On contemplating what to write about this month, I thought maybe I would share a little of the ordinariness of my life – an ordinariness that is unique to me.
I have noticed over the past few days that there has been an out of the ordinary spike in my readership graph. On my website I am able to see the countries in which my blogs are being read. Hello Poland! Pages read in the last thirty days have risen by three hundred and six percent – with most of the activity being in Poland, followed by Australia, France, USA, Philippines, Canada, China etc. So I don’t know if it’s one person reading or, as my daughter suggested, maybe a book club. Anyway nice to know. Keeps me writing.
I go for an early morning swim four days a week at an indoor heated pool in my local aquatic centre. A few days ago, as I was swimming, I heard the sound of a fellow swimmer in distress. An elderly man had his arms over the edge of the pool and was emitting this alarming sound that was amplified by the accoustics of the high-roofed space. Everyone in the pool stopped swimming and all eyes were turned towards him. Some of us were up the other end of the pool, some closer. The nearest one to him went to his aid. All swimming stopped until we could see he was safe. It made me think of the complexity of the human spirit. We were ready to help, to do what it took to save a human life if need be. We didn’t know or care what colour, race or religion he was.
And then there’s war. Where is this caring human spirit in war-ravaged countries full of hate for those of another tribe or creed, to the point where the daily purpose is to obliterate the enemy? I would say its more natural for humans to care for and nurture one another. What is the rogue element that so distorts this? Maybe world leaders?
Another incident in my month – unrelated. Recently I was sitting in my car in the supermarket carpark. I have a neighbour who is currently unable to drive, and I had driven him to the shops. While I was waiting for him, I had my car windows down and was listening to music on my phone. A bloke pulled into the parking space next to mine. As he got out of his car, he heard my music and commented. He was a bushie – generous of build, flowing reddish beard, long-loved slouch hat, braces holding up his well worn RM Williams jeans. In his early seventies maybe. He leant his elbows on the sill of my passenger side open window. His weathered hands had seen a lot of the sun.
We started yarning. I knew there’d be some stories about him. He was a man of the bush alright.
He told me he had recently come to the Barossa to live. Hated it, he told me. My head jolted back in surprise. Why I asked.
‘Oh the people are all up themselves. Very hard to fit in here.’
I could see he might have had a point – for himself, as he would have looked more at home in Broken Hill or Tibooburra.
He was a bush poet. Had several books published he boasted. I told him I was a poet too, and had published my memoir. I asked him where I could find his books.
‘Allan Benjamin Eggleton is my name,’ he said. ‘They call me Ben. Are you on Facebook?’
‘I am,’ I said.
‘Well how about you friend request me? I’ll accept, and you’ll find a link to my work there.’
So we did that, and when I got home, I found him and all his accomplishments. I have read some of his poems there. They’re looking good. Just a taste so far. One of his collections is called ‘The Bard from the Scrub.’
As we yarned, he was on a roll. ‘I’m also an actor.’
‘Oh really?’ I said. ‘Any movies I might have heard of?’
‘You might have heard of The Royal Hotel. Been in the news lately. Just won a heap of AACTA awards including best screenplay. Me mate Hugo (Weaving) is working on a movie in Dublin at the moment. Thought I’d better text him to let him know about the awards. Would you like to hear his reply?’
‘Sure,’ I said, in my state of – how has all this just come out of the blue?
So he read me the lengthy, richly Aussie reply from mate Hugo.
My neighbour Danny came back to the car. Allan Benjamin Eggleton, bush bard/actor stepped aside to let him in.
‘Been nice meetin’ ya love,’ he said.
‘You too Ben,’ I said.
I hoped and suspected that he might have had a little shift in his perception of the Barossa people.
My daughter recently told me that one of her regulars at the cafe, had read my book and wanted to meet me. She too was an author and coincidentally we shared the same independent publishing company. Her name is Rhondda Kemp-Mottau and her memoir is titled ‘The Lighthouse Kid.’
We met for coffee at Marlo’s Hive Barossa Cafe. She had grown up as the daughter of a lighthouse keeper (in New Zealand and the east coast of Australia), and had an almost spiritual affinity with the edifices. I read her book. In it she tells us of her wonderful childhood as one of six siblings -due to the love and care of her dearly loved parents. Her lighthouses are almost personified, her love for them still with her after decades. The pages of her memoir are scattered with poems about them. I asked her if she had considered writing another book, telling us of the adventures she and her siblings had, some of the stories her lighthouses could tell, of lives saved, ships that had close calls, adrenalin pumping stories. I wanted to know how the buildings were furnished, what their evening mealtimes were like, their food, where did they sleep. With no mention of any romantic relationships or marriage, I was curious about how she had got her kids – one father, or more, adoption perhaps? She told me there was a reason for that kind of omission. Pain I suspect.
‘There’s another whole book to be written Rhondda,’ I told her.
She seemed disinclined as she’d had a torrid time of the publishing process. I felt sorry that she’d had that experience, as mine had been wonderful. But she is a strong lady, and has made a lovely life for herself in the Barossa. She is an avid gardener, and by the sounds of it has created a little patch of paradise for herself.
I went to the movies the other day with girlfriend Shirley. The movie we wanted to see – ‘The Anatomy of a Fall’ was on at the Prospect cinemas – a forty-five minutes’ drive away. We had a light lunch at one of the many delightful Prospect Rd cafes, and then to the movie afterwards. It was an outstanding work. Sandra Huller’s performance was one of the best I’ve ever seen. She has to win an Oscar for it. A complex and intriguing story, I could see it again, and I very rarely have the desire to see a movie twice.
Our poets’ group met again a couple of weeks ago. This is something I look forward to every other month. Not enough for me really, so I am thinking of establishing a monthly get together – called something like ‘Food, Wine and Chewing the fat.’ I have a little group in mind – five of us including me. That would be the maximum number. Any more than that and the conversation splits. I know with these five, the talk would be rich – of art, music, writing, humanity, and there will be laughter. Can’t wait to put it out there.
This has been just a small part of my past month. Every day has its joys and some days there are sorrows. I love the people I have gathered around me.
Today’s poem is about such love and warmth.
(If you’re reading on your iPhone, turn it sideways).
WALK CLOSER NOW
Walk closer now and warm me
as the dampness grows
This day’s been long invited
by you and me at least
It didn’t bat an eyelid at our cartwheels in the grass
went right on growing
dying
while our fears and doubts
fared aimlessly away
over the hills and far …
horses stamp and snort small clouds
while our minds cuddle close
and brew the evening’s coffee
over persevering coals
within the cosy cabin walls
amongst the rugs and beams
the firelight and loving
and the memories
of
this
old
day
I have another short holiday planned. Will tell you about that next time.
Keep safe.
Warmly,
Sue
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