When riding a bike is not like riding a bike!

If tackling a task for the first time in many years like driving a manual car, swimming freestyle and solving a Rubik’s cube are all like riding a bike, then what is riding a bike after a long time? 

     With TK in NZ and the little ones with big sister in Newcastle, there was just Sutchy and me for ten days.  When my brother, Stephen arrived I suggested we train for a ride to Mareeba along the Rail Trail, a round trip of 70 kilometres. 

     I convinced them to do a reccy ride to Rocky Creek the following day.  I was feeling fantastic having just kicked the flu after three days in bed.

     They were in. 

     The Atherton Rail Trail is a compact dirt track restored following the removal of the railway line between Atherton and Mareeba in the 1980s.  I’d ridden to Tolga before and knew the track was in good nick.  The 26 km round trip to Rocky Creek, past blueberry and potato crops, along the irrigation channel and through the bush would be a great start to Sutchy’s and my  holiday.  He had held the fort while I was sick – mediating the little ones’ fights, doing the housework and walking the dogs.  I wanted to spend some quality time with him doing what he loved.  

     That I hadn’t ridden for 12 months and that I had just battled the flu were minor concerns.  I knew endorphins would kick in and get me there and back.   

     Riding a bike is like riding a bike.

     We left at 8.45 in perfect conditions.  The baby blue sky and gentle tail wind heralded a perfect day.  We reached Rocky Creek in 28 minutes.

     “Let’s ride to Walkamin,” I said after a drink.  

     The endorphins were coursing and even if I was bike-unfit, the worst I could expect tomorrow was pleasantly aching quads and palm muscles and perhaps a tightness across my shoulders.  Stephen and Sutchy expressed some concerns about my health, but I was having none of it.

     I whipped out my phone and Googled the distance, six ks, to support my argument for another reccy for our Mareeba trip.  

     "I feel fantastic.”

     “Mum, you won’t when it’s over.”

     “Okay,” said Stephen in a flat voice.

     A reccy is a good thing providing it’s not done on the back of another reccy.

     Soon after leaving Rocky Creek, we encountered a minor obstacle; the track to Walkamin was sand.  An internet search that night revealed the track from Rocky Creek is due for upgrade! 

Relaxing under the Rocky Creek bridge

A potato crop out of Rocky Creek.

Crossing the irrigation channel

      An hour after leaving Rocky Creek, we made it to Walkamin, a quaint little community with a population of 630, a corner store, a school, a caravan park, public toilets and tennis courts. 

Perfect climate

     I recalled talk in the mid-nineties Walkamin came out tops in research about perfect world climates.  It’s a lofty claim since it was damn hot and dry and the “fact” hadn’t seemed to attract more residents in two decades. 

Walkamin public toilet signs. Tee hee!

    

      I was keen to leave.  The endorphins had run out and so had the food.

     “It’s all uphill and into the wind,” said Stephen, again with a flat voice. 

     Then I remembered a few real facts. 

·              The irrigation channel we crossed after Rocky Creek irrigates farmland between Tolga and Dimbulah.  

          Water flows downhill.  We were downhill of Tolga therefore ...

          We had a tail wind on the ride to Walkamin therefore …
     Wind speeds increase during the day therefore ...
     The temperature increases towards midday therefore ...

     And riding a bike is not like riding a bike.  I’d forgotten about the curse of the bike seat for females who haven’t ridden long distances for a long time.  The sand, head wind, heat and the laborious climb were nothing compared to the sensation of having a Brazilian done slowly with a cheese grater. 

     I couldn't maintain motion and kept stalling. Repositioning myself on the seat was agony.

     I got within 1.5 km of home, a mammoth 36.5 kms and stopped.  Stephen had to ride home and return with his ute.  The round trip took four and a half hours.

     I needed another three days in bed.  The Atherton-Mareeba trip was off.

     Riding a bike is not like riding a bike. 

How do they watch this stuff?

I’ve always tried to limit the time the kids spend sucking on Flat Screen Nipple, but sometimes I need to suck up the fact there are occasions when they need to indulge their desire to watch TV.  One of those is when we have dinner at my mother’s place because Home and Away is always on the menu during the week. 

     I can say I’ve never watched an entire episode mainly because the show just doesn’t grab my attention. It’s not right that I stop my kids watching something they enjoy simply because I think it’s shallow and unnecessary.  But I am constantly asking myself, How the hell do they watch this stuff?

     For starters, I am unsettled by the over-representation of beautiful and unhealthily-thin women.  They all wear heavy makeup.  Also, there isn't enough Slip-Slop-Slap and the characters spend a disproportionate amount of time at the beach.

     I appreciate there are some topical issues covered like family violence, alcoholism, gambling and sexual abuse but the characters always manage to overcome their adversity/addiction with an ease that simply doesn’t happen in real life.  Characters hook up and break up with disturbing regularity and I am surprised that STIs haven’t been a focus issue (come to think of it, I’ve missed the plots focusing on melanoma, over-eating, bulimia and anorexia).  

     I reckon there are too many sexual encounters for young viewers and I can’t understand how these got past ACMA.  These would be fine at a later time-slot but this is peak family viewing time at 7 pm.  Sadly, ACMA has approved, from 1 December, M rated viewing (15 years and over) on TV from 7.30 pm (previously 8.30 pm) along with watering down other safeguards for young viewers.

     I’ve never got a handle who is who in Home and Away and when I ask the response is a loud and often chorused, “we’ve already told you ten times.”  So many of them look alike – white and thin and beautiful or white and toned and handsome - so how am I expected to distinguish between them.  I am often confused by the plot and if I ask about it I am told, “stop asking questions.”  How I wish I was away from home!

     So I always find something else to do like focus on eating my dinner, reading the ABC news on my phone, the tickling of soap suds on my hands as I wash the dishes or even sitting and doing nothing ... except, of course, wondering how the kids can watch “this stuff.” 

     A couple of weeks ago, Seffie and Kibby were making breakfast while I was doing yoga on the deck. 

     “What’s the name of Andy’s brother in Home and Away?  Kyle's friend?” Seffie asked Kibby.  

     “I can’t remember,” said Kibby.

     “Josh,” I yelled out without thinking.  And then I asked myself, How the hell do I know this stuff? 

WWJD

Years ago there was a little religious shop on the main street of Thursday Island called Sower.  Sower was hand painted in a cursive script on the outside wall.  The shop is long gone, but I always thought it had an odd name, even for a religious shop.  A sign at the door also proclaimed it was the agency for Uzu Airlines.  

     Inside was packed with bibles and other Christian literature.  Considering the musty smell and the film of grey dust on the shelving edges, I figured there wasn’t much demand for religious literature on TI.  However, it did sell dust-free, divine nick-knacks like crucifixes and Jesus statues along with posters, cups and placemats bearing the Lord’s prayer and the ten commandments, biblical quotes like, Ask and you shall receive and catchy adages like, The family that prays together, stays together.  These Godly accoutrements were displayed in the front window, enticing passersby inside. 

     My absolute favourite sale item was the wrist band that bore the letters, WWJD.  The wearer was constantly reminded to ask, What Would Jesus Do?

     There’s one problem with asking Jesus questions and that’s to do with his tendency not to answer directly and then not without many Our Fathers and Hail Marys.

     The image of the WWJD bracelet has stayed with me. When I have a problem I often find myself asking, WWJD, but I’m lucky.  I have a mortal to ask; my good friend Julia.  I can text and call.  If she doesn’t pick up the first time, she’ll always ring back or text. Somehow Julia either knows the answer to my question, has had a similar experience or we start brainstorming solutions and, voila! I come up with the answer I need.  The kids know I value Julia’s advice because I often say, “Julia’s suggested …” or “Julia reckons …”

     Now I have a couple of issues I need to address and I have regularly discussed these with Julia, but I’ve not settled on a solution that doesn’t involve going cold turkey.  One issue is yelling and the other swearing and they are inextricably linked.  For example, if I have asked the children to do something twice, they know I will yell on the third request.  If that goes unheeded, I may drop the odd expletive and more on the third, fourth, fifth and sixth request.  Please note I never swear at people, only at the situation.  I just, somehow, unintentionally, through a frustration that even Jesus and Julia could not tolerate, utter sinful words.

     Not long ago, I said to Seffie and Kibby that I needed to stop swearing and yelling, that I needed their help, that is, they needed to do what I asked, when I asked, the first time.  I reminded them that I only yelled and swore because they refused to do what I asked or they fought to the point of violence.

     “You’re not Julia, Mum,” said Seffie in a condescending tone.

     “Julia swears.”  Seffie raised her eyebrows as if I’d blasphemed.  “She does so swear.”  Seffie did not believe me.

     “Well, Julia doesn’t yell.”

     “She doesn’t have to yell because her daughters don’t fight like you two and they are at boarding school in America.”

     “But they come home for holidays and Julia still doesn’t yell.”

     “THEY COME HOME TWICE A YEAR.  JULIA DOESN’T HAVE TIME TO YELL.”  How could Seffie not see the connection between not yelling and not having children around? I was trying to stay calm.

     “That's because she just doesn’t yell.”  Seffie was very calm.

     “THE LONGEST THEY ARE AT HOME FOR IS EIGHT WEEKS.  NOT LONG ENOUGH FOR THE GIRLS TO GET BORED AND START FIGHTING AND NOT LONG ENOUGH FOR JULIA TO GET FED UP WITH THEM AND START YELLING!”

     “See, you’re yelling,” said Seffie with an evil grin.

     “SHIT!  THAT’S NOT FAIR.”

     WWJD, I wondered. 

Why drive when you can catch the bus?

Why drive when you can catch the bus? That’s what I thought when Bubu offered to drive me to Trinity Beach to pick up my brother's ute so I could collect a double bed from Smithfield.  Seffie and I could have some quality time together and buses are an environmentally-friendly mode of transport.  More people should catch buses.

     For a year Seffie had been politely asking for a double bed so she could sleep comfortably with two dogs.  There wasn’t a double bed on the Tablelands in my price range.  So I bought one from Lifeline at Smithfield, 84 kilometres away which wasn’t a problem when Seffie and I could easily catch the bus that stopped at Smithfield then take the council bus to Stephen’s place at Trinity Beach to get the ute.  I was excited.

     The driver advised our ETA at Smithfield was half ten, a bit later than usual being Friday, he said.  It wasn't long enough, I thought as Seffie and I snuggled in with the blankets we’d brought for the bed.

     Five minutes out of Tolga, the driver slammed on the breaks.  Passengers were thrust forward as if giving speedy Japanese bows.  We were in a convoy behind a rusty ute.  Two vehicles ahead took turns overtaking the ute and suddenly we were on the wrong side of the double lines.  I gripped Seffie’s hand as a white car barrelled towards us. I wondered if we were far enough down the bus to avoid being pulverised on impact.  Then we were jerked to the left just in time.    

     When racing down the main street of Mareeba the driver again braked without warning as a bulldust covered Toyota Starlet turned right.  Our driver was a maniac. I located the nearest emergency exit with a hammer of life attached.

     As soon as we pulled up to collect more passengers, I insisted we move.

     There was an odd assortment of new passengers that filled the bus - sunburnt European backpackers, unhealthily thin, hoodie-clad youths, young mothers dragging reluctant toddlers by their arms.  A large bellied man sat across the aisle from me and was snoring within seconds, his fingers interlaced atop his gut.  There were invisible passengers also – odours; stale alcohol, old sweat and freshly turned earth. Relieved Seffie and I were near the emergency exit, I tried to enjoy the ride … except for one of the backpackers crooning a love song in stilted English and out of tune (THE WHOLE TIME!), a child whining intermittently, the mother cursing it and the American woman in front of Seffie asking her to stop kicking the back of her seat (which I didn’t see her do).  The sleeping man across from me snored and snorted and gasped for breath at times as if he was choking.

     “I am supposed to start work at eleven,” said a woman in to her phone as we hit the Kuranda Range, “but we are running late.”

     Twenty five minutes late.

     Half way down the range, the bus pulled sharply to the left and stopped on a thin strip of gravel.  The engine died and the silence was near deafening.  The driver stood as if to address us.  Thinking of the Umpqua school shooting the day before, I imagined the driver whipping out an SKS. I closed my eyes and gripped Seffie’s hand.

     “Sorry, folks,” said the driver, “the engine’s overheated and we’ll need to wait here for a while.”

     Some passengers disembarked to light up.  Although we were in the shade, without the air conditioning, it was soon stifling.  That’s when I became aware of another odour, unidentified yet familiar.

     I fished out a book I’d been trying to read for some weeks, To Cut a Long Story Short by Jeffrey Archer.  The title irritated me in the circumstances.  I decided on reading the ABC news on my phone.  There was no signal.  I gazed at the passing traffic.

     Eventually, the driver called everyone back on board.  Strangely, six or so of the passengers at the front moved towards the back with their bags.

     “Someone’s spewed,” said one of them.

     Ah, the strange though familiar smell.

     We made it to Smithfield without incident.  I rushed for the exit and leapt over a puddle of lumpy, grey gunk at the front.  Seffie and I stood in a cloud of diesel exhaust and I smiled at the rear of the bus as it pulled into the traffic.

     “Mum,” said Seffie, “I think I stepped in the vomit.”

     We traipsed to the opposite end of the shopping centre to the bus stop only to discover we were about to board a southbound bus to Cairns Central.  That’s when I learnt, after 15 years of visiting Smithfield Shopping Centre (including living in Smithfield last year), there were two bus stops: one for southbound buses and one for northbound buses which we needed ... at the other end of the shopping centre.

     Eventually we made it to Stephen’s place, an hour and a half behind time.  What a lovely sensation, a steering wheel beneath one's palms.  As I pulled out of his driveway I thought, Why catch the bus when you can drive? 

Dementia and the periodic table

As my parents age, my fear is that one or both will develop dementia.  There’s a saying that the fear of an event is much worse than the event itself occurring.  But dementia is an exception. I’ve listened to heart-wrenching stories from children who have cared for demented parents; the slow decline of their memories, the loss of spirit, the greed of others who can fleece them of cash and treasured possessions, the fatigue that develops while caring for them and when that is no longer possible, the tortuous and often delayed decision to admit them to a home.

     My father prides himself on his memory and ability to problem solve.  At 75 he is still consulting in chemistry, nationally and overseas.  If I have questions about anything scientific, I simply call him.  It’s easier than using the internet and the explanations are more thorough and at the same time, user-friendly for idiots like myself. 

     I call him The Scientist.  He lives and breathes science in his scientific world.  We children grew up being lectured to about the wonders of science, particularly chemistry.

     At my seventh birthday party, he gave a demonstration to my awe-struck friends and pretended to be a child playing in the shed with chemicals.  He poured liquid into a beaker and added different drops from different pipettes.  Each addition of drops changed the colour of the liquid from clear to blue to green to red.

     "Then," he said wide-eyed and theatrical, "my mother calls for me, 'Jooohn' (he said this in an embarrassingly high-pitched voice) but I can't let her see what I am doing.  It's too dangerous for a little boy."  He pulls out a new pipette.  "I'm in here, Mum." Dad added drops from the new pipette and the red liquid became colourless.

     He reverted to the voice of his mother.  "John, what are you doing in here?"

     He held up the beaker of what now appeared to be water.  "Just having a drink of water, Mum."

     My friends clapped their hands and bounced on their tippy toes, thrilled by the performance.  I was cringing against the far corner of the room, convinced I had the most embarrassing father in the universe.  Of course, I knew of the universe because The Scientist had delivered quite a few lectures about the solar system, constellations, eclipses, planetary orbits, gravity and so on.  I knew the universe was much bigger than the world so my situation was truly desperate.
     The Scientist tutored me through junior high school science and later, Maths B and C and Chemistry (I traded Physics for French at the beginning of year 12, unable to tolerate so much science in my life).

     It's the periodic table that has featured most prominently in my life.

     It is plastered on quite a few household items such as mugs, tea towels and the shower curtain (I think he is on his third periodic table shower curtain!).  The shower curtain is a hoot and often commented on by visitors.  It faces in to the shower recess so while you are showering, you can brush up on reciting the 118 elements of the periodic table, their atomic weights and whether they are alkali metals, alkaline earth metals, noble gases and so on.  I’ve never forgotten the first 20 elements I learnt in 1981, probably because I revise them in the shower at the farm, and more so, when The Scientist checks my understanding of a chemical equation or molecular weight or joke.  Here was the last one.  And much to The Scientist’s pride, I worked it out.

     If The Scientist ever forgets the correct order of the elements of the periodic table, dementia will be to blame.  It’s something I fear yet know is probable if a scientific approach is taken – the longer one lives, the longer organs, cells and chemical and electrical processes have to deteriorate.  I want to spend as much time with Dad, and Mum, of course, as possible because they are, after all, in the winter of their lives.

     So last Saturday I went to the farm to help The Scientist with some window cleaning (yes, quite a few chemistry-based discussions on the appropriate substance to clean windows because Windex was too pedestrian!)

     After a couple of hours of back-breaking and wrist-wrenching work, I’d taken a break from cleaning and accompanied Dad on a drive to check the electric fences.  After returning, I had a cup of tea while he showered.  I was trying to motivate myself to tackle the next couple of hours of window washing.

     Then I heard it.  The Scientist muttering … to himself.  I leaned in toward the monotone, like someone reciting the lines of a play.  At that moment, I knew dementia had arrived. 

     I clear my throat of the lump of fear that had lodged like a razor blade.  “Dad, who are you talking to?”

     “Myself.”

     I knew it. Only people with dementia would be so honest about starring in a soliloquy in their bathroom.

     “Why are you talking to yourself?”  It was a stupid question to ask someone who obviously wouldn't know.  I was panicked and speaking without thinking.

     “I am learning the elements of the periodic table backwards.”

     I love having a fear of dementia.  It’s much preferable to the alternative.  Next time I visit The Scientist, I’ll time-test him on how fast and accurately he can recite the periodic table in reverse and start a record of PBs! 

Grrr!

Mum found these wild shoes at the op shop, each pair a steal at $1.  The gum boots are a size 8 and the brand new Diana Ferarri flats are a size 10.  They both fit me perfectly. I have size 9 feet!

A story told mostly in photos

One Sunday afternoon, I found myself quite unexpectedly and unpreparedly with nothing to do; no lessons to plan (I'd done them), no tax stuff to do (because I simply avoided it), Seffy was glued to a DVD nipple (The Vampire Diaries) and Tony and Kibby were in Cairns (Peninsula Sports).  

     And my mother had just delivered an old bath she'd purchased from the Atherton dump.  

Pepper Zen needed a new bath. For too long she'd been swimming in a small, blue tub.  She was not happy.

The site for the new bath is prepared by my geotechnical engineers and council permissions applied for and approved.  Fortunately there were no objections from members of the public.

The foundation is prepared and the bath is fixed into place.  The experienced site engineer supervises the construction of the new bath.

A few of the highly technical tools of trade!

The client is very pleased with the final inspection and handover.
"I wanna get in.  Now!"

"Well, I'll just come back later."

The hydro-engineer monitors the filling procedure.
"Now I feel like I am being watched."

"It feels so good to have a swim and be clean."

"This is so relaxing."

"This is so, so relaxing."

"I could just nod off."

"That's enough.  You're embarrassing me."

 

This construction complies with National Minimum Standards for poultry safety ...

... is aesthetically pleasing and maintains personal privacy.

Confession from a sporting dunce

I don’t understand sport.  Never have.  Never will.  When sport comes up in conversation, I usually drift off or politely leave the room.  I know I am unAustralian, I am ignorant and I am stubborn because I refuse to engage.  

     Of course, I'm not stupid. I understand there are sporting seasons yet last week, a student mentioned ashes while we were working on spelling.  The poor dear hadn't grasped the concept of plurals.

     “Ash?” I said, confused.  “Why are you talking about ash?”

     “Miss,” said the young man in a patronising tone, “The Ashes is a cricket game.”

     “Der,” I said wondering why he was talking about The Ashes in August when it’s a game played in summer.  He needed to be focused on spelling.  “Okay, let me check your spelling.”

     Oh, I know about The Ashes.  The Christmas holidays of my youth were spoilt by cricket. We travelled from New Guinea to Australia for the holidays and it should have been an exciting time; reconnecting with relatives, seeing new sights and doing things we couldn't do in PNG.  But there was cricket ... for breakfast, lunch and dinner.  It dominated every TV screen (we didn't have TV in PNG).  Cricket was televised at relatives’ houses where we stayed during our travels, in hotel rooms, in fish and chip shops as we stopped to buy lunch or dinner.  Everywhere.  Cricket was even on the TVs in the windows of electrical appliance stores.  That messed with my mind, seeing not just one screen, but numerous ones stacked on top of each other, all playing the same scene - always a wide-angled shot - the expansive pitch, the batsman bent like an old man leaning on his walking stick, the fielders who seemed to wander around aimlessly, spectators frying in the summer heat.  I look back and wonder how many malignant skin cancers grew during those summer matches. The only good thing about appliance store TVs screening cricket was the absence of volume.  My skin still crawls at the thought of the tinny male voice (always male), the cheers rising to a crescendo when someone hit a big one and then a moment’s silence until the tinny voice started on again.

These images remind me of a string of boring Christmas holidays.

So much time wasted waiting around while my family put summer cricket first.

      Mostly I drifted off or read or drew.  The Ashes was synonymous with endless and boring Christmas holidays.

     So it was surprising my mother should mention The Ashes less than 24 hours after my young student.  I’d called in to my mother's place on my way to school.  She was rugged up in front of one of those morning news shows with unimaginative names like Day Break or Sun Rise.

     “Oh, Cath,” said Bubu, her voice full of tragedy.  “Did you hear about The Ashes?”

     Immediately I thought of a match fixing scandal that had been busted before the next season.  Worse, there was a terror plot that would put hundreds of thousands of lives at risk.

     “What’s happened?”

     “We were all out for 60 before lunch,” said Bubu.  Her expression of despair told me whatever these code words stood for, it was terminal.  She continued.  “Julie Bishop was asked if their visas should be cancelled and she said they should all go home and face the music.”

     I wondered why the foreign minister was weighing in on a summer game of cricket.  And honestly, visas for Australians?

     “Bubu,” I said in a tone similar to my student the day before.  “Australians don’t need visas to be in Australia.”

     Now it was Bubu’s turn to be patronising.  “Catherine, the Australians are in Britain playing The Ashes.”

     Obviously, the risk of skin cancer during the Australian summer had proved too high.  Sometime in the last three decades the game had been moved to England where there is barely a solar glow during summer.  My mother’s expression suggested I should leave for school.  
     I don’t understand sport.  Never have.  Never will. 

Coincidence or cosmically convened?

Eileen Caddy was a spiritual teacher and author.  One of her most popular quotes is, Be at peace and see a clear pattern running through your lives.  Nothing is by chance.

     Obviously Eileen Caddy did not have a dog like Pippa.  Pippa's energy keeps me running in circles; racing to get her out of the house before Tony comes up the stairs, barking reprimands at her for chewing something valuable or chasing her down the street to stop her eating the neighbour's cat (I don't run as fast as I could!).  I am never at peace.  I am often in pieces, but not at peace and I haven't seen any patterns in my life, except the circles I trace in my relationship with Pippa.  

     Well, something changed all that.

     Last week I finished my shift at the Salvos and instead of heading home by walking to the right, I went left to the post office.  It's the first time I've gone in that direction after being at the Salvos.  As I passed a busy cafe, pushing through a crowd of people on the footpath, I noticed a dog who bore an uncanny resemblance to Pippa.  Although I tell people Pippa Jane is a Miniature Wolfhound, a pedigree no less, as you know, she's ain't nothin' but a pound dog.  We were told she had bitsa Wolfhound and German Shepherd in her, but her petite frames contradicts this.  Hence my pedigree Miniature Irish Wolfhound half-truth.  All right, it's a non-truth.

     I was going to ask about this dog's breed, but there was commotion - adults, children and this dog blocking my path.  It was the lunch rush and I couldn't work out who was in the dog party and who was passing by.  

     I was filled with a burning curiosity, the kind that comes with cosmic knowing.  My eyes followed the length of the leash to a female.  I asked about the dog's breed.

     "She's a Schnottie," said the woman who turned out to be Alex.  

     "That's amazing," I said, "I have a dog who looks almost identical to her.

     "Did you get her from YAPS?" said the man who was Lee.

     "Yes."

     "September last year?"

     "Yes."

     "Did her name start with a P?"

     "Yes."

     "They're sisters."

Moose, less camera shy than Pippa.

Freshly-shaved Pippa

     I asked if their dog was part of a massive litter found under the Barron River Bridge.  She was.  And I learned something I didn't know. There were 16 puppies - 8 went to YAPS and 8 went to the RSPCA.

     Naturally, I asked about the Scnottie breed, thinking Miniature Irish Wolfhound sounded far more sophisticated.  Alex explained that a Schnottie is a Schnauzer-Rottweiler cross, Snotty.  And the breed was certain because Moose (her name was Plum at YAPS) had been DNA tested.  Alex whipped out her phone and emailed me the DNA certificate.  

     Suddenly I understood where Pippa's beard came from, even though we keep her clean-shaven. 

     Alex and Lee were just leaving after a coffee and returning to Cairns.  They'd been to Mt Garnet to visit Lee's sister and just stopped in at Atherton on the way home.

     What's more, Alex and Lee had tracked down two siblings of Moose and Pippa and they meet for play dates (one is named Thunder which does not surprise me).  It turns out Moose is as much-loved and spoilt as Pippa.  We went our separate ways, agreeing to meet up in Cairns with our precious furry friends.

Lee, Alex and Moose (and a patron of the cafe photo-bombing the shot)

Our darling Pippa (enjoying the lounge while Tony was in Weipa)

     During the walk home, I wondered about having Pippa DNA tested, but it was bound to be expensive.  I had a better idea.  I called YAPS and asked if Plum was adopted by Lee and Alex and she was.  

     Coincidence or cosmically convened?  I still don't believe it.  Had I been a few seconds slower, I would have missed them.

     There is something so satisfying in finding a long-lost relative.  And to know there are more of Pippa's siblings out there, well, I felt a peace all afternoon, a warm and fuzzy peace ... until I found Pippa with the remains of yet another hair brush.

     Yep, I can now see the clear pattern running through my life.

Another birthday, another wedding anniversary

Another birthday and so, another wedding anniversary, 20 years, in fact.  I wanted something to commemorate our 20 years of marriage which has often felt like travelling in a dinghy - sometimes cruising when the solwata is proper muthuru (doldrums) and sometimes like trying to cross the Prince of Wales channel during boxing tide and a forty knot wind with a stalling engine and a dodgy bilge pump. I have been thinking about a special present, to myself, something to celebrate our two decades and also represent the six children.  I had the day to think of something.

     By a stroke of good fortune, my birthday fell on my day off.  And what better way to start the day than with a leisurely session of dog yoga.  Pippa, a playful and naively disobedient beast, has never grasped my rule that the black mat is sacred to me, something Saidor respected as does Gina Rose.  Also, I'd received two cheesecakes in the two days prior to my birthday and had only consumed one. So I was trying to work up an appetite for the remaining cheesecake I planned to eat (or as much of it as possible) for lunch.

Pippa helps to gently pull my arm into the correct position.

Pippa tests my focus.  I am required to hold this pose for five minutes and ignore any distractions such as having my face licked and nose nibbled on.

Pippa sits on my back to enable me to work deeply in the pose.

     After a forty minute session of dog yoga, I went to the backyard and found a freshly-laid egg from Billie, still warm.  I got out the good crockery for my meal!

      Fortunately, I was so busy working on the computer I forgot about lunch.  Then my father arrived with a cheesecake (that's number three) and his brother, Jim and wife, Sue who I hadn't seen for 33 years.  They gave me a gorgeous ceramic pendant, blue.  Perfect. I remembered my manners enough to offer them a cup of tea, but no food.  Jim and Sue were teachers.  Sue has retired and Jim studied law and is now working as a solicitor.  They were off to Cairns but there was furious conversation about teaching and law for an hour or so.

Afternoon tea with Dad's cheesecake.  

     With full bellies, the kids and I walked into town to buy part of the birthday/anniversary gift I had dreamed up.  At the Crystal Caves, I bought some gems, six in fact.  
     I arrived home to find Lyndel, the wonderful woman I work with, had dropped off a chocolate cheesecake (that's number four) and a very apt gift, fluffy slippers for I am always complaining at work about how cold I am and asking students to shut the doors (even thought they complain about how warm it is - "can we put the air conditioning on?).
     Tony cooked my favourite meal - sausages (Dad's cow), mashed potato and steamed vegetables.  For dessert we had ... cheesecakes.
     And the next day, another present from the wonderful Anita who I also work with.  A snuggly warm pale, blue jumper for the cold.  Lyndel and Anita had made food (and these women can cook!) so Lyndel, Anita and Lisa, our wonderful line manager, had a delicious meal at little lunch.  We missed Glenn, the fifth member of our team who doesn't work on Wednesdays.  
     Then later in the week, I met with Kai, a local jeweller and discussed with him my desire for a ring with six stones, three rubies and three sapphires to represent the three Tony Titasey girls and the three Tony Titasey boys in order of the kids' ages - Ciehan, Ashlea, TK, Sutchy, Seffie (she has changed the spelling of her name) and Kibbim.
     This is the design he envisaged which I think is perfect.  

The green stone is actually a sapphire with a faint green tinge to it. It is Sutchy, the hunter and fisherman, one with nature.

     I just haven't mentioned to Kai my other desire which I will discuss when we meet next.  I would like the inside of the gold band inscribed to record the fact of our 20 years together.  This is what I have visualised.

21.7.95-21.7.2015 ... Surprisingly sane after 20 years of marriage.

A Sunkist day with Jack, Jim and the Solo man

Humans have fears which spring from the very nature of being human.  Apart from the regular ones like death, starvation, rejection and pain which make sense, there are some that don’t when considered in context.
     There’s the fear of God although there’s a lack of evidence about the immediate relationship between sin and God’s wrath.  
     There’s the fear parents have that their children will be violated by strangers yet there is overwhelming evidence that perpetrators of child sexual abuse are often known to the family, if not family members.  Of course, there is the recent fear of Muslims acting out IS ideologies and taking ‘Australians’ hostage although ‘white Australian’ hostage situations are more common than most would imagine (there was one in Bunbury on Friday).  We fear being murdered by a stranger - an ice addict, a thief, a predator of women - yet half of homicides in Australia result from domestic violence (almost two women per week).  

Just like the Torres Strait only inland.

     Humans are fearful creatures, but their fear is often misplaced because they have, either through ignorance or denial, identified the wrong enemy ... thereby allowing the real enemy to approach.

     I thought I came close to the enemy yesterday when Tony, the kids and I drove out to Lake Tinaroo with the dogs. We planned to meander along the fjords while the dogs splashed in the shallows.  

     Lake Tinaroo is a reservoir, 15 km from Atherton, constructed between 1953 and 1958 when the Barron River was dammed.  Adjacent to the Danbulla National Park, the lake lures fisherfolk chasing the massive, DPI-stocked barramundi that have no natural predators, watersport lovers, residents, campers and families, like ours wanting to spend some time in nature. 

Underwater wonder ... just like the reef of TI

     We found a little cove which appeared not to have been touched by man, apart from the great body of water that submerged huge tracts of rainforest, the only remainder being thousands of trunks that protrude from the water’s edge.  Seffy and Tony reclined on a great granite boulder and Kibby and I set off with the dogs. 

     The warmth from the sun was intoxicating as we traipsed along the marshy shore.  Cormorants sunned themselves on the boughs of the dead trees and families of ducks glided on the azure waters, which resembled to my surprise, the solwata of the Torres Strait (when the wind is below 20 knots!).  Apart from the hum of traffic along the road and the drone of speedboats, it was just Kibby and me and the dogs, enjoying nature.  I found myself in a walking meditation.

     Then I found the litter.  In all its hideousness.  There were plastic bags in various states of decomposition, too far gone for me to use to collect the other crap.  

     The insole of a child’s shoe.  A piece of pale blue plastic, possibly an old icecream container, bleached by the sun.  The plastic handle from a bucket.  A barramundi lure.  Scrunched toilet paper, complete with brown stains.  Crumpled plastic bottles, sun-bleached to the colour of tripe. The porous remains of an adult thong, Kustom I think, the kind with a textured surface that were popular about five years ago.  

     A tyre.  An endless supply of soft drink, beer and UDL cans, the labels faded, but the aluminium living on and on.  Stubbies, both clear glass and brown and millions of shards of stubbies.  
     A packet of Doritos floating rhythmically against a rock as if banging its head into oblivion, something I was tempted to do to the person who had left it behind.    

     What sort of people litter?  Filth?  Scum?  People who don’t care about public space and other users? If anything pisses me off, it’s litter.  If I see rubbish in the street, I pick it up.  If I go for a walk in the bush, I don’t want to see shit people have dropped because they are, are what?  Lazy?  Selfish?  Lots of people are lazy and selfish and don’t litter.  So what sort of people litter?  I don’t know.

     But who are they?  What do they look like?  I know they like Jim Beam, Jack Daniels, Sunkist, Solo and Doritos, but so do lots of people who dispose of their rubbish responsibly.  
     I fear the littering enemy because they don't have a face.  Nothing can be done to stop them.  They are up there with bigots and racists, moving through all levels of society, but not conforming to a stereotype. The thought of them makes my skin crawl.  I want to avoid them and keep my children and pets away from them.  I just don’t know who they are.

I gritted my teeth during the walk while Gina Rose got hers into something!