A Contrast of Grandmothers
Both my grandmothers were good, strong women. While they didn’t question the conventional role of women in their era, and in some ways lived up to it splendidly, neither was conventional.
My Indian grandmother, my Mum’s mother, was Florence May Holmes, née Pereira. (Anglo-Indian really, with a strand of Portuguese.) I called her Nana. She was warm, soft, spontaneous, full of laughter and song, with a tender heart for other people’s troubles. She enjoyed a joke and a beer, and had three children by different fathers, only the last of whom she married — Francis Sidney Holmes, my dear Grandpa, my Mum’s stepfather, the only grandfather I knew.
Nana loved animals, and was always trailed by several dogs. She had cats too, but dogs were her favourites. I remember her generous lap where I felt safe, loved. I remember her singing to me of ‘Gentle Jesus, meek and mild.’ I remember her letting down her long hair at night from its daytime coil, brushing it 100 times. She was the great love of my early life. She died when I was four.
The other, Australian of English descent, was Alice Robinson, born Selina Alice Noar, always known as Alice – or Grandma. My Dad was her second son, and the second of her seven children by her husband, John Thomas (Jack) Robinson, the only love of her long life. He was an alcoholic; she, not surprisingly, was a fervent member of the Women’s Christian Temperance Union.
Grandma disliked dogs — dirty things that should be kept outside. She didn’t care for cats either. And she wasn’t a hugger. I don’t have the warm, tactile memories of her that I do of my Nana.
She lived interstate, so I saw her much less often than Nana. But she wrote many fond letters to Lovely Lambkin, her special name for me – the only one of her many grandchildren to receive one.
She sent me books for presents. (So did Grandpa Holmes.) She was the great reader from whom her children inherited the love of books. In my teens we became friends.
Always primly dressed, she too had long hair in a bun, which she brushed out at night, 100 times.
To be continued............
The 369-word prose prompts at Poets and Storytellers United seem to have started something! I found myself writing about my grandparents as if this could be the start of a memoir. Anyway it's only the beginning of what I want to say about them, so I'll see where it takes me. I'm sharing it with Writers' Pantry #13.
28.3.20
24.3.20
She Was Warned [Prose]
She Was Warned. She Was Given An Explanation. Nevertheless, She Persisted.
She was warned. Threatened. Often.
Stupid woman. What did she want? Everyone knows, if you make a threat you have to mean it. She knew I meant it. She told those reporters, ‘I know I’m dead. But I’m not stopping.’
There comes a time you have to act. Otherwise you’re just condoning. (Ha, that’s what she said, too. It was direct opposition, a head-on clash.)
She was given an explanation. Many times, by many people. Selfish, she was! We have our livelihoods to protect, our families to feed. Cattle do that for us, not trees. It’s obvious.
Well, trees do it too, when we can sell the timber. And we can. They want it, overseas. As they want the beef.
Sell the timber, use the land for cattle. Win-win. Our people thrive. It was explained to her, very clearly.
Still she sat at her little desk, writing letters, watching my logging trucks pass her cottage, reporting....
It was easy to know when the Government forces were coming. So many of them are us. We always knew in time to hide the evidence. It wasn’t as if her endless letters had any real effect.
Nevertheless, she persisted. Worse, she escalated. What can you do with a woman like that?
She spoke to foreign reporters! She was interviewed, photographed. It will go around the world. What’s it to them? This is OUR rainforest.
Don’t tell me about the tribes. If we never really see them, they must have enough forest left. Anyway, the Government says there are only 80. Not tribes, people. Oh well, all right, that’s just one tribe. But still, one of very few.
If they want to keep living close to the sound of chainsaws, that’s their lookout, isn’t it? They get to choose, as we get to choose. (I promise you, they’ll retreat.)
She lived unprotected. Just her husband and sister in that tiny house with her. I told you she was stupid. They slept without any warning system, not even a dog. A dark night. It was too easy.
No, not me. Who do you think I am? I delegate.
It will always be said of me, I am a man of my word.
Last night I watched a ‘Four Corners’ program from the (Australian) ABC on the burning of the Amazon forests with the encouragement of the Brazilian Govt., and the plight of those determined to resist. In this fictional piece based on those facts, I have conflated two different (real) activist women. The one who spoke to the reporters is still alive so far, but is also the one who said she knows she will be killed ... and is not stopping. (The other would have known that too, even as she wrote her letters; had been warned, etc.)
I was inspired to write this by Magaly’s prompt, 'Nevertheless, She Persisted', in Weekly Scribblings #12 at Poets and Storytellers United. The prompt is based on a book which was based on something that happened in US politics ... all worth reading; go have a look. (I got the book and I love it.)
22.3.20
Non-Elegy
Non-Elegy
I think of that tall woman
who loved the physical world,
loved to walk in it, stare at it,
write down her ecstatic
embrace of the world
in words that made me
love it all too, seeing
and experiencing
all of it, just as she told –
and I find it in me to be glad
she left when she did, before
we had come to this – it would
have caused her, I think,
so much sadness. Although
perhaps she would have found
a way still to rejoice. After all
it’s only people in danger. There will
still be streams, young deer, white moths….
Sharing in Writers' Pantry #12 at Poets and Storytellers United, and at earthweal Open Link #12 – and in general, for World Poetry Day: March 21.
I think of that tall woman
who loved the physical world,
loved to walk in it, stare at it,
write down her ecstatic
embrace of the world
in words that made me
love it all too, seeing
and experiencing
all of it, just as she told –
and I find it in me to be glad
she left when she did, before
we had come to this – it would
have caused her, I think,
so much sadness. Although
perhaps she would have found
a way still to rejoice. After all
it’s only people in danger. There will
still be streams, young deer, white moths….
Sharing in Writers' Pantry #12 at Poets and Storytellers United, and at earthweal Open Link #12 – and in general, for World Poetry Day: March 21.
17.3.20
Deafening
Deafening
When the night is crying
shards of rain without a pause
that slice into the earth
as if with intentional cruelty,
what words are her slurred voice
muttering, longing to shout?
What is it the night wishes
to force into our listening ears
and foolish brains?
If not the words, I hear the mood.
She wishes to be accuser.
She wishes to be accuser.
‘Where have they gone?’
I think she says: ‘all those trees
whose silken leaves
rubbed up against my skin
enjoying my embrace?
Where are the many creatures,
their eyes alight with my stars?’
My voice dies in my throat
before I can tell her
‘There are still trees,
there are still creatures.’
There are, but I know she means
they are dwindling fast,
have dwindled. I cannot meet
the night’s unanswerable questions.
Not without admitting guilt.
On behalf of my species
I cower and remain silent,
huddling indoors
where I cannot see
bright eyes in the shadows,
the moonlit edges of leaves,
nor feel the air soften to velvet.
I seek, instead, to muffle
the sharp slap of the rain.
For Weekly Scribblings #11 at Poets and Storytellers United, Sanaa invites us to try hypophora – in which a writer poses a question and then immediately answers it.
14.3.20
The Ring [Prose]
The Ring
I was there when they arrived — rings from eBay, for her craftwork: for adorning wands or suspending pendulums.
‘Choose one,’ she said. (She was always giving me things.)
Among the silver and glitter, one was different — copper, engraved with symbols, the large oval stone aslant, deep blue with two tiny white spots: polished sodalite. I put it on.
I looked up sodalite. Sure enough, the perfect stone for things I was learning, things she’d urged me to work on.
I wore it constantly. One day I noticed the white spots enlarging.
‘It must be a magic ring,’ someone said.
I could hardly wait to visit her, to tell her. Her eyes shone!
‘What’s the white in sodalite?’ she asked. I Googled.
‘Calcite.’
‘What does calcite do?’
‘Various things — including cleansing and transmuting other people’s energy.’
I’m a healer. We decided it reflected my focus on helping others.
Soon the whole stone was white, only the outer rim dark blue.
One day I noticed a new blue line.
‘I must be getting self-centred,’ I thought, shifting my focus back to others. The line disappeared.
Her eyes shone even brighter when I told her that.
She was my teacher and guide, sometimes shattering my preconceptions. Sometimes I let her. But when she said I should be her PA and get off the Age Pension, I explained that writing is the focus of my time and energy, and going off the Pension would lose me the Government-subsidised home I love. Disappointed, she accepted.
She’d been sick a long time but we believed she was mending. Suddenly she died.
Later, a reader said, ‘You’ve come to the end of a phase. No-one can ever again tell you what to do; you’re free to make your own choices.’
The ring got a little tight. One day the band broke neatly, centre back. ‘Now it’s adjustable,’ I thought.
But soon, abruptly, it fell off my hand, snapping next to the stone.
Then I remembered. ‘If a piece of jewellery someone gave you gets lost or broken, the karma between you is complete.’
The pieces rest on the shrine I made her.
Now I’m my own teacher and guide.
A 369-word story for Writers' Pantry #11 at Poets and Storytellers United.
‘Choose one,’ she said. (She was always giving me things.)
Among the silver and glitter, one was different — copper, engraved with symbols, the large oval stone aslant, deep blue with two tiny white spots: polished sodalite. I put it on.
I looked up sodalite. Sure enough, the perfect stone for things I was learning, things she’d urged me to work on.
I wore it constantly. One day I noticed the white spots enlarging.
‘It must be a magic ring,’ someone said.
I could hardly wait to visit her, to tell her. Her eyes shone!
‘What’s the white in sodalite?’ she asked. I Googled.
‘Calcite.’
‘What does calcite do?’
‘Various things — including cleansing and transmuting other people’s energy.’
I’m a healer. We decided it reflected my focus on helping others.
Soon the whole stone was white, only the outer rim dark blue.
One day I noticed a new blue line.
‘I must be getting self-centred,’ I thought, shifting my focus back to others. The line disappeared.
Her eyes shone even brighter when I told her that.
She was my teacher and guide, sometimes shattering my preconceptions. Sometimes I let her. But when she said I should be her PA and get off the Age Pension, I explained that writing is the focus of my time and energy, and going off the Pension would lose me the Government-subsidised home I love. Disappointed, she accepted.
She’d been sick a long time but we believed she was mending. Suddenly she died.
Later, a reader said, ‘You’ve come to the end of a phase. No-one can ever again tell you what to do; you’re free to make your own choices.’
The ring got a little tight. One day the band broke neatly, centre back. ‘Now it’s adjustable,’ I thought.
But soon, abruptly, it fell off my hand, snapping next to the stone.
Then I remembered. ‘If a piece of jewellery someone gave you gets lost or broken, the karma between you is complete.’
The pieces rest on the shrine I made her.
Now I’m my own teacher and guide.
A 369-word story for Writers' Pantry #11 at Poets and Storytellers United.
9.3.20
Just Another Night At Home [prose]
Just Another Night At Home
Late night, wet night, but in here warm and dry. I like the deep nights without intrusion: the street silent, my thoughts clear. I'm reading poems online, sinking into them ... I'm lulled by the rain....
The small one sneezes softly, just once, from down there by my left knee – a favourite spot of hers during my desk times. The sound brings me out of the trance I’d begun falling into.
It's as if she's warning me, ’Hey, you’re getting tired. Better get up from there now and go to bed.’
Always something of a habit of hers, looking after me like this: the tiny sneeze meant as a signal. (Not much of a miaow-er this one; and purring mostly reserved for later, when actually in the bed together.)
I don’t even need to turn my head to see her there, her own head tilted up quizzically: that pretty little face, white whiskers crisp against black fur.…
Of course I know that when I do turn my head, I won’t see her – not with my eyes. It’s just over a year ago that she left me, unable to anchor herself in her slight body any longer. I’m touched that she still comes to say hello, still looks after me. I guess there are all kinds of angels.
wet night outside
but safe in here and cosy
in spite of tears
Shared with Rommy's Weekly Scribblings #10 at Poets and Storytellers United, in which she asks, Early Bird or Night Owl? No prizes for guessing which one I am!
Late night, wet night, but in here warm and dry. I like the deep nights without intrusion: the street silent, my thoughts clear. I'm reading poems online, sinking into them ... I'm lulled by the rain....
The small one sneezes softly, just once, from down there by my left knee – a favourite spot of hers during my desk times. The sound brings me out of the trance I’d begun falling into.
It's as if she's warning me, ’Hey, you’re getting tired. Better get up from there now and go to bed.’
Always something of a habit of hers, looking after me like this: the tiny sneeze meant as a signal. (Not much of a miaow-er this one; and purring mostly reserved for later, when actually in the bed together.)
I don’t even need to turn my head to see her there, her own head tilted up quizzically: that pretty little face, white whiskers crisp against black fur.…
Of course I know that when I do turn my head, I won’t see her – not with my eyes. It’s just over a year ago that she left me, unable to anchor herself in her slight body any longer. I’m touched that she still comes to say hello, still looks after me. I guess there are all kinds of angels.
wet night outside
but safe in here and cosy
in spite of tears
Shared with Rommy's Weekly Scribblings #10 at Poets and Storytellers United, in which she asks, Early Bird or Night Owl? No prizes for guessing which one I am!
3.3.20
The Horsemen Arrive [Prose]
The Horsemen Arrive
The Red rode fast across the land – not War as we’re used to thinking of it (though there are always, already wars) but raging flames we fought on many fronts. There were casualties, deaths. There was Fear.
Stark Pestilence came next, White as terror. First the locust plague in Africa, killing crops. That must lead inevitably to the Black: the lack, the Famine. A painful way to go (so I’m told) starvation: painful and slow. Then Coronavirus arrived, spread by contagion. What else is contagious? Oh yes, Fear.
The Pale one picks us off individually so far – was always here, has come and gone, will come again. Nothing surer. Death always comes. And perhaps, sooner or later, will come for us all at once, whoever are left. And that, finally, will be our Judgment.
*********
That’s one scenario. It’s looking true so far. So how can we resist a global Apocalypse? I don’t have an answer for that. Maybe we can’t. But I’m damned if I’m going abject, condemned by contagious Fear. That’s the true global epidemic. As more and more we succumb to despair, more and more the Enemy has won.
Oh yes, there is an Enemy. What kills our aliveness is the Enemy. What convinces us to give up is the Enemy. What is anti-Life is the Enemy. My small, personal death in its own right time is not anti-Life; it’s part of the cycle of Life. The Enemy robs us of Life while we’re still alive. Fear is a friend when it inspires us to fight back; a killer when it drags us into darkness, apathy, loss of delight.
Just before summer, I had my roof gutters cleared of debris. I got the Fires Near Me app on my phone. I placed on my altar, between the fire and water corners, a crystal called Dragon Stone. It is said to be 70,000,000 years old and to know how to put out fire. Then I went on a holiday, to be with people I love. In a city ringed with heavy smoke, we re-unioned affectionately, we laughed, we shared meals. I photographed flowers and beautiful buildings.
I have a little cough. I’ll get it checked, just in case. (I’m not really worried, but I’m not stupid.) Meanwhile I’m planning my dinner. I’m looking forward to reading more of a book I like….
A 369-word piece of prose for Weekly Scribblings #9: Contagion at Poets and Storytellers United.
Image: Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse (by Arnaldo Dell'Ira, project of mosaic 1939-1940).jpg. Public Domain.
Stark Pestilence came next, White as terror. First the locust plague in Africa, killing crops. That must lead inevitably to the Black: the lack, the Famine. A painful way to go (so I’m told) starvation: painful and slow. Then Coronavirus arrived, spread by contagion. What else is contagious? Oh yes, Fear.
The Pale one picks us off individually so far – was always here, has come and gone, will come again. Nothing surer. Death always comes. And perhaps, sooner or later, will come for us all at once, whoever are left. And that, finally, will be our Judgment.
*********
That’s one scenario. It’s looking true so far. So how can we resist a global Apocalypse? I don’t have an answer for that. Maybe we can’t. But I’m damned if I’m going abject, condemned by contagious Fear. That’s the true global epidemic. As more and more we succumb to despair, more and more the Enemy has won.
Oh yes, there is an Enemy. What kills our aliveness is the Enemy. What convinces us to give up is the Enemy. What is anti-Life is the Enemy. My small, personal death in its own right time is not anti-Life; it’s part of the cycle of Life. The Enemy robs us of Life while we’re still alive. Fear is a friend when it inspires us to fight back; a killer when it drags us into darkness, apathy, loss of delight.
Just before summer, I had my roof gutters cleared of debris. I got the Fires Near Me app on my phone. I placed on my altar, between the fire and water corners, a crystal called Dragon Stone. It is said to be 70,000,000 years old and to know how to put out fire. Then I went on a holiday, to be with people I love. In a city ringed with heavy smoke, we re-unioned affectionately, we laughed, we shared meals. I photographed flowers and beautiful buildings.
I have a little cough. I’ll get it checked, just in case. (I’m not really worried, but I’m not stupid.) Meanwhile I’m planning my dinner. I’m looking forward to reading more of a book I like….
A 369-word piece of prose for Weekly Scribblings #9: Contagion at Poets and Storytellers United.
Image: Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse (by Arnaldo Dell'Ira, project of mosaic 1939-1940).jpg. Public Domain.
Holidaying with Roses
Holidaying with Roses
Soft roses
bloomed everywhere
in tiny gardens
every December
when I visited,
filling those little yards
with a froth of colour.
Until this last time.
Already the edges
of the roses everywhere
were singed black
from the fierce heat,
and all the blooms
were visibly smaller.
I used to walk
with my camera,
storing hundreds
of exquisite roses
in every colour,
full or budding
or newly open.
How glad I’ll be
of all those photos
in years to come,
if every summer
is full of fire,
and the roses stop
struggling to be.
Only – you can’t
smell their perfume
in a photo.
Still, by that time,
I expect I too
may have given up
struggling to be.
Meantime, what hurts
is the thought
of a gradual fading,
year by year
bushes getting spindly
flowers shrinking
retreating.
And I, gradually
losing breath,
no extra to spare
for sniffing roses
or even walking, but
anyway there’ll be so few
roses.
Shared with Writers' Pantry #10 at Poets and Storytellers United
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