The Tell-Tale Squawk: accessory to murder

Just after Christmas, a pair of myna birds started nesting in the eaves on along the deck.  In their native India, mynas are a symbol for enduring love because they mate for life.  Humans are drawn to love stories, even within the animal kingdom and I’m no exception.

     My bird-spouses found the safest of environments to raise their young after an aged section of cladding had fallen off.  

     Mynas have made the world’s 100 worst invasive species* but I find the chocolate body, charcoal head and sunflower yellow eyes and beak a stunning combination.  However, it was their singing, the melodic smorgasbord of whistles, clicks and light chirps that never failed to lift my spirits at a time when my own love story failed to endure.

     Robert the builder ordered some fibro sheets to repair the damage, but the festive season ensured their arrival was a long time coming.  And I forgot about the impending repairs.

     It wasn't long before the two mynas spent the days flying off and returning with morsels of food for their precious offspring.  What a delight when I heard the most delicate scratching in the ceiling cavity as the tiny birds scampered around.   I was determined to wait until the young had flown away to find their own lovers and happily-ever-after before the cladding was replaced. 

     The other day, I went out in the morning for a few hours and when I returned, the screeching hurt my ears.  A pair of mynas was flying this way and that and crying as if possessed, fragments of pale-coloured food in each of their golden beaks.  Imagine my horror when Robert called from downstairs and announced the noisy birds would be gone soon.

     He’d repaired the cladding.  The parents were frantically trying to find the entry to their home, now smooth, impenetrable fibro.  They cried from the veranda railing, screeched from the roof next door, squawked as they flew to the neighbour’s clothes line to the fence to the bottle brush tree before repeating the route, repeating the screams.  

     Their distress was like a dagger to my heart made worse when the scratching on the other side of the ceiling became louder and more desperate.  I pictured the little beaks wide open, primrose triangles pointing in opposite directions, waiting and crying themselves hoarse.  When weakness consumed them, they managed only hissing. 

     The frantic parents hopped and flew and screeched and the hungry young scratched and hissed hour after hour.  Only when the twilight faded, did mother and father bird seek shelter elsewhere, but the baby birds were invigorated by the darkness.  Their tiny claws scraped on the ceiling, their cries a scratchy hiss that went on and on.

     But they weren’t only in the cavity above the veranda. They were in the kitchen ceiling, the bathroom ceiling, my bedroom, my head.  Their deathly cries filled my sleeping ears. 

     I became the unstable narrator in Edgar Allan Poe’s, The Tell-Tale Heart.  He maintained his sanity even though the heart of a man he killed and dismembered continued to beat and drove him to madness.  Except my own tale was not a piece of short Gothic fiction.  It was a reality.

     I texted my brother and described my grief.  He replied, without empathy, “mynas will set up another nest elsewhere.” 

     Too true.  Mynas crimes are many - they destroy fruit and grain crops, they nest in roofs, ceilings and gutters, they are extremely aggressive to native species, breeding males will protect an nesting area of two acres, they breed easily, are noisy and smell.

     But their worst crime is they dispossess native species of their nests like rosellas and even large birds like kookaburras and galahs.  They can even evict sugar gliders from their hollows which is a death sentence for the marsupials.

     That aside, I wanted to save the tiny birds.  How bad would it be that two extra mynas joined the existing feral population? I bashed at the sheet of Masonite and managed only to dislodge only the sealant in the corner.  Short of finding something like a jigsaw to carve a hole in the ceiling of my deck, I could only cover my ears.  Except their screeching persisted in my head.

     I paced the house.

     “Mum, they’re pests,” said Sutchy. "Don't worry about them."

     I thought of trapping the parents and wringing their necks, but they are extremely intelligent and suspicious creatures and avoided even my pitiful gaze.

     The next morning I thought the ruckus in my head had pushed me into insanity. But when I stumbled out to the deck, the mother and father myna were flying around frantically, their babies chirping and hissing louder than before.

     I left for the Salvos, certain the midday sun on the tin roof would finally end my distress. Then the parents could establish a new nest and hopefully, despite their loss, their love would endure and they'd lay a more successful clutch of pale blue eggs.

     *IUCN Species Survival Commission, 2000

Holding a lifetime on a lap

To see a World in a Grain of Sand

And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,

Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand

And Eternity in an hour.

William Blake (1757 - 1827)

This is my dear friend, Detta at the Cafe Gallery on Thursday Island in December, 2001. She was about to fly home for Christmas and with a half hour free before her ferry left to Horn Island, we grabbed a coffee.

     She is holding little Sutchy Rooster.  

     Below is Detta at the Cafe China in Cairns in December, 2015.  She had a few hours' layover before her connecting flight home for the Christmas holidays.  She is holding big Sutchy Rooster. 

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!