Stamps of the World [Revision]

 

Why does Portugal love Snoopy? Why 

do such a  lot of other countries love cats? 

Silly questions!  I love Snoopy and cats.

Mt Fuji makes sense for Japan.

Are flowers / birds / fungi national? 

What about lobsters? Bats?

I’m more used to monarchs (British)

notables from history (Australian)

images of public events.

In the middle of my childhood

when I started to be serious 

(before I turned teenage frivolous)

Grandpa  decided I’d collect stamps 

like him; spent hours sitting with me

to explain their stories, their geography.

I didn’t care about small squares of paper.

I wanted books. It was books, not stamps,

brought messages, showed me the world.

Who uses stamps now? We email, we text.

But books continue to bring me mountains, 

flowers, animals, cartoon characters …

(Earlier version) 

13 Things Not Everyone Knows About Me

1.

I had three grandfathers (though only two grandmothers). ‘Grandpa’,

the only one I ever met, was a ‘step’, but my mother and I loved him – 

because he loved us, gave us books and wise advice, and lots of time

for long conversations and letters, and walks through Nature together.

2.

Of all my grandparents, though, the one I loved most was my Nana, 

Grandpa’s wife. She died when I was only four. I’ll never forget her.

A warm rich voice, a warm lap to sit on, warm arms to clasp me safe, 

a big warm bosom to snuggle into. She told me stories, sang me lullabies.

3. 

I was nine before parents and teachers noticed I needed glasses. 

Before that, the other kids called me ‘stuck up’. I didn’t say hello 

until they were close and I could see their faces, see who they were. 

By which time, feeling ignored, they turned up their noses at me. 

4. 

I like a handsome face as much as the next girl, and also a splendid form. But a better aphrodisiac is laughter. Make me laugh, go on doing that, and you’ve probably got me. But if you want to keep me – listen! 

Hear me! Hear me deep. Open to what you hear. Consider it.

5.

Everyone knows I’m a cat-lover, been one all my life. Not many know

my dearest animal friend was a dog. He stood as high as my thigh. 

His bark was a deep bay. He was a stray who came and found me – 

after I had many visions of him. (He reincarnated later as one of my cats.)

6. 

I have a water phobia. I love the water, but swim from the neck down.

I need to keep my face out; can’t be splashed or I panic – really panic. 

I believe I drowned in Atlantis. Some of us didn’t get out in time.

When the water came, I swam and swam, but at last I grew too tired. 

7.

I’d be scared to get close to any but a small spider. Yet I revere spiders.

In my house no-one’s allowed to kill them. Unless they’re dangerous.

When a white-tailed spider crawled from under a pile of washing, once, in my elderly mother’s home, I stomped on it quick. An exception.

8. 

A few of my dreams have a special flavour. When I wake up, I know 

they are not just part of the ordinary run of dreams, where we sort out

the daily garbage. Also, I remember them. I remember them always.

Some turn out prophetic. The rest, I think, are glimpses of other lives.

9.

I have a deformed fingernail on the ring finger of my right hand. 

My cousin dropped a brick on it when she was three. I was four. 

She always said it was an accident, but still claimed to feel guilty. 

I always believed she did it on purpose. No-one ever notices, though.

10.

When I was little I longed to be a ballet dancer.  But when my Mum

took me to my first (and only) ballet class, I couldn’t do it! My body

wouldn’t carry out even the simplest instructions. Lack of rhythm, 

poor coordination, no ear for music … which? Probably all. 

11.

When I was growing up, I never dreamed about being a bride. I never

craved babies. Didn’t want a handsome Prince to come and rescue me.

I wanted to be the swashbuckler; my own d’Artagnan or Robin Hood.

I didn’t want to be a boy. I wanted the adventures boys were allowed. 

12.

I have very small hands and feet, and head. But they don’t look small.

Just don’t ever give me hats or gloves or slippers; I’ll swim in them.

No-one quite believes this. They’re sure they’ll get it right. They don’t.

My Firstborn says he's the same. You wouldn’t guess it of him, either.

13. 

I’ve always had a thing for dragons. There was a time I'd call them 

through the ether, to be my companions or guardians; even requested

their company for others – who did experience it. My 'tuned in' friend,

Letitia, said I had two dragon incarnations a very long time ago.

Dragon photo (and dragon ) mine.

Sharing this post with Thursday Thirteen, a new game to play.

Here Are My Three Grandfathers (3)

Yes, I had three grandfathers. Two I never met. One was an army officer in British India. One was a drunk and a poet. 

The third was a Yorkshireman, and became an orchardist. He brought his family – my Nana, my Uncle Ian, my Mum and my Aunty Frankie – out to Tasmania. Where I was born. 

 

3.

And this is my Grandpa, Francis Sydney Holmes, here with me in my Launceston back yard – Mum’s stepfather, the only father she knew, the only Grandpa I knew, and more than enough. See how happy I look to be with him here!

He took me for walks, pointing out birds and insects, naming trees and flowers, showing me how to see. Birthdays and Christmases he gave me books: Dickens, the Brontes, Dumas.... He wrote me many letters – sadly, none kept – not as to a child, but an equal intellect.

The orchards were in Spreyton, near Devonport. In family gatherings at The Orchard House, my brother and cousins and I would fall asleep by the fire, listening to old family tales and reminiscences, until we were carried to bed. Daytimes we explored the bush. When I was very little I rode on the foot of the draught-horse, gentle Horace, hugging his leg.

Grandpa left me his Remington typewriter. (Everyone knew I would be a writer.) And he left money towards my tertiary education. He did that for all his grand-daughters. Parents, he said, if they must choose, would favour sons.

My father’s father gave me poetry, passing it along in the genes (my Dad had them too). 

My mother’s father gave me my Celtic heritage, the love of craggy rocks and rushing rivers, mountains, and Scotch thistles. When I finally visited Scotland, I suddenly understood. (Surely this heritage also enhanced the magic which came through the maternal line.)

My Grandpa (FSH, as he signed his many letters – not only to me but correspondents all over the world) gave me himself. And so much more. Gave me myself. Gave me the world.

Part 1 and Part 2 appear in previous posts.

I'm sharing this with Poets and Storytellers United via Friday Writings #53.

Here Are My Three Grandfathers (1)

Yes, I had three grandfathers. Two I never met. One was an army officer in British India. One was a drunk and a poet.

The third was a Yorkshireman, and became an orchardist. He brought his family – my Nana, my Uncle Ian, my Mum and my Aunty Frankie – out to Tasmania. Where I was born. 

1. 

When I was born, my father’s father, handsome John Thomas Robinson (Jack) wrote a poem for me, in pencil on a scrap of paper. I’m 83 now, and I still have it.

I had a Grandpa on hand, my mother's 'Pater'. This one, over on 'The Mainland', was my Daddy's father, so I called him 'Grandpa Daddy'.

He never crossed Bass Strait to visit us. By the time we crossed it, he’d left Grandma and gone off to live with some other woman. All six of the seven children still alive supported their mother. (Who never would hear a bad word said about him, even then.)

I thought that he and his brother built the Warburton pub. But no, that was his father (of the same name, my great-grandfather) and his uncle.

He – my grandfather – was for ten years Mayor of Flinders Island, where the youngest four of the seven children were born. He had a farm there, and worked hard, but it failed. Later he worked in Wonthaggi….

While they lived on the Island, he successfully represented its interests to the Tasmanian Government, to set up a much-needed regular ferry service from Launceston.

He was spoken of as a popular, sociable man. I heard that he liked to dance and sing. He was famous for liking the drink – too much! Grandma became a staunch member of The Women’s Christian Temperance Union, which is probably not to be wondered at. 

He didn’t live long enough for me to grow up and meet him. 

That’s his wedding picture, holding a glove – perhaps the one she removed to receive the ring. 

I edited Grandma out of this copy. (She was very pretty then…)

Part 2 and Part 3 appear in the following posts.

Sharing with Poets and Storytellers United at Friday Writings #51 where the prompt is to write about the number three. But doing all this in one post would be too long for the P&SU guidelines. You can read the others now if you feel so inclined, or wait until I share them on future Fridays.

My Curious Upbringing

I was shaped by men – two men –

more than the women. The women 

shaped me, I suppose, negatively

as something to rebel against:

that traditional role. I could not see

the joy in cooking and cleaning.

But father and grandfather shaped

my curiosity, my lifelong wanting

to know and understand. My Dad

by example: ‘Let’s look that up!’

(What would a home have been,

without dictionary and encyclopaedia?)

My Grandpa in long nature walks

when we were together on visits,

pointing out a rich variety of particular

trees and flowers, birds and insects,

kinds of clouds.… And in letters, so many

over the years, wide-ranging conversations.

In some respects it was as if

they didn’t know I was a kid.

They spoke to my mind, that ageless 

part of a person, with respect

for my intelligence. They knew

I could think – and even better, enquire.

‘Think for yourself, make up

your own mind,’ they said. ‘Don’t

just take things at face value. Look 

deep.’ I was a dreamy little girl,

fond of fairy-tales, but I also knew

to use logic and common-sense.

My brother was brought up the same.

He didn’t have to rebel against cooking

and also didn’t need to abjure

fist fights, booze and sport. He grew up

taking it for granted that real men

include the gentle, and those who think.

Yes, we were ‘different’ – didn’t fit in

with the ‘norm’. We survived that

and found our tribes. Now we are

an old woman and an old man; each 

moved far from where we were born:

still filled with curiosity, and life.

Written for Poets and Storytellers United's Friday Writings #26, where Rommy invites us to be inspired by the phrase, 'stay curious'.

A Contrast of Grandmothers

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.