Tag Archives: friendship

Over the Rainbow Bridge…

Yesterday morning, a wise old dog taught me a hard lesson. That as much as there is a time to be born, there is a time to die and no matter how hard we might try to fight or change the overall scheme of things, that is a hard and unrelenting fact.

It is what it is.

Yesterday morning, the kids came racing in while I was still asleep and trying to pretend it was Monday morning, crying that Bilbo our beloved Border Collie, was dead. Even though we’d taken Bilbo to the vet and knew the prognosis wasn’t good, he’d perked up a bit and we had reason to hope. Indeed, even as the news hit, I still hoped the kids had got it wrong. That he was just asleep.

As you can see, I can stretch hope beyond the bounds of reason, and well into the realms of imagination. I can even stretch it further…something I blame on being a poet.

Bilbo had died seemingly peacefully in the backyard near his beloved Jacaranda tree. He clearly didn’t suffer. That’s a relief. It should be relief enough. However, I’m human. Indeed, I’m more human than I thought, because far from being made of stone after all we’ve been through, I am emotionally distraught. I’ve cried, but I’ve also had the strength to be there for the kids and answer their questions and reassure them, as much as I could, that everyone around them isn’t about to pass away too.

Bilbo with ball

Bilbo with his ball. Actually, that’s another dog’s ball. Humph! Just call him obsessed!

We buried Bilbo in the backyard with one of his many tennis balls and I sprinkled rose petals into his grave. In other words, we gave him the same kind of send off we’d do for any family member, although his was more intimate…just Geoff and myself.

Meanwhile, I know this is going to hurt for awhile.

Another aspect to Bilbo, is that he has been quite a feature here on my blog and has even written a few posts himself and has his own extensive circle of human and dog friends. I am grateful to not only have these memories, but it means so much to have shared Bilbo with you and that you have at least come to know him in part. It is no exaggeration to say, he was a four-legged angel. He loved us so completely with every cell in his being. I have never had any doubt that he would die protecting us either, giving us such a sense of safety and security. Yet, he wasn’t your bounding extrovert. He was actually a deep-thinking, somewhat melancholy introvert. I always described him as that bloke standing in the corner of the pub keeping to himself and holding his beer. He never jumped up on anyone. That’s Lady.

Fortunately, we still have our other dog, Lady. She’s an incredibly happy dog, who is forever wagging her tail. Indeed, she was wagging her tail at Bilbo and I couldn’t help thinking that, just like me, she was telling Bilbo to wake up.

“The dog is a gentleman; I hope to go to his heaven, not man’s.”

-Mark Twain: Letter to W.D. Howells, 2 April 1899.

So, when I think of Bilbo walking over the Rainbow Bridge, I hope that he’s found a fill in family with the kind of tireless energy required to keep throwing his tennis ball…time after time. With his new, revitalized energy, they’ve going to need it.

RIP Bilbo…19th November, 2006 – 26th June, 2017.

Love,

Rowena

 

Bilbo going home

Saturday’s visit to the beach turned out to be his last. He laboured up and down the beach like an aged warrior and only managed a few laboured attempts to chase his ball. Mostly, it just rolled into the water. Lady doesn’t chase balls or sticks, preferring  to roll in dead anything instead.

 

Out of the Depths…Friday Fictioneers.

The river’s fury knew no bounds. Swallowing and regurgitating all in its path, the river gushed through precious Queenslander homes, but didn’t care… just buried its dead in mud.

Pete and Julie clung to each other like limpets. Photograph after sodden photograph fished out of the mud, their memories were falling apart in gloved hands.

Despair…utter despair.

Then, the aliens landed. Strangers wearing gumboots, rubber gloves, carrying spades, mops and plates of food. They’d salvaged their daughter’s precious teddies. Mud was glued to each and every fibre, but for the very first time, they knew they could make it.

………

This has been another contribution to Friday Fictioneers. This week’s photo prompt is © Karuna

A series of floods hit Queensland, Australia, beginning in December 2010. The floods forced the evacuation of thousands of people from towns and cities.[2] At least 90 towns and over 200,000 people were affected.[2] Damage initially was estimated at around A$1 billion[3] before it was raised to $2.38 billion.[1]

Three-quarters of the council areas within the state of Queensland were declared disaster zones.[5] Communities along the Fitzroy and Burnett Rivers were particularly hard hit, while the Condamine, Ballone and Mary Rivers recorded substantial flooding. An unexpected flash flood caused by a thunderstorm raced through Toowoomba’s central business district. Water from the same storm devastated communities in the Lockyer Valley. A few days later thousands of houses in Ipswich and Brisbane were inundated as the Brisbane River rose and Wivenhoe Dam used a considerable proportion of its flood mitigation capacity. Volunteers were quick to offer assistance, and sympathy was expressed from afar…Wikipedia

At the time of the floods, I was staying near Byron Bay in Northern New South Wales and also experienced the deluge. People talk about the sound of rain on a tin roof, but this was terrifying and yet at the same time, strangely beautiful at the same time. We have family and close friends in Brisbane so these floods were very close to our hearts.

I felt I had to write something uplifting in response to this prompt which I found quite disturbing.

xx Rowena

The Wharfie – Friday Fictioneers.

Henry clocked on, praying he’d get through the day without screwing up. Broke and dossing down on Steve’s couch, he couldn’t go outside without freaking out. The bitch was lurking on every corner. Nowhere was safe.

It was too soon, but Steve had got him the job. He was a union man. No questions asked, all his troubles slipped under the radar. Surely, it wouldn’t matter that he couldn’t pick red from green, or that he read things back to front…

Yet, even before his first smoko, he’d spotted the “Thomas” backpack lying by the wharf.

He didn’t even think.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

This has been another contribution to  Friday fictioneers, a weekly challenge set by Rochelle Wisoff Fields to write a 100-word story in response to a photo prompt. You can find other stories here.

PHOTO PROMPT © Fatima Fakier Deria.

xx Rowena

 

 

 

Weekend Coffee Share 19th March, 2017.

Welcome to Another Weekend Coffee Share!

Today, I have a little confession. It’s actually almost Monday afternoon here, but there’s no rule that says you have to stick to local time. So, I’m Coming to you to from Boston where it’s currently 8.42PM Sunday and it’s currently 2ºF. It’s currently 27ºC here in Sydney with 80% humidity. The air is so heavy and sticky and it feels like you could literally wring the water out of it,which is all pretty yuck to be honest. Not that I’m wishing Winter would hurry up. It’s more of a case of “rain, rain go away…”

Woy Woy March 20

After weeks of seriously heavy rain, the sun started to peer through the clouds this morning and I had to seize the moment.

At the moment, I’m wishing I could find some form of cosmic remote control. Mostly, I’d like to press the pause button for awhile to catch up. Or, a bit like the conductor of an orchestra, get some parts to stop of play quietly so I can focus on something else without being interrupted or feeling I’m needing to split my brain so many directions, that it short circuits.

I know I’m far from being the only one who feels like this so when is some young Einstein or Thomas Eddison going to invent the ultimate device. Or, could I be the one to come up with the ultimate invention? Unless it’s made out of a box of spare cuckoo clock parts or the components of the piano I’m thinking of pulling to pieces, I doubt it. I’d better stick to art and my planned deviation into sculpture.

The last couple of weeks have been very stressful. Not because I’ve had a lot on, but I’ve had some big stuff on and I’ve had to be organized and focused, which isn’t my forte.

At the top of the agenda at the moment, our daughter goes to high school next year. Forget any concerns about my baby growing up. At the moment, the preparation side of things is enough to contend with. In a bid to give her plenty of choice and options, she’s sat for the State selective schools test, but she’s also sitting for selective academic and performing arts tests at our local school. We won’t get the results of the selective schools’ test  until after the offers are made for the local school. So, needless to say, the process by itself is an ordeal and my role is never as simple as “taxi driver extraordinaire”. I’m also chief motivator, enforcer and “punching bag”. Golly! I feel like handing in my resignation already and it’s only march. This process goes on at least until October and longer if she’s on the waiting list.

It’s enough to throw yourself under a bus…”Spare me!”That’s metaphorically speaking, of course!

The other big event this week, was my thirty year school reunion. That was a real hoot. reunion.  I really love going to these school reunions, even though I wasn’t one of the cool kids at school. We’ve all moved on and the girls who gave me a hard time, don’t come to the reunions, which intrigues me. Unfortunately, most of the people they really picked on don’t come either and there are also those who walked out the school gate and never looked back. For me, the usual what to wear problem was compounded by weeks and weeks of severely heavy rain, which was saying hibernate to me. I could’ve worn an eskimo suit there if I’d had one. There was also the shoe issue. I can’t stand long at the best of times and as much as I would’ve liked to wear the pretty shoes, I had to go with the sensible shoes. This ended up being quite interesting as I ended up almost feeling short, when I’m usually tall. Some of those heels were like towers. Anyway, I enjoyed catching up on anecdotes from the past and they had scanned in a series of letters to Charles and Di a class had written for the Royal Wedding. They’d got married when I was in 6th class and I clearly remember the insane obsession the world had with Diana, which was such a part of those school years. I clearly remember one of my friends saying her Gran had taken her off for a Lady Di haircut but she had a cowlick in her fridge and it didn’t really come off.  The teenage years are a bit like that though. So much never really comes off.

I should mention, that there was talk about actor Hugh Jackman at the reunion.  Of course, there had to be. He was our local heartthrob. As much as there was talk of Hugh spottings back in the day, there has to be a few stories about the one who broke Hugh’s heart. Of course, it no longer matters whether it’s true or not. You just need a few good myths and legends to rev up a reunion!

Since I missed the coffee share the week before, I still need to wish our son a Happy 13th Birthday. My Dad couldn’t resist writing: “now you’re terrible teenager” in his card and I sure am hoping this isn’t prophetic. I don’t know if you really want a boring kid, but one who did what they were supposed to do without constant reminding would be good.

I guess that’s where that remote control I mentioned earlier would really come in handy. The thing is it would need to be modified to include some kind of homework/study button, which included some kind of “motivational encouragement”.  Of course, this would need to be enabled to override the “play” button. Not that I fancy myself as some kind of dictator, but it would be so much easier to operate the teenager from the couch without having to get up…AND without having to repeat myself!

Anyway, the teenager went very well at sailing over the weekend and is trying to catch up on school work after being sick.

Meanwhile, I’m back off to dancing tonight. I’m not sure how many classes we have left this term   and I love it so much, that I miss it in between. Our adult class is so much fun and caters for beginners through to professional dancers and we each just do our best…AND we have such a laugh.

jennifer-pendergast5

Photo prompt: © Jennifer Pendergast.

BTW, I almost forgot to mention my weekly go at writing flash fiction over at Friday Fictioneers…Local Outrage.

So, how’s your week been? I hope it’s gone well. I know I don’t exactly offer you something to eat or drink but that can do on behind the scenes and doesn’t always need to be spelt out.

Anyway, I hope you have a great week wherever you are!

This has been another Weekend Coffee Share. I encourage you to come over and join us.

Best wishes and I hope you have a great week ahead!

Rowena

Musical Reflections 1941…

In March 1941, while London was in the throws of “The Blitz”, my grandmother was performing in Newcastle, a regional city North of Sydney. She was a concert pianist and after studying at the Royal Academy of Music in London, she returned to Australia in 1940 to tour with famed conductor, Sir Thomas Beecham…and no doubt to escape the bombs!

Fast forwarding to 2017, and I’m meticulously going through old newspapers online, transcribing text and pasting articles about her into word documents by year. It’s taken me years to come up with this approach for compiling all these bits and pieces, especially as filing isn’t exactly my forte.

An interesting aspect of my grandmother’s career, at least from the perspective of a storyteller, is that she lived through an extremely turbulent, yet fascinating, period of history. That included: the Great Depression, WWII, “women’s lib”  and also the Cold War when she actually performed behind the “Iron Curtain” in East Germany and Soviet Russia (the latter being quite an “interesting” thing for Grannie to do and she even brought back some Russian coins which was not allowed!!)

So, when I stumbled across this little discussion in the Newcastle paper about the conflict between classical music and Jazz, I thought of a few bloggers who’d find this interesting and I’ll be popping round to “your place” and dropping off a link. You never know when little historical snippets like this could come in handy:

So, here goes:

“WORDS CONTINUE, like pebbles, to be thrown into the stream of controversy that races between followers of jazz and the classics. One writer, who attempts an impartial summing up of the question suggests: “The highbrow’s error is to suppose himself a different creature from the low brow. He loathes himself if he is betrayed into humming a tune that all the world is singing or into tapping his feet in time with the band. And failing to recognise or contemptuously rejecting these instincts in himself he has nothing but scorn for their manifestation in other people. To him the lowbrow is the person who likes ‘that kind of music.’ How much better if we realised that there are occasions when we all like ‘that kind of music” when our superior faculties are enjoying a rest. “This problem must be giving the B.B.C. a headache in compiling its feature programme. ‘Music while you work,’ since obviously there must be some who would prefer to make a bullet or put an engine together to the accompaniment of a Beethoven sonata than to ‘Roll Out the Barrel.’ “Germany, if reports are true, is producing special music to aid the war effort. Soldiers now march to tunes which automatically control their breathing to enable them to go longer distances without becoming exhausted.”

Newcastle Morning Herald and Miners’ Advocate (NSW : 1876 – 1954) , Friday 21 March 1941, page 18

This tension between classical and contemporary music, rings bells for me back at school, even in the 1980’s.

As if being a teenager wasn’t confusing enough, while the rest of the teenage universe was into  pop/rock/punk etc, my best friend was into classical and drew me under her spell. In retrospect, she was one of “those kids”. Their family only watched the ABC and she never ate junk food. Indeed, she didn’t even know what a Mars Bar was. That should have been a warning in itself, but your best friend is your best friend. Sink or swim, you do it together…even if you do die a social death.

So, if I could speak to my 13 year old self, I’d tell her that she should stand on her own two feet. That before you publicly declare you love classical music, remember you played Grease at your slumber party, which was anything but. Anyone who is your true friend, can accept a difference of opinion and give you the space and freedom to be yourself. You don’t have to be clones. Also, if you decide to go against the flow, make sure it’s for something you strongly believe in and that you’re prepared to cop the fallout. Otherwise, it’s just not worth it.

These are life lessons I’m now trying to pass onto my kids. Navigating your way through high school is a veritable minefield and hopefully they can learn from my mistakes and make different ones of their own.

Meanwhile, getting back to the tension between different styles of music, I’m sensing that this has eased up over the years and we enjoy much more of a smorgasbord of styles these days. That we can be wonderfully eclectic. Is that your take as well? I’d love to read your reflections.

xx Rowena

 

Nothing Said…Flash Fiction.

“You two look cosy,” Jess smiled, almost spilling champagne over her best friend and her ex-lover. They weren’t holding hands. Yet, she could sense that unmistakable sizzle. Almost convulsing, Jess said nothing. She kept her love life private.

Ouch! That Summer with Will stung like a bee. He’d seen straight through her with those damned blue eyes. Didn’t even need his lens.

That’s why she ran. By then, there was no turning back.

She was too broken.

The two people she loved the most and knew the best. Yet, she kept zipped.

She couldn’t tell him about their son.

This has been written in response to Charli Mills weekly Flash Fiction Challenge over at Carrot Ranch.

December 29, 2016 prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a cozy story. What is it to be cozy, to experience Danish hygge? It doesn’t need to be culture-specific, but it can be an interesting point of comparison or contrast. A character might long to feel cozy, or you might describe the perfect cozy scene. It may or may not include Prosecco..

Respond by January 3, 2017 to be included in the compilation (published January 4). Rules are here. All writers are welcome!

xx Rowena

Photo: Rowena Curtin

 

Poem: Welcome To the Yellow House

And he coaxed:

“Chirpy bird,

chirpy bird,

rest beside me,

chirpy bird.

The music of your spangled song,

thaws the freeze of love gone wrong.

 

Chirpy Bird.

chirpy bird.

Look what I’ve got,

chirpy bird.

Golden seeds

plucked from my heart.

Feast on these,

fresh shoots will start.”

 

But reason warned:

“Chirpy bird,

Chirpy bird.

Watch fast footsteps, Chirpy bird.

Your beak does peak

to chasms deep

as he bathes in your sweet

tweet

tweet

tweet.

But though he sometimes calls you “dear”,

note he’ll never let you near.”

 

Oh, Chirped bird!

Chirped bird!

Beak jammed in crack,

wings tied to torture wrack.

With a blind man’s bash,

your fragile bones he had to smash.

His yellow house was painted grand.

Do you think you’ll ever understand?

I only ever hear you cry:

“Lord, tell me why?

Just tell me why.”

 

Baited bird.

Beaten bird.

Chirped out bird

flopped in my hand.

Your crumpled feathers,

could I carress,

but you’d die

inside a comfort nest.

 

So, I offer you back

to the outstretched sky.

Spread your wings!

It’s time to fly.

Fresh shoots can spring

from golden seeds.

They’re ripe for thee,

my chirpy bird.

Eat & Fly free.

Rowena Curtin  14th August, 1992.

bird-1-1

Chirpy Bird.

It feels quite surreal these days, to reflect on the horrors of heartbreak in the years before I met my husband and “settled down”.

This poem revisits my trip to Europe in 1992, and the horrors of heartbreak. It’s title comes from Van Gogh’s house in Arles, which appeared in the painting The Yellow House. I chose Van Gogh’s house for the title as I was rapidly descending into the  same sort of anguished madness one associates with Van Gogh.

I hadn’t seen the painting when I named the poem, and the actual painting is much more conventional and “tame” than I’d expected, especially when you think of Van Gogh’s emotional and mental expressionism his works like:  Starry Night, which oozes with raw, unbridled emotion.

My “friend” used to call me “Chirpy Bird”, and seemed to find me a breath o fresh air. He’d never met an Australian before and I remember him and some of our friends wondering whether it was just me or Australians in general.

Due to circumstances my friend and I could only be friends and that was accepted and understood. However, emotions aren’t known for sticking to the rules and while I can’t speak for him, mine blew straight through those bounds, at least in my heart. For those of you who remember that great dating classic: When Harry Met Sally, friendship between single men and women is often fraught. I love this scene. Our “friendship” ended in a huge emotional vortex and then the bucket of ice hit. Ouch!

As I ripped my heart out and through it over  Pont Neuf long after midnight, I felt like I was the only person ever to have suffered such anguish. A sense of angst which permeated every cell like a seeping poison. Instead of being the wind beneath my wings, my friend brutally cut them off and threw them away. Yet, in a strange paradoxical sense, he also set me free. Being enslaved to a love which could never be, would’ve been a much great  thing, but you don’t se that at the time. You only hurt.

By the way, I actually visited Van Gogh’s home in Cuesmes in Greater Mons, Belgium with my “friend”, which also makes the link to Van Gogh more pertinent.

 

xx Rowena