loyalty is here first. Then it’s Communion, and returning back to my pew, Frank holds out a cane basket with mini Easter eggs in it. I take one, and unwrap it. The one hour Service goes for one hour and 35 minutes and I bowl out of the door and into my car, with a flurry of smiles and air kisses.

I am on my way driving westwards; to Ashgrove and a Catholic service; to be with my friend. I owe her one Service, as she kept me company in Rockhampton and attended the Anglican Church with me when we did our road trip together.

I wonder what dad would say about going to Church twice in one day (and one of those a Catholic church!) , but I don’t care, I haven’t been to Easter church for years, and I am making up for it today. He would be pleased, and see the humour in it.

Arriving ten minutes late, the Service has begun, but the crowds! They are huge, milling around outside, seated on hastily brought in pews and extra seating. Most of the people still stand, unable to see, or hear what is going on. That’s not for me, I didn’t come to stand in the garden, I want to see, and hear everything, and I will.

I make my way upstairs, pushing gently through the younger crowd.

Looking to my left where the choir sit, looking for CJ’s hubby Ron, (I know he is going to sing today) I spy a woman (dressed in red) I also recognise, and she points to me and indicates to sit beside her. Blankly, I turn around, looking behind me, until I point to myself and question her.

Me? Yes, you, come and sit here.

Grateful, I bunker down beside her, and with the next hymn try to read the small print on the Power Point, a response chorus to Ron’s leading voice. A long white ceiling light – one of twelve -spins in lonely circles. Small children stagger with dummies in their mouths; fathers wander in and out to quietly change nappies, woman fan themselves.

I can see the back of CJ’s hair - she is to my front right - and when the time comes for “Peace be with you” I shake a couple of local hands then surge forward like a ruby player to pump CJ’s hand. She is delighted and we are both so happy to be together, in church.

Why have I started going to church? I honestly don’t know, it’s something that has occurred to me; an awaking, and something that I enjoy doing; for the time being. I love the literature, the music, the memories, the architecture, the company, the tradition, the artworks and the sense of common history “binding us together in his love.”

It could be worse!

It’s now leading up to Communion, and the Priest sounds like a race-caller He says everything in one nasal sentence: “wearetheonebodyforweallpartakeoftheonebread” and without pausing for breath, or effect; he gallops onwards racing towards the best part of the Service. If Fr Tom had spoken this fast, we wouldn’t have been so late, ha.

We gape, Abba-like, to his words.

Do you want forgiveness of your sins? I do.

Have you forgiven others?

I do. I do, I do, I do.

To my delight I can see CJ standing to attend the wine part of the Communion, this is going to be fun, I think, and I motion to my red-bloused friend Robyn that I will take my communion ‘over there’ so CJ can administer to me. I feel very humbled. It’s an odd thing to have two friends do, and I have to think about it for a while, later.

I am almost the last in line, and I cross myself and take my bread from the Priest, and make my way towards CJ. Unlike the Anglicans, where the priest comes to you, in the Catholic Church, it’s up to YOU to go to the various stations of bread and wine. There’s about a teaspoon of wine left in the chalice, and I am very careful not to take too much, just a wetting of the lips, really.

I sip. We grin. Another memory.

I make my way back to the pew, weaving through the crowd.

After Communion, CJ finds me and we sit together for the final hymn. Would you believe it, the same words “This is the day the Lord has given us, let us rejoice and be glad.”

SING LOUD!

Ron turns around from his leading-voice-in-the-choir-position and hisses to me, “Don’t go afterwards, there’s cups of tea downstairs” and I know he will do a fabulous job of the morning tea: he always does; I have not only seen the photos, I have arranged them into Church newsletters for him. His silver camera dangles from his side pockets, ready to use.

Then it’s over, two Services in on morning.

The Catholic service finishes early and we make our way downstairs to see Ron and have a cuppa.

I ask Ron for his camera instead of having a cup of tea, all I can see is coffee, (the pots are still brewing) so I slowly make my way around the huge crowd of parents and kids and babies and laughing robed priests and baskets of Easter eggs and large trays of jam and scones and people hugging and total strangers to me and take images of their Easter Sunday Service.

I am a walking time machine, snap, snap, smile, snap.

Time to go home, and enjoy my lime margaritas.

Dieter's Brisbane Adventure '09

Photo and video editing at www.OneTrueMedia.com

The History of Dave the Painting Guy

Dave was sitting alone in his studio one night in early April 2008. He had a portrait commission to complete and was, in his own words, "afraid to get into it. Those blank canvases are still intimidating to me, even after over 30 years of creating art."

David R. Darrow is an illustrator-turned-fine-artist, who hasn't done a commercial illustration job in over a decade.

And Darrow is also the host of the free, online broadcast Dave the Painting Guy and tells how the monotony of a quiet studio, the dark of night, and a highly-distractible mind were the beginnings of his popular internet show.

"I was avoiding starting an important portrait commission, using that old subconscious delay tactic called if I don't start, I can't do it wrong. I had stretched the canvas, sketched in the two figures, placed it on my easel, and stalled out for hours. I washed the dishes, vacuumed, made some coffee... and then an open Firewire port on the back on my PC made me wonder if I could connect my mini-DV camera and use it like a webcam and maybe talk to my then 79-year-old mother 400 miles away and show her my face, via Skype."

After Darrow got it up and running, it was too late in the evening to call his mom to give it a test, but another idea popped into his mind; he had heard of uStream.tv which lets users connect a webcam and broadcast "a show." Wanting to test the video connection with his PC Darrow created a new account on uStream.tv, and in a matter of minutes was broadcasting whatever his camera was pointed at.

To no one.

First he pointed the camera out the window at the lights on the hill across the way from his Oceanside, CA studio, then at the little kitchenette inside, and finally spun it around at his canvas. "There was my canvas right there in a little viewing window on the Internet. I was intrigued. And I wondered if anyone would want to watch a guy paint pictures in his studio. So I pulled the big 36 x 40 canvas off the easel and tossed up an 11 x 14 and started scribbling out a figure painting in oil on this fresh canvas. I had just started when one generically-named ustream user popped into the chatroom and typed a question into the chatroom interface.

"What are you doing?" the person typed.

"Can you hear me?" Darrow asked, wondering if the video camera's mic was picking up his voice.

"Yes," came the typed reply.

"Well I am just starting a painting, and I will see if I can get it done in less than an hour."

Over the next hour a few other uStream.tv users dropped in and out, commenting, chatting to each other and typing questions to Darrow, including "WIll you be on tomorrow?"

Darrow agreed to turn the camera on again the next day, and the next, and the next -- discovering that the "audience" and the "conversation" made the hours pass more quickly, and helped him focus on his paintings more. "I found I tended to stick at it and solve my inevitable painting problems when I knew there were people watching over my shoulder."

By the time he'd finished the commissioned portrait, Darrow had 15 - 20 viewers tuning in regularly to say hello, watch his progress and chat with each other. "Since I started my art career in the early 80s, I have always introduced myself to people as 'David' but I started jokingly calling my broadcast "Dave the Painting Guy," creating show graphics for it and trying to lend it some legitimacy."

Happy Easter 09 Steffie J

Photo and video editing at www.OneTrueMedia.com

St David's All Saints Community

Make photo slide shows at www.OneTrueMedia.com