tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22161312199863186332024-02-24T10:39:23.147+10:00Doonan diddly-squatI started this blog in 2009 when I became a full-time caregiver. My husband had been diagnosed a few years earlier with <a href="http://brain.northwestern.edu/dementia/ppa/index.html">primary progressive aphasia</a>. Over the next four years until his death in 2013, we were on a journey of discovery about this rare condition. The first four years of this blog document that trip. In the years since Allen died, I've been busy with other things. It's time I talked a bit about that!Chartreusehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05919069110736697400noreply@blogger.comBlogger123125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2216131219986318633.post-58156814533813931132024-01-30T17:08:00.001+10:002024-01-30T17:08:10.504+10:00Going home to the place where I belong<p>Recently my sister Doreen in the USA posted this old photo taken (I think) early in 1974 of some members of our family. She sent it round to her three daughters, two of whom (twins) were <i>in utero</i> at the time!</p><p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcn5XBTMbhv-eOW538prLySI4dxeDnqt2Tf3dPhCbORMX7WrXcN6IRUP6gqA0DhrbS-P3XwOtZwNsjp8VCSdMKv_8FkyCSwZqJV_KK-KtXMkrmKuoGST8iqLJ2DsgJT-1F1i3pfYl_8dljDlqg2HZNLEfjS96fRc6kJmjBaf-5z9alkWmWTlVLzVpCP_cJ/s1125/IMG_7888.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="883" data-original-width="1125" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcn5XBTMbhv-eOW538prLySI4dxeDnqt2Tf3dPhCbORMX7WrXcN6IRUP6gqA0DhrbS-P3XwOtZwNsjp8VCSdMKv_8FkyCSwZqJV_KK-KtXMkrmKuoGST8iqLJ2DsgJT-1F1i3pfYl_8dljDlqg2HZNLEfjS96fRc6kJmjBaf-5z9alkWmWTlVLzVpCP_cJ/s320/IMG_7888.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">Brother Paul with Fritz, brother-in-law John holding his daughter <br />Raina and my daughter Zoe, sister Doreen, and Mum and Dad.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>In fact I can clearly remember taking this photo of some of the family I was about to leave forever - or so it seemed 49 years ago. Another sister, Nancy, was no longer living near enough to join us on this day. And my then-husband was on one of his final workdays, prior to our scheduled emigration to Australia. I had little expectation then that family would ever visit me on the other side of the world, as both of my parents and then Doreen later did several times. Or that my mother would spend one of her final years with me not long before she died. I certainly didn't expect I would end up working in jobs that would allow me regular visits 'back home' over many years. Or that Nancy would one day join me in Australia, along with her family. So the day that this photo was taken was a sad one for me, even if I was also looking forward to a new life in Australia.</p><p>My brother had driven my daughter and me down to Doreen's little farmhouse in Preston, Connecticut - which she and her husband had bought not long before. One reason I probably remember the day so well is because this was the winter of the great Oil Crisis in the States. Some State Governments had decided to lower the speed limit on freeways and highways to 50mph (80.5km) because that was deemed to be more fuel-efficient than the usual 60mph. I don't think my brother was very happy about that temporary regulation - even though we weren't then travelling in one of the sportscars that he would later keep tucked away in his garage throughout the winters (and I think still does!) </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSVMKICuUpejhPxrSSdQl3XZlfw1opji2wI7_HIu-bHJ38_QF0Lk-34xyvXeXwyxS4ztC2PWpVQLvu1LSDkbowA1kpebCg0MqpdPXq0OP9khOiwNoOonBL_dQFRq-TJrXR4F7BpJmDkspsu4XWQPf5oDJD_9T2VVOHpB-6w7v3wZ6u2NlCAJj-x5qvjhgw/s1279/Zoe%20Halloween%201973.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="981" data-original-width="1279" height="153" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSVMKICuUpejhPxrSSdQl3XZlfw1opji2wI7_HIu-bHJ38_QF0Lk-34xyvXeXwyxS4ztC2PWpVQLvu1LSDkbowA1kpebCg0MqpdPXq0OP9khOiwNoOonBL_dQFRq-TJrXR4F7BpJmDkspsu4XWQPf5oDJD_9T2VVOHpB-6w7v3wZ6u2NlCAJj-x5qvjhgw/w200-h153/Zoe%20Halloween%201973.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">Zoe at Cheney's Apple Farm1973</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p>I suppose it was a drive of just over an hour from where my parents and brother lived in Massachusetts. By then, I think I would have been staying with my parents as my husband and I were getting ready to leave the country for good. We had spent almost a year living nearby after returning from our first three-year stint in Australia. We'd come 'home' from those firsts few years in Oz with a child and no intention of going back. Fate decided otherwise. And glad am I for that. But that's a story for a different post.</p><p>After seeing that family photo this week, one of Doreen's daughters (my niece) sent me this message: "Wow, can't believe you have been in Australia for so long. Crazy." Personally, I can't believe there was ever a time when I wasn't in Australia. That's how strange it seems to me that I ever identified as American. And when I became an Australian citizen at an Australia Day Ceremony, on 26 January 1976, dual USA/Australian citizenship was not allowed. So becoming Australian meant renouncing US citizenship.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoAnSQiYgWzF_t0jCeMiQccLOwNIzX1EuMInHrp_wpiyxJKojokcwU1MPGQBEXa-9WDRGLd-mf2fOt1EsEywjeqXbeugdD8UryI2zgWh9hwKbCLPTzg8D7T1rhCEmkq5Ufmf4XOlLHSV3zT04jyqPqz-HwQzXQD_GoBOSesYnsguFy8BScGj8e-jdEAiIe/s1364/Epping%20Forest%201974.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="988" data-original-width="1364" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoAnSQiYgWzF_t0jCeMiQccLOwNIzX1EuMInHrp_wpiyxJKojokcwU1MPGQBEXa-9WDRGLd-mf2fOt1EsEywjeqXbeugdD8UryI2zgWh9hwKbCLPTzg8D7T1rhCEmkq5Ufmf4XOlLHSV3zT04jyqPqz-HwQzXQD_GoBOSesYnsguFy8BScGj8e-jdEAiIe/w320-h232/Epping%20Forest%201974.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">Our first home as "new Australians": Glasslough, Epping Forest, Tas.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p>On 27 January 1976 - the day after the Mayor of Glenorchy, Tasmania, granted my Australian Citizenship Certificate at that ceremony - the Tasmanian Branch of the Australian Department of Immigration sent a letter to the US Embassy in Canberra, informing them I was now an Australian citizen. But it wasn't until two years later that I received a registered letter from the US Consulate in Melbourne, informing me that Section 349(a)(1) of the Immigration and Nationality Act states that "a person who is a national of the United States whether by birth, or naturalization shall lose his nationality by (1) obtaining naturalization in a foreign state upon his own application..." The letter included forms which we were supposed to sign and return. And I'm pretty sure I did so...</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIZsEIk56lGgHbU_ZFXi6TyHnT4gRgaO-1CtkTybWRE6m98YUPj5X4U6KKltXVNqKux-6kA2iA1UP0lWqs9fTZtMHyzlUaTdY5dIKM8cxhWIdKB3SQcRbzDGr_eT7i1U__Y8Fg3gMyJricG9x7idxWSRIoB7wnxA7ybqRlfnEaZVWINLYQh90eKa6c85ov/s3214/2024-01-30_144521%20Loss%20of%20US%20Nationality.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3214" data-original-width="2486" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIZsEIk56lGgHbU_ZFXi6TyHnT4gRgaO-1CtkTybWRE6m98YUPj5X4U6KKltXVNqKux-6kA2iA1UP0lWqs9fTZtMHyzlUaTdY5dIKM8cxhWIdKB3SQcRbzDGr_eT7i1U__Y8Fg3gMyJricG9x7idxWSRIoB7wnxA7ybqRlfnEaZVWINLYQh90eKa6c85ov/w155-h200/2024-01-30_144521%20Loss%20of%20US%20Nationality.jpg" width="155" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p style="text-align: left;">...because in May 1978 I received a "Certificate of Loss of Nationality of the United States". Nowadays both the USA and Australia allow dual citizenship. So my daughter has retained both the US citizenship she inherited by birth, and the Australian citizenship she gained when we were naturalised. Did I care about losing US citizenship? Not in the least. Not then or ever since - though I admit it would have been easier to be a US citizen when I later travelled back and forth to spend time with my ageing parents. I very nearly overstayed the three-month visitor's visa on one occasion.</p><p style="text-align: left;">What surprises me most now is that I'm sometimes treated as if I'm still quasi-American. People who don't know me well - but have some knowledge about my background - will often apologise to me after saying something slightly critical about the United States. Yet I'm probably more critical than anyone about certain US policies and practices - about health care, for example. And don't even mention Trump! I can't help feeling very lucky to be Australian - though that doesn't mean I'm not also critical about some of my adopted country's policies and practices. Take the ongoing incarceration of refugees who arrive illegally by boat. Truth is: there is plenty that needs fixing in both countries. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcueMrtrWiHmnI_648itRQlteg36rRDYiTpYQKKQiiyMrvuGmkH5Lfvwf_hv0g6zgDR9dc90xJAkPIchnImKwLx1rxDtZGoIWQ3y9reHT6LyeQ3QeGI99gU_Ti_zB-ZCiHLFA5lJfA1KHosEymp_JksZUwGfw7jhJTYeO8y62OTa6ZDTSiOeoytphNZfyx/s205/passport2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="205" data-original-width="160" height="205" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcueMrtrWiHmnI_648itRQlteg36rRDYiTpYQKKQiiyMrvuGmkH5Lfvwf_hv0g6zgDR9dc90xJAkPIchnImKwLx1rxDtZGoIWQ3y9reHT6LyeQ3QeGI99gU_Ti_zB-ZCiHLFA5lJfA1KHosEymp_JksZUwGfw7jhJTYeO8y62OTa6ZDTSiOeoytphNZfyx/s1600/passport2.jpg" width="160" /></a></div><p style="text-align: left;">I just happen to think that ours is in so many ways a better environment in which to live and work. Maybe not for everyone - but for a larger percentage of the national population than is the case in the USA. I'm not sure I thought about that in 1976, when we left the States for good. Our reasons for leaving were entirely personal, not social or political. But we must have had some inkling that we could make a better life here. It's now 53 years since I first came to Australia - and 47 years since Zoe and I became citizens. That's what I celebrate on Australia Day! </p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p> </div><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p><br /></p>Chartreusehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05919069110736697400noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2216131219986318633.post-62805744037972323542023-12-17T17:54:00.063+10:002023-12-17T20:21:04.959+10:00John Hazelwood (20/8/1945 - 7/12/2023)<p>Funerals and Christmastime don't make for a good mix. But I'm just back from Brisbane where I had the sad experience of helping to farewell <b>John Hazelwood</b> - my son-in-law Brandon's father, and part of my extended family for almost 20 years.</p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7ldBfOka5Jcuj_xcGwRj2q5mGty21a4p0NmYBnjJF41lS5KyP0xc0Fl2MrOTxtNSq0ZjPrQYMrsNleNztfLHP1ZwuzAEJlbhimNLtuJax95JI3Vr3MDeUV8dPqh1s9T_ah8UW3MPr_ljRVeGkjkvwnQ1hwReB-AEyfmp3Fk1DIC43frjZGu6DIVEeH_wQ/s503/IMG_1098%20re%20edited.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="469" data-original-width="503" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7ldBfOka5Jcuj_xcGwRj2q5mGty21a4p0NmYBnjJF41lS5KyP0xc0Fl2MrOTxtNSq0ZjPrQYMrsNleNztfLHP1ZwuzAEJlbhimNLtuJax95JI3Vr3MDeUV8dPqh1s9T_ah8UW3MPr_ljRVeGkjkvwnQ1hwReB-AEyfmp3Fk1DIC43frjZGu6DIVEeH_wQ/w320-h298/IMG_1098%20re%20edited.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">Hazelwood-Boulanger family (March 2020)</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>In a great speech at their wedding, John told the story of how he met Zoe:</p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p>It was at around 2am one morning and I had just reversed the car and boat into the driveway at home after a thirteen hour trip. I had just been up to North Qld. for a couple of weeks fishing. As I was heading inside to get the keys to open the side gate, the front door opened, “Hi John, I’m Zoe” There in the doorway was this angel. I thought, Oh no I’ve run off the road and killed myself and I am now in heaven. Just then a voice said “Hi Dad”. It was Brandon opening the side gates for me. I quickly came back to earth and thought, Heyyyy Boy you have certainly lifted your game.</p></blockquote><p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY_1awpJ86OihrHcEXIc0MKEJalhyZpmYwf6H-DneYmH9hYMU7k1tvTOqpai9n32XqSoSw13egz6QH9TMxePboctapISNIF8N04ygo6mHNYL3vFZL0YKMeAViJQi4BiqpjlXatYtA6Bs-7LA0TLoNXHqmCXQi41RFwCraU5R7xN_FgzMgxS5qrjGQUfDcU/s2592/IMG_6404%20day%201.JPG" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1944" data-original-width="2592" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY_1awpJ86OihrHcEXIc0MKEJalhyZpmYwf6H-DneYmH9hYMU7k1tvTOqpai9n32XqSoSw13egz6QH9TMxePboctapISNIF8N04ygo6mHNYL3vFZL0YKMeAViJQi4BiqpjlXatYtA6Bs-7LA0TLoNXHqmCXQi41RFwCraU5R7xN_FgzMgxS5qrjGQUfDcU/w200-h150/IMG_6404%20day%201.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #660000; font-size: x-small;">John meets <br />Charlotte Maudie H.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: left;">A few years later, Brandon and Zoe gave us a grandchild: Charlotte Maudie Hazelwood, or Charlie. That middle name 'Maudie' was the name of Brandon's Mum, who had died not long before Brandon and Zoe met. John was deeply touched by their giving Charlie that name. </p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><p style="text-align: left;">From the time Zoe and Brandon met, John and I along with my late husband had become the official family elders at all our family gatherings: Christmases, birthdays, anniversaries etc. It took a while for us to feel comfortable with each other - we had very different backgrounds and life experiences and (I suspect) views about a lot of issues - though we always avoided straying into problem areas out of mutual respect. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhIVzSAAcsdTepEPkHNOymowA81g1TblbzK08YkleAvTrVRJ6q716bqLg5g6NlA5iWsu7TqzidyzLJr68bmsAAEYrQ0yL5LPS7ESqf6N_nZTO2mBDlSb20b7JRlwBAy9jXLyGYTcfSEx_sowhL_HRJOtxsRpB5LDuBqyMHodcuzSneDodm7CpBo7tBN0MR/s2592/IMG_4198.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1944" data-original-width="2592" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhIVzSAAcsdTepEPkHNOymowA81g1TblbzK08YkleAvTrVRJ6q716bqLg5g6NlA5iWsu7TqzidyzLJr68bmsAAEYrQ0yL5LPS7ESqf6N_nZTO2mBDlSb20b7JRlwBAy9jXLyGYTcfSEx_sowhL_HRJOtxsRpB5LDuBqyMHodcuzSneDodm7CpBo7tBN0MR/w320-h240/IMG_4198.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">A Christmas gathering of the Harvey-Boulanger-Hazelwood clan.<br />My stepson Julian (standing next to his father) was celebrant at John's service.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p style="text-align: left;">John's and my friendship deepened when I became a carer - first for my mother, and then more intensively for my late husband. Caring for an ill spouse was something John was all too familiar with.</p><p style="text-align: left;">John was born in August 1945, so he was just six months younger than me - a sobering thought when you go to a funeral. </p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><p style="text-align: left;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRhM-LtP8ahmefqlyRGBRnmH8_BgPEje1biMrhosjAuZnUswW2EIHRQchSJzEpBk-YTIlSxdkH5BNdWgoPid-_BqysHC5A6liGhr1qDGQAqHAEZv17Rsr7cY1qms4-3_VkIwu7RhB61TG42ID10GXqlxfbprTBsKqVvQ93XUulb-jwkpLBE_TowGfeJyQM/s6827/Johnny%2016.jpeg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="6827" data-original-width="4379" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRhM-LtP8ahmefqlyRGBRnmH8_BgPEje1biMrhosjAuZnUswW2EIHRQchSJzEpBk-YTIlSxdkH5BNdWgoPid-_BqysHC5A6liGhr1qDGQAqHAEZv17Rsr7cY1qms4-3_VkIwu7RhB61TG42ID10GXqlxfbprTBsKqVvQ93XUulb-jwkpLBE_TowGfeJyQM/w128-h200/Johnny%2016.jpeg" width="128" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">Sniper Hazelwood</span></td></tr></tbody></table></p><p style="text-align: left;">He was the eldest of four children. His sister Pam and brother Ken still live in New South Wales, where John grew up; another brother Neville died in infancy. John completed an apprenticeship in Sydney as a carpenter/joiner. and played rugby there too. </p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-left: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUKt_ASMBnM5p6W2Tu7931Ug1cq9V-mMVo1nrFDIM0nCNzZc3Ynw7GYw7EzgEhP_mnb7qGPtaYI-ShjsCTK1jIdpwI-zLBg6m3qTXYPyG3NgRGyzIUsuc45pG8nQbAiGFDmD39vX19gRwi0ofLrOqp5AE8RzbIXq3XXKpEaTxXbWEEgih6wrkRgMEBSVy9/s2256/Michae%20(5).JPG" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1413" data-original-width="2256" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUKt_ASMBnM5p6W2Tu7931Ug1cq9V-mMVo1nrFDIM0nCNzZc3Ynw7GYw7EzgEhP_mnb7qGPtaYI-ShjsCTK1jIdpwI-zLBg6m3qTXYPyG3NgRGyzIUsuc45pG8nQbAiGFDmD39vX19gRwi0ofLrOqp5AE8RzbIXq3XXKpEaTxXbWEEgih6wrkRgMEBSVy9/s320/Michae%20(5).JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">John with brother Ken and sister Pam</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>His number turned up in the National Service lottery, but he narrowly avoided going to Vietnam as a sniper. Luckily for him, an eardrum was damaged during the medical so he was discharged.</p><p></p><p></p><p>He had two children - Shayne and Mark - with his first wife Helen, but when that marriage ended he went north and worked on a prawn trailer. Then, b<span style="font-family: inherit;">ack in Sydney, he met Maudie and for a while lived the tough life of a professional fisherman. He
was a one-man operation, towing his boat late at night through Sydney to Pittwater where he would either head up the Hawkesbury River or out to sea. On his return he would drop the fish off at the markets and head home for a well earned sleep.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcJz9IkPbJ3tGeaI6dVX5KB31xzv8QRzGZDf0JA8MkM5Ds84iYDCrNI5QCSyxhrf_itWGGDT0pBYSDo_2umHm7LHg3FAAN8ZURQrXEaXCGAeh7QzqC0aY46iyAO9fJ7O9cU4EFUMqsDkZg6Yz_ZqhpV4p2hFn8qYrR-dudoCbGzvqZ7tpqaAEJwFWEkhLk/s977/John%20memorial%202%204.png" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="977" data-original-width="696" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcJz9IkPbJ3tGeaI6dVX5KB31xzv8QRzGZDf0JA8MkM5Ds84iYDCrNI5QCSyxhrf_itWGGDT0pBYSDo_2umHm7LHg3FAAN8ZURQrXEaXCGAeh7QzqC0aY46iyAO9fJ7O9cU4EFUMqsDkZg6Yz_ZqhpV4p2hFn8qYrR-dudoCbGzvqZ7tpqaAEJwFWEkhLk/w229-h320/John%20memorial%202%204.png" width="229" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">John and Maudie</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In 1977 the couple moved to Queensland, where Maudie had grown up. But even before Brandon was born two years later, she'd had one brain tumour removed. Another was detected while she was pregnant and the operation to remove it left her with cerebral palsy - not an easy diagnosis for a new mother. Maudie lived until 2002 - long enough to see her son into adulthood. But it had been a long, hard road for them all, given the sad effects of brain cancer.</span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXh-eY34PgssRidVr8WzmUnebAF2e_a3rLwFkcusA1P-d74wN7EsPlIciWhizB0_BkXsjeXO7Hy3zP1XkQ9RRV4YhDzpkb_IC39PMz5lwevmcUIcyp51VKenxKbOoS7M-wHIYQBOpi-yCzLdKGzYnZ2cSBE7pX8vQoysbD5xvTSDcw1eqL9w5SCLj40Xoj/s904/DadsBarra2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="609" data-original-width="904" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXh-eY34PgssRidVr8WzmUnebAF2e_a3rLwFkcusA1P-d74wN7EsPlIciWhizB0_BkXsjeXO7Hy3zP1XkQ9RRV4YhDzpkb_IC39PMz5lwevmcUIcyp51VKenxKbOoS7M-wHIYQBOpi-yCzLdKGzYnZ2cSBE7pX8vQoysbD5xvTSDcw1eqL9w5SCLj40Xoj/w320-h216/DadsBarra2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">With a barramundi at one of his Proserpine visits</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p>Throughout his life, fishing was John's anchor point. As Brandon said in John's eulogy, "What he didn't know about fishing wasn't worth knowing." Brandon continued:</p><blockquote>Once he moved up to Queensland and I was born things were a bit more difficult and his boat didn’t leave the driveway again for many years. When I got older his passion for fishing came back and we spent a lot of time fishing together. He joined a group of Barra fisherman up Proserpine way and drove his boat up the highway every year for a number of years to fish their invite-only Barra competition. While he never won, he caught a LOT of large barramundi and was well liked by everyone. His local passion was to chase large Snapper off Redcliffe. He always wanted to crack a metre long; he got close with a cracker at 92cm a few years ago. He had also done a lot of work with Lowrance fishing sounders after retirement and really enjoyed traveling around to the local tackle shops updating their sounders and talking about them on club nights. <br /></blockquote><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7DXRVrVPhCwoeyCQi5XI2xLzAoX62_g2F-VSzq68NS1z7cPkr-EGjT0uEyIqUEU_gaeoSAlGKLq65RGKCs6b9nLBSHHM_KISce5OyhoCFddE87Z4HeV7HmfHuNMeGVZY6Q1H6kBwAsxIhfBapMAnrJ4MA6oFBst0hPgROsn2y-Kb9KBa_L2AUuha_Kqju/s2048/IMG_1869.JPEG" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7DXRVrVPhCwoeyCQi5XI2xLzAoX62_g2F-VSzq68NS1z7cPkr-EGjT0uEyIqUEU_gaeoSAlGKLq65RGKCs6b9nLBSHHM_KISce5OyhoCFddE87Z4HeV7HmfHuNMeGVZY6Q1H6kBwAsxIhfBapMAnrJ4MA6oFBst0hPgROsn2y-Kb9KBa_L2AUuha_Kqju/w200-h150/IMG_1869.JPEG" width="200" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">Dendrobium Pearl Vera</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p style="text-align: left;">John's other passion was native orchids. He built himself a greenhouse larger than his house, where he spent hours repotting and breeding them. He was an Australian Native Orchid judge for many years. And he'd kicked off Queensland's first native orchid society more than 30 years ago. I saw for myself how highly he was regarded in the orchid growing community when I accompanied him to the 30th anniversary celebration of that group last year. He was delighted when the Dendrobium I won in a raffle at that event flowered for me earlier this year.</p><p style="text-align: left;">Without a doubt, though, what brought the most joy into John's life in his last 10 or so years was the time he spent with our grandchild Charlie. He enjoyed regular weekly visits, but he was also happy to babysit anytime - even on short notice. He hadn't lived near enough to his daughter's girls to play the same role in their early lives, so he took full advantage of this late chance to be a hands-on Grandad. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmMTeuEoPWVzmRGzd5HZfULzhrEq6v8Nrxh-oHljEYeaQtO6L06X7Vu5QmUC1hMmDSKL3Zy4FqNFV3uYMjwsvxHn-exU81F9aw8QaoCR1K1e6btCIY6ulMOiLTbAJ_T4l1-PYrI8H-QwjPuyLMlLKvGqODqJVsEed1qUUJTl-b0OMtX57xGxRPJIVr6kQj/s738/charlie.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="738" data-original-width="597" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmMTeuEoPWVzmRGzd5HZfULzhrEq6v8Nrxh-oHljEYeaQtO6L06X7Vu5QmUC1hMmDSKL3Zy4FqNFV3uYMjwsvxHn-exU81F9aw8QaoCR1K1e6btCIY6ulMOiLTbAJ_T4l1-PYrI8H-QwjPuyLMlLKvGqODqJVsEed1qUUJTl-b0OMtX57xGxRPJIVr6kQj/w324-h400/charlie.jpg" width="324" /></a></div><p>When John was admitted to hospital two years ago with an aortic dissection, given his many other health problems he wasn't expected to survive more than a few days. An operation was his only chance, but even in an otherwise healthy person, the average mortality, or risk of death, from repair of an aortic dissection is about 15%. Amazingly, John survived the operation - but he did have several small strokes in the process. And the after-effects of these seriously compromised the quality of his last two years of life. </p><p>John could no longer drive, take his boat out or spend much time in the greenhouse. Perhaps worst of all, his communication skills - both speaking, writing and, to some extent, understanding - were seriously impaired. He found it difficult to accept these limitations but declined the outside help he was entitled to. So for these last two years Brandon became his lifeline. Then on 6 December John went to hospital again where scans showed another dissection - this one inoperable. He died early the next morning, with Brandon and Zoe by his side. </p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-left: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkn8zoWnqWxJ6GYWoSW1LeJURhiiCowIl76GKNBQvXcHZvukO3Jmkz8sRQAuV7LzFMajnajWaHmFG3U72frWsD9UA4j9hOJS4Ce118LyFsBa_MUwGa5X60pN_5GEBLvCaUss8Vkg9ZWII9rDKbuFsmVEAvn_Q4mgobfMJZlMvnjLPCvML6nyhTDIuGWIP2/s1920/IMG_0196.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1920" data-original-width="1440" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkn8zoWnqWxJ6GYWoSW1LeJURhiiCowIl76GKNBQvXcHZvukO3Jmkz8sRQAuV7LzFMajnajWaHmFG3U72frWsD9UA4j9hOJS4Ce118LyFsBa_MUwGa5X60pN_5GEBLvCaUss8Vkg9ZWII9rDKbuFsmVEAvn_Q4mgobfMJZlMvnjLPCvML6nyhTDIuGWIP2/s320/IMG_0196.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">John with daughter Shayne and son Mark</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p style="text-align: left;">John's three children - Mark (from Tasmania), Shayne and her family (from Sydney) and Brandon with Zoe and our family - gave him a warm send-off on 15 December. Also present were some of John's cousins and their families, friends and neighbours, and a number of old fellows representing the fishing and orchid-growing groups he'd been part of. <br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDAHbBfF1nGQO_yNYK4pUt3z3ti3paBRlNDZMSpzc1vCaZ9pOKimvsu-cZHa0_cO2m08NRcWyML2qLq3jax0iTjEijcTdykGLCyuA7M6orBq5_KGH0fR2FiWXWVRiI49vA3bxlULUJxmFjQFp9mGhCWdXU7HAU4z9CX1IDLkKfio4f2g5F4lCv8HFXuCl7/s1598/Hazelwood%20clan.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="912" data-original-width="1598" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDAHbBfF1nGQO_yNYK4pUt3z3ti3paBRlNDZMSpzc1vCaZ9pOKimvsu-cZHa0_cO2m08NRcWyML2qLq3jax0iTjEijcTdykGLCyuA7M6orBq5_KGH0fR2FiWXWVRiI49vA3bxlULUJxmFjQFp9mGhCWdXU7HAU4z9CX1IDLkKfio4f2g5F4lCv8HFXuCl7/w320-h183/Hazelwood%20clan.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">Some of the Hazelwood clan after the service</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: left;">Christmas will be a bit subdued for the Brisbane Hazelwoods this year. And I'll miss the phone calls John and I often had after these gatherings, where we old codgers would help each other to process those aspects of our kids' lives that sometimes baffled us. </p><p style="text-align: left;">Even though we'd lived very different lives, John and I were united in our devotion to the little family our kids had forged. What we had in common far outweighed the differences. It will be lonely being the only representative left of that generation. I will miss him, and the raised eyebrows we shared across the room at times. </p><p style="text-align: left;">So many of the comments posted on Brandon's Facebook page about his Dad echoed how I too would summarise his character: John Hazelwood was a real gentleman. And the other memory I will hold on to is what a great Grandad he was to our Charlie.</p><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dz2xHLiGLSgYk0YZcyQ3LCHFkxHl_Lg8m1bJEmCRoNepoeoT4FLtpKAyUHgm41B3DLjLL84dOToybvL3MKtmQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p>Chartreusehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05919069110736697400noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2216131219986318633.post-45914312156050370832023-11-21T15:58:00.002+10:002023-11-21T16:02:34.292+10:00Methinks...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEGHwjNzbeUuQkScendn7_mf2DQUn0zgVdkL_xCRlLG7rzWUGMWeEABqGpEov4qoWEYTtGl_luTSzH1AkkmDeahyphenhyphenry5bbqNQOWjC7u2Y5btlM6QUYugDWdIaHAwI4ue2jAiQBXnZsNzzLivXhUWTTgVG2-KsxoCGD09B0C_sgDkOinnQQn1zrgHxThopR5/s777/Beauty%20top.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="492" data-original-width="777" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEGHwjNzbeUuQkScendn7_mf2DQUn0zgVdkL_xCRlLG7rzWUGMWeEABqGpEov4qoWEYTtGl_luTSzH1AkkmDeahyphenhyphenry5bbqNQOWjC7u2Y5btlM6QUYugDWdIaHAwI4ue2jAiQBXnZsNzzLivXhUWTTgVG2-KsxoCGD09B0C_sgDkOinnQQn1zrgHxThopR5/w400-h254/Beauty%20top.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><br /><span style="color: #38761d; font-size: medium;">Since beauty is transient...</span></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR_tw5D3W53HZ5K7B3TVJOl5bBCny0bI3_2p6zpeScC9z9aAA1NmiSmuYb0dYf2-jH3ZA45qog0KB9B-Nqkr6gjfkyoalNk1OOXXr_qUVQTzDTJnbClm6Hv2_g7L1vXzGx3vzmL11PRIQeDobb5yZ88N8hMNVoYyAEcoZ5FEIlzLU0xlCzt1O1iVF5hiLp/s778/Beauty%20bottom.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="458" data-original-width="778" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR_tw5D3W53HZ5K7B3TVJOl5bBCny0bI3_2p6zpeScC9z9aAA1NmiSmuYb0dYf2-jH3ZA45qog0KB9B-Nqkr6gjfkyoalNk1OOXXr_qUVQTzDTJnbClm6Hv2_g7L1vXzGx3vzmL11PRIQeDobb5yZ88N8hMNVoYyAEcoZ5FEIlzLU0xlCzt1O1iVF5hiLp/w400-h235/Beauty%20bottom.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><br /><span style="color: #38761d; font-size: medium;">...maybe enjoy it while you can?<br /><br /></span></p>Chartreusehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05919069110736697400noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2216131219986318633.post-72708101023821100622023-11-19T13:38:00.000+10:002023-11-19T13:38:51.088+10:00Pre-posthumous note to my kids<div><br /></div><p style="text-align: left;">Dear Zoe, Julian and Chris:</p><p style="text-align: left;">I guess the 10th anniversary of Dad’s death got me thinking about finality. Then this morning on page 32 of the <i>Sydney Morning Herald</i> I read a frightening article about the spiralling cost of funerals and the whole death business (and it is very big business!). So just for the hell of it, I checked online and was pleased to see that perfectly adequate cardboard coffins are now available at very reasonable prices. </p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHi3a3I2xFmOga8tDjIWkLFU2kT9PGc6fCq9Z8wcKCrU-d584ENDKVptuPna44PD2ZXKu6ep9fBVfwJ62rUJCucUIQLKF3qGYXTx27HVBgThEpiD2uGgv_uFTDVj_GpOfpdwEOOFfsDFOzwVY-TctxLXat-hqLYs2RnrngENNlgrb_9-O3b8bLPorAx-GV/s595/caskets.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="316" data-original-width="595" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHi3a3I2xFmOga8tDjIWkLFU2kT9PGc6fCq9Z8wcKCrU-d584ENDKVptuPna44PD2ZXKu6ep9fBVfwJ62rUJCucUIQLKF3qGYXTx27HVBgThEpiD2uGgv_uFTDVj_GpOfpdwEOOFfsDFOzwVY-TctxLXat-hqLYs2RnrngENNlgrb_9-O3b8bLPorAx-GV/w400-h213/caskets.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p style="text-align: left;">Zoe and Julian, you may remember we asked about that option at the Tewantin funeral home we chose to organise Dad's cremation. The woman who dealt with us there (Remember how she strove to be friendly but elegant at the same time? And how surprised she seemed that we kept sharing little laughs at bits of the interview that we found amusing - or figured Dad would find funny?) - she told us that a cardboard casket would be hideously more expensive than the options she had available! Good to know that things have improved since then. </p><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDG3gb7G3NcHQbbyXluNl7Ctp0XQjVTz6PFrpPGPC3oTGqtzLkwbr3i9NXbfEMR76Afd5dAEWt98XkkEin3y1HnvOzufkvcyvOqRNnMYaxkDe5WsYboyWpY7w9_YoOicw3mTMjZ8t7zovjWSWc3DaN6T0qrMu8fRyTDggddNovQpc1fQiP53CRPMp6v22N/s758/paper%20beads.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="717" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDG3gb7G3NcHQbbyXluNl7Ctp0XQjVTz6PFrpPGPC3oTGqtzLkwbr3i9NXbfEMR76Afd5dAEWt98XkkEin3y1HnvOzufkvcyvOqRNnMYaxkDe5WsYboyWpY7w9_YoOicw3mTMjZ8t7zovjWSWc3DaN6T0qrMu8fRyTDggddNovQpc1fQiP53CRPMp6v22N/w189-h200/paper%20beads.jpg" width="189" /></a></div><p style="text-align: left;">Zoe, then I thought about all the wonderful ways you could decorate either of the above using your expertise on the Cricut printer: flowers, native plants, messages from everyone etc. etc. (I can see a real market there for you in the future, dear, if you decide to ditch the AsPro job*.) Not to mention Brandon's skill in 3D printing. Endless possibilities there for enhancements. And I’m sure Nancy would contribute a garland of her fabulous paper beads to jazz things up (assuming she lasts longer than me and hasn’t gone la-la by then!) </p></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">I can't imagine a more appropriate image to grace the cover of my box than the drawing Charlie made of me 4 or 5 years ago.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4zQcv3P31_k9IGpt4CopK7q58FCca-JDJzGngWSaK9k4ZCUSSNVzVNLpiZ3b2YDhq5F_ng9wSPSqhVd_UhomNiOPhjMYbdrvdWdoUBUvTvHlAK5H7poVo9AK3yMFvFFMC8ElhvIGh9nyL0yzR5fVa3lc_wmXf_p6ZvSV9iFjs88v_TUGQSegIGNqE3YqE/s2324/IMG_2684.JPEG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2324" data-original-width="1732" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4zQcv3P31_k9IGpt4CopK7q58FCca-JDJzGngWSaK9k4ZCUSSNVzVNLpiZ3b2YDhq5F_ng9wSPSqhVd_UhomNiOPhjMYbdrvdWdoUBUvTvHlAK5H7poVo9AK3yMFvFFMC8ElhvIGh9nyL0yzR5fVa3lc_wmXf_p6ZvSV9iFjs88v_TUGQSegIGNqE3YqE/w238-h320/IMG_2684.JPEG" width="238" /></a></div><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"></p><p style="text-align: left;">Just keep all of this in mind because I’d be extremely disappointed if you guys went out and spent thousands of your inheritance on my funeral. (That's assuming there is anything left by the time I shuffle off!) I would much prefer you spent it on a big party to get together all who wanted to help decorate my box – while I waited in the fridge somewhere to be laid inside for the fireworks (maybe wrapped up in the patchwork quilt of my mother’s, which I now use as a bedspread!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just a suggestion!) </p><p style="text-align: left;">That SMH article says you mightn’t even have
to use a funeral parlor! Some states allow you to keep the body at home for up
to 5 days! I don’t suppose I’d fit into your downstairs fridge, but if I did the
smell couldn’t be much worse than the fishing bait Brandon keeps in there. </p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_3zcCORhmBkNLiEWyVS9E9e5WZ5xAjpIZ80e3LykS_YL5dxRcritgS_juP39JPS_Ud5fVrI_fGdg9JWeK198KMpmcb116Ruf0W3jIBixa4YlhUnAN6Qa6Xt0bZeZIMz0Ai3U16Dp0m7ucz2WTtA-vIc4dRPbtPwFXqlZrKLvC37knAmEhmr38AGpUEMqe/s3323/IMG_2683.JPEG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3323" data-original-width="2067" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_3zcCORhmBkNLiEWyVS9E9e5WZ5xAjpIZ80e3LykS_YL5dxRcritgS_juP39JPS_Ud5fVrI_fGdg9JWeK198KMpmcb116Ruf0W3jIBixa4YlhUnAN6Qa6Xt0bZeZIMz0Ai3U16Dp0m7ucz2WTtA-vIc4dRPbtPwFXqlZrKLvC37knAmEhmr38AGpUEMqe/w124-h200/IMG_2683.JPEG" width="124" /></a></p><p style="text-align: left;">Oh, and you’re also
allowed to transport a body around yourself if you so desire – though maybe you'll have a new
car by then and that wouldn’t appeal. I could suggest the Cruiser has carried worse loads. But OK. I'll agree you should fork out for commercial refrigeration and a hearse. </p><p style="text-align: left;">Your loving Mama,<br /><span style="font-family: Lobster;">Chartreuse</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">PS: <o:p> </o:p>Just don’t think I won’t be watching. If you waste my money on funeral frills, be prepared for payback!</p><span style="font-size: x-small;">* Just to explain: My super-achieving daughter was made Associate Professor recently - I guess they figured what little free time she had available in her hectic life really ought not to go unused!<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS60RTxXx-TPlxWsRoaIQ-x94vHUcNBplIC6r4mHS2Pss8PtHAzkBJwH4hc_s7B63fG6Xj-ZxiNEi6un6EWU9YZ_acLIwW6Qy3XdfKzZCh_e-JZNHQhHC_rMER8KPnnmdWuuZ-3Un75SK-TdbD2C3Ko-4lFnPDNUtIHwEa4v7PMIxP5EepPy3nfxAXkP4h/s409/At%20Allen's%20funeral.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="From Dad's 'funeral'" border="0" data-original-height="409" data-original-width="374" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS60RTxXx-TPlxWsRoaIQ-x94vHUcNBplIC6r4mHS2Pss8PtHAzkBJwH4hc_s7B63fG6Xj-ZxiNEi6un6EWU9YZ_acLIwW6Qy3XdfKzZCh_e-JZNHQhHC_rMER8KPnnmdWuuZ-3Un75SK-TdbD2C3Ko-4lFnPDNUtIHwEa4v7PMIxP5EepPy3nfxAXkP4h/w293-h320/At%20Allen's%20funeral.jpg" title="Granma, Charlie and Sam on the Noosa River" width="293" /></a></div><p style="text-align: left;"></p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Granma, Charlie and Sam at Dad's <br />'funeral' breakfast on the Noosa River.</i></div><p></p></div>Chartreusehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05919069110736697400noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2216131219986318633.post-33937772903300524472023-11-18T01:19:00.009+10:002023-11-18T13:42:37.716+10:00Requiem<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRBCVD7TVPiHoafN8-S5ArUkXqL4yJ2YPxNQXUu_G3uiWomjAmZgcX8EtQlUC9Wn6QX87iIHkw5eE16ObUvNbWjBQW_qMl8RYhv0ndC_dYo7_fnvxAiqPrD-OEiz0qZAZ3Fu_yMzHKTO9uUDsbbGyzPARhuhmDojcilvKGrYHp9HxI3ltyBhf48GakGw0u/s1024/In%20Tas%20by%20John%20Stafford%202.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRBCVD7TVPiHoafN8-S5ArUkXqL4yJ2YPxNQXUu_G3uiWomjAmZgcX8EtQlUC9Wn6QX87iIHkw5eE16ObUvNbWjBQW_qMl8RYhv0ndC_dYo7_fnvxAiqPrD-OEiz0qZAZ3Fu_yMzHKTO9uUDsbbGyzPARhuhmDojcilvKGrYHp9HxI3ltyBhf48GakGw0u/w200-h150/In%20Tas%20by%20John%20Stafford%202.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><b>Roland Allen Harvey</b><p></p><b>1929 - 2013<br /></b>"Glad did I live and gladly die,<br />And I laid me down with a will."<br /><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(from 'Requiem' by R.L.Stevenson)</span></i><div><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></i>On a Monday morning 10 years ago today, in a quiet light-filled room in Noosa Hospital my dear husband took his last breath. It was just a gentle inhaling, nothing dramatic, made easier, I suppose, by the morphine meant (officially) to minimise his pain. He simply inhaled. And then he didn't exhale. That was all.<p></p><p>I looked up through the window to see, beyond a covered walkway, a pretty little grove of young ti-trees in an internal garden of the hospital. I'd sat there many times on previous hospitalisations that had ended less sadly. Just at that moment, two of our children came down that walkway. They'd driven up from the city as soon as I'd rung, coming to say their goodbyes. I like to think he waited as long as he could, and let go only once the kids were near enough to give me some comfort. </p><p>We all sat with him for quite a while. Some Mozart played softly - his favourite composer. I don't remember any of us crying too much. By then it was as much relief as loss. It had been a long, slow road - but an inevitable outcome with dementia. And really, we'd been luckier than many. He always knew us, lived at home till his last few days and could call on plenty of memories even as it became more and more difficult to express them.</p><p>Allen had squeezed into his 83 years several lives - including three families he'd created with three different women, all of us eventually becoming and remaining friends. In fact, I don't know anyone who had an unkind word to say about him. And no one whom he disliked enough to do more than make the subject of an amusing story. He had three young adult sons when I met him. But less than a year later, one of them died in a tragic accident. On the day of that funeral, we made a commitment to live the rest of our lives together. Life's too short to hold back, we decided. </p><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq4Fhx3aFmMHem5OmRgt0IizAusqmVOzfBoo-X33FfAMvjmQhyphenhyphenwZJG3m-L7Qq4w0L936Myd8sRlLxDKQmkAleTXCtjTO2SRVyfunVTcfKPSrUawpBQqlmEMsMKe-tLMswoZcEuOmdb0YKn66-_ZFzLVtwV2yqoP7umDCkOYPZc91AnLd8dIrZT4IgRYl3r/s320/23B%20Ralph%20Richardson%20tour.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="259" data-original-width="320" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq4Fhx3aFmMHem5OmRgt0IizAusqmVOzfBoo-X33FfAMvjmQhyphenhyphenwZJG3m-L7Qq4w0L936Myd8sRlLxDKQmkAleTXCtjTO2SRVyfunVTcfKPSrUawpBQqlmEMsMKe-tLMswoZcEuOmdb0YKn66-_ZFzLVtwV2yqoP7umDCkOYPZc91AnLd8dIrZT4IgRYl3r/w320-h259/23B%20Ralph%20Richardson%20tour.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>By the time I met him, Allen had made a living for more than 30 years as a stage manager and then theatre director, working and touring Australia and New Zealand at a time when a life in theatre was an even more precarious profession than it is now. But he redefined himself to follow me around wherever I might work - first becoming an ABC scriptwriter and all-round theatre jobber (actor, director, playwright, theatre manager) in Tasmania, then moving into arts management with the Australian National Choral Association and other groups in Queensland. Coming with me to London on a Fellowship year in the 1990s was an easier assignment - even if the Welsh Choir he accompanied on a European tour (a group destined to travel to Australia the following year) caused a bit of a stir and no end of paperwork when one of the elderly choristers expired while crossing the Channel. <p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuQU68TaOV-UhQGsroGz6VUg_SlUwgvhWNauf6jL8AgpdHOY5OdOyG3gvg7o_mdyR4IZUVonbaFZWeRO7JU2GGNk25-ahtOuFANCwsu4UIUmSh0m724v6YgY3MgqSB6802oC6UGXfminF_ww9z0DNVB5Q0bMwFupdiLdQVK2Oe3bqNpDzChE_6bH47fhkh/s2048/DSCN2031%20Khounkham.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuQU68TaOV-UhQGsroGz6VUg_SlUwgvhWNauf6jL8AgpdHOY5OdOyG3gvg7o_mdyR4IZUVonbaFZWeRO7JU2GGNk25-ahtOuFANCwsu4UIUmSh0m724v6YgY3MgqSB6802oC6UGXfminF_ww9z0DNVB5Q0bMwFupdiLdQVK2Oe3bqNpDzChE_6bH47fhkh/w320-h240/DSCN2031%20Khounkham.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>When I started doing overseas consultancy work on development projects, Allen confidently ran our various households, not only in Queensland but also in the Philippines and Laos for several years each and sometimes from hotel rooms for months at a time. His letters to friends and the stories he wrote about some of his own experiences in these places never failed to amuse - for example, one about a colonoscopy he had in a Manila hospital while lying on a guerney whose wheels kept failing to lock in place. He also had two hospitalisations in Thailand while we lived in Laos, quite enjoying being fussed over by caring nurses and always coming away with great stories. </div><div><br /></div><div>He would accompany me on visits to remote areas in these countries - saying he felt like Prince Philip walking behind the Queen (and sometimes making the kind of indelicate observations that Philip was known for). He once agreed somewhat reluctantly to go along to a cock fight in one place we were visiting because he didn't like to upset my driver who felt that that Allen deserved a break from following me around to meetings. He sometimes took on voluntary work while overseas - helping students at an international school to make a film, or visiting potential suppliers of learning materials to help me evaluate their products and manufacturing processes. All that practical stage management experience came in handy when assessing the quality of different plywoods, for example, to make 2000 boxes that could safely take classroom materials out to remote school sites! <div><br /></div><div>On our return to Australia after one of my assignments, we visited a specialist, thinking Allen may have had a small stroke. But brain scans resulted in a different diagnosis: Primary Progressive Aphasia (PPA), a relatively rare form of dementia. One of Allen's first reactions after some of PPA's early effects were explained to us was to turn to me with a mischievous look I knew too well. "See, it wasn't my fault that I stuffed up the chequebook account, forgot to pay the electricity bill and can't tell left from right!" Our peripatetic lifestyle was now over. We would have to learn to live with dementia. <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijIMgCY2wGHNN7wnHuNOurtaZHJOrgsvftqN432KVqN8nxrvTd8-3UhZi_62kc5eJz7XHMN2-tTmOLPuHyN4RgPnCqjensh5qzX5-axJvL9eRCB1wUXcTQGIK5fSk3bDhXr8KdGIyQYkzWUdNz2A7htNf3NMtednjIse7A_0IgQywjvFwGOiFdVwREoARF/s638/2010%20AAA%20conference%201.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="638" data-original-width="476" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijIMgCY2wGHNN7wnHuNOurtaZHJOrgsvftqN432KVqN8nxrvTd8-3UhZi_62kc5eJz7XHMN2-tTmOLPuHyN4RgPnCqjensh5qzX5-axJvL9eRCB1wUXcTQGIK5fSk3bDhXr8KdGIyQYkzWUdNz2A7htNf3NMtednjIse7A_0IgQywjvFwGOiFdVwREoARF/w238-h320/2010%20AAA%20conference%201.jpg" width="238" /></a></div>And I think we did it very well in the years we had left. How we dealt with it, how it dealt with us and what I learned through it all - that's what I set out to share when I began this blog in August 2009. In 2010, Allen was even a guest presenter at the National Conference of the Australian Aphasia Association in Sydney. His progressive form of this brain disorder was not well known even to most of the speech and occupational therapists who made up most of the audience. By then he could barely string words together coherently in casual speech, but he could still write himself a script and read from it almost perfectly - due in part to different areas of his brain being differently affected, but also to all those years of theatre experience! My only task as his assistant was to show the slides that he'd selected to accompany his story (<a href="https://doonandiddlysquat.blogspot.com/2010/10/my-life-in-theatre-and-afterwards.html" target="_blank">My Life in the Theatre...and Afterwards</a>).</div><div><p></p><p>Learning to live meaningfully without Allen has been much harder for me than being his caregiver was in his final years. But even though he's not here to share the rest of my life, I'll be better able to deal with whatever life throws at me because of what I learned from how he lived his. </p><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1944" data-original-width="2592" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqT6w2mHg8XZOkvzBXqNthpLkpml1hWjMYE-L9SqWX_eeFubyNWzH_tYffOrdxxygF5hFijHWBzPlA8LujPbTgzgn5dQggwqXv4sHvhmRIHhZBE-_Ye5hv7OjcmMOLGYc4qHweTaEoWlveEM3Fu234PWtThdRIQLDOlRfFyXrGeYuUMq0brMx1F46MhVHi/w400-h300/IMG_8217.JPG" width="400" /></div></div></div></div>Chartreusehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05919069110736697400noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2216131219986318633.post-44878571153877264192023-11-17T19:39:00.000+10:002023-11-17T19:39:41.246+10:00Red-rimmed trainers<p><i>I wrote this piece not long </i><i>after my husband died.<br /></i><i>Hard to believe, tomorrow it will be 10 years.</i></p><p>I walk in your shoes<br />The red-rimmed trainers we bought for rehab.<br />Your physio noticed and smiled.<br />Your doctor too.<br />Not the shoes you’d expect an 80-year-old to choose.<br />And maybe you didn’t.<br />But comfort comes before style <br />When a body’s been through hell.</p><p>Four years on they’re still like new<br />You were always easy on clothes, shoes<br />And people. You wore them all lightly,<br />Your presence never heavy.<br />I loved his feet, your ex once said,<br />The most beautiful feet of any man I knew.<br />The toes curled up in conversations<br />Of which there once were so many.</p><p>The children came and helped clean out<br />The cupboards just days afterwards.<br />Perhaps too soon, but later it would<br />Have been too hard to discard<br />All the folds of a long and lazy ending.<br />A grandson adopted your wardrobe<br />And when I hug his six-foot frame<br />I have your shirt in my arms again.</p><p>It takes my breath away to see you<br />Standing there in him<br />As if you don’t want to leave us<br />Any more than we wanted you to go.</p><p>But you did want to go.<br />Die, die, the only words<br />You could sometimes find<br />And then, soon after, sorry, sorry.<br />Still trying with what little you had left<br />Not to give pain, or make a fuss.<br />So we let you go and a whiff of smoke<br />Rose up into the blue Noosa sky</p><p>And now I wear your shoes<br />Our feet, like our minds, the same size.<br />A joke,when different coloured slip-ons<br />Were how we knew whose feet wore what.<br />Now only my feet are left<br />To slip on the red-rimmed trainers.<br />And I’m walking again with you<br />My body in step with yours forever.</p>Chartreusehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05919069110736697400noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2216131219986318633.post-8949522040572874012023-11-04T19:20:00.011+10:002023-11-04T19:29:26.493+10:00The First 20 or so Things That I Love as They Occur to Me in the MomentA blog-friend I recently rediscovered after my 10-year absence from posting gave me the idea for this post. I'd say he's about my age, and his occasional posts on this same theme always begin: "Peggy, my wife of 51-years" - or whatever the current tally of years might be.<div> <div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVZm3V8sf3gEd_M7LBZrxlopcnP-xB-gZ0wLhhTEGwsNrwVvHhiUibAcNsVMiMnKkx-3-seOXonCavRze6TRmMusuDIz62tp8ruLQrlRPLISLwdLpOWLq1E4gdKVBMbD7JQgpkK4OLDSjXYvNOkzJEZHP_W2k2nW0fbmYTH19AHD4pDpeWgBixkceazKYr/s640/DSCN2692.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVZm3V8sf3gEd_M7LBZrxlopcnP-xB-gZ0wLhhTEGwsNrwVvHhiUibAcNsVMiMnKkx-3-seOXonCavRze6TRmMusuDIz62tp8ruLQrlRPLISLwdLpOWLq1E4gdKVBMbD7JQgpkK4OLDSjXYvNOkzJEZHP_W2k2nW0fbmYTH19AHD4pDpeWgBixkceazKYr/w200-h150/DSCN2692.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><div>I wish I could do likewise, and then my list would begin: "Allen, my partner-then-husband of 45 years". Alas, it will soon be 10 years since Allen died, so our partnership only made it to 35 years. Even so, he deserves a mention here, because no list of Things I Love is complete without at least a glance back at Things I Have Loved.</div><div><br /></div><div>But as they occur to me in the moment, the First 20 Things That I Love (now):</div><div><ol><li>Living in Australia, not the USA, and feeling in my bones that I'm more Australian than not.</li><li>Being free to live each day as I please and being able to do (or not do) whatever I feel like doing on most days.</li><li>Having my daughter and her family near enough to visit regularly and feeling I'm always welcome when I do visit.</li><li>Daily texts or phone calls with my sister who's on the same wavelength about so many things and knowing we can share our woes as well as joys without being judged.</li><li><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTIeAavBbdHBrUL4jVuxd3goXgFScWeODNXYjOVCsggJ1OqJ6beSS7hyFwqmc8L6zrzugoSpVLmei1YtArW43xoqTkUvNNZzlfuD3wbGyNPryyVpStaiiSPC_EkDtfQUhcwoapAE30lOFyfuRTnbVxULLlO2xOq192X3ngevHnbvnTc2fL9_GR7IQaIx5s/s2048/IMG_3172%20(1).jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTIeAavBbdHBrUL4jVuxd3goXgFScWeODNXYjOVCsggJ1OqJ6beSS7hyFwqmc8L6zrzugoSpVLmei1YtArW43xoqTkUvNNZzlfuD3wbGyNPryyVpStaiiSPC_EkDtfQUhcwoapAE30lOFyfuRTnbVxULLlO2xOq192X3ngevHnbvnTc2fL9_GR7IQaIx5s/w200-h150/IMG_3172%20(1).jpeg" width="200" /></a></div>The blousy white hydrangea that's flowering right now in my garden, reminding me that Spring has arrived and there'll be weeks of blue hydrangeas to follow.<br /></li><li>The little brown honeyeaters and double-barred finches I can see from my desk, as they take turns to bathe in the bird bath.</li><li>Rays of afternoon sunshine lighting up the top of the hedge along one side of my yard.</li><li>Being fit enough to maintain my house and garden to a satisfactory standard and, when necessary, being able to afford the services and products I need to keep things ticking over.</li><li>Cooking interesting food - and then eating it - sometimes with friends to share it with.</li><li>Reading good books - especially newly published ones - and sharing this pleasure with....</li><li>...the lovely people in my book club - their kindness, generosity, intelligence and the fact that none of them are right-wingers or nutbags!</li><li><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5JXpngefuhitVGWwCJ_6TGvHUU75Fv3FMbPL6zzOryrk49BeuvNsSoTKTsyBetkrl-76MK41XfzGeOA5g_FtsOTqCHpMI63Z_b-iLtzDabhbPMJ7VS_K5NKWk5Gg_i5jNfkrP2FpsXlnqtPtsnvt9qWp1Ig-Me_vvlJfJtPcY197cD324KeyrD1huofnj/s640/DSCN2701.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5JXpngefuhitVGWwCJ_6TGvHUU75Fv3FMbPL6zzOryrk49BeuvNsSoTKTsyBetkrl-76MK41XfzGeOA5g_FtsOTqCHpMI63Z_b-iLtzDabhbPMJ7VS_K5NKWk5Gg_i5jNfkrP2FpsXlnqtPtsnvt9qWp1Ig-Me_vvlJfJtPcY197cD324KeyrD1huofnj/w200-h150/DSCN2701.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>A nicely cleaned house after I've finished a really good round of housework.</li><li>The wonderful opportunities I've had to do interesting development work in several countries.</li><li>Writing a few good sentences now and then - and sometimes sharing a piece of writing here or elsewhere.</li><li>Visits by family members and old friends - though I only wish more of them were closer and could visit more often.</li><li><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXqKSl0ABA68xa4jKZ8BHAOicW7-D76uve0V677GN9As1DlPrYkajqcej9CgGERF3g3WASu19SEiBe4P08SmHoRbijx8djH6SblKTBYzjJoSWsjgEKeQ_uThlGxoXJrEmAL85zWlTP66i0EmryVPD5KwhPnieQRdj78lyo-18KSt-tuO5DJygg4Igfa10H/s960/65057808_10217591451671596_7938546808072962048_n.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXqKSl0ABA68xa4jKZ8BHAOicW7-D76uve0V677GN9As1DlPrYkajqcej9CgGERF3g3WASu19SEiBe4P08SmHoRbijx8djH6SblKTBYzjJoSWsjgEKeQ_uThlGxoXJrEmAL85zWlTP66i0EmryVPD5KwhPnieQRdj78lyo-18KSt-tuO5DJygg4Igfa10H/w200-h150/65057808_10217591451671596_7938546808072962048_n.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>All my gardening activities - turning over the vegie patch, planting, composting, pruning, harvesting, repotting, pulling on my Redback boots and just getting dirty and sweaty.<br /></li><li>Knowing I don't have to worry about possible future medical bills or access to medical care because I have access to government-subsidised medical and pharmaceutical services as well as affordable private insurance for extras.</li><li>Being cancer-free 23 years after breast cancer. </li><li>Having nice neighbours who agree we will look out for each other but without being too nosy.</li><li>Having a green outlook over the back fence, with beautiful trees, bushes and an adjacent wetland that I don't have to maintain.</li></ol><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwKjirbmrBzO6FP7SgwluhbJtr3aRNd00ljRmkmGwWl4swBcqUdqgDMuOlhiLsiVzSK34uUv8wpuPgkb4t1K2LOfpJ6zkTYAwhRaBjieUI-CA0LNbiU2I_4zVYHH57YHES2XQw59QYhHikF9AqxOq2BRkYW6kXpEre1PCUEfS3mXn-EMq5VDJZK26Pgh3h/s2048/IMG_3070.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwKjirbmrBzO6FP7SgwluhbJtr3aRNd00ljRmkmGwWl4swBcqUdqgDMuOlhiLsiVzSK34uUv8wpuPgkb4t1K2LOfpJ6zkTYAwhRaBjieUI-CA0LNbiU2I_4zVYHH57YHES2XQw59QYhHikF9AqxOq2BRkYW6kXpEre1PCUEfS3mXn-EMq5VDJZK26Pgh3h/w400-h300/IMG_3070.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>Postscript: I can't end this list without mentioning my dearest A.B-M. (You know who you are!)</div></div><br /></div></div><div><br /></div>Chartreusehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05919069110736697400noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2216131219986318633.post-65771577130184132062023-11-03T18:25:00.000+10:002023-11-03T18:25:56.594+10:00Queen of the night<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0KfAqsPfxbVXNX8SnGXMR9hJX4qRZESxXKjuOy7r0UcivFovzrCu_AVf-aa7lgmyfL81md00WfvCXjfKpaILfNPIdviU5AJNqFswIL8jKxZAnsAPnTvHtgeixAq7XBcj-MVyHeWbO1sw4JO6KhCNTwMRM0RZTvT0h2xsIm7ohfkxtwAEhMGydHSZsIGug/s2048/IMG_3081.JPEG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0KfAqsPfxbVXNX8SnGXMR9hJX4qRZESxXKjuOy7r0UcivFovzrCu_AVf-aa7lgmyfL81md00WfvCXjfKpaILfNPIdviU5AJNqFswIL8jKxZAnsAPnTvHtgeixAq7XBcj-MVyHeWbO1sw4JO6KhCNTwMRM0RZTvT0h2xsIm7ohfkxtwAEhMGydHSZsIGug/w300-h400/IMG_3081.JPEG" width="300" /></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div>My cactus orchid (Epiphyllum oxypetalum) seems to be happy in this warm, north-facing spot. It's well protected from midday sun by a pergola that's currently overloaded with the fading purple flowers of a sandpaper vine (Petrea volubilis). But though it's hung here through several seasons, until last night I'd never actually seen the cactus orchid's flowers open. I've only seen the long ivory-coloured buds turn to dead flowers (see the top ones) and later bulb-like fruits emerge (green at first, turning to red later). <p></p><p>The reason why, of course, is because the flowers open at night - Queen of the Night is another name for the plant. So if I wanted to see this plant's night-blooming flowers, I'd have to get out there in the dark. And sure enough, last night over the course of just a few hours from sundown to bedtime, the funnel-shaped flowers emerged and fully extended their petals and other parts toward the moon. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcZVfgHz4n1b7t2Bne5h01ycbCdFrhTODQSU73nwSVVwalLUyXE7KGxd-tf7iFG54oNK_IeZOSOIVIStdVajeKqgRr9HI-eF_pLIMrl6Er7Vg5HppOJrvke4tpHsP6qt6E_z2iKpT528hhx0cA2QkuRFfH-AJFmPAWdrUpivxQscjhLwBD8U19YezpoTFP/s615/Cactus%20orchid%20(Epiphyllum%20oxypetalum).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="615" data-original-width="474" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcZVfgHz4n1b7t2Bne5h01ycbCdFrhTODQSU73nwSVVwalLUyXE7KGxd-tf7iFG54oNK_IeZOSOIVIStdVajeKqgRr9HI-eF_pLIMrl6Er7Vg5HppOJrvke4tpHsP6qt6E_z2iKpT528hhx0cA2QkuRFfH-AJFmPAWdrUpivxQscjhLwBD8U19YezpoTFP/w309-h400/Cactus%20orchid%20(Epiphyllum%20oxypetalum).jpg" width="309" /></a></div><p>Alas, the sweet smell and glowing ivory colour is probably all in vain. Whatever insect, bat or other creature it would have appealed to in its Central American homeland isn't hanging around here in south-east Queensland. I don't know how long it stayed open, but by morning the flowers had closed. At least I got to enjoy them for once.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEb0bC57I_vDmx6lmUBZnj-MzvqFG8Lx3gRuc99bVhxwsxBHnMDGflJ_JUHlBqFGqt8aaiUAJI_uzofMMn7ZICBFTDdmexUYpcGPM9BtHXZkWgbb-3wEBvUE82MuPA2YudvCio8fMUF3QE4qRvbRChJREWpYEOlZ6fXUWTSI6b6QTQmPThD1u4G385HsDq/s2048/IMG_3161.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEb0bC57I_vDmx6lmUBZnj-MzvqFG8Lx3gRuc99bVhxwsxBHnMDGflJ_JUHlBqFGqt8aaiUAJI_uzofMMn7ZICBFTDdmexUYpcGPM9BtHXZkWgbb-3wEBvUE82MuPA2YudvCio8fMUF3QE4qRvbRChJREWpYEOlZ6fXUWTSI6b6QTQmPThD1u4G385HsDq/w300-h400/IMG_3161.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Chartreusehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05919069110736697400noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2216131219986318633.post-33516895665790080532023-10-28T11:28:00.002+10:002023-11-02T13:23:34.995+10:002023 Brisbane Portrait Prize<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj09UV-Zt0kXnfXbMdcNmBiCQKg9hm2Z0A0mKnD3T2w49Mm7_6_8QfrsIf9EKHtkvetiICvMJDViDqrfcWIDwsSm3Rdw-fgq9oBpQAp-SfZA2xi_FvYT-DGb2d1R6TuafcMC04P57EQ9YFnthxK_CEOZri_vKViMefE5ECs1xLG035-0yGckeLVUbcLkBiq/s1992/IMG_3045.JPEG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1992" data-original-width="1439" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj09UV-Zt0kXnfXbMdcNmBiCQKg9hm2Z0A0mKnD3T2w49Mm7_6_8QfrsIf9EKHtkvetiICvMJDViDqrfcWIDwsSm3Rdw-fgq9oBpQAp-SfZA2xi_FvYT-DGb2d1R6TuafcMC04P57EQ9YFnthxK_CEOZri_vKViMefE5ECs1xLG035-0yGckeLVUbcLkBiq/w289-h400/IMG_3045.JPEG" width="289" /></a></div><br />While in Brisbane on the weekend, I visited the Powerhouse to see the exhibition of finalists in the <a href="https://brisbaneportraitprize.org/">2023 Brisbane Portrait Prize</a>. <p></p><p>This year's exhibition included 70 finalists in the Main Competition and 14 Next Gen entries. Any artist with a connection to Brisbane is eligible to enter. The sitter must also have a connection with Brisbane. In 2023, prizes totalled $90,000.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeq19Id6wlWFNRZFYu_5Pvwv-4PpPEjyZLL0Qe45VxzhxpI3Huf4IhnkWniEs5pJ1kq1vMn1UOBedAX-CHTlMKobFGho6z8GJUa-2KMg-7bgC-olWqn7s3msk79-801qQKQAbRU25zxWGFaQisfZ-AI3dc2_MksWt6RRU034Qr23qz3iAfQCrDDSImQ_67/s2314/IMG_3045%20data.JPEG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2314" data-original-width="1358" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeq19Id6wlWFNRZFYu_5Pvwv-4PpPEjyZLL0Qe45VxzhxpI3Huf4IhnkWniEs5pJ1kq1vMn1UOBedAX-CHTlMKobFGho6z8GJUa-2KMg-7bgC-olWqn7s3msk79-801qQKQAbRU25zxWGFaQisfZ-AI3dc2_MksWt6RRU034Qr23qz3iAfQCrDDSImQ_67/w189-h320/IMG_3045%20data.JPEG" width="189" /></a></div>Entries included both conventional painting and digitally produced work - the Brisbane Portrait Prize website has all the details. And there's a full gallery of finalists online too. I loved the documentation posted with each portrait, which made my viewing a richer experience. Here's an example: the label that accompanies the portrait above - "Brothers", a digital artwork by Marco Eychenne. All of this information is also available online for each of the finalists,<p></p><p>I don't pretend to have any expertise in judging art. But I was blown away by the quality and variety in this exhibition. The friends I was with considered this selection as exciting as the recent show they'd visited celebrating 100 years of the Archibald Prize. I suspect this has something to do with vitality - there were quite a few works by young artists here, as well as many that had also been Archibald finalists themselves.</p><p>Anyone wanting to see the exhibition will have to be quick, as tomorrow's the last day (29 October). </p>Chartreusehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05919069110736697400noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2216131219986318633.post-14655495617151524672023-10-26T15:15:00.008+10:002023-10-31T10:34:39.691+10:00Springtime puffs of white<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaB55GWL6YAdrd4uw3oCYsYtIzXrz4A7AQ-yiHKQVkpd_bdY3L5nnycMWV5EvVOmFXFRO-y72Oo0P2ma_2O-Zv0OsoTOwTV50QoYjgX5m8dSIXMBUxiA8ELwvgY4okGVYeFoQYhkSsYMjxkJndDBUnLRLvV97qqyfACOgrJ9T2Po1FoR5LkfG-5sS5S0Xy/s2048/IMG_3067.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaB55GWL6YAdrd4uw3oCYsYtIzXrz4A7AQ-yiHKQVkpd_bdY3L5nnycMWV5EvVOmFXFRO-y72Oo0P2ma_2O-Zv0OsoTOwTV50QoYjgX5m8dSIXMBUxiA8ELwvgY4okGVYeFoQYhkSsYMjxkJndDBUnLRLvV97qqyfACOgrJ9T2Po1FoR5LkfG-5sS5S0Xy/w400-h300/IMG_3067.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>This white hydrangea is always the first hydrangea to come into flower in Spring. My garden has more than a dozen beautiful hydrangeas, but only one that is white. When I bought the house it was midwinter and these plants had been given their winter trim so they were not much to look at. I actually thought I might remove them once I'd moved in, since I associate them with cool climates and don't usually grow anything that I think is wrong for this climate. For example, I know I'd never be able to grow them as beautifully as I did in Tasmania. </div><div><br /></div><div>Luckily, I didn't move into this house until early summer, months later, because I went overseas on assignment right after I signed the contract. When I finally did move in, I was blown away by the beauty of the hydrangeas in full flower. Most of them are planted along a south-facing wall, and get no sun at all in the hottest months and only weak morning sun in winter. They are also planted up close to the house, and the roof's overhanging eaves shelter them from getting too drenched in our tropical summer downpours. Hydrangeas don't like hot sun or wet feet and mine are protected from both. </div><div><br /></div><div>Among the predominantly blue hydrangeas, few of which are yet in bloom, I have this one white-flowering one. I don't know if it flowers first because it's white or because it happens to get an hour or two of sun - the only hydrangea that does in Spring. </div><div><br /></div><div>White hydrangeas, as any gardener knows, always stay white. And they're prized for that, so my Garden Club friends are always pleased to get cuttings when I prune. Blue-flowering plants, on the other hand, will be blue, pink or some mixture of both, including shades of mauve, depending on soil ph. Red or pink blooms result from neutral or basic soil (pH 7 and above), whereas blue blooms indicate acidic soil condition (pH less than 7). Apparently the color is not determined by the pH itself, but by the amount of aluminium a plant can access in the soil - and that is what is determined by pH and phosphorus levels. </div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA71pGsnBgcC0VALIIPJATH9MLfJvBScfVSlVMiaBiKbShVCCCB5XlZUreJGRbArWd-tzvpdD3O7FO725A5vyiXQ7qmmUzRlnQbCnR0wXgL2RroDcdQZre8C9O8DrnPpD1OUZdbeHQOaw0qvDfS_o6YOKFSuuC3R-CXYGO66A8YpdBI43gd-l9F72GTg3Q/s2048/IMG_0917.JPEG" style="clear: right; display: block; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA71pGsnBgcC0VALIIPJATH9MLfJvBScfVSlVMiaBiKbShVCCCB5XlZUreJGRbArWd-tzvpdD3O7FO725A5vyiXQ7qmmUzRlnQbCnR0wXgL2RroDcdQZre8C9O8DrnPpD1OUZdbeHQOaw0qvDfS_o6YOKFSuuC3R-CXYGO66A8YpdBI43gd-l9F72GTg3Q/s320/IMG_0917.JPEG" /></a></div>In one of my first years here, my grand-child and I tried an experiment. My hydrangeas then were mainly blue (except for the white one, of course.) So Charlie and I gave every second blue-flowering plant a good dose of garden lime. That should have produced pink flowers. It wasn't a great success in the that year, but ever since then I have had a nice variety of colours, including different shades of blue and some mauve streaks. </div><div><br /></div><div>I like the blue ones best, though, so this year I'm going to give them a liquid fertiliser called Hydrangea Blue (which probably contains aluminium sulfate). That's on my shopping list for the next visit to Bunnings! However, I've already given them all a good dose of mushroom compost, which I suspect is a bit acidic. So anything could happen. </div><div><br /></div><div>These photos show the hydrangeas some years ago, before we tried making some turn pink. The two close-up photos feature a few of our pink results a couple of years later. It will be interesting to see what turns up this year!</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgccjNjVfIlCbIjD8F31Jz1_9rB_2C1GAkqa-tvpLlnS4YeoHPB-rnKz1pWisy91fbCaVn4OX0Gxp9wAv0y8GdZ1LN7BS2PPr8t7ZntxKGDBMpuyvNbkkHjXhmNqwGu3uV_c5kpbcWCc2YC0ylLyZhPg-_wlW8-GNDQj0EBJr91Bb85Nw6PTEJJ_VfH9OoK/s2048/IMG_0831.jpeg" style="clear: left; display: inline; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="303" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgccjNjVfIlCbIjD8F31Jz1_9rB_2C1GAkqa-tvpLlnS4YeoHPB-rnKz1pWisy91fbCaVn4OX0Gxp9wAv0y8GdZ1LN7BS2PPr8t7ZntxKGDBMpuyvNbkkHjXhmNqwGu3uV_c5kpbcWCc2YC0ylLyZhPg-_wlW8-GNDQj0EBJr91Bb85Nw6PTEJJ_VfH9OoK/w404-h303/IMG_0831.jpeg" width="404" /></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicyb4fQH9GXaSV2blDfldr7WZLpqisgB6Omo8ea9AzEMvLgXEwy7kkhzHVwW_acRJ71RwfGLy65ehyZz-hbs8ZCNfjpT2ogrXVsFZQsl1KTsVTzGSKtbA9tlaw0qWtu7ODf1OqI0TxyQ3et0jQ1L4cixY7CmfnL7IWcA4RW2FQH6lGLRVUEow7KBixXn-2/s2048/IMG_1981.jpeg" style="clear: right; display: block; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicyb4fQH9GXaSV2blDfldr7WZLpqisgB6Omo8ea9AzEMvLgXEwy7kkhzHVwW_acRJ71RwfGLy65ehyZz-hbs8ZCNfjpT2ogrXVsFZQsl1KTsVTzGSKtbA9tlaw0qWtu7ODf1OqI0TxyQ3et0jQ1L4cixY7CmfnL7IWcA4RW2FQH6lGLRVUEow7KBixXn-2/w195-h260/IMG_1981.jpeg" width="195" /></a></div><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="1592" data-original-width="1133" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-1VSsUMV8rdKB2CxFMtf7KSbd9DE5p-AMitIaZ8MLS4BF_LSgpAd3Gdmv-P1mIUy-qWMBgdHhy4spJ9T14WSQ5D_6LmeQ0Y6p2IiXdn-gU7GXYTY7S5sYMdVrfPxCAq2xMv4B6F8Km2eUwC-o-38blv_KFEE6CzGhykzoDKmjxmHbUWUU-YGWr9s2odkb/w185-h259/IMG_6569.JPEG" width="185" /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-1VSsUMV8rdKB2CxFMtf7KSbd9DE5p-AMitIaZ8MLS4BF_LSgpAd3Gdmv-P1mIUy-qWMBgdHhy4spJ9T14WSQ5D_6LmeQ0Y6p2IiXdn-gU7GXYTY7S5sYMdVrfPxCAq2xMv4B6F8Km2eUwC-o-38blv_KFEE6CzGhykzoDKmjxmHbUWUU-YGWr9s2odkb/s1592/IMG_6569.JPEG" style="clear: left; display: block; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-1VSsUMV8rdKB2CxFMtf7KSbd9DE5p-AMitIaZ8MLS4BF_LSgpAd3Gdmv-P1mIUy-qWMBgdHhy4spJ9T14WSQ5D_6LmeQ0Y6p2IiXdn-gU7GXYTY7S5sYMdVrfPxCAq2xMv4B6F8Km2eUwC-o-38blv_KFEE6CzGhykzoDKmjxmHbUWUU-YGWr9s2odkb/s1592/IMG_6569.JPEG" style="clear: left; display: block; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"></a></div></div></div>Chartreusehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05919069110736697400noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2216131219986318633.post-41591858342873169892023-10-25T17:40:00.036+10:002023-10-27T10:12:38.251+10:00I did it (but it almost did me!)<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4DzeYeMwU3y8rz5u_wIV5jhgktnWaWAnLksKbq6ydW9WSk0m6zGr7zw6i3CGhcuv1ncC2ESQNmUKT9ehjws64CCFNKva7NaccLcUj0roPFAzkmU6SDtB8C5bCHgLEZQP_yYB3TFkru8MplskhkhZSDUL1Rw4fyZDUH4jKYYQ32K-7Lai2EavrhiykLf2d/s2048/IMG_2338.JPEG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4DzeYeMwU3y8rz5u_wIV5jhgktnWaWAnLksKbq6ydW9WSk0m6zGr7zw6i3CGhcuv1ncC2ESQNmUKT9ehjws64CCFNKva7NaccLcUj0roPFAzkmU6SDtB8C5bCHgLEZQP_yYB3TFkru8MplskhkhZSDUL1Rw4fyZDUH4jKYYQ32K-7Lai2EavrhiykLf2d/w150-h200/IMG_2338.JPEG" width="150" /></a></div>Here's where my troubles began! Well, recent back troubles anyway. I should have tried harder to find someone to take on the job of moving aside all the little stones covering this messy parking space alongside my garage. Previous owners used it to park their caravan; I used to keep my trailer there before I gave it away. For the past few years the car-size space has just been a throughway from the front of the house to the back garden - not used for much except a few pots of plants. <p></p><p>The whole area consisted of river gravel laid down over sheets of black plastic. Trouble is, the layer of stones wasn't thick enough to prevent the weathering of the plastic, which had never been secured to the ground beneath. Round stones never settle on slippery plastic. And dirt from areas where the plastic lifted had mixed with stones - it was an unsightly mess. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLXrLY2BR-V0aQA_rZHF2rCDnUrSuMjiNX60vLvLWeIWtaLXA6lgTLbDMwE-golby-pUw__QEOf0b3sASAIyOYp8FNmmfXuQCCSd6jbc2JNY5E-bomaqcXJwvtV-RoGtP2NrXdtXhiE0QE_OkNvFLByIu0Lpo0MChfpMU_OydcI11xz0gEz2N30lox-2Me/s2048/IMG_2557.JPEG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLXrLY2BR-V0aQA_rZHF2rCDnUrSuMjiNX60vLvLWeIWtaLXA6lgTLbDMwE-golby-pUw__QEOf0b3sASAIyOYp8FNmmfXuQCCSd6jbc2JNY5E-bomaqcXJwvtV-RoGtP2NrXdtXhiE0QE_OkNvFLByIu0Lpo0MChfpMU_OydcI11xz0gEz2N30lox-2Me/w150-h200/IMG_2557.JPEG" width="150" /></a></div>The only solution: move aside the stones, rip up the old plastic piece by piece, lay down and fasten in place proper weed matting, then clean the stones of accumulated dirt and put them down over the new matting, maybe topping up with extra stones to make a good thick covering.<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8as9S_8Z1D5Slu0wn6mma9fKSB06ov7jhYQH_rWSOpUL_LVYtz1HInKzDqHqEiCzQJ3NipJkwS-YlFaWYobThUeij6ToIxwi7tzZX2F7s6BrTfSArhEz3s8aSxzm5u7BdsmF5ohK3YN3i_LA6caITeNDGj5Ss1yeT0mkSQNN6ArAT5FNsH4D4iUHFIUBq/s1802/IMG_2646.JPEG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1744" data-original-width="1802" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8as9S_8Z1D5Slu0wn6mma9fKSB06ov7jhYQH_rWSOpUL_LVYtz1HInKzDqHqEiCzQJ3NipJkwS-YlFaWYobThUeij6ToIxwi7tzZX2F7s6BrTfSArhEz3s8aSxzm5u7BdsmF5ohK3YN3i_LA6caITeNDGj5Ss1yeT0mkSQNN6ArAT5FNsH4D4iUHFIUBq/w200-h194/IMG_2646.JPEG" width="200" /></a>I thought about leaving some areas of soil exposed for planting ground cover plants, since I don't use this area for vehicles. And on the very rare occasion when I might need to let a service vehicle through to the back yard for some reason, it's easy enough to dodge ground covers (or move pots). But as soon as I began the work, I realised that the whole area has a vigorous set of roots criss-crossing the ground, coming from the neighbour's very healthy row of small trees planted as a hedge along the fenceline on his side. So rather than compete with all the roots, it made sense to create a weed-free surface and plant things in large pots here and there. (The neighbour and I did remove the largest of these surface roots though, and so far at least his hedge plants haven't seemed to mind.)<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8as9S_8Z1D5Slu0wn6mma9fKSB06ov7jhYQH_rWSOpUL_LVYtz1HInKzDqHqEiCzQJ3NipJkwS-YlFaWYobThUeij6ToIxwi7tzZX2F7s6BrTfSArhEz3s8aSxzm5u7BdsmF5ohK3YN3i_LA6caITeNDGj5Ss1yeT0mkSQNN6ArAT5FNsH4D4iUHFIUBq/s1802/IMG_2646.JPEG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8o6HE8EqIrHkkvcj1bJ6k0CI42rDylNXVjTViQ7Opezwr3xu0KDA0UvzLWABg9hOe7NW_VIHKeSr6cQAwSDQlTx4vG_KQuHiwK8GYnesSGquIFjpt4b-wlJR4PQTMZ2hneaxyeirQ6CwWNESrxL-zn4xeJQdCzhqr4dULimg83QdftXmBbggjzFFpEWLU/s2048/IMG_2694.JPEG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8o6HE8EqIrHkkvcj1bJ6k0CI42rDylNXVjTViQ7Opezwr3xu0KDA0UvzLWABg9hOe7NW_VIHKeSr6cQAwSDQlTx4vG_KQuHiwK8GYnesSGquIFjpt4b-wlJR4PQTMZ2hneaxyeirQ6CwWNESrxL-zn4xeJQdCzhqr4dULimg83QdftXmBbggjzFFpEWLU/w240-h320/IMG_2694.JPEG" width="240" /></a></div>I had contacted a few handymen to quote for this work, but I no one wanted to do it. (I should have realised then what a slog it would be.) No doubt a landscape company would have taken it on - but at what cost! And I could well imagine the mess they might make of it - they'd want to strip the whole area clean to start with, which meant moving all the stones and piling them up somewhere. But where? I would have stones scattered in nearby lawn for months. So I decided if I could get it done before the hotter weather arrived to make outdoor work too onerous, I would do the job myself. <p></p><p>And so I did - section by section, one barrowload of stones at a time. It took me four weeks, working 4 or 5 days a week, 5 or 6 hours each day. About halfway through I began to think it was all just too difficult. And I made another attempt to employ someone to help. But I couldn't find anyone. So I pressed on. </p><p>At the end of it all I did hire a nice young man with a truck (thank you, <a href="https://www.airtasker.com/au/">Airtasker</a>!) to pick up, deliver and unload a trailer-load of additional stones to finish the job. </p><p>I'm very happy with the result, but can hardly believe I got through it. It's taken weeks for my body to recover. Not surprised that I came down with a terrible bout of winter flu shortly after finishing. I think I had no reserved energy to fight off germs. But I've learned one thing: my days of heavy labour are over. This Amazon lady is hanging up the workboots. Only garden-variety stuff for me from here on. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAm_JsIfPKw3jXGUOdTNb5n7rZE-z4Gl1KqOyqJhlhZ_tsUVYxlXFqUFe5y3H7vMASzfgszgyIhjZta6afMpXv2PM7JsNvT-K0r7-QxkLpgMox9t9hQS_sUSEeklSAQZGzF7hY5jkmSP55lVVcCxLdABZeq5hnnUrdrKvN2utcIEsGWO_5AHTbnwMo5r-a/s4032/IMG_2888.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAm_JsIfPKw3jXGUOdTNb5n7rZE-z4Gl1KqOyqJhlhZ_tsUVYxlXFqUFe5y3H7vMASzfgszgyIhjZta6afMpXv2PM7JsNvT-K0r7-QxkLpgMox9t9hQS_sUSEeklSAQZGzF7hY5jkmSP55lVVcCxLdABZeq5hnnUrdrKvN2utcIEsGWO_5AHTbnwMo5r-a/w300-h400/IMG_2888.HEIC" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Chartreusehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05919069110736697400noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2216131219986318633.post-14502630156141574452023-10-24T20:29:00.023+10:002023-10-26T15:14:33.846+10:00The grass is greener (or at least shorter)<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNelHv9vOGC-jsUNqNoyKCFdHAV7RiPdP0oJcMxSVXTENvA6O6FNhqvUfmhBl2L7iG1KvY3cEKcC_FW0vIicjONab1hhYn_Vfz-l8GfUDK8cBHHUAXqVAd-gSBo4VDvTIGn-FMNjSKCJ5qj65zKbI28YT8oPVuprOnM3PqIEE4fDun_TsE1R3-S85ml8lp/s4032/IMG_3008.HEIC" style="display: block; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNelHv9vOGC-jsUNqNoyKCFdHAV7RiPdP0oJcMxSVXTENvA6O6FNhqvUfmhBl2L7iG1KvY3cEKcC_FW0vIicjONab1hhYn_Vfz-l8GfUDK8cBHHUAXqVAd-gSBo4VDvTIGn-FMNjSKCJ5qj65zKbI28YT8oPVuprOnM3PqIEE4fDun_TsE1R3-S85ml8lp/w400-h300/IMG_3008.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div>
<i>I am struggling to work with this blog software after a long absence. Formatting seems more difficult than I remember. But I would like to get back to talking about my garden and other topics now and then - after years of silence (at least on this medium). So let's see how we go!</i> <div><br /></div><div>Today I mowed the lawn, so that's what that expanse of green is celebrating. Since moving to this smaller property almost eight years ago, I've been paying someone else to mow and trim the lawn. But a few months ago, I decided I would try and do it myself. After all, I'd bought a battery-operated mower when I moved here but have rarely used it. For the first five or six years that made sense, as I was lucky to have resumed work as a consultant and was overseas for some months of each year. But I called a halt on work just before Covid - if I hadn't, Covid would have done it for me since Australia closed up tightly for more than a year. And even now, overseas travel is not as easy or carefree as it used to be. So really, there's no reason why I shouldn't care for the grass myself, since I'm caring for the rest of the garden. It's good exercise, it's better for my budget, and it prevents someone bringing in weed seeds and other things with their equipment. <div><br /></div><div>It's Spring here, however. It was autumn when I made the decision to take care of the lawn myself. Over autumn and winter, even though this is a subtropical climate, grass doesn't grow too fast. But as the weather warms up, the grass grows faster. Soon it will need to be cut at least once a fortnight and the weather will be too hot to do that for much of the day - for me, at least. So either I will have to start getting up earlier, or resign myself to mowing late in the afternoon, when I'd prefer to be sitting down with a whisky! So we shall see. </div><div><br /></div><div>For the moment, anyway, I'm managing it pretty well. But I don't have a whipper-snipper for trimming the edges. And I don't dare to buy one because I think I'd be too likely to do myself damage in trying to use it. I can ask my son-in-law to bring his whipper-snipper along the next time they come for a weekend visit - and he might do some trimming for me (as long as we agree he can go fishing the rest of the weekend!) Until then I will just have to do a bit of selective trimming by hand. </div><div><br /></div></div>Chartreusehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05919069110736697400noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2216131219986318633.post-62947998816175533862014-11-12T11:08:00.000+10:002014-11-12T11:15:26.043+10:00Flower of the week<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb8m9isABzJlVNOahegtQHOQZ4SgeDD1r4pcGxG2TnzL2zkIq3eHPq_1hN7d-Cs6HJlaRgmjTaWswfpOodqq6QS522Pn6G_S884dhQh1vgSMMRSO52b3w2qWsO-yYOsLZ8rszBYxZ1bZ5R/s1600/small+IMG_8889.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb8m9isABzJlVNOahegtQHOQZ4SgeDD1r4pcGxG2TnzL2zkIq3eHPq_1hN7d-Cs6HJlaRgmjTaWswfpOodqq6QS522Pn6G_S884dhQh1vgSMMRSO52b3w2qWsO-yYOsLZ8rszBYxZ1bZ5R/s320/small+IMG_8889.jpg" width="235" /></a>It's just a humble creeper - but boy can it creep!<br />
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I only remember buying two hoya plants (genus <i>Asclepiad</i>) in all the years I've lived here. But as the creepers grew, I would stick pieces here and there - usually in hanging pots.<br />
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I don't know what it is about these tough little guys with their leathery leaves that always fascinates me. I've never seen a bird feeding from the flowers, though I suppose insects must.<br />
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But once a year - in late Spring - they flower. And it's always such a pleasure to see where these appear.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimMkzRsE0he6sRjOuORhvL1UQVmUUYsEmmHpjJjPZaIFDGXyLQrBKszLcUBJWNtfTsuxuoHdxIBPus47MfBRnD_F5gOQ5VdlcQ-Ulg1xkcdS8MuS-7eRDkV4tpq1DDSu7Anb2vil94DKsN/s1600/small+IMG_8871.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimMkzRsE0he6sRjOuORhvL1UQVmUUYsEmmHpjJjPZaIFDGXyLQrBKszLcUBJWNtfTsuxuoHdxIBPus47MfBRnD_F5gOQ5VdlcQ-Ulg1xkcdS8MuS-7eRDkV4tpq1DDSu7Anb2vil94DKsN/s200/small+IMG_8871.jpg" width="175" /></a></div>
'Wax flowers' is the common name - and as soon as you handle one of the multi-headed blooms you can see where the name comes from. The waxy flowerheads don't smell, they fall to pieces as soon as you pluck them so are no good for picking. But...<br />
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...appearing as they may do anywhere along the creeper's roaming stems, they're always a delight to behold, even if I know that after flowering is finished I'll have to disentangle some of the plants from places where they have no business going - e.g. under the gutters!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3fO0sD95v8slVHnLM_o8yQAuJw4r_X7zfsiElfppfNubzrqbg3SBVLFMCsgom92Y9o92_yoO-CUbceYp2uOvnsNeHajwb27kYjxei-1nTPk5AWooZveaU40WaLF6Wf0EH4sc7jaDXXzLg/s1600/small+IMG_8869.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3fO0sD95v8slVHnLM_o8yQAuJw4r_X7zfsiElfppfNubzrqbg3SBVLFMCsgom92Y9o92_yoO-CUbceYp2uOvnsNeHajwb27kYjxei-1nTPk5AWooZveaU40WaLF6Wf0EH4sc7jaDXXzLg/s200/small+IMG_8869.jpg" width="161" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFzQX3_0qlx_iLOd_tjZIDaWW7gE2AsQ81aOKtX9f_J5M8iYjiAX9G3FkYAII7RW5MMHGjTcuuWvN3F8hxdRJ0sDZas299ZtX-M6UQ__5TUl-JUVOrfa2IYK7ekqosWgTTz-35uMnY0-d0/s1600/small+IMG_8880.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="126" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFzQX3_0qlx_iLOd_tjZIDaWW7gE2AsQ81aOKtX9f_J5M8iYjiAX9G3FkYAII7RW5MMHGjTcuuWvN3F8hxdRJ0sDZas299ZtX-M6UQ__5TUl-JUVOrfa2IYK7ekqosWgTTz-35uMnY0-d0/s200/small+IMG_8880.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />
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Let's hear it for tough wiry survivors.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEyWZ8oZIO-RT-sE0zoq9lK8UkHzjZ0xFGSbzDG5warxHszGVL8ZvF3uIUJfhup_XLFRtt74UQA21_rGtCEqisxhl-JbiLHmhW3F6S-iuowCDLfrhCttU_lNRZQHFDvsC53nDtBtaieaQc/s1600/small+IMG_8882.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEyWZ8oZIO-RT-sE0zoq9lK8UkHzjZ0xFGSbzDG5warxHszGVL8ZvF3uIUJfhup_XLFRtt74UQA21_rGtCEqisxhl-JbiLHmhW3F6S-iuowCDLfrhCttU_lNRZQHFDvsC53nDtBtaieaQc/s400/small+IMG_8882.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">No flowers yet on this one, even though it has colonised much of the pergola that it shares with a number of other plants and with frangipani (<i>plumeria</i>) just now coming into leaf.</span></td></tr>
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<br />Chartreusehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05919069110736697400noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2216131219986318633.post-77628497102513866262014-05-18T14:02:00.001+10:002014-05-18T14:02:32.661+10:00Half a year without my sweetheartSix months ago today, Allen died. Sometimes it's as fresh as if it were yesterday. At other times, I can't remember having him near. But I do often hear him reminding me of the power of music. And this morning the ABC played a wonderful version of Beethoven's 9th Symphony. What better reminder that hope and beauty can transcend loss and sadness.<br />
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This was Allen's last book - that is, the last one he never stopped trying to read. It's a notebook he built up during his final 10 or so years, when music became his greatest consolation. In it, he had pasted translations of the lieder he listened to over and over again. Like this one (Maiden's song), from a Brahms song cycle:<br />
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On Judgment Day I will rise again,</div>
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and immediately look for my sweetheart</div>
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and if I cannot find him,</div>
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I will lie down again and sleep.</div>
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Heartache, you Eternity!</div>
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Only with another comes happiness!</div>
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And if my sweetheart comes not in,</div>
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then I don't wish to be in Paradise!</div>
Chartreusehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05919069110736697400noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2216131219986318633.post-84043812426253384302014-05-14T19:55:00.000+10:002014-05-14T20:20:09.340+10:00Moving on (and in)This is the sort of day it has been.<br />
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My mood all day has been much the same, influenced no doubt by the tail end of a debilitating flu or cold. But I've been at my desk anyway, preparing for the final of ten tutorials I will have presented in as many weeks for two first-year groups of teacher-trainees at the local university. I was pleased to be offered this semester of part-time work. It was one of several new pastimes that I hoped would help me learn to live alone and begin to 'move on', whatever that means!</div>
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So ten weeks ago, I moved my office out of its former temporary location in the second bedroom, into the small galley room that had been Allen's office ever since we moved here in 1996. My own larger office used to be in a separate studio building, now a second guest bedroom. But I had to give up that larger space when it became impossible for me to be that far away from Allen for any length of time. I could have returned to the studio-office, now that my caregiving duties are no more. But several things dissuaded me from doing that.</div>
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First was the attraction of not having to vacate my office whenever I have visitors. The studio has the double bed for visiting couples; the second bedroom has a single bed (which is where my grand-daughter sleeps on her frequent visits). But Allen's little end-room office - once a verandah - is too small to accommodate a bed. So it is always free, no matter how many people are sleeping in the house for the weekend or longer.</div>
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Then, too, the distance from the house to the studio meant my laptop inevitably ended up in the house, perched on the dining-cum-sewing table. That's because going out to the studio to check emails and do my banking and other routine tasks is just too much of a nuisance late at night or when it's raining. Giving up the larger studio space seems a price worth paying for the convenience of having all my office things just a few steps away from my bedroom.</div>
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What really settled me in my decision to make Allen's office my own was just that: the fact that it had been his. Until I moved in here, this room off our bedroom was a furious empty space that screamed his absence every time I looked into it. I could hardly bear to enter it. So I moved in and made it mine, which meant going through all his shelves and papers first, of course. But that was relatively easy. Allen had been doing it himself for years before he lost the ability to read and write. He was always a well-organised man - socks rolled in his drawer, suitcase nicely packed, paperwork all in order. He had long ago sorted everything he wanted to keep or pass on, and discarded just about everything else.</div>
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I moved my things in and found, to my surprise, there is plenty of space. First I discarded several wheelie-bins of old paperwork - things from my university degrees and old freelance jobs going back decades. All the books and other curriculum materials we produced during my ten years as manager of the state's educational publishing facility have gone to our regional university's library. Dozens of other books are going here and there. It's a very liberating feeling, as I remember Allen assuring me when he did the same with his theatre library and paperwork a long time ago - a move which horrified me at the time. </div>
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My new little office has been quite pleasant during the warmer weather - even though it's the only part of the house that doesn't have access to air conditioning. But we rarely used the aircons in the rest of the house anyway, thanks to good insulation throughout and a perfect aspect in all living areas. This office has both eastern and northern-facing windows, so the winter sun streams in but there's no exposure to the hot western summer sun. I've been amazed how cosy the room stays now that our cooler winter weather has arrived. Since it's small and has good windows, the tiniest bit of sun heats it up nicely. I can't help chuckling when I remember now that even after he could barely do anything constructive in the way or reading or writing, Allen still disappeared into this enclave after breakfast every day, sliding shut the glass door connecting it to our adjacent bedroom. In his last months, I would put an opera on his computer for him to watch. I now realise that because his tiny frame could no longer regulate his body temperature very well, he was probably mainly enjoying the room's warmth. - probably just one of hundreds of things Allen could no longer express.</div>
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Right outside one window here a beautiful golden penda is growing, a tree I planted in 2009 when I painted the room for Allen and had tiles laid down. As I was closing the blinds this afternoon, I looked out to see the first of the golden penda's new season's flowers had just opened. The light was fading, but I photographed it anyway. I need reminders that life goes on.</div>
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Chartreusehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05919069110736697400noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2216131219986318633.post-45769263530669147832014-01-26T15:47:00.000+10:002014-01-27T17:27:43.039+10:00Even so...<i>I don't know when I will once again be able to start some regular posts here - or some writing elsewhere. My energy at the moment is totally occupied in creating some new kind of order - one that will get me through this interval of time between Allen's presence in my life and the acceptance of his absence. But I want to hold on to some of the thoughts I've had during this period. And as these are often framed in letters to friends and family, I will copy to my blog excerpts from some of these from time to time. I hope later on to be able to come back to these thoughts with less pain and more pleasure in remembering my late husband....</i><br />
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Dear Malcolm,<br />
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I was again in tears – reading your lovely words, which I will ask Julian to read at our lunch next Sunday. Thank you so much for taking the time. And thank you, too, for capturing so well the spirit of the man I fell in love with 35 years ago.<br />
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So much of Allen’s lively enthusiasm, wit and intelligence was severely taxed in recent years by the dreadful disease eating away at that beautiful brain. Even so, right up to his last days at the beginning of what was supposed to be a short few weeks of (my) respite, he could appreciate the humour in some of the antics of fellow residents in the dementia unit. Watching a guy do something silly at a nearby table while I helped Allen to get a slippery omelette into his mouth, he looked at the guy and then over at me and raised a quizzical eyebrow, as if to say: “Get a load of him!”<br />
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Except in short episodes of delusion, mainly in the evenings or during the night, Allen and I never lost the ability to connect – even as words and language lost almost all meaning for him. He was taken to hospital after just his third night in that respite facility, when he apparently ingested vomit while lying in his bed. In all our years together, I can’t remember Allen ever vomiting – even when in hospital. So it will always be a great mystery to me what actually happened. But I know when I arrived there in the morning, and sat with him while we awaited the ambulance, he was already on oxygen and struggling to draw breath. Less mysterious is the fact that he just could not rally during the next four days in hospital, but continued to deteriorate with a terrible pneumonia.<br />
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I knew only too well that Allen had been wanting for months to be finished with his struggle. He could no longer manage to read anything but the occasional word, couldn’t write words or even letters and could only barely understand the grammar of even the simplest of spoken utterances. He was so very isolated, and his physical mobility had been likewise impaired. He just couldn’t control the voluntary and involuntary actions of many of his muscles. Each morning while I shaved him, for example, his right hand would perform a kind of pretend-shaving, and I’m not sure he understood which of us was actually holding the razor. He could only shuffle along on his walker – but always insisted on accompanying me to the shopping centre, sometimes waiting on a couch near Woollies if he didn’t feel up to the whole supermarket slog. But when we got home, he never failed to help unpack the bags and put whatever things away he could manage. He just wasn’t one to sit idly doing nothing. And yet he was losing interest even in listening to or watching the many opera DVDs that Chris had sent him from China. He felt all his forces – both physical and mental – slowly evaporating. And he just hated it.<br />
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I don’t think he had the will to fight one more battle with pneumonia – and he’d had several. And four days of IV antibiotics had done nothing to reduce the infection. He had to be on IV hydration, too, as he could no longer swallow anything. So it was a relatively easy decision to accept the doctor’s offer to begin morphine – ostensibly to minimise the pain of his difficult breathing. But we all knew what it meant. I had no hesitation in telling the doctor: “Let him go”. Allen was to all intents and purposes unconscious in the last 24 hours or so before that, but I think even he knew this was his chance to slip away. And instead of the two or three days we’d been warned it might take, Allen was gone in just a couple of hours, peacefully drawing his last breath in a lovely corner room with tea-trees and a bright blue sky outside our window. I long ago had to come to terms with the Allen I knew and loved no longer being available to me. But I’m still coming to terms with Allen not being in the next room, dozing peacefully in his favourite armchair. It’s going to take a long time. I’m glad his battle is over. Even so.....<br />
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Chartreusehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05919069110736697400noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2216131219986318633.post-41424865679769053952013-12-05T09:48:00.001+10:002013-12-05T16:00:42.721+10:00Roland Allen Harvey 1929-2013<div>
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On 18 November 2013 my beautiful husband, Roland Allen Harvey, passed away at Noosa Hospital after a brief battle with pneumonia. His physical and mental health had both deteriorated greatly in the past six months, and though we, his family, have very heavy hearts, we know his passing now, while he still knew and loved us all, was a blessing for him. It is less so for us. </div>
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Allen's poor damaged brain has gone to the Queensland Brain Bank at the University of Queensland. We hope in some small way it will help researchers there to learn a bit more about Primary Progressive Aphasia, the debilitating brain deterioration that ultimately robbed him of his mental fluency and physical agility. </div>
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Allen was cremated in Noosa at 8am on Friday, 22 November. At that exact time, his family gathered at The Spit, where the Noosa River flows into the sea, to remember him with a champagne breakfast.<br />
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On 15 December friends and family will gather at a lunch in Doonan to share reminiscences of my dear husband's long, productive and very happy life. </div>
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Chartreusehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05919069110736697400noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2216131219986318633.post-69066853490844257012013-06-09T11:34:00.002+10:002013-06-09T11:34:38.805+10:00A memory of friendship<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYoPWVo0LYvlCyeO6WWwU_dzhNY3wNhSdf-FP5M95ejalbQRcf8BlDrjNwhPRPTLSqcKHoFedvfqJZ0NuvImhiz4BKA7QuDJBbrqJ_CEMVrsCXV80zkS6ITI3W4G9dceI9SoD504UAGbue/s1600/IMG_8495.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="343" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYoPWVo0LYvlCyeO6WWwU_dzhNY3wNhSdf-FP5M95ejalbQRcf8BlDrjNwhPRPTLSqcKHoFedvfqJZ0NuvImhiz4BKA7QuDJBbrqJ_CEMVrsCXV80zkS6ITI3W4G9dceI9SoD504UAGbue/s400/IMG_8495.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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This orchid opened this morning – a beacon of brightness on an otherwise bleak and wet winter day. The annual flowering of this plant always brings to mind John and Gillian Unicomb. They left the orchid behind as a thank-you gift more than ten years ago, after they'd had a holiday in our house during one of our absences overseas.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh80ddcmY3oMuFVNKQ-bwv6d137JXo0j4miErsHB10HYxvl4oFHxZUr0wrQKlY_P8FLSttKwzimNAP1oHK_qYDHKQI5gPjr_rSNlHfnaHhSMvVB4mMl-esaGrlm0bgCKIueluE8EqKhilq_/s1600/Salesman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh80ddcmY3oMuFVNKQ-bwv6d137JXo0j4miErsHB10HYxvl4oFHxZUr0wrQKlY_P8FLSttKwzimNAP1oHK_qYDHKQI5gPjr_rSNlHfnaHhSMvVB4mMl-esaGrlm0bgCKIueluE8EqKhilq_/s320/Salesman.jpg" width="245" /></a>John and Allen were at high school together. Then both went on to a lifetime of work in the theatre – only working together once in their late 50s when John played an outstanding Willy Loman in a wonderful production of Death of a Salesman, directed by Allen. Gilly and I first met in Hobart in 1971. We were neighbours and had our babies together the next year.<br />
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Sadly, John died earlier this year. So the annual flowering of this orchid brings lovely memories of a very dear man – and of the power of friendships.Chartreusehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05919069110736697400noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2216131219986318633.post-91330343929900790592013-06-05T19:20:00.000+10:002013-06-05T19:20:22.790+10:00My winter gardenHere are just a few corners of my too-big garden - showing some of the plants that brighten my heart on these (relatively) cold winter mornings.<div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvQ4ViM-u4SzKOpfr_Co_fvWmtKWDGGJ_GafYpgnnbEEtHLfldNUgqQqhIKiVgQJlr70UXl_U3unoHB1by1IGdjqBhLApDUHBQb94EZ44H2UQ6tonp8h7wyZaV_2XnbyoVj0lCW-qzPMeI/s1600/130605d.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvQ4ViM-u4SzKOpfr_Co_fvWmtKWDGGJ_GafYpgnnbEEtHLfldNUgqQqhIKiVgQJlr70UXl_U3unoHB1by1IGdjqBhLApDUHBQb94EZ44H2UQ6tonp8h7wyZaV_2XnbyoVj0lCW-qzPMeI/s400/130605d.JPG" width="298" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">We call this the butterfly bush (with some ornamental ginger on the left). The white flowers only appear for a couple of weeks at this time of the year. For the rest of the year, it's a pretty unimpressive plant. I cut it right back to the base after flowering. Otherwise it would grow too leggy.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhDoFJE6PXa0g7E_7uDRqAar0zdeqV4oCnHEJ8a_KC6tM7KsHrbZfpQ5TlKzuO-afO773odhxokEKGXumLf1AVEkXuSuTKRgL7l1GLl7i6_VLHZDbZXGigiIHi5Z0pO7RN2EnJKzL7BUWC/s1600/130605k.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhDoFJE6PXa0g7E_7uDRqAar0zdeqV4oCnHEJ8a_KC6tM7KsHrbZfpQ5TlKzuO-afO773odhxokEKGXumLf1AVEkXuSuTKRgL7l1GLl7i6_VLHZDbZXGigiIHi5Z0pO7RN2EnJKzL7BUWC/s320/130605k.JPG" width="238" /></a><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="text-align: center;">Outside Allen's office window is a </span><span style="text-align: center;">little group of fishtail palms</span><span style="text-align: center;">. There are at least four climbers living on it. The latest to take hold is this philodendron (at least, I think it's a philodendron - the climbing sort, not the tree type).</span> </div>
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<span style="text-align: center;">My golden penda tree (below) is full of berries.</span><span style="text-align: center;"> </span><span style="text-align: center;">In the warmer months it will be awash with </span><span style="text-align: center;">gorgeous yellow blooms. It's a Queensland native, </span><span style="text-align: center;">and I know the birds visit the flowers for nectar, </span><span style="text-align: center;">but I haven't yet seen any birds coming for the berries.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2alGyY2OK2CSOgsBhZqUu_JuJKXfErJkR53wcMI6MAoIfLNulTwQPzQw3TxwEoNArAS2Oxt89gDCUlV7Jwyn_tx1cwAVtIAngTp58X1qXq__Xkg7MFOTdn7f9UGUFKYiLqM_5Sq_oTcba/s1600/130605p.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2alGyY2OK2CSOgsBhZqUu_JuJKXfErJkR53wcMI6MAoIfLNulTwQPzQw3TxwEoNArAS2Oxt89gDCUlV7Jwyn_tx1cwAVtIAngTp58X1qXq__Xkg7MFOTdn7f9UGUFKYiLqM_5Sq_oTcba/s200/130605p.JPG" width="147" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFenOxdGjxCzRPuJggGV5A5EKL0ZtVad86zQLWSs52a5zb1GnEmQ9VuS7i8sQSALbV2rp50wDE8uEjo0L3-Alcn5LtlV7Fdz0Bw8rYZKWwl_qNu6aZYyMyKq-RBjiqvmHevjxVD64egd5r/s1600/130605q.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFenOxdGjxCzRPuJggGV5A5EKL0ZtVad86zQLWSs52a5zb1GnEmQ9VuS7i8sQSALbV2rp50wDE8uEjo0L3-Alcn5LtlV7Fdz0Bw8rYZKWwl_qNu6aZYyMyKq-RBjiqvmHevjxVD64egd5r/s320/130605q.JPG" width="238" /></a><span style="text-align: center;">That's one o</span><span style="text-align: center;">f my sm</span><span style="text-align: center;">aller poinsettias. I</span><span style="text-align: center;">t puts on a good show every year, when the overhanging frangipani (or <i>plumeria</i>) has lost its leaves.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqc6AZ9WOYK7pcCPPdNzKvsksl9k_uPm3_-9cbn7fT0TnQ7mMkPihGBcqlEmynCfkH-yN_gKSxfuhg4BP6NsicA1yPlOk5xmyvd0OCWnKmnnR9Sl65JTw5r7zMGNbEJtRgefZSpypQqmVU/s1600/130605n.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqc6AZ9WOYK7pcCPPdNzKvsksl9k_uPm3_-9cbn7fT0TnQ7mMkPihGBcqlEmynCfkH-yN_gKSxfuhg4BP6NsicA1yPlOk5xmyvd0OCWnKmnnR9Sl65JTw5r7zMGNbEJtRgefZSpypQqmVU/s200/130605n.JPG" width="200" /></a><br />
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I have only a small collection of bromeliads - all in pots, so they won't get waterlogged during our summer downpours. I have placed them along a path that leads from the house to the studio. That way anyone staying out there can enjoy them - as can I when I use the studio.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq-BeSHJUDAq-H8D0hULXngwa0-j4CzWvyoyBg1HFcR5gGa83NK61yFQZj9rxXnhmuVJeIvkTGLzr7UfK_vGuWjcOa6fljFXImZGrUWzIWiYIgwduHgVRMRDUv38_FxUIGSyjjH4RoPz7v/s1600/130605b.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq-BeSHJUDAq-H8D0hULXngwa0-j4CzWvyoyBg1HFcR5gGa83NK61yFQZj9rxXnhmuVJeIvkTGLzr7UfK_vGuWjcOa6fljFXImZGrUWzIWiYIgwduHgVRMRDUv38_FxUIGSyjjH4RoPz7v/s320/130605b.JPG" width="239" /></a>Most of the bromeliads have grown 'pups' over the last season. I guess they're pretty happy in this spot, which faces north (the prime position for any plant), but has a number of large palms and other things providing some shelter on hottest days.<br /><br />
This year I've moved my herbs and a few greens up to the topmost terrace, right outside the living-room. Too often I would forget to pick these before dark - and then have to wander down to the unlit vegetable garden with just a torch to guide the way. So now they're conveniently located just off the front terrace, and well lit by the exterior lights on that side of the house.<br />
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Here you see rocket (behind a small border of ornamental plants). Herbs are on the other side of that little gardenia you can just see at the top right of the photo. The boxes have various oriental greens coming along - for stir-fries. A lime tree provides shelter from the hot western sun.<br />
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At the far end of this same terrace (below) is one of two teak rocking chairs that my mother loved to sit in during the year she spent with us.<br />
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Also in the photo below is a ponytail palm I inherited from Zoe. It needs more TLC than a working mum can provide. And on the plant stand behind the rocker you might catch a glimpse of my largest Christmas cactus. It's just coming into flower. (There are a few more of these amongst the bromeliads in the photo above.)<br />
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Finally, on the pergola outside my bedroom window, a delicately blue-coloured thunbergia is colonising part of the roof as well as the pergola. (This is also one of the climbers that's up in the fishtail palm.) Officially this is now a weed, and shouldn't be planted too close to bush areas, as it can get out of control. But here it's well contained by the parking circle on one side and paths on all other sides. I just have to climb up and cut it off the roof now and then, so it doesn't choke up my gutters. The lovely flowers are well worth that trouble.</div>
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Chartreusehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05919069110736697400noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2216131219986318633.post-55460321997552643262013-05-02T12:06:00.000+10:002013-06-06T16:41:31.177+10:00Early introduction to Planet AphasiaAsk me what is the most dazzling theatre experience I have ever had and I will answer without a moment's hesitation that it was the 1993 premiere production of <i>L'homme qui...</i> at the fabulously renovated old Paris theatre, Theatre des Bouffes du Nord.<br />
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This stunning drama, inspired by Oliver Sacks' <i>The Man Who Mistook his Wife for a Hat</i>, was the work of British director Peter Brook and his renowned troupe of actors, dancers and musicians known as the International Centre for Theatre Research. Brook's multinational company had had a peripatetic existence until the troupe took up residence at this Paris theatre, built in 1876 and renovated in 1974 under the direction of Brook and his partner Micheline Rozan. The theatre, and the unusual way in which it was brought back to life in a way that maintained its aura as a living relic, is worth a story of its own. The Theatre des Bouffes du Nord featured prominently as <a href="http://www.movie-locations.com/movies/d/Diva.html#.UYGza6IsBfI" target="_blank">a location for the classic French thriller</a>, <i>Diva</i>. And if you read French, have a look at <a href="http://www.bouffesdunord.com/" target="_blank">the theatre's official website</a> for an overview of its amazing history and restoration.<br />
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We arrived early at the theatre that night, as we weren't sure how difficult it would be to find. (We'd been told it was behind the Gare du Nord, one of Paris's larger railway stations.) And we also knew that Brook's policy did not allow numbered or reserved seats. Tickets were all one price; you sat wherever you wanted, or could. It was necessary to arrive early to get a good seat. And so we had at least 15 minutes in which to sit and marvel at the incredible ambiance created by a restoration that had retained as much as possible of the fabric of more than one hundred years of use. Peeling paint on the stage's walls and overhead a giant domed grill of rusted metal contrasted sharply with crisp new seating that appeared as if suspended within the original and untouched perimeter walls.<br />
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The play itself, of course, was performed mainly in French. I say 'mainly' because a good deal of what some of Sacks' patients spoke was gibberish, in keeping with their various brain disorders. Allen doesn't speak or understand French. He knew about Sacks' work, as did I, though I don't know if either of us had yet read the book which inspired the production. But not only did Allen feel he understood most of what was going on, we both felt we could almost 'hear' what the afflicted patients were trying to say in their nominally unintelligible ramblings. All of this was due to the magnificence of the acting – there's just no other word that describes it better than 'magnificent'.<br />
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At the play's conclusion, the audience sat silent and stunned for what seemed like ages. Then applause and foot-stamping erupted (the built-up seating had a wooden floor, I think). And when the tumult finally died down, many people, like us, remained rooted to their seats. All around I could hear intense conversations in French start up about the play and its contents. It was an electrifying experience – just what good theatre should be, but so rarely is.<br />
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Why do I so often now think back to that magical Paris experience? I suppose it's because in some ways I feel I'm now living inside a Sacksian world. How strange it is that the single most inspiring theatrical experience I have ever had should so eerily have prefigured where our lives were destined to end up 20 years later – Allen struggling, mainly in vain, to make himself understood. And his shrinking brain in ever-increasing revolt against his personality and all that he once was, knew and accomplished.<br />
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It seems only appropriate to end with a statement about aphasia taken from an April 2 post on <a href="http://www.oliversacks.com/blog/" target="_blank">Oliver Sacks' blog</a>:<br />
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What is aphasia?<br />
Imagine knowing what you want to say, but your brain refuses to let you utter even the simplest word. Or imagine listening to your friends and family and having no idea what their words mean. Sometimes the ability to read or write is affected too.</blockquote>
That, unfortunately, is the world Allen now inhabits – a place a fellow sufferer has called "Planet Aphasia".<br />
<br />Chartreusehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05919069110736697400noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2216131219986318633.post-22381075640274438892013-05-01T00:15:00.001+10:002013-06-06T16:41:03.682+10:00Testing from mobile<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5GLMPeBzeX1gZ5ue70Yz8LR3vS2RZXRxMBkteE8k8d2PMfI9-xPfwbhjYejOJ_e6YvUUN4spHyPqbvAXGm2fasT0kF5y72pjHjI577S2DKkUBamjSzOkqAILG58w_i4pxVv-gk36r6N_0/s640/blogger-image--1308154626.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5GLMPeBzeX1gZ5ue70Yz8LR3vS2RZXRxMBkteE8k8d2PMfI9-xPfwbhjYejOJ_e6YvUUN4spHyPqbvAXGm2fasT0kF5y72pjHjI577S2DKkUBamjSzOkqAILG58w_i4pxVv-gk36r6N_0/s640/blogger-image--1308154626.jpg" /></a>Maybe if I can master the technique of posting from my mobile phone I might be able to get back into blogging. <br />
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It's way too long since I was on this site. But things have progressed at home - no, progressed is not the right word....regressed maybe? Yes, A's condition is worsening quite quickly and so we both have to put a lot more effort and energy in to get through each day. What little I have left goes into the garden, when I can get out there.<br />
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Visits from our own little Baby Bear (BB as we call her) are a beacon in an otherwise dim world.<br />
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Chartreusehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05919069110736697400noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2216131219986318633.post-57299826337798393052013-02-24T11:57:00.001+10:002013-06-06T16:40:27.581+10:00Salamanca Market stalwartsHobart's Salamanca Market (Tasmania) and Eumundi Markets (Queensland) could probably be credited with the revival of the market culture in Australia. <br />
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Both started with fruit and vegetables and some local craft works targeting mainly local or district residents and occasional visitors. But both expanded to become major tourist drawcards, contributing to the revitalisation of their historic precincts in the process. <br />
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Salamanca Market recently celebrated its 40th anniversary. For about half that time my sister has been a stall holder there, selling her handmade jewellery. She uses mainly sterling silver, semi-precious stones and freshwater pearls, but in the last few years she has also incorporated some of her original crochet work to make a range of brooches and other accessories featuring fruits and flowers in a kaleidoscope of colours and patterns of her own design. <br />
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My sister's can-do partner is the engine supporting the stall's success. Hard-working and always cheerful, he builds, adapts and facilitates all that's needed to to make the operation (and their home, for that matter) run smoothly. <br />
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Both are also wonderful salespersons, well informed about all the materials they use in their jewellery and the processes by which these are produced or mined. And most importantly, they really love meeting the people who visit their stall each week. They are always ready for a chat with tourists and make it their business to be a source of useful information about all sorts of island experiences. <br />
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Salamanca Market is what market shopping should be like: local artists, artisans, crafts persons and small-scale entrepreneurs making a living doing something they enjoy. Don't miss the market if you ever visit Hobart (http://www.salamanca.com.au/salamanca_market_hours.htm). There are some 300 or so stalls, as well as dozens of small craft shops and boutiques in the neighbouring sandstone warehouses left over from the city's convict-era colonial past. <br />
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And be sure to say hello to my sister and her partner in market stall 250. <br />
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(Postscript: It's seems more than coincidence that my sister met her partner more than 10 years ago at Eumundi Markets. She was spending a couple of weeks visiting with me and rented a temporary market stall in Eumundi on two consecutive Saturdays. What began as a friendly exchange between neighbouring stallholders has now developed into a lifetime partnership.) <br />
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Chartreusehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05919069110736697400noreply@blogger.com4Hobart Hobart-42.85594 147.297001tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2216131219986318633.post-35757808769888967482013-02-22T21:38:00.001+10:002013-06-06T16:39:56.336+10:00Royal Tasmanian Botanical GardensNothing too unusual to report here on my fourth day of holiday in Tasmania. So how come I'm exhausted? Well let's see. My sister and I did a tour of secondhand shops earlier today - what we call "op shops". She's an expert on the local scene and I was hoping to pick up some tips on how to find the best deals. <br />
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In the end I forced myself to pass up a cashmere and wool Perry Cutten 3/4 overcoat ($10) and a camel hair great coat ($40) because... Well, after all, I live in a semi-tropical climate and rarely get to wear even a wool cardigan. <br />
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My sister's three rules for op-shopping: (1) you should love the item (not just like it) and find it near-perfect, (2) you should need the item or at least definitely plan to use or wear ear it and (3) the price should be right. Those coats failed to meet the second criterion and one of them was also one size too big (a failure in the first category). <br />
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So it was on to lunch at one of North Hobart's many ethnic eateries. Then we visited the Royal Tasmanian Botanical Gardens. Established in 1818 and covering 13.5 hectares, the gardens include 6500 species of plants, 400 of which are Tasmanian natives. <br />
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As always when I've visited these gardens, I was transfixed. We probably walked several kilometres, admiring the sequoia, Chinese elms, alders and one magnificent white mulberry that covered a space as big as the average house block.<br />
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Below I'll share a few photos from the gardens, including one taken underneath the mulberry, though it doesn't do the old tree justice. And I'm working exclusively on my iPhone to take these photos, post them to my blog and then view the results. I won't be able to check the quality until I take time to review everything on computer later. So forgive any less-than-perfect-quality shots. <br />
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Chartreusehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05919069110736697400noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2216131219986318633.post-85345059568764164052013-02-21T19:30:00.001+10:002013-06-06T16:39:21.328+10:00A Tassie taleI see I have managed to post from iPhone though I can't manage to place photos anywhere except at the end of each post. So here's the second part of my introduction to my current Tasmanian interlude. I hope you can match the photos to the text. <br />
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The entrance to the upstairs unit at my sister's house is via a ramp from ground level to the door, through a green tunnel. On the left is a large Japanese maple, clipped to a make a green wall in summer, but just imagine the riot of colour in autumn. And on the right is one massive clematis vine growing from a patch of garden under the ramp. Its colourful burst would occur in spring. <br />
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My sister's house is on a steeply sloping hillside so her garden is a series of terraces. Veggies are planted in sunny strips and spots here and there. <br />
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Especially delightful are the plants I remember from my cold-weather gardening days - like fuchsia and roses. And can you see that fat bumblebee on the tall balsam? <br />
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Chartreusehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05919069110736697400noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2216131219986318633.post-64662232609729690172013-02-21T17:00:00.001+10:002013-02-21T17:00:48.589+10:00Hello HobartThis is the first post from my iPhone and it's an experiment. I'm in Tasmania, visiting my sister. Here's the view from my bedroom window, with the Derwent River and the Eastern Shore of Hobart on the far side. <br />
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We sailed up that river yesterday, headed for the relatively new Museum of New and Old Art (MONA) that has propelled Tasmania to the No. 1 spot on Lonely Planet's list of top international destinations. More on that in another post. First let's see if this posts OK. <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf39eTmP5U2bCaIIQ7Pemye7O82CJDi9p05APVsPR1ftjsK7t49lmVRpJvc8WI3VdR3SyrWZuBqIJ_NnAOshM0YYoeqfILhMb11Z2C8wZzzZhqHPSdw5FN2MxW9Mz4D6t7yuvgtwcO_euH/s640/blogger-image--1579202151.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf39eTmP5U2bCaIIQ7Pemye7O82CJDi9p05APVsPR1ftjsK7t49lmVRpJvc8WI3VdR3SyrWZuBqIJ_NnAOshM0YYoeqfILhMb11Z2C8wZzzZhqHPSdw5FN2MxW9Mz4D6t7yuvgtwcO_euH/s640/blogger-image--1579202151.jpg" /></a></div>Chartreusehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05919069110736697400noreply@blogger.com1Mt Stuart Mt Stuart-42.866564 147.306101