On Being An Adult

On being an adult.

It is not so bad being an adult.  Being an elderly adult is a different thing altogether.

The pain from your joints never lets you forget that you have become elderly. Your joints swell, and ache, and deform,  unless you are very lucky.

Your memory has lapses...forgetting the names of plants. Forgetting the names of your children's childhood friends. Forgetting small family anecdotes.
Nothing major, but you still wonder where that memory went? How could I forget that??

My children seemed to forget more of their childhoods than I. I remember much of my childhood...or do I really?
I find myself wondering if the memories are programmed from family stories, or from real memories.
It is very disconcerting, as I realise that memories are coloured by the folklore of retelling. How much is reality, and how much is recounted memory from other  adults?

My memories of childhood are very mixed. I have good memories and quite dark memories. None of them abusive as such, but some of them damaging by implication. "You are so bumble footed" "You are clumsy""You are knock knee ed" " You have an awkward shape"
All guaranteed to rob me of self confidence, none of it intentional, I am sure.
However it took it's toll, and the mixed up me is the result.

I remember a night when a man said to my mother "Isn't she beautiful?" and my mother answered doubtfully, "Yes?" I felt simultaneously crushed and happy. Happy that someone outside my circle thought I looked nice, but crushed that my mother didn't seem to be convinced, as to my beauty.

Ego I guess. We never know how others perceive us.
I always strived to make my children feel they were perfect, and I smothered them with physical affection, and daily affirmations of how much I loved them, and respected them as both children, and adults, when they grew to adulthood. I loved my son's chosen partner. I loved my daughter's expartner.
Now, I love my son in law. and I still love my son's expartner.

I have a wonderful Uncle, who turns 100 this year. He is still in charge of his faculties, and very much aware of life around him. His lovely wife is still going strong, and is partly responsible for his continuing  good health.

Adulting is indeed a very hard passage in our lives. Old adulting is even harder, and not for the faint hearted. Or the slipped fart,  or the wet myself unexpectedly brigade.
You never know when sabotage might strike your poor unsuspecting bodies!

I hope I die before too many indignities attack me.

A Sea Story

A Sea Story.

The sea lashed itself to fury,
as it thrashed upon the wounded, aching, sand.
It withdrew itself, with ebbing, boiling, rage.
An arrogant refusal to apologise
or retreat, from confrontation.

The orphaned, uprooted kelp
lay helpless upon the shore.
Knowing, it is an incidental victim,
of rage, of deep, dark, disturbing,
unrest that lies within, the sea's
deepest, primeval, emotions.

The sea, thunders again to shore
Shouting! 'You dare to threaten, challenge me?
I will crush you, demolish your very being!'
'Ah, but you must retreat', I reply.
'You cannot remain, and,.
If I dance beyond your reach,
your threats are idle, imptoent'.

Who would dare to taunt the sea?
Who, could be so foolish? So ignorant of danger?
The sibilant hiss of the sea subsiding,
whispered of revenge to come,
Hissed, of eons to keep the rage alive.
"I will triumph" the waves declared.
"Revenge is mine" as it crashed upon the shore.

My depths are greater than yours.

I will outlast your petty thoughts.

Your transient atoms.

I will exact revenge, and you,

You may beg for mercy at my tides.

I am not lenient, nor forgiving.

You may yet ride the tides

of my emotions.

You may yet ride the flows of

my eternal oceans.

you shall return to all my swells

or surges of evolution,

Tribute to Beautiful Sheree

Trying to write a long-formulating post, to my original blog.
It seems I cannot access the Life's Free Treats blog, so here it will be.

I wanted to post a tribute to a beautiful woman I knew, whose name is Sheree.

I met Sheree when we gave birth to our third children. She gave birth to her third son, and I was lucky enough to give birth to my first daughter. We were in the same hospital, in the same maternity ward.

We just 'clicked' and had many laughs in the ward before we were discharged. I had a slight complication, but Sheree had a larger complication. We vowed to keep in touch, and we did.

Her third son was so handsome and dark, much like his beautiful mother. She had beautiful long dark hair, cascading down her shoulders, in glorious profusion. Her small dark haired son had hair aplenty, and a cute upturned nose which made him appear angelic. His  immediate older brother had red hair, just like their father. He was a very different looking child to his small newborn brother.

As they grew, the differences in personality were marked.

Sheree had gorgeous dark eyes, and with her long, almost chestnut hair, almost looked like a Gypsy. Or, perhaps what my vision of a Gypsy would be. Her beautiful light infused eyes with their brown and hazel lights dancing, were just breathtakingly dazzling.She was filled with light, and a love to embrace every living creature.

They had a gorgeous Boarder Collie bitch, who loved the children, and guarded them so devotedly. She had puppies. Some of the puppies died mysteriously.
A small pet rabbit died mysteriously.
The little dark haired 'gypsy' so often had  'accidents'.

Another small brother seemed to fare rather better. He was a blonde little boy, and he seemed to be immune from the 'accidents' that befell his older brother.

It was all very unsettling. What exactly, was going on?

I had a very nasty car accident, the week my lovely friend had her fourth chid, a gorgeous  daughter, who looked like her beautiful Gypsy mother, with dark eyes, and hair.
It was weeks before I could get to see the lovely little daughter.

I often think of Sheree, and wonder what happened to her after we lost touch.

Passage

She sat on the riverbank, close to the Rotunda.

It had been recently rejuvenated, with paint~ with a flair.
Colourful little touches embellished the stark white, on the upright stands, and the interior of the canopy.

Occasionally, on Sundays,  bands used the Rotunda, to play oom-pa-pa music, with trumpets and trombones and uniformed men, looking rather self conscious. A few people even came to listen, and, on sunny days, when the grassy banks were not damp, they would sit and clap, in small desultory bursts of applause.

This day, there was no band. Only the ducks were present, going about their duckish business. Paddling about, seeking who knew what, amidst the water, of the river, as it slowly meandered along.

It was Autumn, and the large leaves of the trees lining the banks were golden and orange and pale lemony-lime, spent greens, as they fell onto the grass and into the water. Their season for being had ended, and now they were destined to be part of the everchanging cycle of the river, the water, forever moving along. Life and death, the neverending cycle of the seasons. So calm, and so serene, as they floated by. She wondered idly, if they knew their season had ended. Wondered at the brief life they had had.

Then she thought about the wonderful striking, almost dazzling, dizzying,  shades, of limey greens, so arresting in their bright youth, of the Spring, when they burst forth, from the bare branches, and spread their wonderful canopy of rich green dapples in the sunlight, as the Spring turned to Summer, and the wonderful blooms became part of the splendour of the trees, the parents, to all the glory. The flowers looking like bright pink candles or pyramids of colour, so pretty, and enchanting.

She thought about her life, and the sadness she felt. She wished she was a fallen leaf, to be carried away by the river's flow. She would feel no more pain. She could just fade into the passage of nature, and not have to feel pain, or sorrow, for her losses.

The shadows were long, and it was suddenly chilly. She stood up, and wondered how she could return to her life, which seemed so pointless. She wondered if she could ever really feel again, if the pain and agony would ever end.

She tried to tell herself, Time is a passage, just like this river. It never stays the same, and moves along at it's own pace. For now, for her, the passage was much to slow. She wished the river was deeper, or fast flowing, and she could fling herself into the water, and be swept along, with leaves, to another destiny.

Storm

Her Uncle had owned the bach until his death, and he had lived there on his own, after his wife, who was her Aunt by blood, had died. After her tragic bereavement, her cousin, Gabrielle, had offered her the use of the bach,which remained deserted for much of the year.

The family, now comprised of the cousins, two sons, Martin, and Kelvin, and their sister Gabrielle, and their families, used the bach for occasional summer weekends, but for the main part, the little two bedroom dwelling remained unused. The old, leaning and greying stakes, with rotting strands of twine, in the back yard, were all that remained of her Uncle's valiant attemps at gardening. It seemed impossible that he had once grown tomatoes, and potatoes in the sandy waste, now filled with Gazanias, and weeds, Pigfaces, encroaching Lupins, and tussock grass.

This area was next to the dilapidated, and falling-apart remains of Uncle Ted's shed, which he had called his Garage. The old Morris had rarely been housed there, but had stood on the driveway, leading up to the doors. Uncle Ted had gutted and scaled his fish out in the garden, and he often collected kelp, to dig into the garden, and he claimed it was the reason he could coax tomatoes and even potatoes from the sandy waste he called a garden.


She was really tired, after her long drive, down from the city, and the turn onto the side road and up the rutted old road, that led to the Beach Bach, was a welcome sign that she was soon to rest. She parked her car at the bottom of what used to be the driveway, for her Uncle's little old Morris, and which was little more than tussock and sand now, and hauled her bags up the sloping front area, that had once been a lawn of sorts.

When she unlocked the back door, she smelled the peculiar scent of stale air mingled with salt and sand. She was instantly glad she had brought her own sheets, pillows, and two quilts. She stripped the bed, and made it anew, with her fresh linen, and quilts.

It was almost dusk, and she stepped outside the back door, to smell the salty air, and feel the fresh wind from the ocean. She could see the curve of the small bay, with it's bright sandy collar, and the gentle surf frills, as each wave broke gently onto the sand. The jagged black, and smoother grey, rocks at each end of the bay seemed to sit as guardians, over the little bay.

She flipped on the Mains switch at the power board, and wondered that the local authorities allowed the cousins to keep the Electicity supply available for use when needed.

She realised how tired she was, and the fact that she had more or less forgotten about food. She hauled the cooler from her car up the slope and took out the eggs, bread, tea and milk. There was an elderly refigerator, which seemed to be working, judging by the noises it was making, once she had turned on the electricity. It had a huge handle on the door, and she put her eggs and milk onto a shelf. She found an ancient toaster in a cupboard, which had doors on each side, though only one element seemed to be working.

She decided to have a boiled egg, and a slice of toast for her tea. There were three small saucepans, and a small frypan, in the cupboard below the sink, and the electric stove had two elements that glowed red, when she tried them all. She made a mental note, to get herself a fully functional automatic toaster as soon as she could, and also buy some butter, which she had forgotten she might need for the toast. The water from the tap was very reluctant, but eventually ran clear enough for her to risk using it for her tea. The electric jug worked to make a cup of tea, but it seemed to take forever to boil the water.

She decided to forgo a bath, as there was no shower, and fell into bed, and into a deep, weary sleep.


She awoke suddenly to a loud noise, sat up in bed in alarm, and could not at first remember where she was. The wind was a howling demon, and seemed about to enter the bach. It whistled and moaned at the doors and windows. She heard the roar and thunder of the surf, hurling itself onto the beach. It sounded so loud and close, she felt it might enter the bach, then remembered she was above the bay, and it surely could not rise high enough, to flood into her little sanctuary.

She pulled the quilts about her head, and fell asleep once more.


The morning dawned clear, calm, and bright, with not a cloud or any evidence of the night's fury, apart from the stakes in the garden having fallen over, and the twine being ripped from the stakes. The Lupins at the edge of the once-upon-a-time garden had been bent and wilted by the winds, but the sandy drifts appeared to be a normal part of the landscape.

As she looked out at the sunny day, she decided to walk down to the beach, and work up an appetite. She dressed in jeans and a T Shirt and decided not to wear sandals, since it was warm, and the sand felt soothing under her bare feet.

She crossed the dunes to the sand of the bay, and noticed all the drifts of kelp, lying thick and tossed along the bay. There were great piles of kelp, seemingly ripped from the ocean floor, by the fury and rage of the storm the night before. The stipes and blades lay strewn in heaps upon the sand.

A small, sad, silver fish lay dead, caught unawares by the ocean's fury, perhaps thinking it had found shelter in the forest of kelp, before it was plundered by the storm's ferocity, and hurled from it's haven, onto a sandy, hostile shore. She saw the glint of the fish among the kelp, and realised what it was, and what might have happened.

She noted that the waves seemed to have been thrown further up the shore than normal, and the holes in the newly wet sand, told of small creatures, whose homes in the dry sand have been invaded, flooded by the unusual influx of high waters.

As she walked along the bay, looking at the great piles of uprooted kelp, she saw something glinting in the morning sun. It appeared to be silver, and vaguely familiar. A great pile of kelp lay in a mound, and she suddenly realised what was silver.

As the waves lapped their foamy edges about the thick straps of kelp, and silver, she realised it was a high heeled sandal, in fact, pale blue and silver.

Incongruously, it was strapped to a foot. As she looked closer, she could see another, unclad foot, in the sand, under the kelp.

With mounting horror, she followed the line of kelp, and saw the long strands of brown hair, the side of a face, and the knotted, silky, pale blue scarf, around a slender neck.

An arm was flung out, fingers curled towards some unseen goal.

The kelp formed almost a blanket of modesty about the obviously naked body of the female, who lay upon the beach. The ripples of the waves poured foamy edges over the kelp, and gently rocked the naked foot back and forth.


She reeled back in horrified realisation, that this was a dead person.
She remembered the howling fury of the night before.
The waves crashing and thundering on the shore.
Was it outrage at this woman's death?
How had she died?


This may or may not be continued...

The Deal

The 'Deal' was set, with no name or formal acknowledgement, that it was, a 'deal'.

It was more of an 'Agreement' I suppose.

The Husband had been off at the 'War'.

The New Wife had been at home, gestating, and bearing, and giving birth, to the child, who had been accidentally concieved, at a contrived, conjugal meeting, hasitly convened, just before the Husband had been posted off, Unexpectedly, " Overseas".

Upon the Husband's Return, he was dismayed, and shocked, to discover he had a child, though he had known of her birth, and he had even looked forward to becoming aquainted with this small child who was the result of his final expression of love, with his new bride.

A fractious, hostile, jealous, little daughter, who obviously disapproved of everything about him.

How dare he come between her and her mother... and 'Little Sister'.

Wait a minute... Little Sister??

There could be NO Little Sister.

The Husband had been overseas, deployed in hideous warfare, too terrifying to talk about, on his return.

His Return, to a horrible truth, he did not wish to face, nor want to confront. His Bride had betrayed him.
She had born another child, after his,~ this second child~ not his.
The result of an accidental 'coupling'.

After much agonising, a 'Deal' was struck.

The Wife could keep His (Their) child, on condition she relinquished the second child.

The 'Deal' dictated, should the Wife decide to keep the 'Second Child' she could not have access, nor the custody of, the Elder, Marital, Child.

The Distressed and Distraught Wife, chose the 'Deal'.

****
The Myna birds screeched in the tall dark Pines, a cacophony to deride and mock, the Wife in her grief.

The 'Deal' had been struck.

She had forsaken her second born, and cleaved to the Husband, and her firstborn daughter.

Too soon, she was pregnant with her third child, a 'cementing' of the marriage, and a denial, in a sense, of her folly, her 'fall from grace'.

As she bore the hot and heavy pregnancy of this third child, the screeching of the Myna birds continued to torture her with their mocking cries and shrill intrusions.
How did she remain sane in all of this misery?

Her fractious first born continued to irk. She did not seem to be compatible with her father, who she continued to regard as an 'Intruder, and treat with Hositlity. The child was frightened of the screeching birds, and most of all, the dark and ugly, outodoor 'toilet', under the dark and brooding pines.

The poor Wife tried to deal with the fractious daughter child, and the screeching of the Mynas as she slaved over the copper, which she had to light, to wash the clothes, and the concrete tubs, in which she had to rinse, and rinse again, with cold water, in the outdoor shelter that was her 'washhouse'.

Her chapped hands were testament to the hardship. Her hands bled, as she pegged out the clothes on the line, in the cold air of Winter.

Then, in pregnant heaviness, she laboured over the tubs, in the heat of Summer.
The coal fire range became a challenge for cooking as the heat increased in the small farm house kithchen.
The grissly daughter and the standoffish Husand/Father, became her nightly juggling points.


The wife became demented, over the Myna birds screeching, the whining child, the husband off all day on his 'farming' tasks.

"If the baby does not turn around, we will have to cut it from your body. It will not live, but your chances of survival are increased." What chilling words, for a small statured woman, alone, and in grief still, from her recent bereavement, of a child taken from her.


The Large Son was born, after a protracted labour, in a small country Hospital. The Wife almost died, as her options of delivery or death, were given. No modern facilites available. I do believe the Large Son, set some type of record, for that Hospital. It probably stands to this day.

"Hard labour, seeming due reward, for a wayward wife, with guilty secrets and a 'Duty to fulfil'.

The 'Deal' did not last.

The Wife left, when the Large Son was quite young.

A Divorce was the outcome.

Or, one could say "The Deal Folded".



.

Sense and Scents

I had a friend, who has passed out of my life, now, as some friends tend to do.

We moved our Country of Residence, and I lost touch with this friend. I often think of her, and I did value our friendship. She was gentle, kind, loving, and extemely fiesty, and strong.

I met her when my daughter was born, and we remained friends for a good few years.
She gave birth to another son, and another daughter, after our meeting, at the birth of her second son, and my only daughter, who was my youngest child.

I so admired her spirit, and her strength, in the face of her life's trials.
Her eldest son, was the image of her husband. Her husband had been raised in an orphanage, and had not known his parents. He had flaming red hair, from what parent, or ancestor, he had no idea, and had no desire to have any children. He had had siblings, he said, and they had been adopted by relatives, but no one of them had wanted the small, skinny, red haired little boy.

She told me that he had stormed out of their flat, when he learned she was pregnant with their first child. He was adamant he did not want children, to bring into this cruel world. He felt that his red hair had stopped his chances of adoption.

When their eldest son was born, in his image, with his flaming red hair, he was stunned to find he was totally beguiled with the child!
As his son grew, it seemed he developed a strange relationship with the child. He almost seemed to resent how much love and affection he felt for this son, born in his image. It was as if he loved him, but tried desperately not to show that love, or the depth of his feeling.

There ensued a gap of four years, when my friend failed to concieve another child, though she longed for another baby, as a sibling to her eldest son.
By the time her second son was born, the eldest son was almost five years old.

The second born resembled his beautiful dark haired mother. He had her wide brown eyes and her ready smile. He appeared quite different from his blue eyed, red haired older brother.

As time went by, the older son seemed, to outside observers, (such as myself, and my husband, and children) a somewhat 'different' child. He could be quite callous, and mean, to his little brother. He seemed to engineer events, where his little brother came to harm. The hand through the washing machine wringer. The game of "Let's gas up the truck" wherein he poured the motor mower petrol down a funnel into his smaller brother's mouth.

Their gorgeous dog's pup, who was "hit by a car" ~ except there was no car. The puppy was in a plastic bag, and mysteriously bashed to death. He denied he had done it, but my friend knew there was no other possibility.

By then, a third son had been born to the family, a beautiful blond haired, blue eyed boy, who seemed to be immune to his older brother's meanness and nasty tricks.

Thier father brought a baby rabbit home, a caualty of a hunting trip. My friend, who had a very soft and loving heart, hand reared the orphaned rabbit. It became her constant companion, hopping out to the clothesline, following her about the house. The sons appeared to love the little rabbit, as she did.

My friend found the rabbit dead, crushed by the hutch, which had seemed to fall upon the small creature. She could not understand how it could have happened, but her second son told her his older brother had done it. She did not want to believe it was so, but after the puppy incident, she knew in her heart it was true.

After the birth of her daughter, when she almost died, she had a tubal ligation, so there would be no more babies for her. She could not risk the chance of her dying, should she have more children.
She had grave fears for her eldest son's well-being, and she feared for his future mental wellbeing.

Her husband seemed to react with strange behaviour. She found out he had had an affair. It seemed uncharacteristic.

Their eldest son reacted to life with even more bizarre behaviour patterns.

My friend woke early one morning, with a strong perfume invading her nostrils.
There was a horrible sickly, sweet smell, almost like vanilla.

She lay in bed, sniffing the air, and she knew the 'scent' was not a good one.
Her instincts, her sense, told her she would not like the cause of this peculiar smell.

She delayed getting out of bed, as long as she could. Then she saw her eldest son's face, stricken and guilty, peering into the bedroom door, from the passage.

He stammered. He had tried to make coffee. He had boiled water, in a saucepan. He took the hot pot from the stove, and placed it upon the linoleum floor. It had melted a huge hole in the linoleum, which had caused the smell.

Not really such a bizarre behaviour.

It seemed to be a pivotal point, in her son's life, and her husband's curious disintegration into some form of madness.

He threatened suicide. He went on massive drinking binges. He was never physically abusive, but his mental violence increased.

My friend left him. I don't know what became of her, or her children.
We were in the throes of moving countries, and I lost touch with her.
She is often in my thoughts today.

Her sense, and her scents.