The heat's on

It's only 90° outside this morning! That's a relief from yesterday (mid 90s) and the day before (top of 102°). But none of these temperatures is conducive to the kind of heavy slogging that my overgrown vegie patch would require if I were going to make up for a whole season of neglect.

 
In the matter of degrees Fahrenheit vs Centigrade, as in yards/feet/inches and pounds/ounces vs metres/centimetres/ and kilograms/grams, I'm ashamed to admit that mentally I still visualise the old rather than the 'modern' units of measurement. Australia converted to metric for most purposes during 1974, though the total conversion in all industries actually spanned a period of nearly 20 years due to the complexities involved in converting tools, road signs, speedometers etc. I originally migrated to Australia in 1969, before metric conversion, but was back in the USA for all of 1973. So I arrived back in Australia at the apex of the conversion timeline, and had to make that adjustment at the same time as many others. Perhaps I just consigned that one to the back burner, where it's still simmering. 
 
For 'young' readers and those my age or older who have adapted more readily to all things metric, check the thermometer and you will see that 102°F translates to about 38.9°C (and I wish I'd thought to photograph it two days ago, when that was apparently the hottest day around here since recording began sometime in the 1800s). Having to use decimals to make a point about temperature just doesn't do it for me – though wait a minute, normal body temperature to me will forever be 98.6°F, and not 37°C, as my daughter knows it. And yet, I like to think of myself as a person who can adapt to changing circumstances, someone who has moved readily among different cultures and countries in both work and friendship. Am I self-deluding in this as in other areas, perhaps?
 
Let's just agree: it's been damned hot. We do have excellent roof insulation, and get good cross-breezes up here in our hinterland location. So it's usually much pleasanter in the house than outdoors. There are ceiling fans in every room – one of the first things we did after buying this place in 1996. And ten years later, we installed good air conditioners throughout the house, too – even in my outdoor studio. I doubt we'd have invested in these if my mother hadn't been coming to live here, because we were never really worried that much about the few days every summer when temperatures rose into the mid-90s. But I'm now very grateful for the impetus that Mum's coming provided. Maybe it's age, but I'm experiencing the ennui brought on by heat much more this year than ever before. Even so, I try only to resort to aircon when the temperature is roasting. And I must admit that my reasoning has as much to do with soaring electricity costs ($200/mo. when either heat or aircon is used liberally vs. $100/mo. in off-seasons) as with ecological consciousness. 

Of course there's wonderful relief to be had in the pool. And until that 100° day earlier this week, we had been swimming every morning for the past week. It's no small effort to get Allen into his swimming togs and (safely) down to the pool terrace, then in and out of the pool when the surrounding surface is blisteringly hot and he feels every temperature variation so intently. Still, it's well worth the effort.

 

On our first swim just last week, Allen was quite literally overcome by joy, shouting out as he floated off, "Isn't this wonderful!" I think it's the freedom of movement he experiences in the water that gives him such pleasure, especially now that his mobility on land is so tentative and there's always the anxiety of falling. His balance and motor control are both very dodgy now. And though he still manages 15 minutes every morning on his exercise bike, he can no longer walk very far without succombing to exhaustion. I guess that's the result of insufficient exercise, poor circulation, age (he is, after all, 83) and, more likely, a combination of all of these plus the rampant disintegration of various areas of the brain. Everything from using a knife and fork to washing his hair in the shower requires some degree of supervision and, often, assistance. (He just can't remember that shampoo shouldn't be applied while the head is under the stream of water, or that a soapy head then needs to be rinsed.)  It's no wonder that floating freely in the pool gives him such pleasure.
 

Allen can't really swim any more – that's just one of many physical skills that he's either lost completely or that have deteriorated badly. But after experimenting with various flotation devices, even a life-jacket, we finally found a simple belted hard-foam device that supports him sufficiently, whether he's just walking in the pool or swimming' on his front or back. So now he will amble up the length of the pool in a kind of bicycle movement when on his stomach. And on his back he can manage a crude backstroke.

 

I worry what would happen if that belt buckle ever popped, and I have to remain near enough and somewhat vigilant for that reason. However, it's not far to the edge of the pool at any one spot. I think I'd manage to drag him there if I had to, in spite of never getting past intermediate level as a swimmer myself. But even though one half of our pool is very deep – even the 'shallow' end is up to my armpits, as we always planned to swim in the pool, not laze around – I couldn't possibly deny Allen the great pleasure that swimming provides just because there's a danger he might drown! He's had to accept too many losses without adding another.

 

Deciding what risks are worth taking is often an issue for carers. For example, I have a friend whose brain-damaged but physically strong husband recently decided he'd like to join a rowing club. She had to go into battle to get him in. The club was keen to take him on but their insurance company was a 'proverbial pain', said my friend. It's no surprise that insurance providers are by nature risk-averse, and this company only relented after forms were completed by doctors testifying to the fact that my friend's husband was fit enough to row with the best of them. Even then, they required that he wear a life jacket at all times. The club itself bent over backwards to help, even buying the life jacket! But my friend's husband is embarrassed that he's the only member required to wear one, and he wears a vest over the jacket to minimise his embarrassment.

 

I completely understood my friend's belief that the very small 'risk' of her husband experiencing a rare epileptic episode while rowing – possibly resulting in an accident – was more than balanced by the pleasure and sense of achievement he gets from participating in this sport. Life isn't risk-free for anyone, so why should her disabled husband be consigned to live a life of sterility! We shared a laugh about the fact that we carers must seem a pretty hard-hearted lot, in allowing our partners to take such risks. But not wrapping them in cotton wool is all part of the struggle to help our them live as 'normal' a life as possible.

_____________________

 

A postnote re safety and risk: The rubberised shoes pictured alongside the lifebelt above have been a godsend! Both Allen and I bought a pair of these years ago for walking up and down the stairs that lead to our pool terrace. That was after we had taken a tumble together on those stairs when going down the steps in slide-on sandals, me carrying all our gear and attempting to help Allen not trip over a hose lying across our path. I realised even then that slide-ons were a no-no for Allen, as his mobility had already begun to deteriorate prior to the open-heart surgery that we didn't yet realise he needed. Later, after that surgery and during Allen's long immobility and confinement to an Intensive Care Unit, I brought these shoes into the hospital when physical therapists began to get Allen up onto his feet, and he needed all the help he could get to relearn how to walk. The therapists loved these shoes, as they gave good support and grip on polished floors. Slippers were considered much too dangerous, even in hospital.

My Baby Bear

Later this week Allen and I will be going down to collect our little Baby Bear, and bringing her back to stay with us for the weekend. This will be only her third visit without her parents. And though she keeps us on our toes, there is nothing but fun and joy from her 6am wake-up until bedtime about 12 hours later. (And she has a good nap at least once a day, so we get to put our feet up then.)

Hooray indeed! BB is 19 months old and has a vocabulary that's expanding every day. I must try to video her giving us a rundown of all the words that she recognises the meaning of, and can say in some fashion (e.g. parts of the body, important people in her life, favourite foods, ABC characters – Angelina Ballerina being a particular favourite, but which as yet consists mainly of vowels ("aa--ii--aa). Ditto Bananas in Pyjamas! Studying her language development is even more interesting than the linguistic courses I loved all those years ago.

BB's facility to remember details is equally astounding. When she arrives here it may be more than a month since she and her parents last visited. Even so, she will go directly to the things she remembers from a previous visit – the drawer containing plastic containers she's allowed to play with, the glass-fronted bookcase whose door she's attracted to though she knows she isn't allowed to rattle (looking at me guiltily while patting it), a bunch of display baskets she's allowed to take off a shelf, a set of dominoes that she loves to move from one container to another, a collection of garden labels taken off plants I've planted in my garden. These she will load and unload into a basket, studying each label intently and 'reading' the text on the reverse of each picture. Exposed to books since birth, she clearly knows that print contains a message. And in a sing-song babble that only she understands, she will 'read' aloud from each label.

Perhaps because Allen's memory is slipping away, and it's so hard (almost imposible) for him to learn new tasks or remember instructions, I am fascinated and overjoyed to watch BB's young brain making (and retaining) dozens, maybe hundreds, of new 'connections' every day. Hers is a healthy brain displaying plasticity in all its wonders. What a welcome antidote to the experience of living under the cloud of Allen's deteriorating brain.

The rain makes 100

I've been waiting for a special reason to post this, my 100th blog entry! What better way to celebrate than by reporting the first good rain of the season. Literally, all my bowls runneth over! And the birds that use them every day are diving and dipping in a particularly carefree way. They too no doubt know the rains have come.

The distortion inside this bowl is the effect of rain pouring down, filling it and every other garden receptacle that until now I'd been topping up by hand. And even though we only got 33ml, this rainfall on Saturday had a serious feeling to it. It came down hard and fast.

Now, two days later we are sweltering in the kind of temperatures that usually precede a storm, so I'm hopeful there's more rain to come. In any case, the garden has been completely refreshed and the dust of winter washed off all surfaces.

I walked around the house to admire the dripping scenes from all sides. And after the storm, both Allen and I went out to enjoy a strange pastel sunset. I was too awestruck by the pale blue and tangerine streaks to think of photographing it, but I doubt the camera could have done it justice.

Only those of you who have relied on rainwater for your household needs can appreciate how much it means to feel the first rain of the season on your face. When I lived in cities I never even knew what time of year the rains came – or if there was a time when it rained more than at other times.

Now I can smell the rain coming. And if I have any doubt, I can walk down into the paddock and see if the ants are building up mounds of soil at the entrace to their holes. I'm not sure why they do that, but how high they build gives a pretty good idea how much rain we'll get. No matter where I live in future, I'll never take rain for granted again. Nor should we.

Just another day in the garden

Today I got back into the garden after a week or so of doing no serious outdoor work. Come to think of it, I did plant out six different salvia plants yesterday that I bought recently at an Open Garden about 30km from here. In that garden many kinds of salvias were flourishing, so I bought a half dozen different varieties at the sale table and I'll try them out here. I have a dry hilly slope above my carport which already has a variety of small native trees and bushes well established, but on one part of that hill I've had to cut down a few of these because they were a danger to the overhead lines that carry electricity to my house from the street. So I'll try out some salvias in this area and see if any of them survive or maybe even flourish.

Me and The New York Review of Books

For a month or so, I have been debating whether or not to renew our annual subscription to The New York Review of Books. Allen used to be devoted to this publication, and would read most issues from cover to cover. I tended to browse through each copy (dilettante that I am), picking out for closer reading just one or two articles that appealed. Sometimes, I confess, whole issues would go onto the shelf without my having even done that. At least many of the articles remain just as relevant months, even years, later. So we do have quite a collection of old editions on hand, and could probably spend a year or two revisiting these before we noticed an absence of new ones.

A marriage

Forty-seven years ago I married the father of my only child. He wasn't a father yet, of course. That didn't happen until seven years later.

I was 20 years old when we married and he, five years older (the same age as my parents when they married). I may have been smart – usually coming top of my class – but at the same time I was immature and horribly self-conscious. I was going to say 'selfish', too, but though I didn't know how to look at anything from anyone else's perspective, I don't think I was then, or am now, particularly selfish. I was very ignorant about life in general, and relationships in particular. And so from the beginning, I think, we had a lot working against us.

Monday morning visitor

This morning from the kitchen window I caught sight of a dear little fellow that I hadn't seen for some time – the banded rail. This is a ground-feeding bird that usually forages in damp places for insects and seeds.

A little green memory prod

My garden contains a variety of plants, but none could be more exotic than the pitcher plant.

Charlotte reads aloud

During grand-daughter Charlotte's recent weekend with us, I observed her practising what we used to call 'pre-reading' activities. (God knows what this is called now, given the speed with which educational jargon comes and goes.)

Charlotte loves to put things into containers, then get them out again. And she will happily do this for long periods. On this visit I gave her a set of my discarded plant labels, and put them into a little straw handbag. At first she simply loaded and unloaded the labels from bag to table, doing this over and over. And she walked around with the handbag on her arm, in a distinctively queenly manner.

 

A quiet morning

The walking iris all flowered at the same time last week, but only for a day. Today they are flowering again, but they'll be finished tomorrow. Never mind. It's a glorious treat for 24 hours.

I sat here with my tea to absorb their delicate beauty (not yet on show when this picture was taken). But I could not stay for long.

Sewing for my sinhs!

Continuing on from yesterday's post, here are a couple of completed projects from my home furnishings sewing lab!

First, a set of triple-pinch-pleated drapes made for grand-daughter Charlotte's first bedroom. These are made of a very heavy cotton and lined with block-out fabric to encourage daytime napping!

My Prufrock afternoons

Waking on a Monday morning to warm sunshine and a house freshly cleaned (no qualms here about having worked on the Sabbath) – what could be nicer, eh?

Today I plan to do something I have rarely done. I plan to sew during daylight hours. All my adult life I've been a sew-er. To call myself a 'seamstress' is to claim a professionalism I don't quite deserve, though even if I say so myself, I have learned to sew to a pretty high standard after 50 years of doing it; and to write that I'm a 'sewer' (without the hyphen) may be equally misleading (except perhaps to my ex-husband). So let's just say: I sew.

Reality bites

The fifth annual Reality Bites festival of nonfiction literature was held last weekend here at our beautiful Cooroy Library on the Sunshine Coast. In past years I was a member of the Sunshine Hinterland Writers Centre committee that organises the festival each year, and an enthusiastic volunteer helping out at festival events. This year, however, the progression of Allen's condition made it too difficult for me to attend committee meetings, usually held in the evenings. And then when Allen was hospitalised with pneumonia in January, I had to give up any involvement in festival preparations. But as festival time rolled around, one of the women who has been a key organiser of each year's festival and who knew I'd have liked to remain involved asked if I might be able to do some of the catering for events on three successive days of the weekend festival.

"Let us go then you and I..." *

Oh dear. No posts since the end of May. Well, yes, Allen's been sick with a nasty bronchial infection. And then we've had more than six weeks of twice-weekly visits to the doctor for dressings on Allen's foot, where the removal of a small skin cancer left a deep hole that a skin graft didn't succeed in closing. Both those issues seem now to be on the mend, though not finished. Then there've been several visitors, including grandson Sam during his school holidays, my daughter and grand-daughter for a weekend and a very dear old friend for our traditional winter get-together to share glasses of wine while watching stages of Le Tour de France. (She flew home this morning. But will Cadel win again this year? Fingers crossed please.) None of that really excuses what has really been (yet more) laziness on my part, but...... 

I have been busy in the garden – more than ably assisted by a trusty handyman who is the person responsible for recent massive weed eradication (which was underway when I last posted), then heavy mulching of many garden areas and various other useful tasks. For my part I've been repotting bromeliads to make a nice little 'brom walk' between house and studio. I'm very pleased with the results. These plants were all gifts from our children or from one of the couples in our aphasia group, who have a massive collection. They all did well last year and so I've separated pups and replanted in the recommended friable mixture, with lots of gravel at the bottom of each pot for good drainage. By next year I hope to again double the number of plants.


You might remember in my last post I mentioned that my neighbour had come round and cut back a dozen or so lilly pillies growing on a hillside above our house. These small native evergreens had grown into tall little trees whose foliage was overhanging the carport and making a mess in the rainwater gutters.

Well all that area has now been well mulched, and the beautiful new growth on the lilly pilly trunks is coming in, the glossy little leaves all red or red-tinged – this new growth being one of the most pleasing features of these plants. Soon there'll again be enough cover to attract the whip birds that often patrol this patch of garden.


On the western side of the house the frangipani (or plumeria) that shade us from the heat of the summer's setting sun have just about finished dropping their leaves for the wintertime. But as beautiful as these trees are when clothed in their big summertime leaves and fragrant flowers, there's something just as lovely about the naked winter boughs, especially when seen on a cold and misty afternoon such as this one.

And speaking of mist, what magic it works on the various greens and blue-greens that seem to dominate at this time of year. Here on my front terraces, everything (rosemary, gardenias, lime tree, palms down near the pool and even the old washing copper that Walle drinks from) has taken on a different hue in the light of an unusually foggy late afternoon. I'm reminded of scenes from deserted temple gardens in northern Vietnam where we once spent a holiday during a cold, wet month much like this one.

None of this worries Walle, of course, who happily goes about his doggy business in any weather whatsoever. ("Now where did I bury that bone?") I got tired of having to wipe down his soggy legs and comb the grass seeds out of his shaggy coat, and so at his recent haircut I had him trimmed right back, much to the horror of the lovely and patient lady groomer who no doubt thinks labradoodles deserve more appreciative and long-suffering owners!

Walle himself doesn't mind, however. He's happily practising his sphinx pose, hoping for a slot on the next Christmas card. But I think I'll have to let him grow back a more shapely mane before then, as befits the breed.

Well this has been a grab-bag of goodies. But if it helps me get back the habit of reflecting on and sharing some of what makes life worth living up here in the Sunshine Coast hinterland, then I hope my friends will indulge me a little.

(* "Let us go then you and I / When the evening is spread out against the sky / Like a patient etherized upon a table..." No particular relevance to this post, but I found the opening lines of this poem well evoke the misty late afternoon light and mood that was around when I took most of these garden photos. Go here to read all of The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock.)

Tidying up – on a large scale

Candle banksia flower goes
from yellow to brown with age

I'm using Ms Gillard's carbon-tax top-up for age pensioners to hire someone to help me with the heavier work of reversing too many months of neglect in the garden. (Sorry, my US readers. It's too hard to explain at length what that phrase means. Let's just say we Social Security types are being reimbursed for some of charges that are likely to be heaped onto various good and services, under the pretext that our incoming Carbon Tax warrants these extra costs.) We haven't even received the Prime Minister's donation into our bank account yet and already I've spent it!

Anyway, for the past three weeks I've had 'my guy' in to do 4 or 5 hours of heavier garden tasks. One week he totally weeded and trimmed the hilly bank on the bottom side of the swimming pool terrace, then sprayed the remaining stalks of this very invasive climbing vine with a strong weedkiller. This is what a badly weed-covered section of garden looks like beforehand. The head of a 6ft tall pony tail palm had totally disappeared under these sticky vines, which had climbed up into surrounding palms too. Anyone know the name of this nasty weed? Anyway, for the moment we are rid of it, but I'll have to keep at it as new weed shoots sprout in the spring. We aren't likely to have caught every piece of this vine and its little beans, so some seeds will have been dispersed anew to start another year's crop.

Anyway, the following week Nev spread a thick layer of sugar cane mulch over that entire poolside hill, and also on the hill above the house and carport (picture below), where a few weeks ago neighbour Robbi had kindly trimmed back a half dozen lanky trees – mainly lilly pilly –  which had been overhanging the house's gutters. These are already showing sprouts of the lovely reddish-tinged new foliage that is such an appealing feature of this family of evergreen natives. But unfortunately for the possums, this year they won't be able to race through the boughs and leap onto the roof on this side.

It's just great to see that my agapanthus, which started out as just a few scattered bulbs, have now spread to line the outside edge of the pool fence thickly. These plants are soft enough not to be considered a violation of pool safety, as they can't provide a foothold for curious children trying to climb the fence. And the palms which Allen and I planted about 10 years ago are big enough to provide summer shade on this side of the pool – but they're positioned within the regulation distance from the top of the pool fence.

This week among other things Nev has cut right back all of the messy growth on another sloping terrace - this one between the house's back verandah and the poolside pump-house. That area's more stubborn weed stems have also been spot-sprayed. But there's more work to be done here. I haven't decided whether to keep the spiky mother-in-law's tongue (in the red oval) – I may move them to a large pot, as they look great clustered together that way. The mother-of-millions, however, is a weed (in the yellow oval) and definitely has to go. Next this area will be resprayed and mulched heavily prior to planting a collection of low-growing native shrubs (grevilleas mainly, to attract more birds).

I'm not usually a big sprayer, at least not in garden beds. I usually do the driveway, paths and fenceline a few times a year. But this year too many beds got away from me during Allen's illness, when I went months without having time or energy for any substantial gardening. Added to that we've just had the wettest spring, summer and autumn in a long, long time. And winter isn't proving as dry as usual either. In this climate weeds can grow six feet while your back is turned, and for me at least, there's no alternative to spraying for some persistent problem weeds.

While Nev has been tackling the big jobs, I've been doing my bit on smaller areas like this little triangular patch near the pool gate, where a pair of orange hibiscus gives a dazzling display all summer long. The third shrub here behind the hibiscus is not very evident in this photo, but it's a Brazilian cherry (Eugenia uniflora). I had planted one on the terrace above in the hope of doubling my supply of this wonderful jam-making fruit. Unfortunately, the new bush has borne very little fruit, unlike the original bush down in the paddock, which bears heavily for a long period every year (see the last two photos in this post from November 2010.) But it has spread a number of seedlings in the vicinity, including one in this triangular patch, behind the hibiscus. I've cut that right back and will probably take it out completely, as I strongly suspect this is a very invasive shrub in our environment. However, the reddish-brown tinge on its leaves are also very appealing, as you can see in that 2010 post.

Yesterday evening I finished up by repotting half a dozen bromeliads, and sinking these into the mulch on the little garden bed that borders the path to the studio. I hadn't yet done that when this photo was taken the day before, so I'll show those in a later post. What this photo celebrates, though, is the fact that all of the 'dirty palms' along this path are now tall enough so that the dead fronds are above eye-level! I would never have planted this variety of palm (Alexander palms). They were here when we bought the house in 1996 and by the time I realised I would like to be rid of them, their removal would have cost thousands. So I live with them and have tried to create a little rainforest beneath them. For those who aren't familiar with tropical greenery, the bottom fronds of all palms die off as new fronds form at the top of the growing plant. In so-called dirty palms, however, the dead fronds remain attached for a very long time until eventually they will come crashing down. Clean palms, however, such as those we planted around the pool, drop their dead fronds immediately. Hence they never have the messy look of dirty palms. But though I deplore the long dead fronds that dangle around the trunks of the Alexander palms for months, at least these palms are now tall enough so that the dead fronds are out of sight as you walk down the path. And I must admit, a wonderful collection of wildlife comes to feed on the palm flowers and fruit throughout the year. So I've come to accept this little ecosystem as one of the untidier by-products of a green living space.

To socialise or not!

Yesterday we went to a neighbourhood party. The occasion was the 87th birthday of a lovely man who is something of a local icon. Like many around here, we are genuinely fond of Dudley, who is a friend to everyone and who spends his mornings eradicating weeds from surrounding bushland, as his contribution to maintaining an environment that he loves. In the afternoon he usually calls in to one or another of our houses for a bit modest socialising. He never stays long, but likes to keep in touch with us all. But the point of my post today is not how deserving Dudley is of being feted by neighbours, for he certainly is and I'm only too happy to acknowledge that. No, my point is that even though we have the highest regard for our friend, I don't think I will subject Allen, or me, to any more such parties with casual acquaintances.

Before we left home yesterday, Allen went through his various 'I have aphasia' cards and selected the one that he thought contained the best message for the occasion. He put this card in his pocket so it would be handy. And he promised me he would produce it when trying to talk to anyone, to help explain his difficulty in communicating and show that he wanted to keep trying.

We live in a friendly neighbourhood, but each house sits on one or more acres of land. This is a hinterland location and there are no footpaths. The meandering road goes up and down hills. People don't walk along our road very much, except to exercise their dog if they don't have a fenced area around their house. So we don't regularly see our neighbours, except when checking the mail or passing each other in cars. We know most of them by sight or from occasional short conversations near a mailbox. Dudley, who visits us all regularly, is something like our town crier, passing on news from house to house. But we've been here since 1996 so by now most of our neighbours know something about the fact that Allen isn't capable of independent living, that he has had a long hospitalisation and that I'm now his carer. I think a few assume he's got dementia or Alzheimer's. We aren't close enough for me to disabuse them of such ideas, but I do try to provide appropriate information whenever the opportunity arises. And for many years until her death, Dudley cared for his own spouse, who did have Alzheimer's. So he, at least, is no stranger to our situation.

Ours is probably the most modest house in the area. Houses across the street sit atop a kind of ridge which offers fabulous views up and down the coast, about 10km away. In the last 10 years most of those properties have been expanded or redeveloped and have sold for between one and three million dollars. So we aren't exactly in the same financial situation as many of our neighbours. We don't belong to local golf or tennis clubs, and we don't regularly travel interstate or internationally as many of them do. All of these things probably contribute to there being a bit of a gulf between 'us' and 'them'. But I doubt if anything contributes more to that gulf than Allen's inability to talk and socialise, and other people's inability, or unwillingness, to try and bridge that gulf.

Allen spent most of the afternoon party sitting by himself, or with me. Most guests said hello to him, and a few asked 'How are you?'. But that's as far as these conversations ever got before people moved away. Allen certainly never got the chance to show his aphasia card, explaining why he was having trouble communicating. I've never been much of a party-goer myself, but Allen was always a very sociable person and would once have been right in his element in any group of this sort. Now it's just too painful for me to watch as conversations pass him by. He can't even get pleasure from listening, because unless people take the trouble to speak slowly and clearly, he won't be able to follow the discussion. I'm not sure it's as difficult for him as it is for me to see that happen. He may be a bit more oblivious and happy to just observe the flow. I tried to question him about this afterwards, but of often happens I couldn't get a clear picture of how he felt.

We have another lunchtime party coming up in a few weeks. These midday affairs are the only kind of parties I would subject Allen to, as noisier night-time gatherings fuelled by alcohol are definitely beyond both us now. But lately even daytime gatherings can be awkward. Any talk in an environment in which several conversations are going on at once is impossible for Allen to comprehend. But this next party is a very dear old friend's family event, celebrating her daughter's impending motherhood. Our girls were born at about the same time, and we've known each other since before their births. Besides, we have a lot more in common with this family and their friends, so there's more chance of 'connecting' in incidental conversation. (I had to laugh yesterday when I heard one guest ask another: "So, you still own that shopping centre?") There may also be more willingness to be inclusive, and to try and help Allen contribute in some way.

I don't want us to end up as hermits up here on our lovely little hilltop. But sometimes one can feel lonelier in a group of people than by oneself.

(Not) tasting the difference

This moussaka tasted a lot better than it looks here. When I saw lamb mince at the supermarket this week, I suddenly remembered making this dish quite often years ago. So I thought I'd give it another go. It's time-consuming: first cooking the meat sauce, next sprinkling the sliced eggplant with salt and draining it for an hour (though some newer recipes say not to bother with this) followed by quickly grilling (i.e. broiling) the slices, then thickening a white sauce and adding grated cheese and egg – and finally assembling the lot and baking for an hour.

Lately Allen and I have been eating very simple meals. Several times a week, I don't even cook but just grab something like a frozen chicken pie, baked beans or even porridge with trimmings on colder evenings. Allen seems unconcerned as long as there's something on his plate around tea-time. Though he used to enjoy good food as much as I do, now he just doesn't seem to care what he eats. And certain textures give him trouble (e.g. some cuts of meat, stringy vegetables like spinach). So easily managed foods hold more appeal than tasty dishes that are a challenge to handle or chew. Where he once appreciated and welcomed new flavours and spicy foods, now I have to give him much blander meals and add any interesting flavours to my portion only (anything hot, anything spicy etc.) The result is that I'm losing interest in cooking.

Allen couldn't remember ever eating moussaka, but he ate this whole portion. I had to cut up the slightly crusty top, as he's forgotten that knives are best used for cutting, not for pulling things apart with. I couldn't blame him too much for that, though, because my super-efficient oven does crisp up things a bit more than should happen at this temperature. However, the flavour, I thought, was exquisite: hints of nutmeg coming through the custardy topping and the eggplant and lamb such a wonderful combination. Allen's verdict, though, was less enthusiastic: "Different", was all he said when prompted for a reaction. And 'different' now is a polite way of saying 'can we not have it too often?' It's such a sad thing, this loss of good taste in food. Baked beans on toast would please him just as much, I'm sure. Maybe even more, as beans can easily be scooped up with a spoon. 

The gerontologist told me at Allen's annual check-up this year that the same part of the brain that governs speech also controls a good part of the chewing and swallowing functions. So whenever Allen has any health problems (a cold, his recent pneumonia etc.), we must immediately thicken all liquids as he's likely to ingest fluid into the lungs while trying to drink or eat. The swallowing and breathing functions are getting mixed up, it seems. I wonder if somehow this partly accounts for Allen's diminished interest in new and 'different' flavours. After all, if he's mainly concerned with 'Can I eat it OK?', he can't be too bothered about 'How does it taste?' Like so much else about this dreadful condition, the loss of good taste in food is a cruel blow.

You can't take it with you

Honestly, I would like to write deeper, more meaningful blogs. But then I'd have to lie about the pleasure I have found these past four days in emptying out, reorganising and refilling all my cupboards, wardrobes and storage chests!

The excuse was the need to get out our winter woollies. (We may live in the subtropics but the temp does get down to 10 degrees Centigrade on some nights!). Changing seasonal clothes requires me to pack away some of our summer shorts and Ts. Our small house doesn't have enough closet space to allow everything to be out at once. So even though we both have modest wardrobes – and like many stay-at-home retirees we usually only wear a fraction of what we own anyway – I have to pack and unpack a suitcase or two of off-season things twice a year to make room in our closets for all the current season's dags.

Poor Walle gets nervous whenever the cases come out, though. I don't know why because we've never left him home on our weekends away. But he had three years with his previous owners before we adopted him, so maybe his anxiety goes back to some earlier experiences with that former family. We adopted Walle from his original breeder after Walle's first owners returned him to her. (Part of the breeder's standard contract requires all dogs' first owners to let the breeder find a new home for any dog that an owner can't keep for any reason.) And the breeder did say the couple who'd owned Walle had split up in a difficult way. Maybe that entailed someone filling up suitcases and then leaving and not coming back? One can only speculate. Whatever the reason, Walle was taking no chances this time. So he spent much of the past few days occupying whatever open suitcase I left lying around.

My ulterior motive this week, while cleaning and reorganising closets, was simultaneously to prune and/or find new homes for some of the excess possessions I seem to have acquired over the years. I say 'I' because Allen long ago did this type of post-retirement pruning. Indeed, when he began discarding and giving away things, I remember being a bit miffed. I guess I was still in acquisition mode myself. And I felt he was somehow taking value away from our home. Not monetary value, but some other kind of value – sentimental value, perhaps. Now that I've reached that stage myself, with just a few exceptions (my first wedding veil, the nightie I wore when delivering my daughter, the outfit I made for taking her home from hospital and a few of her very favourite first toys) I don't find sentiment to be a suitable reason for retaining things. Sooner or later we are going to have to move from this 'acreage' to a more easily maintained environment. And our next (maybe final) home will probably be a two-bedroom unit or townhouse somewhere, with even less storage space. So every time I unpack and pack away a season's clothes and clean out closets and drawers, I keep an eye out for things I no longer need. (Truth be told, often these are things I never really needed in the first place, but at the time didn't realise that.)

I now get more pleasure from a sparsely stocked fridge or freezer than I once got from a laden pantry. I was about to buy a super-sized container of ketchup at the supermarket today, thinking how I could fill and refill my current bottle. But something stopped me. That would have made sense when we had one or two teenagers living at home still and ketchup was poured onto all sorts of meals in great dollops. But now the few cents I'd save by buying in bulk is nowhere near enough consolation for cluttering up my pantry with large containers that take months to use up. 'Less is best.' That's my new motto in shopping as in storage. (Olive oil is an exception, of course! We do use enough of that to warrant bulk buying.)

Last week I cleaned out my gardening bench and threw away all sorts of bits and pieces I'd been hording 'just in case' they could be useful. Out went the previous set of pruning and trimming utensils, not used for years since they were replaced with new ones. Out went assorted handles and even crooked old forks whose handles had broken off. I have two good forks and a few good shovels left. I don't need to keep the broken pieces of misshapen old ones, 'just in case'. I've got at least four broken wheelbarrows that need to go, too. Past attempts to grow flowers or plants in them have never been successful, as regular hand-watering no longer holds any appeal.

Buying just enough for us two (and knowing I'll use it all) – that gives me more pleasure now than bringing home mounds of extra foodstuff (and probably seeing 20 per cent or more go bad in the fridge). It's all quite a revolution in my thinking and acting. I was a pretty full-on consumer in my past lives. I still sometimes spend my fortnightly half-day-off-caring in a shopping centre. But now it's more for entertainment than anything else, except when I'm shopping for my new little grand-daughter (e.g. a one-metre toddlers' sleeping bag and several warm fleecy sleeping suits at Kathmandu last week, reduced by something like 75 per cent). But I rarely see things I'd like to buy for myself. And I don't look forward to receiving gifts any more either, as these are too likely to upset the balance in my plan for discarding frills and paring down to essentials. 

Hardest of all to prune are books! Allen got the ball rolling years ago by donating all his theatre books and his play collection to various individuals whom he thought would enjoy them. Now we are always on the look-out for similar opportunities. Knowing a book you've enjoyed will give someone else pleasure makes it easier to relinquish it. But as far as I'm concerned now, the only reasons that justify holding on to books are (1) you haven't found the right person to pass on an especially well-loved book to, (2) you think you might enjoy reading the book again – this holds for most of our small quality fiction collection (see photo), or (3) the book is too valuable to give away, so you feel you should sell it but you haven't found a buyer yet (or a really deserving fellow reader – back to (1) above!). Everything else is going OUT eventually. All the education books I kept from university days are right now sitting in a big bag in my car, about to be donated to the op-shop nearest the local teacher-training college. Or I might just drop them off in the college's entrance, with a sign saying: "Help youself to free books!" But are today's pragmatic teacher-trainees interested in reading Paulo Freire, Ivan Illich, John Holt, Frank Smith, Jerome Bruner, Denys Thompson et al.? I doubt it.

Even more amazing than letting go the education books I read and studied, I'm about to donate 1.5 shelf-metres of educational publications I either edited or supervised as manager of this state's education department publishing unit for 10 years. The local university library has said they'd welcome this collection, as it represents a decade of syllabi, teachers' guides and other publications issued to our state's primary and secondary schools over a tumultuous period during which the curricula for most subjects were totally revised. I once thought it would be hard to let these go. But beautiful as many of the publications are – and our unit was probably the country's best and most prolific state educational publishing unit at that time – the fact is few of these books have any meaning for me any more. A couple of exceptions I'll keep, either because the content or the experience of developing and producing them was somehow out of the ordinary. But so much in education changes so fast, even if you're still interested in the subject (which, frankly, I'm not), publications from the 80s and 90s are now mainly of historical interest.



My mother (r.) says goodbye to her sister Viola
the day before Mum came to Australia.
The sisters never saw each other again.

Well, there you are. I think I always felt in some ways that my possessions told the story of my life. That feeling is gone now. Maybe my time as a volunteer in a nursing home had something to do with making me realise what few things we'll bother with once life gets reduced to the limits of a small room, as most of our lives probably will. I remember, too, my aged mother walking out of her apartment in America to come to Australia with me, taking only two suitcases and leaving my brother and sister to dispose of everything else. She knew she'd never see any of her things again, no matter what happened, as she could no longer live alone. I found that hard at the time to witness, but she said she no longer cared about 'things', and only cared about being with family. I am only now beginning to understand what she meant. "You can't take it with you" may sound trite. The fact is, we probably won't want to take it, or much of it, with us anyway. I'm pretty sure I won't.