PattycamWatchers

Brisbane Funeral Photographer - Example

2011-07-11T11:54:00.000+10:00

Patty Beecham Productions ShowReel

2011-07-11T11:51:00.001+10:00

Helping YOU celebrate YOUR life! Wonderful life memories captured forever!

A mourning of winter sun.

2011-06-22T09:32:00.001+10:00

It’s been two years today since I found him, lying with his face to the sun.

He was still warm, probably from the streaming yellow winter sunshine filling his bedroom with a golden light. He wore grey trousers and a Singlet with an unbuttoned shirt over it. On his feet were tattered slip-ons, and he had a happy, relaxed attitude; his left arm placed loosely across his chest in a comfortable position. One imagines he simply lay on his bed to wait and rest. And so he did.

I had been making a surprise video compilation for a friend of ours, to celebrate his impending 50th birthday. Driving around Brisbane over a few weeks to video record various family members and friends, I had spoken to his elderly father only the day before, to ask permission to call around and video his birthday message for his son. He was excited, and insisted he also buy a birthday card for his youngest boy. “I must write him a message!” he laughed, “Come tomorrow, I’ll even unlock the outside gate for you”.

“But you sound so good” I bargained, “why don’t I call around now, it will only take 5 minutes?”

“Tomorrow,” he insisted, “tomorrow I’ll unlock the front gate” he chirped. Having an elderly mother I know how important it is to grab them whilst they are fresh and vibrant, but it was no good, his insistence that I arrive at 9am tomorrow stood firm.

So there I was standing at my friend’s father’s old home, only one block from my own house, knocking on his front door. Sure enough, the front gate had been unlocked and opened. Grinning to myself, I called out. “Hello? Yoo-hoo?” but there was no response, no cheery reply.

Bored, I take photos of his gate, the letterbox, and some flowers.

I wait. A small black bird flies around. Not a crow, not a magpie or peewee, just a small black bird. I take more images.

More knocking. How odd. Perhaps he went to the bathroom? Perhaps he is out the back? I wandered around; knocking on outside walls (is he deaf?) banging on the back kitchen door, peering through windows to an old house, noting the plastic flowers in vases, a statue of Jesus standing in blue and white robes in the far corner of the lounge room, and pictures of family and grandchildren, but no sign of the old man.

Eventually, I ring the other son, the one I had recorded the day before. “I think you’d better come, he’s obviously been up, but now there is no sign of him anywhere, perhaps he’s fallen over?”

Thirty minutes later the eldest son arrives, flustered. He goes into the front room first, stops, and turns to me. Gesturing for me to approach the bedroom, he stands there with his face slumped and his arms hanging down.

He died with his face to the sun. On the chair beside the single, high iron bed, there’s a note.

“When the days make you frown
because they are all the same,
and it's pouring with rain,
I hope you look back, smile at your thoughts, and be glad remembering
just what a good birthday you had.” it reads, a shaky hand determined to show his youngest how much he meant to the old man.

Asking permission to take some images, I photograph the note, and a couple of quick pics of the room, in case there is an inquiry. I wait with the son until the Police arrive, answer some questions, and then I drive home. Such a beautiful day for death.

In a way it was a privilege to be there to find him quickly; with the winters sun on his face.

Rest now, in peace.

Here is the final video: Colin is a fine karaoke singer, so I thought it only natural we should sing to him! It took a lot of phone calls to Cairns, Hobart, and driving all over Brisbane, but I was happy with the results, enjoy.

Easter in the Barossa 2011

2011-04-29T08:44:00.003+10:00

We wanted some family time together, so spent five glorious days in Adelaide and the beautiful Barossa. Wonderful to see the autumn leaves and changing seasons. Thanks to eveyone for making us all feel so welcome.

"Pie Jesu" (Jackie Evancho)

2011-03-10T16:43:00.002+10:00

The Flood of 2011

2011-03-10T16:14:00.003+10:00

Open publication - Free publishing

LOVE YOU QUEENSLAND

2011-01-23T10:39:00.000+10:00

David calls Gayle Howard @TopMargin.com

2010-10-12T16:48:00.000+10:00

Anne's What NOT to Wear

2010-07-29T07:52:00.000+10:00

Dad - Signs

2010-05-24T07:38:00.008+10:00

1. When we visit Dad, the Nurse says, "Who is Molly? He has been calling out for Molly all afternoon. The day before he called for his Mother. Today it is Molly"

We look at each other and reply, "Molly was Dads older sister, he was very close to her, she died over 5 years ago."

"Molly! Molly!" he calls, staring into the corner of the room.

***

2. Waiting in his room, around 1.45am, asleep. Suddenly my right leg is being 'shaken' awake, and the extreme coldness of it stuns me awake. I sit bolt upright, and I feel as if Dad has woken me to say " Hey Sweetheart, good to see you" in the friendly manner he used.

***

3. We phone Dad's surviving sibling, his younger brother Jim. As it turns out, he is out shopping, and his wife Joy answers the phone. Before we can tell her of the news, she tells us that Jim woke her with a happy startled cry in the early hours this morning, as if greeting an old friend, and she could hear him laughing and chatting away as if with an old mate. "If I didn't know that the cat had died, I would have sworn he was talking to Puss, in such a happy, relaxed way" she says. Then, she said, the most extraordinary LOUD snoring, then silence. Jim remembers nothing of the incident, at all.

"What time was this, Joy," we ask. "4.45am" she answers, which was the exact time Dad passed over. Again, we look at each other.

***

4. The afternoon of his passing, the most beautiful sunset hangs over the city. Clouds of oranges and pinks drape the sky. Everyone is out on the street, pointing, exclaiming. Wow!

***

5. The afternoon of his funeral, a large, no GIANT rainbow forms over the mountains, just as the news report on his funeral coverage comes on the telly. The rainbow stays over the city for 20 minutes. Too large to photograph in one lens. Too big Dad! Larger than life!

***

6. At Jim's funeral -my father's younger brother - he is the last of the original Warby family, the last sibling to die. I am photographing, as usual. Archiving.

We gather around his grave, and just as the coffin is being lowered, an enormous gust of wind springs up, we gasp and shield our eyes, stunned.

My immediate thoughts were: it's his brothers and older sister Molly, coming to gather him, to claim him, to laugh and run again like the kids they were, to sit and chat as they watch over us.

Later, when I visit his widow, my aunty Joy, we recount the funeral.

"And the wind!" she recalls. "That wind!"

I burst into tears at the memory, it was an amazing spiritual experience.

It's just wind mum, says my eldest. No Lockie, to everyone else, it's just wind.

***

Saunders at sunrise

2009-11-19T11:23:00.000+10:00

Water Effect

Christmas in the ‘burbs

2009-11-10T07:06:00.001+10:00

*Fast paced

Santa, angels, jingles bells,
All those funny grandpa smells,
Poinciana wet with rain
Must be Christmas time again
Christmas in the suburbs!

Buses line the suburb streets
Looking at the lighting treats
Gardens blazing with delight
Surfing Santa looks a sight!
Christmas in the suburbs!

Hams are ordered, chooks are cooked
Beach house units are all booked
Traffic lines the high-way
Wrap the presents my way
Christmas in the suburbs!

Long beach walks, family talks
Singing in the park, singing in the dark,
Schools are out, togs are in,
Cricket’s on, who will win?
Christmas in the suburbs!

*softly and slowly

It’s Christmas time, it’s summer time
It’s time to go to bed,
Santa’s near, can you hear?
It’s time to rest your head.
Sleepy eyes, tired smiles,
It’s time to go to sleep,
Christmas Eve…in the suburbs

Patty Beecham (c)

Beecham Motors

2009-10-15T14:08:00.001+10:00

Crossing the Ditch - the DVD

2009-09-02T07:42:00.002+10:00

Swimming with Sharks

2009-06-17T10:46:00.003+10:00

Peter Dick, the Breakfast Show presenter, used to get perverse pleasure from sending me to scary, dangerous places.

Many mornings I would have to remind myself that I was a mother of two beautiful, small children, and should I really be doing this?

But I loved it too, each day bringing me some new discovery, some privilege that no-one else could see/touch/experience. One of these things, was to swim with the sharks, early in the morning.

I planned my revenge....listen here

One Kilometre Underground - clunk!

2009-06-17T10:44:00.002+10:00

One of the scariest things I have done, is to travel one kilometre underground to a coal mine, west of Brisbane.

Meeting the men who would ultimately be in charge of saving my life if anything went wrong, I was kitted up with grey overalls, heavy boots and a 20kg emergency pack, (well it seemed that heavy anyway) slung over my hip. Tragically, I also had to wear a hard hat, my poor head is just too small for these things, lol. The hardhat also had my light, which I would need in the total darkness.

Walking was difficult as my hard boots were a mans size, and my little size 6 feet had to lift and clump, lift and clump. The Emergency Pack held my supply of oxygen and other things you and I don't wish to know about, suffice to say it was bloody heavy, and very awkward on my hip.

We went down the mine on a low-riding thingy, (see picture) which I have no idea what the name of it is now days...and the immediate thing that struck me was that all the walls are painted white, to help reflect what little light there is.

Electricity, telephone and water are also powered down the mine, allowing limited lighting and use of water for washing etc. Throughout the mine, there are ante-rooms, some with a table and chair for smoko-time, lol. These "rooms" are for safety and access to rest whilst heavy machinery operated close-by.

The men joke with me, and one smarty says "Let's show Patty just HOW dark it is in here, lights OFF!" and with that, I am plunged into total, mind-numbing darkness. I feel like a bat, using all of my senses to strain to listen to where the men are. "Fellas?" I call out, nervous, but also enjoying the joke.

It is incredibly hot and humid underground, the temp was prolly 38c and water seemed to run everywhere on the ground. 'Underground creeks" came the answer, hmmm.

Huge diggers came and went, shifting tonnes of coal and structure around like it was a sandbox. As I was not allowed to use my normal Uniden mobile phone in case of a spark, I had to use the underground landline phone.

Throughout the whole interview, you can hear "Clunk, hello Peter, can you hear me?

"Clunk", I am speaking with Joe Blogs, good morning Joe, Clunk!" My hands were shaking so much, I kept hitting not only my own hardhat, but also poor Joe Blogs hardhat, each time I placed the phone near him for his interview responses.

So funny!

Fresh air never seemed so good at the surface, and then we relaxed and took our photos. Whew!

I came, I saw, I climbed!

2009-06-17T10:41:00.002+10:00

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.

QANTAS to Singapore

2009-06-17T10:38:00.002+10:00

When I was approached to fly to Singapore to turn around and come straight back home on the first QANTAS plane from Brisbane, my family and I had been sailing up through the Whitsunday Islands. Clueless, I stood in Nara Inlet on the deck of our gorgeous 40’ chartered cat, and rang my radio producer to see what jobs she had lined up for me for the next week back on air. She screamed "IT'S PATTY! IT'S PATTY!!" to whomever in the office.

"Blimey", I thought, "someone is happy to hear from me."

As it turns out, I had to fly to Singapore in two days time, and I quickly rang my neighbours to see if our passport was still current, (it was) and the next day I flew back to Brissy, unpacked, showered, repacked, and drove to the airport to fly out on QANTAS. We couldn’t get hubby onto the same flight at no cost, he had to pay full fare, bugger!

As we boarded, I mentioned to the Steward who I was, as I was hoping to seat my excited hubby next to me, (as it was a last minute thing) when he whisked me straight up with...."the Captain is waiting for you" on flightdeck.

What the?

I waved goodbye to my confused hubby, and went to meet the Captain, and the Navigator promptly locked my 5-point harness...for takeoff.

Oh no, I thought, do I stay here for the entire flight?

After lots of 90% boredom 10% pure fear stories, I asked to be excused and made my way back to hubby, who by now, was waving a bottle of champers at me. Smashed off his face.

"If I have to pay my own business class ticket to Singapore, I am drinking the fare in champers" he declared, and with that, he passed out.

Upon arrival at Singapore, we were in the company of the QANTAS PR girl, and spent most of the time wandering aimlessly waiting for the plane to refuel and take off again.

We had dinner that night with the Pilots, and when I phoned Australia to see how the children were, my neighbour (who was then a chief Steward for Ansett) casually mentioned on the phone that Ansett were going to try and beat QANTAS back from Singapore; they were flying in from Japan.

Race is on!

I pass this info onto the Pilots, who immediately proceed to gear up, and the staff ring all passengers to board 2 hours earlier than intended.

Blimey!

We load up after a rough nights sleep (prolly 2 hours) and by now I have been awake for 'what-day-is-it' and we take off, this time, me seated next to hubby, who promptly falls asleep.

I stay awake all night (over-excited schoolgirl) and just marvel at the lights, and I follow our progress via the in-flight magazine map, clearly seeing the islands and shoreline lined with bright lights.

I simply cannot sleep, as I am very worried too about the live broadcast the next morning.

Brisbane ABC Radio have had to 'patch into' Sydney blah blah blah so that Peter can speak to me live, as well as the Pilots, via their own radio frequency.

Very tricky stuff, never been done, and I am it. *gulp.

I stare out the window for 6 hours, and finally go quietly to the washroom and freshen up as best I can, putting on my ABC Radio t-shirt uniform, aware there will be loads of television cameras there. I apply extra lippy, just in case.

Going to the Pilots flightdeck, I again take my position in the jump-seat, waiting for Mr Navigator to strap me into my harness, but he never does. Oh well, suits me, I am free to bend down and fiddle with my phone and start to make contact with the Station.

I ring, and ring. And ring.

The time is now 4.30am, and we are very, very early, as we have to beat Ansett Airlines into Brisbane. No one is interested in coming second.

Apparently the story is that when Ansett went into Japan, QANTAS stole their limelight by landing a plane painted in aboriginal artwork, so revenge is on.

REVENGE!

Party spoilers.

But.. as it is ONLY 4.30am, I can "see" Peter and Pam just sitting there having coffee and discussing the show. They aren't expecting me until the 5.30am 'cross'.

Opps.

We ring, and Ring. AND RING.

Finally the sound engineer picks up, and by now we are all hysterical, and tired. It has to be a pre-record, which is fine IF YOU HAVE THE TIME, but as Peter was also about to go to air 'live' the whole thing is just getting silly.

S.H.I.T. B.R.I.C.K.S!!

Eventually we agree not to go "live" in the plane (all that tax-payers money down the gurgle, so sorry) but to go live as we land (great, but I am more interested in actually being safe than talking to the Pilots as he lands us down).

We continue to fly and I can see another plane, and hear it - in the radar loop.

"That's Ansett" the Pilots say, and we play a cat n mouse game of up and down to stay in front of them, for over an hour. :)

As they went down to "go under us" we went down too. If they went "up" we also went up.

As we get closer to Brissy, I again wait for the Navigator, but to be honest, we are all so stressed, and running on empty (the plane took less fuel to be lighter and faster) that I don’t want to disturb him too much. As it turns out, I never did get buckled up, as I was also too busy to do anything, so we land with my nose firmly pressed into the back of the Captain.

Opps!

We finally land, and I do my first cross. I am at no stage allowed to say the word QANTAS, as the ABC is non-commercial. Oh yeah? You try it. Ha!

I have been awake now for what-year-is-it? I am running on nerves of steel.

As we taxi in, I can see the television cameras, all trained on us. The fire brigade are also there, with a water cannon salute, drenching the plane and christening the flight.

I say to the Pilots "Better smile boys, there will be a lot of people looking at you on telly tonight" and so they wave and smile, and sure enough on the news that night, there are the Pilots waving and smiling, and me, waving and smiling too, seated firmly behind the Captain.

So funny! As the doors open, there is the Queensland Premier to meet me and I thrust my ever-present camera to my hubby, who is so star struck he only manages to take one photo the entire time.

Good grief.

Dennis M - Service of Thanksgiving

2009-06-12T08:52:00.000+10:00

Road Trip to Townsville

2009-05-26T18:10:00.000+10:00

Road Trip Townsville 09no Notes

Publish at Scribd or explore others: Travel Books rockhampton road trip

Anzac Day 2009

2009-05-26T18:04:00.000+10:00

Anzac Day 09

Publish at Scribd or explore others: Short Stories Creative Writing anzac day

Sing Loud at Mater Dei

2009-05-26T17:36:00.002+10:00

Singing LOUD at Mater Dei

Publish at Scribd or explore others: Religion & Spiritual Books Church Catholic

My Easter Sunday

2009-05-26T17:05:00.001+10:00

Easter Sunday 09

Publish at Scribd or explore others: Short Stories Creative Writing patty beecham easter sunday

My Country - created by Patty Beecham

2009-05-26T16:42:00.000+10:00

My CountryNPCJ

Publish at Scribd or explore others: Essays & Theses School Work

Cream of Cauliflower Soup with Blue Cheese

2009-05-23T08:10:00.002+10:00

Cooking time: Less than 60 minutes

Makes 2 litres

INGREDIENTS

50g butter
1 medium onion (150g), chopped coarsely
1 medium cauliflower, (1.2kg), chopped coarsely
2 teaspoons madras curry powder
1 litre (4 cups) chicken stock
2 cups (500ml) water
½ cup (125ml) cream
salt and pepper, to taste
chives, to serve
sour cream, to serve
Blue Cheese, - Costello or similar

METHOD
Heat butter in large saucepan. Cook onion and cauliflower until softened and translucent. Add curry powder and cook 30 seconds or until fragrant.

Add stock; simmer, covered 10 minutes or until cauliflower is soft. Using a stick blender or goblet blender; blend soup until smooth. Add water to thin soup as desired. Place over gentle heat to warm through if necessary. Add roughly chopped blue cheese - Costello or similar.

Stir in cream. Serve immediately with snipped chives and a dollop of sour cream, if desired.

*note! I would also delete the curry powder, add garlic, and a dollop of mustard to taste. Nom nom.

Pumpkin Soup

2009-05-23T08:04:00.002+10:00

Serving size: Serves 6
Cooking time: Less than 60 minutes

The smoothest consistency for this soup can be achieved by using a blender, stab mixer or mouli.

per serving 8.3g fat; 1008kJ (241cal)
INGREDIENTS

40g butter
1 large brown onion (200g), chopped coarsely
3 bacon rashers (210g), chopped coarsely
1.5 kg pumpkin, chopped coarsely (I use Butternut Pumpkins, easier to chop)
2 large potatoes (600g), chopped coarsely
1.5 litres (6 cups) chicken stock

METHOD
Melt butter in large saucepan; cook onion and bacon, stirring, until onion softens. Stir in pumpkin and potato. (Don't worry aobut the skin, you can cook the pumpkin and then slice the skin off when it's soft, messy, time consuming, but good food requires attention to detail)

Stir in stock, bring to a boil; simmer, uncovered, about 20 minutes or until pumpkin is soft.

Blend or process soup, in batches, until pureed. Return to same cleaned pan; stir until heated through.

Taste and add salt/pepper (fine white prefferable, as fresh ground black pepper can look messy)

Add a dollop of fresh cream is desired and chives. Voila!

Tomato Soup

2009-05-22T13:41:00.004+10:00

I tend not to measure anything, so will just ramble and pretend I know. Ok?

TOMATO SOUP

8 x large vine ripened tomatoes
1 x large onion finely diced
2 x heaped teaspoons fresh garlic *when I say fresh I mean out of a jar, sigh
1 x heaped teaspoon fresh ginger *ditto
½ cup tomato paste for depth of flavour
½ jug of veggie stock
Olive oil
Fresh ground pepper/salt to taste
Fresh basil or dried, as much as you like *shake shake
Glass of red or white wine for chef, one for the pot
Splosh of Tabasco sauce, taste, taste, can’t un-add it once it’s in!

Quarter tomatoes and roughly de-seed with fingers or spoon, remove end bit from stalk, dice onions,gently soften in olive oil, add garlic/ginger and gently simmer.
Add vegie stock and tomato paste.
Chuck in everything else.
Add Tabasco sauce, - START TASTING! You are after a SLIGHT tingle in the back of the throat, don’t forget you are also adding shitloads of fresh pepper so err on caution, then enjoy.
Blend with beaters or in blender. *Mine leaked, sighs crossly.

You WILL get tomato skins, so if you don’t want that, blister the skins off first before chopping. Hold over gas stove on fork, or bake in hot oven 5 minutes. Hold in tea-towel and rub skins off. It really doesn’t affect the soup at all, gently simmer to thicken slightly and reduce.

As variety, you could add musherooms/lentils or corn. Pearl barley will also give a different in-mouth feel. Just experiment. :)

Serve with parmesan cheese grilled on toast in oven. Bon appetite!

Serves 4-6

An apology to Dieter

2009-05-18T09:51:00.001+10:00

Sorry Dieter, that you were dragged into the mud that parades as a blog on another site. What started as a simple response to an hysterical tweet on Twitter, morphed into a name calling, disgraceful show of hatred, intolerance and blind prejudice.
I won’t go into details here mainly because I simply can’t be bothered with over reactions and misguided intent, but for you, my dear friend, to be dragged into this mess, I am sorry.
Anyone who knows me also knows that I stand by my arguments, and I have never, ever hidden from who I am or what I say. When I left my comments on another blog, I checked my profile and was horrified to see it was private.
I am NOT a private person on the net, I don’t believe in hiding behind funny names and so on (although my Pattycam name is derived from Patty + cam) so I changed my profile to enable everyone to see it.
Unfortunately others from this blog also came to my site (which is hilarious) and left various comments under the highly original name of Anonymous.
I deleted one simply because it was so vile, that I don’t want to have that sort of crap on my site, on OUR beloved site.
For this strange woman to attack you Dieter, in such a mean, nasty and disgusting way is beyond belief. You and I know that I never asked anyone to go fight my fight, or enter into the discussion, and I am deeply mortified that you were hurt in reading her vile ranting.
If anyone would like to contact me about the whole discussion I am more than happy to go into it further with you, but for now, let’s just pretend this never happened, it’s a sad world out there some days.
I will however leave on my comments and links, it’s all part of my life, and our Blog, and I am happy to do so, if only to show you that some people simply cannot enter into an argument without twisting your words, reading only what they want to read, and resorting to name calling, so childish.
Ha.

2009-05-18T08:54:00.001+10:00

A very Morgan weekend

2009-05-18T08:43:00.003+10:00

So what do you make of all this then, eh?

2009-05-14T23:01:00.000+10:00

Somedays I really hate the internet.

To "Kath"

2009-05-14T18:07:00.001+10:00

IN YOUR FACE!!!

Russell Morris - Hush

2009-05-11T11:11:00.001+10:00

Swine Flu - Google maps the spreading pandemic

2009-04-30T07:31:00.003+10:00

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

2009-04-27T06:52:00.003+10:00

Peeved - Russell Morris

2009-04-26T19:47:00.002+10:00

Long story short = peeved.

Anzac Day '09 Continued

2009-04-26T18:38:00.004+10:00

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

Anzac Day 09

2009-04-26T17:39:00.004+10:00

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

2009-04-24T15:23:00.012+10:00

‘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

2009-04-24T07:50:00.003+10:00

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

2009-04-24T07:50:00.000+10:00

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

2009-04-23T16:41:00.001+10:00

Mother's Day Tribute '09

2009-04-22T22:43:00.004+10:00

Teleprompter's gig

2009-04-21T11:21:00.001+10:00

Lachlan's 21st party

2009-04-19T11:46:00.001+10:00

My Easter Alleluia 2009- Chris Jackson

2009-04-14T10:33:00.003+10:00

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

2009-04-13T16:22:00.002+10:00

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

2009-04-11T14:27:00.000+10:00

The History of Dave the Painting Guy

2009-04-09T07:56:00.002+10:00

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

2009-04-08T14:32:00.001+10:00

St David's All Saints Community

2009-04-03T13:16:00.001+10:00

Make video montages at www.OneTrueMedia.com

Bunty Warby's 89th B'day celebrations

2009-03-31T15:15:00.000+10:00

My Mother's 89th Birthday Messages

2009-03-25T21:08:00.001+10:00

St Patty's Day 2009

2009-03-18T13:21:00.000+10:00

St John’s Cathedral - Church Bells

2009-03-15T10:38:00.007+10:00

So I read in the paper that finally the 12 bells would be peeling this weekend at St John’s Cathedral, and I make a mental note to go and hear them and see them for myself.

Controversy has never been far away with the bells, and the bell tower; famously built then dismantled recently when it was realized - too late- that the bells will soon demolish the newly built bell-tower; with its constant vibrations. Then a woman was trapped for hours with a broken leg after she became entangled in the mess of ropes.

Sheesh, these bells need my support, and they need it now!

Driving into town, all I know is that the first service begins at 7.30am, and I am hoping that the peeling may be at this first service, otherwise it’s a 9.30am service, and we don’t’ want to stick around for that, we have friends coming to Maleny with us to help celebrate St Patrick’s Day.

I wonder if he rang bells? I know I did, dad would drag my out of bed with a grin and say 33 rings! Do it well! And he would be off somewhere, forgotten this or that, or simply preparing in his own way for the Sunday morning rush.

I would stand at the base of the simple, single bell, and pull hard with all my might on the frayed rope. With each pull I would grab the bell rope a little higher, next ring, a little higher still, until my arms were very high along the ropes. As the bell tolled, I would spring into the air, leaping what seemed feet above the ground, and calling to our black cocker spaniel dog Prince, I would encourage him to howl his hardest. With me swinging in mid-air like some child of Tarzan, and Prince sitting, howling and yowling with heart-breaking sadness, we were a sight! Yoooeeeeooww!

Anyway, I am in the city now, parking is in abundance, small groups of people shuffle their way into the Cathedral. My friend CJ is also in the city this morning, celebrating Mass at the Catholic Cathedral a few blocks away, then meeting with her book club over breakfast somewhere. I can’t believe she finds time to read books!

I sit near the front left, I want to be able to hear the sermon and see what’s going on. All the pews are solid cedar and although old and gorgeous; are very uncomfortable to sit in, so the various churches of the dioceses sewed pew cushions, all different and all related to each other in a “story”. I choose to sit on the beach and water story, and my pillow happens to be a flock of seagulls. The old women in front of me are sitting on Australian Wildflowers, to my front-left, a brilliant red Banksia. I feel a twang of regret, I should be sitting there, for my mother, and instead I am squashing seagulls.

Of such is life.

Gazing upwards, I wait, and watch, noting the fine detail of the sandstone interior. How the vaulted ceiling stays up is beyond me; and I reflect that men of math and physics built this building, and women of hunched backs and white hair, fill it with love. In the far left of my vision I can see two black grand pianos, and I hear a fine tenor voice singing and practising the hymns to be sung. A bit late to practise? We all do what we can.

The Service begins with prayers, not a hymn. The processional is made up of various women, and a few men. The priest is wearing a hair mike, to pick up his voice. So is his server, a woman who stands beside him for the entire service. The other woman remains seated almost throughout, sitting like a white-robed statue: so still I have to really stare at her to see if she is still breathing.

Me? I’m a fidgeter, can never sit still, and I cross and uncross my legs and have to keep looking around, taking details in. I mentally cross off being a priest, or at least a white-robed-statue, as a career choice. Finally, a hymn, and we are accompanied by the hidden organ way up high in the loft, not the grand piano. Feebly, we sing, or at least attempt to. SING LOUD I hear dad nudge me, and I raise my voice to what I deem as acceptable, dare I hit a wrong note. Later, the next hymn is familiar, with a few halleluiahs thrown in and so I do my best for that one too, until the organ flourishes on the last verse drown me out, and everyone else who is singing.

I glance around and we look like goldfish gasping for air, I can SEE people singing, I just can’t HEAR anything other than the organist, who is having a field day. Triumphant, sure, noisy, yep, that too. I resist a giggle.

The Peace be with you, and I turn and begin to shake the other ladies hands. Crossing the aisle, I also pump one of the only gentlemen in the congregation, he seems startled. People don’t cross the aisle here? Opps. At St Barnabas in Red Hill, you don’t sit until every hand is shaken, and held. Every hand. It goes on for 10 minutes, but that’s ok, we don’t have any other pressing issues to deal with. What’s ten minutes?

Today I have also been handed a Lent envelope in which I place my lousey $5, but I justify that I also purchased $20 of raffle tickets earlier in the week to win a blue hand-made bedspread that I pray I won’t use. I have 60 tickets! *faints. My nights are now filled with dread. What if I win it? Will it seem rude if I hand it back to be re-drawn? Do I donate it to a hospital? I can only hope my number does not come up.
The service concludes, but not before I have been crossed and blessed and had my Communion.

The best part. Body of Christ. Amen.

Slowly I make my way out of the church, shaking the priests’ hands as they line up to bid me farewell. Pity they didn’t bid me welcome, but that’s another story.

I sit in the car now to fill in 15 minutes, still ever hopeful the bells will ring as I was told, at 8.45am. Idly, I take photos of the clouds reflection in the skyscrapers. Finally, listen!

DING. DONG. DING. DONG.

And that’s it. I wait longer, hoping it’s just a rehearsal, perhaps they too are lining up their dog to howl in unison? Nope. That was it, and I drive back through the suburbs for breakfast.

John Warby Portrait - Part 5

2009-03-14T08:58:00.000+10:00

John Warby Portrait - Part 4

2009-03-14T08:57:00.001+10:00

John Warby Portrait - Part 3

2009-03-14T08:56:00.000+10:00

John Warby Portrait - Part 2

2009-03-14T08:55:00.000+10:00

John Warby Portrait - Part 1

2009-03-14T08:29:00.003+10:00

Bunty Part 3

2009-03-13T20:47:00.008+10:00

Bunty Part 2

2009-03-13T20:45:00.005+10:00

Bunty Part 1

2009-03-13T20:41:00.005+10:00

Bunty Warby - Portrait of a Lady

2009-03-13T14:57:00.001+10:00

Painted by Portrait Artist David R. Darrow www.DarrowArt.com Used by Permission
All Rights Reserved

Bunty - Patty's mother

2009-03-13T09:53:00.002+10:00

2009-03-13T07:25:00.002+10:00

Free TV : Ustream

Painted by Portrait Artist David R. Darrow • www.DarrowArt.com Used by Permission • All Rights Reserved

Final Portrait - John Warby

2009-03-13T07:06:00.002+10:00

Painted by Portrait Artist David R. Darrow
•Used by Permission • All Rights Reserved

Make sure you watch Dave paint every day, one of Americia's finest portrait artists and a beaut bloke too.... Dave the Painting Guy

My father's portrait - by David Darrow

2009-03-12T16:04:00.002+10:00

Fine artist David Darrow painted my father's portrait. Check out his show here

It's a good day to read

2009-03-09T15:39:00.000+10:00

Melbourne '09 through my eyes

2009-03-07T14:10:00.000+10:00

Make video montages at www.OneTrueMedia.com

Figure Head

2009-03-04T10:29:00.004+10:00

I took this picture along the Canal in Reading. We were hoping to see some narrow boats, but this was the only boat that we could see on the canal, but I loved the Figure Head.

Patty walking the pavements of Melbourne

2009-03-02T15:11:00.001+10:00

Guildford

2009-02-28T10:23:00.001+10:00

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

New Home

2009-02-28T10:17:00.003+10:00

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

My cyber friend!!

2009-02-26T08:14:00.002+10:00

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!

2009-02-23T13:05:00.001+10:00

Anna to Government House, the movie!

2009-02-23T12:08:00.001+10:00

Media pack

2009-02-23T11:27:00.007+10:00

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

2009-02-23T11:06:00.004+10:00

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

2009-02-23T10:14:00.008+10:00

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.

2009-02-22T23:10:00.006+10:00

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

2009-02-20T13:15:00.006+10:00

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

2009-02-20T11:26:00.004+10:00

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

Street Cleaner

2009-02-20T11:18:00.004+10:00

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

2009-02-19T16:25:00.000+10:00

Over Spencer Gulf

2009-02-18T10:19:00.002+10:00

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

Nat's 30th Memories

2009-02-17T21:15:00.002+10:00