Fires in WA

Posted on February 8, 2016 by brightsunflowers

 

It’s happened again. The heavy thundering of the super water bombers and the billowing smoke nearby.

And I still find blackened leaves in my garden that fell from the sky during the Yarloop fire in mid January. Now a fire that started in Uduc region has doubled in size and is out of control. Together with a heat wave and wind direction which is changing 365 degrees, it’s difficult for firefighters.

Just this past week all my friends complained of feeling flat. “My husband’s a firefighter and the recent fire disrupted our holiday. Apart from worrying about our own home, we felt dreadful for those who lost their lives and properties. And then all those poor animals too.”

We discussed what we had put in our emergency grab bags. “Oh, my jewellery in a snap lock and all the kids birth certificates and all our policies and that stuff in another. And then of course as many photos as I could put in the boot”. Most women chose photos and policies/certificates. “And I would like to scan all my children’s art work and all the photos so I just have to take a few sticks with in my bag, “added another mother.

What did I take last month? Two cats and the dog. Our family. And it was a choice between the giraffe and the hippo. I chose the latter. Lugging a 50 kg African animal into my boot was weirdly comforting. Perhaps because I was able to hug his enormous solid girth in the process. Then about 50 photo albums. I threw in some jewellery and grandmother’s watch, which I haven’t found to date. It seems that in trying to save granny, I lost her. After pushing in a few paintings from the past- Scottish cows in the Highlands belonging to my ancestors-  there was no more energy or space for more. Dog and cat food, a torch a radio. Ready to evacuate.

British friends say they are allowed to leave directions to their special pieces in case of a fire. If there’s time, the firefighters will quickly source these items and take them outside. I don’t think there’ s this sort of policy in Australia. Our fires are in a different league.

To defend or leave is quite a debate at these times. There’s a flurry of clearing leaves from gutters and placing hosepipes and sprinklers in place, testing the strength and range of the water. It’s such a personal choice -courage, equipment and know how.

But what I do know is the joy of having escaped the last fire. Savouring every tree and bird and bee on the property. And experiencing enormous gratitude for escaping unscathed.  Others were not as fortunate.

And I’m back to the radio bulletins and DFES alerts. Like someone said on a forum just now, she’s  still jittery from the last fire…now this. The last fire lasted about a week and many people had no sleep in that time which added to the anxiety levels. The advice is to take turns at night watching the alerts, so at least every member gets adequate sleep.  Although they send sms s, I think everyone wants to be one step ahead by monitoring the situation on all media.

WA is the bush fire hotspot in Australia. I’m slowly getting to grips with this. Terrifying for those who have faced them and suffered through them. Beyond brave firefighters, amazing communities. The aussie word “mateship” becomes real in these testing times.

 

 

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Mulling over Media

Posted on January 22, 2016 by brightsunflowers

 

Prince Harry was wedged in the top rack, hugging a blonde. “This is the one!” shouted the headlines. Waiting at the checkout, I leaned forward for a closer look. “Oh, I know all about her – she’s part of royalty and I just know that she’s not right for him!” said the elderly woman behind me in the queue. “They entice us with those headlines at the checkout, but I don’t fall for it. I haven’t bought a newspaper or magazine for 30 years. We made a pact back then not to listen to or watch the news either!”

I nearly dropped my storage bins. “How does this make you feel?” I asked, trying not to look stunned. “Well, the papers and magazines are just filled with gossip or sensationalism. None of it affects me. It’s all pointless. And the big stuff like wars …well, I can’t do anything about the disasters of the world, can I? I just try to keep my strength for my daily chores and for looking after my family”. It was her turn to be served and I asked her hurriedly how she knew about Harry. “Well, I like talking. I work in the convenience store in our small town, so people tell me all the news. They filter it for me. And when they start on bits I don’t like I tell them to talk about something else. I have no social media, no smart phone for me!”

And then it was time for her to pay. “Think about what I’ve said!” said the hunched and elderly woman, pointing a finger at me and smiling. “I enjoyed talking to you!”

I have since contemplated life without media. Is it a better way to live? Less stressful, perhaps? I still cling to my old copies of Women’s  Weekly. I would like to reread the story on Maggie Beer and how Lisa Wilkinson loves second hand finds.  I keep Time magazines and interesting newspapers as it’s fun comparing politicians’ predictions to what eventually happens.  My tangible pieces of history are probably a fire risk but I love the smell and feel of paper.

What about no radio? Before we had television in South Africa, the source of all news was the little red radio. Solemn 7 pm supper – waiting for the news. Sanctions, Northern Ireland and the weather. No talking during the delivery which was probably good for our digestion. The radio was a treasured friend to my late mother  right up to the end. She prided herself in knowing the latest news. From cricket scores to weather forecasts, she had the very latest update.

Sadly, today it’s TV trays and The News. Shock and horror. A visual bombardment. I mostly prefer the facts without the footage. I believe it’s good to escape to nature periodically and get away from technology. Nothing but nature is good for the senses.  I would still feel comfortable with my smart phone,though, to check on fire or floods. It’s become a compromise between the beauty of nature and the unpredictability of it.

That old woman from the small rural town can probably  afford not to have media as all her family live in the same town. All that is important to her is contained to a manageable region. “I saw your daughter down at the filling station. She’s got a headache and is off to have fish and chips for lunch”. She gets her news delivered by a face – no need for Facebook.  Most of us need access to global news as family and friends are scattered around the world. Facebook, Skype and other social media are lifelines to the ups and downs of loved ones.

Each time I pass Harry at the checkout, I’m reminded of the  The Medialess One.  She probably saves herself a fortune by having the locals as her news conduit. Interestingly, she also had the latest on Keith and Nicole but ran out of time in the telling. It seems that nothing compares with the juice of the local grapevine. It’s free and it’s all some people need.

Posted in Australia, Facebook, family, Lisa Wilkinson, magazines, Maggie Beer, media, newspapers, radio, Skype, TV, Uncategorized, Women's Weekly | Leave a comment

Australia: A Great Place For The Forgetful

Posted on December 17, 2015 by brightsunflowers

This blog was first published in the Huffington Post Australia

 

Over 55 we become more forgetful. Apparently ageing can slow reaction time and the retrieval of information from memory, requiring a few more seconds. Or longer in the summer heat and year-end.

I had just finished the shopping and was unpacking the groceries at home when I looked for my list of Things to Do before Christmas. Where was my bag? Back to the boot. Nothing. Could it be possible that I left it in the shopping trolley?

Yes. Distracted by things I hadn’t yet done, I left it in full view of the entire parking lot.
My first thoughts were not about the cash or credit card. Not even my mobile. It was about the dread of posing for yet another driver’s licence photo. (I look as if I’m about to burst out crying in my present one. I was told not to smile and to close my mouth. This is difficult as I have allergies and I’m a mouth breather.)

I parked near my trolley but it was empty. I rushed into the shopping centre. I didn’t have to ask. There stood my large tan bag, slightly crumpled, on the customer care table.

“Oh, it’s mine,” I exclaimed. “I can’t believe I left in in the trolley and that someone actually brought it here!”

“Don’t worry,” said the smiling shop assistant, dressed in a red Happy Christmas outfit, “my mum’s not from here and she’s always misplacing things and we keep telling here that it’s a good thing she lives in Australia now.”

With that she passed me my bag. “Check if everything’s there.” From credits cards to shopping lists and the borealis bracelet from the Salvos (to add sparkle on Christmas day), all was in place.

So although Sydney was on tornado alert yesterday and Adelaide is having a heatwave of over 40 degrees predicted this week, what is a given in Australia are the people. I have found the average Australian in the street to be totally honest. All of my friends have had forgotten items returned. Wallets and mobiles dutifully handed in to relevant authorities.

A friend had the police call and say they had his wallet. He would have to fetch it in person as they could identify him from his driver’s licence (without a driver’s licence it’s almost as if you have no identity and I think it must be problematic for citizens who can’t or won’t drive). My friend was identified and allowed to check the contents. “Try to remember your wallet next time!” said the friendly cop.
I remember taking off my late mother’s signet ring at work. Large medical facility, lots of people in and out. I had washed my hands, applied cream and forgotten the ring. Next day, there it was on the counter. Untouched.

Of this I am sure — we can weather storms and heatwaves, but how would we cope without the integrity of our citizens? Australia’s a great place to live. Especially for the over 55s. Now I must quickly read the instructions on how to set up my solar led Christmas lights. Has anyone seen my glasses?

 

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I’ll write in 2016

Posted on November 9, 2015 by brightsunflowers

What excuse do I have for not writing about my life in Australia? Lists. Lots of lists of things to do before Christmas.

Take the pets’ fleas, for instance (and I wish that you would). “We are expecting a busy time in our clinic as pet owners prepare for the upcoming tick and flea season,” a local vet is quoted.   Applied the meds, vacuumed the entire house and cleaned every inch that they lounge on. They’re still scratching. The war on fleas has robbed me of writing time.

Then the signs everywhere: “It’s bush fire season! Have you prepared your firebreaks?” We’re expecting bad fires this season due to low rainfall in Western Australia. Apparently it’s going to be the hottest summer on record. Snakes are already slithering into the suburbs for a drink so it’s gumboots in the garden and no looking under logs.  I must slot in a day to rake the leaves along the firebreak and mulch them. Burning them flares up my asthma and sends unnecessary Co2 into the atmosphere and will probably cause even higher temperatures next year. The “are you fire ready?” list includes preparing a grab bag. This consists of important documents that will be needed if the house goes up in smoke. Equally important is the survival kit of medications, emergency rations, torch, radio, water and the animal transport boxes. Sourcing these may take time. I also need to scan all my photos onto a memory stick and store them at the bank. It’s about being prepared.

Happily, we received mail from the Water Corporation congratulating us on being one of the biggest non-users of water as measured by our area. At least there’ll be more water to put out fires. We’re all committed to being water wise.

I’m also getting to grips with saving the planet while shopping. At any time, I’m armed and ready with at least four eco-friendly bags. “How many customers bring their own bags?” I asked a check out assistant in the supermarket. “About 20 % – the rest just put it all in the free plastic bags.” When South Australia charged for plastic bags in supermarkets, the sale of recyclable bags increased. So did the number of patients with subluxated shoulders. “All the groceries in my two large bags have pulled my arm out of its socket!” said the patient in our physiotherapy practice. Until she remembers to half fill her hessian bags, she’s keeping doctors and physios in business.

I was about to settle down to some writing when I overheard a conversation about the Indonesian Forest Fires. “Oh, I’ve never been able to see the sun there in any case,” said a travelled man. “I hear it’s hit north Queensland now”. I quickly researched more facts on the situation. Attempting to save the world needs dedicated effort. According to NASA, the smog crisis could become the worst on record. Its covered Malaysia, Singapore and parts of Indonesia. About 600 million tonnes of greenhouse gases have been released as a result of this year’s fires.

Then just today there’s more news about rising sea levels. If a 2 degrees C spike in temperature develops by 2100, 280 million people will be displaced globally. The report was issued by US group Climate Central whose aim is to reduce global carbon emissions. The report shows pictures of Sydney Opera house covered by water if the temperature increases by 4 degrees C by 2100. My only thought is that it’s time to locate inland. Actually I needn’t bother. At 146 years old it probably won’t bother me.

It’s time consuming trying to get all the facts and figures and sometimes it seems as if there’s not much I can do about it all. The only figure I can change is my own.

And that’s my project before Christmas. It’s partly to do with a computer. I went to a GP and she put in my figures and out shot” Goodrick J Mrs: overweight”. That and my osteopenia finding – the state of my skeleton, one stage before osteoporosis- made me look at this new health/stealth concept. Sneak in the good stuff and you become healthier and thinner. And you won’t fracture when you fall. “You must go to gym and push weights,” said my GP, “you have to after 55”. She suddenly boxed the air above her head. I wanted to laugh. Perhaps it was the joyful hysteria at the thought of the New Me. Researching bone food has taken time. Calcium and vitamin D. Add magnesium. But no coffee or chocolate as the caffeine robs the bones of calcium. This has set me back. I have sat in coffee shops, drinking in the delicious aroma of coffee. By day three I was moody and realised that I was a flat white. I’ll cut back gradually. Chocolate? I tried the 90% dark and it reminded me of chocolate cubes I was once given for constipation. I was looking for a solution in the confectionary aisles when I saw an elderly woman on her hands and knees. “Can I help you?” “No, I’m fine, I found it. The last packet of chocolate digestives!” She clutched it, asking me if I knew the benefits of bran. “And the chocolate?’ I asked. “Couldn’t care…it makes me feel good!” I asked a woman in the chocolate aisle for comment. “The latest research says that ALL chocolate is good for you! Moderation in everything,” said a plump middle aged woman, lugging her stock of Cadbury for the month. “In any case, it makes me feel good!” she shouted from the end of the aisle.

Latest figures show the average Australian woman to be a size 16. They’re finding it hard to downsize and the issues are complex. In my case I worry about weight and feel bad about the state of my skeleton but feel very good after eating chocolate which in turn is bad for the bones and weight but has the feel good factor…I’m trapped in a cycle with most middle aged Ozzie women.

It was the 15th October when I stumbled over a 10 kg Christmas Lindt Ball while trying to escape Jingle Bells blaring from a nearby speaker. I pulled myself together, trying not to think of death by Lindt Ball, and headed to the Christmas cards. Not one mentioning Jesus Christ which is strange as the 25 December is His birthday celebration. I would love to send cards this year instead of sms s or emails. Handwritten, personal messages. I just need to update my address book once I find the original which has been missing since vacuuming and cleaning surfaces for fleas. I’m sure I’ll find it, it just a matter of time.

I’ll write when Christmas is over. After New Year is probably more realistic. In 2016, I will finally write about life in Australia, in the gap between my old and my new to do lists. I’ll resist being pressured into saving the planet in that period. I yearn to just fill blank paper, sip coffee and nibble Lindt while not thinking about my frame, forests, fires or fat.

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Forever young

Posted on July 16, 2015 by brightsunflowers

“Your skin is ageing, every second counts!” Adverts like these are causing panic, mostly among women who feel they are losing the battle against the laws of the universe.

Fortunately, cosmetic companies around the world are entering the realms of science on their behalf. Not only have they discovered how to defy gravity, but they are also experts in time reversal. Some of these institutes for skin technology are affilliated to NASA, sharing their latest surveys on “lift”. And Russian girls, having put the Cold Cream War behind them, are now collaborating with Western women on anti-gravitational explorations.

They’ve also spilled the beans on their weapons of mass destruction – coffee grounds. Rubbed on the thighs, it reduced cellulite.

But what goes on in those hi-tech laboratories? I would love to be part of an experiment to uplift women. Perhaps I’ll become an independent consultant (the adverts in the magazines always verify findings using these women). I’d be filed under “Middle-aged, time-and sun-ravaged mother”.

I presume there would be various departments. The photo lab and the Wrinkle Recognition Area. Further along one would find the Lift and Anti-Sag Room, the Anti-Ageing Faculty and the Anti-Droop Conference Centre. The Cosmetic Time Capsule would be hidden in a secret location.

I would sign a letter of agreement. Obligatory make-up applications to hide any hint of a line or wrinkle which might nullify the cream’s claims. Or, I would agree to a one-off payment to promote the product for a certain period and then to go into hiding so the long-term effect of the lotion can never be assessed by the public.

First the photos. “Before She Applied the Miracle Cream”. Then they’d send me to the Transformation Plinth, filled with stern women in white jackets. All procedures would be undertaken under the watchful eye of the youthful blonde who founded the institute in 1901.

On the wall, a chart: “81 percent of women who had this firm-up treatment claimed the anti-sagging effectiveness to be outstanding!”

How does one test for sag? Scans done before and after, measuring the three dimensional aspects of the face and neck for millimetre precision? Or are all women, away from the stresses of the household, bound to feel refreshed, rejuvenated and renewed after a bit of pampering? Just escaping for a day would uplift most of us.

If my face refuses to “youthen”, I’d be thrown into the Cosmetic Time Capsule. Tucked safely in my capsule, I would lift and then circle the outer limits of Earth’s atmosphere backwards. This would reverse time and suction my face upwards by gravitational forces of Pluto. The capsule would finally eject me and I would look 20.

But I’ve just read a report which disturbs me. It claims we are wasting our time and money on our faces. The problem lies in our bones. Our cheekbones sag and shrink as we age, taking everything with them. I’m not sure how they discovered this. Probably female sinus sufferers’ scans and X-rays.

“Look at Mrs Nuserum, aged 25. X-rays reveal Sophie Loren-like cheekbones,” says a professor of ears, nose and throats, addressing delegates at a world congress.

“Now, Mrs Nuserum at 55. Alas, her cheeks have imploded!” Was it inevitable or did they collapse under the weight of all that plumping cream?

I don’t mind if my face finally falls. All I hope for is a little lift around the mouth. Gravity defying and timeless, a smile looks good at any age.

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Have a good day

Posted on April 29, 2015 by brightsunflowers

                                                           

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The women ahead of me had their heads down. Counting coupons, it seemed. Shaking of heads, there had been a faulty count. Another try at the dog food coupons.

I thought I had chosen the short queue. You never really know. The woman in front of me picked a magazine out of the rack. Which Hollywood Stars have Double Bottoms shouted the headlines. Frantic paging to find out more about the bottom battles. The coupon dispute had ended and cash or card questions asked. Tell me, I asked the avid reader, had she got to the bottom of the problem yet? No, she hadn’t found the page. Agitation mounted as the time came to unload her trolley.
In defeat, she packed away the magazine. Oh no, not buying it, but she could get at least seven headlines suitably answered at any checkout queue, she bragged.

“Hello, how has your day been?” asked the teller.
“Not good, my arthritis is killing me,” said the magazine reader.
“Anything planned today?”
“Another trip to buy medicine”.
“Anything exciting happening tonight?” she asked, pursuing any sort of happy event. Sometimes coaxing was needed.
I secretly worked out my answer in advance. You can’t leave a teller disappointed.
“No, nothing really,” she replied.
In desperation, the weather was called upon to help out.
Drizzling yet? Forecasts of rain and other gloomy topics brought some life out of the otherwise uninteresting woman.
The price of groceries! When will it stop, she said, almost happy at yet another topic to complain about.
I felt for the teller. Her bouncy banter had been successfully quashed.
My turn. And how has your day been, then?
Oh wonderful! Really good!
Anything exciting planned for today?
Yes, the washing. I was keen to try the new brand of stain remover on special. I happily anticipated that my new Zero Tolerance would battle my stained whites into cleaner then white surrender. I was then going to relax and read a book and maybe nibble some Lindt.
She looked up. My exciting day had taken her by surprise.
Could I interest her in my sunflower seeds? I anticipated a very good crop this season and was about to use a new raising mix with trace elements.
Her eyes glazed over. Obviously not a flower girl. She looked behind me, and I followed her gaze.
A row of irritable women with piled high trolleys glared back.
I had tried. Tried to keep the happy teller in good spirits.
I wished her a good day.
She leaned forward and whispered. Tellers are forced to ask customers these questions, she explained. Some don’t answer. Some are happy to have a chance to gripe. And others won’t stop talking about their exciting day.
“But you go and have a good day, then!” she instructed with a wink. And I did.

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The Queen

Posted on February 5, 2015 by brightsunflowers

I can’t ignore the Queen. She keeps appearing as I unpack boxes from the past.

“Now THIS you must treasure!” said my late mother. “It’s an original newspaper of the Queen’s coronation. Keep it in the dark, wrapped carefully. You can see it’s starting to disintegrate.”

For many years the Queen’s been lying in the dark but today she’ll see the light. How beautiful she looks, how radiant as she walks down the aisle in Westminster Abbey. Winston Churchill is quoted in this edition of 2 June 1953.
“Let it not be thought that the age of chivalry belongs to the past. Here, at the summit of our world-wide community, is the lady whom we respect, because she is our Queen, and whom we love because she is herself.
Gracious and noble are words familiar to us all…tonight they have a new ring in them, because we know they are true about the gleaming figure whom Providence has brought to us in times when the present is hard and the future veiled.
It is our dearest hope that the Queen shall be happy, and our resolve unswerving that her reign will be as glorious as her devoted subjects can help to make it.
We pray to have rulers who serve, to have nations who comfort each other and have peoples who thrive and prosper free from fear. May God grant us these blessings.”

I fold the yellowed, torn and crumbling paper. Now to the bag of old coins. The Queen looks at me. Long, slim neck. Serene and elegant. She disappeared from South African coins in about 1963 when we became a republic.

I’m now in Australia and the Queen’s back in my life. Her jaw line and neckline have thickened since I last saw her, but she’s still smiling. On Australia Day 2015 they whispered about becoming a republic. Australians were asked for comment. “Oh no, you’re not changing my flag! I’ve grown to like the pattern…don’t go and take Britain out of it!” said a middle aged woman.
“We will consider the issue of becoming a republic once the Queen dies or abdicates,” said someone in authority.

Politicians come and go but the Queen has been around since I was born. She was in my mother’s purse and now she’s in mine. She’s been a constant through changes in my life. A link between my past and my present. She has been like a well loved granny whom I didn’t see often but always knew was there. Photos of her in matching hats, gloves and handbags. Hard working. Smiling. And even though she’s shrinking (just like my late mother at that age although the weight of the crown could have contributed) she’s still courageous and filled with hope. I was moved by her Christmas 2014 speech. Apparently, it was the most watched broadcast in the UK at that time.
“…For me, the life of Jesus Christ, the Prince of Peace, whose birth we celebrate today, is an inspiration and an anchor in my life. A role model of reconciliation and forgiveness, he stretched out his hands in love, acceptance and healing. Christ’s example has taught me to seek to respect and value all people of whatever faith or none.”

I’ll pack her away carefully now, wrapped in cloth. The coins in the cabinet will remind me that we were all young once, even the Queen. The young Queen on my South African coins next to her older self of 2013, on the Australian coin celebrating the 60th anniversary of her coronation.

The question of the Queen remains. Some argue politics. Others like patterns. I’m for the person. I like the twinkle in her 88 year old eyes.

Long live the Queen…from the depths of my purse to the heights of the Australian flag.

The Queen

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Fingers over Fifty Five

Posted on November 22, 2014 by brightsunflowers

“Over 55? Try our new brand of joint formula and join hundreds of thousands of other happy arthritis sufferers”. Many things change after fifty five but this advert sticks out like a sore thumb. My knuckles have been a little achy of late and they all seem to have thickened.

“Oh, I used to have beautiful hands, you know,” said the patient in my physiotherapy practice. “I know you wouldn’t think so, but my fingers were once long and slender.” We dipped her joints into the warm wax bath and started the treatment session. “Can’t wear my rings anymore. The middle joint is too thick now and then the rings just swivel and the diamond lands up in my palm! I’m afraid it’s just a plain band for me now”.

Ageing female fingers can prove to be dangerous. Take my friend, for instance. She and her elderly mother were travelling in the city and her mother indicated that she take the next ramp off the highway. “That way!” she said, pointing. My friend headed in that direction only to be scolded. “Why did you turn there? I said THAT way!” They both looked at her pointing finger. It veered 45 degrees to the right. They were following an arthritic finger straight into a dodgy side of town.

I have a teacher friend. She says her pointing finger problem is hereditary. “My mother’s finger also curved to the left after her 55th birthday,” she confided. After confusing her pupils to the point of pandemonium, she was compelled to use her thumb to point in the classroom. It’s the only option as she still has ten more years until retirement.

The French say they can tell a woman’s age by the outside of her hand. True. Anything over fifty five is spotted, wrinkled, veined and easily bruised. I say that you can also know us by our knuckles. We can probably peel, Botox and use other youthening treatments to the outside of our hands but I have yet to hear of cosmetic knuckle narrowing surgery.

In my thirty three years of practice, I’ve noticed that men are quite proud of their misshapen fingers and even prouder of a few missing ones. Probably proves they have been worked. Strangely, women have more arthritic fingers than men. Not sure why. Older women counteract by painting their nails to deflect attention. Some women wear a few rings on each finger in absolute disregard of the direction of their fingers. An elderly woman at the check out yesterday sparkled as she unpacked her shopping trolley. Shiny rings dazzled on fingers which veered in different directions. A bit like a Christmas tree, she displayed and celebrated her sparkle despite the constraints of her “branches”.

Perhaps I’ll force a few more rings over these knuckles. My local jeweller specializes in emergency ring removal. He’s on call at the hospital when they need to remove embedded rings. Been to Bali a few times courtesy his sideline removal business. The only expense was a counselling course on How to Separate Howling and Protesting Female Patients from their Rings.

You’ll have to excuse me now. I need to take a second look at that Miracle Joint Formula. I may even buy the Joint Gel. Whatever it takes to keep long term bejewelled fingers within my grasp.

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Surviving deadlines

Posted on October 15, 2014 by brightsunflowers

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Why do I write? Because I like pens and the smell of fresh paper. I love new ideas and dictionaries. And I write because it reminds me of my father.

James Eric Lamb was the weekly garden columnist for The Friend and Die Volksblad in Bloemfontein, the heart of South Africa. Once a week, dad had a deadline. He sat down to write. Mom dutifully rolled up the tablecloth to the middle of the dining room table. Supper on one end, his old columns, pens and ideas spread across the other half. The tension mounted. “Do you have any ideas, Eva?” “Spring bulbs!” offered my mother. “Haul out last year’s favourites. Your columns, not the bulbs!” Frenzied attack of scribbling. Black lines criss-crossing through badly constructed sentences. And then a dash for more coffee. The enamel coffee pot hissed and spat on the Esse stove. It delivered a thick dark medication to the one who needed heightened creativity. “It’s starting to take shape!” announced the Scotsman who knew Free State soil. The rose king who loved writing. “Eva, read this and tell me what you think.” She was his loyal and steady backup. “Eric, I think it sounds fine.” “No, but what do you really think?” “Perhaps the introduction is a bit long,” she said, yawing.

“You’re probably right.” Another strong coffee from the protesting coffee pot. The project. The deadline. And then the nervous laughter. Something funny in what he wrote … his belly trembled with mirth before his laughter had time to erupt. Laughing at his composition was a safety valve. It was necessary. And it was normally after this that it finally came together.

“That’s it. Done. I’m off to bed.” Lights off. The scribbling lay on the dining room table. At 6am mom would decipher and transcribe the column into her neat handwriting and deliver to the editor. And a few days later The Friend arrived. Dad turned the pages with precision, straight to his column. He reminded me of a surgeon visiting his patient after surgery. Did it go according to plan? Any gremlins, like infections, marring a beautiful end result? On confirmation that all was good, he glowed with pride. It was worth it. He cut out the column and put it in his scrapbook. Until the next week.

Do deadlines bring out the best in columnists? If anything, a deadline forces me to write. To write as well as I can in the allocated time, revising as many times as the deadline allows. And even changing words (to the annoyance of sub-editors) just before print.

I like Carla Carlisle’s final column for the Country Life UK in 2012. “I long to change the world and I love to write about life, but the time has come to give in to the desire to live it.” She quotes William Safire on column writing, who likened deadlines as standing under a windmill, no sooner do you feel relief that you have ducked a blade than you look up and see a new one coming down.

I felt the same tension in the three years as a weekly columnist for The Mercury, Independent Newspapers and Talk of the Town, Avusa Community Newspapers.

There’s probably a balance between “living” and “writing”. 50/50. Closed in a dark room all day over a computer, I don’t see life and probably lack Vit D. I need to experience my five senses. Get some sun. Live. And have something to say about it all. Perhaps I’ll change the world, once a week. Or once a month, depending on the 50/50 ratio. I want to survive deadlines and write until I drop. Just like dad.

This piece was first published at women.mg.co.za

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Benefits of the Op Shop

Posted on September 25, 2014 by brightsunflowers

“Don’t you think you should put the brakes on, mom?” said a voice behind the cabinet. I repositioned myself to see who had spoken. It was an irritated daughter at the checkout at the op shop. “Look, I can never have too many bags,” said her elderly mother. “Or shoes!” volunteered someone in the sea of female faces waiting to pay. “Wait! There might just be something I need in this cabinet!” said elderly one again. “It’s astonishing what we realise we need when we sniff about in these thrift shops,” she confided. “Now listen here,” she said coming closer, “if you’re a genuine enthusiastic – and I know one when I see one – then I’ll tell you where to look.” She quickly scanned the women around us then whispered the names of local treasure spots in the region. I had a contact. A very special contact. I felt like one of the family. We both giggled. “I’m from the UK, you know, and you sound South African. Op shop girls are from every walk of life”.

I was in another of my favourite spots when I overheard an Irish girl. “Tell me why I need this?” she asked her friend. “Because it’s pretty!” was the reply and they laughed merrily and it was dumped in the overflowing trolley.

Do volunteers in these shops undergo special training? “Casual Banter and Encouragement to Buy” courses, perhaps? “What’s this? “asked a middle-aged woman recently. The young men behind the counter examined it, prodded it, and turned it upside down. “Anyone got a clue?” she asked, longingly. Older female volunteers were consulted. Much looking from all angles and muttering and clucking. “It’s a very old, antique letter box,” said the one. We all moved closer to inspect. “It’s a vintage coffee grinder,” declared the ring leader, “and someone else has got his eye on it.” The shopper immediately snatched it, paid for it, and ran off with a look of excitement.

Last week I thought I had overstrained my eyes while op shopping. I was waiting in the queue when everything went purple. It took a while to realise that all was well. The woman in front of me had a counter full of purple finds. Purple pot, purple coat, purple handbag. She even had something that no-one could put a name to. They were clueless as to its identity. “I’ll take it,” said the purple person, solemnly. “I like purple.”

“Oh, look at this little angel…she has a broken wing!” said a woman, almost in tears. “I need to rescue her and display her again.” Clearly, the female urge to rescue can be fulfilled in these shops. Some like the knick knacks and others the clothes. “Bought this fur coat for the price of a chocolate,” said a friend in Adelaide. “I would never wear someone else’s clothes,” replied a colleague. Each to his (her) own. What we all share is the thrill of the chase. Whatever it is we yearn for, may just be there today!

I mostly shop at Salvos, the merchandising section of the Salvation Army. They are one of the world’s largest Christian social welfare organisations with more than 1,650,000 members working in over 124 countries. The Salvation Army have been in Australia for over 130 years and have more than 8,500 active officers and staff delivering more than 1000 specifically designed social programs across Australia.

Shopping at Salvos is clearly good for everyone. It keeps the women of Australia on their toes. Its hard work strutting up and down those aisles, in search of a find. Stretching to the top shelf for that vase and crouching on the floor to check on quirky buttons tones the body and increases cardio vascular fitness. For the price of a packet of chips, we have a daily workout. Husbands can’t complain. “My husband groans when I come home from a trip,” confided a regular in the shop recently. “Oh no, what junk have you brought home today! The shelves are collapsing under the load of other people’s rubbish!” Her face fell as she recalled his disapproval. “Don’t you feel guilty, girl! It’s all for a good cause. Salvos help over a million people a year in Australia,” counselled an elderly shopper.

It’s all about recycling. Salvos recycles unwanted clothes and this helps lessen landfill. And the shoppers can always recycle by donating any unwanted purchases. For a few dollars, it’s an outing that keeps everyone happy and healthy. That reminds me, I must really finish colour coding and bottling my bag of buttons and beads!

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A mother’s love

Posted on September 10, 2014 by brightsunflowers

“These diamonds were from my mother’s brooch. I prefer rings so I had them set in this band. So this is my mom on my finger,” said the sales assistant, eyes suddenly glistening. I had been looking at handbags when I noticed her beautiful ring and commented on it. “I inherited my mom’s engagement ring but I can’t bear to change it yet. How long after your mother died did you have your ring made?” I asked. “Five years. Yes, it took five years before I could gather the courage. You’ll know when you’re ready. You’ll just know”.

Two middle-aged women, strangers, now suddenly friends, sharing their deepest hurt and treasures. “I still miss my mother terribly,” she said as I left. A mother’s love can never be replaced, we agreed and hugged with tearful eyes. I entered the shop looking for a handbag and left in tears but with a smile in my heart. I am not alone. This time of the year there are lots of us. It doesn’t matter what age, it seems. I thought I was too old to suddenly be so needy. I was caught unawares. I thought again of my mother’s ring. When my father proposed he had the jeweller put a row of rings in front of my mother for her to choose from. She knew the prices of the rings. She knew his financial situation at the time and selected the smallest ring. My father had the ring reset for her many years later. A bigger, bolder setting. The ring arrived from the jeweller two weeks after my father had passed away. So when I look at this setting, I know the love in the making of it. Her love at the start. His love at the end. Symbolic of their deep, enduring love.

In the eighteen months since mom passed away, I have frequented op shops looking at anything that reminds me of my childhood. Fortunately, the very same vases and porcelain can be found on the shelves. Crystal and EPNS items were sought after in our parent’s generation. My mother treasured her wedding gifts, mostly EPNS. Butter dishes, sugar bowls and teaspoon sets. “They are worthless now — can’t get rid of them,” said the owner of an antique shop. They’re no longer fashionable. But each little vase or apostle cake fork takes me back to our lounge and Sunday afternoons. Crumpets or scones and jam and cream. Tradition. Made with love by mom. Polishing the apostles is now therapeutic and a tangible memory of those happy days.

“I really miss my mother this time of year. She used to have all the Christmas food ready in good time. I don’t know how she did it all. We had such a small kitchen,” laments a friend on Facebook. Her mom died more than thirty years ago. I remember to be grateful. I had so much of my mom. So many Christmases, so many laughs. So many treasured phone calls. And what do I remember most about her apart from her traditional Christmas cakes, sought-after marmalade and knitted rabbits for each newborn in the family? Her love. Her kindness. Her encouragement. In her Bible I found a note in her handwriting: Love must control our thoughts, words and deeds. Whatever we say and do will then be inspired by love and we shall lead a life which is good in the sight of the Lord. Liefde is ‘n doen word. My mother was a giver. When I’m generous, I feel closer to her.

“I can’t explain the feeling I get when I do something for someone else or give a gift,” she would say, her 86-year-old eyes twinkling with merriment. At Christmas time, when I feel a twinge of sadness and long for my mom, perhaps I’ll give something away, apart from presents. A smile. A smile of gratitude for a mother who sowed love and reaped peace. And who showed me the way to contentment. I’ll give away hugs of understanding to those who also still mourn a mom. Meanwhile, I may convert mom’s ring into a pendant and wear her closer to my heart. Not yet, though, like my new friend says, I’ll know when the time is right.

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Around my waist in 80 cm

Posted on September 8, 2014 by brightsunflowers

I have something close to my heart that I need to deal with. I need to get it off my chest before it completely engulfs me.

It’s my belly fat. Visceral and otherwise. Post-menopausal women are attacked by it — some experience a slow growth and others wake up with a fat suit around their midsection. Unlike Leon Schuster or Mrs Doubtfire, we are unable to “take it off”.

I have consulted the best about my belly. Googled “post-menopausal belly fat” (I will get a second opinion about my condition from a doctor if necessary). The figures are shocking — both mine and theirs.

“A waist measurement of greater than 80cm for women is an indicator of the level of internal fat deposits which coat the heart, kidneys, liver and pancreas and increase the risk of heart disease, type 2 diabetes and high blood pressure.”

Apparently, post-menopausal women have a fall in oestrogen, which shifts fat storage from hips to abdomen and this produces the spare tyre/money bag/pouch phenomenon.

So what can be done about the sudden extra padding if we are to keep healthy? Not much, it seems. I’m tempted to give in graciously and use it as a platform (on which to rest my cheesecake).

There are options like the standard “eat less, exercise more”. I have friends who gym every day and nibble healthy snacks. They’re miserable and they still have jelly bellies. The happier girls have given in to elasticised waist bands.

What do most of my post-menopausal patients apologise for, when undergoing a first consult? “Look, please excuse my belly. I never used to look like this. I’ve tried core exercises and I walk the dog!” And they cry and rant about a problem that they did not come in for. “I understand — you are not alone.” I point southwards. “Really? You too? But you’re a physio!”

What did our post-menopausal great-grandmothers do with their bellies? They appeared sleek and slender as they aged. In reality, they wore corsets, which squashed their bellies into their armpits and this caused many other serious health problems that no-one mentions. “Was she a smoker?” “No, she had limited air entry from age 50 to 70 due to her corset!” On the other hand, the odd housewife walked around with a book on her head to improve posture and reduce emphasis in the abdominal region. I tried to re-introduce this technique in physiotherapy practices in South Africa and Australia. “My head is too pointy, it keeps sliding off!” complained the women (the book, not the head). Did women of yesteryear have larger, flatter heads?

Anyway, there’s another method from the past that improves posture. The puppet on a string is back in fashion.

Try this: you are a puppet and have a string coming out the middle of your head, it will pull you up towards the ceiling. Look straight ahead. Relax your shoulder girdle as the magic string pulls you straight up, pulling you taller and taller. Now pull in your belly button ever so slightly towards your spine — just 1/2 a cm — hold for six seconds. This exercise can be performed throughout the day. Easy, cheap and magically “takes off” 10kg. Good posture in post-menopausal women gives the internal organs some breathing space. The innards are able to regroup in the ever-compressing fat globules.

I have flashbacks of abdominal surgery I observed when I was a physiotherapy student. The patient was a middle-aged female. Huge belly. Doctor cut through layers and layers of fat. Then even more yellow fat globules. He dug a little deeper and eventually completely disappeared into the mound of flesh, only coming up for air now and again. He hauled out whatever needed fixing. Rearranging the innards through all that fat again was a bit like a braai — much coiling and recoiling of the boerewors for perfect fit. And then a quick shake of the pelvis (the patient’s) and everything settled back into the yellow mass of fat. Cauterise, stitch. I was never quite the same after that. I now have the inside story.

It seems there is not much I can do to rid myself of this miserable muffin top. Except to laugh it off. Perhaps a fat, belly laugh is all that is needed to keep in post-menopausal good health.

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