Anzac Day 2014 Bundaberg

I'm amazed. Each year. How many ignorant people cut off the people on the Anzac Day march. I'm not a person who believes in sending people to war to be killed. But. I do believe in showing respect for those who have been to war. And returned home safely. Who have seen the horror. And honor those who didn't return to their family. That is why I get mad at those who cut off those taking the time to march in remembrance.

Three Memories

My Rainbow.


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.

Dad knew


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.

Jack's house

Jack's House


Many. Many years ago. Jack shared the house with his mother.
They live out in the country. Jack raise beef cattle.
His mother cared for the home. She may have worked the cattle in her youthful days.
To me. At a young age. She looked old.
At that time. We lived in a caravan in the railway yards. The old highway had to be cross to reach Jack's house.
Each time, my mother, and I, visited. We found his mother in the fernery taking care of all her plants. On hot days, she'd sit in with the plants to read. The fernery was the coolest place to be when the weather turned hot.
The old Queens-lander home was always. Spotless. No dust. Or dirt to be found. The cattle dogs were never allowed to go up the stairs. Or into the kitchen.
We moved on with the work a few months later.
Driving past. Sometimes calling in to visit. Once the mother had died. We watched the steady deterioration of the place. The area around the house became cluttered by non-workable cars. Farm machinery. The long grass invaded the dumped machinery. Rush munched away at the metal. Decay from years of standing out in the weather. The machinery crying out for loving care to be restored to working condition. Their calls were never answered.
The highway changed to a new position by-passing the railway siding. Roads no longer followed the railway lines.
Work took away from the region.
We all grew older.
About eighteen years ago. We went for a days drive to visit Jack. Food packed. We set out early for the three hour drive.
What a shock awaited us. I don't think surprise fitted. Shock. Well. That didn't really fit our feelings, either. More like disgusted. Crying shame.
The collection of rusted junk had grown. What we could see above the tall, brown grass.
The beautiful fernery had disappeared. No potted plants that once produced a cooling oasis. A place of peace. Serenity. High clumps of brown, crackling grass covered the dry ground. Faded gnomes peeked out from behind the clumps creating suspense. Crying out for a time long past when they were loved.
A tumbling down house stood there where once there stood a loved home. The building had become a place where man, and dogs, slept. Ate.
The kitchen was a germ infested place. Dirty dishes fought for space on the table. And the sink. Dust lay thick on every surface. Grit crunched beneath our shoes.
We spent ages cleaning the dirty dishes. And the table. Before we produced our food to the kitchen. The dog used to being allowed full reign of the kitchen. And the rest of the house. Tried to reach the kitchen to gain tit-bits of great smelling food. They were banned.
The rest of the rooms were covered with dust.

I thanked all the fates for protecting me from the squalor of germs. Stopped them from invading my body.

                          ---------------------------------------------------------

                               Riddled with white ants


It's a wonder.
How hasn't the house crumbled to dust.
Blown to pieces by the strong, cyclonic winds.
To my way of reasoning. The building should have been condemned years ago.
Declared a pest infestation area.
A miracle the frame stood in tact.
I'd be worried if I owned a new home within cooee of the house.
The outer walls have been eaten away by white ants. House stumps have shrunk with age leaving a space between the stump top, and the foundation for the floor. Some of them were still in contact. Wooden chocks have been shoved into the empty space to balance the floor.
The front steps are dangerous. Some are missing. You walk up them at your own peril. Back steps looked safe. Enough. But I didn't tempt the fates. I stayed at ground level.
Certain parts of the lawn were mown. The rest covered with parts of no longer working lawn mowers. Beneath the high house were bits, and pieces, of different machinery. Don't think anything has been thrown away for the past forty years.
The junk is probably holding the house in place. Or the tall shrubs are cutting out the force of the winds.
I wouldn't park my car beneath the house. I don't know how the owner fitted his car in the small space.
I stood close to the edge to make a quick retreat at the first cracking noise.
How he lives there is a mystery. He's nearing the age of ninety. His memory isn't what it should be.
He doesn't do much. Did the mowing. His washing. I believe he cooked. Or he may buy food ready to eat.
Watches television. And listens to the radio. Don't know how much house work because I didn't enter the house. What I heard he didn't do much.
Not one piece of the house would be worth saving. Even the furniture in the house is probably riddled with white ants.
If he doesn't die of natural causes. The house might take its first victim. Murdered by house. Or would it be. White ants. Bed fell through the floor while he slept. Watching television. The walls collapsed around him. Then. There might be a fire caused by old wires bared. Pulled away from switches when the wood has been eaten away. I hope none of these thing happen to him. Let death be natural.
If he'd had the house treated before the house was infested. The building may have been saved for many years.
When he finally passes. The house will have to be bulldozed to the ground. Every part taken to the dump. Or used for fire practice so not to spread the the infestation to other parts of the town.
Long may it stand until the final closing of his eyes.
Moving from their would shorten his life. Home life wouldn't be his forte. He'd chuck in his bundle. Die.

Memories Long Forgotten

Some of these are stories from the past. Others happened recently. Some are memories of the far distant past jogged to light of day by 500 word stories I do for the abc open program.

                                                        Recent.

Don't Like Heights




Oops!


Where did my stomach go?


I had to fight for control to keep the contents of my stomach from erupting like a volcano.
I only had an apple. And coffee. For my breakfast. While everyone else ate hearty before we set out on our adventure.


Driving through the Gold Coast, we stopped to view the sand sculptures. We strolled along the promenade to look at each beautiful work of sand art.


We continued on to our next part of our day of touring.


“See the building,” announced the bus driver pointing in the direction of the building. “After our lunch cruise of the Broad water, we're going to visit it. There are over seventy floors. About twenty steps between each one. We'll be climbing all those steps.”


Right. No way did I intend walking up all those – steps.


I knew there had to be – some – catch.


Bad idea. This had to be a joke. Most of the group were over seventy. Or eighty. Some with walkers. Walking sticks. Me. I didn't see my legs taking me past – twenty steps – up. And hopefully. Down.


I intended to take strike action.


One lady had a moment of panic on finding we were to take a fast ride by lift up seventy-seven floors. But she did make the trip.


My stomach stayed on ground level. The contents were close to eruption the moment I stood close to the glassed in viewing area to look – down. The stomach churned. Head felt strange. I had a feeling of falling. Closing my eyes. I stepped back from the edge. When I felt secure. I walked around to take in the view of the horizon. Then I sat on the lounge chair to wait to return to. Earth. To feel the ground beneath my feet.


The ride down caused much worry. The floor of the life vibrated on the way down. I placed my arms around the frightened lady to support her on the down journey to escape from the experience. The moment the doors opened. We rushed out of the lift.


We were free. Safe.


Lucky the lady took our photos before rising high above our comfort space. At least. They had evidence of who went up if the lift failed to stop.


I cringed. Felt like a failure. Heights were not entered into my genes.


Can't believe sane people put on special suits with harnesses to step out of the building to climb up nearly three hundred steps to the spire with the breeze tearing at their suit.
An eighty-four year young lady made the climb to the top.


Not me. My courage floated away in a soap bubble the moment I looked. DOWN.


                                                     Past Memories.

Headless Horror

We left home at dusk.

This trip to visit friends took longer than we thought. Dad had to work later than usual.

The car had been packed ready to leave once dad had showered. And changed into clean clothes. Getting into the car just as the sun descended below the horizon.

At a safe, steady pace. We drove on the loose gravel road. The narrow road with a raised section in the middle making the way dangerous. Excessive speed had cars fish tailing. Heavy vehicles were hazardous. Too wide with their loads of cattle. Or timber.

The road consisted of sharp curves. And deep gullies. These flooded quick when rain fell. Dad had to watch for kangaroos. Or escaped cows. And horses. But finally. We reached the highway without mishap.

An hour into our journey. We came upon an accident scene. Police. Ambulance. And fire truck lights flashed lighting up the darkness. The road blocked both north, and south, cutting the highway. Car. And trucks were backing up.

In the middle of the highway stood a mangled mess. A low sports car had gone under the front wheels of a gravel truck. The roof of the sports had been peeled back like a can of sardines. The body jammed hard between the front wheels. The truck have to be lifted at the front to remove the crumpled mess which once was a sports car.

Dad got out of the car. Shock hit him the moment he had a proper look at the truck. He knew the owners of both the truck. And the sports car.

Walking up to the barricade across the road, Dad explained to the policeman he knew both men. He was taken to where the body lay beside the crumpled mess to identify his friend.

We had to make a detour.

No one knew where his parents lived.

Dad knew. So we had to back track to show the police where to find them. We had to drive through bush tracks to reach the work camp site. The parents had to be woken to be told of the death of their son. Duty done. We were allowed to continue on with our journey.

I lay on the back seat trying to go to sleep. I usually slept from the beginning to the finish. But tonight. Maybe watching the action at the accident scene had unsettled me.

I wish I had slept. Cold shivers ran through every part of my body. I didn't need to hear the details.

Details of the accident. Or what had happened to the driver of the sports car.

The only way dad had been able to identify his friend. The man had a special birthmark. His body wasn't complete. His head had been sliced off during the accident.

I couldn't imagine how such a thing was possible. My young mind couldn't calculate such a horror. Things like that were to frighten people when telling ghost stories. Or a horror one.

Forever fishing

Sundays. I didn't like. Sundays.
We couldn't go any where to do family exploring.
Bob did the raffles at the local hotel.
Bad place to hold them. Alcohol runs freely.
Talk is cheap.
Ideas brewed with befuddled minds.
Just one for the road.
Bob finally arrived home.
“We're going fishing,” I was told, when he entered the kitchen.
“Fishing. This time of night.” He shouldn't have driven the car home. Why add water to the equation?
The fishing net found then shoved in the boot of the car.
He kissed me on his way to leave by the kitchen door.
My muscles froze. This wasn't a good sign. Maybe a warning.
I sat to play reading the cards from directions in an ESP booklet. A couple of the girls wanted theirs read. I hadn't tried this before.
Every reading had water involved. And the Queen of Spades kept coming to the fore. I had to be doing the reading wrong.
The ringing of the phone sounded the death knell. Now. I'm beginning to imagine things.
“Has Bob gone fishing,” were the panicked words shouted at me.
“Yes. Why?”
“He's missing.” A chill ran down my spine. “His friend came here to tell me. Couldn't make sense of what he mumbled.”
“What?”
“Do you know where he went?”
“Down the road to the dump. The creek which runs behind it.”
I piled the children into the car to go to my parents home. I left them with my mother. Dad had the boat hooked to the back of his Ute. I showed them where to to then returned back along the road to wait for the ambulance to show them the way. We were half way back to the creek when dad drove toward us. I stopped.
The ambulance continued past me to where dad had stopped.
The ambulance man came back to tell me to go home. To wait for the police to arrive.
I went home. Not much later the police arrived to confirm the death of my husband.
The hardest job. I had to go tell the children their father had died.
Michelle took the news the hardest. I had to rush her to the doctor.
I had no time to myself to grieve. Had to hold it together until I had notified his family. Make the arrangements.
Family, and friends, packed the church for his service.
Shops closed when the funeral possession made its way through the town to the cemetery.
A fishing trip which went terribly wrong.

May have been worse. The crocodile known to frequent the creek was absent that night.

On his headstone are the words “Forever Fishing”.
A life cut short. Never to see his children grow from teenagers to adults. He hadn't been there for the arrival of his grandchildren.
Everything over.

Now is my time to grieve for what might have been.

Kangaroo feet.

Puzzled. Always puzzled.
Winter. Summer. Every day of the year. From the moment he rose of a morning. Until he showered to go to be. Danny wore his boots.
He never wore open shoes. The ones her wore were up above his ankles.
When walking. He didn't have a smooth rhythm. They way he walked didn't seem to slow him down. Didn't hinder his ability to work.
Danny owned cattle.
He rode a horse.
Milked cows.
Made sure the fences were in shipshape condition.
He drove a car.
When my father did some timber work for him. Danny followed him around the paddocks without a stumble.
After a few rums he didn't stumble.
I nicknamed him. Without him knowing, Half-a-nip.
He had a friend of the same name. This was because they each drank their port in half nips.
One day we called to see him. We were told he had visited his friend.
Of the top of my head I said. “You mean one half-a-nip has gone to see the other half-a-nip to see if the other half-a-nip has had a half-a-nip more.” The story flashes through my head each time I think back over those days.
The friend lived on a property down the road from his place. Being in the country in those days there was many police around to catch them for drink driving. The pair of them bought their port in big jars. When the jars were empty, that meant time to go into town to shop. The nearest town was a couple of hours drive.
So back to the story.
We called in to see Danny very late one night. The clock in the lounge room chimes twelve while we sat at the kitchen table drinking tea, and eating cakes, and biscuits.
I couldn't believe my eyes. Danny had walked from his bedroom to the kitchen.
Without shoes. Or slippers. His feet bare for the first time since I knew him.
Being young. My imagination ran wild. But I kept my mouth shut.
I didn't want to embarrass myself. Or my father's friend. Especially in his own home.
I stared. Blinked my sleep filled eyes. The brain didn't want to compute what the eyes did see.
His feet weren't feet. Like I knew feet. With five toes.
I'm not making fun of the way they were formed.
Didn't pass judgement of how his body had formed during being born.
What I saw didn't change my way of thinking of him.
Or classing him to be a cripple. Name calling didn't enter my mind.
I accepted him the way I always did.
I likened the shape of his foot to that of a kangaroo foot.
His feet were sort of shaped with three. Toes.
I never asked how. Or why.
Never mentioned to anyone what I had discovered why Danny never went any where without boots.
Boots which came up past his ankles.

I admired him. He marched forward without complaining.

                            *************************************************

Hope you enjoy these stories. I have put photos between to break up the different stories. If going to abc open you will find different photos on some stories. They are sourced from different places so I can't use them here.

Have to go. I have to get dressed to go out to lunch. My friend is taking me out. Or should I put this a different way. I'm collecting my 92 year old friend. She is buying me lunch for my birthday I had recently. Present are out. This time of life there's not much we need. But she has about thirty years on me. I take her places and don't look, or ask, for payment for my kindness. Just the way I was brought up. Especially, when I'm attending the same place. 

Happening In Life.

Happening. My life has been full. Too numerous to pick one such incident which really stands out more than the other.

Fixing the foot valve on the windmill was a saga. But the words are hard to find to express my father's feelings at the time would be unprintable. Suffice to say the air turned blue. Tiny. The guy helping us to do the work let the pipe slip from the chain to fall to the bottom of the borehole.

We sat beneath the windmill for hours to try to lasso the pipe then winch it out of the mud. Then out of the ground piece by piece until all the pipe had been removed. The foot valve was replaced. The pipe then had to be lowered down the bore hole. Tiny wasn't allowed any where near the windmill workings until all was secured in place.

Or I could have explained the horror week after family members were injured in a car accident. My husband, His friend. Daughter. And son. They all went for a Saturday afternoon drive to return a guy to his place of work on the other side of the Sarina Range.

Worry began to set in when the sun fell beyond the horizon. Next came a phone call from the police asking a lot of questions. They had received a radio message from a truckie. He had reported an accident scene he'd come across on the top of the range.

The accident could have been worse than it was if my son didn't have the foresight to climb from the upturned car. He found a torch. He flagged down the semi which was the first vehicle to come along. Luckily, for everyone. Philip was the only one functioning to think. All he had received was a blood nose.

I took off to the accident scene after leaving a note for the rest of the family. The trip up. And down the range. I don't remember much about. I arrived a few seconds after the police. There were no people at the accident scene. The truckie, and Philip, had removed the other three from the car. Loaded them into the semi. Then he drove them to the ambulance station.

I finally, tracked them down at the local hospital. My husband suffered a fractured cheek bone. His friend had a couple of fractures of the neck. Nicole didn't look like her usual self. Her face was badly bruised, and swollen. Nicole was found to have her jaw broken in three places. A vein has ruptured in her head. She had to be flown to Brisbane for a few operations to stop the bleed. And repair her jaw. It was broken in three places. Everyone fully recovered over time.

Then I could have explained about my animals. I had moved to a small acreage to be able to have a couple of horses. That is all the animals I had intended to have. Within a matter of weeks, I had a lot of different animals. Fowls. Geese. Dog. Cats. And pigs. Between my father, and his friends, I seemed to end up with all the strays everyone wanted to give away.

But I decided to tell about the time my daughter, Leanne, was pregnant. Leanne, and her sister-in-law, were due to have their baby in the same week. They both wanted to name their baby, Mitchell. If either of them had a son. So the race was on to be the one to deliver their baby first.

On the eighteenth of October, Leanne, went into the hospital with pains. Didn't happen. She came home later in the day. I had been kept busy at work, and home, all day. The whole week had been busy. The pigs began to deliver their litter. Chickens, and ducklings, were hatched. The cat had her kittens.

Thursday night. Even though I went to be at a reasonable hour. I didn't have more than a few minutes sleep. I could hear Leanne, and BJ, discussing what they should do while she paced the floor. I lay in bed listening. Waiting to hear who would win the discussion.

“You can't have your mother drive you to the hospital You'll have the baby along the road.”

“No. I won't. Mum will have me there faster than the ambulance. We won't have to fill all the paperwork out. Again.”

“But. They will be there to deliver the baby. Your mother can't deliver the baby.”

“But she'll have me at the hospital for the doctor to deliver my baby.”

“Fine. Be it on your head if something goes wrong.”

A few seconds later Leanne was at the bedroom doorway.

“Mum. Are you awake?”

“Yeah.” I threw back the bed covers to get out of bed.

“I need to go to the hospital. I want you to take me.”

“Okay. Give me a moment to dress.”

Moments later. We were headed down the driveway on the forty-four kilometre drive to the hospital. Leanne rode with me. BJ followed behind in his hotted up, sporty car, thinking this would be a slow, long trip. But the trip was fast. And uneventful.

“I didn't know your mother could drive so fast,” were the words I heard when the passenger door was opened.

“I told you so.”

I waited at the hospital until the sun began to rise. I left to drive home to wake Nicole to go to work.

“Where's Leanne?”

“What do you mean. Didn't you hear all the noise?”

“No. What happened?”

“I had to drive her to the hospital. Didn't you hear the car start?”

“Didn't hear, anything. Has she had the baby?”

I drove Nicole to work. I returned home to feed the animals. Tiredness began to set in. I worked at a slow pace. I took longer than usual to feed, and clean, the animals.

I trudged slowly up the hill to the house. I headed to the bathroom to have a shower to wash away the smell from cleaning the pig”s sty.

Sleep was calling me. I made myself comfortable on the bed to catch up on many hours of lost sleep. I began to drift off when the phone rang. I prayed the ringing would stop. Hoped I was not being called in to work. On my way to the phone, I cursed the person who had invented the phone.

Moment after answering the call. I was on my way. Once again. To Mackay. “You are wanted in here,” I was told by the caller.

On arriving at the hospital. Again. I went to the desk to tell them who I wanted to see.

“So. You are the missing mother.” I nodded. “Come with me.”

I didn't know what to expect. I followed the nurse down the passage way. Where I ended my journey I didn't expect to be. I had been escorted to the delivery room. Leanne was holding back delivering until I arrived. A washer was placed in my hand to bathe Leanne's face. No one had asked me if I wanted to be in the room when my grandchild was born. Everyone seemed to take this for granted I would help. Not asking if I'd pass out on the floor.

Leanne had become a little stressed. The father was having his hand squeezed. Hard. He was being cursed. The doctor sat at the bottom of the bed waiting for the delivery of the baby. Summing up the tension in the room while doing my sponge job. I set out to cheer everyone with strange stories for encouragement.

“I don't want to do this,” came from Leanne, when another contraction came. “It hurts too much.”

“Did you hear the pigs complain while they delivered their litter? You have to deliver one, baby. The first sow had nine pigs. The second one had thirteen. They beat you on the baby stakes. So did the hens, and ducks. Even the cat has beaten you. She has her kittens. There's only you and Tammy left. You don't want to be the last one to deliver this week. Do you?” The doctor, and nurse, smiled while I told my stories. They looked at me like I was making up everything I said. “Come. You can do this. Concentrate hard. The pain will soon be over.” I soothed the fevered brow while she settled to finish the job.

I kept talking a lot of rubbish until my grandson was born. Leanne was pleased when it was all over. She had her son to be called Mitchell. I watched the proceedings. A bundle of new born baby was placed in my arms. When I could escape from the hospital, I had to travel home to collect Nicole from work.

Times of Change.

This year. I'm taking time to stop to smell the flowers. Last year, I became mentally exhausted because I had my finger in too many pies. Projects. I travelled along fine, until too many competitions landed in my e-mail from past places I had entered. One competition, I wrote 40,000 words in just over a month, plus my work for writers class; 500 word stories for ABC Open; short stories and poetry. Then family problems, and other problems came my way, so this meant I didn't get my proper rest.

I have been on a couple of daily bus trips since the start of the year. I'm booked on a 3 day one soon. Then a 5 day over Easter. Where I can mingle with friends to visit new places, and take many photographs along the way.

In between, I have my writing class; exercise class; and resting when I don't have housework to do. Or I have to rest due to pains in my muscles. My ABC workshops begin this week, so we'll be given more topics on which to write our memory story. I'm also trying my hand at writing some horror stories. Just finished a piece I have to take to class on Friday.

Because the weather has been miserable, today, I have taken time to make some changes to my blogs. Nothing worthwhile on television so finishing them before going to bed.

Homeless Gills

A dejected Gills skulked down an alley way littered with rubbish. He kicked an empty can sending it sailing through the air. The can landed near a cat scavenging in a rubbish bin. The hairs on the back stood up. It jumped with fright. Spun around to land on all four paws ready to attack the enemy. Who dared to approach silently to steal the food he had found. There was no enemy. Only an offending can which had attacked. It lay discarded among the rest of the junk surrounding him.

The only other movement in the alley was a young boy searching. Looking for somewhere safe, and dry, to spend the night. His nose twitched at the stench from the rotten food discarded at the back of the restaurants. Rats scurried from one disgusting pile of rubbish, to another, in search of food. A place to hide from stray cats. To be well hidden before the strays prowled through the alley in search of fresh. Warm rodents. To eat. Something which didn't smell awful while they consumed their evening meal.

Suddenly. The night was plunged into darkness. All the available lights went out at the same time. The approaching storm had fused out the electrical system. Dark storm clouds rolled over the sky covering what light shone from the stars. And the moon. Gills couldn't see where to step to make his way to shelter before the rain reached him.

His tired. Beaten body began to shiver. To shake from fright. Gills didn't like being alone in complete darkness. His fears of darkness multiplied out of proportion. Voices. Faces came toward him out of the night. The same voices. And faces. He'd been haunted by them over the past few years of his life. Voices from angry faces who yelled. Screamed. This happened every night he'd been locked in the dark cupboard beneath the stairs.

Each member of the family his mother had left him with didn't want him. They despised having him thrust into their care. He'd been feed the scraps from the table. Scraps the dog turned its nose up at each time were placed in the bowl. The over fed fluff ball received more appetising food than Gills.

Tonight. Gills had been severely beaten for a crime one of the others had committed. He'd been locked in the cupboard. Gills planned for the next time he'd be locked in the hell hole. He has planted tools beneath the boxes to help him escape.

“You have to escape,” a voice appealed to him from the darkness last time. The same voice had led him to find, and hide, what he'd need.

No one approached the door to wonder what he did in the the cupboard. The racket made by the rest of the family covered the splintering of the timber. He worked with a wrecking bar to open the hole in the wall.

Now. He had his freedom. He'd moved from one small place of darkness to a much larger one. He was about to be caught in a storm.

Tins rattled. Paper blew with the wind forcing its way down the alley way. Other little noises magnified out of proportion in Gills imagination. He closed his eyes. Covered his ears with his hands to block out the fiends who were about to attack him. To tear him limb, from limb. There'd be no pieces of his body left to show where he'd died. The stray cats will have cleaned up all the evidence come morning.

“You can open your eyes, Gills,” came the same angelic voice. The one who had advised him to leave the abusive environment in which he had lived.

“You are surrounded by light. And friends. They will lead you to safety.”

Gills opened his eyes. Slowly. He slowly stood surrounded by many pairs of eyes shining in his direction. A piercing scream rent the night. Gills let his years of fear escape from his body. He stumbled over the rubbish in his haste to leave the alley. Scrambled over cans. Over all things which lay in his path. The cats circled. They went with Gills to lead him to where they had been instructed to take him. A food reward had been offered for their help.

Gills dashed head long across the darkened street. A speeding car skidded around the corner. The mudguard clipped Gills sending him flying through the air to land on the footpath.

A glowing white light appeared where he lay unconscious when the cats reached his side. Out of the light stepped an apparition of an angel who knelt beside Gills. She held her hands out in front of her above the supine body to source his injuries. What damage had been caused by the accident.

“I need two of you to step forward,” the angel smiled at the cats, “to continue with this mission. Gills has further to travel. He'll need two companions to travel with him. To show him the way.”

A few of the cats stepped forward in the hope they would be given extra nourishments once the mission had been completed. Greed shone from their eyes.

The angel looked past them to the rest of the cats to find some she'd be able to trust. A couple who'd be selfless. She pointed to her two choices.

“You two step forward, please.” She waited for the cats to prowl forward to stand near Gills.

“My two brave friends. I want you to close your eyes.” The chosen ones closed their eyes. “For a period of three hours you will feel different but don't be afraid. You will return to your former form.” She waved her hands in the direction of the two cats.

Even the approaching storm stilled while the angel did her work of changing the cats to human form. She mended the worst of the injuries to Gills.

“You may open your eyes.” She handed a slip of paper to one of the changed cats. “This is where you are to deliver Gills. You will be rewarded when he has been safely delivered.”

“Thank you. Your majesty.”

“We''l follow your directions to the latter.”

“Once I leave Gills will wake. You will help him to rise. With care. You will guide him to his new home.”

“Yes. Your majesty.”

The angel slowly faded into the night. Gills moaned. He shook his head to clear away the fog. He stared at the two people who helped him stand.

“Who are you?”

“We are here to help you.”

“To take you to a place to shelter from the storm.”

Gills was led away to safety/ Small fish rained down from the sky for the remaining cats to feast on.

Half an hour later. The three boys stood on the porch of a mansion in the wealthier part of the town. One pushed the button to ring the bell. Moments later, the door was opened. Suspicious eyes of the butler stared at the three dirty individuals standing near the doorway.

“We were asked to deliver this boy to this address.” The note was handed over to the butler. He read the note. Shock. Surprise crossed the face of the butler.

“Have we come to the wrong house?” The three stared at the butler.

“No. I'll tell the master...”

“Coster. Who is at the door?”

“You have visitors. Sir.”

“Well. Bring them in.”

Coster showed the three people into the lounge room. The butler motioned Gills to step forward. He handed over the note he had been given

Tears of joy rolled down the cheeks of the master. He stared at Gills. “So you are Gills. Where's your mother?”

“I don't know, Sir. She left me with some people, Sir.”

“You had better call me, grandpa, not, Sir. You are my grand son, so it seems. I didn't know I had one. Welcome to your new home. We'll take good care of you. Won't we? Coster.”

The master looked at a smiling, Coster. “Take my grandson to be bathed. Find him something to wear. Give his friends some food.”

Coster led the three of them away to do like the master had ordered. He smiled. He spied the master rush to the phone to tell his friends he had found a grandson.

Gills came to thank the boys who had delivered Gills to the care of his grandfather. All he found were two satisfied cats beside the warm stove. Sleeping.