Peeks of Pepper 29 October

Pepper has grown 7 cm in one week.

While the dog's away ...

Ollie putting Pepper to sleep

Pepper's first swim

Can you believe it?  Pepper took to swimming like a duck to water!

She's such a good girl.  She never has to be told to eat her greens.

Pepper is a little camera-shy.

We have some exciting news.  Pepper is starting to quack.  Occasionally, she will make a barely audible honking sound and she is only 2.5 weeks old.  What a clever duckling.  She just made another honk.  Aaaw!

The importance of fair play

"Muuum, tell Diesel to get off.  He's had his turn and Charlie's after me."

Free Fast Fantastic

I landed a bonza bout of tonsilitis on my return to TI last week.  No worries, I thought, I’ll sit this one out rather than see a doctor.  After all, waiting and resting proved successful when I had a tubercular cough back in July (Spitting Something).

     By day two, the tonsilitis situation was grim.  In my delerium, I was certain an executioner began the job of beheading me then, halfway through, decided to take a long smoko.  Sadly, pain relief provided no relief at all.  And a fiery fever was raging.

     If I was in Cairns, I would have balked at paying $70 for a consultation ($60 for a concession card holder), complained at forking out $20 to $30 for a script of penicillin and refused point blank to drive 25 minutes to the nearest bulk-billing medical centre.  That would have involved waiting for hours and hours while I slowly died.  If I survived the experience, I would have paid $8 for some Aspro and almost double for Panadeine Forte (though I would have needed a script for that so back to square one).

     But guess what? I wasn’t in Cairns.  I was on TI.  Home to free and fast medical consultations and prescription dispensing.  And I didn’t even need an appointment.

     On Monday I shuffled into the Primary Health Centre on Tony’s arm, just on nine.  If he hadn’t been holding me up, I would have collapsed such was my agony.  No, I am not exaggerating nor am I prone to hypochondria or histrionic rants. 

     I waited less than ten minutes to see Aunty Margo in the treatment room.  No sooner had I settled down to wait for the emergency doctor was my name called.  Dr Irene handed me scripts for penicillin, aspirin and Panadeine Forte. 

     She tapped at the keyboard and asked, “Do you know you are overdue for your pap smear?”

     I explained that I had one recently in Cairns and she updated the computer.

     “Wow,” I said, “that’s something else being able to check up on what’s overdue.”

     It was a new computer system that links records at the PHC and the hospital.  How cool is that? 

     I managed a weak thank you and attempted a smile of gratitude as I shuffled out, supported by Tony.  I was one happy customer, though I didn’t look it.

     I gave my purse to Tony so he could pay for the aspirin and Panadeine Forte.  He returned with the  three medicines saying they were all free.

     Can you believe it?  In Cairns, the same doctor’s visit and pharmaceuticals would have set me back about $110.

     Free.  Fast. Fantastic.

     Oh, and while I am on my soap box, two weeks ago, I was reminded that our young fella needed to see the ophthalmologist.  My mind took some time to process that information as his eyes were fine as far as I knew.  Yes, a year ago, a routine eye check by Eye-Dentity at Kibby’s school detected a potential problem.  We were referred to the ophthalmologist at the hospital the next day and didn’t even have time for a chat before the consultation.  All good, all free and he was put on the list for a follow-up a year later.  Tony took Kibby down last week.  They were down and back within half an hour (that included walking time).  And the good news; Kib’s eyes are good and we didn’t pay a cent.

Our new family member

The patter of tiny feet once again graces the Titasey home.  We watch in wonder as she, our new family member negotiates floor boards and tiles and feet threatening to knock her sideways.

She's a girl who loves her tucker. I swear she has grown a centimetre since Seffy adopted her.

     She is Pepper, a Pekin-Indian Runner cross duckling who is now two weeks old.  Seffy has adopted her and I am the occasional duck-sitter.  Being a newborn, she requires constant care and attention and will not tolerate being locked in a cage like Quentin, our quail (that’s another story). 

     Pepper likes to be held and cooed to and if she is left alone in a box or with Quentin she chirps just like a baby chicken who can’t find its mother.

     At night, Pepper is swaddled like a baby human and nestled into a sheet-lined box to simulate being sat upon by her mother.  At just two weeks of age she is already sleeping through the night.  Clever duck!

     I’ve had tonsillitis since she arrived and our morning ritual is this: when I am woken by the pain of being slowly strangled at around four, I get up and swallow some pain relief.  Then I take Pepper from her cot and give her a feed while the painkillers kick in.  When she is sleepy eyed and sated, I swaddle her up again and she sleeps till Seffy wakes at about seven.

    In just four days, Seffy and I have managed our routines to include Pepper being doted upon ALL the time.  Either she is swaddled and tucked under Seffy’s singlet or mine. 

Or being serenaded with Hot Cross Buns and Incey Wincey Spider

      Today I discovered what happens when swaddling is not applied properly.  Pepper had been down my singlet while Seffy did some drawing and then I handed her back.  About half an hour later something didn’t feel right in my t-shirt bra.  I reached down and produced three moist tablet-sized objects, the colour and texture of wet grass.  Aaagh, I thought (not wanting to alarm others around me), it’s ducky do.  Thank heavens I hadn’t tried to pick them up earlier.  Duck poo is notoriously runny.

     I’ve finally found a way to get Pepper off my chest when I am working at the computer.

Pepper needs the feeling of warm skin.

     There will come a time when Pepper needs to stay home alone.  Seffy and I have some concerns.  Last night we were all downstairs and Tony heard footsteps upstairs.  I told him it was "just one of the kids" except all the kids were on the patio.

     “It’s the dog,” he said and marched upstairs.

     Sure enough, our very clever foster dog, Diesel, had managed to nose the back door open and proceed to terrorise Quentin in his cage. Poor Quentin.  He's already a nervy guy.

     Seffy and I have started the separation process, but every time we move from Pepper’s vision, she chirps in such a desperate, heart-wrenching way, my eyes fill with tears.  It’s exactly the raw emotion I felt the first few times I abandoned my babies at childcare … till the euphoria of spending time-alone kicked in. 

Email from a reader

I often wonder if I have made the right choice pursuing my passion to write.  On good days (it's generally after a quadruple shot of caffeine), I have thought, in time, I might even achieve my crazy dream of earning an income from writing. 
     Writing so far has come at a cost to my health and my family and my total income is not worth consideration.  I am not sure why I have continued writing although it may have something to do with chronic sleep deprivation impairing my capacity to make informed judgements.
     Shortly after I was notified about being shortlisted at the Queensland Literary Awards last year, I had an epiphany.  I was making the children's lunches one evening and I opened the fridge.  My eyes fell upon half a tomato, shrivelled and covered in grey, fluffy spores. I was going to end up like that tomato.  I'd spend the next 20 years writing furiously and end up on the shelf with nothing to show, but grey hair and wrinkles.  
     I turned to Tony and told him I'd give up writing if I didn't win this time. I'd been shortlisted in three other national manuscript competitions and it was looking like a case of always-the-bridesmaid-never-the-bride. I knew when to stop flogging a dead horse.
     Then I won and My Island Homicide was published this year.
     I have spent many hours since, often when the neighbourhood rooster crows for the first time before dawn, staring into nothing and wondering whether this writing business is all too hard and I don't have what it takes.  Then I've fallen asleep.  Waking has fuelled me with a renewed passion for writing and I have forgotten about those doubts as I am either formulating a story or plotting a way to get some writing in between child-related committments.
     Before writing this post I had a quick squiz at the ABC website and, much to my surprise, there was an article about writing in Australia.  It states, among other things, that writers' annual incomes have halved since 2001 to $11,500.  If I was a gambling woman, I'd ditch writing, bury the dream and find a real job tomorrow.  It would make things easier for Tony and the children and of course, our finances.  
     But there is one problem  ... kind words from people who have enjoyed my writing.
     The following is an email from Peter Reiken, a man I've never met, who read Ina's Story, the memoir of my mother-in-law.  His kind words are a small gesture that means the world to me and my crazy dream.

Dear Catherine

I am writing to tell you how much I enjoyed your biography of Ina Titasey.  I came across the book quite by accident while trolling through the history section at the Sunnybank library.  The name"Titasey"  was familiar to me but it was not until I was flicking through the photos in the book that I came across the photo of the young boy "Tony" sitting in the pram and I recognised my old house in the back ground.

I was a young policeman on TI from 1963 to 1966.  Whilst I did not know Ina and her husband personally  I rememebr the Titasey family as such, living across the road.  The kids were always laughing and playing out the front and on the verandah and I recall several occasions been given some of the mangos from the tree in front of their house.  The name was somewhat similar to Tatipata another TI family I knew and I think I recall one of them telling me that their father came from Indonesia to.  

I was 70 last month and Ina's story stirred memories that have been dormant for some 50 yrs.  

I knew many of the people mentioned in the book and most would have passed on now but they all became alive again to me in this book. I remember some years back reading an article on the singing trio the  "Mills Sisters" but I incorectly assumed they were part of the Mills family that I think lived on Hammond Island when I was there.  

Not many books have been written on the history of the Torres Straits and TI and those that have usually talk about events and institutions rather than the simple folk who made the place something special to those who took the time to appreciate it. 

Ina's story had to be told  and I congratulate you on the way you did it. 

Regards Peter Reiken

Peter's house in the background.  Tony in the pram, about late 1960.

Needle riddle

My good friend, Rebecca occasionally flicks me riddles.  I love having to think, knowing there is one correct answer.  And it's a great way to keep in touch.

     Here was last week's riddle:

     What works better when it has something in its eye? 

     Of course, a needle! I emailed back the answer with a page of what had been happening in my world.

     Correct, she wrote and so preceded news of her life.

     I related the riddle to my family.  Four out of five of us are on the farm for the weekend.

     No one guessed the answer so I told them, unable to hide the smug tone in my voice.  

     I am the slow one in my family so small wins like that bring out the childish brat in me.

     "Cathy," they chorused, "that's not right."

     "Needles are more useful without anything in the eye," said Stephen, a botanist.  

     I didn't have time to point out his poor grammar - eye should have been plural to match 'needles.'  This is where I get caught out for being slow.

     They came up with a list of uses for the humble needle without thread.

• picking a zit with the point
• extracting a blackhead using the head
• bursting a blister
• scraping foreign material from a wound (eg Dad accidentally rubbed a sore on his arm against rusty metal and he used a needle to extract the rust)
• picking something from teeth (I quite regularly floss with a needle - point for between incisors and the head for between molars
• using as a compass (apparently you tap it and it becomes magnetic as the atoms become aligned with the magnetic field of the earth - per Dad although I'd like to see this verified)
• piercing ears
• picking a lock
• holding a chook's bum together while it is being roasted - I am a bit dubious about this application as I would have thought it was the thread that holds the anus together.
• cleaning fingernails
• extracting a splinter from a heel or palm
• scratching the mould from tiles
• lancing a boil (although I prefer the heated bottle treatment)
• wrap a tissue around the needle and clean between the keys on a computer keyboard
• sliding under a steamed envelope seal when you want to reseal it

I conceded.  Needles have more applications with empty eyes.

No one thought of this

Last fishing trip for the holidays

The Blackfish holding a Yellow-tailed Trevally.

Sutchy related a tale of daring adventure:  jumping for a turtle, battling its escape and long-awaited victory.  A picture might be worth a thousand words, but this one doesn't have quite as many words as the story Sutchy told.  

Here he poses with a much smaller version of the turtle I had visualised him catching.

The silent scream

Yesterday at the pool, I watched a young child sink beneath the water.  While my brain was telling me children don’t drown before one’s eyes in a crowded pool, he sank, swiftly and silently.

     I had taken Seffy and Savannah to the pool and they took off to the deep end.  I was supposed to be following the black line, lap after lap, but I was sitting on the retaining wall near the gym, lapping up the happy ambience.

     The pool was crowded, it being the basketball finals or some such. From the stadium there was the dull thudding of the ball against the hoop board, the constant trill of the ref’s whistle and explosive cheering.  I delighted in the happy whelps and shouts of children splashing in the pool.  There was a rainbow of colourful togs and shirts and shorts.  The late afternoon sun was working its sleepy magic on me.

     It was unusual, me relaxing at the pool. I am very serious about my swimming and would normally have had ten laps, at least, under my Speedo togs.

     Two young boys were walking along the edge of the pool, obviously competent swimmers for there wasn’t an adult or older child in sight.

     For some reason, perhaps it was my drowsy state, I became nostalgic, I was reminded of the first and only time Tony and I went to swim laps when we started courting.  We goggled up and set off, Tony streaking ahead of me.  I admired his speed.  Of course, he was a competent swimmer, he was a Torres Strait Islander and a crayfisherman.  He spent all day diving.  However, after the halfway mark, he struggled then stalled.

     “Are you all right?”  I asked, confused. 

     “I’m a crayfisherman,” he said.  “I can swim solwata all day.  But I can’t do laps.”

     He explained Islanders could swim, but they weren't taught lessons the way white people teach their kids.  They learn to survive in the water because it's in their genes.

     I smiled, thinking about those early days.

     My attention was back on the present as one of those two young boys pushed the other in.

      Obviously they were playing.

     The whistle blew form the stadium.  Cheers erupted. I turned towards the kiosk.  People were milling around, buying snacks.  A mother was leaving, pushing a pram and coaxing a very tired toddler towards the exit. At the start of the lapping lane, a fellow pool devotee lowered himself into the water and fitted his goggles.  A young man yelled at a child to throw him the ball.  A couple were pushing a baby in a giant Floatie, making gooey faces at her. 

     The noises and splashes floated together like a soft, billowing sheet and cloaked me in contentment.

     My dreamy gaze was back on the children playing in front of me.  The young boy who’d been pushed in was still, his head just above the water, his arms out as if crucified. My intuition screamed something was not right, but my rational mind told me children don’t drown without putting up a fight.  Surely, he would be shouting for help. His arms would be flailing, the water white with splashes.

     Water had risen over the boy’s nose.

     No one noticed.

     His eyes were darting around, filled with a terror I’d never seen.  They found mine and screamed to me in silence.

      The happy background noises were suddenly muted as my head was filled with rush of something, like strong wind. I was up and took the eight or so strides to the edge of the pool. 

     The boy’s eyes held my stare, even when he was looking at me from under the water.  By the time I grabbed his hand, his head was completely submerged, so fast is the drowning process. And so silent and still.

     He was close enough to the edge for me to grab his arm and haul him onto the concrete path. I scanned the pool for someone who should have been with him.  I tried to comfort him as I led him to his mother I had seen sitting near the baby pool, across the six lanes.  The boy's ten year old uncle rushed over as I delivered the boy to his mother.
     "Lucky you were watching," said the fellow lapper as I was walking away.

     I returned to my spot near the gym and began trembling violently.  I assumed this also was shock. I wanted to cry, but my brain told me this wasn’t the place and to pull myself together.  Instead I chewed a fingernail. 

Piggy no more

By Sutchy Titasey

It was the September holidays and I was keen to have a successful hunt before I headed back to boarding school.  The weather was bad, blowing 20 knots and no good for fishing or diving.  That left hunting.

     Dad came across new ground while I was at school during the term so we decided to check it out.  Oliver came with us because Kibbim was too slack.

     We anchored between Big Buttertin and Little Buttertin and walked to the east. 

Ollie and I start our pig hunt.

     Being September, months of no rain, everything dry and sandy.

     We headed towards a waterhole because it was hot and we knew the pigs would be at there.

     As we came to where it was obvious that pigs had dug caves into the side of the dried creek bed where they lie in the heat to keep cool (pigs don’t sweat) we split up and went to the banks of the dried creek so we didn’t spook a pig if there was one there.  

     We walked about an hour and stopped and had a mandarine and water.  

Pig huntin' is hard work!

     Dad was taking pictures of where pigs had dug.  He was getting really excited and taking more photos.

     He looked at the map and saw the waterhole was not far.  We eventually found it and discovered caves on the edge. 

     Dad took more photos.

     Dad and Ollie kept walking then Dad noticed a cave with a big overhang and soft brown sand looking comfortable for pigs.

A cave dug by pigs to shelter from the heat.

     We pushed on.  Then Dad tried to tell Ollie to check if there was a pig, but Ollie kept walking and talking.  Dad told him to stop when he saw a pig.

Ollie sees the pig

     “Ollie,” whispered Dad as loud as he could. “Be quiet, be quiet.”

     Just then Ollie saw the pig and shouted at the top of his voice, “Pig!  Pig! Sutchy shoot it.  Shoot it.”

     As the big boar ran off I watched where he went.

     On past hunts Dad told me not to chase a pig, just watch where it goes.  Instead I pulled an arrow, cocked it and chased it.  I just had to get this big one.

     The pig ran for about two minutes along then up the creek, down into another creek and I went into the creek, still chasing it.

     It came up onto a rise in the middle of the creek and it stopped and turned.  Me and the pig were both tired. 

     He looked at me, grunted and charged for two metres to scare me off.  He stopped and had a breather which was good because I was tired too.

     I pulled the arrow back and aimed at his chest and shot with the arrow sailing a little low, going through the boar’s leg, snapping the bone.

     He shook the arrow off and ran, but I knew with a broken leg he wouldn’t get far.

     Then he stopped, turned and grunted and tried to charge me. 

     I pulled out another arrow as he gave me another chance for his chest.  I cocked the arrow and aimed for his chest and as the arrow was sailing to his chest, he put his snout down ready to turn and run and the arrow sliced his nose.

     Squealing, he ran off and I chased him a bit more.

     He stopped in some thick bush and I had another chance and sadly, it went underneath him and the arrow disappeared into some dead leaves.

     The boar took off and I called to Dad for some more arrows.

     As I took one of Dad’s arrows, he said, “Look for some blood.  Look for some blood.”

     I checked the area founding a good blood trail.  Sadly it stopped after a few metres.  I realized that if I lost this pig my holidays wouldn’t be complete so I ran to see if I could catch up if him.  Sure enough, there he was among some trees staring at me.  Like before he grunted and charged for a few metres.

     I ran back trying to keep my distance so if he continued through with his charge I had room to run. This time with a cocked arrow he didn’t quite present me with a clear shot to his chest so I thought if I got him in the spine he would be ended quickly.  The arrow flew true and got him in the spine. Surprisingly the pig fought the arrow, trying to shake it off.

     After a few minutes of watching him, Dad and Ollie caught up and I got another arrow from Dad. Dad had an arrow already cocked so I gave him a shot at what was my pig!

     Dad’s arrow stuck strongly to the tree, so he had another shot and got the boar in the middle of the ribs.

     This pig turned out to be tougher than I expected so I let another arrow loose into the pigs shoulder.   

  

Poor piggy.

          The pig was still standing so we gave Ollie a few shots.  Ollie missed all three shots. 

     The pig took off for about twenty metres and finally came to rest with three arrows in him. Although down it was still breathing and this was Ollie’s chance to get at least one arrow into ‘my pig.’     

     

     His first shot sailed to high and the second was a hit.

     

     I checked the boar and he was dead. 

     

     Now it was time to check if the meat was okay to eat by looking at the state of the pig's organs. To our disappointment the organs were pale and not bright red the way healthy organs are supposed to be.  There was a pale outer edge to the liver and heart and when Dad opened the stomach all this white froth bubbled out.

     

     This meant the pig wasn’t okay to eat.

     

    Instead we cut the bottom jaw of the pig to collect what looked like trophy tusks.  

     Each of us had big smiles and we headed for home.

     My holidays were complete.