Swimming with Sharks

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!

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!

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

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.

Road Trip to Townsville

Road Trip Townsville 09no Notes

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

Sing Loud at Mater Dei

Singing LOUD at Mater Dei

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

ANZAC Day 2004

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A young girls voice begins....

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

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

Lest we forget.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Again the Last Post.

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

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

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

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

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

ANZAC day 2004. Lest we forget.

ANZAC Day 2004

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A young girls voice begins....

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

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

Lest we forget.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Again the Last Post.

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

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

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

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

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

ANZAC day 2004. Lest we forget.

Easter Sunday '09

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

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

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

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

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

Old John, my pew friend- is missing.

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

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

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

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

SING LOUD!

I totally nail a few halleluiahs!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me? Yes, you, come and sit here.

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

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

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

It could be worse!

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

We gape, Abba-like, to his words.

Do you want forgiveness of your sins? I do.

Have you forgiven others?

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

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

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

I sip. We grin. Another memory.

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

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

SING LOUD!

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

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

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

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

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

Time to go home, and enjoy my lime margaritas.

St David's All Saints Community

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St Patty's Day 2009

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St John’s Cathedral - Church Bells

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.

Final Portrait - John Warby

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



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St Mary's – the movie!

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Anna to Government House, the movie!

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Media pack

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

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

'Here she is!' the cry goes up.

A huddle, jostling, all decorum out the window.

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

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

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

Anna Bligh to Government House

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

St Mary's – West End.

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

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

FATHER PETER FOR POPE.

They discuss politics of the Church.

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

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

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

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

Such a selection of humanity sits before us.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Breathe in.
Out.
As one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I have joined them.

I wonder how it will all end.

AMAZING TIMES WE LIVE IN

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Interesting times indeed.

GARDEN SEAT

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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