Conversation Cafe

In April I chanced upon a poster at the Smithfield library: Conversation Café on the fourth Thursday of every month. 

     Because when you put strangers, caffeine and ideas in the same room, brilliant things can happen!

     I was sold on the novel idea of coffee and conversation taking place in a forest of books.  I went along and the discussion point was ANZAC Day.  There was something humbling about listening to stories of people who have direct experience of the horrors of war for the guests at the Conversation Café were in their sixties and seventies.  They had fathers and uncles injured or killed while serving.  

     One woman read a poem that made me teary.  Some brought items to share, an uncle's medal, a piece of shrapnel. I didn’t talk much which was unusual.  I did a lot of listening.   I came away thinking my generation have had it fairly easy; free education, vaccinations, welfare and income support and no world wars.

     Conversation Café is the brainchild of Di Brown and developed with librarian Sivan Bolger.  I quizzed Sivan about the fate of libraries in these internet days of electronic books.  Pah!  A fellow book club member quoted me a few years back as saying, ‘reading an ebook is like drinking decaf coffee’ and I maintain that.  But ebooks are here to stay.

     Sivan said libraries as lenders of books will not survive unless there are other activities and programs to engage members.  That made sense.  I remember going to the library as a kid with Mum to borrow books.  That’s all traditional libraries offered before the internet era. Books to lend to members.  Well, that’s not entirely true. There were accidental kids’ activities.  I loved whizzing between the aisles of books on the stools which had wheels.  And the step ladders were on wheels as well.  What fun!

     So libraries have had to change with the times.  The Smithfield library offers free internet access to members, areas for young people and children and there’s a coffee machine!  Seffy loves the book club on Monday (which includes treats) and Bodie the Delta Dog likes being read to on Friday as part of a program to engage reluctant readers.  Each month there is a day for Children’s Craft and Storytelling plus Baby Rhyme Time.

     In fact, on the way home from school Tony often takes the kids to the library for a few hours.  He reads his book and drinks coffee.  Kibby reads, gets on the computer, plays handball with his mates and drinks hot chocolate. Seffy does her homework using the computers, reads, plays handball with her friends and drinks hot chocolate. 

     And what I think is great – boxed-up sets of 10 bookclub books.  And My Island Homicide is one set!

     There’s some great stuff on offer at Smithfield library, including the Conversation Café which I planned to attend on the fourth Thursday in May.  But work got in the way and I was not happy. 

     Then in early June Sivan rang me to ask if I’d like to present at the June event about writing Ina’s Story.

     ‘Yes, yes I’d love to, but … but I’ve got work, relief teaching so I won’t know for a week or two if I’ll be …. Oh, stuff it.  Talking about writing is more important than teaching.  I’ll be there.’

     As it was, I turned down a day’s work, but it was worth it many times over.

     Thinking there would be about 15 fellow Conversation Cafer-ers, I was surprised when 30 turned up including some women I’d met in April. Sivan and Di had to keep moving the chairs into a bigger circle and adding more.  And bringing out more nibblies.

Here's me talking.

Here I am still talking.

Oh, more talking.

     I talked about why I wrote Ina’s Story and why I think it is important to write your story whether it's your life story or a particular period in your life or even a funny story.  Sometimes writing about things is cathartic.  Writing can help you remember things you’d long forgotten.  And most importantly, writing is a great brain exercise.

     After outlining a few writing tips, I asked everyone to write about an event from their childhood.  What surprised me was how interesting and engaging stories were.  Older, saged people have so much to offer my generation, if only we’d take the time to listen.

     An hour and a half is not long enough for the Conversation Café and after all the guest had left Sivan made a coffee for me and Pat, a TI friend and Conversation Café regular.  We made more conversation.  Of course it was my duty to finish off the cheese, olives and apricots as I’d already cleaned up the carbonossi.      

     What a delightful few hours it was at Conversation Cafe; meeting lots of new people and chatting with them, hearing their stories and talking about writing all while being surrounded by one of life’s greatest treasures – books.  

The Warwick Incident

In January this year, I hatched a crazy idea to spend a week in Warwick to catch up with a special TI friend, Elia who was celebrating her 50^th.  Since Elia and other special TI friend, Maura left in 2005 we’ve maintained our friendship through snatched phone conversations, rushed emails and texts and the odd, too-short visit.  I’d never had a week’s holiday on my own, but a half-century was every reason for a long and relaxed catch-up where work, family, chooks and ducks must simply be put on the backburner.  It seemed a long way off, but the day rolled around.

     Maura flew in from Adelaide and arrived an hour before me.  She’d hired a car so we set off along the motorway to the Cunningham Highway which took us to Warwick … after we’d worked out why the engine was screeching when we hit 20 ks on the motorway.

     ‘It’s in M,’ I said of the automatic gear stick.  ‘Where’s D for drive?’

    ‘I’ll pull over,’ said Maura. ‘It sounds terrible.  D is next to M, but it won't go.’

     The horn of a car passing at 80 sounded as it swerved.

     ‘I’ll get the manual,’ I said.

     ‘I’ve never seen M on an automatic before,’ said Maura. ‘What do you think that means?’

     ‘No idea.’  I was flicking pages madly trying to find something related to gears.  ‘Why do these things have to be so complicated? Here’s something about transmission.  Oh, M is Manual for rally car operation when more control is necessary.’

     ‘I can’t get it into D.’

     ‘Force it.’

     And we were on our way.

     Warwick, population 14,000 is a two hour drive south-west of Brisbane.  It straddles the banks of the meandering Condomine River and the town spreads out to farms, crop and grazing. Warwick has an olde-worlde charm with its sandstone buildings, Queenslanders on large blocks and wide, quiet streets lined with trees and shrubs still golden from autumn.  Seasons! How wonderful.  An unseasonal spring fever meant the mornings and evenings were crisply cold and the days cool with baby-blue skies.  Perfection!

Catholic church

Town Hall

 

     I imagined as I wandered the streets of Warwick that not a lot had changed in the last century.  There was hardly any traffic which seemed to stick to the main drag being the conduit for the highways to Brisbane and Toowoomba in one direction and the Sydney in the other.

     Had anything extraordinary happened in Warwick?  A grizzly murder?  A devastating earthquake?  An escaped convict with a new identity living a quiet life and working in MacDonalds?

     I did a quick search and surprise!  Anna Bligh was born in Warwick.  But I was thinking of something more momentous not that Ms Bligh’s entry into the world wasn’t.

     Then I discovered The Warwick Incident in 1917 and I could understand why Warwickans have kept low, quiet profiles since.

     On 29 November, Prime Minister Billy Hughes stopped at the Warwick Railway station and addressed a crowd about the issue of conscription.  Two eggs were thrown from the crowd and one knocked off the PM’s hat.  Hughes, who was a little paranoid about issues of national security, set upon the offenders and was understandably pulled back by his minders.  When the PM resumed his address, one of the offenders started heckling him so, as you can imagine, Hughes threw himself at the offender who was then arrested.

Warwick Station

     The PM demanded the offender be charged with a federal offence.  However the state police officer refused, arguing a state offence was appropriate.  Hughes lost it again and said he’d deal with the matter, but fortunately, he did not attack the policeman.

     The PM did deal with the matter eight days later by establishing the Commonwealth Police Force.    

     Fancy that!  The origins of the Australian Federal Police lay in Warwick ... and the egg, of course. 

The company of women

By the beginning of June I was feeling a bit sad and sorry for myself.

We’d made the big move from TI to Cairns and everyone was happy, especially Seffwen who is positive and chatty.  She is enthusiastic at school and wears a grin most of the time, except when she is trying to kill Kibbim.  Kibbim is happy being with his dad and is as cheeky and disobedient as ever, often teasing Seffwen.

     Tony loves being the house husband.  He keeps the house as clean as a whistle and bakes a loaf of bread daily.  Often I come home from working at school to the smell of a curry or mince stew simmering for dinner as the aroma of ginger and garlic swirl around the house.  Sometimes, just sometimes I think it’s worth me working and him staying at home because everyone is so happy, but I don’t tell him this because I don’t want to be in Cairns. 

     I have not warmed to life in the big smoke.  I have shelter and food and everyone’s healthy so I can’t really complain … even to myself.

     I had been trying to work out why I am out of sorts down here and I think it has to do with writing and unfulfilled ambition and not ‘having a career’ like some of my friends who are accomplished lawyers, teachers, doctors and so on.

     I’d put so much work into writing, been published and almost finished the sequel which may or may not amount to anything.  As a supply teacher I am not even using my writing skills.  

     And worse, life is so busy I don't have time to talk with my friends.  On TI there was Sam, Eileen, Nicola and Detta. They always had comforting words, even if they were, 'Oh, Cate, don't be so ridiculous' and 'God, what are you thinking?'  At the end of an optic fibre line there is Maree, Elia, Pam, but chats are limited to, 'I am driving' or 'it's little lunch, I can't talk.'  Cathy, Jenny, Rebecca and Karen are in Cairns, but we are all too busy with work and children or both to meet.  Woe was me.  Woe, woe, woe.

      It was at that time I realised a safe and predictable job in the Commonwealth public service would have been a better choice back in 1994.  I’d know what I was earning, what I was doing and where I was living or I would apply for a transfer to a city of my choice.  I’d even have made the effort to apply for Seffy to attend one of the high schools next year.  But I didn’t know where we’ll be living. I didn’t even know what I’ll be doing.

     Enter Michelle, Lynn, Jenn, Colleen, Emma and Jo and their bookclub that meets each month at the Kewarra Beach Resort. 

     I met Michelle in 1994 not long after I had arrived on TI the second time when Michelle was working with a mutual friend as a social worker.  We’ve met a couple of times in the last decade, but we’ve still got our mutual friend.

     Fast forward 20 years and Michelle heard I’d written My Island Homicide. She suggested it be read by her book club and I come along to talk about writing a book.

     I felt like a fraud.  Sure I’d written a book, but it wasn’t a best seller and I still needed a day job.  Would a book club really want to hear from a pseudo author?  Moan, moan. 

     By the time the night rolled around, I wanted to pull out, but that wouldn't have been right.  Then I realised I needed the company of like minded women, a good yarn, lots of laughs and a hot cup of tea.  A half a bottle of red might have hit the mark, but this wasn’t TI.  One can’t walk from Kewarra Beach to Smithfield at half past ten at night.

     So I went along and was asked some serious questions about writing a book.

     As I answered each one, thoughtfully without self-deprecating comments which I am prone to do because a pseudo-author isn’t a real job and can’t talk with any authority, my mood shifted.  There was something about being with these women that was inspiring and enjoyable.  I realised Shit man, I’ve written a book and it was bloody hard work, but I could write it only because I didn’t have a 20 year career with the Commonwealth public service and those 20 years have been full of amazing adventures.

     Everyone enjoyed the book which is just what I wanted for readers.

     One woman commented that she was really worried about reading the book because she didn’t want to tell me on the night she loved it if she didn’t.

     ‘But I really enjoyed it,’ she said and she got through it in a couple of days because she couldn’t put it down.

     I was stoked.  Such simple words with profound effect.

     They were happy.  I was happy. 

Signing a book for Valeria who couldn't make it with Lynn (left) and Jenn.

     We talked about books and writing for a while then we just talked and talked and talked about anything and everything.

     I came away feeling bloody fantastic with a renewed interest in finishing the sequel and a steely determination to suck up my woes (which weren’t really woes after all) and get on with life on the mainland … with a smile. 

     And an invitation to join the book club and read the next book, Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ’s Childhood Pal.  I know it’s kosher to support other authors by buying their books, but I’ve ordered Lamb from the Smithfield library.

     How wonderful that a group of women around a table, with some drinks (including my cup of tea) plus a few hours to spare could have had such a positive impact on my mood. Not to mention the gift of a massive bunch of flowers.  Thank you, girls. 

Duck wisdom