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 Double ended cutlery (fork on one end and spoon on the other, sadly this was superseded by the spork), and my most famous one, the edible school lunch box.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.