Linda Brooks

2012-02-14T08:05:00.000-08:00

Dontcha love it

Submission

2012-01-05T23:25:00.001-08:00

Merry Christmas & a Happy New Year

2011-12-17T05:34:00.001-08:00

This is the tree I hang now
took quite a while to paint it
from my original Xmas tree photo
But now, it only takes a minute!

Health and happiness, joy and peace to all of us!!

It's all relative...

2011-12-09T02:28:00.000-08:00

The Tree I Love

2011-11-18T19:13:00.000-08:00

Vignettes

2011-11-10T23:03:00.000-08:00

A collection of heart stories

Brooks is at her finest in this cunning collection of short stories. Her trademark wit and sharp observation is crafted with depth and compassion, as she once again explores the gamut of human experience with fearless clarity and buoyant optimism.

In this series, Linda gives full rein to her passion for the individual narratives of others. With deference and respect, she reveals the foibles and quirks of her varied characters, never losing the essence of the elegance and power of the human spirit.

These stories are vignettes—windows into the lives of others, where equality and dignity is intrinsically woven into each tale. We see our friends, family and acquaintances. We make new friends and ultimately gain insight into our own true selves.

Vignettes is now available on Linda's website www.lindaruthbrooks.com for $15.75 incl postage. The first two buyers will receive a set of six hand-painted blank greeting cards.

We are Australian

2011-11-10T22:56:00.001-08:00

You know us.

We are your cousin Alice, who tells the story of Nanna’s funeral; of how all the cars followed Uncle George in the wrong direction, while a priest stood by the grave, waiting to conduct the burial.

We are your dad, who you visit on warm summer nights, and he talks about the old days; when he met mum; when he worked in the cane fields.

We are the migrant family next door, who laugh till they cry, telling of how, when they arrived in the fifties, they went to the milk bar for a gelati. The owner just kept saying “Gilleti” and offering them razor blades.

We are the Vietnamese mother who tells you one day how she came to Australia. She quietly talks of three weeks at sea in a small boat, crammed in with twenty others, knees to chest, cold, wet and hungry.

We are anyone who has lived in Australia. Often, our stories will be your stories; but some will be strange, different; some will be funny and others will bring tears.

We are the story tellers who started with memories that turned into stories. We wrote them down, and learned the frustration when the words wouldn’t come; and experienced that magical moment when the words took over, and the story wrote itself. We became authors.

Now here we are. These are our stories; our country’s living history.

John McBride (2010)

Now available on Linda's website www.lindaruthbrooks.com for $15.75 incl postage. The first two buyers will receive a set of six hand-painted blank greeting cards.

An Irish Blessing

2011-11-10T05:19:00.000-08:00

May the road rise up to meet you.
May the wind be always at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face;
the rains fall soft upon your fields and until we meet again,
may God hold you in the palm of His hand.

Who Stole Christmas?

2011-10-01T00:47:00.000-07:00

Bella was very confused. It was nearly Christmas Day and there were no presents under the tree in their house. Both her parents had been acting a little odd.

No matter how hard she tried, Bella couldn’t find any sign of Christmas coming to her house this year. Her friends were all very excited about what they were going to get, but no-one was talking about it at her place.

She tried very hard to be good, knowing how important it was when staying on Santa’s list of ‘nice’ children. But still the space under the Christmas tree was bare.

Had Christmas been cancelled at her house? Or worse still, had someone stolen Christmas?

Bella was about to learn of a different kind of Christmas. One she would never forget.

Linda Brooks: Who Stole Christmas?

2011-10-01T00:45:00.000-07:00

Linda Brooks: Who Stole Christmas?

Animal Antics by Rina Robinson

2011-09-30T17:56:00.000-07:00

In this engaging book, Rina Robinson fires the imagination with her unique poem and illustrations. A book any child will treasure and enjoy again and again. With its exotic animals and quirky tales this children’s book will delight.

It has rhyme and colour, and the marvellous bonus of opening the door to learning, not only about the alphabet, but about fascinating animals in different places around the world. The glossary at the end makes this lovely book an educational tool that parents and teachers are sure to value and use.

Summer Sorcery by Rina Robinson

2011-09-30T17:52:00.000-07:00

Leah is not looking forward to ‘coming of age’. There are many dangers to face in the land where she lives: false wizards and barbaric ceremonies. However, nothing causes Leah more disquiet than the prospect of marriage – to be owned by a husband fills her with dread, but she will have no choice. She must bow to tradition.

Leah's friend, Janah, left her home to be married some months ago. But she has now unexpectedly returned. The girls are re-united under strange circumstances, and face many difficulties together. Their wits are tested at every turn, as they must decide who to trust. Along their journey they meet a cast of fascinating characters.

Will they rely on Menah and Terstyn, two handsome strangers, to help them? When they find menace on the road they have to take a chance. What hand will fate play the two girls next?

The Frog that Hiccupped by Linda Brooks

2011-09-30T17:38:00.000-07:00

Fraser is a shy frog. He has just moved with his mum and dad to a new pond. Meeting new people makes him nervous. When he is nervous he hiccups. When he hiccups all sorts of things happen.

How will he make new friends?

Callan the Chameleon by Linda Brooks

2011-09-30T17:36:00.001-07:00

Callan the Chameleon lived in a tall lilly pilly tree with pink tipped leaves. The leaves of the lilly pilly tree grow very thick. Callan felt safe in the rustling tree that was home.

The theme of the book is acceptance of our differences.

The main character, Callan, has tendencies that parallel with Asperger's Syndrome. The story deals with this in a subtle way and celebrates our unique personality traits and individual talents.

The story revolves around Callan and his bush animal friends, Emily the Echidna, Kyle the Koala, Katie the Kookaburra, Wesley the Wombat, Freya the Frilled Necked Lizard and other uniquely Australian animals.

Ethereal Land by Linda Brooks

2011-09-30T17:34:00.001-07:00

Seth is five years old. He lives with his Grandpapa, Chard in a place called Ethereal Land.

Chard is a Credente and tells Seth they will one day live in another place; a place called ‘The Real World’.

One day Seth pulled at his Grandpapa's sleeve and asked, “Grandpapa, what is ‘Real’?”

“Real is for always,” replied Chard. “If something isn’t for always, why then it’s just not Real.”

Then Chard placed a strong work-worn hand over Seth’s heart as if to place something important there.

Seth tilted his head and looked up at his Grandpapa with confused eyes. Would he ever understand?

What is ‘Real’?

Who Stole Christmas?

2011-09-30T17:31:00.001-07:00

Bella was very confused. It was nearly Christmas Day and there were no presents under the tree in their house. Both her parents had been acting a little odd.
No matter how hard she tried, Bella couldn’t find any sign of Christmas coming to her house this year. Her friends were all very excited about what they were going to get, but no-one was talking about it at her place.
She tried very hard to be good, knowing how important it was when staying on Santa’s list of ‘nice’ children. But still the space under the Christmas tree was bare.
Had Christmas been cancelled at her house? Or worse still, had someone stolen Christmas?
Bella was about to learn of a different kind of Christmas. One she would never forget.

'Vignettes'

2011-07-24T04:16:00.001-07:00

A collection of heart stories

Callan the Chameleon

2011-07-14T23:18:00.000-07:00

Sunday School Blues

2011-07-08T00:27:00.000-07:00

Sunday School Blues

My young life was blighted.
Our hairdresser must have previously worked for the military. Every day was a bad hair day. I wasn’t permitted long hair like most of the other girls. Mum’s excuse was that I possessed too many ‘cow licks’ and this affliction deemed I would spend my life with bad hair days and a short haircut.
I think the real reason was high maintenance manoeuvres necessary for looking after long hair on a pre-schooler were beyond her talents and patience.
Our hairdresser, while not actually using a bowl, managed to give me a bowl haircut every visit—a crooked one at that. After seeing Pollyanna, I was green with envy. I dreamed about long hair and wide hats with ribbons down the back. I wasn’t allowed a hat either.
I coped with the shame—most of the time.
While wandering with my brother in our neighbourhood, I didn’t think much about it. The kids in our street were predominately boys and my efforts to get them to play with my dolls called down scorn, even though I accommodated them by playing with their stupid cars in the dirt.
I was often referred to as ‘that cute little tomboy’ with those who said it never aware of my secret longings for lace gloves, ribbons, socks with bobbles, long hair and darling little purses.
I managed with the embarrassment until The Lord’s Day came around. They say religion changes everything.
And Sunday School was the place where I stuck out like a sore thumb. After copious begging, tears and promising to be good for the rest of my life, Mum relented and bought a purse.
There would be no compromise on the matter of hair, but it was still a victory. I was soon the proud owner of a purse I’d fallen in love with at first sight.
It was adorable. I sashayed into Sunday school swinging that purse as if I was a model with a thousand dollar designer handbag. I made a great show at offering time, when the basket went down the rows for us to donate our freewill gift to the less fortunate.
I accepted with demure grace all compliments that came my way. Oh the joy!
Pride cometh before a fall. And fall I did.
On the way to the car after the service Mum looked at me as if something was odd. This wasn’t unusual. I adopted my usual nervous chatter aimed at covering any defect that might be glaringly obvious to others, but I didn’t have a clue about.
“Where’s your purse, Linda?” asked Mum.
My heart sunk to my feet. It was gone. My stomach churned. I hopped from one foot to the other. Tears of despair flowed down my face.
At my obvious distress, Mum withheld the lecture that usually accompanied my misdemeanours. We searched the Sunday School building, the road, the church, the gutters and asked the teachers and other children.
I was in agony. Mum, who was renowned for never giving up, finally had to pat my grief stricken face and tell me we couldn’t do any more and had to go home. She would contact the church lost property office through the week.
I prayed. Knowing God was more inclined to listen to the penitent, I began with a list of my faults. This alone made for a long supplication.
I then expressed the things I was grateful for, my cat, a warm bed, food, Mummy and Daddy, oh yes, and even my brother although he tormented the life out of me.
I then promised God I would be good for the rest of my life, hoping this impressed Him more than it impressed my mother, who regarded me with dubious looks whenever I made this devout claim to her. I couldn’t really blame her scepticism, as this dramatic outburst was usually made before a particularly undesirable punishment was in the offing.
All to no avail. I grieved openly and without restraint, throwing myself on my bed. This was something new for me, and Mum was confused by this outpouring of emotion. After much contrition on my part and dire warning on hers, she bought another purse.
It was far less ostentatious. I bravely hid my disappointment. I would not throw a tantrum. My one and only attempt at tantrum-throwing brought such a swift and undesirable reaction from my father I’d vowed never to repeat the performance.
I grovelled with gratitude, promising I’d never let it out of my sight. It was only for church; surely I could keep track of it for a few hours a week. But no. The same scenario was repeated the following week. Mum’s patience began to wear thin.
“How the blazes can you lose something in such a short time?”
I was as puzzled as she. The harder I tried to remember, the more anxious I became. The more anxious I became, the less I remembered. Disastrously the pattern continued until I was a nervous wreck and Mum had had enough.
“You don’t deserve a blooming purse if you can’t keep track of it,” she said, upon arriving ‘at the end of her tether’. I hung my head. I deserved no less.
This left the problem of where to carry the offering. I was inclined to forgo the offering basket, but this opinion was not shared by my mother.
I was exhorted to think of the less fortunate. I was not inclined to do so. In my opinion I was The Less Fortunate.
Besides, God had not been forthcoming with helping me find my purses—find my memory, or find any possible thieves who were preying on me (one of my more imaginative scenarios).
My ever practical mother came up with an ideal solution.
Ideal for her.
She tied my offering coins in one of Dad’s handkerchiefs and safety-pinned it to the front of my dress for the world to see. Whether she thought humiliation would stimulate my brain, or was simply solving a problem still mystifies me.
So there I was; social leper, with a dodgy haircut, no ribbons or bobbled socks, adorned with Dad’s handkerchief and an ugly safety pin.
No matter how strange fashion trends become, this look will never be adopted by any group—Grunge, Goth or otherwise.
Even at four I knew this.
If you haven’t already discovered this fact, one of the hardest things to do in a hurry is untie the knot in a handkerchief while the offering basket is approaching ever nearer.
Of course the usual nervous memory lapse didn’t help, so my last minute panic was seen and snickered at by all.
After this happened a few times I went from humiliation to anger. While walking to the car listening to Mum and Dad bask in the spiritual afterglow of a particularly stirring sermon, I kicked pebbles with the zeal that was missing from my Christian experience.
“Stop that, Linda. You’ll ruin your shoes,” said Mum.
“I suppose you’ll make me wear Dad’s slippers then!”
“Don’t give your mother cheek,” said Dad. But I caught the glimmer of a curve on his lip. I slowed down and walked a few meters behind them, dragging my feet.
“Keep that up and we’ll have a talk at home,” said Mum.
“I’m not wearing Dad’s stinking handkerchief again!” I blustered defiantly.
“Oh yes you will!” hissed Mum.
“I wish I was a kangaroo with a pouch!”

Under the Radar

2011-05-28T16:09:00.000-07:00

To accept, to understand, to celebrate

I wish someone had told me earlier that my son had Asperger’s Syndrome.

I wish someone had told me he was locked into a world he didn’t choose; a world I didn’t cause.

I wish someone had told me I didn’t need to rescue him, or force him out of his narrow prison.

I wish someone had told me that all I had to do was join him in his world, sit there with him while he found the courage and acceptance to find his own way into the world that judged him odd; different.

I wish someone had told me how easy it would be to celebrate him when I understood.

I am told

It is July 2005 and I am told. My brain swims and floats in a thick, fluid ocean. My body stays still. I am numb for days. I sit in front of the television. Or does it sit in front of me? I am blank. It doesn’t make sense. Nothing makes sense. Everything makes sense. I have answers. I have questions. I am between heaven and hell. And I am alone.
My son has Asperger’s Syndrome Disorder. We have been living and struggling with this for fourteen years, without knowing and knowing it only too well. High school is a disaster. We are a disaster. And we are in it together.
The specialist who delivered the diagnosis does not hand me a manual or one of those pamphlets that clutter the doctor’s surgeries because there isn’t one for Asperger’s.

The roller coaster begins

The roller coaster begins. It is the first day in December 1990. He is born. Not wide-eyed with knowing concern like his older brother but all bunched up and squinting, yowling and yawning. His mouth always seeking. His head turning to find me. Curving his body into mine and murmuring soft kitten noises. His fine blonde hair sticks straight up compounding his look of surprise at entering this new world. He is here at last. He is mine. He is Bronson.
I am in for the ride of my life. The universe has repaid my patient waiting with another son. Another chance. A learning. I will teach as I have never taught before. I will learn as I have never learned before. I am thirty-six years old. The same age my mother was when she had me. I had made this the cut off point for having another child. I turned thirty-six in the hospital one week before he was born. There is a sense of timing in this that has been lacking in my life so far. He was meant to be; to be here, to be mine.
My beloved uncle who had shared my birthday died a few days after our birthday, a few days before Bronson’s birth. A life ending and a life beginning.
I don’t remember the birth because I had an emergency Caesarean section. Later on I will enjoy telling Bronson that I slept through his birth because I must have known there would be no sleep for me after his arrival. And although the early days are not gentle they are softly misted with the joy of a child arrived to fill my heart, and my days.
When Bronson is only a few hours old he grasps the finger of his big brother and doesn’t let go. Luke is fourteen years old and leans his rangy body over the clear Perspex crib that stands next to the huge shiny double-glass window of the Sydney Adventist Hospital. I feel at home here. It is my Alma Mater; the place I did my training to become a registered nurse just over a decade ago.
The blistering sun bathes them both in a golden summer glow. They are framed there in that huge square window that overlooks the gum trees, and I watch them reverently repeating to myself, ‘my two sons, my two sons’ thinking then that I will remember this day forever.
Bronson keeps his tight grip on his brother’s finger and Luke stands stock still in wonder, holding the hand of the newest human being he has ever seen with the kind of commitment that says “I am here for you”.
Adam, my husband and the father of the newborn, (who missed the whole experience “due to his wife’s propensity for the dramatic” and need for emergency surgery), sits slumped from exhaustion in a chair, telling all who will listen that he is ‘never going through that again.’
My mother, who is looking as if she desperately wishes I hadn’t gone through it at all, sits glued by my side. She has been afraid for me and won’t leave me even to meet her newest grandson. I learned later that they thought I might not make it. I had lost so much blood.
I was blissfully unaware of this. My sweet Auntie, the sister of my late father, is here too, tightly clutching a bunch of delicately pale, pink miniature roses; my favourites.
I lay in the midst of all this familial fuss and wonder, the mother of the newborn. My blonde hair is short and raffish. I have the usual look of post-operative pallor and haze. I have a Madonna’s smile under dark bleary eyes.
I am full to the brim with optimism and hope and, as the universe seems so often to intend, I am oblivious to the journey ahead. My husband’s mother is here too, and as usual is blessedly normal about everything. She announces the baby has Uncle Slim’s chin and somebody else’s eyebrows.
Luke is astonished and mutters under his breath, ‘Frigging baby doesn’t have a chin!’

Under the radar

When I came out of the dark tunnel of grieving over the diagnosis I reached a place of personal acceptance about Bronson and about Asperger’s. However, the biggest shock was still right there waiting for me. When I offered my hard won new information and enlightenment to others, those who had so readily called attention to his behaviour before, I was greeted with what I can only call disinterested disbelief.
There I was, emerging from the dark jungle after struggling for years with the wildlife in the shadows of my son’s world and all I got was this! It was enough to make me run back into the jungle and offer myself up to the first man-eating beast I could find. I had expected to be greeted with a light bulb moment or a brief earnest enquiry. At the very least a little more respect than if I had just bought a second hand pair of knickers off eBay. Not happening.
I must have told the wrong people. I must have travelled to another dimension where some of the people I knew and my son’s teachers had all been replicated without their emotions. I waited for a Hollywood moment and for the universe to right itself.
Why didn’t we hear much about Asperger’s Syndrome Disorder before now? Is it a new label for poor parenting? Is it an excuse or an explanation? Whether Asperger’s is on the increase due to environmental factors or other causes the experts don’t know, but it does seem that society must face the fact that there are many children who are suffering from this disorder. And this is exactly what these children are doing. They are suffering. They live next door, up the street or maybe even at your house.
Hans Asperger, the Viennese paediatrician credited with first describing the group of behaviours evident in Asperger’s sufferers was published over 50 years ago. His groundbreaking work did not gain wider recognition until the 1990’s. In his initial research he described children with awkward social interaction, one sided conversation, lack of empathy, intense absorption in chosen interests and clumsy movements.
It has helped me to look at Asperger’s as being like an ice cream shop. If you were looking at diabetes, the group of symptoms would look the same for each person. But with Asperger’s there is a selection, or profile, as if the person has been given a range of symptoms chosen from a large spectrum—that is, all the flavours of the ice cream shop.
So while the diabetic choice will always look the same, for instance, classic Neapolitan, the Asperger’s profile will be a random selection from many of the “ice cream” choices. The diabetic profile will be instantly recognizable but the Asperger’s “selection” will be much harder to pick due to the variety between sufferers. It would look more like rum and raisin, plus macadamia and mango with a little coconut ice, topped off with fudge. Another child might have chocolate mud and almond crunch. Both children will have the same diagnosis but a different selection of “ice cream”.
Each sufferer manifests a different “collection” of behaviours from the Autism spectrum. This makes diagnosis harder. It isn’t unusual to find medical practitioners who are not familiar with the profile. While the average GP will have little trouble diagnosing diabetes, they may struggle with the Asperger’s spectrum. The good news is that even if there is no formal diagnosis, many of the strategies work well with children who have “Asperger’s tendencies”.
Even though Asperger’s is not life threatening, obtaining a specialist diagnosis is invaluable. Accepting the diagnosis is a boon not only to the sufferer but to the whole family and the community at large. Some children will manifest a smaller number of behaviours than others and diagnosis is often made on the overall “weight” of symptoms that are evident.
With early intervention it is possible for some of the behaviours to lessen and actually disappear so that in adulthood it may be difficult to even perceive the original basis for the diagnosis. This spells hope.
These children have always existed. We have thought them odd and although they do not present as the classic stereotype of having a “mental illness”, we have sensed that they are different. I was somewhat loathe to use the word suffering at first but my own experience with my son and mixing with other parents has made me feel that this is indeed exactly what these children are doing—suffering.
The old perception that these kids are parenting nightmares must be displaced by the reality that we have a group of unique human beings who are in a world that is not of their own choosing or their parent’s. We cannot go on ignoring and writing these kids off.
A diagnosis of Asperger’s does not excuse, but it does explain, and we need all the explanation we can get. Sometimes when I am dealing with Bronson I liken his responses to that of someone who has spent a lifetime on another planet with other realities. He seems to be attempting to apply the rules of existence to another time and place.
In some ways he seemed an advanced form of life because he had very specific and detailed rules from this other place. Indeed he perceived no strangeness in himself but was pedantically and condescendingly aggravated with me for not knowing how the world really worked. In his eyes I was failing miserably. My attempts to make him conform pushed him to screaming point.
His fierce intelligent eyes told the story of it all. How had he managed to be saddled with such an inferior human being? One who didn’t have the smallest grasp on “how things were”? He had found himself in a strange and parallel universe and was struggling to make sense of this world. He spent a great deal of time trying to inflict his realities and assessments onto others, because in his mind he came from a position of being the one who knew how things worked and had the frustrating task of trying to make others understand.
Knowing the diagnosis and explaining things to him at an age when he has some pliability is crucial to his development in the world. Just to hear him say, ‘I don’t get that do I?’ means that he has made huge strides; he is opening to the possibility of “other” rather than “one”. The younger the child is when we work out their unique perspective and difficulties the more chance we have of helping them to understand and adapt. Adapting is the hardest thing they will ever have to do.
Most people look at the family with an Asperger’s child and are appalled at the adapting the parent is doing to keep the family on an even keel. This need for adaptation kills me. Drawing the line between requiring Bronson to compromise and me doing the compromising often leaves me with the feeling that organizing world peace would be a piece of cake.
Where are these kids? They are up the street and nearby. Statistics show that perhaps 1 in 100 children suffer from this. That means in your average high school there are a dozen kids, or more.
You see them acting out in supermarkets, throwing tantrums at playgroups when they are facing parting with some weird object of their affection. They line things up in rows, they place importance on trivia. They talk incessantly about Pokémon cards, memorizing great chunks of information and can parrot the details ad nauseum, but cannot hold any other conversation. They cling to visual contact with a parent, what they can’t see doesn’t exist. If they can’t see you, you are gone forever. After a hard day of playing they can’t sleep—not because they are achy or ill, but because they are bored.
They are all different in their uniqueness, but they have one thing in common, they are uncomfortable much of the time outside their comfort zone. They are bullied and shunned. They suffer abuse and rejection from their classmates, casual observers in public places and even abuse from their parents.
Finding out about Asperger’s can only help—not just the parent and the child but the rest of us who walk away saying ‘Thank God I don’t have that child’; ‘I would do things very differently to that mother.’ Or the classic, ‘No child of mine would do that to me.’
This is a community disorder in a far greater sense than diabetes or fractured limbs. We cannot stand alone. We can only find our way out of the maze together. And we can’t negotiate the maze until we understand at least a little about the walls that surround them and constrain their world.
When we can change the community perception of Asperger’s, we will find freedom for our children in a world where understanding and compassion replaces prejudice and intolerance. Then we will not only learn to tolerate, but respect and enjoy them for their unique contribution to the world, for they do have much to offer us.
The attitude of Luke Jackson, a thirteen year old AS sufferer, in his book “Freaks, Geeks and Asperger’s Syndrome”, proposes the most positive attitude that we need to foster and embrace when her refers to his Asperger’s as a “gift”. (L. Jackson 2002)
I found that people are more comfortable with the idea that it is a parenting problem. They didn’t realise that I had thoroughly and completely blamed myself for every word and deed for the last fourteen years. Then maybe they did. After all I listened with pathetic longing to every word of blame they offered me in my search for answers. ‘This wouldn’t happen if you were more consistent/firm/demanding’, ‘He doesn’t do that when he is with me’, ‘We never heard of that when we were kids and we turned out alright.’
But don’t we all remember the ones for whom it didn’t turn out alright, the Kevin’s who didn’t fit in. Who stressed, and acted out. Who were afraid. The ones we just lost touch with because they weren’t a part of our normal little group. These individuals didn’t start to exist with the advent and use of a label. They were always there; bullied and silent, awkward and shunned. Under the radar.
We need understanding of Asperger’s. The truth will set us free.
Recently I walked past a quilting class in one of the craft shops that I frequent. In the midst of the glorious clutter of fabric bolts and fat quarters with sprigs of lavender flowers, moss green ferns, delicate hand painted roses and the rainbow of subtle hues and vibrant homespun sat five women with threads, patches and patterns.
One woman was standing nervously and I heard her say to the others, ‘I have class III cancer, I have six months to live and I want to make a quilt about my life to leave for my children.’
This announcement was met with lively chatter from the others in the class showing their level of comfort with her news. The gentle little woman fragrant with the scent of lilies sat down, sighed and got on with the living she had left to do.
No-one had denied her the truth, she had been told calmly and factually by her doctor and her new friends accepted without question the limits on her mortality.
Ultimately, it was all about attitude and acceptance.

Linda Brooks: Scarlett doesn't live here anymore (an excerpt)

2011-04-24T07:28:00.000-07:00

Linda Brooks: Scarlett doesn't live here anymore (an excerpt)

http://www.adam.org.au/linda/

Scarlett doesn't live here anymore (an excerpt)

2011-04-24T06:20:00.000-07:00

Evelyn Aston threw her suitcase onto the scales at the check in desk at Perth airport. She was catching the 6.00 am Qantas flight to Sydney. She wrapped a scarf around her neck, securing it under the heavy weight of her hair at the nape. With her long skirt and drab blouse she must look like a member of a cult. Maybe she’d overdone it. Her attempts to fade into the background might actually make her conspicuous. But she didn’t have much choice, she’d dyed her hair back to its original mousy brown making her less of ‘Eva’ the socialite and closer to her younger self. Back when she was safe. Before wealth and corporate success. Before James.

She felt a pang of apprehension. Not long now. Soon she’d be on the plane back to the Eastern States. Home free; away from James. Even now, she expected a heavy hand on her shoulder. Willing herself to relax she drew in a measured breath.

The attendant waved her through to the waiting area. She could see the 747 through the huge glass windows. Instinctively she sat in the farthest corner of the waiting area so that she could observe, without being seen. She opened a magazine as a shield. Nervously tucking the scarf tighter, she realised there was so little of ‘Eva’ in her appearance. She would hardly be recognized. But there was always a chance she might run into one of their business associates. They travelled at all hours of the day and night. She couldn’t bear to fail now.

Evelyn couldn’t remember when she had been able to move freely through the world. That world before James. Constantly looking over her shoulder was so deeply ingrained it was second nature.

They were ushered onto the plane. Only when she sank into her seat did she allow herself to relax. She was safe. For the time being. Not long now. She would melt into the throng in Sydney, then she could choose a small town when she arrived. God knows how. She couldn’t return to Tasmania. That much was sure.

‘Half a plan is better than no plan,’ she muttered, sinking into her seat.

‘Did you say something?’ asked the businessman beside her.

‘Oh dear, I was thinking aloud. I hate it when I do that,’ she answered.

‘Only true geniuses talk to themselves, you know.’

‘And there was me, thinking it was the other way around.’

‘Things are never the other way around.’

‘Are you related to Dr Suess, by any chance?’ she asked, annoyed that she had broken her rule not to converse with anyone. But this man’s eyes were more amused than provoking, and it wasn’t a good idea to be too paranoid.

‘I wish,’ he said, laughing.

The stewards had begun the usual emergency spiel. The man opened a newspaper, deftly folding it. Clever trick that, she’d have to try it sometime. Eve closed her eyes, willing meditation to take her to another place, so she would get through the take-off. Once she was in the air, she was okay. It was just the irrationality of the sheer weight of metal thrusting upwards that terrified her. When in the air she pretended she was on a bus. Not that she had been on a bus in the last fifteen years. Ironically she had spent most of her travel time on planes. And the fear hadn’t dimmed in all that time.

The glide down the runway was taking forever. Was the damn plane going to drive all the way to Sydney? Picture my happy place, she thought. What is that mantra I learned?

‘Oh crap!’ she said as she gripped the armrest with iron fingers.

‘Ouch!’ muttered the man beside her. ‘When did you win your last arm-wrestling competition?’

Oh dear! So that was why the armrest seemed softer than usual.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she muttered, abashed.

After the plane lifted off, monotony settled in. This was the time Eve had set aside for ‘making plans’, but her worrying just took her in frustrating circles. Every thought path had her arriving back at the ‘where’ she would live. Her meticulous planning over the last months had sorted her separate finances and monetary independence. James would look for her, perhaps even taking time out from his mistress. However, the letter she left should keep him away from sniffing after her money.

Would it be hard to become ordinary old Evelyn Aston. She’d already decided to go back to a secretarial job. That had put her through Uni. The work shouldn’t be too hard. But the change, how would she cope with that? Mentally tallying up the pros and cons of her lifestyle, Eve realised there would be very little she missed. Certainly not the jet-setting. And most definitely, not the parties.

Three hours later she gave up trying to solve the problem of her new location. Sydney would bring some clue. She was glad she was in the window seat. It suited her to appear to be lost in the horizon. She’d chosen it to avoid conversation with her fellow passengers. It didn’t seem necessary, because after their initial few words, the man beside her had become engrossed in a crossword. It seemed incongruous for a man in a suit to be scribbling a crossword, instead of poring over the obligatory corporate laptop.

The wine was relaxing her limbs. The second glass proved even more effective. But that damn scarf was sticking out at a crazy angle, impeding the path of the wine glass to her lips.

‘You could take it off.’

Eve jumped in alarm.

‘I meant the scarf.’

Eve looked at the man. seeing no flirting overtone in his face, even though it was a little blurry, she decided he was harmless. She liked harmless men. This one had unruly chestnut hair. Not a control freak then. In her experience control freaks did not have unruly hair that curled over their collars. She leaned in a little closer so that his face came back into focus. It was so annoying when people did that – got fuzzy on you.

The plane dropped a thousand feet and Eve’s head hit the stranger’s chest. As she pulled back, the scarf became stuck on the pink ribbon badge on his suit, and stayed there. Eve sat straight in her seat and aimed for composure. She missed. The man smiled as he looked at the scarf, now hanging on his chest.

‘Humph.’ She tried to focus her gaze and think of something clever to say.

‘You’re fuzzy,’ she mumbled.

‘You’re messy,’ he replied. ‘But in a good way,’ he added quickly.

‘I’m never messy. It’s not allowed. James says it’s unprofessional. Anything less than perfection is not shuitable.’ She waggled her finger. Oh rats, I’m slurring, she thought. The man didn’t seem to mind. Perhaps he didn’t aspire to perfection.

‘Your hair looks wonderful,’ he said. James must be crazy, he thought.

‘D’you think so?’ Leaning in conspiratorially, Eve whispered, ‘I’m never going to be perfect again.’

‘Glad to hear it. I could happily join as founding member for that club.’

‘You’re welcome. I’ll make you CEO.’

‘I accept.’

‘You haven’t heard the job description.’

‘Oh, I think ‘imperfect’ covers it nicely. I’m sure I can manage that lofty standard.’

‘I feel funny.’

‘You might be a little tipsy. You don’t normally drink do you?’

‘Never...I’m not myself, you know.’

‘Really, who are you?’

‘Well, I am myself, obviously. But I’m not the self I was when I got on this thing.’ Eve waved the wine glass perilously.

‘May I?’ asked the man, taking the glass.

‘You don’t have to worry. It’s plastic. It’s not itself either.’

‘So this club...’ The man was perplexed. ‘...It’s the We’re Imperfect Somebody Else club.’

‘Yesh.’

‘Hmmm. Then it’s the WISE Club.’

‘Ooh, you are...’

Eve didn’t finish. The Captain’s calm voice came clearly over the intercom.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, I have to advise you that Sydney airport is closed due to torrential rain and storms. Flooding has cut transport to the airport. This means that we have been redirected to Tullamarine Airport in Melbourne. Qantas wishes to apologise for any inconvenience, but he safety of our passengers is uppermost. When you arrive in Melbourne you will be given assistance with transport and accommodation if necessary. We would like to reassure you every attempt will be made to ensure your comfort. We anticipate that the stay-over in Melbourne will be no longer than 24 hours. We expect to land in Melbourne at 1030 hours. Thank you for your patience.’

Eve shivered. She would have to adjust her thoughts. Thoughts that were muddled by the wine. Castigating herself for drinking at all, she placed the half filled wine glass on the drop down table. It was swiftly removed by a hostess who informed her that tables and seat belts must be secured during turbulence. Even was chagrined, and fast becoming stone cold sober.

What a bloody nuisance. She knew Sydney like the back of her hand. She’d studied at Uni there. Sitting upright, she pulled her scattered thoughts together. It wasn’t as if she had anyone waiting. It wasn’t as if she had a plan. And James wouldn’t look for her in Melbourne. She would have time to organise things. It didn’t really matter where she did it.

The man made a quick phone call. His words were precise and succinct. Eve wondered who he was phoning. Probably his wife, she thought as she saw the wedding ring on his finger. Must have been married a while. His call was more like a report.
Half an hour later they landed. The man efficiently plucked her carry on bag from the overhead storage when she struggled with it. Deftly, he steered both of their cases downstairs to the check in area. Sensing her embarrassment he passed her case over with a gentle, ‘Are you okay?’

Eve nodded. ‘Thank you. For everything’. With a casual tilt of his head, he was lost in the crowd.

In spite of the promise of organisation, the airport was chaotic. Backpackers, obviously used to unpredictable lives, didn’t bother to queue, but curled up on sofas. Parents were calming children. Airport staff were dealing with customers. Come complained loudly and others sighed with resignation. There were two queues, one for the airport hotel, and one for a hotel in the city. The queue for the airport hotel was horrendously long and Eve headed straight for the city hotel queue. She was relieved to find that the bus to the hotel would be outside the front doors in under half an hour, leaving just enough time to have a croissant and cappuccino. And to feel human again.

The Qantas lounge was crowded, but the service was fast. Eve found a corner table and sat down.

‘Do you mind if we join you,’ asked a tall woman. A barrel of a man stood beside her, looking slightly lost.

‘Not at all,’ said Eve.

‘I’m Brenda,’ said the woman, ‘and this is John. This change of plans has rattled him a little.’

‘I’m okay, dear,’ said the man.

‘Join the club,’ responded Eve, ‘I didn’t sleep last night and then I was silly enough to have a glass of wine just before the turbulence, which I am now seriously regretting.’

John smiled. ‘I’m glad I’m not the only one then. Feeling like a fish out of water.’

Discovering they were all waiting for the city hotel bus gave them something to chat about, and when it was time to go they travelled together.

At the hotel, Eve climbed straight into the king size bed and slept dreamlessly, waking several hours later – disorientated and ravenous. Realising she’d agreed to meet Brenda and John downstairs in the restaurant, Eve checked the time. She had ten minutes. After a quick shower she threw on the same clothes, minus the scarf, and ran for the lift.

She was surprised when she arrived to see her seatmate talking to Brenda and John.

‘This is Allan,’ said Brenda, ‘we’ve asked him to join us. Allan, this is Eve.’

‘We’ve met,’ said Eve. She accepted his outstretched hand. He shook her hand gently with warm hands. ‘We were seated next to each other on the plane.’

‘Oh, how convenient. We’re practically all old friends then. A crisis will do that though, don’t you find. One dispenses with the formalities.’

‘Bren, you’ve never been on speaking terms with any “formalities”,’ said John, the glimmer of a teasing smile on his face.

After the meal, John spied a chess board set up in the corner. ‘Do you play?’ he asked Allan.

‘Love to, but I have to warn you, I’m a mean player.’

‘Oh, you’re on, mate!’ John laughed.

Brenda watched John walk to the table. She sighed. ‘It’s so good to see him relaxed.’

‘I take it that doesn’t happen often?’

‘No. John has Post Traumatic Stress. I thought visiting his sister and her family in WA would cheer him up, but I think it only added to things.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s slow progress. Anyway, call me Bren, all my friends do. Where are you from?’

‘Perth, but I’m relocating. Not sure where yet.’

‘You’ll work it out. You look like a capable young woman to me.’

This calm acceptance, more than any well meaning interrogation, had the effect of letting Eve open up to this lovely woman. Pouring out the angst of the past few years, leaving out the worst details, had the astonishing effect of clearing Eve’s head. It had been a long time since she had trusted someone enough to confide anything, and the relief was enormous.

‘You don’t think your ex, James was it, will file a missing person’s report?’

‘No,’ said Eve. ‘we’ve all but been living apart for 18 months. He’s been staying at the guest house. I left a note and divorce papers. He won’t do anything “official”, but that won’t stop him trying to find me. He’ll go from begging to threats, hoping to get me back. It’s worked in the past. But not this time.’

‘Good girl. That’s the spirit. Surely he’ll give up in time.’

‘Oh he will. I’m the third one he’s tried this with.’

‘What! He’s had three wives!’

‘No,’ Eve laughed bitterly. ‘I’m his second wife, but he’s had plenty of live in girlfriends. Seems to think of himself as some sort of Svengali. He’ll find another younger, prettier face to groom. Another obsession. I’ll be safe then.’

‘You’re sure about that?’

‘Well, as long as he can replace me, and my money. Of course that could take some time.’

Allan watched the two women. John was a thoughtful player. Slow, would be a better description. So, her name was Eve. For the first time she was relaxed and smiling. He noticed that she had declined wine at dinner. Seeing her chat to Bren, she seemed serene. If had was a betting man, he’d lay odds on the fact that Eve was going through some kind of crisis. He noticed her twisting her engagement ring. That was some rock. Whoever Eve Aston was, she was seriously rich. Or her fiancé was. Looking down at his own ring finger, he wondered why he was still wearing a wedding ring. Caroline had died two years ago of breast cancer. And now the pink ribbon he’d had for five years was on the scarf of another woman. It felt wrong. He’d bought that badge when they’d first found out. Three months to live. Caroline’s iron will had eked that time into a year. A year of happiness, and hell.

Eve awoke rejuvenated and starving. Again. It’s seems the appetite that had left months ago had returned with a vengeance. Who cares, she thought. It was James who was proud of her being a size 6. She looked once again at the address that Bren had given her, along with her business card. It was a solution. A plan. And now a place – Weather. Funny name. She’d been enchanted by the story of how it had reputedly been called Fair Weather when it was a tiny coastal town where logs spewed down the river from the hills where they had been felled. When the surveyors had come through part of the original sign was missing and Fair Weather had gone done in the annals of topography, and history, as Weather.

Damn, thought Allan. There she was. He had hoped to catch an early flight. He was strangely drawn to this frail woman. His gut twisted. She reminded him of Caroline. He’d been shocked when he first saw her. Thin as a rail and wearing a scarf. It had reminded him of cancer. Chagrined, he remembered that he’d recoiled from her. The sight of her had brought back the past with wrenching clarity. It seems you couldn’t outrun grief. It didn’t gradually rise like a fog, but zoomed like a roller coaster, catching you unawares. Kicking you in the guts.

He hesitated, then she looked up at him. She smiled. Oh what the hell, he’d be gone soon. He’d never see her again. What was the harm in sharing breakfast? Wow. That was one hell of a breakfast on her plate, and she was devouring it as if she hadn’t eaten for days. She wouldn’t stay skinny at that rate. And that would be a good thing.

A beautiful poem by Gail Hennessy

2010-12-19T15:03:00.000-08:00

To an Autistic Child

by

Gail Hennessy

Little butterfly
enclosed in the cocoon
of your own shadowed world.

How can I reach you little shadow?

Locked in a silent nightmare
you scream my name.
Your one word—my name
not ever with joy
but always in searching.

Scarred knees from too many falls
stumbling steps behind your quicksilver brothers.

Dance little shadow
smile to the colours of the music
grasp the bright notes.

Please little shadow
turn around to face the light.

Happy Christmas

2010-12-09T21:24:00.000-08:00

Spring is sprung, the grass is ris,
I know, I know, I know it is.
I asked my mower man how often to come?
Weekly at least, he said, without a hum.
Oh crikey, I thought, does this guy know me?
I haven’t enough to pay that fee!
I swallowed an answer, what else could I do?
For after all, I can’t afford anyhoo!
I muttered a rumble just to be polite,
I didn’t want the poor bloke to take fright.
Finally I croaked, ‘Perhaps a bit less...
I couldn’t see any need to confess.

Spring is sprung, the grass is ris,
I don’t wonder where the birdies is!
They’ve been at the mulberry tree,
That’s as plain as day to see.
Why all over the path there are signs of shit-
It’s no mystery why there’s heaps of it!
They’ve had the feast I wish I could,
Except, in reality, it would do me no good.
For Christmas is coming, like it or not,
And from my point of view I don’t give a jot.
I wouldn’t mind if it lasted two days,
Perhaps then I could handle as the nerve frays.

Spring is sprung, the grass is ris,
There’s a new place where my belly is.
And now here’s the time I make my defense,
Christmas in Australia doesn’t make any sense,
Just out of hibernation, weighing a ton,
Is not the time for Yuletide fun.
The weather is fertile, the breezes are warm,
The cold front or the other one is creating a storm.
I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I can only object,
I’ve only one choice and that’s to defect.
I don’t want Christmas, it doesn’t want me,
So why the bloody hell can’t I just be free?

Seriously? HAVE A GOOD ONE!!

Our mate Sam

2010-09-17T16:18:00.000-07:00

She came to us in times of strife
From her eucalypt home on high,

Until a man named Tree
On ground did spy,

Scarred and burnt, she made us think
As David offered a Samaritan drink,

Pictures world-wide spread the news
A fanfare with great acclaim,

Stealing our hearts
And earning fame,

Tears fell on August seven
As SAM ascended to her Shangri-lah heaven,

Her life’s fight lost
Hit us so hard, at such a cost,

In this year of two-thousand and nine
As all Aussie’s did but pine,

Sadness and sorrow
Visits once more,

But her sweet memory, will long remain
A ray of sunshine mixed with pain,

Sharing Pharlap’s mantle
It will come to pass,

For she too
Will be behind glass,

In Koala heaven
Now happy and free,

Nibbling at leaves
Back in her tree.

Sam lives-on
In all our hearts,

Her life’s struggles
Our minds never do part,

First, Mountain-Ash centre
Wildlife she,

Recovery at Rawson
Life’s fight thee,

Now bandaged, pink-socked
For all to see,

Clinging to her
Eucalypt tree,

She is our emblem
Of Victoria’s fight,

Against dreaded fires
Our Aussies plight,

Now Sam’s there
For you and me,

Melbourne Museum
Our thoughts run free,

For behind glass
Never a sham,

Just go and visit
Our mate SAM.

Yuletide or not Yuletide

2010-09-12T03:30:00.001-07:00

Every year is the same. In spite of my best intentions Xmas turns into a shambles. It’s a bit like ‘whatsisname’ the grubby boy from Charlie Brown who manages to get covered in grime every time he leaves his front door much to the dismay of Lucy who is permanently clean, tidy, well presented and in a bad mood. Perhaps they all go together. The experience of being the only perfect person in the mix must make for some sour feelings, after all the rest of us are doomed to failure when compared with those who are sublimely addicted to the flawless performance of the Xmas rituals. And any other rituals at any other time actually.

A choice slice of martyrdom is served up alongside the Xmas bird. It is as inevitable as any other part of the tradition. Even if you make a pact with the lady of the house to have no presents—there will be presents. If you organise paper plates there will be extra cutlery. If you bring plastic cups and cutlery there will be three tablecloths and several dinner sets needed. You can’t win when someone is bound and determined to wring the neck of the Xmas experience and squeeze every drop of cheer out of the yuletide season.

Five years ago was no exception. However there was a new dimension added to the whole debacle. I was licked before I started, if I had only known. Every year I try to do some little thing that I hope will go some distance to breaching the gap, between the expectations of the perfect day, and the pathetic standard that I am actually able to meet. Having done the whole shebang one year myself — just to prove I could — I returned to doing a special few things that may be unique. That year I decided on the ice-cream Xmas pudding. This would be my “piece de resistance”.

Suffice it to say that the pudding wasn't a hit. I forgot that my sons see dried fruit as appealing as seeds in watermelon, and everyone else wanted "tradition". By the time I heard about it, all I wanted was "out". The Yuletide Lament began, but didn't end there.

The best year we had was when everyone was present, thus leaving no-one to be the sacrificial lamb, and Mum had made that most wonderful of blunders and bought alcoholic cider, instead of the usual non-alcoholic fare and got a little merry indeed.

But that year the sugar plum fairy had danced in my mother's head and instead of being the recipient of her usual Christmas Lament, I was the unwitting cause of it. I will leave well enough alone, except to say that I went home with my youngest son vowing to invent my own Yuletide Lament. With a little luck, I will have it ready for the next Xmas season, when it is more than likely that no-one will be talking to me, much less listening.

So this year I plan to have Christmas with the homeless. Whether that will be as a guest or a helper remains to be seen. My last budget figures showed that challenges were ahead, which sounds like a cheap astrology reading.

Either way I'll pretend. After all, that's what Christmas is all about.

Our Stories Should Never Die

2010-09-04T02:05:00.001-07:00

The bench stands empty now
Its once proud frame decaying
The ornate cornices speak
of days of glory long past
It rested many a weary soul
on their way to the old homestead
Who came? Who went? Who passed by?
How many joyful children
tumbled, climbed and jostled there?
How many lovers’ tender embraces?
Those stories are gone
Our stories should never die.

We found a place. An ABC website, “The Making of Modern Australia”. With tentative steps and soft voices we came, sharing our words, our lives. Enthralled by the chance to write our own piece of history, to contributes to the archives of time. Living across this wide brown land, we joined hands across the divide, because we found more than a place—we found each other. Long out of the school room, beyond the reach of the dreaded red pen of censure we found acceptance and affirmation. How could this be? Everyday Australians taking part in the voice of history. Our friendships grew across the miles. We began to greet, then meet and share more of our lives with that wonderful bond of Like-mindedness. We found a place.

The secret life of my father...

2010-06-10T20:37:00.000-07:00

I couldn’t believe my ears.

The jubilant sounds of honky tonk music filled the house. It wasn’t the telly. I went to check our piano. There was my father, who I had never even seen sit at a piano, playing with gusto. He looked up. Along with the usual twinkle, there was a slight wariness in his eyes.

‘Don’t tell your mother.’

I nodded, pleased to be part of his conspiracy. If Mum knew he could play the piano, there would be no end to the nagging and pleading for him to play in public. There would be words of ‘duty and wasted talent’. The likely thrust of her arguments would be to push Dad in the direction of playing in church. Dad’s shy nature would shrink from the glare of the spotlight. Why, he only ever stood at the front of the church to adjust the sound system, or occasionally go to the microphone and say, ‘Testing, one, two, three.’ He seemed uncomfortable even doing that.

I zipped my fingers across my lips. His secret was safe with me.

‘Good girl.’

‘Play some more please, Dad,’ I begged. ‘Just for me?’

Dad lost himself in the joyous rhythms of honky tonk music, the soulful sounds of the blues and then swung effortlessly into the famous hymn, ‘Abide with Me’.

‘Wow! How can you play without sheet music, Dad?’ I asked in bewilderment.

This was confusing indeed, as I had been studying the piano for a couple of years and my stubborn fingers laboriously struggled over each note. I was always curved anxiously over the piano, looking from page to keyboard, note for note, then back again, never quite connecting the two. And there sat Dad, playing as if music was his mother tongue, working the piano pedals effortlessly, as his hands glided over the keys.

Dad answered my question about the lack of sheet music with a vague, glib statement, muttering about ‘playing by ear’. I was not convinced. He made it look so easy.
I knew of his passion for Broadway musicals. Every Sunday would find the two of us happily ensconced in front of the TV for the midday movie. We watched Gene Kelly, Fred Astaire and Ginger Rodgers, Jeanette MacDonald and Nelson Eddy, Frank Sinatra—pretty much any musical that was on offer.

‘How come Mum doesn’t know you can play like that? Weren’t you at College together?’

‘Oh, your mother doesn’t have to know everything. I never played the piano at College.’

‘How long have you been able to play like this?’
‘Ages, I guess.’

I gave up prying and just let me music lift me, up and away. Then, suddenly it was over.

‘Ah, duty calls,’ said Dad, closing the piano lid and springing from the piano stool, leaving me in a land of magic, hungry for more.

These special times were infrequent and random, but they never coincided with Mum’s presence at home. Dad made a Hawaiian guitar and he played that quite often at home for us all. Mum didn’t pressure him about playing the guitar in public, deeming it ‘unsuitable for church’, but she made no secret of her pride in him.

‘Your father can do anything,’ was her proud pronouncement.

For myself, I just wished that I could play something…anything. After four struggling years, even Mum had to agree that my musical talent was non-existent, but she persisted with my brother. She bought him a cornet. Mum believed in giving her children Every Opportunity.

‘Oh Mum, couldn’t you buy Peter something quieter,’ I moaned whenever Peter practised. It was my opinion that my brother’s musical ability matched mine—he had none. ‘Buy him a flute, Mum, they’re really quiet.’

‘Stop picking on your brother, Linda. He’ll get better with practise.’
He didn’t, although he must have improved his breathing capacity, because he got louder.

‘Your father doesn’t have to know everything,’ said Mum as we sat quietly in her blue Mini Minor™ outside our house.

We had indulged in our shared passion of buying fabric for sewing. Mum’s friends, Max and Clare Roberts, owned a fabric store, a place I dreamed about at night. I had learned to sew quite early in life as it provided me not only a creative outlet, but also with freedom of choice with clothing. I no longer had to endure the navy shirt-dresses that Mum declared made me look slim and elegant.

‘What rubbish, Mum,’ I would protest. ‘I look like I’m in the Navy. And with this hair, I’m never getting remotely near ‘elegant’. You want me to wear shirtdresses because you like them.’

‘We better go in I guess,’ I muttered, looking down at our pile of fabric bolts, all neatly wrapped in brown paper. There were yards and yards of fabric. We had really over indulged. Mum sighed. I knew she was thinking the same thing. Mum’s mind was ticking over.

‘Go and see where your father is,’ she suggested. ‘Then come and tell me.’

I was more than happy to comply. Most of the fabric was for me, because Mum still hadn’t moved on from the one dress she’d made me when she went to ‘tech’. I knew what was expected of me. With the stealth of a spy I slipped into the house. When I knew Dad was well and truly busy in the shed, whistling while he worked, I ran out the front door and beckoned furiously to Mum. She leapt out of the car. I was ‘lookout’ while she stacked the fabric bolts in the huge wardrobe in the spare room.

This trickery was also repeated on other occasions when Mum bought dresses or shoes for herself. It was a great piece of farce as Mum had her own money and so did Dad. Thus, there was more pretence than actual deception going on. Once, when I was on ‘lookout’, Dad sauntered past and winked at me. I flushed bright red until I realised that he was enjoying the game. I thought it was really funny after that. They both had secrets that were pretty tame.

‘Why don’t you just tell Dad when you buy clothes, Mum? He wouldn’t mind.’

Mum paused, a cloud crossing her face. Maybe she was remembering her lectures to Dad on the ‘exorbitant’ cost of his tools.

‘Ah, he doesn’t need to know.’

‘But what about when you come out in a new dress? What then? He’d have to know then!’

‘Nonsense. Your father wouldn’t notice if I was wearing a hessian sack.’

Mum nearly jumped out of her skin early one morning on our way to church, when Dad blithely commented on how lovely she looked.

‘That’s no hessian sack, Else,’ he said with a wicked grin.

‘Hummph,’ muttered Mum, frustrated at being caught out.

Dad, however, was never caught out. I later learned that while he was a student he played honky tonk music for the dances at the community hall on the ‘wrong side of the tracks’. I found a photo of him in elegant flares, posing like a professional, with a three piece suit and carefully arranged tie pin. He stood confidently; hand on hip, casually leaning on some nearby railing, looking very sharp indeed. His eyes were full of whimsy and intelligence. There was no sign of the reticent, retiring man I knew as the public image of my father.

So much for shy.

Kimochis - toys with feelings

2010-05-10T16:45:00.001-07:00

Wallsend Library Book Launch - Murphy's Law prevails

2010-04-30T06:45:00.000-07:00

One of the differences between an ‘Aspie’ (Asperger) and a non Aspie is that while an Aspie is always expecting everything to go wrong, the rest of us approach the day with the idiotic view that we’ll make a plan and march seamlessly through the day. When something goes wrong for the Aspie, they will say, “That’d be right.” The rest of us bang our heads and say, “I can’t believe this!”

There are some days that sort the ‘sheep from the goats’ to coin a Biblical phrase. Today was one such day.

I woke late. But that’s okay because it was imperative to paint a lorikeet at 1.00 am, everyone knows that. the trouble with waking late is that a significant portion of your cranial matter spends the better part of the day arguing with the other portion of your brain as to whether it is morning, or in fact, not. This deliberation can hinder any other thoughts that you had planned on having for the day. Like what you were going to do after you woke up.

I tried to write a list, but by the time I had found my glasses, pen and paper – the phone rang. It was Carol, the Head Librarian for the Hunter Region (she has several other titles but don’t expect me to remember them). She wanted to know if I had received the email with the book launch invitation so that I could ‘sign off’ on it and she could sent it to the printers. It didn’t show up in my email box and with the worrying memory that one the emails I sent a fortnight ago took a week to arrive I tried to think of another option. Ouch. I had to get to another email inbox asap to receive the message. I thought of my helpful neighbours.

Running over to my neighbours I found that Barrie, the second in charge, was in the same kafuffle as I was. He’d slept late. As a retired bank manager he was less accustomed to this state than a registered nurse who ‘didn’t know night from day’ for all her training years and made a solemn oath never to attempt 'weird hours' again.

While his computer was warming up I phoned Carol to tell her his email address. Then my lapsed brain cells came to life for a brief minute and I remembered that I had a second email address that was set up when I first joined Westnet. I told her this address, if for no other reason than the worry that I was wasting her time. The email arrived and after correcting a typo, I okayed it.

So then I was ready for the rest of the day. Theoretically, that is. I drove to Newcastle and organised a test run of my art work and had a wonderful conversation with the print guy about our mutual rate of decay. He also suffered from back pain so we compared medications and side effects. After working out the details of the artwork and also coming to the conclusion that we would both end up as grumpy paraplegics because we kept doing exactly the things that aggravated our pain, I went to my next appointment.

Just as I got out of the car it rained buckets. I never take an umbrella – I insanely believe that by the time I have put up an umbrella, I could have arrived at my destination. This is quite often justified in downtown Cooranbong, but by the time there was a break in the Newcastle peak hour traffic, I looked like a shaggy drowned rat.

Carol arrived with the launch invitations when I was having lunch and shaking off the chills at Goldbergs in Darby Street. I sunk into the chair in relief, enjoying my hot chocolate. It was so sweet of her to save me the trip to the library. When I finished, I looked up to pack up, and there on the table was Carol’s phone. Arrggh!

It looked expensive, but what did I know. It looked complicated, maybe it was so technologically advanced that it could feed her cat when she was away. I had to get it back to her. At the library.

On the way there I looked at the phone. What would I do if it rang? It might be Carol phoning her number, hoping I had it. The dilemma in my head became real as the phone rang. I answered with my usual “Hello”.

No response. Not Carol then.

“Carol’s phone” I answered, in a slightly more professional voice.

“Um... is anyone there?” I added, wondering what poor soul I had cast into confusion.

A child’s voice mumbled something unintelligible that ended with Jayden. Oh, good, here was something, a name at least. But now I was feeling really daft, walking in the pouring rain, answering the phone of someone I hardly knew, headed to the library without any idea if Carol would be there when I arrived. I gave a comprehensive explanation that I thought was most enlightening and asked, “Did you understand any of that?”

“No.”

Oh dear, I started again and aimed for simplifying my spiel. Now those who know me will realise what a big ask that is. It takes me four or five drafts to clarify any writing exercises. If anyone has followed this meandering tale without hitting a bump thus far, it would be a miracle.

I tried again, with dubious success.

I then asked, “Is Carol your mum?”

“Yes.”

“Right, I am taking your mum’s phone to her at the library and will tell her you rang, is that okay Jayden?”

“Guess.”

Then my motherhood instinct kicked in. This kid might be in trouble. Some children weren't like mine who considered the milk getting low to be a catastrophe.

"Are you alright, Jayden?" I asked in my concerned motherly voice.

"Ah......yeah."

After arriving at the library my shaggy wet hair had frizzled into an untamed afro. After getting through the library security system I was finally able to reunite Carol with her phone. We had a bit of a giggle over our faux pas for the day.

“Um...Jayden rang," I muttered. "Ah, I answered the phone thinking it might be you. Um...you may need to phone Jayden...or not.” I smiled my best smile. My conversation with Jayden hadn’t been a raging success.

She rolled her eyes and chuckled.

“If your child needs therapy after a conversation with me, I know a really good shrink,” I threw over my shoulder as I headed for the lift with her laughter in the background.

Just down the road I had a flat tyre. I phoned the NRMA and in a calm and authoritative voice gave them my exact location, a description of the problem but sadly gave them the registration number of a car I own several decades ago, instead of the one I was sitting in.

The NRMA guy arrived.

“Heard of Murphy’s Law?” I asked.

“Why yes,” he said, grinning.

“Well, I’m Murphy!”

BOOK LAUNCH

2010-04-28T01:46:00.000-07:00

You are invited to attend the launch of Linda Brooks’ latest book on Monday, May 10 at 5.30 pm at Wallsend Library, Bunn St, Wallsend. The book is about living with Asperger’s Syndrome and has a feature chapter by Professor Tony Attwood, Dr John Miller and Dr Steele Fitchett.

I’m not broken
I’m just different

by author, Linda Brooks

is the story of a boy with Asperger’s Syndrome
diagnosed at fourteen, after a tumultuous childhood.
It is the story of a mother who wouldn’t give up.
It is the story of the beauty of music,
restoring lost places of the heart,
to a teenager too accustomed to failure.
It is about a red guitar.
It is a journey of discovery, audacity, humour and grace.
It is funny, gutsy, raw and real.
It’s about finding wings to fly.

Children's story for adults

2010-04-01T16:26:00.000-07:00

http://www.lindaruthbrooks.com/

Once in every lifetime we should all see life through the eyes of a five year old girl, hear her voice and sense the world through the unique vulnerability of childhood.

Georgia hides under the bracken fern. Her mother hits her to make her good. The nice man down the road gives her lollies that make her sleepy. Sometimes, her brother Jackson hides her in the bottom of his wardrobe. Her best friend is Mittens the cat who listens to all her childish secrets.

On her first day at school someone steals her special pencil set. She will be in very big trouble and she is afraid. She runs away to the bracken fern that grows tall by the whispering creek where the bower bird struts with his prize of blue buttons and the magpie feeds her screeching baby. It's her safe place.

Georgia is too young to know that there are other safe places and that what is happening to her is wrong. When her teacher, Miss Nelson, finds her there she is more afraid, until she learns that it is okay to tell. She discovers that there are other safe places and people who will protect her.

Things can get better.

Book launch

2010-03-08T12:49:00.000-08:00

http://www.lindaruthbrooks.com
Linda’s new book takes us to places we have never been, to places of the heart, teaching us to have the courage to look at life through the eyes of others. Linda chronicles her life with her son from his birth, covering the early years, teen years to adulthood. It follows the roller coaster ride from the bizarre to the obscene, the poetic and the hilarious, the heartache and the joy. The story embraces the muddled, hilarious stumbling between two worlds, linked by love—worlds that seemed so desperately different at first view; hand in hand, mother and son. A boy obsessed with the unfathomable, a mother obsessed with understanding him. Linda has poignantly captured the struggle of living with a child who appears to see the world through broken glass. Asperger’s is like watching a child trying to play hopscotch when he can’t see the squares, and everyone else can. It is a book that informs about Asperger’s Syndrome in a uniquely accessible way, pulling no punches, but is buoyant with hope and spirit. Linda's book features a chapter by Professor Tony Attwood, generally considered the leading authority on Asperger's and Autism. The book will be launched by Dr Steele Fitchett.

I am very pleased to be involved with Linda’s book, ‘I’m not broken, I’m just different’. I think we both have a very important message and I certainly endorse Linda’s positive approach. I know it will change the lives of many families. Professor Tony Attwood

As a counsellor I have discovered a number of special pearls, a couple of which are found in Linda and Bronson’s journey. This is a timely book with a special message. Dr Steele Fitchett

A long awaited book. Linda and Bronson have a great relationship; it’s entertaining to watch them bounce off each other. I once remarked to Linda describing her motherhood, ‘You enjoy him and that is one of the finest assets of a mother that you offer, regardless of how he reacts’. Dr John Miller

Callan the Chameleon

2010-02-22T15:39:00.001-08:00

http://www.adam.org.au/linda/

Callan the Chameleon lived in a tall lilly pilly tree with pink tipped leaves. The leaves of the lilly pilly tree grow very thick. Callan felt safe in the rustling tree that was his home.

Chameleons change colours when they are in different places. This protects them from other animals.

Callan worried a lot about being safe. He didn’t like to be seen at all. Everywhere he went he checked to see if he was blending in with the bush around him.

Callan wasn’t like other chameleons. His skin didn’t change colour when his surroundings changed.

At least that is what he thought.

The theme of the book is acceptance of our differences. The main character, Callan the Chameleon, has tendencies that parallel with Asperger's Syndrome.

The story deals with this in a subtle way and celebrates our unique personality traits and individual talents.

The story revolves around Callan and his bush animal friends, Emily the Echidna, Kyle the Koala, Kimberley the Kookaburra, Wesley the Wombat, Felicity the Frilled Necked Lizard and other uniquely Australian animals.

Linda Brooks: I'm not broken

2010-02-22T15:39:00.000-08:00

Linda Brooks: I'm not broken

http://www.adam.org.au/linda/

I'm not broken

2010-02-22T14:41:00.000-08:00

‘I’m not broken—I’m just different!’

is the story of a boy with Asperger’s Syndrome
who was diagnosed at fourteen, after a tumultuous childhood.
It is the story of a mother who wouldn’t give up.
It is the story of the beauty of music,
restoring lost places of the heart,
to a teenager too accustomed to failure.
It is about a red guitar.
It is a journey of discovery, audacity, humour and grace.
It is funny, gutsy, raw and real.

I have written about living with my son who has Asperger’s Syndrome. I have chronicled our lives together from his birth, briefly covering the early years and the roller coaster ride from the bizarre to the obscene, the poetic and the hilarious. Watching my son was like watching a child try to play hopscotch when he couldn’t see the squares, and everyone else could. His confusion was palpable and heart wrenching. I didn’t realise his pain, until at fourteen, he wrote about music. My heart ached when he ended with, ‘I was never any good at anything until guitar.’

I avoided an overabundance of self pity and despair while touching on its depths. I wanted to give detailed behavioural observation that made understanding accessible because, like so many others, I found the traditional medical texts on Asperger’s difficult to sift through and apply to daily life. I also found that these text books were inadequate to share with others to gain understanding from them. Asperger’s is a community problem, not just a family problem. Any advance in treatment and acceptance must incorporate the wider community. Any book on Asperger’s needed to be more accessible. There is a strong thread of humour and warmth to lift the story.

I have recorded the behaviours and perceptions of Asperger’s and the fallout with an air of detachment. But I also recorded the stories as narrative, capturing the heart of living with a child who appears to see the world through broken glass, while viewing you, his parent, protector and teacher as defective because you can’t understand his world.

I have described the anguish and the fear that grips you from the soles of your feet to the tingling in your scalp that simply comes from being a parent, but seems magnified into a twilight world of insanity with a child with Asperger’s.

I talk about what I learned, as well as he, in the muddled, hilarious stumbling between two worlds; linked by love. Two worlds that seemed so desperately different at first view. Hand in hand, mother and son. A boy obsessed with the unfathomable and a mother obsessed with understanding. The secret to finding answers started with me finding the compassion to look at life through his eyes.

To accept, to understand, to celebrate

I wish someone had told me earlier that my son had Asperger’s Syndrome.

I wish someone had told me that he was locked into a world that he didn’t choose; a world that I didn’t cause.

I wish someone had told me that I didn’t need to rescue him or force him out of his narrow prison.

I wish someone had told me that all I had to do was join him in his world, sit there with him while he found the courage and acceptance that would help him find his own way into the world that judged him odd; different.

I wish someone had told me how easy it would be to celebrate him when I understood.

I undertook a one woman crusade with every parliamentarian remotely related to the problems of disability in the education system. I wrote copious letters from my spare room attempting to sound as though I had an army behind me (I wish!). I lobbied in his public high school where the obsession to make my son fit in ruled and if that didn’t work; punish. Their determination for uniformity was as great as his need to try, and when that didn’t work; escape (aka truant). I took the school to HREOC and then gave them all a list of suggestions—Kevin Rudd said he liked them in his letter to me, but who can tell with politicians!

What is it like to live with Asperger’s Syndrome? It is like watching a canoe leave behind the wake of an ocean liner. It is like trying to find Hansel and Gretel when they left no crumbs. It’s like trying to climb down from Mt Everest when you can’t remember ever being at the top. It is a wild roller coaster that looked like a quaint little merry-go-round with the pretty horses.

I hope you enjoy my story for all the above reasons. And for one other—the reason I wrote it—so that we may all look at each other through new eyes; then understand, accept and celebrate our differences.

Linda Brooks

Boxing Day Blues

2009-12-29T23:02:00.000-08:00

"Tell me again why we have so many presents left over?" said Santa, head throbbing.

"A lot of people changed their naughty or nice option at the last minute," replied Rudolph, rubbing ointment on his hooves.

And that's why they call it 'the blues'.

Bah Humbug

2009-12-15T19:08:00.000-08:00

Bah Humbug! It's that time of year again, when businesses make excuses for 2 months instead of 2 days because they're gearing up or slowing down because of Xmas. When up and down the streets can be heard—I don’t want to, but I must!! I hate travelling/hot dinner/the in-laws/the outlaws/the presents—but I must!

So I'm having a Bah Humbug (aka 'suit yourself') Xmas. Telling people in the street has had the unexpected result of many total strangers wanting to come to my place. Bah Humbug indeed!! I shall contact Santa and say that many of us want the Bah Humbug option.

The house was silent and no one stirred
Everyone was in bed, yes, even every bird.
The tree’s packed away, wrapped in last year’s rug
Because this year, Xmas is going to be Bah Humbug!

Side by Side

2009-12-07T19:06:00.000-08:00

Asleep together again;
at last.
They who hardly spent
a single night apart.
Fears, sorrows, joys;
forgotten.

Side by side
in peace
and serenity.
Their last thoughts
of each other—
and us.

Battles laid aside,
whether lost or won—
of little importance now.
Heartaches relinquished,
pride abandoned,
life’s trophies jettisoned.

Side by side;
in peace
and serenity.
Their last thoughts
of each other—
and us.

Together again.
Through misty mornings
to extravagant sunsets.
Waiting?
For re union?
and us?

2009-12-07T02:08:00.000-08:00

Louise Sauer
L Design

My first book published

2009-09-22T14:33:00.001-07:00

Excerpt

The Great Australian Shed

Along the journey of my unconventional childhood, I was introduced to ‘the great Australian shed’. As Australians, we are excessively fond of our sheds. My theory regarding this lies in our convict heritage. After all, we arrived in this harsh land, with nothing but the chains on our feet. The ships that brought us here carried more guns and soldiers than tools. Ingenuity was mandatory. If the aristocracy had arrived without the convict element they would soon have died; manual labour was of more value in this new land than following correct morning-tea rituals.

Of course, it’s only a theory.

At first, when very young, I thought the shed was where Dad hid from Mum. Later on, I discovered that although there may have been some truth to this assumption, there was so much more to Dad’s shed. It was chock full of useful tools that Dad used to make marvellous things. I was constantly fascinated and often joined him there, and the fact that this was a place of gentle harmony added to the appeal.

Mum would get up a full head of steam to tackle the housework, taking on the mantle of martyred slavery. Mops, buckets and vacuum cleaners would appear. Dad would stand near the back door and clear his throat.

“I’m just ducking out to the shed, Else,” he’d say.

I would stand next to him.

“I’m duckin’ too,” I would add, holding my breath and crossing my fingers. Escape was so near but so far. Because we were both deemed hopeless at assisting Mum in the housework that began at dawn and ended at midnight, she’d let us go with a weary sigh.

Angel wings

2009-07-22T02:02:00.000-07:00

The nursing care plan classified him as ‘resisitive’. Behind closed doors they referred to him as that ‘belligerent old bastard’. As the registered nurse who was often on his ward I thought of him as intelligent and misunderstood, but at least still having ‘fire in the belly’ for life.

He wouldn’t eat with the others in the dining room. He said that the ‘custard dribblers’ made him ill. He said that if he “had any desire to see someone’s half digested food he would look in the garbage not at some other old codgers tonsils”. When the nurses said his comment was rude I asked them why they didn’t eat with the patients. They were silent.

He was given the ‘appropriate’ medical treatment for ‘belligerence’, which sadly to say, was to be given more of what annoyed him. He was put in a room with a dementia patient. He had served his country in the war, loved no one but himself and just wanted to be alone. Good, bad or indifferent—I understood. He was intelligent and articulate, independent and proud.

One weekend when one of the patients departed in the usual manner of those leaving nursing homes, I decided to act. Being the RN on his ward when the administration was away gave me a little leeway that I was determined to use. I rearranged the patients so that two dementia patients shared a room and Mr Belligerent was put in a room of his own. With a mixture of waffle, medical terminology and old fashioned bravado I managed to give him the privacy and dignity that he craved. What had been done, couldn’t be undone after the weekend when the administration arrived back to work. I was quite aware of the disdain that was directed my way for my championing of the ‘belligerent old bastard’. I didn’t care.

He smoked. Although I had never put a cigarette in my mouth I was prepared to lay down my life for his right to smoke. Even the sisters who smoked doled out his cigarettes with meticulous tyranny. Cigarettes that he paid for, I might add. Two at lunchtime and two at teatime. When I was on duty I would give him several whenever he asked for them (and perhaps a few when he didn’t). He didn’t have any significant diseases related to cigarette smoking and one of the women who was not classified as ‘belligerent’ was allowed as many cigarettes as she liked even though she had advanced emphysema and went outside with an oxygen tank.

I used to sit outside with him while he smoked when I wanted to see how he was doing. He tried to take great care that no smoke came my way and I would laugh when the wind changed and he swore as smoke swirled around me.

“That bit won’t hurt me,” I said chuckling.

One day while we were catching up he look me straight in the eye.

“How did an angel like you get to be in a place like this?” he said firmly.

I shrugged. He required no answer.

I was deeply touched. Having a religious background I had often wondered about angels and how one came to ‘get one’s wings’. Right then I decided that I had been gifted wings. Who was I to question the universe if they had come from a bad man, with a bad attitude and bad habits?

I had been given my wings. I was an angel.

Cobalt princess

2009-07-22T01:53:00.000-07:00

“I’m going to learn to sew,” said mum. It was a quiet winter evening. Three astonished faces turned toward her, dad’s, my brother’s and mine. This was worrying. Mum and machinery did not mix. A genius at Maths and fast as lightning on a typewriter, mum was hopeless with all things electric or mechanical. We would have been less surprised if she had said she wanted to be an astronaut.

She had a Singer treadle sewing machine and often hemmed and mended our clothes. She had done beautiful hand embroidery when a young woman, but we were sceptical about the addition of electricity to the equation. She often complained that the toaster didn’t work because she hadn’t plugged it in. But she was determined and bought a Singer electric sewing machine from her hard earned money from working at the grocery store.
Mum never lacked enthusiasm and grit and she signed up for an evening TAFE course. She would take her sewing skills to a new level, she would do more than hemming and mending seams.

In typical style she opted for the toughest assignment. She would make an evening garment. I was already fascinated by sewing myself and had sat on her knee on the treadle machine thrilled with sewing simple seams as her strong hands guided me. I focused intensely on straight lines as well as maintaining the even rhythm of the treadle foot. I was excited by her new venture.

I was seven and looked at the new paper patterns with awe. This was a new world. The ability to make your own clothes, exactly the way you chose! Wearing something that no one else would have, wow! And it was going to happen right before my eyes.

Mum sat me down and told me how she was learning to draft her own patterns. She showed me the heavy cardboard templates that were used.

“They’re a bit small mum,” I said. “How will you fit into that? Do you have to make it bigger for your homework?”
“I’m making a dress for you,” she said, her eyes filling with pride. “The most beautiful dress in the world and you will choose exactly what you want.”

We sat and drew pictures. I wanted a lace front in white, a scooped skirt over a lace underskirt with a bow at the front. I wanted tiny puffed sleeves. And for the dream to really come to life I wanted shiny cobalt blue. I felt like Cinderella. Watching every step of was both agony and ecstasy. I bit my finger nails to the quick. Mum struggled with each new stage and stayed up late pinning and tacking, measuring and stitching. Mum said there was a fashion show at the end and I would model the dress on the catwalk. My life took on a dreamlike quality.

Finally the dress was finished. It was perfection. The night of the show came and my face glowed every inch down the catwalk. There had been a last minute hitch when it was determined that I needed gloves and had none so had to wear a pair of mums. I didn’t care. Nothing could spoil that moment.

I had practised walking and watching the row of lights. My face outshone them all. Not just because for the first time in my life I felt like a princess but because my mum had worked so hard to make me the best dress I’d ever seen. I was so proud of her.

Everyone assumed that with such outstanding success mum had found a new passion.

“What will you make next mum?” I asked. “Will you make yourself something nice?” I wanted her to have a reward for all her hard work.

“Good grief no!” she exclaimed. “I’m never doing that again—its a mug’s game.”

Children's story for adults

2009-01-08T15:42:00.000-08:00

Once in every lifetime we should all see life through the eyes of a five year old girl, hear her voice and sense the world through the unique vulnerability of childhood.

Tracie hides under the bracken fern. Her mother hits her to make her good. The nice man down the road gives her lollies that make her sleepy. Sometimes, her brother Jackson hides her in the bottom of his wardrobe. Her best friend is Mittens the cat who listens to all her childish secrets.

On her first day at school someone steals her special pencil set. She will be in very big trouble and she is afraid. She runs away to the bracken fern that grows tall by the whispering creek where the bower bird struts with his prize of blue buttons and the magpie feeds her screeching baby. It's her safe place.

She is too young to know that there are other safe places and that what is happening to her is wrong. When her teacher finds her there she is more afraid, until she learns that it is okay to tell. She discovers that there are other safe places and people who will protect her.

Things can get better.

Short Story

2008-11-29T14:23:00.000-08:00

It Was a Dangerous Time

It was a dangerous time to live. It was a time of hurdy-gurdies, pogo sticks, sling-shots and billy carts without brakes. Added to the death defying aura was the fact that there were no such things as kneepads, elbowpads or any kind of protective gear. If you were lucky your dad tied a pillow around you as you headed to certain death down the nearest gravel slope. After all, we didn't need protective gear--our mums had Dettol and they weren't afraid to use it. The memory of gravel rash and the subsequent howling sting of antiseptic would have kept us awake at night if we hadn't been so darn tired after a day of roaming the countryside.

It was the sixties. Cycling was called push-bike riding. We didn't ride our bikes home quickly before nightfall for fear of cars even though we had no lights on our push-bikes. No, we rode like white lightning for fear of our parents' wrath. When mum called the clan to tea, her weary voice parting the chill of the late afternoon air, we had better run through the back door; or else. Not for us the eyestrain of the Playstation or the muscle twitches of the recumbent. Were we bored? Perhaps, but we would never have said so, because parents seemed to interpret boredom as the express desire to be put to work on household chores. Televisions were like stars; they only came out at night.

The days were ours, we ruled the streets. Once our wobbling first efforts at push-bike riding became the steady speed of success we were off and away. Those truly spectacular riders held the honour of being able to cross the local swing bridge without stopping. There was the added peril that our 'friends' might shake the narrow bridge as we traversed its swaying course, even though they had "crossed their fingers and hoped to die" that they wouldn't. Dangerous times indeed. Many were the tears shed by young enthusiastic lungs as the front wheel jammed between the struts leaving chafed limbs dangling over the creek below. However, the accolades and applause from the other children were worth the trouble. After all, there was no bragging about getting to the next level of the latest computer game. Our glories were simpler.

It was also the time of outside dunnies. The outside dunny prepared you for life in ways that an inside toilet could never achieve. The mere act of venturing outside in the middle of the black night was enough to give courage to the faintest heart. We were disturbed by the 'dunny man' stomping through yards in the wee hours of the night disrupting the well earned rest of working men and dogs alike.

Our house was similar to many others of the time, in that rooms had been added in a completely random fashion. Many home additions of the time were constructed without any council approval. So inch by inch the law had been flouted. Some houses had so many rooms tacked on that the original house was completely swallowed up. The usual practice was to add a verandah, put a roof over it and then wall it in. The same was done to carports. It was before the time when rooms were added for parents' retreats and ensuites. If you needed the loo while someone else was there you were told to cross your legs, shut up and buzz off.

I remember an Indian summer day where soft breezes blew. My mother was lamenting to my father the indisputable fact that she did everything for 'those children'. It was late afternoon when she warmed to her latest lament, "I have to do everything for those children, bath them, feed them, dress them and put them to bed." This particular day she pronounced that 'those children' were too dirty to even come inside. I can't remember why, but the tap outside our outdoor laundry had hot and cold running water. My father was a mechanical genius and was always inventing new ways of doing things.

The tap fitted our garden hose which meant that we were the only kids in the street who had a hot water garden hose. And this is what my father used to hose us down, along with a thick yellow bar of laundry soap. He stood back with the supreme air of one who has solved a difficult problem. My mother's face from the kitchen window said otherwise. There is nothing quite like a bit of nervous rebellion to get a fit of the giggles going and my brother and I laughed so hard it hurt. When my mother came outside to give my father "a piece of her mind" (a rather large piece apparently) she also became a target of the warm water from the hose.

We children fell about with the kind of hysteria only experienced by those who see something supremely funny but know that terrible consequences or death might only be seconds away. Our joy was complete. It was a moment of exquisite happiness.

As I said, it was a dangerous time!

Excerpt from 'Don't Be Stupid, Mum!'

Me

2008-11-29T01:33:00.000-08:00

I was born in the Chinese year of the horse. Early in life I found that being born in the year of the horse didn't mean that horses liked me. Perhaps because I wasn't Chinese. Perhaps I should have been born in the Australian year of the kangaroo. My paternal grandmother called me 'skippy hoppy' so maybe there was a cosmic mistake.

Every other girl fell in love with horses at about 10, so I thought I would join the craze. Having proved to be an excellent tree-climber and accomplice on my brother's escapades (usually on the back of some hotted-up motorbike or 'bush-basher') I thought horse-riding would be a snack. In my fertile imagination I could picture myself flying gracefully over fences like Elizabeth Taylor in National Velvet. I flew over fences, but unfortunately minus the horse. Ouch!

I tried again and again but it was a love affair that ended, as many do, with regret, recrimination and wounded pride. Finally a horse that I tried to gently goad into actually moving trod on me after throwing me to the ground. I was winded. It was the first time I was speechless.

I then decided I would be a writer and circulate my own newspaper in the local neighbourhood. However, I was short one printing press. Not allowing this small detail to stand in my way I commandeered my cousins to rewrite my articles so that there would be lots of handwritten copies to distribute. They were very poor employees and after having the job descriptions explained to them they ran home shouting, "Get lost!" It was a phrase I would hear again through life.

I then decided to be a nurse. Bandaids were in plentiful supply at our house so I ran around the schoolyard putting bandaids on hapless students who fell off the monkey bars. That career choice seemed to 'take' a bit better.

Now, after 20 or so years of nursing I have decided to write again. I have written one non fiction book, "Don't be Stupid, Mum!" and written and illustrated two childrens' books and several short stories that have been published in the local Gazette where I have also published several advertorials. I have written one romantic comedy novel and am working on another and looking for someone more cooperative than my reluctant cousins to publish me.