Bridget Archer, the federal Member for Bass, crossed the floor last week in the House of Representatives. Her purpose was to get the government to hurry up with a decent model for a federal integrity commission.
Ms Archer won the seat of Bass with the smallest margin of all Coalition MPs : 0.4 per cent. It will be interesting to see whether she is punished or rewarded by her constituents at the next election for her action.
The prognosis is good: Tasmanian Archers have a strong record in such matters. The late Sen Brian Archer crossed the floor fourteen times. (As far as Google tells, Bridget is not related to the late Senator.)
Brian Archer was a Senator for 18 years and had a good reputation for hard work and integrity. He worked for the Tasmanian Liberals on three election campaigns before he was old enough to vote.
The late Sen Brian Archer
The main issues with which he was concerned are with us today and read like a DLP: a Decent Liberal’s Portfolio (which, interestingly enough, is a portmanteau). He was concerned about the problem of affordable housing and the lack of government support for domestic manufacturing. He also had an interest in the dairy industry and was a senior member of the Coalition’s rural committee. He was critical of the practice of ‘truncated debate’ on rural bills dealing with a range of different issues, thrown together near the end of a parliamentary session.
In his first speech in the Senate (February 1976) Brian Archer said “I am a Tasmanian by birth, by inclination, and by conviction. I love Tasmania and in this place and outside it I will present Tasmania’s case and do what I can to ease its disabilities and relieve its increasing isolation”.
Archer had specialised knowledge of the Australian fishing industry, starting with the belief that Australia is not a fish-rich country. “The whole history of Australian fishing regrettably is … a history of over-fishing and recoveries.” There were too many boats chasing too few fish. This was the issue on which I came across Sen Archer as a new and junior Ministerial staffer. He was very decent – even if he was the reason for many ministerials.
The report which bears his name was a thorough investigation of the Australian fishing industry. He supported the establishment of a national statutory fisheries authority and the development of a national fisheries policy.
He also had a strong interest in plant variety rights and the dairy industry. He was a supporter of the Commonwealth Scientific and Industrial Research Organisation (CSIRO), once proclaiming that “the reindustrialisation of Australia starts with the CSIRO”.
In 1978 he questioned whether Australia could adopt the American practice of subsidies for solar heating, as an environmental measure. He studied the future demand and supply of electricity. Later his attention turned to greenhouse gas emissions. Way before his time.
Brian Archer was credited with having strengthened political linkages between Australia and Taiwan through his continual interest and energetic advocacy.
His approach to legislation was summed up when he said: “I didn’t run to the press to try and score political points; I worked in well with [Labor] Ministers and their staff and was able to achieve a lot more for my electorate.”
However, as is daily being confirmed, no-one is perfect. When speaking on the Sex Discrimination Bill of 1983 he reflected the views of some of his local constituents stating that “Men, by nature, are more likely to be leaders, providers and protectors. We can legislate all we like, but we will not change that.”
In a conscience vote Brian Archer was one of twelve Coalition Senators who voted against the third reading of the Bill in 1984. How some things have changed.
Since Covid squelched along I’ve been zooming with my brothers’ families in the UK. (‘Every cloud – etc.’) During our most recent get-together David, the oldest and wisest of the four of us, informed me that by promoting the propagation of Schizanthus pinnatus, on account of its prettiness and resilience, I might be exposing myself to potential financial and reputational loss. Put simply, Schizanthus pinnatus is poisonous.
I am therefore writing to inform readers, and those who may be influenced by them (including, especially, minors), of the potential dangers inherent in eating large quantities of the seeds of said pretty flower. My intention is, by these means, to indemnify myself against any legal proceedings, real or imagined, the purpose of which is to have the plaintiff(s) benefit materially at my expense based on any of their action related to the growing or propagation of poor man’s orchid.
Schizanthus pinnatus (the botanical name), known colloquially as butterfly flower, fringe flower and poor man’s orchid, is a genus of plants in the nightshade family, solanaceae. It belongs to the subfamily schizanthoideae.
The name schizanthus is from two Greek words meaning ‘divided flower’. The flower head resembles an orchid, a good specimen having quite an exotic appearance. It originates from Chile, where perhaps it is known colloquially as orquídea del pobre or la flor de la mariposa.
In Chile
The botanical family solanaceae is one of humankind’s most utilized and important food plants. Its members include herbaceous plants, shrubs, trees and vines that grow in temperate to tropical regions. It includes the potato, tomato, all peppers, ground cherries (tomatillo) and eggplant. Solanaceae is also known as the potato or deadly nightshade family.
As well as those foods it includes a suite of deadly toxic plants including belladonna, mandrake, henbane, tobacco, deadly nightshade and Jimson weed.
Jimson weed (known in Orbost and Bacchus Marsh in the State of Victoria as thorn apple) is datura stramonium. It has been used and abused in any number of ways, including smoking of the leaves, eating the seeds, boiling in a stew, or even by soaking in a bathtub filled with the plants. All methods are extremely dangerous as every part of the plant is poisonous and potentially deadly.
The seeds of Jimson weed are long-lived, with one experiment showing 91 per cent of seeds surviving 39 years after burial. (This may be the inspiration for the t-shirt with, on its front, “I’ve got my stuff together, Man -” and, on the back: “- if only I knew where I put it”.)
Several plants in the solanaceae family are rich in potent psychoactive toxic compounds referred to as tropane alkaloids. These compounds include nicotine, solanine, capsaicin, cocaine, atropine, scopolamine and hyoscyamine. These are chemicals that have been used as healing drugs in small doses; misunderstood or abused as addictive drugs; and employed as pesticides and warfare agents (e.g., sarin) when utilized in toxic doses.
Some pharmaceutical ingredients containing tropane moiety.
Tropane alkaloids are useful as parasympatholytics that competitively antagonize acetylcholine. The bicyclic ring of tropane moiety forms the base of these alkaloids, and the largest number of tropane alkaloids is substituted on the atom C-3 of the tropane ring in the form of ester derivatives. [Synthesis of Tropane Derivatives, Open access peer-reviewed chapter, Abdulmajeed Salih Hamad Alsamarrai, Nov. 2019.]
Toxicity from plants containing tropane alkaloids manifests as classic anticholinergic poisoning. Symptoms usually occur 30-60 minutes after ingestion and may continue for 24-48 hours because of delayed gastric emptying and absorption.
But I digress.
Given the litigiousness of parts of the present human population, I hereby note and declare that, as if by magic, this post on my blogg and on Facebook ensures that I am indemnified against any person who, having seen my recent post about buying $2-00 worth of poor man’s orchid from Bunnings, claims to have been incentivised by said post and its accompanying nice picture to smoke the leaves, eat the seeds either directly or in a stew, or soak in a bathtub full of that plant.
Signed and dated by and on behalf of: Gordon Gregory.
This is the second half of a post about ‘distressingly old-fashioned’ musical texts. The narratives of some famous operas have been updated. My purpose is to help 21st Century sopranos and contraltos retain a broad repertoire without having to grit their teeth.
Stirring the plot – Part 2
In his interview with soprano Carolyn Sampson on the Music Show (1 May 2021), Andrew Ford reflects that “If this were an opera – because there are all sorts of problematic opera roles in a similar vein – there are any number of ways in which it could be staged to throw some critical 21st Century light on it.”
Inspired by this observation, and to help Carolyn Sampson and other performers retain access to the full operatic repertoire, I have taken up the challenge of modernising the narrative of some of the best-known operas. For guidance I am indebted to the revised and expanded edition of Stories of Famous Operas by H. V. Milligan, 1955.
Romeo and Juliet
Gounod’s opera follows the same unlikely plot line as William Shakespeare’s, written at some time between 1591 and 1595. In that distressingly old-fashioned version – presumably just for the theatrical schtick it provides – the two lovers die in each other’s arms. A new ending is proposed providing a much more rational narrative.
In the last scene, after the duet “Juliet est vivante!” (“Juliet is alive!”) , Romeo realises how inconvenient it is that, thinking her already dead, he has just drunk liberally from a phial of poison. Juliet picks up the empty phial and gently abuses Romeo for not leaving her a drop or two for herself. They have a brief moment to say farewell in the last of their love-duets “Console-toi, pauvre âme” (“Yield not to sorrow”). Romeo slips from her arms and falls to the ground.
Then follows the updated ending to the opera, in which Juliet sings the new aria “Tant pis: voici le smallprint” (“Oh well: at least he was insured”). Then, remembering the kitchen knife in her pocket, Juliet places it on the ground next to Romeo, and exits stage left.
The Marriage of Figaro
Revised and updated Act 4.
Scene: Garden of Count Almaviva’s home
The comedy is based on mistaken identity. Susanna (the Countess’s maid and fiancée to Figaro) and the Countess Almaviva have changed costumes to catch the Count in his attempted flirtation with Susanna. The Count discovers Cherubino (Page to the Count) flirting with the Countess disguised as Susanna. Then, thinking that Susanna is his wife, the Count chases Cherubino away and comes on to her himself. The Count discovers Figaro (the Count’s valet) apparently chatting up the Countess – whereas it is really Susanna.
The Count then summons the whole cast and sings a new aria “Mio padre è riuscito a farla” (“My father got away with it”). The real Countess comes in and reveals herself. The Count, realising that he has been fairly caught, sings what will surely become a feature of the operatic baritone repertoire “Trovo difficile riconoscere di aver sbagliato perché mi farebbe sentire sminuito agli occhi di chi mi ha sentito” (“I find it difficult to acknowledge that I have done wrong because it would make me feel diminished and humiliated in the eyes of those who heard me”). The Countess responds with the achingly sad new aria “È un peccato perché il mio genere tende a essere disposto a scusarsi in modo da mantenere relazioni sane e senza provare un senso di perdita” (“That’s a pity for my gender tends to be willing to apologise so as to maintain healthy relationships and without feeling a sense of loss”).
The Count professes his love for Figaro and the opera closes with the magnificent new octet “Guarda sempre il lato positivo”.
Aida
Revised and updated Act 3.
Scene: Cairo international airport
Princess Amneris (daughter of the President of Egypt), is welcomed to Cairo by Amonasro (Inspector of Quarantine, and a senior member of the Ethiopian diaspora in Egypt). She intends to spend the night on the tables at the Casino before her wedding to Rhadames (an Egyptian reality tv star). Aida (a Portuguese backpacker) hides in the baggage area hoping for a chance to get Amneris’ autograph.
Having been ripped off herself at the Casino, Aida warns Amneris with the new aria “Non puoi battere la casa” (“It’s impossible to beat the house”). Amonasro re-enters and tells Aida that Amneris’ luggage has been lost “Scusa ma questi incidenti accadono” (“Sorry but these things happen”). In a long and highly dramatic duet, he persuades Aida that she’ll be well rewarded if she finds the lost luggage.
Rhadames enters on a skateboard and Amonasro, embarrassed by the airline’s mistake, hides in the members’ lounge. Aida tries to persuade Rhadames to buy both of them a ticket for the next flight to the Azores “Fuggiam gli ardori inospiti ” (“Ah! fly with me”). Amonasro reveals himself and tells them that Portugal is an amber-listed country so they will need proof that their travel there is ‘essential’.
Amneris and Ramfis (a Mufti) enter bemoaning the loss of luggage “Per favore, trova un abito da sposa” (“For goodness’ sake find us some wedding gear”).
Amonasro and Aida turn their back on the Princess but Rhadames, conscious of the media potential of a Princess in a wicked costume, turns and with a dramatic gesture surrenders his passport to Ramfis “Lascialo a me, vedrò cosa posso fare” (“Leave it with me – I’ll see what I can do”).
Rhadames speeds off leaving Ramfis to turn on the tv on which there is another episode featuring the skateboarder with whom he was just speaking.
La Traviata
Revised and updated Act 4.
Scene: A converted loft in the Jewish quarter of the Marais, Paris.
With business having dropped off, Violetta (a courtesan) has had to sell her Jihong porcelain dinnerware and has become even more nervy. As the orchestral prelude begins, she is stretched out on the classic French chaise-longue by Temple and Webster, apparently asleep. Her faithful manservant, Dannina, dozes by the free-standing wood heater.
Violetta stirs and Dannina opens the faux wood vertical blinds. Dr Sophie Grenvil (Violetta’s Lifestyle Consultant) enters and Violetta reports that, although she hasn’t heard, she is still hoping to be selected for the national downhill skiing team for the forthcoming Winter Olympics.
Dr Grenvil and Dannina persuade Violetta to go to the toilet. While she is gone they sing an informative duet about Violetta’s nerviness. Upon her return, Dr Grenvil tells Violetta that she will soon have good news but Violetta smiles sadly, knowing this is not true. As she leaves, Dr Grenvil whispers to Dannina that she has heard directly from the selection committee and the news isn’t good. It is only a matter of hours until Violetta will be told.
Violetta sends Dannina down to buy the latest copy of L’Équipe. When he has left, Violetta opens her laptop and reads for the hundredth time a letter she has received from the selection committee’s Admin. Officer, Flora Bervoix, an old school friend of hers. Sue writes that she has kept her promise and Violetta will be on the squad. But unknown to Violetta, since writing the email Flora has been embroiled in a financial scam at the National Ski Association and has been suspended from duties.
Dannina bursts in, reporting that he hasn’t found a copy of L’Equipe but in the lift he met a dishevelled women who said she was a friend of Violetta’s and an athletic-looking young man (Alfredo, Violetta’s skiing coach). The dishevelled woman is Flora. She and Alfredo enter behind Dannina. Flora is clearly inebriated. She confesses that she is in trouble at work and unable to secure her friend’s place on the squad. “Tutti i miei beni sono stati congelati e il mio nome è fango” (“All my assets have been frozen and my name is mud”).
Baron Douphol (Violetta’s dad, a stockbroker) rushes in and threatens retribution on Flora for letting down his daughter and his family “Avrò il tuo fegato per le giarrettiere” (“I’ll have your guts for garters”). But Violetta tells her father to cool it. She and Flora confess their love for each other in a tender new duet “Non è mai troppo tardi per rivelare la verità” (“It’s never too late to come out”). Douphol snatches three of his daughter’s blue and white delft ornaments from the mantelpiece and dashes them to the ground. He storms out.
Violetta tells Flora that she will provide for her and asks Dannina to run a bath and find some nice clean clothes for her. Flora expresses her regret about the delft but Violetta says she shouldn’t worry “Dopotutto, erano assicurati” (“After all, they were insured”).
In the first half of this two-part post I try to understand why a 21st Century opera singer is discomfited when singing some early 19th Century text set beautifully to music. Having failed in that venture, the second half of the post contributes to the modernisation of the musical arts by offering updated versions of the narrative of some famous operas.
Stirring the plot – Part 1
Andrew Ford has been presenting Radio National’s Music Show since 1995. It is a great asset – a treasure trove of conversation, performance and analysis of music – ancient and modern and everything in between. But listening to an episode recently had the effect on me, for the first time, of needing to stop the car, get out and shout. You could say I Woke to a new reality.
Andrew was chatting with British soprano Carolyn Sampson about her recent recording of Robert Schumann’s song cycle FrauenLiebe und-Leben (“A Woman’s Love and Life”). She has found a way to program it, he said, “to enable a twenty-first century woman to sing it without gritting her teeth”.
Schumann wrote the piece in 1840 using poems written ten years earlier by Adelbert von Chamisso. The poems describe the stages of love for a man through which a woman passes, ending when she declares that by dying he has hurt her for the first time. (Robert Schumann apparently presented the song cycle to Clara as a wedding present. Clara outlived him by about forty years.)
Here’s a sample of the 1830 text:
Since I first saw him I think I must be blind; Wherever I look I see only him as in a trance.His image hovers before me, Emerging from the deepest gloom, even brighter.
Andrew Ford introduced the conversation by describing the words as “tricky in the 21st century.” Carolyn Sampson reported that several of her colleagues had expressed discomfort singing these texts. But she wants to defend the Song Cycle on the grounds that it still has much to offer and shouldn’t be written off.
“The issue that many people have with it is that it’s a male poet, a male composer, writing about this image of a woman’s life that is distressingly old-fashioned.”
“What we wanted to do by adding songs by Robert Schumann setting other poets, and songs written by Clara Schumann, his extraordinarily talented wife, was just to create an extra dimension.”
“- – we can really get on board with a lot of these songs and the texts; it’s very touching and the song about feeding a baby – I do relate to that; I don’t define myself by being a mother, on the other hand it’s a huge part of who I am. So there is an awful lot to which we can relate. But there are lines that people find difficult, indeed that I [Carolyn Sampson] find more challenging:
‘I want to serve him, I want to belong to him completely.’”
Carolyn says she feels the poems were “written with the best of intentions. And we can’t cut off swathes of song and opera repertoire by only performing things that reflect our 21st Century society.” Amen to that.
Carolyn and her accompanist, Joseph Middleton, have added to the song cycle:
“For example, after the wedding song we’ve then put in an extraordinarily tender song about the first experience of physical love. And then there’s a more stormy encounter; and then we get on to presenting the idea of the pregnancy. So we have just tried to expand it and give her a few more chances to say her piece.”
An article by Carolyn Sampson in the Guardian newspaper (https://tinyurl.com/yjoazztm) attests to the fact that music can trump words:
“Schumann’s song cycle seems to have little to say about the realities of a woman’s life, but its emotional depths and the music’s sheer beauty still touch us.”
“The song cycle is a work that I have loved for many years. I was first attracted by the sheer beauty of the music. It’s somehow simple and charming on the surface, but with hidden depths – often in the piano part – – the music speaks where words no longer can”.
Nadine Sierra as Juliet
But the Guardian article also sums up what I see as a problematic view of the world:
“How does any self-respecting modern woman perform the song cycle today, in which the female protagonist is defined solely in relation to the man and her role as wife and mother?”
Towards the end of the interview Carolyn says: “We all need to be dragged, kicking and screaming, into the 21st century”. Credit to Andrew Ford for taking her gently to task for this unkind and over-generalised assertion.
Note: this piece was posted to Facebook on 24 April 2021.
Even when retired and without a standard working week, Saturday mornings are still special. Today was no exception. The sun was warm, the sky blue and the autumn leaves motionless.
People at the shops moved comfortably from coffee with a friend to the weekend newspapers. Some in scarves, others still in shorts as if refusing to accept the change of seasons.
As I joined the modest throng it felt like a time to exchange meaningless niceties with strangers. “It’s beautiful isn’t it!” For human connection. “Isn’t it gorgeous!” For familiarity. “Have a good day!”
The barista in the sandwich shop – always cheerful, speedy – took my order: for some reason, a small cappuccino rather than my usual flat white – and I moved seamlessly to the newspaper shop next door.
The proprietorial couple, reliable as ever, were instantly respectful and polite, like head waiters in a fine dining establishment.
With the pink credit card having done what is expected of it, I returned to the sandwich shop to pick up the coffee. Then on and around the corner to the grocery store for a Three Mills crusty white loaf. I thought to playfully remind the woman in front of me “Not to pinch all the good stuff!” But resisted.
Waiting in the properly spaced queue to pay, a quick rehearsal of what was required to make my perfect Saturday morning: newspapers, tick; coffee, tick; fresh crusty bread: in hand.
Singing is valuable therapy for people with Parkinson’s. In Canberra the Bushlarks are proving the point despite symptoms which mitigate against easy vocalising.
______________
Where flowers are concerned my obsession is the cowslip. For authors it is Anthony Powell. His 12-volume series, A dance to the music of time, has long intrigued me and a gift from me of a full set is my fondest way of welcoming new members of the family. (Fergus isn’t reading much as yet but I stand ready to bless him whenever he’s up for it.)
In a piece posted to this blogg entitled Bob Carr, Anthony Powell and me (19 June 2018) I wrote:
“One of the characteristics of Powell’s novel is the occurrence of coincidence at what might be regarded as an unlikely rate. People keep meeting in unexpected circumstances with those with whom they have had previous contact; newly-introduced characters turn out to have links with people and events that have gone before.
I have often defended the notion that ‘coincidence’ is more of a reality of life than is connoted by a normal understanding of the word, which goes to its rarity and surprise. Events do seem to recur, albeit with different personnel, and certain people encountered years ago seem incapable of escaping the ebb and flow of one’s own life.
This of course is the dance to which Anthony Powell refers. Often life has a kind of circularity which eventually brings back the partner with whom one traced figures around the floor when the music began.”
I am reminded of this assertion every Monday morning when three of us travel together to Bushlarks, the ACT Parkinson’s choir.
Alpha and I were married in the registry office in Canberra in 1976. Six persons were present: one Celebrant, two subjects and three witnesses. These three were Bert and Jan, old friends from Armidale, and their eldest child bawling his eyes out in a stroller. (It would be unkind of me to speculate about what was disturbing him.)
Fast forward 17 years. Having moved from Armidale to Canberra I spent just three months in the Public Service. It was the period between working for John Kerin and being employed by the NRHA. In those ‘fantastic’ days, in April-June 1993, my Branch Head was a thoughtful, kind, reformist and spiritual man who I shall now call ‘Robert’.
Jan-the-wedding-witness drives the three of us on a Monday morning to the Parkinson’s choir. Jan was diagnosed about three years ago. And in the front seat is ‘Robert’, diagnosed about eight years ago.
What are the odds against being reconnected thus with a witness at my wedding and the only Branch Head I have ever had?
We make our way to the northern wilds of the ACT to a hall attached to a church that apparently welcomes refugees. Robert progresses slowly to the door on a stick. We sign in with only slight technical difficulty and then sanitise our hands. For some of us there must be a curious familiarity with the act of holding out hands, left over right, to receive something consecrated to human improvement.
We greet our new-found friends, necessarily sotto voce, in the small group that gathers. We are about twenty in all. Five carer-PwP pairs and ten or so still presenting individually.
Meeting up with these people brings me feelings of relief and wonder. It is like searching a mirror held up to one’s face for signs of changes to that face. These are the types I might become myself – or perhaps I am already one of them.
The Bushlarks includes a lot of troubled gaits, soft voices, slow movers. The mum and daughter in the front row provide the best voices – the centrepiece of the choir’s sound: almost competing with each other, singing the high notes with great gusto and accuracy.
Sue shakes all over like a leaf in a storm. Her partner attends to her. Sometimes three or four of us peel away from the singing to find her mobile phone as it demands to be heard from the bottom of her bag. There are a couple of men of my age with that fixed, unsmiling countenance the condition often brings – which makes it difficult to smile for the mirror – or the camera. And all of us stoop and cross the room slowly.
There is a woman whose mobility seems unimpaired but upon chatting with her it becomes clear that she is troubled, constantly on edge. But, she, like the rest of us, is trying to sing up a storm. Speaking for myself: some days I have a voice and can pitch it by design; on other days I am effectively mute.
We are under the control of ‘Dot’, a generous and politicised woman who has honed her musical abilities since the Conservatorium with a range of performance modes, many of them in service to her community. Dot is both Music Director and accompanist. In singing we are encouraged to stick together, in unison, except for the last chord of a piece when we are allowed to venture a third.
We met for nearly a year on Zoom. It was interesting but ultimately frustrating. Given the mess of different latencies, we were all muted and so were only singing to ourselves. Choral that isn’t. Now that we’re back together, we space out, sanitise and wipe down the church chairs. If we’re muted it is symptomatic, not by design.
This Sunday (2 May) Parkinson’s ACT is holding its Picnicin the Park to mark the end of Parkinson‘s Awareness Month. [https://www.parkinsonsact.org.au]
The Bushlarks will perform at the picnic under Dot’s watchful eye. There may or not be other eyes as well. But it won’t matter; we’re in it for the meeting and mixing, the getting out, not for the performance or the show.
In which it is explained how the arrival of a grandchild and contemplation of dysfunctional garden shears are combining to have me keep the garage tidy.
My first grandchild was born in Melbourne in July. This led to me tidying the ‘garage’ where all the tools and other gardening stuff are kept; my bedroom; the writing desk in the front room; many pot plants; and the family photo albums. It also led to a renaissance of the front garden, and a sudden change in its profile as compared with the back where all the potted flowers are.
It happened this way. The grandson’s mother and father came to Canberra for three weeks as soon as it was permissible to travel from Melbourne. His uncle – another son of mine – also came for that period so as not to miss out on the new class of family engagement now possible. (He suffers from acute FOMO.)
The stage was therefore set for major tasks: what might be called ‘outside infrastructure works’ rather than just the watering of the pot plants, picking up leaves from the prolific laurel, and other light maintenance. One of the boys did some of his real work from home while the other, the grandson’s dad, was on long service leave and therefore able to concentrate fully on these infrastructure tasks when not helping to care for the infant.
A new washing machine was bought and installed. Extra cupboard shelves were designed and built. A tumbler composter found its way into the front garden along with two raised garden beds expertly constructed by the boys. Work continued all the while on the Garden Art.
The strange thing was that, after the Melbourne team had left, I was possessed, quite uncharacteristically, of a drive to tidy up messes with which I had been living for 30 years and more. Most challenging of all were the garage:
Figure 1 The garage, ‘before’
– and the verge on the roadside out the back:
Figure 2 Out the back, ‘before’
However I was not daunted by the size of the challenge, as the ‘after’ pictures below show:
Figure 3 The garage, ‘after’
Figure 4 Out the back, ‘after’
In the course of the immense amount of tidying up done I came across a number of interesting artefacts, including the (now iconic) oil can dating from before the Second World War with the stylish dint in it:
Figure 5 Artefact: oil on canvas
And there were keys – more keys than in a locksmith’s shop – a clockface-full of secateurs, and interesting garden shears.
Figure 6 Keys to saving time
Figure 7 Dysfunctional shears #1
The cunning thing about the design of these shears is that when the blades are brought close enough together to cut anything, the space between the two handles is insufficient to accommodate two hands or fingers. The result is a crushing feeling and cutting of an undesirable kind.
Another pair of shears I re-discovered is ‘Jake’, whose deficiency is more apparent than that of his cunning cousin. When you least expect it Jake can fly off the handle.
Figure 8 Dysfunctional sheers #2 (Jake, who takes you by surprise)
As you can tell the tidying exercise turned up many reminders of times past. In part it was an audit of things kept for 30 years because of the ‘you-never-know-when-something-just-like-this-might-come-in-handy’ syndrome. By which I have been much affected.
The surprising thing is that it happened at all. I now have nuts and bolts in one container and large screws and small screws in two others. And my collared shirts are separated in the wardrobe from my t-shirts.
These things may or may not last. But I will always be a grandpa.
Figure 9 Sarah and Fergus
Figure 10 Bæth time Note: æ is the phonetic symbol for a short ‘a’. Sarah is from north of the line across England that separates those who bæth from those who bɑ:th.
Some of my time is still spent tidying papers in what is called The Shack here at home in the ACT. For whatever reason I find it impossible to throw away papers I have collected and stored, some for many years. A timely find, given the arrival of the 2021 New Year, is a handwritten document headed The Season’s Greetings, dating from early 1986. It is reprinted here without amendment (or apology).
The Season’s Greetings
We had a bag of pears today from Mrs Cole. Packham’s I believe. Pears with a few blemishes; odd sizes; in a plain plastic carry-bag. And I realised how far away from our everyday lives were fruit trees: the days at Kentucky when we were surrounded by orchards, and at Beardy Street where we had a nectarine right at the picture window; those things have changed.
307 Beardy Steet, Armidale, NSW
Looking across Beardy Street.
Our address is no longer Beardy Street for those who are uncertain. We
now have traffic of almost metropolitan proportions at our front windows and,
at the back, one tree. Were it not for the pears we would hardly know it’s
autumn; the tree is an evergreen (Laurel?).
Mrs Cole is a symbol of our new life: a much-needed new friend of the older generation, a potential babysitter, a neighbour, a Canberra dweller. So she has to take on the roles previously played by Ella, Pearl, Reg and Daisy, and Eileen. The home-based one of the couple is of course the one in greatest need of a Mrs Cole; the other has workmates and non-family distractions. The need for these is substantial: Parri is it that frightful age – big enough to reach, not old enough to teach – cute to look at briefly, sticky to hold. Tadryn, according to Alpha, is in a phase of pleasant disposition; characteristically, nude. Pella and Tauri seem to me to have swapped dispositions, she now fractious, rude, disobedient, he quite a reasonable pleasure to be with. And he’s as brown as a berry too, and already has the sort of shoulders I’ve been trying to develop for 40 years.
I was trying for three months to swim two lengths underwater. The week after I finally did it, one of Tauri’s friends did three lengths without any trouble. He wets his bed at night though.
Canberra is the most expensive city in Australia: food and housing, mainly. We were paying $125 per week for renting a 4 bedroom place for the first three months; hated the agents – especially the agents! – hated the house, hated the garden: dark and soggy. Our mortgage on this place is the same weekly rate. The pool, the spiritual centre of the house for the duration of the warm weather, is at the very back and properly secluded. (I do, Alpha doesn’t.)
Tauri, Parri, Pella, Tadryn.
Tauri and Pella attend Hughes Primary School, located some 150 yards down from our house. There are shops there too: garage, chemist, supermarket, fish shop, bottle shop. Buses go past our front door,- several in an hour during rush hours! – one way to ‘the city’, the other to Woden, the shopping centre which dwarfs ‘the city’ in shops although not in office buildings, hotels/motels or civic places.
One of Canberra’s characteristics is unpeopled civic places; grey be-fountained
squares, mini-Soviets, with flagstones untrodden and seats unbummed. This
because it seems to be a car city, whether because of its design or its people I’m
not certain. Out of your car, into your workspace; out of your car, into your
home. As one would expect of a car city, the network of roads is magnificent:
large roundabouts, dual carriageways and, on some, an additional fast bus lane.
And traffic lights! – Oh those traffic lights.
We had the house done last week for fleas, ants, bugs, vermin et
cetera; Parri is still here. As well as the vermin, the house has a number of
special effects such as we haven’t had before: heaters in several rooms, exhaust
fans in kitchen and shower, a second toilet and shower (en suite – off our
bedroom), variable light in the living room, and fly screens.
Alpha is soon to become an Australian citizen, without having to renounce
Canuck-ship. The ACT Education Authority, for which our bank manager thinks she
should work, is part of the Federal public service, for which Strine Cinship is
a sine qua non. Such aspects of
status are no bar to home-based preschool music activities, which are due to
start next week.
Editorial comment.
The piece is a reminder of the relative luxury to which we moved when we left Beardy Street in Armidale: some house heaters – and a variable light switch in the living room, which is unchanged to this day! The final paragraph is outstanding in its significance for it marks the beginning of Alpha’s Pied Piper work which became a core activity until 2020. Also significant is the fact that, as yet, there is no work with choirs mentioned. It is notable that at the time the ACT was part of the Federal jurisdiction, not an independent political entity. The swimming pool remains central to the residents’ feel for the home – perhaps Brad would enjoy reading this piece?
As a number of people know, I have had a serious long-term
relationship with cowslips (Primula veris). Some of the background to this
unrequited fascination is revealed in a piece posted to my blogg
(www.aggravations.org) on 24 July 2016: The
tale of a cowslip, in which I reveal “my love of cowslips and a
new-found admiration for civil engineering earthworks”.
Visiting the UK in 2011 we happen upon a very small clump of cowslips in a suburban gateway. I insist on photographs.
Suburban cowslips, 2011
Later on during that same trip those first photos become immaterial. I cause some confusion for other drivers at a junction near Shepton Mallet (Babycham anyone?) by circumnavigating a roundabout on which grows a fine crop of cowslips guarded by a flock of concrete sheep.
When
one is on a holiday, as I then was, one of the matters that can cause anxiety
is remembering to take a gift for those of your family and friends who are on the
nearside of a notional line separating those in the must-get-a-present set from
everyone else.
When it comes to the giving of gifts it seems to me that there are two stand-out types. One – in my experience the majority – get around to the job late in their time away or on holiday and then carry it out with a sense of duty, trying to match a gift with what they believe the recipient might find amusing. As long as it fits into the carry-on bag. (Hands up those who remember the carry-on bag.)
How I wish I was in the second notable type: the Great and Thoughtful Givers. They seem to carry round a sort of mental spreadsheet, specifying each friend’s particular quirks and interests. This database is close to the top of their consciousness and regularly accessed. Set this person down in a second hand bookshop, at a garage sale or in an antique shop and they seamlessly make the connection between an object they spot and the person in their network, family or friend, for whom it would provide pleasure.
I
am lucky enough to be in the network of
one of the very best of the Great and Thoughtful Givers. The captain of the
team.
However the particular incident recorded here was not of the antique shop variety; rather, it was Internet-assisted. Knowing of my harmless obsession as well as my birthday, this person searched the Internet for an Australian source of cowslips. Perhaps surprisingly a nursery in Queensland came up trumps. (allrareherbs.com.au)
While researching this story it has come to my attention that a Ms S. of Queanbeyan sourced a cowslip or two from Lambley’s in Ascot near Ballarat in Victoria, which seems much more likely (info@lambley.com.au).
Anyway, for my birthday I was presented with a small, green soggy mass, somewhat seaweed-like, in a minuscule plastic container, with the clump itself surrounded by what appeared to be damp blotting paper and protective layers of cardboard and string – also damp.
It was a thrill to see the plastic tag specifying the entity’s apparent botanical form:
[I’ve tried every which way to take a sharp photo. It’s small.] Attractive English wildflower. Tea from the whole plant, particularly the flowers, is sedative and pain relieving. Cool position, protected and partly shaded. Perennial; 0.3m x 0.25m.
But such was the unprepossessing nature of the item that it seemed likely that hope and trust would fail to triumph over any probability of a future life. ‘Unprepossessing’ is a gentler description than spindly and forlorn-looking.
Gaining strength
Anyway it was set into one of my best little ceramic pots and placed gently down in first one and then another spot near the back door considered ‘highly desirable’. Time passed, as do the season’s blossoms. Such was the lack of change in the condition and countenance of the item that some days came and went without me stopping and stooping to inspect it. To all intents and purposes it was sometimes forgotten!
About a week ago, on Tuesday 6 October 2020, the miracle happened:
My very own –
One should never doubt the resilience of nature and the power it has over us mere mortals, sometimes exercised in a pernicious fashion. But together with Nature we can do miracles. And humankind isn’t all bad. Some have in their own nature the capacity to think kindly of those they know and to brighten the world with little parcels of goodness.
Being on Facebook is like being away alone at a favourite
holiday spot.
You’re very familiar and comfortable with the place; many of
the other guests are people you Like. You have at least a passing familiarity
with all of them. And just a few of those knocking about are by now close
acquaintances with whom you’ve been sharing nodded greetings for years. And
with some of that smaller number you’ve had a drink at the bar or a ramble on
the mountain. Just now and then there are new people around who presumably have
just discovered the well-kept secret that is your preferred bolthole. You nod a
hello.
It’s a place one can still get to, despite the pandemic. No
travel restrictions, no borders.
But if you go there alone, part of ‘Who You Are’ will be unknown to those of your family and friends who don’t go there. The more time you spend abroad in that friendly country, the more of you will be hidden from their comprehension.
Where one’s immediate family is concerned, if they aren’t on Facebook spending time there yourself may seem like a betrayal: one is choosing to be away from them. They will have no idea of the existence of You Abroad nor know the purpose or outcomes of your time spent there. Perhaps they are entitled to ask: “Who did you see? What did you think? What did you do?”
The force of this fanciful syndrome was brought home to me just recently. Alpha, who is risk averse, called me out for having divulged her Facebook and email addresses to the public by posting them on Facebook. This is a person who, advised by a close friend who works in cyber security, shreds separately any printed material that shows our address; and who, despite very little scientific evidence about the value of it, wipes down with a detergent solution everything that enters her kitchen. (Should you be invited to dinner, please be aware that you might be met at the door with an abundance of caution – a phrase for the times.)
Anyway, I could not for the life of me recall having transgressed in this fashion. So, like a self-obsessed archaeologist, I set about hunting through past postings on Facebook to see when and why I had committed this wrong.
It was quite frankly fascinating to skim what I have posted since I started on 1 July 2016. The first post was a long piece (hah! the pattern was set!!) about rural health in the Federal Election. [The five ‘Likes’ of that first post were from friends who are still spending time in our secret place today. You know who you are: Rachel, Viv, Anne, Denny and Steve. And thanks for the company.]
(That’s me down there – in white – at the top of Red Hill. The restaurant top left on nearer horizon.)
With the digging down I found reminders of a few special
occasions and of many ordinary ones. There were everyday walks, cycle rides, and
pottering in the back garden in all weathers but enjoying in particular the
colours and the rude, unbridled energy of the four past Springs. I was
impressed, not by any quality of the works or by insights they provide to my way
of the world, but just by the evidence of how much time and energy I must have
put into this Facebook anthology. I’ve been away from home a lot.
People in your network who don’t follow you will have an
incomplete impression of who and what you are.
This includes members of your immediate family. There are seven
in mine. One of them eschews interaction with Facebook entirely and always has
done. Three are occasional users. One uses the platform but not for reading
anything posted by family members. And two are avid, interested and Friendly.
So just imagine the varied volumes of evidence they must have about my meanderings! When they all gather to farewell me after the Last Post, they will have different levels of comprehension of me. Some of them should recall the brief moment when the question “How Green was Trevally?” gave the sort of insider pleasure in which one’s personal family should all share. They will have a more detailed view of walks on Red Hill and celebrations of the shortest day.
Fishy business to enjoy one’s own jokes –
Perhaps that final farewell should be in two parallel parts: one for those whose knowledge and understanding of who I was includes information and clues from my time Abroad; the other for those who knew me only from the personal interaction we had. Or those in attendance could be divided in two, as at a wedding: “Facebook friends this side madam; Busy People and technophobes to the right”.
So what did I discover about the publication of my wife’s
email address? I had to trawl back to 26 January 2018 to find the offending
article. It celebrated the news that Alpha had been awarded an OAM for services to music in the ACT. The post
received 79 comments. It has now been edited to omit Alpha’s email and Facebook
contacts.
Not long after I had finished this archaeological dig, I
received an unsolicited offer to produce (for “a very reasonable
price”) a hardcopy book in full colour of selected bits of my Facebook
posting history. Perhaps it was coincidence or, more likely, a flag goes up when
someone reaches back into their postings and some entity spies a commercial
opportunity. I didn’t mind – in fact I bought one of those books a few months
ago. It now sits on what used to be called the coffee table in the front room.
It lies there like some secret repository of time spent guiltily overseas, away
from the nest.
Perhaps I should stay home, locked up in my native country. But being abroad and alone frees the imagination, widens the view, and outreaches the horizons.
