We Will Remember Them

ANZAC Day 2008

Auckland War Memorial

Lest We Forget

Have we got it too good?

In anticipation of reading aloud various books to E4, I have been reading them myself first to see if they will be suitable for her. I am so enjoying reading these ‘childrens’ books. Some I remember from my own childhood, and some I’m reading for the first time.

I’ve recently read Matilda by Roald Dahl, Charlotte’s Web by E B White and The Little House on the Prairie by Laura Ingalls Wilder.

I LOVED The Little House on the Prairie. I found myself reading bits of it aloud to D, and for me that’s always a good indicator of a book that I love or which has impacted me. D tolerates my cries ‘Oh, listen to this …’ and patiently waits while I read. Sometimes he quite enjoys it too, and other times he’s clearly bored. Poor thing.

What I loved about this book was the way it made me think about how we live. I so enjoyed learning a little about pioneer life (American) and it made me long for the simplicity of that life too. Strange really, those longings it brought out of me…I honestly can’t see myself ever dashing off to the outback with a horse and a wagon and an axe and gun and fending for myself like they did. Why was I so attracted to that lifestyle?

The heroine Laura’s family lived very simple lives, with few material possessions. They set off into unknown territory to make a new life for themselves. This required them to have the skills to source their own food and water, build shelter and protect themselves from dangers. The didn’t have much, and so it meant that when they had luxuries it really was a special treat.

Sometimes I think that we have so much in our lives, nothing is special anymore. We eat well, a varied diet with plenty of luxury foods. We have entertainment aplenty, easy transport, running water. We don’t have to struggle for the necessities of life. What our parents or grandparents would have considered luxuries are now considered commonplace or ‘must haves’. But are we really better off?

I often wonder why we are so busy when we have washing machines to wash our clothes, dishwashers to wash our dishes, cars to get us to places quickly, computers to communicate faster and supposedly more effectively etc. Surely all our conveniences should create more leisure time. And yet, we often don’t spend time together as a family just talking. I have heaps of ‘friends’ and people I email from time to time, and even virtual friends who I keep in ‘relationship’ by reading and writing in the most public forum…the internet. (Am I the only one who thinks there is something strangely artificial about that?) And yet few really close friends with whom I can spend a long time in easy company.

And how can you compare the delight of receiving a long hand written letter from far away, with a quickly typed electronic message on your screen? This is probably another post altogether, but don’t you miss the days of writing and receiving letters? It’s a dying art and I’m feeling inspired to keep it alive.

Anyway, I know others have written on this subject. I think I might just give it some thought and try to recapture some of the simplicity of life; the essence of truly living, and living well.

Made in the Image of God.

I grew up thinking I was not creative. I didn’t have a particular talent…I couldn’t draw, paint, sing or play an instrument well. I wasn’t good at sports or dance or anything that seemed to matter to me as a child. I struggled to draw a tuna tin in my first year of art at school, and it was horrible to feel incompetent. My confidence was low, and so I put in little effort and didn’t continue art the following year when we had the choice.

I think back to my Year 8 art class, and consider the teaching methods. Why would I want to draw a tin of food!!!! It was a death blow to any inspiration in art. It was like: “Draw something, create something and then we’ll mark you on how well or badly you did it.” Crikey! No wonder I gave up!

I’m not a professional teacher, and yet intuitively I know that if you want children to be inspired in art…expose them to great art! All genres and from all era’s. Something different will appeal to each one, and maybe they’ll be motivated to try something. Then teach the skills required to create the piece. Then teach them about the paints and brushes, the techniques, the mediums. The theory…the techniques meant nothing to me, were completely boring and I wasn’t motivated to try because I didn’t understand the point. Now that I am inspired to be creative, I would be much more attentive to a lesson on perspective or some other art thing. I still may never have been particularly good at drawing or painting, but you know what….I think I would have enjoyed art classes.

All my life, I have always salivated (well not literally, but it really does come close to that!) when looking at art supplies… paints, brushes, pencils, and all kinds of paper. A blank canvas excites me at the possibilities to fill it with something beautiful. I never bought anything before because I always said “I can’t draw”, which in my mind really meant “I’m not artistic”.

Now that I am older, I have gradually realised that I do love to create. I have discovered that when inspired, I can create. A little inspiration from Sarah and I wrote a little piece below which while may not be brilliant, is an expression of me. I  like to sew and write, and take photographs and sing and create gifts. I’m less narrow in my definition of creativity. I no longer think of creativity only in terms of painting a masterpiece or sketching a portrait or playing an instrument.

Nevertheless, recently I spent a little bit of money on some paints and brushes and canvas paper, and I’m going to give it a go. I have no idea if anything will come of it. I still don’t think I can draw, but I’m not going to let that stop me create something beautiful with paint. Well…I’ll try at least. And this time it’s going to be fun!

I firmly believe that every person has creativity in them. We are made in the image of God…a creative God whose creation is diverse and beautiful and intricate and intelligent and amazing and perfect.

I Am From

I am from TV towers,
from Kitchener buns and fluorescent zinc cream.
I am from the north wind and cracked footpaths.
(Pebbly, dusty and hard under bare summer-toughened feet.)
I am from the fig tree,
leafy, complicated, secret, cool;
the kikuyu grass, spongy and prickly and never quite green.

 

I am from Tea at five and Works hard but drinks too much,
from Ann and Ernest and Sybil.
I am from job lists and Christmas baking
and pretending everything is OK.
From Do what I say and not what I do
and Careful of the popcorn husks.
I am from church on Sunday.
Jesus loves me this I know, and singing comfort to myself.

 

I’m from Wallaroo and Wondai, Pasties and Neopolitan ice cream.
From the lottery number uncle to Vietnam and the father who volunteered
the loved daughter who travelled the world.

I am from the top bedroom, the piano room and a box of old black and white’s in a wooden box. From letters and frames and an album on my bookshelf with too few photographs and which sometimes makes me cry.

 

I wrote this after reading Sarah’s post. The original poem in this format can be found here.

Past Present Puture.*

Did you know that no one I know in my real life reads this blog? So theoretically it could all be a load of bollocks and none of you would know any better! Well, OK one reader that I know of has had email contact with me, but none of my real life friends of family even knows I blog.

I like it most of the time because I can be myself without thinking too much about who might be reading.

But today I gave the link to a good friend of mine. We live in separate countries now, and I miss that we can’t just pop over for a coffee. I’ve never met her husband or her two children and she last saw me on my wedding day. But, she’s a loyal friend, and whenever we connect it’s alway easy conversation and frequent laughs.

We first became friends at primary school. We lived nearby and used to catch the same bus to and from school. (It was bus number 640 when I first started catching the bus aged about 7 I think and later changed to bus number 246. Strange that I still remember that.) Towards the end of primary school we spent more time together and I would visit her house to play. I remember how we used to build cubby houses. I remember her swing set, her lovely room and one rather embarrassing incident when I hit her father over the head with a doll. (I’m cringing now just thinking about it. )

We attended different high schools and had little contact until we’d both left school and found ourselves both studying nursing at the same university. That renewed a long lasting friendship.

Oh how we could talk. We laughed until our faces were red and tears ran down. We used to meet and walk along the beach together. (That remains one of my favourite places in the whole world to this day.) As nurses, we shared a peculiar and somewhat graphic sense of humour. A favourite running joke came from the pages of the Mosby’s Medical and Nursing dictionary. (*The P pages if you must know.)

Once we went on a road trip for a weekend to the Flinders Ranges. We made ridiculous jokes and took photos and saw beautiful parts of our great country. I think we both knew that we were making special memories on that trip. I laugh now when I remember that after so much exercise that weekend traipsing all over the ranges, we both decided to buy bikes to get fit. So that very week I think it was we both bought bikes and used to meet to ride along the esplanade. We did in fact get quite fit.

I think we suspected that we would go separate ways in life. Both of us were keen travellers and although we never travelled abroad together, we talked of our adventures and places we’d been or wanted to go. Once I’d met D and foresaw a future together it was a given that I’d be leaving Australia and the poor girl had to endure my ramblings about him, and what he’d said and what I’d said and blah blah….you know all that romantic stuff. (After all, it was a long distance romance… I had to talk to someone about it!)

Since we have gone separate ways, (she has also left home town and married a foreigner and is now living in another place) life has taken on a much more serious tone. We’ve both had children while away from family support. She has faced health issues. We’ve both had to learn to carve out a new life in a new place.

Life has been harder than I expected since those days. We talked of our futures with sparkles in our eyes and the naivete of youth. Idealists, we dreamed of fairy tale weddings, and babies and love. We’ve each been blessed with these things, but I don’t think either of us expected the real world to be so hard at times. In our dreams we forgot the realities of washing piles, sleepless nights, loneliness and the hard work and worry of look after sick children.

But you know what? We’ve grown. We’ve grown in maturity, wisdom and character. I wouldn’t go back to those girlish days. Yes, it was fun. Yes we were blissfully happy, but life is good. We have beautiful children and good husbands, and are living the life of adventure we dreamed about.

These days are precious my friend. We’ll too soon look back and remember them with fondness.

Things I wish I’d asked my Nanna #4

Another question I wish I’d asked my dear old Nan.

• What books did you read as a child?
• What are your fondest memories of childhood?

Things I wish I’d asked my Nanna #3

• How did you treat ear infections without antibiotics?

Things I wish I’d asked my Nanna #2

Here’s another thing I’d love to have asked my Nanna:

• How did you survive the depression? What did Pop do for work? And how did you live off very little?

Things I wish I’d asked my Nanna #1

My Nanna died in 2004. She was born in 1910. It’s terrible how we sometimes take for granted the wealth of knowledge and history in our older people. Since she died, I have thought of heaps of things I wished I’d asked her while she was still alive.

• What type of cleaning products did your mother use?

Strange question maybe, but I was cleaning my kitchen last night with some probably nasty chemical that made the job really easy and I just wondered about the days before Handy Andy and Mr Muscle. I suppose salt and baking soda and lemon juice and vinegar?

Stuff Stuff Stuff

D and I have just had a long chat together in front of the fire. Soooo nice to have a long conversation without being interrupted. About time we had some time for ‘us’.

Feeling full of ideas and energy tonight. This is an almost forgotten feeling for me, and it makes me realise again just how pregnancy takes it’s toll on me. I’m so glad to be not pregnant now!

I’m feeling seriously inspired to carry on attacking this house and getting rid of stuff, and living a more simple life. Tonight I started to think of getting rid of some of the kids old baby clothes, and toys and some of my books and bits and bobs collected while travelling. I had a bit of a pang of “Nooooo…. I want to keep it” every time I considered another item, and it made me wonder why we have this almost innate desire to collect stuff. D and I were discussing it and he told me the story behind a picture he has kept from years ago and is in a cobwebby frame on our wall.

It seems that the ’stuff’ we hold on to actually represents a feeling or a memory, and we keep the thing because we don’t want to lose that part of our history. Isn’t it true though that the memory is actually alive and well in our hearts, and (unless we get a nasty bump on the head), we can’t lose those things that are so meaningful to us?? Isn’t it more meaningful to keep these things alive by writing about them, or by sharing stories with our kids rather than keeping a box of ’souvenirs’ in the cupboard?

So anyway, the quest continues and my broad plan is to work my way through the house and the final frontier will be the garage. Then, I want to get some decent cupboards out there and D and have one and I’ll have one of my own too. Even the kids can have one. For all our extra stuff. And if we still can’t fit all our stuff in a home of it’s own then clearly there is just too much stuff. So, exactly what sort of ’stuff’ are we talking about here?

Well, apart from the really old Sentimental ‘Stuff’, there is the Surplus ‘Stuff’ like toys, buckets, kitchen utensils, plastic containers, socks, coat hangers, bags, or whatever else we have too much of.

There’s the Might-Come-In-Handy-One-Day ‘Stuff’ like the washing machine instructions, the warranties and boxes from various appliances (in case we have to return them of course), blank video tapes, cardboard boxes, stationary and three ring binders, wrapping paper, gift bags, empty photo albums, copious half used bottles of engine oil, roundup, 30 seconds and car polish.

There’s the Hardly-Ever(NEVER)-Use-It ‘Stuff’ like paint rollers and brushes, sandpaper, power tools, garden pots, potting mix, sleeping bags, guitar practice stool (came ‘free’ with the $3000 guitar), trumpet and pressure cooker.

And of course the Useless/Ugly/Broken-But-Too-Good-To-Throw-Away ‘Stuff’ like friends broken stereo, D’s broken stereo, my broken stereo, broken high chair, obsolete computer, not working kettle, decoupage platter wedding gift and two ugly bathroom mirrors.

This of course raises the question of what to do with it all? Therein lies my challenge.