Clarrie was eccentric. As young and naive as I was, I knew that Clarrie, the viticulturist, was eccentric. Likeable; amiable; quirky. But eccentric. I was a stenographer in the Department of Agriculture in Mudgee, eons ago.

Clarrie’s whimsical personality first became apparent when he’d pop his head, with its untidy mop of hair, into the cramped space of the general office and say `I’d like to dictate some letters please Susan.’

Off I’d go, my standard-issue departmental steno pad and a couple of sharpened pencils in hand, into his Office and we’d face each other across his untidy desk.

Clarrie was unmarried, and his age was an enigma to me. He wasn’t old, but neither was he as young as my 22 years. He dressed old; Trousers; never jeans. Trousers with pockets. Trousers not elegant in style or cut, but not scruffy. Smart… ish but practical. Cool mornings would see him attend the Office in a knitted vest; an old-fashioned Fair Isle one. And in summer, he wore long baggy shorts and long socks with lace-up shoes. But when I tell you the socks were often draped around his ankles, you can see that sartorial elegance was not his strong point. He always wore the `uniform’ of educated Ag blokes of the day – blue oxford shirts with buttoned, pleated breast pockets and little slots for pens; like the shirts coppers wear but without the shoulder badge. In some blokes, these shirts were almost…. alluringly attractive. But Clarrie couldn’t pull it off.

I would look at him expectantly, pencil poised, waiting. He’d clear his throat and give me the name of the person to whom the letter would go. So far, so good. Moments of silence followed. `Dear Sir’, he managed at last. My pencil made the appropriate tiny squiggle. He would launch into a preliminary sentence, and my pencil moved in perfect tandem. `No, that’s not right. Cross that out.’ He’d begin again and another sentence would emerge. Outside I could hear the faint thrum of traffic; the other office lady in the adjacent office was clacking away on her mechanical typewriter. The clock on his wall seemed loud, all of a sudden. `Ahh’ Clarrie seemed to have lost his train of thought.

I remember his appearance because I seemed to spend inordinate amounts of time looking at him, waiting, waiting. I had ample time to take in his choice of tie; a light green and brown check woven affair, with a fringed end. His vest; did his mum knit them for him? His bespectacled eyes (grey) would glance into mine vaguely as he struggled to get on with his task. There were lots of false starts and `No, that’s not right.’ My pencil spent much time crossing out whole lines of squiggles.

His office was little more than a large cubicle, with opaque glass on 2 walls; one facing the entrance passage-way of the building and the other facing the general office. Copious piles of paper resided on filing cabinets and on his desk, in hopeful expectation of his attention. Posters of grapes and wine were haphazardly decorous on the walls.

Finally, it often became apparent to me what he was trying to say, and I would venture a suggestion. `Perhaps you could just put a few notes down, and I will draft out a letter for you?’ After all, I’d topped the Tech Classes in English hadn’t I!? I could compose a simple letter, for goodness sake. It would save all the crossing out and staring at his inelegant clothing, surely.

He would never succumb to my suggestion and we’d spend several more gruelling minutes at our shared task, until, at last… Eureka! The letter was born! I have always been a too-passive person, especially when I was that young, and I never questioned the reason for this behaviour. I took him at face value – he couldn’t seem to put sentences together. It didn’t occur to me that someone with a degree in Viticultural Science should know how to compose sentences.

I’ve taken shorthand for a lot of blokes over the years (until we all became redundant) and some of them were egos, compelled to drone their bulky and inefficient waffle over their steepled fingers, because it gave them a sense of power over the subordinate `girl’ tasked with hanging on his every word. Some were beautifully efficient and I had to use all my 120 wpm to keep up! Clarrie wasn’t either of these.

The best was an old gent; an Agronomist, who was delightfully, politely old-school. He’d come up through the Depression and the war years, with his genuine, deeply-held Catholic faith intact. He was the salt of the earth; always treated me with the greatest respect, though I was just a slip of a girl. The cadence of his gentle, benevolent humour would fall with father-like simplicity and wholesome encouragement on my under-confident self. He referred to blokes as `coves’. That’s a word I’ve never heard used since. He always seemed to be writing about molybdenum levels! (I need to look up the spelling… after all the times I’ve typed it!)

I once accompanied Clarrie out on a field trip, collecting samples of grapevine rust or something. That’s another story…,

 

🚴Cycling is big in Wagga, and we’ve got a shiny new Velodrome to prove it.

I got coffee recently at the French Bakery. Oooh la la the pastries are good! It’s a tiny shop and there’s always a queue like you used to get in the bank at 4pm on a Friday.  So, I’m standing on my `distance’ spot, waiting to give my unvarying order; a half-strength flat white…  I wonder should I live on the edge one day and try a half-strength cappuccino? I stood behind a gentleman wearing lycra, and had the time and the inclination, to ponder his attire. 

He was late 30’s maybe; tall and wiry, with a pleasant, even-featured face. Short, dark, curly hair, cut stylishly and modern, but not like those shaved-sides-of-the-head, and long-on-the-top, styles. I was trying to guess his occupation.  It’s a little game I play sometimes to pass the time in queues.

I was concluding that the gent in front of me was someone in the financial world. He wasn’t particularly muscular, but I bet he was into cycling in a big way. Either that, or he was just starting out and he wanted to look the part. His lycra attire ended about half way down his calf, and on his pedal extremities, were soft, foot-hugging trainers. His socks were iridescent pink.  Psychedelic pink, with little green cacti all over them. He’d pulled them up straight, and between the end of them and the start of his lycra suit, were thin, white legs with very black sparsely-apportioned hairs. Surely if he was serious about cycling, he’d shave them to cut wind-resistance.  Or don’t they do that anymore?

The suit also had silicone padding on the trouser-seat.  Most effective, I’m sure, in avoiding blisters on his bottom. But the view from the back was a little…. curious. I imagined it would be like wearing a full nappy…

He had a gentle persona.  I admired his embracing of such a worthwhile hobby which made him look just a little ridiculous when he was naked of his treadley. I admired his confidence to wear such an outfit in public.  But he didn’t look out of place in a coffee shop, because as I said, cycling is big in Wagga, and coffee and cycling go together like Jeeves and Wooster; like Elizabeth and Mr Darcy; like eggs and bacon. No, he wasn’t going to get stared-at in a coffee place.

But imagine if he’d accidentally been whisked (or perhaps pedalled) into the TARDIS and was transported back to the 1950’s.  He and his lairy socks would be laughed backwards out of the chrome and laminated cafes of the time. No coffee; no lycra.  And men didn’t ride bikes.   They played footy and ate pies.  They wouldn’t have been seen dead in a French bakery.

 Beans; a conflicted tale

I bought beans yesterday because they looked lovely and fresh. They were $13.99/kilo though! Oh well, nice bean salad I thought as I selected a handful.

But when I went to scan my purchases at the self-serve checkout machine, there was no picture on the touch screen button for the beans. It listed them on the docket but it added zero to the tally.

So over I go to the young lady waiting to assist and explained the problem. I’m afraid she was a ‘Madam Imperious’ in training. These older Superior Ladies often worked in Doctors’ Surgeries and would look down their noses at me when I presented myself at the Reception desk. I’d be dismissed to the waiting room with a judgmental sniff. But then, I was a single parent and weren’t they still the dregs of Society in the 90s? That’s when I learned in real life time what was like to live as an obvious Indigenous person. I’m not indigenous, but it was the same kind of thing - judged and dismissed by some inner prejudice of the other.

But back to the beans. This young lady had a bit of an attitude, I thought. Not rude in any obvious way but I could almost hear her thinking ‘silly old lady doesn’t know how to scan a few groceries’. She came over to the newly installed contraption, sitting there smug in its ‘I don’t need a human’ shininess. She voided the incorrect entry, then asked me, in short sharp words, ‘What are they?’

‘Beans,’ I say. I hope my astonishment didn’t show. I know someone that young couldn’t be expected to know every fruit and veg in the shop, but beans? Aren’t they a pretty common vegetable? Is the Pope a Catholic?  Is a bean green? They were ordinary old beans; not broad beans, or exotic runner beans, or those really long ones; snake beans.

‘How much are they?’ was her next question. She looks down on me with her squinty eyes (I’m sorry, they were squinty) and her very black, very fake false eyelashes. You could hang a hat on those things!

‘$13.99 a kilo’ I say.

She trots off to check. If I’ve been honest enough to tell you it didn’t scan a price, surely I wouldn’t lie about the price. Especially at $13.99/kilo. But all good, I’m glad she’s checking.

When she comes back, she flicks her all-powerful staff card at the machine’s screen. Her lovely young finger taps the screen nimbly and soon the amount is totted up.

But this old gal has spent a lifetime and then some, watching every penny and I vaguely think ‘That seems a lot’. I’ve only got about 6 items. But you know, the cost of everything has rocketed lately, so off I go with my one measly bag of groceries.

But once outside, I look at the docket. She’s charged me the whole $13.99 for a handful of beans. Maybe 150 grams worth. Did Jack have this much trouble with his beans? Oh. No. Different type of beans.  

Back inside I go and show her the docket. She looks at me imperiously (that ‘Madam Imperious’ training is coming in handy). ‘Yes, that’s right. They’re $13.99.’  She’s walking to the bean aisle. ‘See.’ She points to the beans.

‘Yes, I explain, ‘but that’s for a kilo of beans. A kilo of beans would be a whole big box of beans.’ She’s walking quickly back to the checkout and I’m tottering along beside her like a toddler keeping up with a grumpy mum.

‘A whole kilo of beans would … well, weigh a kilo. I try and explain but I don’t think she’s listening. She doesn’t reply so I’m thinking she doesn’t get it, or the penny’s dropped and she doesn’t want to admit she’s got it wrong.

At last a Supervisor came over and sorted the whole thing out. I felt for the young woman. Perhaps she was new and I didn’t want to embarrass her by being a smart alec. And she did apologise, right at the end of the encounter. It was a bit of a weak effort, and I could have executed a much better apology but then…. I’m not a Madam-Imperious-in-training.

 

A Whimsical Interlude

        “My house needs cleaning,” sighed the old lady. “Who will do it for me?”

“Not I,” said the fly. “I’m incubating my babies ready for summer. You can never have too many babies in summer.”

“Well, who?” the old lady looked disapprovingly at the scattered sheets of paper cluttering the dining table and the dust collecting under the TV.

“Not I,” said the bumble bee. “Too busy! Too busy! Flowers to visit, honey to gather! A bumble bee's work is never done.”

            “Just like housework,” muttered the old lady. “Who will do it then?”

            “Not I,” said the old dog, sleeping under the table. He opened one eye, then said irritably,  “The very idea! You know I haven’t got opposable thumbs, woman. Get your Significant Other to do it.”

            “I haven’t got a Significant Other. You should know that by now, you foolish dog. Surely it’s your turn. I always have to do it!” But the old dog was asleep again.

            `Who’s going to tidy my house then?”

            Just then, two fairies flitted in and chorused together “We’re the housework fairies. We’ll do it!”

            The old lady boggled at the two ephemeral figures in front of her.

            The taller, older fairy said “First we must negotiate a contract. We don’t work for free, you know.”

            `Oh no! Of course, I must pay you.” But the old lady’s heart was downcast at these words, for she was not wealthy. But she only said, “What would you be requiring? For the cleaning. How much?”

            “We don’t do windows. That’s a different Union altogether. We don’t do cobwebs; we don't empty cat litter trays.” The fairy looked indignant.” Nasty, smelly things. We don't! We won't! And we don't do under the fridge.”

            Who bothers doing that? thought the old woman.

            “We don't like dog hair,” the bigger fairy looked at the dog and scowled. “That will be extra.”

            `Right,” said the old woman. `What else?”

            `The oven will be extra, of course.” We charge two huge dahlias and must be allowed to choose them ourselves,” said the tall fairy. The younger fairy nodded solemnly.

            “Dahlias?” The old woman’s face became creased with confusion.

            “Yes, that’s right. And the dog hair,” she scowled again at the old dog, “will be a big bunch of roses, no thorns if you have them.”

            `I do, as a matter of fact,” said the old woman, then stopped and shook her head in puzzlement. `You mean I must pay you …. in flowers?”

            `Of course in flowers!” The older fairy was incredulous. `What did you think you’d pay us with? Chook manure? Do we look like garden gnomes?”

            Now the smaller, younger fairy spoke for the first time with a voice that was whimsical and melodious. “Payment in flowers, payment with flowers. All sorts of flowers.” The old woman noticed that her hair, which curled and floated around her head, was wreathed in blooms.

            A little more negotiation took place and finally, the fairies and the old lady were happy. She could hear them singing as they dusted and polished and cleaned.

            Sometime later, she awoke with a start from her seat under the gnarled old apple tree. The dog roused himself from his place under her chair. “Goodness me, what a funny dream I had.” She looked down at him. “And I’m afraid you didn’t cover yourself with glory, old dog. Most uncooperative, you were.” His tail fanned briefly. The afternoon was drawing in and she got up from her seat. Several blossoms had pattered down on her. She brushed them off and they both went inside.

        Fairies indeed! she thought to herself as she poured her tea and sat down. You silly old woman. No such thing as fairies and certainly not housework fairies. She frowned. Although I don't remember clearing away all those papers….

 

 

After the fire

(the first line was written by Kenneth Slessor)

 

A bird sang in the jaws of night

Its crooning voice was low and sweet.

I listened, crouching, small and still,

And peered through new encircling leaves.

 

The smoky, sombre haze was still

In cleared arena dim and dark,

It hung in softly shadowed poise,

And hid the constant, friendly moon.

 

I looked upon the smoke-hazed orb.

 Sequestered in my hide of leaves

Until a whispered wind arose

And all around was blessed with light.

 

The bird flew down to circled gleam

A gentle light from high above,

Fell softly on the silvered wings;

Its plumage borrowed from the stars.

Susan Starr ©©©

 

 

 

Everything takes time. The sun doesn’t just instantly appear in the sky every morning. It makes its way slowly to our horizon (we actually make our way to it, but let’s not get bogged down with Science). It heralds its coming by the first faint glow of colour, low in the sky. Then it peeps out shyly; just the arc of its great orb showing, like a hiding child peeping up from behind a lounge chair.

It rises relentlessly, gradually, until the full measure of its brilliance shines on all of us from it’s lofty perch in space.

Our lives take time to establish too. It takes time for us to become who we really are and its always a fraught journey. Through the shallows of callow youth we splash our mistakes and gather our joys. We wade to deeper waters. Wide, unknown; exciting and treacherous where sometimes unavoidable currents take us to places we didn’t plan.

If we’re lucky, we find a shore bedecked with happy, fruitful relationships and successful ambitions. It all takes time, and if we are always honest with ourselves, we find out who we really are and why we plotted our course in the way we did.

The flotsam of our mistakes wash up regularly on the shores. Some are driftwood and float off again. Some are great logs of regret and disappointment which never leave.

And overall, is God, whether we acknowledge Him or not. For some of us, He is the anchor in sunny climes. He is the rock in our storm-washed shore. He is the One who will bring our journey to an end. One day the sun will set on all our lives.

In each of us who are called; who have chosen; a growing part of us longs for that Day when the trump shall sound and we will step on to that Other Shore where we will be restored to all our potential; all our failings healed; all our hurts becalmed. We live in this fallen world ever battling our flawed human nature with the other nature; the divine one. We tire of carrying the battle within. Today Lord, we surrender to your Holy Spirit, who can change us, slowly, like the rising sun, from glory to glory, until we are fit for heaven.

 `I’ll have a half-strength flat white..’ I leaned over towards the glass fronted counter and pointed. `… and a piece of that luscious-looking carrot cake please’. Thus my day at the Coolamon Art Show had begun. The coffee, I have to say, from The Little Rustic Pantry, in the aforementioned town, was the best I’ve tasted for ages; barring the cup my son-in-law makes, in his you-beaut machine.

I sat outside on the verandah and literally soaked up the sun. I could actually feel the back of my neck getting quite warm. I didn’t care. It’s been so long since we had a full-blare sunny day, that I was determined to extract some Vitamin D from its radiance.

Then, I stepped next door to the Art Show. For a tiny community, the standard is pretty good. I gazed at a close-up painting of the face of a cow; of a tiny girl taking a photo of a cockatoo; pastoral scenes of impressive quality, and some with a bit too much of the amateur’s brush. Doesn’t matter. It’s important to have a go and give reign to your creative talent.

Then, I wandered down the main street, noseying about. I entered a very posh-looking ladies’ clothing shop where exquisite garments hung on stylish racks suspended from the ceiling. Their price-tags made my eyes water! It was a tasteful, softly-lighted space decorated in lovely pastel colours. Stylish. Elegant. Expensive. There was no music, I noticed and loved the quiet. It was staffed by an attractive young woman; tall and slim and wearing a lovely dress of soft pinks and greens. She also wore the pinkest lipstick I’d seen since the 60’s (must be back in fashion), and lashes which could have batted for England, they were so long. I admired her courage, however, opening such a shop in a small rural town. I think she might need to stock a few more items for older ladies. Like me.

The other side of the street sported an Op Shop. The two ladies were just closing, but beckoned me in. It was a tiny shop and I was sifting through the DVD’s when a man squeezed past me to the mens’ clothing out the back. He brought out a jacket, the better to see it in the light from the window. He told the two ladies he was looking for 70’s retro stuff. They were very helpful and showed him a jacket of a peculiar stripy pattern (see photo). `It’s very well made,’ said the chattier of the two. I had already noticed that the stripes on the shoulders didn’t match up, but didn’t say anything. During this tete-a-tete over clothing, it transpired he knew his labels. `Ahh, I think I’ll stick to this one.’ he said, indicating the one in his hands. `It’s a `brand name’ and been made in England.’ He had driven his beautifully restored vintage Dodge, up from South West Victoria somewhere. I’m thinking Daylesford or somewhere like that. The ladies and I trouped out to look at his magnificent set of wheels. Several acres of gleaming vehicle stood at the kerb. It was a huge American convertible with left-hand drive, leather seats and a boot which could fit a big red Kangaroo in it, and leave room for his mate, the Emu (Americans call it an Eee-moo). Hilarious!

On down the street I wandered. I bought a plant from a little-old-lady craft shop… you know, the ones which sell crocheted toilet roll holders with dolls at the top, and washers with crocheted edges. Lots of balls of wool, but all acrylic. I don’t buy acrylic, so I guess that makes me a wool snob. But ladies of my Mum’s generation love acrylic wool.

Then, I motored out to Ganmain. It’s a little town 15 minutes west and it has a two coffee shops, a lovely home-wares shop, and a quaint little bookshop. Really. I could have spent an hour in it. It was housed in the old Post Office and it had a big and varied range of books (including Christian ones!) and little spots where you could sit and read. I bought a dear little Japanese Imari vase. That sounds knowledgeable, but… I don’t know what that is. I bought it because I do use vases and because it’s pretty. I also bought a book called `Enigma’ by Robert Harris. There’s a movie of the same name. Want me to tell you what Enigma was? No. I’m thinking, I’ll be lucky if you’ve read this far, so I won’t.

I thought I better get home, so headed back through the paddocks of canola. Yellow betwixt paddocks of the bright green of emerging wheat or oats or lucerne. Roadsides bright with flowering wattle. Truly, Australia is a land of green and gold out here.