Work. Work. Work.
I had to learn many jobs.
Once I took to walking. Learned to hold objects. My training started.
Had to fetch. And lug around different types, and sized, tools. From spanners to heavy hammers;crowbars; axes; chainsaw.
I chopped wood to feed into the firebox.
Take bark off of lengths of trees to be sent to the mill to be cut into sleepers.
Had to cut my mother's hair while I did a home perm. I hated the strong smell.
Baby say at the age of nine for parents going to a wedding.
When my first child was born. I had to boil the nappies in a four gallon tin over an open fire. Carry buckets of water for the tube in which to rinse the clothes.
Then came the pain. Pain at the loss of my childhood.
Pain of lost love which turned to mental, and physical abuse. Liked my life with complete stress. Hunger. I ate little to provide for my children.
Pain from the loss of a baby through illness.
One marriage was a disaster. A volcano ready to explode. The second ended with a disaster. The death of my husband.
Pain again. With the death of my daughter; father; years of suffering for my mother before she succumbed to her illness.
I have worked hard for the past seven years to take my life in a different direction.
My writing is what has kept me going for the past thirty years. I love putting words together to complete the puzzle.
I'm learning to spread my wings. Meeting new people.
I feel the stress leaving my body each day to be replaced with happiness; joy; laughter; exploring the world. Taking photos to show where I've been.
I have begun to go to exercise class. This helps retrain my muscles. Meet different people.
Attend writing clubs. And workshops. More new friends. My circle is expanding.
I was urged. Or arm twisted by word of mouth to join a bus group. We go to out of way places where I've never been. They are a jovial bunch. Happy to be still alive to enjoy life. A couple need walking aids. But we all hobble around to enjoy our outings. We load the bus with out purchases.
When we step aboard. It's like a magical tour. We never know what to expect.
This year. My life is taking different turns. My writing is headed in different directions.
I'm using photos on my blogs along with a short story on any topic.
Learning to do work on the computer. Completely by mistake. Others by daring to adventure forth. Keep the name of my computer repairman handy in the event I stuff up.
Now. I'm trialling a miracle liquid for my muscle pain. Hopefully. I will become free of pain.
The end of my rainbow is drawing near.
Toward the end. Dad's health went down fast.
He wasn't able to take care of the gardens. Or the lawn.
Sugar Diabetes. And mini strokes. His sight failing.
I tried to help where ever possible.
Had to put aside my own health problems. Hide all my pain to carry on.
One day. Dad sat on a chair on the front porch watching me mow the lawn. I thought I'd done a reasonable job.
“Hey. You misses a patch,” I heard over the roar of the engine. I looked up to see dad with a hand shading his eyes. The other pointed to the few strands of grass. I cut them on my return journey.
Then came the final spate of mini strokes. I found dad out in the garden. Staggering around. Determined to dig the crop of potatoes.
Sending him inside to rest. I struggled to dig up the potatoes. And putting the rubbish in the bin.
Near the end. We had to hire a wheelchair. Dad no longer had the strength to walk.
There are some words you never want to hear your father speak. He looked me in the eye. Away from my mother's hearing. “I'm going to die.” What do you say? I stood dumbfounded. Why pick me.? Did everyone in my family believe I was the rock.
The massive stroke came a few days later. Dad had gone to rest. His speech affected when he woke.
My mother called up the steps for me.
“You had better call the ambulance. Dad had a stroke.”
I made the call. Made ready to let them in to save time. Dad was checked over.
“We need to take you to the hospital.”
The stubborn streak came to the surface. He wanted to die at home. No way did he want to leave the bedroom. He fought against the paramedics trying to help him.
A patient can't be removed from his home against his will.
No persuasion from anyone could make him change his mind.
The police had to be called. Mum had to give her permission for them to strong arm dad to take him from the house.
The rock had to stand strong.
Calling all the families fell on my shoulders. I had to notify both sides of the family. Had to keep updating them.
Cook. Make beds. I had to cook for nineteen adults. I had a little help with the peeling of vegetables.
Then came the funeral.
Thank God someone thought of me. One uncle decided I shouldn't have to drive the car to my father's funeral service.
I made through the service. And the burial without breaking down. I held all my loss in until the last family member left.
Then the cleaning. Washing. And restoring the house.
Exhausted. I sat down at my desk to work on a story. Crying inside. I wrote away my loss. And hurt. Holding together to be sure my mother had her time to grieve.
Fear of water
To some. My memory is classed as”Iffy”.
The scene has stayed with me as far back as I can remember.
I've been told. “It's not possible. You can't remember something from babyhood. It didn't happen.”
So. Why do I feel like I was there at the time. The one the action happened to.
My family haven't said anything to me about being Baptised.
Or said anything within my hearing. So did it happen to me in this time. Or may it have been a past life.
Or is if a figment of my imagination? To me. The actions seem so real.
This story dates back to the 1950's.
I was a babe in arms.
The day this happened I was being Baptised.
I wore a long white dress. Bonnet. Bootees. I was wrapped in a shawl.
My father drove us to this high blocked Queenslander home with wooden steps at the front. There were railings on either side. But. We didn't go up the steps.
We got out of the car. My parents walked beneath the house to meet a man dressed like a priest.
He led them to a tall drum of water. Everyone took up their positions. I was held in my mothers arms.
A few words were spoken by the priest.
I was handed over to him.
He held my head over the edge of the drum after my bonnet had been removed.
I had a feeling of having my head dunked beneath the surface of the water.
Did he do this? Or had my imagination been working overtime.
Or did her sprinkle too much water over my head giving me a drowning feeling.
Was my head dunked beneath the surface. The scene in my mind has me being dipped head first into the water. Then being dried before being handed back to my mother.
I have never asked. Not that my parents are here to answer such questions. I have left it too late to ask such questions.
Is the story true?
Believable. Or did my imagination play tricks with me.
In the scene. I had these feelings of spluttering. I have never liked water splashed on my face.
Or is that when my fear of water started? A fear of deep water. Once my feet leave the ground a feeling of drowning takes over.
Each time I have fallen. Accidental. Head first into a body of deep water I come up spluttering.
The day I fell into the lagoon. I came up with slime. And water weed clinging to me.
On a fishing trip. The reel slipped off the bank when I threw out the line. I reached over. The bank crumbled. In I went.
Being a water sign. I shouldn't have this fear of water.
So the debate goes on.
Was this a true memory.
Or has my mind being playing a trick on me?
Telling me I have this fear of water.