jmgoyder

wings and things

Little licks of laughter and love

When Ming was a baby I used to call him ‘my little beautiful’. I would accompany this with tickling so that whenever I said ‘my little beautiful’  he would giggle and gurgle with the delight of anticipation.

I love laughing. I LOVE LAUGHING! Lately, though, there hasn’t been much to laugh about so my thirsty sense of humour seems to be grasping at the tiniest little things and latching onto them. Yesterday, for example, Ming and I were in a shop choosing birthday gifts for three of his friends – one girl and two guys. Ming had decided to buy perfume for the girl and cologne for the guys so we were examining the contents of the locked glass cabinet when he pointed to a tester bottle (you know, so you can test if you like it or not by spraying it on yourself). He said, ‘That looks like a good brand, Mum – Tester.’

I looked at him, thinking he was joking, but his expression was serious. ‘That’s a tester, Ming.’

‘Oh, do you know it?’

‘It’s a tester – it’s not a brand.’ By then I was nearly hysterical with laughter and Ming was blushing as the shop assistant opened the cabinet.

This incident keeps leaping, unbidden, back into my mind and making me laugh all over again.

A bit later  on in the day, we met my mother and our visiting cousins at a restaurant overlooking a bay. As my mother and I stood at the counter ordering our food, she said the strangest thing to me. She said, “Where’s the water?” I pointed to the bay so she headed back to the cousins and Ming who were seated almost on top of the bay. I wondered if perhaps my mother might be losing the plot. Once I was again seated at our table, she asked me again and I suddenly realized she meant drinking water. Again, I became nearly hysterical with laughter; we all did.

I guess you had to be there!

Then, last night, when I rang Anthony at the nursing lodge to say goodnight and he said, ‘Hello, my beautiful,’ and my heart grinned.

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Michael Terren – my great nephew

He launched his CD yesterday but we couldn’t get to Perth. I am so proud and honoured that Michael did some of his work here at Bythorne.

http://soundcloud.com/flaming-pines/cureakling-michael-terren-out

I will try to provide better links once I figure the sound thing out. Luckily Michael is an understanding musician!

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“How is Anthony?”

I am home after a day with cousins and Anthony and our next-door-neighbour drops in with a freshly cooked meal. I am gobsmacked at her kindness. She doesn’t ask about Anthony because she already knows and cares more than any neighbour I have ever had. Every morsel of her meal is a gift.

I am at the local shop getting milk and bread etc. and I am trying to be flippily quick but the woman serving me catches me eye’s heart and asks, “How is Anthony?” And I dissolve into tears in the middle of the shop, and she hugs me across the counter and, beyond embarrassed, I hug her back. She doesn’t even know Anthony but she must see him in my clumsy stance, inside my bones; it’s probably the limp I’ve developed to counteract the impotence of my sorrow.

How is Anthony?

Not good.

I am helping the wheelchair taxi driver to get Anthony into the taxi and he is sullen and sad and I am bereft and all of a sudden his brother turns up unannounced and shakes Anthony’s hand as if everything is normal – as if this is normal. As the taxi drives off, this brother says, “He looks well, doesn’t he.”

A lot of people say that these days, and these words are either inane, naive or just plain stupid.

How is Anthony?

Not good.

I am home after a day with cousins and Anthony and our neighbour drops in with a freshly cooked meal. I am gobsmacked at her kindness. She doesn’t ask about Anthony because she already knows and cares more than any next-door-neighbour I have ever had. Every morsel of her meal is a gift.

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MAGIC!

Yesterday was a magical day. My cousin and her daughter are visiting from Sydney and staying with my mother so they all came over with lunch. I haven’t seen my cousin for 15 years and it was wonderful! Ming and my cousin’s daughter are the same age and already friends on FB but there’s nothing like face to face. My mother made the lunch and served everyone which gave me more time with the cousins . It was fantastic and I am still tasting the joy of yesterday and looking forward to seeing them again tomorrow before they go back.

After lunch my mother took them to a magical little corner of our countryside called Gnomesville. I stayed home with Ants.

I had had Anthony wheelchair- taxied home for the event but he was mostly withdrawn and became sullen when he had to go back which always upsets me no matter how much I steel myself for it. His withdrawal isn’t intentional; it’s because he can’t focus on more than one thing at a time, so five people conversing excitedly is impossible. I remember when he was being assessed by a Parkinson’s Disease specialist in a Perth hospital, a kind lady who also had PD, befriended Ants and told him about this inability to focus on more than one thing and both Anthony and I realized how true this was for him too. For me it explained why he had become so silent and for him it was reassuring to know he wasn’t the only one to be confused by crowded conversations.

He is getting more and more shark-eyed. You can kind of see it in the photo below which is from ages ago. Now his eyes are often half closed and he looks at me with what seems an expression of malevolence but is really him trying to focus cognitively (well that’s what I think anyway!) He doesn’t know he’s doing it. Ming, on the other hand, appears to know exactly what he is doing with his eyes in an expression of unadulterated sarcasm! The only resemblance between these two sets of eyes is that they are blue.

[Oh, see that little spot next to Anthony’s left eye? That is now the massive skin cancer I was talking about the other day and, yeeha, we finally have an appointment with the surgeon tomorrow morning!]

Speaking of blue eyes, my photos of Woodroffe’s and Ola’s blue eyes yesterday intrigued a few people one of whom was Susan at http://susandanielseden.wordpress.com/

She is a talented poet and I can’t always keep up with her blog because she is so prolific. I suggested she might write a poem to go with the blue-eyed geese and within what seemed like minutes, she wrote this:

blue topaz eyes
chipped ice set in softness–
unexpected jewels

MAGIC!

So I decided to try and find a few more photos of the blue eyes!

And then I found this one. I had forgotten that the geese have an ability to change their eye colour if prompted.

MAGIC!

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Blue eyes

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This wrinkled soul

This soul has developed crinkles like the white linen shirts I used to wear but gave away because I hate ironing.

This soul has developed wrinkles – frown wrinkles – not very becoming at all.

This soul is like a boiled egg – perfect until you crack the shell, peel it off and mush the egg for a sandwich.

A splintered windscreen.

An improbable jigsaw.

This soul has also become argumentative and I am getting really sick of the way it nags, nags, nags; no wonder it has wrinkles.

No wonder it has crinkles.

I know I should probably try to iron out its crinkly wrinkles.

But that would be as stupid as ironing a Sebastopol goose.

I’ll try to make friends with this soul on my way into see Anthony in the nursing lodge.

His soul is much better behaved!

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Rage

It has been several weeks since a nasty skin cancer developed on Anthony’s forehead, right next to his left eye. He has had these before, many times – squamous cell carcinomas. Mostly our doctor burns them off with that nitrogen thingy, but a few years ago Anthony was referred to a specialist and put in hospital to have some of them surgically removed. The surgery went well but his meds. somehow got lost so he was off his face hallucinating. A second operation was scheduled but this time I kept his meds in my handbag just in case.

For several weeks now I have been trying to get some clarity from his doctor, the surgeon etc. because this skin cancer is painful and looks like a little red hole drilling into his head and if I hug Ants he winces with pain. The surgeon’s wife tells me on the phone that he is on the waiting list and I will be given an hour’s notice. Ming became angry enough to ring them back and beg for the surgeon to go see Ants in the nursing home before hospital but the answer was no.

I can’t lift Ants by myself anymore so I can’t drive him to the appointment especially if I only get an hour’s notice since we live a half hour away from the nursing lodge. I think I will get him ambulanced into hospital tomorrow and take it from there.

Rage

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Love story 100 – Do males always love themselves this much?

Prince (our only white peacock): I just love the smell of my feathers – glorious!

King: I know what you mean, Prince – I love the angles of my shadow on the lawn.

Okay, years ago – well before Ants and I got married and had Ming and well before Ants got so sick – I asked him to explain his arrogant, strutting self-posturing.

He said (and I will never forget it), “Jules, men have to love themselves just in case nobody else does.”

Oh!

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Butterfly haiku

The utterfly looks

for the B that will heal it

under the grey rocks.

The utterfly has

enormously big nostrils,

like big purple eyes.

The utterfly finds

its missing B in the hug

of an old, old man.

The utterfly finds

its missing B in the smile

of a young, young man.

The utterfly speaks,

sheds its mothy shabbiness,

enfolds its own B …

And becomes a butterfly.

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Love story 99 – Pip

After the kidney infection episode and I was out of hospital, Anthony rang to say he would come and get me and bring me down to the farm to convalesce. I was surprised at this gesture as (a) in those days Ants would not leave the farm; (b) he wasn’t that great with generous gestures; and (c) he never bothered to see me when I was actually in hospital.

“Do you have to come to Perth anyway?” I asked on the phone.

“Well,  yes, to pick up Pip.”

“What do you mean?” (Pip was my own little mini-dachshund who Ants was looking after while I worked and undertook my postgraduate studies in Perth.)

“I’ve just had her mated, Jules – it’s no big deal.”

“Okay, but she is my dog, Ants – you could have asked me!”

The next day he came up to my flat to pick me up and, expecting to see Pip in his arms, I became a bit alarmed. Ants sat down at my little table and sipped the coffee I gave him and then told me she was dead – that she had tried to get out of the pen she was in and strangled herself. He wiped at his eyes as I sobbed, then took my hand in his and said, repeatedly, ‘I’m so sorry, Jules.”

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