Tag Archives: children

WWI – Gallipoli: When Daddy Didn’t Come Home. Brenda Taylor’s Story…

So often when we reflect on Gallipoli, we hear of the men who sacrificed their lives. However, there’s another side to the story. That is the children of the dead and wounded men, also also paid an enormous, and mostly silent, price. Fortunately, the children’s columns in the newspapers provided a space where children would occasionally provide a glimpse, into this world.

Landing At Gallipoli- Charles Dixon

On Sunday 30th July, 1922 a letter by Miss Brenda Taylor, aged 9, of Greenock, Piper-street, Leichhardt was published in Sunbeams, the children’s page in the Sun Herald. Sunbeams was edited by Ethel Turner, author of the Australian children’s classic:  Seven Little Australians. A regular feature on the page was called “When I Grow Up”, and children wrote in gorgeous letters talking about what they wanted to be when they grew up. Brenda wanted to be a nurse:

Sister Pratt

A NURSE

“When I grow up I would like to be a nurse, so that I could look after poor sick people. If there happened to be another war I would go and look after the wounded soldiers. My daddy died of wounds at Gallipoli, where there were not enough nurses to look after the soldiers. I would love to wear the nice clean uniform of a nurse, and be in the children’s hospital amongst the little sick babies, as I love babies, and I don’t like to hear them crying. When I see the returned nurses with their badges I feel sure I am going to be one. I hope little girls will want to be the same so that there will be enough nurses for the poor soldiers if any more wars begin.

— Souvenir Prize and Blue “Sun” Card to Brenda Taylor (9), Greenock, Piper-street, Leichhardt — a little girl gallant enough, after her loss, to want to continue in the footsteps of her heroic father[1].”

Just to place young Brenda’s letter in context, there was also a letter from an ambitious crime-fighting detective:

TO MAKE CRIMINALS SHIVER

When I grow up I am going to be a detective, and gain fame, I will unravel mysteries that have baffled the greatest detectives of the world. If It is necessary for me to disguise while working on any case, my disguise shall be so complete that even my closest friends will not recognise me. First I will start In Australia, and when I’ve cleaned that of Its criminals, I will then proceed to London, and in disguise I will visit the slums of that city and learn what I can about different criminals, then gain their confidence, and arrest them in the act of pulling-off some of their greatest robberies. I will always play a lone hand, as you cannot rely on the police, who are generally blunderers. If any criminal defies me, I shall engage him In a battle of wits, and in the end I think I shall succeed in handing him over to the law to receive his punishment. Never shall I quit a case without unraveling it satisfactorily. Many people shall thank me for the services I have rendered them, and for me this will be sufficient reward. My name will spread throughout the world, and every criminal and wrong-doer will shiver at the mention of it[2].

There was also “Wanderer” from Bondi who’d decided to become a novelist rather than a pirate:

“NOVELIST RATHER THAN PIRATE

In the earlier stages of my life I entertained wild hopes of becoming a pirate; imagining myself, with a three-cornered hat tilted precariously on one side of my head, ordering men to get strung up the yard-arm, or to walk the plank. Lately, I have realised the utter insignificance of that career, as I will not be able to find a suitable crew, and if I did I would soon be hunted down. My present scheme for the future is to become a composer of prose and verse. I will live in a creeper-covered cottage in a quiet country town, there to pursue my work (perhaps I might marry by then, but that will not make any difference— only that the “star” boarder will have to seek a new residence). So as to have some varieties about the place, I will keep a few cows and a small stock of poultry. In the woodland dales I will compose my stories, and. now and then poetry. I hope to become gradually famous as a novelist. Then— and then only, will the zenith of my ambitions be attained— Blue “sun” Card to “Wanderer” (13), Bondi[3].”

Exploring Brenda Taylor’s Letter Further

Of course, young Brenda’s letter is heartbreaking. It was one thing for young, single men to sacrifice their lives for the Empire. It was quite another for family men with responsibilities and dependents to sacrifice theirs. Young children were left without fathers, wives without husbands, and were left to bring up the children alone. To put it in very simple terms, Daddy was never coming home.

Naturally, I wanted to find something out about her father’s war service, such as which unit he was in, and what happened to him. This is easy enough if you have a name. However, her father wasn’t named in the letter, and I couldn’t just search the service records for: “Brenda’s Dad”- no matter how powerful Google might be.

At the same, identifying a soldier with minimal information isn’t an impossible quest, especially now that so much information is available online. Indeed, these days, the difficulty is knowing when and where to stop. After all, we now have the whole wide world right at our finger tips and sometimes, as in trying to nut out Brenda’s letter, we need to draw on all of that. Even then, there comes a point when you realize, that you have to walk away without the answer. Indeed, that’s where I’m at with Brenda’s story. I still can’t be sure of who Brenda Taylor was, and don’t know her father’s name either. Yet, I haven’t given up. Storytelling is a collective process and hopefully these efforts will just be the beginning.

Yet, on the other hand, part of me wishes I could turn back the clock, and just appreciate Brenda Taylor’s letter at face value. Left well enough alone, and not asked who her father was, and tried to find his service records. After all, it’s such a heart-touching story. Here’s a little girl who lost her beloved Dad at Gallipoli when she was roughly two years old. That’s a serious loss, and I don’t feel comfortable questioning whether her story was  true, and doubting the sincerity of a child.  Of course, I want to be a believer.  Hug this little girl who has lost her dad wholeheartedly without any of these lingering doubts.

However, any researcher worth their salt knows not to accept anything at face value. We have to ask the questions, accept the answers, and then somehow determine what we weave together into our version of the story.

So, despite a day of going backwards and forwards along time tunnels back into the past, I still don’t know the name of Brenda Taylor’s father, and can’t be entirely sure he died of wounds at Gallipoli or back at home. 

A False Alarm

Initially, my efforts to identify Brenda Taylor were going quite well. NSW Births deaths and Marriages had a Brenda Beatrice Taylor born in 1915 in Mudgee to parents John G. Taylor and Beatrice Brownlow. They were married on the 17th February, 1910 at St. Paul’s Manse, Mudgee. This “G” might’ve been a “George”, and at a stretch, Brenda’s father might’ve been John George Taylor Service Number 7050. He was born at Newcastle-On-Tyne England, and was living at 2 Bay Street, Balmain, which isn’t too far from Leichhardt. However, he wasn’t a great fit. He’d enlisted on the 1st November, 1916 and clearly didn’t serve at Gallipoli. His next of kin was his sister, Mrs M. Foster, not a wife. There was also no mention of daughter, Brenda, either. However, marriages go awry, and he wouldn’t have been the only family man to have fled the home front for the front line without leaving a paper trail.

However, then I found the wedding notice for John G. Taylor and Beatrice Brownlow. Brenda’s father was actually a John Gavin Taylor, not a John George. So, that knocked John George Taylor 7050 out of the picture. Further research was required.

There was no other Brenda Taylor on the horizon, although the age of this Brenda Taylor didn’t quite match up. To be 9 years old on the 30th July, 1922, she needed to be born around 1911-1912. However, I couldn’t find an alternative born in NSW or Victoria. So, I persisted and found some good background stories.

Brenda’s mother, Beatrice Brownlow, had been born in 1889 to Samuel Brownlow and Agnes E. Bridge in Coonamble, New South Wales. Samuel was known as a “first-class horse trainer”, which sounded rather exciting:

A Veteran Trainer.

Sam Brownlow Re-appears on the Scene.

To the majority of Mudgee racegoers the name of the above well-known trainer will be quite familiar. The older sportsmen in particular will re member those grand old days when the then champions of the turf, such as King of the West, Eros, Myrtle, Reprieve, Prism, Contessa, &c. , met in battle array on the old course, and memories of Brownlow come back to them fresh and green. And now once more, after a fairly long absonce from the actual scene of turf warfare, Sam has come forth, like a giant refreshed, to renew his former occupation. The old spirit asserted itself — it was too strong for him to resist, and it is a strange coincidence that he will have under his care a horse which he trained a few years ago — I refer to Mr. J. C. Gunnell’s Nimrod. Sam has trained many good horses, notably King of the West, Myrtle, Eros, and Contessa, all of whom won races for the late J. D. Little at Randwick and Hawkesbury. When King of the West won the County Purse (now called the Rowley Mile) at Hawkesbury he was ridden by Tom Donoghue, who is now training in Mudgee. Brownlow once had private training stables on Bombira Hill years ago, where a good string of horses were located. He also went to Queensland with that great horse, Beadsman, with whom he won a great number of races there. Space will not permit of a lengthy description of our old friend’s many succeses as a trainer. We will simply say that he is a first class trainer, and has commenced with Mr. Gunnell’s horses, Nimrod and Grand Stuart, who are being prepared for the Mudgee meeting[4].

By now, the story was building nicely – layer up on layer up on layer. Yet, there were still some nagging doubts. These Taylors were based in Mudgee, and as yet I hadn’t found a link to Leichhardt, Sydney. Moreover, something else was glaringly missing. Aside from Brenda’s letter, there were no memorials in the newspapers honouring her father’s sacrifice on the battlefield, and this was unusual. Of course, there were families that kept it quiet, but they were few and far between. That also made me nervous.

Then, came the clincher. I came across the obituary for Brenda’s mother, Beatrice. She died on the 25th December, 1943 in Mudgee and it clearly mentioned that she was the “wife of Mr. J. G. Taylor, of Windeyer”, and also referred to her “bereaved husband”. Brenda’s father, John Gavin Taylor, was still alive[5].

Either Brenda Taylor’s letter wasn’t true. Or, there was another Brenda Taylor.

Brenda Taylor 2.0

I had one last search in the online newspapers at Trove. This time, I came across a wedding photo for a Brenda Taylor who married John Richard Keeffe at St John’s Church, Parramatta in 1938:

“Mrs. J.. Keeffe, formerly Miss Brenda Taylor, of Harris Park, who was married at St. John’s Church, Parramatta, on February 5. Misses Violet Keeffe, Ivy Taylor and Emily Keeffe are the bridesmaids, and Valmna Sweeney the flower girl. Photo. by McEnnally Studio[6]

I cross-referenced this with NSW Births, Deaths and Marriages, and found her listed as “Evelyn Brenda Taylor”. Would this finally be the clue which unraveled the mystery? Could I finally construct a solid trail from nine year old Brenda Taylor of Piper Street, Leichhardt to her father who really did die of wounds sustained in those early days at Gallipoli?

Not yet.

The closest I’ve come to finding an Evelyn Brenda Taylor is a Brenda Evelyn Taylor, who was listed in the 1911UK Census. She was 2 years old and was born and living in Rawreth, a village and civil parish in the District of Rochford, Essex, England, located between Wickford and Rayleigh. She was living there with her father, Edward Taylor, aged 23 born in Leatherhead, Surrey and was a Farm Labourer; and her mother, Alice May Taylor, was 21 from Chipstead, Surrey.

Could this be the right family? Did they migrate to Australia, and this is the very same Brenda Taylor who wrote into the Sun Herald on the 30th July, 1922?

I still don’t know, but I’m hoping that someone out there can help me set the record straight. I’d really love to know Brenda’s story – the whole story.

If anybody could shed any light on this, I’d really appreciate your help. I don’t have access to Ancestry which would most likely help.

Lastly, I should mention that this is fall of a broader project where I’m researching WWI through the letters of WWI soldiers, and exploring their family history nad lives before they went to the front.

Best wishes,

Rowena

References


[1] Sun (Sydney, NSW : 1910 – 1954), Sunday 30 July 1922, page 2

[2] Sun (Sydney, NSW : 1910 – 1954), Sunday 30 July 1922, page 2

[3] Sun (Sydney, NSW : 1910 – 1954), Sunday 30 July 1922, page 2

[4] Mudgee Guardian and North-Western Representative (NSW : 1890 – 1954), Friday 4 August 1899, page 18

[5] Mudgee Guardian and North-Western Representative (NSW : 1890 – 1954), Thursday 30 December 1943, page 5

[6] Cumberland Argus and Fruitgrowers Advocate (Parramatta, NSW : 1888 – 1950), Thursday 10 March 1938, page 9

Tram Reflections in Melbourne – 2017.

Today, I came across this photo, while beavering away on my travel series in between phone calls and various conversations (dare I say interruptions) from family members and ball-chasing dogs. Life has become even more chaotic at our place with four humans and three dogs all in lock-down at home, especially now the kids are on school holidays without going anywhere. However, I just thank my lucky stars the “kids” are now teenagers, and it’s usually me flagging them down for a chat(and if I’d really lucky) a hug!!

Anyway, this photo was taken back in January, 2017 on board a Melbourne tram. At the time, we were only staying in Melbourne overnight before heading off in the morning to Tasmania. So, we were trying to squeeze in as much of the city as we could, and it was all after dark.

Catching trams is also a real novelty for us. Sydney ripped up its trams years ago, and  Melbourne’s extensive tram network has given the city a distinct feel. Indeed, it’s become “Melbourne”.  So catching a tram for us, particularly the kids, was a real novelty, and just to add to the excitement, it was also their first visit to the heart of Melbourne.

While I’ve always loved photographing reflections and capturing their twisting, mutating forms, what struck me about this particular photo was our daughter’s face staring up through those reflections in the bottom right of the shot. I see a child’s face staring up through eyes of awe and wonder at the incredible  kaleidoscope of newness around her and trying to take it all in.

That image particularly touches me at this point in time, when we’re all looking up from the strange, unprecedented places we’re finding ourselves in as the coronavirus, unemployment, and toilet paper shortages spread across the globe. Now, it’s us looking up  wondering what it all means, where we’re all heading and even if we, at a personal level, will even be here when the clouds lift.

Don’t we all wish we could turn back time!

Sometimes, I also wish my kids would be little again for awhile. However, it doesn’t last long. I have always been one to prefer them exactly as they are.

Anyway, that’s at least my interpretation of the photo. I’d be interested to know your thoughts, and please be brutally honest if it does nothing for you. That’s what feedback’s for – not just a pat on the back.

I’d love to hear from you!

Best wishes,

Rowena

Chicken #FridayFictioneers

“Jump the fence, Tom. Come on. I dare you.”

“Dunno Miranda. Can’t you read the sign? No trespassing. They’ll shoot us.”

“Chicken!” Miranda goaded, all bluff. She’d never do it. The new neighbours were weird, possibly even aliens.

“Am not, chicken” Tom replied, jumping into the never-ending abyss.

“Tom!” Miranda screamed. “TOM!!”

Silence.

He’d vanished.

Miranda freaked. Home alone, she’d have to jump the fence, wrestle with whatever it was to get her brother back. She didn’t know if she could do it.

Meanwhile, Tom snuck back over the fence and hid.

This was his best prank yet.

….

This has been another contribution to Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wishoff Fields. PHOTO PROMPT © Randy Mazie.

98 words

This prompt brought back memories of my brother who had a friend who lived over our back fence. This little girl with long blond curls would climb up a tree on her side and down a tree on ours to visit. I’m not sure how many kids do that now. However, back then  fences between our houses were just a few planks to mark the boundary and we wandered freely in between each others’ houses. Within this friendly, embracing neighbourhood, I could see someone with a No Trespass sign really standing out.

By the way, I celebrated by Big 50 last week. Have been catching up with a whole lot of friends in small groups to make the most of it. It’s still Winter here and so I’m waiting for it to warm up before I organize a big party. I’m looking forward to it.

Best wishes,

Rowena

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Electrical Sex Fixing…What the @#$%!

Research was never meant to be a straight road. Quite often, there’s an astounding story right alongside the one I was looking for, which turns out to be “the find”.

Night, while reading through my grandmother’s music column from the 1950s, I stumbled across this gem:

Electrical Sex Fixing 1952

Unfortunately, a quick Google search fails to elucidate the matter any further. Does anybody know any more about this?

Best wishes,

Rowena

The Great Esky Wall.

Tomorrow, we are leaving on an epic family holiday to Tasmania and we’re taking along the ultimate must-have holiday accessory…”The Great Esky Wall.”

The Great Esky Wall conveniently fits into the back seat of your car absolutely filling up that space that could have been number 3 if it hadn’t been for Numbers 1 & 2.

Indeed, our Great Esky Wall conveniently sits right on the seams of the backseat upholstery. This means that if either child tries to invade the other’s territory by even a millimetre, the battle lines are clear and action can be taken.It’s time to pull out the cannon. No, actually it isn’t!

You will notice in the photograph provided, that our Esky  is poo-brown ugly and beyond a retro-statement, but it’s made of good, old-fashioned plastic which could withstand a hit from a truck.

However, that still doesn’t mean the Great Esky Wall is going to endure 3 weeks of pretty intense driving with two kids living and breathing the same air all that time.

Even a tough and rugged Esky can only endure so much!

Have you ever been to Tasmania? Or, perhaps your family has been on an epic family car trip somewhere else, which you’d like to share.

xx Rowena

History. The Esky was created by Malley’s, a Sydney refrigeration business. Some historians have credited Malley’s with the invention of the portable ice cooler. According to the company, the Esky, was “recognised as the first official portable cooler in the world.”

PS While we’re away we have house minders in and two ferocious guard dogs. Well, make that one.

Caring for Mum.

Yesterday, I shared about finding out my brother’s cat, Archie had passed away. What I didn’t mention, was that my Mum’s in hospital with acute back pain. Although we initially joked about it being like a holiday with a room to herself and meals arriving like magic, the reality is different. Even with a brilliant imagination, you can’t keep pretend that you’re lying by the pool when you’re in agony, in hospital and you don’t know why or how it happened. One day, you were you and the next day, your back seizes up and you’re in excruciating pain and you’ve become someone else. What happened?

Except for me, these questions are being asked in the third person. What’s happened to Mum?

 

 

If you asked me to describe my Mum, I’d tell you that she loves the beach and looks great in a bikini. Because when I immediately picture my Mum as my Mum, she must be about 30 and she’s wearing a bikini and she’s full of beans. She’s playing tennis, swimming at the beach and driving us all over the countryside to piano, violin, ballet and she’s nowhere near a hospital. Indeed, even my grandmother running round the shops needing some kind of harness to keep her under control. She was getting around with the same speed as my toddler son whose now 13 and attached to electronics most of the time these days and now much, much easier to catch.

I’ve shared about this weird sensation about time before. That just because we’ve aged, it doesn’t mean that our idea of who were are or those close to us, has aged along with the physical body. I know for me there’s definitely a huge disparity and I remember my grandmother telling me that she didn’t recognise the old lady staring back at her. That was someone else and her true reflection was simply hiding somewhere behind the glass.

scan10041

I haven’t been prepared for Mum to grow old.

 

Mum has been our rock through my health crises taking in the kids for 7 weeks when I was first diagnosed with dermatomyositis. She had two traumatized, very active kids and it was very intense for Mum, Dad and my brother.Yet, they were there. They were my strength when I clearly had none…physically or emotionally.

So, it’s hard to come around to the idea that Mum, indeed my parents, are drifting into the elderly category. Where it won’t be Mum taking me or the kids shopping, and we could well be taking her. That instead of her visiting me in hospital, it’s us visiting her. As much as I’m glad to be well away from hospital these days, that doesn’t give her permission to sign up. Moreover,  it definitely doesn’t give The Patron Saint of Hospital Admissions permission to come after her. It can well and truly leave all of us alone thank you very much!!

I guess what I wanted to write about and tap into is this sense of unfolding grief we often experience these days when older family members and friends have protracted medical treatments. We watch their strength, personality and even memory get chipped away, chipped away ever so slowly and you and they both know that they’re not how they used to be, and yet they’re still here. Indeed, I had two grandparents live with long term Alzheimers and by the time they died, I had almost run out of tears. My grief had been used up along the way.

That’s because there is grief along this journey, even though there’s also that gratitude and relief that they’re still here.

So, now while I’m feeling rotten about Mum being in hospital and knowing how much pain she’s experiencing, I still feel in a sense that I have no right to grieve. She’s not dying. She’s “fine” only she’s actually along way from being fine and we have no crystal ball about what this means. My son still expected Mama to pick him up from school this afternoon. After all, that’s what Mama does and has been doing on Wednesdays ever since he’s been born almost 13 years ago. She’s been here…an hour’s drive away hail, rain or shine because she loves us. Moreover, given my health problems and uncertainty over the years, she has been their rock. The net that catches my kids when everything’s falling apart and there’s no ground to land on. She hasn’t been there only support but she’s definitely been there.

I had to remind him that Mama is in hospital.

Mum and I didn’t get on for many years and we’re very different people. Being an extreme extrovert, she often tried to reign me in…something I didn’t understand until I was doing the same with our very extroverted son. Obviously, nobody explains all of this to you when you’re a kid. Yet, the yin and yang between introverts and extroverts is something I need to understand with family. After all, opposites attract and it’s understandable that there’d be a mix throughout the family. Having that understanding has been critical for better relations.

So, even though Mum doesn’t let me write about her, I needed to share my anguish, my gratitude that she’s not worse and to provide a space for you to share these complex and challenging emotions. I am very lucky to be 47 and to have both my parents alive but I also can’t imagine a world without them in it. They’ve been here forever just like the air I breathe in and out.

Not that I need to think about that now but at the same time, I feel the need to acknowledge this partial grief and concern for my mother being in so much pain. It’s very hard to think about her suffering, but being there for her, means embracing it head on and being her daughter…not a coward.

I would like to open up the comments section for people to share their feelings and reflections about parents getting old, losing a parent and please link to your posts. I am thinking of you and send you my love and prayers!

xx Rowena

PS Despite the seriousness of Mum’s situation, there’s still opportunity for humour. When we told our son that Mama was going for a bone density scan, he asked if she was getting carbon dated. Well, at least I was laughing!

 

 

Coles Bay, Tasmania with Little Man…a Flash Back.

Today, we’re not only travelling back in time, but also to another dimension.

Well, at least, I think Tasmania’s another dimension.

In November, 2005 my husband, our year old bolt of energy, the inimitable Little Man and my rather pregnant self, went on our “before the new baby arrives” holiday to Tasmania. My husband, Geoff, was born and raised in Scottsdale, North East of Launceston  and can trace his lineage back to John Newton convict who spent a bit of time at notorious Port Arthur after a stint on Norfolk Island. I think the rest of his folk were free settlers.

Coles Bay

Anyway, it’s my husband’s 50th birthday next week and rather too late in the planning, I’ve been playing archaeologist ploughing through the archives digging up memories.

That’s how I came across this series of photos taken at Coles Bay.Coles Bay is located on Tasmania’s East Coast and is a 2.5-hr drive (192 km) from Hobart and a 2 hr 20-min drive  (173 km) from Launceston.

Coles Bay Lighthouse Walk

 

To be perfectly honest, its been 11 years since this adventure and I can’t say I remember exactly where these photos were taken. I can’t remember a lot about the trip to be honest. I’ll blame baby brain and exhaustion chasing the Little Man. The Little Man was also waking up about 3-4 times a night and that didn’t help keep the brain operational either.

So, rather than being about Coles Bay, this is the view of a misty-eyed parents whose Little Man turns 13 early next year and these photos now feel so incredibly precious and I’m filled with passionate love for this uber-energetic, flash of blond curls.

 

It makes me smile seeing Little Man up on my shoulders. It was such a long time ago and it’s been a long, long time since he was able to sit up there without killing me!! Indeed, these days he’s working very hard trying outgrow his Mum and Dad and I’m just lucky I’m tall because I think he’s already caught up with my Mum.

Geoff & Little Man at Coles Bay

That said, I did label these photos as the Lighthouse House Walk. There is a stunning but rather rugged walk down to the incredibly photogenic Wine Glass Bay. However, we thought it was too much for me at the time and so we took the Lighthouse House Walk, which is wheelchair-accessible if you need it.

 

What I haven’t forgotten about this trip, was the usual difficulties of trying to round up the Little Man and get him back into the car. I’m sure most parents share such memories, which might do your head in at the time but become part of family legend as time goes by.

I really love this shot:

coles-bay-jg-hometime

Time to go Home.

Have you been to Tasmania? Or, perhaps you’d like to share about your special family holidays.

xx Rowena

Homeless.

A first-hand insight into homeless, which everyone should read. It could be you. It could be me.

https://carrotranch.com/2016/08/25/august-24-flash-fiction-challenge/

xx Rowena

Carrot Ranch Literary Community

August 24Hot sun heats the metal beyond touching comfortably. The playground equipment squats at the mouth of a giant coulee, as if poised to be devoured. No children run across the taupe grit where soap suds lap at the water’s edge. Soap Lake gets its name from those minerailzed suds, and a few adults wade out into its tepid waters. What do they hope to be healed of?

The town of Soap Lake is as gritty as the sand. Houses built of black basalt are void of green lawns. Small businesses based on an alternative healing niche line a short main street. A few resorts boast of healing waters piped to rooms. Locals 30 miles away in Moses Lake warn me of biting red bugs in the water and tweakers in the desert.

It looks as inhospitable as a homeless shelter must feel to a child.

That we even have homeless…

View original post 2,209 more words

Weekend Coffee Share 16th July, 2016.

Welcome To Another Weekend Coffee Share!

If we were having coffee today, we’d be having to resort to pens or typewriters to jot down any writing ideas because we could well be too busy using our phones and other devices capturing Pokemon. Not that I’ve been hugely into Pokemon Go myself but I had a couple of creatures invade our lounge room, evading me, the dogs but not my son’s eagle eye armed with his ipad. One of these things even had the audacity to sit on the couch. No doubt, it was responsible for the latest packet of Tim Tams which went missing, instead of the usual suspects.

DSC_1898

The Kids Arriving At The Theatre.

Pokemon Go was launched in Australia just over a week ago and it’s gone manic. My kids woke up all ready to go  hunting, only to find out the site had crashed and once it came up, that they couldn’t play with their phones. They don’t have WiFi. My phone’s from the ark and we couldn’t get it connected. So, the kids just had to satisfy themselves with the few Pokemon who ventured into the house. Meanwhile, however, a friend who took her toddlers to the park, said they were the only little kids there and the park was packed with teens chasing Pokemon. Well, at least they got out of hte house and found out those feet were made for walking!

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Today, we finally saw our kids perform in their Scout/Guide Gang Show. Have you ever been to a Gang Show? This was my first. So, throughout all these months of rehearsals and the last couple of weeks getting costume details finalised, I really felt I was flying blind. Although I’m quite used to being in the dark, that doesn’t mean I like it. I ended up delegating the “navy dress pants” to my Mum who ended up running round and round  Sydney’s Macquarie Centre with the kids like rats stuck in a maddening maze. They were having terrible trouble trying to explain what dress pants were and kept getting shown formal pants and you wouldn’t think that buying a pair of pants in a big city could be become so difficult…or so complicated! In the end, they were using my Mum’s navy pants as an example and in the end , Mum remembered she had a smaller pair or navy pants which might do the job. So, our son headed off to Gang Show in Grandma’s dress pants with a belt. Our other drama was our daughter’s hair, which had gone very dry over Winter and is getting very knotty. I swear I used half a jumbo bottle of Pantene conditioner to  get that hair plaitable!

Take it from me, there’s absolutely no glamour involved in being a stage parent. The kids might be shining, but our lights have gone out.

Yet, if you knew me, you’d be saying: “Come on, Ro. We know how much you love it. You just can’t get enough!”

Too true!

We attended the Matinee Show today and absolutely loved it. I can’t show you any photos from inside but suffice to say that I walked about feeling a hell of a lot better than when I went in and had so many belly laughs. The show was called : Once Upon A Time and had had a series of fractured fairytales including Snow White, Little Red Riding Hood and Rapunzel with so many hilarious twists and turns. They sang and danced to Waltz Disney classics like “When You Wish Upon A Star” (while flashing their torches. Scouts and Guides love torches!!) Bad To The Bone and an a more extended version of this poem from Dr Suess’s The Places You’ll Go:

“You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself any direction you choose. You’re on your own. And you know what you know. And YOU are the one who’ll decide where to go…”
― Dr. Seuss, Oh, The Places You’ll Go!

O course, there’s that surge of pride of seeing your kids on any kind of stage and they don’t have to be the star to to feel absolutely and totally blown away by their performances. The whole concept of Gang Show is that it’s about the gang and while some of the older kids and leaders had some more extended solo parts, most of it was done as a group. My kids each had about 5-7 costume changes in the show and multiple stage entries, so it was a fabulous introduction to what it’s like to be in a theatre production.

However, as much as they were performers performing on a stage, they were also Scouts and Guides and the show finished off with everyone in their uniforms, marching and proud of who and what they represent.

While a group of Guides and Scouts performing on a stage might seem of little consequence given what’s going on around the world at the moment, I disagree. Although the current state of the world feels overwhelming and somewhat scary, we still need to believe in the future and our kids, our teenagers and young adults are our immediate future and we need to keep building them up. Teaching them the importance of good values and character and standing up for what is good and just in this world and how that doesn’t begin somewhere out there in the adult world but starts with them where ever they go. This is where the rubber hits the road for all of us. Being nice to your brother or sister and not erupting, even when they deliberately press all your buttons all at once just wanting for them to go troppo and get in trouble with Mum and Dad. It means being patient in traffic and not even muttering words under our breath, thinking they can not be heard.

We might not be able to change the big staff, but at least, we can work on our own stuff, the seemingly small, insignificant stuff which doesn’t seem to matter until it does.

Before I head off and unfortunately we’ll really be heading off soon because we have to pick the kids up tonight from their finale performance tonight at 11.30PM. I think Dad’s Taxi’s going to need a double expresso before we leave. It no doubt think it’s gone to bed for the night and won’t be happy heading out there again…especially in the cold.

Yellow taxi

It’s not quite this wet as we head out tonight. However, why let truth get in the way of a good story?!!

By the way, what do you think of my new writing mug? I bought it tonight when Geoff and I went out for Churros after the performance. It all but says “writer” on it and I stuck my black Artline pen in there because that’s what I use to do much of my writing. It has a really smooth action, almost enabling my fingers to keep up with my surging train of thoughts. By the way, I have been known to chew my pens and turn the clock back 20 years and I chewed my pens until they cracked, splintered and and no doubt damaged my teeth. Thank goodness, I have chilled out since then.

So, how has your week been? What have you been up to?

I hope you and yours have all been safe during the terrible events of recent times. As much as I’d love to travel, at the moment I’m just wanting to keep everyone close and stay put.

This has been part of the Weekend Coffee Share hosted by Diana at Part-Time Monster. You can click the  linky to read the other posts.

Sleeping Dog!

Although I’m fully aware of just how sickening it can be watching a parent going all soppy over their child and that it’s even worse when humans wax lyrically about their pets, I couldn’t resist.

There was Bilbo all snuggled up asleep on the Pooh Bear rug and I went all mushy, gushy and took at least ten photos of the poor mutt who probably thought he was being struck by lightening as the flash kept going off.

Bilbo turns 10 this year. While he’s looking very healthy, I’m very conscious that dog years and human years far from correlate and there will be a goodbye.

With this in mind, we adopted Lady a few years ago. She was supposed to be our next dog, especially as he wasn’t in good shape back then. Somehow, her arrival gave him a second wind and he’s really perked up.

However, adopting Lady also made us appreciate even more how each and every dog has their own character and that you can’t replace a dog anymore than you can replace a person. You simply have to grieve and then move forward.

However, this wasn’t supposed to be a sad, reflective post. It was all about showing off my puppy dog in all his cuteness and appreciating him…. ball obsession and all! He’s a marvelous dog and definitely our best furry friend…along with Lady of course!

Do you have any pets and good pet posts? Please share!

xx Rowena