We are not going to go into 'old age' quietly.
(Ruth Ostrow Feb 19-20 2011)
There are roads to get lost on in strange countries.
Questions to ask and more mistakes to make(!)
New sustainable lifestyles to get growing on.
I am the age my mother retired - 50, and I'm thinking what did women do for the rest of their life?
Is it a global case of itchy feet or a sense that we are conditioned to keep on contributing.
Volunteer, life long learning, new careers options are all around us.
Surviving in the real world means not using the age card as an out.
We are born to reinvent ourselves, so surviving can be fun right?
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Letter of the week! I want a revival!
Finally recognition for knitters everywhere.
As a convert from the age of ten, when I made my first scarf.
(With a lot of dropped stitches). I am now fascinated by the resurgence of knitting making its mark.
I have seen store windows emblazoned with the words Geek Chic, with lots of knitted clothes on show.
So is geeky the new cool?
As a convert from the age of ten, when I made my first scarf.
(With a lot of dropped stitches). I am now fascinated by the resurgence of knitting making its mark.
I have seen store windows emblazoned with the words Geek Chic, with lots of knitted clothes on show.
So is geeky the new cool?
Miss Popularity
Miss Popularity
- Jenny Esots
Writing can be innate or impossible. A raw imagination can bubble into life or be quashed into
straight lines. I began to write to order, following blackboard orders. It never occurred to me that
the order of words would flow. Instead they thudded onto the page, ink blots, mistakes and cover ups.
Follow the leader, listen and obey. These are the basic tenants of childhood. The habit that never
breaks is set in the first five years. You have your lot, you have your own bit of turf. Battles and
dreams are what makes that little bit of desire grow. Sometimes I am sure I have never left being
that serious, independent little girl.
The memories that deceive, recreate and morph into new visions are here. I wrote them while
waiting full circle for the next generation of five year olds to come into my life. There is an ache
there, for that muster of the school yard. The climbing onto cubby barricades and comradeship of
siblings. It will take me to the end, knowing the gift of discovery locked in with tears of anger. I didn’t
get an easy time, but it was mine. My place in the world of the big girls and boys. Trying to learn the
rules.
Standing in the school playground is a group of five year olds. Bare legs and sandals. A bossy girl
stands out the front to deliver orders. She is of Italian stock and loves to be calling the shots.
“Get ready to run!”
If one of us can outrun her, we can be the leader.
We all stand by the wall, awaiting instructions. A strong wind blows up and showers her with dust
and gravel.
We all laugh in delight as she yells, as the dust cloud overtakes her. I am not the leader but a great
observer. Reserving this snapshot, a chronicle of childhood.
Miss Popularity
My anxiety pattern about writing emerges early.
Sitting at my wooden desk, ink well in the corner. We have been given the task of writing a list of
capital letters and the corresponding lower case letter next to it. I am given a big sheet of paper with
large soft blue lines, about two inches apart.
Very early in the piece I write the wrong letter. The teacher is walking down the aisle with another
teacher looking over our work. I don’t think she will not notice if I cover it up with my hand, cupped
casually at the top of the page. The teacher gently prizing it away to reveal the error. Sprung.
School life started at four and a half. Having a birthday in June means I can either start early or
late, at five and a half. Mum having two other little people at home chooses four and a half. So it
was I was the youngest in each successive class to follow.
Being the youngest l gives me some sort of claim. Or is it excuse for all the things I don’t know.
At home I can rule the gang. I lead my followers to the club house we are making. Mum has decided
to lock the kitchen screen door. So we are stuck outside and I am in charge. There is the stretch of
concrete along the back of the house. The paved ‘alley way’ beside the bungalow and the wooden
fence. The small swing set and a lot of lawn. The grey metal hills hoist in the centre. Sometimes one
of us is not included in the latest club and resentments flair. Mum comes out later in the day, ages
have passed by. It is a time when the summer holidays seem to go on and on and on. We have a
sprinkler, but that is as close to water as we get.
There was no way home from school then. I was in what we used to call ‘bubs’ class. Taken out of
my world of cubbies and clubs to the classroom with kids I had never met. No buses, no mothers
who drove. So a taxi system existed. There is a line of taxi’s by the school wire fence and a number
of one which I am supposed to get in. I ask each driver but cannot find the right number. I decide to
be independent and do not want to cause any trouble. I walk the couple of miles home. I know the
Miss Popularity
way, having done the walk to the big shops with mum.
Nearly home I see the taxi rounding the bend. I can’t be caught out walking.
I must hide quickly. I bob down in the long grass until it is out of sight.
Did they see me? My mind is racing with adrenaline.
Then I continue on home. Home is a two fronted cream brick veneer house in a little court. It has a
steep concrete driveway with a garage at the top for our Morris Oxford.
Nothing is said until a knock at the door later in the evening, I think I’m in trouble. Questions are
asked, stern voices, did I cry then?
The school is next to the ‘big’ shops. As opposed to the ‘little’ shops a few streets away. There is also
a Milk Bar about half way between the Big shops and our house. It has a screen door and high
counters, all I can see is the jars of lollies. Which we get in little white paper bags. One cent can buy
two bananas, or one big lolly. There are gob stoppers, lengths of liquorice, teeth lollies, boxes of
‘Fags’ cigarettes. Five cents is a bonanza. Making our selection. Choosing from the big glass jars.
I am listening to some songs on the radio from next door. Their house is quite close to the fence and
I can hear them arguing and shouting. Something our family never does. We listen to radio 3LO and
Peter Evans in the morning. He tells listeners stories and we listen to a cat called Smoka. Peter’s
voice is big and commanding. In the afternoon I come home from school and watch TV, which is in
the corner.
The TV is full of favourite places to disappear into. Adventure Island and the Magic Roundabout. Play
School adventures and big ted, as we look through the windows and see that clock and get ready for
the new story to be read to us. A story a day will lead me to find a land of play in books. A make
believe escape of a perennial day dreamer. But then the teacher is pulling me back to finish that
Miss Popularity
page of letters.
The morning getting ready for school is often frantic. My mum panicking to finish the school lunch,
not in a good mood, so careful what you say. I was that painfully skinny kid, with short boyish honey
blond hair. I never looked girly enough. The insecurities that seep into your day. Restless boys
pushing each other in line. I am not Miss popularity, but dream away of that day when I am at the
centre. With lots of boys talking to me.We venture to church each Sunday. It is a modern building
with a huge wooden cross on the wall at the front. Wooden pews and a high pulpit that the minister
climbs into. There are lots of families there, lots of children. We are sent out to Sunday school and
placed in groups. There is a lady who plays the piano and we sing. She is very good at getting the kids
to sing but I say very little in our class. Afraid of saying the wrong thing or not knowing the answer. I
listen and my mind drifts off. There is a huge morten bay fig tree out the front of the church where
we wait while the big people talk.
Home time and my little sister and brother play hide and seek. How many will we count to? Ten?
Twenty? One Hundred! We seem to hide all afternoon, until one of us gets tired and wanders off .
Scraping our knees amid bruises on bruises. Roller skating like a mad thing in our back yard and
down the steep driveway, no fear. The rush means that I will be the fastest ever on those wheels.
Tying the laces, the red vinyl around my feet. No one tells me to stop, so the race continues.
Listening to some songs heard from next door. Our family has an exclusive ABC only TV policy, no
soap operas, no modern music. In the morning it is radio 3LO with Peter Evans. The serial Smoka is
about a cat and Peter’s voice has a low volume command that is friendly and reassuring. Our family
are NOT morning people. Mum is always rushing. A habit that I will follow.
Miss Popularity
There is the thin little kid with the open mouth grin. A family photographer is talking to my mum.
Setting up on the lounge table. A blanket is put down for us three to sit on. Arguments over which
dress to wear with my sister. I get to wear a red velvet dress which I love. It has a gold pattern on the
front bodice. We all smile beautifully except my brother, who has to be enticed with a little toy car
cement mixer.
We had quite a large backyard, with a small bungalow in it. This was like a junky shed that had steps
up to it. A little bit of garden was on the corner of it, about two feet by two feet.
My mother was a gardener and helped us to plant marigolds and forget me nots in this spot
I see them flower, the bright yellow mingled with sky blue flecks. Yellow is my religion.
That happy place I can drink in. Then I am alright.
Turning photographs into stories. Life into a TV show. Reeling through programs. Lots of repeats.
Was it fact or fiction that gets rewritten each day.
School life fast forwards. I see hooks for bags in the corridor. The little books with the big type. Little
chairs and tables and the big blackboard. There is a photo image of a little girl in a brand new
summer dress, shiny shoes and a little blazer. Squinting into the camera by the front fence with the
little jacaranda tree covered with a plastic bag to help it grow. Is it my house? Or my future
staring up at me?
- Jenny Esots
Writing can be innate or impossible. A raw imagination can bubble into life or be quashed into
straight lines. I began to write to order, following blackboard orders. It never occurred to me that
the order of words would flow. Instead they thudded onto the page, ink blots, mistakes and cover ups.
Follow the leader, listen and obey. These are the basic tenants of childhood. The habit that never
breaks is set in the first five years. You have your lot, you have your own bit of turf. Battles and
dreams are what makes that little bit of desire grow. Sometimes I am sure I have never left being
that serious, independent little girl.
The memories that deceive, recreate and morph into new visions are here. I wrote them while
waiting full circle for the next generation of five year olds to come into my life. There is an ache
there, for that muster of the school yard. The climbing onto cubby barricades and comradeship of
siblings. It will take me to the end, knowing the gift of discovery locked in with tears of anger. I didn’t
get an easy time, but it was mine. My place in the world of the big girls and boys. Trying to learn the
rules.
Standing in the school playground is a group of five year olds. Bare legs and sandals. A bossy girl
stands out the front to deliver orders. She is of Italian stock and loves to be calling the shots.
“Get ready to run!”
If one of us can outrun her, we can be the leader.
We all stand by the wall, awaiting instructions. A strong wind blows up and showers her with dust
and gravel.
We all laugh in delight as she yells, as the dust cloud overtakes her. I am not the leader but a great
observer. Reserving this snapshot, a chronicle of childhood.
Miss Popularity
My anxiety pattern about writing emerges early.
Sitting at my wooden desk, ink well in the corner. We have been given the task of writing a list of
capital letters and the corresponding lower case letter next to it. I am given a big sheet of paper with
large soft blue lines, about two inches apart.
Very early in the piece I write the wrong letter. The teacher is walking down the aisle with another
teacher looking over our work. I don’t think she will not notice if I cover it up with my hand, cupped
casually at the top of the page. The teacher gently prizing it away to reveal the error. Sprung.
School life started at four and a half. Having a birthday in June means I can either start early or
late, at five and a half. Mum having two other little people at home chooses four and a half. So it
was I was the youngest in each successive class to follow.
Being the youngest l gives me some sort of claim. Or is it excuse for all the things I don’t know.
At home I can rule the gang. I lead my followers to the club house we are making. Mum has decided
to lock the kitchen screen door. So we are stuck outside and I am in charge. There is the stretch of
concrete along the back of the house. The paved ‘alley way’ beside the bungalow and the wooden
fence. The small swing set and a lot of lawn. The grey metal hills hoist in the centre. Sometimes one
of us is not included in the latest club and resentments flair. Mum comes out later in the day, ages
have passed by. It is a time when the summer holidays seem to go on and on and on. We have a
sprinkler, but that is as close to water as we get.
There was no way home from school then. I was in what we used to call ‘bubs’ class. Taken out of
my world of cubbies and clubs to the classroom with kids I had never met. No buses, no mothers
who drove. So a taxi system existed. There is a line of taxi’s by the school wire fence and a number
of one which I am supposed to get in. I ask each driver but cannot find the right number. I decide to
be independent and do not want to cause any trouble. I walk the couple of miles home. I know the
Miss Popularity
way, having done the walk to the big shops with mum.
Nearly home I see the taxi rounding the bend. I can’t be caught out walking.
I must hide quickly. I bob down in the long grass until it is out of sight.
Did they see me? My mind is racing with adrenaline.
Then I continue on home. Home is a two fronted cream brick veneer house in a little court. It has a
steep concrete driveway with a garage at the top for our Morris Oxford.
Nothing is said until a knock at the door later in the evening, I think I’m in trouble. Questions are
asked, stern voices, did I cry then?
The school is next to the ‘big’ shops. As opposed to the ‘little’ shops a few streets away. There is also
a Milk Bar about half way between the Big shops and our house. It has a screen door and high
counters, all I can see is the jars of lollies. Which we get in little white paper bags. One cent can buy
two bananas, or one big lolly. There are gob stoppers, lengths of liquorice, teeth lollies, boxes of
‘Fags’ cigarettes. Five cents is a bonanza. Making our selection. Choosing from the big glass jars.
I am listening to some songs on the radio from next door. Their house is quite close to the fence and
I can hear them arguing and shouting. Something our family never does. We listen to radio 3LO and
Peter Evans in the morning. He tells listeners stories and we listen to a cat called Smoka. Peter’s
voice is big and commanding. In the afternoon I come home from school and watch TV, which is in
the corner.
The TV is full of favourite places to disappear into. Adventure Island and the Magic Roundabout. Play
School adventures and big ted, as we look through the windows and see that clock and get ready for
the new story to be read to us. A story a day will lead me to find a land of play in books. A make
believe escape of a perennial day dreamer. But then the teacher is pulling me back to finish that
Miss Popularity
page of letters.
The morning getting ready for school is often frantic. My mum panicking to finish the school lunch,
not in a good mood, so careful what you say. I was that painfully skinny kid, with short boyish honey
blond hair. I never looked girly enough. The insecurities that seep into your day. Restless boys
pushing each other in line. I am not Miss popularity, but dream away of that day when I am at the
centre. With lots of boys talking to me.We venture to church each Sunday. It is a modern building
with a huge wooden cross on the wall at the front. Wooden pews and a high pulpit that the minister
climbs into. There are lots of families there, lots of children. We are sent out to Sunday school and
placed in groups. There is a lady who plays the piano and we sing. She is very good at getting the kids
to sing but I say very little in our class. Afraid of saying the wrong thing or not knowing the answer. I
listen and my mind drifts off. There is a huge morten bay fig tree out the front of the church where
we wait while the big people talk.
Home time and my little sister and brother play hide and seek. How many will we count to? Ten?
Twenty? One Hundred! We seem to hide all afternoon, until one of us gets tired and wanders off .
Scraping our knees amid bruises on bruises. Roller skating like a mad thing in our back yard and
down the steep driveway, no fear. The rush means that I will be the fastest ever on those wheels.
Tying the laces, the red vinyl around my feet. No one tells me to stop, so the race continues.
Listening to some songs heard from next door. Our family has an exclusive ABC only TV policy, no
soap operas, no modern music. In the morning it is radio 3LO with Peter Evans. The serial Smoka is
about a cat and Peter’s voice has a low volume command that is friendly and reassuring. Our family
are NOT morning people. Mum is always rushing. A habit that I will follow.
Miss Popularity
There is the thin little kid with the open mouth grin. A family photographer is talking to my mum.
Setting up on the lounge table. A blanket is put down for us three to sit on. Arguments over which
dress to wear with my sister. I get to wear a red velvet dress which I love. It has a gold pattern on the
front bodice. We all smile beautifully except my brother, who has to be enticed with a little toy car
cement mixer.
We had quite a large backyard, with a small bungalow in it. This was like a junky shed that had steps
up to it. A little bit of garden was on the corner of it, about two feet by two feet.
My mother was a gardener and helped us to plant marigolds and forget me nots in this spot
I see them flower, the bright yellow mingled with sky blue flecks. Yellow is my religion.
That happy place I can drink in. Then I am alright.
Turning photographs into stories. Life into a TV show. Reeling through programs. Lots of repeats.
Was it fact or fiction that gets rewritten each day.
School life fast forwards. I see hooks for bags in the corridor. The little books with the big type. Little
chairs and tables and the big blackboard. There is a photo image of a little girl in a brand new
summer dress, shiny shoes and a little blazer. Squinting into the camera by the front fence with the
little jacaranda tree covered with a plastic bag to help it grow. Is it my house? Or my future
staring up at me?
Bobby Calves
As a busy working mother I am taking the time to write about a serious issue.
I have been appalled regarding the proposed new laws regarding the treatment of bobby calves.
I will reduce my intake of dairy products in protest.
Animals deserve to be treated ethically and physically humanely.
As an Australian citizen I strongly object to the proposed Standard for Time Off Feed for bobby calves that is currently under consideration by the Government.
To deny calves of only a few days old food for up to 30 hours is abhorrent and unethical and cannot be justified by any economic gain.
It is shameful that these animals are treated as waste products by the dairy industry in the first place, but the government at the very least is morally obliged to enact standards that will minimize their suffering and discomfort during their short lives.
I urge you not to pass this standard and instead implement standards that will ensure these calves obvious needs are addressed and that they are treated as humanely as possible.
I have been appalled regarding the proposed new laws regarding the treatment of bobby calves.
I will reduce my intake of dairy products in protest.
Animals deserve to be treated ethically and physically humanely.
As an Australian citizen I strongly object to the proposed Standard for Time Off Feed for bobby calves that is currently under consideration by the Government.
To deny calves of only a few days old food for up to 30 hours is abhorrent and unethical and cannot be justified by any economic gain.
It is shameful that these animals are treated as waste products by the dairy industry in the first place, but the government at the very least is morally obliged to enact standards that will minimize their suffering and discomfort during their short lives.
I urge you not to pass this standard and instead implement standards that will ensure these calves obvious needs are addressed and that they are treated as humanely as possible.
Ruth Park honoured
Ruth Park - Issue No. 373
Thank you Big Issue for honoring one of the finest authors I have read.
Our book club read Fishing in the Styx by Ruth Park last year and it was a revelation to find a writer who put all of life on the page.
She truly was a standout writer.
Thank you Big Issue for honoring one of the finest authors I have read.
Our book club read Fishing in the Styx by Ruth Park last year and it was a revelation to find a writer who put all of life on the page.
She truly was a standout writer.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Keeping things in circulation.
Time in a bottle.
Armchair traveling this evening, very pleasant viewing.
Now if only I could organize all my discs and things, so it was in some semblance of order.
Also had afternoon tea in Port Noarlunga and sold an old radio and two board games at Noddy's.
The way I see it, keep things in circulation.
Armchair traveling this evening, very pleasant viewing.
Now if only I could organize all my discs and things, so it was in some semblance of order.
Also had afternoon tea in Port Noarlunga and sold an old radio and two board games at Noddy's.
The way I see it, keep things in circulation.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Sunday Sunday
Sunday Sunday
Sleep and get up in time for an afternoon tea and? drop things in to Noddy's.
Could be writing more but after a while you mind slows down overnight.
Kind of just want to be in a nice cosy bed.
Nigh nigh.................
Sleep and get up in time for an afternoon tea and? drop things in to Noddy's.
Could be writing more but after a while you mind slows down overnight.
Kind of just want to be in a nice cosy bed.
Nigh nigh.................
Friday, February 18, 2011
Blogging works!
Blogging works!
Can't explain.
Wonderful soft rain all day yesterday.
Little snails crawling around the back door.
Wet dog undeterred by rain.
Snaking traffic down South Road.
Coffee - waiting for that hit.
Can't explain.
Wonderful soft rain all day yesterday.
Little snails crawling around the back door.
Wet dog undeterred by rain.
Snaking traffic down South Road.
Coffee - waiting for that hit.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Still on purge mode
Still on purge mode.
Old Tatachilla uniforms handed in.
Linen cupboards in progress.
Chess set to donate.
Old radio, tv, china and various oddments to antique shop.
More forms to send off for marriage certificate etc.
Letters re: animal rights to send off, particularly in reference to the dairy industry.
Reading Anna Karenina.
Road works still in progress at the top of my letterbox - NBN Broadband pipes, a bit worried my reformed driveway is at risk.
Gearing up for overseas holiday in June - bring it on.
Possiblity of new car for Julian.
Talk again soon.
Old Tatachilla uniforms handed in.
Linen cupboards in progress.
Chess set to donate.
Old radio, tv, china and various oddments to antique shop.
More forms to send off for marriage certificate etc.
Letters re: animal rights to send off, particularly in reference to the dairy industry.
Reading Anna Karenina.
Road works still in progress at the top of my letterbox - NBN Broadband pipes, a bit worried my reformed driveway is at risk.
Gearing up for overseas holiday in June - bring it on.
Possiblity of new car for Julian.
Talk again soon.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Thrill of the Week - New Curtains!
Very early start.
Got the 7:17 express into the city - arrived in Adelaide @ 7:50am for a 9am appointment.
Have since organized travel insurance and had brekkie.
Getting tired as it has been quite humid.
Anxiety +++ this week due to car break downs, cyclone Yasi and horrific animal reports in the papers and news. Letters are pending.
In the State Library.
Had a wonderful tour of Adelaide yesterday courtesy of Elizabeth.
A Polish artist in an obscure gallery, old rooms full of books and cabinets.
Do people work here?
Library job?
Looked at info on post graduate mental health sciences and was not inspired.
TV shows that have been missed and on far too late.
Just remembered by thrill of the week - new curtains have been fitted!!
Came home to find they were all installed.
The first time in my life I have got curtains fitted.
I am so impressed.
Will be sending a Thank You card as well as payment as the result has been so good.
Creative Mood - I think they were called.
It is also a plus to have a handy man do all the fiddly bits of moving rails etc etc.
Got the 7:17 express into the city - arrived in Adelaide @ 7:50am for a 9am appointment.
Have since organized travel insurance and had brekkie.
Getting tired as it has been quite humid.
Anxiety +++ this week due to car break downs, cyclone Yasi and horrific animal reports in the papers and news. Letters are pending.
In the State Library.
Had a wonderful tour of Adelaide yesterday courtesy of Elizabeth.
A Polish artist in an obscure gallery, old rooms full of books and cabinets.
Do people work here?
Library job?
Looked at info on post graduate mental health sciences and was not inspired.
TV shows that have been missed and on far too late.
Just remembered by thrill of the week - new curtains have been fitted!!
Came home to find they were all installed.
The first time in my life I have got curtains fitted.
I am so impressed.
Will be sending a Thank You card as well as payment as the result has been so good.
Creative Mood - I think they were called.
It is also a plus to have a handy man do all the fiddly bits of moving rails etc etc.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Car Won't Go.............
Car won't go - two tows this week - which ain't easy from our driveway - help.
New gas converter and battery - money, money, money.
Despite this have managed to have a lovely day in Adelaide.
The state library rooms and cafe for lunch, met before that to look in the Adelaide Art Gallery and Museum.
Finished off in the Adelaide arcade.
Book buying amnesty for 2011 - made decesion after reading the book Sold Out by Robert Llewelyn. I have more than enough books and I really need to get involved with them and/or library pick ups, of course.
Horrible news about cyclone Yasi, bobby calfs and Canadian husky dogs being slaughtered - which made sleeping quite difficult.
I am not prepared to buy milk if the dairy farmers are going to do such blatantly inhumane practices - will look into Fleurieu products.
New gas converter and battery - money, money, money.
Despite this have managed to have a lovely day in Adelaide.
The state library rooms and cafe for lunch, met before that to look in the Adelaide Art Gallery and Museum.
Finished off in the Adelaide arcade.
Book buying amnesty for 2011 - made decesion after reading the book Sold Out by Robert Llewelyn. I have more than enough books and I really need to get involved with them and/or library pick ups, of course.
Horrible news about cyclone Yasi, bobby calfs and Canadian husky dogs being slaughtered - which made sleeping quite difficult.
I am not prepared to buy milk if the dairy farmers are going to do such blatantly inhumane practices - will look into Fleurieu products.
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