When friends really matter.

We have all experienced the warmth and support friendships bring when we have a setback.
A friend once wrote me a cheque for $50,000 when I needed it most. I did not ask. He just handed me the cheque and said; “Will this help?” That kindness saved me from losing my farm, and he was paid back with interest within a year.

But it is not that sort of help we need when we have suffered the loss of a loved one, particularly if his/her death is sudden and even more so if he/she was murdered.

We get calls of condolence immediately, and many friends come to the funeral so we feel supported then. We have a service of some kind where we express our grief in the presence of friends and family then we all go home, the less connected put it behind them and get on with their lives.

But in these extreme cases, where there are questions left over, some of criminal culpability but more important to us are the questions that arise as we revisit any action of our own that might have contributed, no matter how minor, to the situation that allowed the tragedy to happen.

That is the time we need our friends to come around, prod us into talking and to listen. Questions may need to be asked; “What is worrying you most? Do you think you should have done more/done it differently/done it sooner?” The answer in most cases should be ‘yes’ but is sometimes is denied for now, but if it is yes, the next question must be; “OK so what do you think you could have done?” That should get it started, but what then?

There is no value in saying things like; ‘You are not to blame, it would have happened anyway, he/she brought it on him/herself, it was the lifestyle he/she chose etc’. All those ready excuses will only make the guilt worse. We would like to grab onto them, but we can’t.

Friends and relatives suffer the pain of hindsight; opportunities that were not recognised at the time, words said that can never be withdrawn, appeals ignored through anger or resentment. All the real or imagined shortcomings are paraded past, newly clarified and accusing.

What is needed is an opportunity to confess all those guilty thoughts to a significant adult, someone who has the power to judge but loves us enough to understand, so the anguish and remorse can be expressed fully, with the freedom to cry, wail and blubber as many times as necessary to get it all out. But that takes time.

A good friend will call around every day if necessary, call on the phone if unable to provide a physical presence, and remind others of what is needed and even organise the team. Funerals are over in a day but grieving takes a little longer.

Image by courtesy http://www.stockfreeimages.com/p1/empty-chair.html

Strangers: Nice people waiting to be introduced.

Yesterday I was waiting in a queue at a fruit shop check out when I received a call from Julia (daughter and hero) to read me a letter she had received from her brother David. The letter was so full of love that I got a bit teary.
I did notice the young lady watching me, so I signed off as I reached her.
She asked if I was OK, and as she packed the groceries, I replied that I had just been read a letter from a son who died last week.
All packed, l turned to leave, but in my confusion, had not paid. She called after me the amount and I was so embarrassed to have been so absent minded, I must have looked totally lost.!
As I paid, she asked me what was wrong, so I told her I was a bit preoccupied, thinking about the funeral tomorrow (now today).
Then when I was a few metres down the mall, I heard her call to me again.
As I turned, she ran up and handed me a beautiful jam roll cake.
She pressed it into my hands and kissed me on the cheek then whispered; "This is for after the funeral" and she was gone! I had never been to that shop before and had never met her, so the tears started over again.
I just though you would like to know this.

Cops, luck and presumption.

An arrest has been made and I spent last evening making a statement to police detectives, who were not only smart, but were gentle and patient. Considering what they see every day, they manage to remain caring and compassionate, and as Julia, the lead detective said, in this case they got lucky.

The good luck began with CCTV being on the spot and a suspect identified as a person who had already come to 'the attention police' that night. His home was searched and he was taken into custody where he remains, having been refused bail.
A witness called an ambulance for David, but that is where the luck ended. Despite a bleeding head wound and, as later discovered, a brain haemorrhage, he was not examined by a doctor at the hospital, despite a wait of over three hours after which he left, probably in frustration and needing a smoke, and died in a park across the road.
There are a lot of questions being asked and few being answered.

Now for some Easter pictures.
The camera does not show how close they are, or how many there are! The cabin roof in the first pic is of Swan Song, IXL's old wooden boat, soon to be sold. She has been tied alongside for a month so I can access 240V power for sanders etc, but the work is almost done. Then she goes onto the slips for a clean and antifoul, then out of Yeomans Bay and into E-bay!

Arriving home late last night (I take a dinghy ride of about a kilometre from the tie-up to Heavy Metal) I was greeted by a fairyland of lights. This morning, daylight revealed over fifty yachts and cruisers jammed into a space that usually sees about five!
Perfect weather and the long weekend has drawn every boat that floats to Cowan Creek it seems.
IXL is at Mosman Market today selling her hand-made fashion garments but tonight she will visit and we will be joined by Neil and Heather in Tiki for a BBQ and catch up.
That is what I need right now; good company and a break from drama!

When a loved one dies on your watch.

His name was Stafford but with a father and grandfather of the same name close by, we called him David to avoid confusion and that might have been the first rejection.
Crawling around the feet of a practicing musician he was exposed to the best, Bach, Beethoven, Count Basie, Sinatra, Barney Kessel then Blood Sweat and Tear and the new wave of drummers of the super groups.

At three, on the one hour drive from his nanna’s, his incredible memory and vocabulary regurgitated in detail the story of whole movies. At six, he made up a drum kit from cans and boxes, so at eight when he persisted, Santa arrived with a real kit.
Then it was concerts with Frank Zappa and Chicago.
By twelve he was playing like a pro and seasoned players came to hear and learn from the prodigy.
By early teens his talent was too good to keep at home and professionals booked him for gigs. He was flying… but where? We were not ‘watching his back’ and he was introduced to drugs by his adult bandmates, who probably thought it was funny.

By his mid teens, strange things were happening, unfathomable lapses. Amazing opportunities blown like in the Man With the Golden Arm. A pattern was emerging. First time in a band, he was a star then next time, he arrived stoned and was sent home. None understood, not even me, who was so proud of his genius. I am sure I must have, but can’t remember telling him so. And after learning of his addiction, I was too confused to know what questions to ask. Even he did not understand what was happening to him and despite his prodigious insights and ability to express his feelings, if he did, we were not listening.

Just yesterday I had this thought:
Any prodigy only becomes so by having an extraordinary and detailed vision of a goal at an early age. In David’s case, his musical standards were assumed by osmosis while he was still a baby. His eagerness to play music was welcomed but nobody watching was aware of his anguish. What appeared to be perfect to us was never enough for him. He outshone the best of them, but failed his own test of worth. He never felt he was good enough.

If this is true of most prodigies, it explains why so many young celebrities fall victim to addictions. He was handsome, funny and when working he earned good money. Marriage and fatherhood gave him stability for a time, but even that was not enough and feelings of inadequacy drove him back to heroin.

Some get over it, but for some, they become dead men walking, repelling those who would help if they could, but having exhausted their patience, give up. From there, rejection and a failure, made bearable by drugs, completes the downward spiral to homelessness and all the terrors and horrors that brings.

But somehow, he managed to get clear of heroin and even beat methadone but alcoholism was a bridge too far. He keep himself clean and almost always had a phone and an i-pod. All he owned was carried in two shopping bags and all his clothes except undies, he wore all the time. And he found friends among the homeless and with them he spent his days, so there were good times. But he always yearned for contact with the daughters and siblings he loved, and he did love with a heart that was big, generous and forgiving, in the end, even of himself, his toughest critic.

His girls did give their love, and even sought him out when they could as did I. But although I had long stopped trying to change anything and just enjoyed being with him, accepting that he could not change either, I never really understood what kept him where he was and I doubt anyone else did either, at least until yesterday. Almost a week after he died alone and in despair, I think I finally got it.

Foresight can one’s life enrich
Lack of it, our dreams unstitch.
Ignorance, they say is bliss
But hindsight can be a cruel bitch.

Too soon

.

Perfect infant
Born to children
Too soon.

Innocent prodigy
In adult world
Too soon

Making choices
Taking chances
Too soon

Addicted, lost,
Choices gone
Too soon

Stolen life
Ended today
Too soon,
Too soon.

PS. Replaced Julie's photo of the homeless man with David, about 12 at a gig, and a recent one taken by a family member.
Thanks Julie.

New Years Eve 2011.

Friday dawned calm and cool, light breeze forecast and although on the nose, it was only four hours after all, so it was go, destination Snails Bay, just upstream from the 'coathanger' where the traffic is light and the view excellent. Lisajane was aboard, first time at sea, so we dosed her up and she enjoyed the ride, particularly the second half when we were able to hoist the Genoa mainly to keep her steady against the SE swells.
Coming through Sydney Heads, with high and rugged cliffs on both sides, we could almost have been Arthur Philip, entering for the first time. Cook had sailed past unaware of the labyrinth of bays where, as Philip remarked 'could anchor three hundred ships of the line' or the river beyond that could have taken them upstream to where Parramatta now stands and relatively fertile land was available.
Since then I have felt too tired to blog, BUT we had aboard designer, photographer and blogger Cate Holst who's photos came out well, so we could do worse than refer you to her blog for some good shots.
Be strong and scroll down past her mango tart recipe, the last of which we gobbled down last night with the (almost) last of IXL's wine trifle.
We have a day of recovery today before we are overwhelmed by my youngest and her energetic brood tomorrow.

Sequel

As predicted, we attracted suspicion from members of the most secretive of secretive sects, but were eventually approached by an older gentleman who invited to stand close enough to hear the short eulogy that was delivered to members and their disinterested children by Bill’s son-in-law David. Then shovels were produced and Uncle Bill was returned to the soil that had nurtured him.

Of the immediate family, only dear zany Pam and her clan were still members of the sect. Understandably, she was somewhat overwhelmed by our presence, but despite having known me well and having lived near my sister Dianne in the past, she twice asked us who we were.

Sister Dianne and I made ourselves known to the old lady, who seemed to remember me and was introduced to Sis, born after the schism and with no knowledge of the sect or its members. I can’t say the welcome was a warm one, but on the day she was burying her husband of 75 years, she could have been in a daze of grief. Then again, I detected an impatience with our presence. After all, with family ‘outsiders’ outnumbering those still in captivity at least two to one we must have represented a challenge to their superior morality. Sadly, nobody came from Bill’s brother’s family.

But as predicted, we outsiders got together afterwards in a restaurant, met the generation born since we last met and thoroughly enjoyed each others’ company for a couple of hours. It was worth the trip.

However, I am kicking myself I didn’t take my camera. But as nobody else did either, perhaps photos are taboo now. Who knows what the MOG has declared sinful since his last edict! What I would like to have shown you was the shoes.

With no make-up, jewellery, hair dye and all plainly dressed and sporting a curiously truncated head scarf, the women expressed their vanity through the most expensive and ornate shoes I have ever seen, with bright colours, patent leather shining, bejewelled and with heels! Funny animals, humans.

Shoe borrowed from here.

My Uncle Bill Chesterfield died yesterday.

He was 97 and I do not remember ever meeting him. He is ‘survived’ by my aunt Malvina (Ray) 99, who I have not seen for sixty years, although I have driven by their house (six hours from here) at least twenty times in the intervening years, and despite invitations to call in, I have gone right by. But I will be going to the funeral tomorrow.

When I was about fourteen, Dad took us to see a Hollywood Musical. Perhaps it was Oklahoma. Dad loved music. He knew it was forbidden to enter a cinema, but maybe because in earlier times his mother had taken him to the ‘flicks’ and to circuses, the church’s ban was not strong enough to stop him. However, we were observed and reported.

Soon after, Dad’s favourite sister Clarissa died from complications following brain surgery.
The family cast about for a reason God had taken her from them and decided her death must have been in retribution for my father’s sins. You might think; “What rubbish!”, but they had a great precedent and you don’t need to be in a wacky far out sect to believe in God’s insistence on human sacrifice. All Christians do.

We were imbued from birth with the myth that “Jesus died for our sins”, so any condemnation of the Order of (Exclusive) Plymouth Brethren and the ever tightening restrictions placed on its members by its (American) leader, their Man Of God (MOG), is to ignore the obvious.

So, we were ‘withdrawn from’. That means being completely cut off from family and friends. All an EB’s friends were expected to come from within the faith, so overnight we were supposed to have been isolated. Luckily, Mum’s family ignored the ban.

On the next Sunday, several car loads of white faced men in black suits arrived at our home demanding that Mum take the Lambs (we children) and leave with them right away, so we would be saved God’s retribution for my father’s sins. Mum’s crying brought Dad running. She wailed her distress and Dad (bless him) picked up a lump of wood and told the rapidly retreating Brethren to vamoose before he cracked their skulls!

Dad loved Mum more than he loved his church and for that was made to suffer the full force of God’s anger. For Dad it was a death sentence. He suffered terribly from that guilt and all the other sins he imagined he must have committed for God to condemn him so cruelly. He died prematurely at 62. Mum suffered too. She lived on without the love of her life for another lonely 35 years. As the Jesuits say, “Give me a child until he is seven…”

So, if I had visited my aunt at her home I would have been offered a cup of tea and a biscuit despite my status as a non-believer. But I knew I would have to say; “Thanks Aunt, but where are your tea and biscuits?” She would have then gleefully delivered God’s word.

You see, one of the MOG’s directives is that no member is to share food or drink with a non member. At the Rapture, when they ‘ascend unto Heaven’, God has warned that he can’t be bothered separating the ‘Wheat from the Tares’. They are terrified that God will throw the whole contaminated mess of the Blessed and Sinners into his ‘fire and brimstone’ landfill.

I would have sat there, not touching one drop or one crumb of her afternoon tea, while she politely asked after my family and what I had been doing. She would have listened while I confessed two divorces and recounted my life as a musician, playing the Devil’s Music (well enough to have hit the top of the professional tree for my ‘fifteen minutes of fame’) or I would have let fly with my condemnation of the self righteous and cruel bastardry they had meted out to my dad and our family.

Frankly I would not have been able to contain my indignation. I would have said something hurtful to that old woman who was more victim than oppressor. So I drove by her street, content to remember the funny and irreverent young woman she had been before she became totally deluded.

Tomorrow we are not permitted to enter the church for the substantive part of the funeral service, but the Blessed have deigned to allow us lesser family members to attend the ‘graveside service’. In the front row will be the devout, the adults glancing at us with pity. Some will condescend to mumble a few platitudes before escaping the dangers of contamination. Their little ones will regard us with curiosity but the lambs will be carefully shepherded to maintain a healthy distance from sources of infection. So why am I going?

There are nineteen first cousins from my dad’s family, all married with offspring. At the last count, over half have been ‘withdrawn from’ so I will be there to support the pariahs, the escapees, the eccentric real people I love dearly and am proud to call family. Then afterwards, I will join them for a sinful drink to celebrate Us, catch up with family news and have a laugh in the non-judgmental ambience of a pub of our choice.

My Christmas Epiphany for Jingle Poetry...

Marjorie

In my childhood,
my difficult childhood,
she was there for me.

In her decline,
her long cruel decline,
I was there for her.

But her love
was greater than mine.
She died to set me free.

..........................................................

Photo of Marjorie about 1927 with Rowdy, a name given to a long line of cattle dogs, a tradition still followed by descendaants of Irwin Turnbull of the Ebenezer Turnbulls to this day.
Written after the first anniversary of her death. She died on an anniversary of my birth aged 93, still a power to be reckoned with right to the end.

See more contributions at jingle poetry

Pot luck poetry

Julia. My Hero.

Air, fire, wa-ter,
Earth, my daughter
Grounded, loving, cool.

El-e-ment-'ry
Female wisdom-
Her genetic pool.

Originally written for Magpie Tales, maybe worth a second outing in Potluck Poetry
My daughters are both amazing individuals and I really do call this one 'my hero'. Brave, wise and a self made success, despite some who tried, but failed to discourage her ever!
The other one, I simply call gorgeous.

Thoughts at a funeral

Choice.









Like all big happy families
We have rules.

One drawer for undies,
Two pairs of shoes.

Three books, one radio
Two pictures, not big.

Monday, sing-along with Ted,
Excursion Wednesday.

Bingo Friday, Communion Sunday
Both Catholic. Har har!

Even days, spaghetti on toast,
Cheese sandwich, chop three veg.

Odd number days, porridge,
ham salad, sausage and mash.

Doc Tuesdays, teeth first Thursday
Hairdresser last Monday.

Shower at five, inspection at six
Lights out by ten.

That’s about it. Questions?
Yes. When can I die?

...................................

Note: My own experience of nursing homes is of overworked and caring people, dedicated to the welfare of their clients. But some clients might have a different point of view. Picture from lawsuit.com however, is typical.

Webster Pack

This post was prompted by Rel's Magpie 24 and the poem written while nursing my mum who just wanted it all to end but was afraid of the pain.
Anyone handling multiple doses of multiple drugs is thankful for Webster-pak. It simplifies and reduces errors. So this poem is not directed at that brand but at the philosophy of preserving 'life at all costs'.

But having said that, it is worth noting the following quote from the Webster-pak website: "With the introduction of the Webster-pak, many pharmacies have achieved growth. One New South Wales pharmacy went from a couple to 40 Webster-pak patients in no time at all."



Webster Pack.

Efficient drug dispenser.
Every measured dose,
fail-safe organised.
No hope of fatal error.

We are so clever,
post graduate researchers.
Personal relevance measured
by product on a shelf.

Medical economy,
what are you selling?
Efficient, no side effect,
gold plated immortality?

So, are you in profit, Webster Pack?
Your compensation for holding
so many flickering, painful lives,
teetering expensively on the edge of death.

Stafford Ray, July 2007.

Sunset

Helen (bless you) went right back to my first blog (Carer Blues One). She commented that she, like me, wrote to stay sane while caring for her dying mother. After almost two years of 24/7, my sister Jen and I eventually agreed to hand over day to day care to a nursing home where we could visit Mum every day.
A severe stroke should have killed her but didn't, leaving her physically helpless but mentally bright with memory and even her wicked sense of humour intact. Loss of speech was the worst, preventing her from communicating except by way of a printed alphabet, which she could race over (using her one good finger) so fast she needed an interpreter.

Her nightmare began because a report that detailed Mum's disabilities and abilities was not read by the staff. So through the first day and night, they spoke to her and treated her as as if she were an incontinent mentally retarded two-year old. When I arrived next day to challenge Mum, the Eden (home town) Scrabble champ to a war of wits, she was crying. She explained what was happening so I made an appointment to see the CEO for next morning and in the meantime wrote this poem which I e-mailed to her so she could read it before our meeting.

Sometimes poetry can express so much more. So to Helen and other carers, here is what I believe is my best poem ever. The picture, taken just now from the starboard bow of my 'floating flat', prompted me to share this poem with you at this time.



Old People’s Home.

She sits and she stares
at the door to her world
from which she came,
to this allotted space.

Beautiful mind, cruelly spared.
Taunted though empty days
and long, long, grieving nights,
by mem’ry of lost relevance.

Craving assurance;
a human embrace,
while latex plastic hands
touch only from necessity.

This little time, a miser’s gift.
Last chance to ease her passing,
with what will not be given;
The Final Validation of her existence.

Eden NSW 2007

Julia, my hero.

Air, fire, wa-ter,
Earth, my daughter
Grounded, loving, cool.

El-e-ment-'ry
Female wisdom-
Her genetic pool.


Prompted by Magpie Tales

Before SWAT.

It was the year De Havilland built its first jet fighter in Australia. Thunder shook my body for minutes as terror mounted while I scanned the horizon for its source. A tiny speck appeared, streaking downward in a dive that pulled out too close to the ground, broadcasting its waves of shock to rattle crockery and spook cattle. Weeks later, after waiting and watching for a repeat performance, I judged the pilot must have been spoken to rather harshly because it never happened again.

I was thirteen and we were blasting stumps on the new farm, me hammering in a piece of water pipe and withdrawing it to leave holes around stump roots while Dad crimped detonators onto fuses and pushed them into Dynamite sticks. Each stick was lifted gingerly from its wooden crate while he complaining ‘they were sweating’, apparently not a good thing.

But we had great fun lighting the fuses and while they hissed and spluttered, we ran faster than necessary, to hide behind trees where we involuntarily closed our eyes to the detonations then watched as bits of stump and soil flew past. But, with the job only half done, it all stopped when we ran out of caps and fuse. So Dad sent me for more.

Now, I don’t mean I went to the shed. I was given a note, a signed cheque and two shillings for the train fare to Parramatta. First a bike ride the three miles to Cabramatta Train Station, change trains at Granville then a long walk from Parramatta Station to Murray Brothers in Church Street where I presented the note and cheque.

Two boxes of caps and a roll of fuse in a hessian bag (with receipt) were passed over the counter and I was off. The only advice I received was to not open the boxes of caps. But on the train while nobody was looking I slid back a lid and picked out one bright brass cap as carefully as I had seen my father do, turned it gingerly in my hand, examining it for signs of hidden harm, then guiltily slipped it back into its sawdust nest, none the wiser.

My safe arrival home three hours later was barely noted. It was expected, as was every other event of that day, except the breaking of the sound barrier, in an age when trust was assumed.

(Pic courtesy Wikipedia)

Family Tees.

Hovee Ray, paternal grandfather, moved from Tasmania about 1919 leaving behind most of the family, good breeders all and now scattered all over the Holiday isle.

My niece, Jennifer Ray, 16 of Alexandra Headland is a pretty good golfer, thanks to her step father Eric’s tutelage and natural Ray athleticism. (Ha! Ha! No, really!) Her mum, Dianne mentioned more or less in passing that Jennifer was off to Ulverstone Tasmania for the Australian Girls Amateur Championship and would need accommodation.

I had been communicating with my Tasmanian cousin Linnie Carew, our Ray family tree scribe so I shot off an e-mail to ask if there were any Rays in Ulverstone who might like to take on my niece for the three day tournament. Honestly, I didn’t know exactly where Linnie lived, but bugger me, she wrote back to say she lived in Ulverston and her mum, a Ray would be delighted to put up a couple of the girls and would even organise a cheer squad. How good is that! This morning, Jen’s friend Lauren is leading the tournament.

More on: http://www.sunshinecoastdaily.com.au/story/2010/04/15/hole-in-one-delivers-lead-to-lauren-mason-golf/