In just a few days, Son will be able to take off his ‘corset’ (spinal brace), because it’s now over three months since he had the scoliosis operation.
He will then have to develop a better sense of fashion!
An over-abundance of masculinity
I just figured out why there is suddenly so much squabbling amongst our birds; there are too many males! I decided to do a count today and here are the statistics:
- four roosters (no hens);
- one golden pheasant (no females);
- ten peacocks (five peahens);
- two drakes (two ducks);
- five ganders (two geese);
- one emu (two emuettes);
- two turkey toms (one female); and
- one weiro.
The fact that we also have two male alpacas and two male dogs means that, if you include Son and me in the equation, and not counting the twelve gender-defying guinnea fowl, we roughly have a ratio of 3 to 1 in favour of the male presence here. It is definitely time to get some more hens!
I figure if there is more of a female presence here, Godfrey will stop trying to lord it over me!
Note: We did have a lot of hens but the fox got them so now I have a better yard, with higher fences. I hope this works!
To the unsung mothers….
All day, I have been haunted by a compulsion to write a post for all of those mothers (and fathers) whose children have been lost to death, illness, or disappearance, because Mother’s Day would have been hellish for them. I don’t have the right words to write such a post because, every time I try, it just seems trite.
And what about those who are watching, waiting, hoping and praying that little K will be okay – this fantastic 5-year-old battling cancer and all the treatments – always with a big smile. K, her brother, her mother, her father, her uncle, her grandmother, and all of us, watch, wait, hope and pray.
I guess this is a humble salute to the unsung mothers for whom a Mother’s Day breakfast-in-bed would be as far-fetched as snow on roses.
Love story 20
As a teenager, I was never particularly observant so, when I picked my own mother’s daffodils to take to Inna one day, I was a little shocked when, after my 15 kilometre bicycle ride, the flowers looked a bit bedraggled. Nevertheless, I entered the kitchen with the wilted daffodils in my hand to find Inna in great form chatting to her younger brother, B, and his wife, M.
Inna graciously took the daffodils and asked me to fetch a vase. She seemed pleased but, while I searched for a vase in the dining room, I heard Husband-to-be come in from the dairy and a bit of subdued laughter, and one loud laugh that I recognized as Husband’s.
Just as I found a vase, I happened to look out of the dining room window to see a huge patch of daffodils growing tall and graceful in one of Inna’s many garden beds. That’s when I realized why they were all laughing at me, with Husband-to-be’s guffaw the loudest. I don’t remember ever feeling so stupid and I wanted to cry but I didn’t.
Husband-to-be must have sensed my unease because he came into the dining room and took the vase from me. Then he said something that tossed all the daffodils out of my brain and made me his lifelong friend. He said, “Jules, you are so sweet.”
An apple crumbly day
Son and I went in for lunch with Husband at the nursing lodge today and it was lovely. Well, the food was lovely, Husband was feeling okay, Son arrived a little late from his last night’s party, and I was quite boppy but then, as Husband ate his dessert, my dessert and Son’s dessert, hardly looking at us, I felt my boppyness subside into a more low-key tone.
“Are you starving?” I asked Husband, laughing at his appetite.
“Well, you never make me sweets,” he said, polishing off the third apple crumble and custard.
Son and I got the giggles briefly and Husband glared at both of us, between mouthfuls, then winked and said, “Glad I provide you guys with so much amusement.” His mastership of irony has always caught me off guard and, as I didn’t have an appropriate response, I just said, “You are such a glutton!” and he replied, “And you are such a glutton for punishment,” and reached out and squeezed my knee.
Not long after this, when the three of us were back in Husband’s room, he started to have one of his ‘turns’, getting very drowsy and weird. We alerted the nurse, then eventually we left Husband almost asleep in his chair and came home. Needless to say, all my boppyness had dissipated. We had only been there for two hours but it had felt like ten hours – oh, the guilt of admitting this!
But worse was to come when Son said, “Mum, I don’t want to do this anymore.”
It seems so strange that only a few days ago, I was worried about Husband’s apparent heartbreak at not coming home to the farm overnight anymore; then, when we encountered such difficulties bringing him home just for the day (and his lack of mobility shocked me), I realized that all three of us have to somehow accept that the nursing lodge is home for him now.
So already, the routine we decided to stick to (several posts ago) has become impossible because getting Husband home has now become a big ordeal due to his deterioration with Parkinson’s, which I think is in its final assault mode. I hate this disease more than I have ever hated anything because it is so slow and cruel and humiliating and scary. Many of Husband’s best friends are nervous to visit him and I don’t blame them at all.
I think the most heart-breaking thing today though was when Son reiterated to me on the way home, “I don’t want to see Dad like this any more, Mum.”
And this puts me in a dilemma. Do I force Son to come with me to visit Husband or not? My opinion is not – and to let Son choose when and if. He has been through this huge scoliosis surgery which more or less coincided with Husband going to the nursing lodge and, now that Son is nearly out of his spinal brace, I think Husband and I need to let him go, let him do what he thinks is best.
Below is a photo of a photo of Husband and Son, when Son was just born. I love this photo!
Oh yeah, and I’ve never particularly liked apple crumble anyway.
Unhatched eggs
Well, it looks like little Tapper isn’t cut out to be a mother yet after all because, after weeks and weeks of sitting on those eggs, she has given up. She did try!
Bubble, the female turkey Tapper was brought up with (there is also a male Bubble), is absolutely delighted to have her best friend back out and about. They are very close as you can see.
Tapper: Motherhood isn’t everything, Bubs!
Bubble: Oh, okay, Taps.
Mother’s Day
One child
an ‘only child’ who briefly wanted siblings,
until ten of his cousins came over one day and he asked me to tell everyone he had a headache and retired to his room like an old man; he was four …
a child who, at two years of age, would rather change his own nappy than go to the toilet,
who had a dummy until he was three and would hide it if G’ma came over (he and I had a place to put it out of sight – especially the pink one!)
A child who was only an infant when his father first got sick, but who thought, when the moon was full, that “Daddy fixeded it!”
a child whose depth of feeling, of wisdom, of kindness, shines almost too brightly for me,
a child who has tested me with his worries and wonderings.
Today we came back from my best friend’s party in Perth,
and my child and I sang along with his favourite music booming through the car,
this child/man telling me when I was off key (what crap, I am never off key!)
ringing Husband in between riffs,
suddenly realizing we would be home in time for him to go to another party, and me saying yes, and his elation.
One child,
now 18 and showing wildchild signs, but all good.
He is a loud, laughing, boisterous replica of his father the way Husband used to be –
he is the life of the party,
he swears too much but only in a hip-happy way and he has forgotten our rule that swearing was only for inside the car,
but I don’t care because I love his joy.
One child,
who has seen more than enough sadness,
who has been my worst foe and my best friend,
my heart,
my mother’s day present every second,
my breath,
the best thing Husband and I ever did….
so this clumsy collection of words is for him, this wonderful person who carries the burden of my love for him on very strong shoulders,
one child….
Son.
Tony
I’m not sure whether to call Tony my best, oldest friend, or my oldest best friend because I don’t want to imply that he is old! On the other hand, it is his 60th birthday today in Perth, so Son and I are travelling up for his party and we can’t wait!
Tony and I have known each other since I was 15 and he was 22 and we have seen each other through some interesting times. He became an Anglican priest and he was the one who performed the marriage ceremony between Husband and me. He has visited us often over the years and he and I love to reminisce about our various escapades. Nobody has ever made me laugh as much as Tony does.
This was us way back in time. I am on the left and he is on the right.
And, more recently, but still some time ago.
Tony sent me these photos and in this latter picture, I like the way you can see the light in our eyes and I guess that is probably the best way I can describe his friendship to me over so many years. He has been a light, he has been lightness and he is, and always will be, the most well-lit person I know.
Happy Birthday, Tony!
‘Cross my heart and hope to die’
The idiom that heads this post apparently means the same as ‘I am telling you the truth.’
The other day, I said to Son, “If I get sick, or old, or if anything happens to me that makes it impossible for me to take care of myself, then please place me in care – in a nursing home. And, when that is done, I do not want you to feel like you have to visit me, or ring me, because I will be absolutely fine in the knowledge that you are fine.”
I suddenly remembered that childhood saying and, before thinking too much, I said to Son, “Cross my heart and hope to die.”
Son looked at me as if I were an alien and said, “What the hell are you talking about?”
And then he threw his arms around me and gave me a huge hug.
Tomorrow, when we go and see Husband, I am going to give him a huge hug and ask him what he is giving me for Mother’s Day.
Cross my heart!
Love story 19
Just as I was getting used to the daily routine of the farm, the meals, Inna’s and Husband-to-be’s idiosyncracies, Inna became ill with pneumonia one weekend, and was hospitalized.
I didn’t know this until the Monday because I didn’t work on the weekends, so I arrived on my bicycle as usual and entered the back door, then the kitchen, to find a strange silence. Ordinarily Inna would have the kettle on the Aga, bread in the toaster, and the radio on. I went into her bedroom to find the bed made but no Inna so I called her and searched the house – still no Inna.
So I ran over to the dairy with a feeling of absolute dread that maybe Inna had died. Husband wasn’t finished milking yet so he just called out gruffly that she was in hospital and could I please get the breakfast done. Later, when he came in with the two dairyhands, he apologized for his gruffness but said his mother was in a bad way and would probably be in hospital for a few days. He asked if I would continue to come and help every day and I said that was fine. By then I was adept at cooking the meals – well, more or less – I could do poached eggs, I could do a roast and I had finally mastered the salmon mornay.
It was a very peculiar week because, with Inna not around, Husband-to-be and I were sort of thrown together into a situation of proximity that was awkward and it was a couple of days before we relaxed into each other’s company and conversed in a way that wasn’t stilted. There was definitely a mutual attraction there but I didn’t recognize it as mutual; all I knew was my own crazy heartbeat every time Husband-to-be entered the kitchen or spoke to me.
Inna got better and came home on the Friday. The first thing she said to me, with a twinkle in her eye, was, “I hope you and my son haven’t been canoodling in my absence!” I blushed bright red as Husband-to-be went out to feed the calves.
jmgoyder 