The Cemetery Incident; waking the dead

When packing for our camping trip to Chillagoe, eleven of my last forty-three reminders to Sutchy, Seffy and Kibby were, “Bring a book to read.”

     “Why?” each one asked more than once, sometimes together.

     “Because there will be quiet moments and you’ll be able to sit under a tree and read.”

     Not one child packed a book.  I found books and I packed them.  I was determined the kids would read during quiet moments.

     To be honest, there weren’t quiet moments.  When the kids weren’t swimming in the creek, spearing, fishing, eating, yarning, playing cards or practising shooting arrows into targets of plastic water bottles, they were sightseeing.  They explored a landscape of hidden treasures like Aboriginal cave paintings, dingoes and snakes.  They walked through four million year-old caves, mining settlements now ghost towns, the Chillagoe Smelters that operated in the early 19th century and the cemetery.

Exploring Mungana settlement, abandoned for almost a century (Kibby wearing one shoe, one thong).

Cousin Bridget and Kibby in the Archways Caves.

Sutchy and Sammy take in the Aboriginal cave paintings.

Swimming in the Walsh River.

Sutchy helps a snake to safety (despite my pleas to stay away!).

Sutchy returning after a failed feral dog hunt (despite my pleas for him not to go). 

Last minute fish before total darkness.

     I have a fascination with cemeteries and the histories they hold.  I strolled between the graves, gazing at the head stones and imagining the lives of the deceased and their families.  The kids lost interest early on and retreated to the cars parked in the patchy shade of trees with failing leaves.  Jen and I continued exploring the graves and then she wandered back to the cars.  The sun was overhead, the temperatures in the mid-thirties and not a leaf or blade of grass moved.  I was lost to another world, a century ago.

Vincent Bennet Nash, passed away suddenly 19th Sept 1940 aged 2 years and 9 months.  Erected by his mother, father and brothers.

Sacred to the memory of Charles P Allen and Michael O'Haloran who were instantaneously killed in the Gipofla mine by the falling of a pump, February 20th 1901.

     The Chillagoe cemetery was the location of Cemetery Incident. 

     A desperate cry rang out, drawing me back to the 21^st century, Chillagoe, the cemetery. It sounded uncannily like, Open the fucking door, along with banging, the sort of banging that comes with a fist on steel.

     “Kibbim, open the fucking door!”  It was none other than my princess, hammering her fists into the car door.  “Open the fuuucking dooor!”

     I realised this monologue may have continued for some time, but I had been oblivious.

     I marched over, pushing into the furnace like heat that was perhaps my fury.

     Like magic the doors flew open with my approach.

     “Mum,” said Seffy with wide-eyed innocence, “they locked me out.”

     Kibbim was holding his arm, his face soaked with tears.  “Mum, Seffy threw the hairbrush at me.”

     “Mum,” said Sutchy who was in the driver’s seat, next to the window controls, “Kibbim locked Seffy out for two minutes and I was trying to unlock the doors, but he kept locking them.”

     They prefaced their futile excuses with "Mum" as if they could appeal to my no-longer existent maternal nature.

     My chest bubbled with snakes and spiders and scoprpions, multiplying, twisting and turning over each other until the only escape they could find was through my mouth.

     “Get out.  All of you.”  My voice was no whisper and I wondered how many dead had been wakened first by Seffy and then me.  “Out.  You can sit in the sun for half an hour.  Can’t you just sit quietly while I do something?  Do I have to constantly supervise you three?  Out, out, out. For half an hour.  You can learn to sit quietly.  Burn in the sun for all I care.”  There was more, much more, but you get the gist.

     They all sat down, quietly, in the sun.

     About burning in the sun, I did care because that is the sort of thing that the Department of Child Safety can investigate.  So I amended my orders.

     “Sit in the shade for the half hour!”

     Seffy has developed a sharp tongue which is fine, but she needs to use it at appropriate moments. Complaining about her brothers and my style of discipline when she was supposed to be sitting quietly, was not an appropriate moment.

     “Listen,” I said, without knowing where I was heading, “I am sick of your sarcastic and derogatory comments.  You need to know when to stop.  From now on, from now on.”   

     And I faltered, trying to think of a threat for Seffy.  She is usually a good girl and will always apologise if she has screamed at me or refused to do something I have asked.  I can’t ever remember smacking her.  But during the Cemetery Incident I was angry and everyone knows that anger fuels only folly.  I still needed a threat to deal with Seffy’s hurtful comments and I thought of one, not well thought out, but one nonetheless. 

     “From now on, if you make sarcastic and hurtful comments I will reach across and slap your face.”

     “I don’t care," she said.  "I’ll call Child Safety.”  

     “Great and they’ll take you away.”

     “Good.  I’ll be happy and safe then.”

     “Oh, for God’s sake, shut up.  All of you.”  The boys held out their hands as if to say, What have we done?  “Half an hour.  Sit. Quietly.”

     I sat by default.  I stared at the white headstones like a mouthful of rotten teeth.  I gazed at the baby blue skies and the shrunken, brown leaves that can’t even manage the heat.  I looked at my watch.  Two minutes had elapsed.  For the first time in my life, I didn’t have a book in my bag.  How could I be so stupid? 

     “How much longer do we have?” said Kibby.

     “Twenty seven minutes.”

     I checked my watch again.  Four minutes had passed.

     “Get in the car.  You can spend your half hour reading.”

     We drove to the campsite in silence.  Without a word, each child alighted, found a book and sat and read for half an hour.  It was a beautiful sight, my darlings reading quietly. 

Spear making 101

You can take the boys off the island, but you can't take the island off of the boys!  

     In the Torres Strait, Sutchy and Kibby loved spearing all manner of sea life with their five-prong bamboo spears.  They spent hours, no days and weeks and months, diving on reefs or in shallows, searching for something they could spear, and bring home and cook for their family.

     For our impending camping trip to Chillagoe with their Aunty Jen and cousins Bridget and Jack, Sutchy and Kibby had to do some spear making.  They have been spearless for the first time in their lives because Tony left their beloved bamboo five-prongs behind on TI!  

     Here, they demonstrate Spear Making 101 with mainland materials.

Always source quality spear making products from your local dump shop. Do not try and use Mum's brooms or rakes.  She'll notice!

Using a saw, remove the head from the shaft.  

After hacksawing into the fridge shelf, sharpen the prongs on paving stones in a traditional manner.  Kibby worked out if he rubbed the tip on the paver at high speed, pressed the white hot point into my arm and ran like hell, he got a hilarious reaction!

Sutchy worked out modern electrical methods of sharpening the prongs were faster and more effective.

Inner tubing may be used, but electrical tape provides an ideal medium with which to fix the prongs to the stick.  

Kibby and camera-shy Sutchy with their four-prongs.

     I followed Aunty Jen to our Chillagoe campsite.  I still don't know where we camped but it was near a creek in the middle of a sea of scrub and bull dust.  

     We hadn't even unpacked when Sutchy and Kibby donned their masks and snorkels, grabbed their spears and went diving in a creek. A creek, for God's sake! 

It wasn't long before Sutchy speared a red claw crayfish.

     Kibby and Sutchy spent two hours diving and netted two red claw, not quite enough to feed eight hungry campers.  Nonetheless I was one proud mamma as my boys dived and surfaced over and over, determined to catch something they could bring home, cook up and eat. 

     Fortunately, I have studied the bible and am familiar with the Miracle of the Loaves and Fishes 101.  This miracle has a step-by-step account of how to feed many when you don't have much (such as filling up on muesli for breakfast first then having a mouthful of flame-grilled red claw). 
     There was the next day and hours of day light during which they could dive for crayfish. My boys were back on the island ... one composed of bull dust, covered in dry scrub and surrounded by fresh water!

'What's this?'

I spent Easter Friday and Saturday helping Bubu pack up her house.  Actually, I spent Saturday helping Bubu pack up because one minute after starting work on Friday, I questioned her logic.  She wanted to empty the contents of a room - furniture, boxes, blankets and fabric - into the hallway to enable the Persian carpet to be vacuumed and rolled up.  Surely, it would make sense to pack up the things then attack the carpet.

     ‘Catherine, stop.’  She turned to Kibby and Sutchy.  ‘Keep going boys.’

     I pleaded with her a minute longer, maybe three mintues.  

     ‘Catherine, go and see Jenny Cory.’

     I imagined having a crystal ball (there was probably one buried somewhere) and I gazed into the watery orb.  The day before me involved more of these situations and my slow decline into irreversible insanity. Or I could spend the day with Jenny, a bestie of two-plus decades. I left in a cloud of dust and dust mites.

     By five, my jaw muscles were aching from excessive talking and I headed back to Bubu’s.

     Saturday was more productive.  However I was continually picking up an object and asking Bubu, ‘What’s this?’ and ‘Can I chuck it out?’ with increasing exasperation.  I naturally assumed many of her ‘collections’ were better placed in landfill or the op shop.

     It went like this, all day.

     ‘Bubu, what’s this?’ of a visor type contraption.
     ‘It belongs to the bird cage.’
     ‘So I’ll chuck it out?’ I was eternally hopeful.
     ‘No, keep it.’

     ‘Bubu, what’s this?’ of a ceramic lid.  I hoped its base was crushed into a thousand pieces so I could chuck the lid.
     ‘It belongs to my water dispenser.’
     ‘Can I chuck it?’
     ‘No, the bottom is somewhere. In there.’  “In there” was the laundry piled a metre high with towels and sheets. 

     ‘Bubu, what’s this?’ of a small, synthetic bag containing little pieces of wood.
     ‘I don’t know.  Let me see.’  Pause.  ‘It’s guitar stuff.’
     ‘Chuck it out?’  There wasn’t a guitar in sight.
     ‘No, I want to keep it.’ 

     

     Sigh.

     We survived the day together.

     The following morning, Bubu got revenge.  I was leaning back in a chair at the dining table, my feet on a chair so my torso and thighs made a wide V.  Bubu stopped as she was walking past.

     ‘Catherine, what’s this?’  She was pointing to my torso.

     I looked down to the fabric of my singlet.  ‘Nothing.’

     ‘No, look, this.’  She was closer, pointing.

     ‘There’s nothing.’  I smoothed the fabric several times as if there might be a prickle.

     ‘It’s a little roll of fat.  Very womanly.’  And she walked off.  

     Very good, Bubu.  I’ll pay that one.  

     As I tucked the errant flesh back under the waistband of my  shorts, I lamented that I could not simply chuck it out.

The Collectors

I work at the Salvation Army on my day off, Friday and last Friday, I found a book, The Collectors by Robert Carter.  His earlier novel, Prints in the Valley is a favourite read and I expected The Collectors would not disappoint. So I bought it, a bargain at $1 along with some books for Seffy at only 50 cents each.  

     I also bought a spinning spice rack for Seffy, a handmade leather belt and pack of playing cards for Kibby who worked alongside me because he was not well enough to run in his school’s cross-country.  I took home at no cost because it was so old and would have been ditched, The Concise Home Doctor, circa 1960 and a collection of week-by-week 1970 editions of ‘the great new colour encyclopedia,’ Australia’s Heritage:  The Making of a Nation.  

And I kept a Thank you card written by a couple where they comment on why they love Atherton and a birthday card written by Titty to her brother, Jeffrey.  Oh, and Jeffrey’s social studies exercise book.   I can’t understand why people throw away such interesting and sentimental items.  I have this need to collect them, to keep them safe because I cannot bear for them to become landfill.

     
     Anyway, on Saturday morning I relaxed on the lounge and started to read The Collectors as I ate a leisurely breakfast of Tableland fruit and home made yoghurt.  Something wasn’t right.  One, I don’t read these days because any spare time I have is spent preparing material and writing short stories for my awesome literacy students.  Two, I don’t eat breakfast sitting down, ever.  And three, there was a ghostly silence in the house and that gave me time to think, something I rarely do.

     The reason there was a ghostly silence was Tony and the kids had gone to Cairns to help my mum, Bubu tidy her house for sale.  She’s signed a contract to buy a house at the end of our street and the purchase of that house is dependent on the sale of her Cairns house.  I really want her nearby since she hasn’t enjoyed the best of health lately and the kids really love being with her.

     And the reason Tony and the kids need to help Bubu tidy up is because Bubu is a collector. She collects many things.  Actually, she collects all things.  I have visited Bubu every six weeks or so since we moved to Atherton and each time I’ve walked in there have been many new items she’s collected.  A new sofa.  A new lounge chair. The coffee table was new, but I didn’t notice.  A new kitchen bench – bamboo!  A new set of cutlery. A new dining table and chairs.  Another new dining table without chairs.  That’s just in the lounge, dining and kitchen before I venture into the bedrooms.  Rarely am I able to venture into the bedrooms because they are full of new and interesting collectibles.  A very fetching cane day bed in one room with a gorgeous Egyptian cotton cover. Stuff concealed under piles of clothes, blankets and throws, good quality woollen or cotton, of course. A coffee table, perhaps the old one that was replaced by the new one I didn’t notice.  But sure enough, all the old items are in the carport waiting to be taken to the second hand shop (by my brother, Stephen) to enter the great household “recycle of life” and bring contentment to other collectors.  Bubu has a strong environmental commitment and saves many collectibles from becoming land fill.

     The word hoarding may come to mind, but Bubu doesn’t hoard.  Hoarding, from my lay understanding, is the inability to part with possessions, often of little value.  Commonly hoarded items are newspapers, magazines, clothes and food.  Further, hoarding behaviour often adversely affects family members and this is certainly not the case, except when Bubu lost the kneading blade to Stephen’s bread maker when she borrowed it.  I warned him against lending it to her.

     “She’ll lose it,” I said.  “And you’ll never find it in all the stuff she has.”

     After it vanished I suggested Bubu look behind the couch for the kneading blade.  But no one in my family ever listens to me.

     To be honest, the only time Bubu’s collecting has ever bothered me is when I’ve visited for the night and not been able to find the bed when I’ve planned to sleep.  But other than that, Bubu’s collecting has only benefitted me. 

     Only recently she bought me, from the second hand shop, A G2 George Gross ribbon embroidered skirt and a pair of pale, soft leather deck shoes, that don’t fit.  My favourite recent op shop purchase from Bubu was a Toulouse-Lautrec Moulin Rouge print dress by Gabriella Frattini whose designs are influenced by the fashions of Tuscany, Paris and the Medditeranean!  Every time I wear that dress people comment on how lovely it is. 

This famous artwork was so famous it was printed on the wallpaper that adorned our toilet walls in Perth in 1976!  I spent hours sitting on the toilet so I could gaze at the dancing ladies and the men in top hats. How could I not wear this dress?

      

     I’ve been the beneficiary of two pairs of Birkenstocks (that do fit) she bought for $2 each from the op shop, countless pairs of discounted undies and bras (not from the second hand shop) and a slow cooker.  She often buys the kids clothes and shoes from the second hand shops.  When Bubu collects new items, I’ll gladly accept her old ones - kitsch salad bowls, any blue crockery, tea pots, wine glasses, pots and pans, lounge suites, coffee tables, beds.  That’s not hoarding.  She's a crazy collector, but not a hoarder.  There's a saying that women grow into their mother's, but I am damned sure that won't be happening!

     If Bubu does hoard anything, it’s books, literary and coffee table books, quality books.  This is not surprising.  She has an Arts degree majoring in English literature.  I also collect books and I am proud to say two of the five metres we freighted from TI were boxes of my books.  If anything should be exempted from the definition of hoarding, it should be good books, much like The Concise Home Doctor and The Collectors by Robert Carter.

     All this I thought about in the silence left by Tony and the kids’ because they were in Cairns helping Bubu sort out her collectibles, some of which I am hoping will return with Tony.  And the silence allowed me to remember I’d forgotten to buy the small stainless steel container with the plastic lid (I am into stainless steel ware) and the collection of classics, three-in-one volume, absolute collectors’ items.  I’ll have to ring the Salvos on Monday and ask for them to be put aside. 

My spotted soul mate, my husband and my self-control

Tony and I didn't write our marriage vows mainly because we decided rather suddenly to tie the knot.  Also, the vow-writing process seemed a bit cringe-worthy to me.  But to be honest, I’d worked as a family law solicitor and knew there was a 40% chance we’d divorce. I wasn’t going to waste time crafting a declaration of love for a man I was likely to end up disliking.

Just married ... 'till death do us part.'

     So we had the traditional, ‘till death do us part’ spiel as part of a registry wedding (wasn't wasting money on a flash wedding, either).  But most of the clerk's voice was drowned out, first by Tony’s giggling and then the laughter of the seven guests crammed into the small office.  I was so embarrassed and was tempted to take hold of the glass paperweight on the clerk’s desk and smash it over Tony’s head. But I exercised the self-control of a saint.
     While photos were taken outside the courthouse, it occurred to me our marriage was founded on the notion that it would survive till one of us died a natural death … or killed the other.  And that almost happened at the end of 2010.

I miss my girl.

     I had travelled from TI to Cairns with the Rooster for his boarding school orientation.  I never liked leaving TI because it meant being separated from my spotted soul mate.  Yes, my beautiful Dalmation, Saidor, named after a village in Papua New Guinea.  

     Saidor and I were inseparable.  She slept on the floor beside my bed.  I always I lay on my stomach and let my arm hang down so I could rest my hand on her fur.  She sprawled on the kitchen lino when I cooked and she lay beside my chair when I worked at the computer.  She was at my side when I did yoga. When I was in labour with the last two children, Saidor was outside the maternity ward.  

       When I returned from my week in Cairns, I noticed Saidor was outside on the veranda instead of inside where she belonged.  I had my suspicions.  When it was time to sleep, I placed Saidor's mattress next to my bed as I did every night and called her inside.

     ‘The dog stays outside,’ growled Tony.

     Now, there were two problems with that statement.  The first was Saidor, as a member of our family, belonged inside.  The second, he’d referred to her as ‘the dog’ which was a fatal mistake.  I resisted the urge to fly at him in a rage. 

     ‘Saidor sleeps next to me.’ My voice was calm.

     ‘She’s staying outside.  I’m sick of her being inside.’

     ‘You don’t understand.  Saidor and I sleep beside each other. We always have and we always will.’

     ‘If you want to sleep with her, you can sleep outside on the veranda.’

     ‘Okay,’ I said.  I took Saidor’s mattress out to the veranda and fetched the swag for me.

     Oh, how glorious it was laying, curled around my furry friend and gazing at the sequinned sky.  We dozed as the flying foxes fought over ripe paw paws, green tree frogs croaked in the downpipes and the banana leaves brushed against each other in secret whispers.  When the spray of rain blew in, I pulled the waterproof flap of the swag over me and covered Saidor with a sheet. We slept like newborns.
     At dawn, we were woken by the crowing of roosters as the sky turned pink. 

     This went on for three weeks.  Each night, I unrolled the swag and placed Saidor’s mattress down.  In the morning, I rolled up the swag and put it in the office.  It then occurred to me that our marriage was actually founded on the notion of ‘till a slow and painful emotional death do us part.’  Really, I didn’t care.  I had my soul mate.

     On the twenty-first night, I unrolled my swag on the veranda then Tony opened the screen door.

     ‘You can come inside now,’ he said in a quiet voice.

     ‘Okay,’ I said.

     I rolled up the swag and put it in the office. Then I went back to the veranda and picked up Saidor’s mattress.

     ‘Come on, Darling’ I said to her, holding the door open.

     She followed me to my side of the bed where I placed her mattress.  She curled upon it and I got into bed, draped my arm over the side and rubbed her neck.  We slept like newborns.  

     And Tony and I were back on track till ‘natural death do us part.’  

Len the Leech and the fair deal (Comprehension strategies - Author Purpose and Facts & Details).

Yesterday Tony, Gina Rose and I set out on a walk up Mt Widow Maker.  Five minutes into the trek we were joined by a fourth party.  Actually, I was joined by the fourth party, at the shin to be precise.  It was a leech. 

  It was firmly attached and I couldn’t feel a thing.  

     ‘Crikey,’ I said when I first saw the leech.  I knew that without Lindsay’s Leech Lifting Lotion, the leech would be sticking with me. 
     ‘Crikey,’ I said again.

     That’s when the leech said through its teeth (they have them), ‘G’day.  It’s me, Len the leech.  I hope you don’t mind, but I need a lift up to Mt Widow Maker.’

Len the leech joins our walk.  No 'Shave for a Cure' jokes, thank you!

      Call him a stowaway, a bludger, a scab (he will certainly leave one behind), whatever, they are people who want something for nothing.  But this slimy guy had attitude and he was no imposition because I couldn’t feel him thanks to the anaesthetic leeches inject.  Len was stuck fast and we were off, now four in our group.

     On the way, I considered some riveting facts about leeches who bear the flash scientific name Hirudinea.

     *Leeches have 32 brains (which explains why Len was so articulate).  
     *The leech brain is very similar to the human brain and is often used for  research into human brain conditions.
     *Leeches like beer!  I wonder if Queensland leeches prefer XXXX and Victorian leeches like VB.  
     *Leech diets and habitat vary.  Most leeches live in warm, wet places like the Far North Queensland forest in the wet season.  But one-fifth of all leeches live in the sea!
     *They inject an anticoagulant, hirudin to stop the host’s blood clotting.  
     *The anaesthetic and the anti-coagulant have been used in medicine to make drugs.
     * Medicinal leeches were used for bloodletting, an old treatment practised by the Ancient Egyptians and Romans.  Doctors believe bloodletting cured a whole range of illnesses and continued into the 20^th century, but today the practice is considered a waste of time.  And blood, of course.
     *Leeches can eat a huge amount – 5 times their body weight.  This means they can go for a year without food.
     *Leeches are hermaphrodites meaning they have both male and female reproductive organs so they don’t need partners to reproduce. 

     Finally, after all that thinking, we summited just before six p.m. I wrote in the Visitors' Book before the light faded.

     

Len enjoys the view from the summit of Mt Widow Maker.

Tony and Gina Rose take in the scenery.

I'd be very grateful if someone could solve the mystery of the hanging rock.  Was there a picnic here?

     Eventually we began our descent. I noticed Len had put on a bit of beef.

     ‘Len,’ I said, ‘You’re a bit thick around the middle.  Been grazing the top paddock, have you?’

     I didn’t actually say that aloud.  Tony would have thought I was a raving lunatic if I talked aloud to a leech!  So I said it in my mind and hoped Len, using one of his 32 brains, could pick up on my mental energy.

     I noticed Len went quiet.  A few strides later he was gone without so much as a goodbye or thank you. 

     I had offended Len, but the good thing was Len got to where he wanted (up Mt Widow Maker) and Tony, Gina Rose and I had a lovely walk in the freezing wind and drizzling rain.  
     It wasn’t true that Len took the free ride and gave nothing in return.  He gave me anaesthetic to relieve the pain and hirudin so my blood wouldn’t clot.  And a small wound that seeped fire engine-red blood for the next 12 hours … all over my pale cream sheets each time the scab (he left that, too) was rubbed off.  I guess in leech terms that amounted to a fair deal! 

A boy and a hen named Leura

Hanging out after school!