SATURDAY ARVO AT THE RUBBITY

(Saturday afternoon at the local pub)

John Ross ©

 

‘G’day Bert you old bastard. Haven’t seen you in a month of Sundays. Pull up a stump and I’ll shout you a cold one. Where you been hiding? The missus come the raw prawn or you been crook or sumthin?’

‘Yeh. G’day Dave. No. That misery guts of a boss of mine has been working me as hard as a drover’s bloody dog. Coupla weeks ago I told the drongo that he was stark raving mad putting on his drop kick of a relo as the new super. Well he lost the plot, got his undies all twisted, and gave me a right mouth full. End result I’m on extra hours all bloody week. I complained to the union but that seat polisher of a bloody rep told me I should just cop it and enjoy the extra dosh. Any way how you travelling Dave? Your missus had that new sprog yet?’

‘Yep. Two weeks ago. What a bloody disaster. The bloody Commodore died on the way to the hospital. A walloper got all bent out of shape cause I stopped in a bus zone. When he saw that Maggy was about to drop the kid he suddenly changed his tune and took us in his car. It was one of those new turbo Falcons. Bloody heck could it go. Took off like a startled deer. 0 to 60 in 7.5 so the copper said. Good fuel consumption also.’

‘Yep, bloody nice wheels. Me mate Bob’s got one. Boy or girl?’

‘Boy. I wanted to call him Donald Bradman, but the missus threw a wobbly and so Archibald Andrew Angus it is. Three A’s. Bloody Alcoholics Anonymous Australia. What a shockin thing to lumber the poor kid with. Here comes Smiley.’

‘Hi ya Smiley. How’s that footy team of yours goin?’

‘Footy team! Bloody bunch of prima donna bloody ballerinas more like it. Whatcha drinkin fellas? The usual? Can I order you blokes some tucker while I’m at the bar?’

Smiley returns with just three schooners. ‘We’ve got a snowball’s chance in hell of getting any tucker today. Some dozy dropkick called Alberto the chef a bastard and he’s taken his bat and ball and gone home.’

All the surrounding patrons in unison, ‘Who called the bastard a chef?’

Silence. Deep contemplation of the increasing frothy rings descending in their glasses.

‘Ya watch the fight last night. That Yank bloke couldn’t fight his way outta a wet paper bag if his life depended on it.’

‘Na the missus likes watchin the Aussie Rules. I think it’s their little tight shorts. I got meself banished to the shed when I called it aerial ping pong played by the Royal Ballet discards. What about you Smiley?’

‘Now don’t you idiots laugh. I had a date.’

‘Wow Smiley. Yer poor old mum come over for a meal?’

‘Yeh. Yeh. Laugh all you want. First time out with a bird in five years and I think I impressed her.’

‘You charm the pants of her with yer cultured ways, handsome smiley face and la de dah manners eh Smiley.’

‘Well she’s meeting me again next Friday for a return match. So put that in yer pipe and smoke it.’

Silence. Deep thought. Contemplation.

‘Been unusually hot for this time of the year.  The bloody lawn is still grow’n.  Had to tell the missus that the mower was cactus or she would have had me mow’n it again.’

‘That’s gunna change real soon Dave there’s a cool change on the way.’

‘I haven’t heard anything about that.’

‘It actually looks real cold and frosty. Its yer missus, she has just walked in with a pram and is headed this way.’

‘Bloody hell, the meeting with the priest about the christening. Quick fellas think of an excuse for me.

Bert and Smiley. ‘Well gotta go Dave. Leave ya to it.’

 

 

THE BEGINNING A Bluey, Snowy and Mad Mick Molloy story.

THE BEGINNING

Bluey, Snowy and Mick were fishing down where the river took a sweeping bend around some rocky outcrops. It was Saturday afternoon in late summer, the sun was hot, the slight breeze was hot, the beer was getting too warm and they had caught absolutely nothing.

Bluey, who with much swearing, had finally put a new sinker and hook on his line after he had snagged a floating log, picked up his rod, stood up and prepared to cast his line out into a deep spot close to the opposite bank. He looked behind him and said to Snowy, who was sitting on a large boulder directly behind him, ‘Keep your head down Snow or you’ll get hit.’ He swung his rod over his head in a perfect cast and his line snaked out true and straight and he sat back down.

Snowy moved down to sit beside Bluey and said to him, ‘Blue do you remember the first time you said that to me?’

It was a completely different scene. It was cold, very cold; the freezing wind blew the snow showers almost horizontally. Lance corporal Mick Molloy blew on his freezing fingers and placed them back on the butt and the trigger of the Bren gun. Trying to remain as still as possible so as to not attract the attention of an enemy sniper, he blinked the snowflakes from his eyes and concentrated on the line of trees from where the last attack had come. Beside him, below the top of the pit, private Snowy Black was busy filling the empty magazines for the light machine gun with fresh rounds; his rifle propped beside him. He counted as he slid the bullets into position; just thirteen left. He knew that another sustained attack and they would very quickly be out of ammunition.

They had met just two days before when Mick’s original loader had been wounded and Snowy had been delegated to replace him. During this time they had not had time to properly get to know each other as they had been in constant action. Mick yelling, ‘Load’ and Snowy responding with a new magazine for the Bren had been nearly their only communication.

They had been sitting in this small pit that they had scraped out of the snow and rocky ground for nearly twenty four hours now and they were hungry and desperately tired. The first push by the North Koreans supported by hordes of Communist Chinese had dislodged their battalion from the valley that they had held close to the northern border. They had fallen back just five hundred metres to their rear positions close to battalion headquarters and dug in. Here they had repelled repeated attacks whilst on either side of them troops of other nationalities had retreated in total disarray.

It had been a surprise when the Communist Chinese had attacked as the rumour amongst the troops was that the North Koreans were defeated and they would soon be going home. Now the battalion was strung out along the ridge in whatever shelter they could find. They had suffered many casualties but had held their positions.

Mick and Snowy heard the slight noise behind them at exactly the same time. Mick tried to swing the Bren gun around and Snowy reached for his rifle. A muffled voice cried out, ‘Take it easy you blokes. It’s just us poor sods from the reserve area here to save your bacon. Now more over and let some real soldiers in.’

A silent figure slid forward and rolled into their pit. He pushed his scarf back grinned and said, ‘Bluey Jones at your service and I come bearing gifts.’ With that he pulled two full magazines of ammunition from one pocket and from the other three clips of rounds for Snowy’s 303 and two tins of bully beef.

Snowy stood up and went to take the ammunition but Bluey pulled him down just as a snipers bullet clipped the side of his helmet and sent it spinning into the pit. Bluey picked it up placed it back over Snowy’s blond head and said, ‘Keep your head down cobber or you will get hit.’

The fishing forgotten the three mates swapped memories of that time when they had first met. They never talked to other people about their experiences in Korea but on rare occasions like this they shared a few yarns and mostly happy memories. They had remained together through some of the worst fighting experienced by the Australian troops on the Korean Peninsula. Many times they had been tested to the limits of their courage and endurance. They became a single unit that instinctively knew how each other would react and many times this bond and trust had saved their lives. Their friendship became strong and enduring.

Mick stood up and stretched and said, ‘There’s a lot of fish in that bloody river but also too much water for the blighters to swim around in. Now, talking about liquid, a nice cold schooner of beer has my name on it at the pub. So, as the senior rank, due to my lance corporal stripe, get a bloody move on.’

JUST ANOTHER DAY

JUST ANOTHER DAY

John Ross ©

Clang. Clang. Clang.

It was so loud it was painful.

Ok. O bloody K. I’m awake.

I knew I had to get out of bed to turn it off. If I didn’t it would just get louder.

I was still feeling dopey after a long sleep.

What if I ignored it for long enough? Would it stop?

No way. I give in.

Up. Alarm off. Get dressed. Breakfast.

Transport at the door.

Down to work.

Usual reports.

Tick. Tick. No. Yes. Next shift can handle that.

Boring.

Lunch.

30 minutes of exercise.

Not in bad shape for an old guy.

Catch up on the goss on the private channel

Tick. Tick. Yes. Yes.

One day I should put a cross instead of a tick.

Coffee.

Aircon always too bloody cold.

Now for the highlight of the day.

Talk with the BOSS.

Yep. Never felt better.

I know he means the systems but it’s my little joke.

Log off

Last minute checks.

Tick. Yes.

All OK

Time to head back. Shift finished.

Dinner.

Boring movie.

Time for sleep

Settle down. Put on mask. Activate system.

The ship’s Biomass Operational Supervisory System wishes me a good sleep and will wake me in another 50 years.

 

THE TRUTH

THE TRUTH

John Ross ©

I am just about ready to give up on today and go to bed. I have a black eye, a sore shin, a suspected cracked rib and many other bruises and scrapes.

Yesterday at confession I admitted to the priest that I had told a few lies lately and as a penance he asked me to spend a whole day where I only told the truth; the whole truth and nothing but the truth. He said it would feel so good that I would continue to do it.

Well he was wrong it feels bloody awful.

First thing this morning when my boss asked me what I thought of our latest product line. I told him the truth. It was ill conceived, poorly engineered and marketed. Then he asked me if I thought his judgement was flawed. I told him that he would not recognise a good idea even if it bit him on the nose.

An hour later, unemployed, out on the street, I ran into the next door neighbour’s son on his way to school. He asked if I had enjoyed his innings at last Saturday’s under 12 cricket match. I gave him a truthful critique of his style and told him he should take up net ball with his sister. Continued on my way with a very sore shin.

Limped into a coffee shop only to be met by my mother-in-law who asked if I liked her new blue rinse? Boy has she got a strong right cross. I think my eye is not permanently damaged but it sure is sore.

Retreating from the streets into a quiet bar for a pick- me-up, the barman asks what I thought of the bloody referee’s decisions in the footy game on the weekend where his team lost by a large margin. Again I had to tell him the truth. They were a hopeless lot of sissies and deserved to lose. The ref was technically right in every decision. Straight scotch can sting when it hits you in the face; especially on your newly damaged right eye.

Escaped into the local park to sit alone on a bench; lost in thought. Suddenly find myself surrounded by a mother with a pram, her husband and three other women all ardently admiring the baby. Before I can escape, and believe me I tried, the father asks me if his daughter is not just the most beautiful baby I have ever seen. I should have known from his build that he was probably a professional boxer. I must get my ribs x-rayed as soon as possible.

Well I think you get the drift of how my day of telling the truth has gone so far.

In my pyjamas and trying to pretend to be asleep when my wife comes in dressed in her latest purchases. She asks that dreaded question. Yes you are right! ‘Does my bum look big in this?’

Weeelll I am going straight to hell when I die. The truth is not all that it is cracked up to be.

‘Yes darling those skin tight jeans look wonderful.’

FABULOUS WEALTH

FABULOUS WEALTH

John Ross ©

‘Bwana. You want guide. I good guide. Very reliable. Very cheap. Please Bwana I have three wives and six children; all eat much; need money.’

Charles Goodbody was about to shrug off the man tugging at his sleeve but when he turned to face him he saw a reasonably well presented, tall man in his early thirties, dressed in clean khaki shorts and open necked shirt. He had been looking for a guide for a week and was tired of being accosted in the streets of this dusty outpost by would be guides who were unsuitable.

Charles had spent the last month in Africa putting together an expedition that was to travel into an unexplored section of the vast Sahara Desert. This expedition had been his burning ambition ever since as a very young child he had heard the stories about a lost Roman city deep in the Sahara Desert.  Its houses were said to be lined with gold and silver and its inhabitants dressed in fine linen adorned with precious stones. Raised in an aristocratic family that had fallen on hard times his dream was to find the city and restore the fortunes of his family. Graduating from university with honours in Ancient History his dream became closer to reality when he discovered a map in an old Roman scroll purporting to show the location of the city.

After a brief discussion Charles hired the guide whose name was Magnus. The expedition positions were now filled and the next morning they set out.

A week later they were well into the desert and Charles called a meeting because some of the porters were starting to complain about their pay and conditions. A promise, by Charles, of an extra bonus soon calmed everyone down.

However the next morning Charles awoke to find that during the night all except two of the porters had packed some supplies and water barrels onto three of the horses and absconded.  Magnus, the guide, assured Charles that they still had enough water and food to continue.

The going became increasingly hard. The temperature soared above 120 degrees during the day and below freezing at night. On the tenth day they came to high ridges of sand that stretched out into the distance. Climbing the ridges was exhausting work and a day’s travel was down to just a few miles.  On the fifteenth day one of the remaining horses lost its footing and rolled down a sand dune and broke its neck. Its pack consisted of four large water barrels that split and the water drained away into the hot sand.

Magnus was adamant that they must continue as they would run out of water if they tried to go back. Their only hope was to find the lost city. They struggled on with water severely rationed.

At dusk on the twentieth day, and with their water now completely gone, they crawled over a rocky crest that protruded from the endless sand and there before them was a large green valley dotted with clumps of palms and scattered settlements. In the distance a walled city glistened in the sunlight. Cattle grazed on the lush grass and large tracts of land supported many types of crops.

At the foot of the slope a group of men and women were waiting for them. As they neared some of them called out a greeting in Latin and a woman with a baby on her hip ran up to Magnus and hugged him.  A tall elderly white man walked forward and said, ‘Welcome Charles.’

Charles was dumbfounded. How did they know who he was and that he was coming?

The elderly man, whose name was Ignatius, insisted that Charles partake of water, food and a long bath before he would explain everything to him. Charles was escorted to one of the many low wooden houses in one of the settlements. It was richly adorned and contained beautifully carved furniture that was inlaid with silver. He bathed in a deep tub made from marble and was fed a sumptuous meal served on gold platters that were brought to the table by young women clothed in the finest silk. Refreshed and with his curiosity at bursting point Charles was eventually shown into another house which was even more ornately decorated and where Ignatius and Magnus were sitting side by side. Ignatius spoke for many minutes. Charles felt a wave of weariness creep over him and he slipped into a deep sleep.

He awoke with a start. He was lying in his bed, in the room, in the seedy hotel, in the town where he had set out from. It was all just a dream; but it had been so clear, so real.

As yet unseen, beside him, was a small silver box filled with large green emeralds. The lid was inscribed in Latin. ‘You dreamed of fabulous riches and dared to follow that dream. Use what you have been given wisely.’

BUT IS IT LEGAL

BUT, IS IT LEGAL

John Ross ©

I am, and always have been, an ideas man. My older brother Bertie, well just let us say he is ‘practical’. By that I mean he always poured cold water on my ideas and ambitions.

At school I loved science. I was never happy with the pathetic little experiments that the science master demonstrated during class. I always wanted bigger and better. My very first experiment was with the black powder that I had hoarded from the big ‘bungers’ that dad had bought for cracker night. My big brother prophesied danger and doom and perhaps he was right to a certain extent. No one was maimed or even hurt, but it did shatter the side window in our garage, shred mums whites on the clothes line and earn me double helpings of spinach for a week.

Probably my next most memorable experiment was to try to make my push bike rocket powered. I got the idea from a book that described how to build a real rocket. Bertie said I would probably end up in jail, either because I had nicked the book from the local library, or because I would end up killing someone. Well this time everything went smoothly, except, I started too close to the front fence of the old codger who lived next door. It was a brush fence and the exhaust from my rocket set fire to it. It didn’t take long for the fire brigade to put it out. Two weeks of spinach.

There were many more memorable and some best forgotten escapades as we were growing up in suburban Sydney. I will mention just a few. An attempt to dig an underground bunker in the back yard. A mortar constructed of a piece of gas pipe, a penny bunger and a large steel bolt. Stink bombs made from rolled up negatives from my mum’s old box brownie camera. I think you get the drift.

Ever practical Bertie went on to become an accountant and me, well I never could abide working for someone else and became an inventor of sorts. You may have heard of some of my successes. The push bike safety belt. The all in one raincoat and umbrella. Shoes with retractable roller skates, (saves energy going downhill). Double ended cutlery (fork on one end and spoon on the other, sadly this was superseded by the spork), and my most famous one, the edible school lunch box. Unfortunately none of these life changing inventions brought me much in the way of wealth or recognition.

I was rather at a loose end just after my thirtieth birthday when my brother offered me a part time job doing data entry in his accounting firm. On day one he gave me a list of instructions. They included. Do not change the settings on the computer. Do not interfere with the coffee machine, the electric kettle, the document shredder or the photocopier or for that matter anything electrical, mechanical or organic. He forgot to mention the phone system so I changed the ring tone to play God Save the Queen. Unfortunately the first time it rang he had a delegation from an important client in his office. The Australian Republican movement.

After six months of penance in the mail room, stuffing outgoing accounts into envelopes I had a brilliant idea. Instead of Bertie’s accounting firm just processing his clients accounts and income tax returns why not advise them of ways to minimise their costs, especially their tax liabilities. I spent the next two months working on the tax minimisation schemes before presenting it to Bertie. He, as usual, was very sceptical. Over and over he interrupted my spiel by asking, ‘But, is it legal?’ I really had no idea and was not bothered with the unimportant details.

One year later I was back living and inventing in my parents’ garage and poor Bertie still had four years and six months to serve. 

THE WIND

THE  WIND                            ©JOHN ROSS

Darkness had long since settled over the city. The night was dark, humid and the sky was full of the threat of a summer storm. Now, however, the wind was so gentle that it made no noise as it ever so softly meandered through the back yard of the large house. The leaves on the tall gum tree near the back fence hardly moved, apart from those on the very tallest branches. Even here one would have had to watch very closely to detect any movement. Two large white towels on the clothesline hung perfectly still; in the darkness they appeared like two dim windows into another dimension. A large spider had strung its web between two pot plants on the back porch and now it carefully investigated a leaf that had fallen and become entangled in the web. The leaf was slowly swinging back and forth in the gentle breeze.  

Inside a man sat watching a football replay on the television, a half empty bottle of beer beside him. In the kitchen a women was washing dishes in the sink and listening to classical music on a radio. The man turned towards the kitchen and said, “You coming to watch the telly and don’t forget my coffee?” The women replied that she would be in as soon as she had finished.

Minutes passed and now the wind had become stronger. It made a rustling noise as it pushed its way through the yard. The leaves on the gum tree had started to dance to its tune and those at the very top were carried back and forth as the smaller branches moved under the influence of the breeze. The white towels on the line now swayed in unison like twins performing at some macabre ceremony. The spider had realised that the leaf was not its  hoped for evening meal but now crouched at the centre of its web believing that the breeze might bring it an unsuspecting insect. A small lady beetle flies dangerously close to his web.

The man, starting to get annoyed that the woman had not come out of the kitchen, yelled in her direction, “What on earth are you doing there woman and where is that bloody cup of coffee that you promised me ages ago.” He then settled back and opened another bottle of beer. The woman visibly jumped at the sound of his voice and in her haste dropped the bottle of coffee on the floor.

Even stronger now the wind made a loud whistling sound as it forced its way through and around the objects in the back yard. The gum tree had now become a living thing as its branches yielded to the force of the wind and the occasional leaf gave up its grip and swirled away into the darkness. The towels now gyrated wildly, giving up any semblance of unison as they strained against the pegs that held them attached to the line. The spider clung grimly to the centre of its web. He was now in danger of being blown away but still had the strength to try to move over to the lady beetle that had been blown into his web. He knew that this might be his only chance of a meal that night.

Finishing another bottle of beer the man was now constantly yelling at the woman to bring him his cup of coffee. When she did not reply he got up and went to the kitchen door and said, “I want my coffee now and if I have to ask again you will be bloody sorry.” Seeing the woman still trying to clean up the spilt coffee he kicked the dustpan out of her hands and when she cringed back dropped the empty beer bottle on the floor and said, “Clean that up. That’s all you ever do clean, bloody clean. Now get up and get me my coffee.”

Outside the wind was now a brutal force as it howled through the yard threatening to smash and dismantle anything in its path. The gum tree was now bent over by the winds power and its branches thrashed madly as leaves and even small branches were blasted away and sent crashing into the back fence. The towels unable to break free were being torn and shredded by the wind’s fury. The spider still concentrating on getting to the lady beetle in its web did not notice as the leaf in its web was torn away and sent spiralling into the darkness. It did not see the large piece of debris that smashed into its web and carried it away into oblivion.

The man, his anger now in full flow, was cursing at the woman and trying to drag her to her feet. When she resisted he slapped her hard across the face. At first she shrank back trying to protect herself but when he continued to hit her she picked up the empty beer bottle from the floor and hit him with it as hard as she could. The bottle smashed as it crashed into his skull.

Suddenly the wind died away to just a whisper. The gum tree quickly returned to normal; standing tall and majestic in the bright starlight that now washed over the yard. The two white towels, although tattered and torn, had survived all that the wind could throw at them and now shone like two welcoming beacons in the yard. The spider would never see the small lady beetle as it broke free of the last strands of the shattered web and flew away.

 

BEACH FISHING AT DAWN

BEACH FISHING AT DAWN

REFRESHING THE MIND AND THE SOUL

John Ross ©

                

                The caravan is parked very close to the beach, and the sound of the waves as they pursue their relentless assault on the land ensured that I had a restful sleep. I am awake as the first faint light on the horizon starts its daily ritual of pushing back the darkness of the night.

                I dress quietly, as to not awaken my still sleeping wife. Breakfast can wait, as I am keen to get onto the beach. My fishing rod is already rigged and all I need to do is retrieve the bait from the refrigerator, pick up my creel and I am on my way.

                Outside the morning is already warm with the promise of a hot, sunny, summer’s day to come. The grass is soft and wet with dew beneath my bare feet as I climb the small tree covered bank on the edge of the beach. I pause at the top to take in the view. The curving sweep of the sand is just visible in the soft light and is outlined by the darkness of the tree clad hills on one side and the long lines of almost luminous white of the breaking waves on the other.

                It is low tide, and as I walk across the sand I marvel at the work of the small crabs that have once again cleared out their burrows, and rolled the small balls of sand out into a pattern around the entrance. The beach resembles a large yellow table laid with intricate lace doilies of every shape and size.

                I am quickly ready for my first cast and as I walk down to the water’s edge I glance behind me. There are no lights, no buildings visible, just lush vegetation reaching down to the edge of the sand: my footsteps, the only foreign marks on nature’s pristine canvas. For a few moments I am the first man, back in a time when the world was new and its beauty untouched.

                My line snakes out, far and true, out to the deep water beyond the breakers where the beautifully streamlined tailor and jewfish live and hunt.

                I stand just back from the water, but am totally connected to and immersed in it. The unceasing sound, the tangy salt smell, the ever changing shape of the waves, my finger on the line feeling the vibrations and pull and push of the swell. The anticipation, expectation of that first tug on the line that is just that little bit different from the normal feel of the water’s movement. Again my mind takes me back to a time when man had to fight nature and the elements to feed himself and survive.

                This is a time to be patient, alert, at one with the line, instinctive, ready to strike: too soon or hesitate and the opportunity is lost.

                A small arc of brilliant light appears on the horizon and a wide path of liquid gold leaps from it to end on the wet sand at my feet. Slowly the huge orb of the sun pushes itself up from its watery grave until its full fury is revealed. I will soon have to retreat to the cool shade of the caravan park.

                The beach starts to come alive. First a lone jogger runs towards me; head bowed, wired for sound, oblivious to the sounds and beauty of the morning. Next an older couple walk hand in hand down to the water’s edge, stand silently and gaze out towards the horizon; they see me watching and we exchange a smile; they are kindred spirits.

                I am thinking of packing up, as breakfast and a hot shower is calling, when I feel that tell tale pull on the line. I wait and count to three and then strike. The jewfish fights strongly, leaping and twisting, sometimes totally clear of the water, its body shiny, silver in the sunlight. It is a battle that lasts for many minutes and a small crowd gathers to watch. Finally the fish is clear of the water, struggling and flapping on the sand. One of the onlookers asks if I am going to have it for breakfast, and for a moment I relish the idea.

                It has been such a magical, renewing morning that has cleared my mind and refreshed my soul that it would be wrong for it to end like that. So with the fish safely returned to the ocean, even though the deep seated hunting instinct within me said that I had earned it, and it was mine, I trudge back up the beach.  I fight my way through the oncoming tide of determined beach goers with their umbrellas, buckets, spades, balls, surfboards, towels and music machines. They will leave footprints, build sandcastles, carve intertwined love hearts on the sand but the next high tide will wash it all away. Tomorrow, at dawn a new day, a new beginning.    

                It is cereal for breakfast and from my wife, ‘What! No fish, again?’   

               

SOLITARY CONFINEMENT

SOLITARY  CONFINEMENT

                The door to the room must be kept closed at all times.

 Visitors are strictly limited. No more than two at any time. Their identity virtually hidden behind all enveloping plastic gowns, face masks, hair nets and gloves. Definitely no children. All must pass through a screening process.

Food is tightly controlled and specially prepared. Everything entering the room is checked. No fresh food. No organic material at all that has not been previously agreed to. Definitely no flowers.

Every four hours a fully gowned attendant enters the room and checks on the occupant.

There is no defined duration of one’s stay here. The length of time depends entirely on the say so of four men who control the area from remote offices. You will only leave when they deem you fit to again enter the outside world.

This is the reality of what I have ahead of me beginning tomorrow afternoon.

During my time in “solitary confinement” I will undergo full body radiation, chemotherapy and a bone marrow transplant. I really have no choice in the matter if I wish to be around in the near future.

I was diagnosed with Acute Myeloid Leukaemia in July of 2010 and since then have lived by a very simple philosophy.

There are really only three periods in our lives. Yesterday, Tomorrow and Today.

Yesterday. I cannot change what has happened in the past. I can only learn from it and apply that knowledge to Today.

Tomorrow. Well tomorrow is only a possibility and will be greatly influenced by what I do Today.

Today. This is all we really have. I will enjoy it and cherish it.

If we live in the past we miss out on all that Today has to offer. If we are overly concerned with Tomorrow the same applies.

           

            

THE GARDEN

THE GARDEN

                                                                                                                                                                                John Ross©

                Mark Smith was four years old when he first told his parents about the dreams that he had nearly every night. It was always the same. First he would hear a man’s deep voice telling him that he must follow the path. Then an elderly woman, who Mark thought looked like his maternal grandmother whom he had never met, would take him by the hand and lead him to a massive stone gateway. On entering he would be filled with happiness as he walked forward alone along a path strewn with golden sand. He would then pass through another gateway; this one was very small, made of moss covered wood, with long green vines hanging down from a wall that extended into the far distance on either side. Ahead he could dimly see a beautiful garden that was full of flowers of every shape and colour imaginable.  

                When Mark’s dreams had not stopped by the time of his eighth birthday his concerned parents took him to see their local doctor. Unable, or unwilling, to express an opinion the doctor referred him to a neurologist. After x-rays, scans and many tests the neurologist referred him to a psychologist. After nearly a year of analysis and many more tests, and at huge expense, the psychologist admitted that she had no idea what caused Mark’s dreams or how to stop them from occurring. 

                Mark was a below average scholar and struggled at the private school that his parents sent him to. He did however excel at art. By the time of his final year at high school his paintings had been featured in two major exhibitions and were selling for well over a thousand dollars each. They were all landscapes featuring either stone or wooden arches that framed scenes of spectacular floral displays. The archways were always painted in clear, stark reality, whilst the flowers were ill defined and as one art critic said, ‘as seen behind a veil’.

                The increase in popularity of his paintings enabled Mark to set up his own studio and to earn a very good income from their sales. He became well known in art circles but led a reclusive life. The few people that managed to visit his studio found it crammed with books on famous gardens.

                 His nightly dreams continued. Ever so slowly as the years passed his vision of the garden at the end of his dream became clearer. Then one night just after his thirtieth birthday his dream did not stop at its usual place but continued. He was inside the garden, surrounded by brilliant flowers, his senses filled with their scent and his heart bursting with the beauty of it.

                The very next morning, the first day of spring, Mark followed his usual pattern at that time of the year and set out to visit the many gardens that were open for inspection in the mountain above where he lived. He had ventured out further than he had in previous years, and was ready to turn back as he had not seen an open for inspection sign for some time, when he was approached by an elderly gentleman. The man asked if he was looking for gardens that were open. When Mark replied that he was, the old man indicated a small path that Mark had not noticed. He told Mark that at the end of that path was the most beautiful garden in the whole area. Intrigued Mark entered the path.

                Just ahead he could see a very old woman limping along the path carrying a very large basket. He stopped and asked if he could help her. The woman let him take her basket and holding onto his arm for support they continued down the path. They arrived at a stone archway where the old woman indicated that the garden was just beyond another arch made of wood further up the path.

                When Mark saw the wooden arch he was suddenly struck with the similarities to his dream. He was overcome with a sense of terror and yet at the same time a deep longing and compulsion to continue. His inner voice was urgent in its insistence that he continue. Was this the garden in his dream that he had for so long been searching for?

                In a dream like trance he walked down the golden path and through the wooden arch.

                The garden was even more beautiful than in his dreams, the scent more powerful and the feeling of peace and fulfilment that filled his mind lifted his soul above its mortal bounds.

                He glanced back at the arch but it had disappeared.

                He was surrounded by beauty.

                With a soft sigh he relaxed and allowed himself to sink into and be totally immersed by it.

                All around him he could hear small voices whispering.

                ‘You are here at last. We have been calling you for many years. You now belong to us.’ 

                Mark’s family, friends and the police searched for him for many months but he was never found.

                Below the mountain a four year old boy dreamt of a golden path and a beautiful garden.

 

DOUBLE KNEE REPLACEMENT.

Back home again after a week in Nepean Private Hospital and two weeks in a rehab hospital.
For those that are not aware I have had a total replacement of both knees. This involved literally cutting out the old knees and replacing them with metal and plastic.
I was up walking just two days after the operation and am now on two walking sticks. The pain is bearable but the worst problem is trying to sleep all night on my back.

THE CHALLENGE

THE CHALLENGE

                                                                                                                                                               John Ross©

                It was a cool windy afternoon but I decided to go for a walk anyway. I knew that the path across the headland and down to the beach would be deserted on an afternoon like this and, in my present mood; I would prefer to not meet anyone I knew. I just wanted to be alone.

                I had just celebrated, and that is the wrong use of that word, my sixty fifth birthday two weeks ago and one week later had to retire from my job where I had worked for the past thirty five years. I felt old, unwanted and useless.

                Right out at the end of the headland, high above the ocean, there was a wooden bench next to the path. I had sat on this bench many times in the past, in all seasons and all weathers. It had become like an old friend to me; somewhere where I could internally discuss my problems, rejoice in my triumphs or just sit and enjoy the view. It always listened in silence, never complained or was critical.

                As I approached today the bench was outlined against a leaden sky that was dressed in ragged white clouds and adorned by screeching white seagulls that soared and dipped in the wind. To my relief there was nobody there.

                I sat down and gazed out over the ocean. White horses chased each other endlessly all the way to the horizon. Patches on the water were alternately rippled and flattened by gusts of wind. The air was full of the noise of the birds, the crash of the waves on the rocks below me, the sigh of the wind as it carried the salty spray over the land and the sense of the timeless battle of the ocean against the land.

                I was so entranced by the view, whilst at the same time, lost in the mire of my emotions that I did not notice him until he was right in front of me. He smiled and said, ‘Do you mind if I join you?’ At first I was so distracted by his appearance that I did not reply. He was very old with a bushy white beard, long straggly white hair and dressed in an old fashioned crumpled woollen suit. He was bent over with both hands resting on a black cane with a large silver top. Stirring myself I motioned for him to sit.

                We sat in silence for fully ten minutes before he suddenly said, ‘You look like a man with a lot on his mind.’ Afterwards I was never sure why these simple words opened the floodgates within me. I told this stranger things that I could not talk to my friends or even my wife about. I was terrified of the future and the creeping destruction that old age would bring to what I had been and still thought of myself as.

                When I had finished he said, ‘Each day think of tomorrow as a new country that you have never visited. Do not be afraid, be excited about the new things you will see and experience. It may not be familiar to you and you may not be able to do all the things you do today but do not turn your back on it because of that. Life is a series of adventures that are waiting to be explored. The day you stop and look only to the past is the day you really start to grow old. You cannot change the past but the story of tomorrow is yet to be written.’

                As soon as he had finished he stood up and said he had to go. I stood next to him, shook his hand, thanked him and asked if he would give me his name. He gave me another of his shy smiles and said, ‘Rupert Rudolph Rumpstead. My parents never did apologise.’ With a smile that almost turned into a laugh he turned and walked off slowly down the path. I watched until he was out of sight.

                I sat back down on the bench and it was few moments before I realised that now I was just enjoying the view. Ideas of what I might do during my retirement filled my head.

                Just as I stood up to go my pullover caught on a rough patch on the back of the seat. As I disentangled it I realised that it was caught on the edge of an old plaque that had been painted over. I had never noticed it before. With some difficulty I read, ‘This bench is dedicated to the memory of Rupert R Rumpstead. A man who lived life to the full.’ It was then dated October 14 1928.

               

 

 

THE QUIET (A science fiction story)

THE QUIET

We had just spent three earth years on this stinking Grade 3 planet when I received a message from Control. There were three more scientific types on their way from Earth. 

 As if I wasn’t already up to my neck in scientists. There were already nearly five hundred of them here in the settlement. It was my job to keep them safe. I should say ‘try to keep them safe’ as they were always inventing new ways of getting themselves into trouble. To top it off I only had a single platoon of marines to do this and most of them were on their first off earth rotation. Thank the heavens we had not had to use any force against the native inhabitants.

The natives had been nicknamed ‘The Quiet’ as they appeared to be dumb. In three years no one had ever heard them utter a sound. They were bi-pedal and in body shape much like us except for their head. It was overly large and their eyes were also much bigger than ours. They wore only the minimum of clothing and no shoes. Their feet were wide and flat and they made no noise at all as they moved around. They lived in small villages and each stone house contained a large family group. The scientific types had not discovered any use of sophisticated mechanical devices. In fact they appeared to gather everything they needed from the dense forests that covered most of this planet.

When we had arrived we had to blast out a clearing for our landing and my marines were the first to exit to secure a perimeter. We were ready for any eventuality, or so we thought. The natives greeted us with total indifference and it took us many weeks to realise, that to them, we just did not seem to exist. Every attempt at communication failed and as strict protocols did not allow us to interfere with their lives, unless invited by them to do so; we just went about our mission to see if the planet offered any useful resources. The scientists did what scientists do and my men quickly became bored with the daily routine of escorting them and forever pulling them out of swamps, rescuing them from cliffs and the myriad of other ways they seemed to get into trouble.

The climate here had not changed since we had landed. Every day dawned clear and hot. By the middle of the day it was cloudy, humid and hot and by late afternoon it rained. It did not just rain but came down in bucket loads.

It was becoming difficult to keep my men motivated and as the months dragged on into years they became more and more vocal about ‘The Quiet’ and their dumb ways. I was forced to discipline some of them when they had tried to provoke a reaction from the natives. Nothing that they did got any response and this annoyed them even more.

Well, the three scientists arrived by shuttle accompanied by nearly a tonne of equipment. They took two days to set it all up in one of the empty accommodation modules. They had just finished when we received an order from Control that we should all gather in the main hall for a meeting.

When we had all finally arrived and settled down the Chief Scientist took the podium. She announced that for the past two years they had been studying the natives with remote devices from the orbiting Control centre. ‘The Quiet as you call them are not so quiet after all.’ She said as she switched on one of the machines. The room was filled with high pitched noises that seemed to ebb and flow.

‘We have changed the frequency so that you can hear it, but what you are listening to is one of the natives ‘talking’ to another. We have managed to decipher their ‘language’ and can now understand what they are saying to each other. We do not as yet understand how they generate the sounds except that it comes from somewhere within their brain.’

There was stunned silence in the room until one of my men said, ‘What are they saying?’ Another muttered, ‘Just cause they speak don’t mean they’re not dumb.’

The scientist explained that ‘The Quiet’ knew that we were arriving well before we had even reached orbit and that they also realised that their planet did not have anything that we would find useful. They had decided to just ignore us and we would eventually go away.

She concluded by saying, ‘The Quiet are not as quiet as you thought and also more importantly they are not as backward. They have a rich and vibrant culture that we are just beginning to understand. So as the old saying goes, ‘do not judge a book by its cover’.’

 

THE END

 

WASHING CHEESE

WASHING CHEESE

Julia is playing in the sandpit.

Her daddy calls out, ‘Julia lunch time.’

Julia is hungry so she runs inside.

Lots of yummy sandwiches for lunch.

Daddy and mummy have tomato, lettuce, some meat and cheese.

Julia eats all her sandwiches.

‘Daddy can I have some of your cheese,’ says Julia.

‘No Julia.  It’s special cheese for big people,’ replies daddy.

Julia is sad. ‘‘But daddy you said I am big now.’

‘OK, Julia, just a little piece,’ says daddy.

Julia smells the cheese. ‘Daddy, please wash the cheese.’

Her daddy looks cross, ‘Did you drop it on the floor?’

‘No daddy it is smelly.’

Her daddy washes the cheese under the tap.

Julia looks at the cheese and says, ‘It’s wet now daddy.’

Her daddy dries the cheese on the tea towel.

Julia smells the cheese again. ‘It’s still smelly daddy.’

Julia’s daddy puts tomato sauce all over the cheese.

Julia eats the cheese and tomato sauce all up.

‘May I have some more cheese please daddy?’

 

 

AAAHRGGG.....That’s daddy.......swearing quietly under his breath.

THE CAT

THE  CAT

                They say that families don’t own cats, that they are just their servants. Some people even add that we don’t adopt cats, they choose us. Well! In the case of our cat both of the above observations are definitely true.

            We first met Squeaky, strange name but that is what she came to be called, when she was just a small kitten. She had taken up residence in the storm water drain on the road at the front of our house. A number of the surrounding families had tried to coax her out with offers of food and a home. She resolutely refused all their approaches until our children approached. They had no food to offer and had certainly not spoken to my wife or myself about a home. When my daughter, who was in the lead, with the two boys, (not as inquisitive as her), trailing behind the cat rushed out of its hiding place and rubbing itself around her legs began to purr loudly. She picked it up and it nestled into her arms and promptly went to sleep.

            Later that afternoon there was quite a division in our household; my daughter and my wife voting to keep the cat, our two sons voting no and myself sitting on the fence. Meanwhile the cat had been locked in our laundry with a freshly bought tray of kitty litter, a bowel of milk and a plate of cat food. After a long, unproductive, discussion it was decided to bring the cat into the kitchen where we were gathered. This idea was put forward by my daughter as she believed that we were discussing the future of the cat and therefore it should be present.

            Well! You would not believe what happened next. Placed on the by now cleared kitchen table top the cat made a bee line for the two boys who after each giving it a pat and a cuddle changed their votes to yes. That left just me who was still unsure about the idea of having a pet around the house. As usual in our family with a vote of four to one, with me being the one (no reference to any TV reality shows) it was not deemed necessary to further canvas my opinion. I was left sitting at the table, rather bemused at what had happened during the afternoon, while the others rushed about with the cat and a multitude of ideas as to how to make the animal feel more at home.

            Well the days and then weeks passed and the cat had definitely adopted us as her servants. I suppose I should, from now on, call her by her name, Squeaky. As I said before a strange name for a cat, but one that eminently suited her as when she was excited her meow turned into a high pitched squeak. My wife had early on decided that she could not just be referred to as “The Cat” and had started to refer to her as Squeaky. The name was adopted by the rest of the family but as a protest, probably childish and futile; I still referred to her as the cat. The cat. Oh. Ok Squeaky was showered with presents; a cat bed, a coat for the cold weather, her very own little door in the bottom of the laundry door and even a little soft stuffed toy cat so she would not feel lonely. The toys! Yes toys for cats. In no time at all the floor of the laundry and the rumpus room, read those as Squeaky’s bedroom and lounge room were a health hazard. They were strewn with all manner of things for her to chase, chew on or scratch.

            Squeaky and I developed a healthy respect for each other that did not involve any close contact. I never patted her and she flatly refused to sit on my lap in front of the television. There was however the occasional outbreak of hostilities such as the time I woke in the middle of the night to find her asleep on our bed. I yelled, she ran and my wife yelled – at me. I refused to allow any more nocturnal visits and there were a few days of frosty looks from both my wife and the cat. As usual, in these circumstances, I retreated to the garage or the garden shed. Needless to say the cat won in the end, but as a small gesture of defiance I would not let her sleep on my side of the bed.

            Over the years we moved house and city a few times and Squeaky always went with us. She inspected every new house as if its acceptance by us depended on her approval. She would always decide where she wanted her bed and her toys placed.

            After a number of years we moved back to Sydney and much to the disgust of my family I developed an allergy to cat fur. I could not even sit on a lounge or chair where Squeaky had been without developing very itch, watery eyes. The only relief was to wash my face thoroughly with cold water. It took a few weeks for me to work out that it was Squeaky’s fur that was causing the problem. The family, of course, had different ideas. My daughter thought that I was just tired and rubbing them too much, my wife that it was hay fever and my oldest son just told me, “To toughen up.” We went away down the coast for a week’s holiday, children stayed at home to house and cat sit, and the problem with my eyes immediately went away. I had proved my point.

            There was no way that Squeaky was leaving so we had to work out a compromise. She became an outside cat, banished from the house. This still did not stop her from occasionally trying to sneak inside. She came to know that I could not be won over and all I had to do was confront her and point out the door and she would turn tail and run outside.

            A few more years went by under this new arrangement. Our family grew up and my two sons now lived with us with their partners. Squeaky was visibly getting older and slowing down. My wife and I went overseas for a few months leaving our extended family to house sit, mow the lawns (yeah right!), Look after the swimming pool, (new pump required on our return), water the plants (not the inside ones every day; flooded soggy carpet), mind Squeaky. This last simple task turned ugly. You might well ask how? We certainly did on our return. Squeaky had got very sick and the vet offered only two alternatives; expensive cure or euthanasia. The house sitters were divided evenly with one son and partner opting for cure and the other two for euthanasia. A rather acrimonious discussion continued for days. Neither of the parties thought to call us for a decision. Eventually the cure camp won out with the other side washing their hands of the whole thing. So! Result. We arrived home to an elderly still quite sick cat and a horrendous vet bill. Apparently Squeaky had spent a week in cat hospital on a trip. I must admit it brought a smile to my face imagining her lying back on a hospital bed with a number of nurses to order about.

            Squeaky never fully recovered and eighteen months later my wife had to make the sad journey to the vet to have her put to sleep. She could not eat properly and was becoming weaker by the day. By then it was only my wife and I in the house so we decided to not tell the children until it was over.

            Over the years I had grown so accustomed to having her around that I found myself missing her presence rather badly. Sometimes working out in the back yard I was sure that I had seen her out of the corner of my eye walking purposely towards the back door as if to challenge my authority one last time.

            Rest in peace Squeaky you were an integral much loved part of our family.

 

                                                            THE END

 

 

A PIECE OF MY HEART

A PIECE OF MY HEART

 

There are many things that I vividly remember.

 On hot, still, summer nights, sitting on the back porch of our house in the middle of thousands of acres, in the middle of nowhere. The heat like a warm cloak over our bodies, the stars so bright and so near that if I reached out I could touch them. Far away in the north the flash of lightning as it illuminates a massive cloud that for a few moments looks like a giant’s glass house lit from within. The rumble of thunder that reaches us many seconds later that reminds my father too much of shell fire during the war. A red glow just peeking over the horizon in the west, another bush fire on the Liverpool Plains reminding us of the fragility of life here. Tomorrow could bring either flooding rains or more fierce heat and all consuming fire.

On a bitterly cold winter’s morning riding my horse behind a slow moving mob of sheep as the dogs ceaselessly circle behind them, keeping them together and headed in the right direction. Watching the skill of the dogs as they seem to anticipate the movements of individual sheep that try to break away, the short bursts of white breath from their mouths as they work. The low morning sun strikes the frost crystals on the grass and the bushes and sends streaks of diamond light across our path.

Out on the edge of the plains taking a rest beneath a lone gum tree, its leaves hardly moving in a gentle breeze. It is so quiet that I am sure that if I concentrate hard enough I will hear the living movements of the tree that I am resting against; its roots drawing in moisture and food and the trunk transporting it upwards to the leaves high above me.

Lying in my bed listening to the sounds of the night. The sigh of the wind through the large pine tree just outside my window.  My parents talking quietly in front of the fire in the kitchen. The sound of rain drumming on the tin roof. Sometimes the unmistakable howl of a dingo that will start off an eerie choir as others respond.

Visits to the nearest town for shopping, business for my father and sometimes for social outings such as the annual races or rodeo. Shopping was always an exciting adventure as we only went to town once a month on a Saturday. An ice cream was often my reward for behaving myself whilst the boring business of buying groceries and clothes was conducted. However I still remember my parents buying me my very first pair of R M Williams and a proper Akubra hat.

Out here in the bush there were only friends and neighbours. One never had to ask for help as it was always there whenever one needed it. A handshake was not only a greeting but also a binding contract and a promise was always kept and a person’s word was his bond.

I remember the pride I felt in the fact that I was an integral part of the running of the property. My daily chores which included, feeding the chooks and the dogs, keeping the kitchen stove supplied with wood, tending the vegetable garden, making sure the kerosene fridge never went out, lighting the chip heater for hot water for the bath, all enabled my father to concentrate on the major tasks that only he could do.

The freedom to explore and experiment. The exhilaration of galloping full speed on my horse down the long slope to our house; the wind on my face, the rhythmic movements of the horse and the feeling of power that emanated from him. The sense of achievement, and really contributing, when I brought home the first rabbit that I had shot with my new rifle and my mother cooking it for our evening meal. On weekends and holidays riding my horse out to the mountains, ridges and deep valleys that surrounded our house; watching kangaroos grazing next to the fast flowing streams, the goannas sunbaking on the rocks and the fish rising to take insects that had settled on the surface of the water. The never ending story of new birth, life and death that was played out almost daily on the wide acres of the land. It was my kingdom and I was free to explore it, to learn from it and to try to understand it.

The two times of the year that held a magical hold over me. Shearing time and lambing time. Nearly all year the shearing shed and the shearer’s quarters were the sole domain of families of mice and spiders but come shearing time they were filled with movement, energy, laughter and hard work. For me it was a whirlwind of penning up sheep, sweeping the board, keeping the water bag filled, listening to the banter of the shearers and all the time learning from my father who did the wool classing. I fell into bed every night exhausted but loved every minute of it. Lambing time was also a busy time but also one of wonder at nature at its best; the miracle of new life. We had to keep watch day and night over the ewes as they gave birth as this was a time of great danger for them and their new lambs; dingos, wild dogs, foxes and crows were always ready to take advantage. It was a time of little sleep but great rewards and to me watching over a paddock full of newborn lambs was recompense enough.

There are many other things that I remember. The smell of approaching rain, of newly mown hay, the distinctive smell that comes with the dawn just before a hot summer’s day and the aroma of freshly baked bread straight from the kitchen oven. The sound that a thousand new born lambs make, the cries of a flock of hundreds of budgerigars, the thunder of the hooves of my horse at full gallop, the crack of my father’s stock whip and the roar of a usually dry stream in full flood. The sight of a lone wedge tail eagle riding a thermal, of thousands of galahs following the harvester, of horses frisky and jumpy at the smell of approaching rain, of low branches on a willow tree trailing in the flowing river, the splendour of hillsides covered in the white of flowering gums and the brilliant green of new grass after a bush fire.

Mostly I miss the sense of belonging and being one with something. Perhaps I do not explain myself well but I am sure of one thing I left a piece of my heart in that place and at that time.