The Kitchen

Posted on October 15, 2013 by Irene Waters 19 Writer Memoirist

Kitchens and I just don’t mix. I hate cooking. I hate touching food. I love eating food. I think that I probably picked this up from my mother who saw cooking as a chore. Coming home tired after a hard days teaching, she would have to prepare a meal for the family. Three vegetables and chops or sausages or perhaps some mince type meal would be our average meal. Of course we had roast for Sunday lunch. My favourite meal of the week was always Sundays where we ate left over meat battered and fried as fritters or had cheese on toast.

My grandmother on the other hand loved cooking and we served up exotic meals, desserts and delicious biscuits. Mind you on occasion she would serve totally inedible meals of offal of all descriptions. Everyone else enjoyed these but without exception we all hated tripe. This we were never given at home. My mother also had a total hate of all baked custards, a taste I shared, so luckily we also never had baked custards, bread and butter puddings and the like. We did have frogs eyes which was sago in a lemon sauce – delicious and blanc mange which was a white custardy type of thing with red arrowroot jelly on top of it covered in coconut. My mouth is watering just thinking about these treats which I haven’t had since I left home.

Having such a sweet tooth, the only way my mother could make sure that she had items left on the rare occasion that she baked biscuits for guests was to leave a note on the packaging “Irene don’t touch” and I didn’t dare. At some point I must have received the wooden spoon for disobeying and I had learnt my lesson.

The only cooking that I did as a child was not done at home.  An American couple who were exchange teaching at the high school rented the little cottage which abutted the church grounds. One day Mrs Stroud invited me in to help her bake some cookies. We made chocolate chip biscuits which consisted of a sausage-shaped roll that she had bought at the supermarket. We cut this into rounds which we then put on a greased baking tray and popped in the oven. Ten minutes later we had the most delectable cookies imaginable. This was my style of cooking. I had never seen anything like it. She told me it was common in America. When the baking completed we climbed over the fence and came and shared them with the rest of my family. (photo of the fence climb).

1963.12 the Strouds

The only other place I went, apart from the fridge, in our kitchen as a child was the sink. My brother washed and I dried. We used to fight constantly about this as I felt that it was unfair that I always wiped. And then every-time  I had to wipe up I felt incredibly nauseous. The cause put down to psychological reasons with an easy solution: my parents sat me on a high stool by the bench so I could carry out my duties.

 

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Dining Room

Posted on October 13, 2013 by Irene Waters 19 Writer Memoirist

1962.6 Irene 6thbirthday

A boring room which had openings into the kitchen (separated by a breakfast bar), the big back porch , the hall and the double opening into the lounge room. The room, bare apart from a table, six chairs and an old side board, acted as the hub of the family. My father read the paper at the table in the morning. My mother read it in the afternoon when she came home from her day school teaching. We knew not to try to talk to her until after she finished both her coffee and the paper. She’d had kids all day and the last thing she wanted to come home to were two talkative kids. We ate dinner around the table in the evening and talked as a family.

My father had a great sense of humour and would usually have a funny story or a joke or two to tell us. We particularly liked the stories he told of his childhood. He grew up in Mosman around the corner from the family house which my great grandparents built in 1899. My great-aunt and uncle still lived there and as they were as keen on books as my Father he spent a lot of time there. A Chinese greengrocer use to come to the house in his horse and cart selling vegetables. Whilst he haggled with my aunt around the back, my Father and his cousin unhitched the horse, took the cart inside the yard then re-hitched the horse through the closed gate. They promptly hid from sight and watched with great delight the Chinaman’s reaction when he returned to his contraption.

My mother, was more reserved than my Father, and preferred to talk about news items or books which she had read. She did spend a considerable amount of time teaching us table manners. Of course, my brother and I chatted away about the exciting events which had happened in our day so it was lucky my mother was more of a listener.

After tea my brother and I had to clean and wash up. After completing these tasks we would usually play games on the table until bedtime, as long as we had done our homework in the afternoon. Our favourite game was monopoly but that was usually reserved for a wet Sunday afternoon. We stopped playing games when we purchased a television as we were then allowed to watch the news and on other “suitable” program on week nights.

Sunday Lunch was the big meal of the week. It was always after all the morning church services and always a roast. Often another family would be invited to join us and occasionally we would go to someone else’s house. It was a big deal with the good china coming out and the silver which housed in the sideboard.  I grew to loathe the silver, as I had to clean it with silvo every three months.

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The Lounge Room

Posted on October 12, 2013 by Irene Waters 19 Writer Memoirist

The loungeroom was the second room off the hallway that led from the front door. The entry into it was via a space the size of double doors except that there were no doors attached. Travelling around the room, the piano stood along the right hand wall to the side of this door.

Until we purchased a television, unless we had guests, the piano was the focal point of the room. We rarely used it otherwise. My mother played the piano and my brother and I would often be found on either side of her as she played songs like It’s a long way to Tipperary, Camptown Races, Clemintina and other early, songs from musicals and war songs. Our favourite song was an old war song about a fish. “Two little fishes and a mummy fishy too, swam and they swam all over the dam. Boom boom didums and a wanum choo, Boom, boom didums and a wannum choo, and they swam and they swam all over the dam”.

After the piano another set of double doors, again without the doors, led into the dining room. One chair from the three-piece tapestry covered lounge then a double corrugated, opaque glass door opened to the big back porch. Along the back wall under the window was the three seater lounge of the suite. It had dark wooden arms polished to such a high sheen that it had mirror like  qualities. Beside it stood a cream painted wrought iron standard lamp. At lounge height, on the lamp upright, a round glass table held a small beaten copper and wood wheelbarrow shaped ashtray constructed by the grandfather I never met, as he died the year my elder brother was born. The conical cream lamp shade decorated at both the top and bottom with a twist of cream and red velvet material hid the light globe from sight.

loungeroom

Along the left hand wall after this light were another pair of doors leading out to the small back porch, then a brick fireplace which, in the eight years we lived there, never saw a fire. For heating we used a Dimplex column oil heater which had come to Australia with us from our year living in America. It was a wonderful heater which,  before having our bath, we would heat our pyjamas so they were warm when we finally put them on. The other armchair of the set lived in the corner between the fireplace and the hall wall until we purchased our first television in 1966 and it took this place.

 

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Style

Posted on October 11, 2013 by Irene Waters 19 Writer Memoirist

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“Style” says John McGahern “is the reflection of personality in language, everything having been removed from it that is not itself – the most perfect technique is as worthless as mere egotism. To reach that point we have to feel deeply and to think clearly in order to discover the right words.”

The Age 8th April 2006

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The Toilet

Posted on October 10, 2013 by Irene Waters 19 Writer Memoirist

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In case you have only recently looked at my blog and you don’t know what I am doing I think, that for this post, I should give some background information.

As a memoir writer I am trying some experimentation by walking around my childhood home to see what memories come when I visualise each room. Today is the day of the toilet. It will be a short post because I am not going into any detail about the what goes on in a toilet. I’m sure we all know that well enough.

My childhood toilet was across the hall from my bedroom. The hall was T shaped only the long part was the hat and the short part the upright. The short part was off the hall outside my room terminating in the bathroom at the end. The toilet was just before the bathroom.

It was a tiny room which even as a child I could touch both walls and still have my arms bent. Its only furniture (if that is the right description) was the toilet.

As a child I was hopeless at arithmetic. I had a mother who was very mathematically inclined ( she used to do simultaneous equations for fun as a child where I would play spider) and a brother who followed in her footsteps. My teachers all informed my parents that I was arithmetically challenged and when the IQ result came in confirming this my mother decided on drastic action.

Onto the back of the toilet door went the times tables and the addition tables. If  I was caught coming out of the little room I was immediately tested on these. I had no interest in studying whilst I was on the toilet but I didn’t like the quizzes either so I avoided going as often as possible.

I told my mother later in life that I held her totally responsible  for both constipation and my still almost nonexistent ability to add and multiply. My Mum however, obviously thought that this method was worth repeating as she put up resuscitation charts on the back of her staff’s toilet for them to study at their leisure. I doubt that she tested them though when they emerged.

The picture of the toilet is not in my house but it is the only picture of a toilet that I have taken (Switzerland 2009).

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My Father’s study

Posted on October 9, 2013 by Irene Waters 19 Writer Memoirist

1959.16 Manse from park

Situated to the right of the front door was my Father’s study. People could come and go into his study, for consultation with Dad, without disturbing the rest of the family. My Father was a minister and in a small country town that meant that he saw people not only on spiritual matters but was also a counsellor on all problems, large and small.

On entering the office the wall to the left, along the front porch, was a permanently fixed floor to ceiling book cases full of books and his stamp albums. His desk sat in front of that facing out to the porch you can see in the photo. Another bookcase filled with books was on the opposite wall but it was much smaller as it sat between the window and the front wall. Sandwiched in-between the desk and this bookcase was a three drawer oak wood filing cabinet.

We children rarely went in this room. It was my father’s sanctuary and his work place so we didn’t disturb him. The telephone was in there and on the rare occasion we would answer it. I can still remember the number – 86. We were still on an operator connect system. One day my brother answered the phone and said “Velly sorry. Me no speak a de English” and hung up. Of course the operator told our parents and my brother was given the rounds of the kitchen as a result.

I was around ten when my Father had to spend some time in Sydney training deaconesses or some such job. I knew I was this old because we had just got a television and at every available opportunity (when my Mum wasn’t around)  I was glued to it.  Sitting on the floor in the lounge-room one day I noticed a movement out of the corner of my eye. I wasn’t sure but I thought I had just seen a snake slide past me into my Father’s office. I yelled for Mum and my brother who came running. Anybody would have thought I was being murdered.

My mother had no idea what to do so she called the police, who came with sirens blaring. I don’t think a lot really happened in our town to excite them. With pistols drawn they searched the study.

“Well we can’t find it in there” they informed us.

“It must have gone behind the built-in bookcase.” Everyone stared at my brother.

“We can’t stay in the house if it’s in there. You have to do something” Mum said.

So the police officer pulled every book unceremoniously out of the bookcase and unscrewed the fasteners holding it to the wall. Slowly they pulled it out from the wall and there it was. Killing was the only thing that happened to snakes in those days ( thankfully we know better now) and the policeman took aim and shot it. Scooping it up on a broom handle he carried the snake to the fence which separated us from the park and hung it there.

“Don’t you kids touch it” the policeman warned “it can still bite you.”

We spent the rest of that day alternating between helping Mum try to get the books back on the bookshelf and staring at the snake.

1966.1 Snake killed in study

 

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“As human beings, we are given a unique opportunity to experience life with all its ups and downs, joys and sorrows. It is a privilege that must not be taken for granted.”

This quote by an unknown was attached to a sculpture by Hew Chee Fong made from Italian Carrara Marble in 2012. and given to the Botanic Gardens by bequest.

An excuse to go to one of my favourite places to take a photo of the full sculpture which is taller than me and sadly, thinner than me.

Posted on October 8, 2013 by Irene Waters 19 Writer Memoirist | 2 Comments

Love Story – (fiction inspired by the man of many talents and other buskers)

Posted on October 7, 2013 by Irene Waters 19 Writer Memoirist

The normally noisy chatter in the pub died as the didgeridoo’s deep drone rolled through the air and vibrated up through the floor. The two men on stage were oblivious to the crowd as they lost themselves in the dreamtime. Their two-year dream had come to fruition. They were used to playing in Australian hotels but with such a different audience to this genteel, respectful crowd gathered around them now. They had been lucky to get this gig so close to the Sidmouth music festival. They had planned on busking only and had been very successful so far, covering all their accommodation and travel apart from their initial airfares, from the appreciative audiences they had gathered.

Cheryl sat transfixed, lost in the large variety of tones and sounds the handsome man on stage was emitting from his instrument. One minute it was a dog barking and growling, the next laughing like the strange Australian bird the kookaburra. There were hopping sounds, car horns and pops with the constant drone at varying pitches continuing in the background. With the tapping on the side of the long highly decorated tube of wood, and the drums played by the other man the music was compelling. Being a singer herself, she knew about breathing and watched the man closely to see him draw breath. Suddenly she realised the time. She had to go. She was performing at the festival in less than 30 minutes. Saddened that she wouldn’t be able to talk to the didgeridoo player she left.

The next day as Cheryl wandered from the B & B that she had stayed in overnight she heard the unmistakable sounds of the didgeridoo and drums vibrating through the ground, drawing her around the corner. The duo was set up at the edge of a park and had gathered a crowd around them. Cheryl joined, making her way to the front where again, she sat and watched the man and his instrument. His eyes closed as he lost himself in his music. Unlike the previous night however, after each tune, the drummer talked to the crowd, willing them to fill the coffers. At the first break Cheryl and the man’s eyes locked and from then on he played to her and her alone, calling to her, enticing her, begging her, and filling her with vibrations from the depths of his being.

He joined her as soon as their session over. “Hi, I’m Matt”

“I’m Cheryl. How on earth do you manage your breathing”

“It’s simple really although until you get the concept it can be a bit tricky. It’s called circular breathing. I’ll teach you if you like”

“Yes please.” She thrilled at his touch as he showed her the techniques.

“I’m a singer and I thought it would be easy” she laughed as she tried to do it unsuccessfully.

“How about a bit of tucker then and sing with us this afternoon when we start busking again around four.”

“I’d love to but I’ve promised to go to a luncheon the festival management is putting on for the entertainers. Perhaps we can do it another time. Telephone me.” She wrote down her number on a piece of paper and gave it to him, an electric shock shooting up her arm as her hand touched his.

“I’ll give you a tingle tonight and if you’re free tomorrow….” he trailed off as he noted her vigorously nodding head.

“Til then.” She left, resisting the urge to look back: knowing he was watching after her. The day couldn’t go quickly enough. She couldn’t wait for the phone to ring and she would hear his Aussie drawl on the other end. The wait seemed interminable. When was he going to ring? She couldn’t believe he wouldn’t phone. She knew he had felt the fireworks as well. By 11pm she had given up waiting. Finding the flyer she had picked up that afternoon she rang the number on it.

“Hallo”

“Matt? It’s Cheryl.” She heard the air being expelled in a rush of relief.

“Thank God. I thought I’d never see you again. That number you gave me was wrong. Connected to an old woman. She got a bit cranky after the fourth time I tried it and by the sixth, she stopped answering. How about breakfast?”

“I’d like that” They made arrangements to meet the next morning.

Over breakfast she learnt about their six-week busking adventure. “Where do you live in Australia?” she asked not sure that she would know even when he told.

“I’ve got a beach house and a country house he told her. I spend a lot of time travelling but home really is the Sunshine Coast around Noosa. How about you?”

“I live in London. I teach but we’re on holidays at the moment. I’m here because I was invited to sing at the Festival but I’m heading back to London tomorrow.”

“That’s a bugger. Do you want to sing with us this morning if you aren’t doing anything.”

“Love to.” The morning busking was fun and the vibrant tone of Cheryl’s voice blended well with the band. They followed with lunch, more busking, then dinner. He walked her back to the B & B.

“I’ve had a super day thanks Matt.”

“Well it doesn’t have to end. Didn’t you say you were on holidays?” Matt asked.

“Yes”

“ Why don’t you come to Europe with us for two weeks. You can sing. It’d be great fun.”

“Why not. When are you going?”

“Beginning of next week. Flying out from Heathrow.” They made arrangements to meet. The tour was a whirlwind starting in Paris and finishing in Rome. By the conclusion they knew they would spend their lives together.

After a period of skyping between Australia and England Matt returned to England. They clung to each other at the airport, happy in each others arms again. They married a week later in Rochester Cathedral, where Cheryl had been christened.

A week later Cheryl was being shown her new home – Matt’s Toyota Coaster.

“You told me you had a house at the beach and a house in the country you just didn’t tell me it was the same house that moved” Cheryl laughed. “It’s great though because when we go on tour we’ll have all our things with us but most importantly we’re with each other.”

 

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A Man of Many Talents

Posted on October 6, 2013 by Irene Waters 19 Writer Memoirist

Meeting an old girl friend is always fun. We have known each other since we started our nursing training together when we were still in our teens. An added advantage of our move to Qld was that my girlfriend and I were once again in lunching distance of each other. This we vowed to do at least once a month and this month’s rendezvous was at the Eumundi Markets.

These markets are the biggest markets in the Southern Hemisphere and with the weather perfect and school holidays happening the place was teeming with people. I was lucky to get a park and I headed through the old covered market to the large fig we had chosen as our meeting place. To my horror I discovered that there was more than one large tree and a board walk had been built since my last visit to protect the trees from the hundreds of people who trampled the ground around them, climbed them and were photographed on them. Myself included as you can see from the photo below.

Glenda, David & Irene

So which of the several trees I had to meet her at I had no idea. Whilst wandering the boardwalk some music across the street drew me toward it. Like a puppet on a string I was pulled to its source, ignoring my girlfriend’s gestures to hop in the car as she had driven past as I crossed.

Not only did I enjoy the music  but the antics of the upfront men had me laughing and my toes tapping all at once.

Naturally I just had to see what was behind the scenes. What a talent. To be able to play the guitar and harmonica, sing as well as making his dogs wow the audience. Simply amazing. I could have stayed there all day but I really had to meet my girlfriend. A quick phone call and we were soon together over a cup of coffee and  a french pastry.

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My Old Boy

Posted on October 3, 2013 by Irene Waters 19 Writer Memoirist

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Summer is on its way and the days are already hot. Zac, my eleven year old German Shepherd was showing signs of ageing. From past experience when these subtle changes appear the decline is fairly rapid. Old age in dogs is short.

He was starting to follow me everywhere – as though he was seeking my protection, no longer able to protect himself, let alone his family. His appetite was waning and he sounded like a puffing Billy his panting was so constant  and fast. His ability to do a long walk had long gone but now he was struggling to make it to the end of the park and back.

I gave a lot of thought to what could help him and eventually decided that a shorn Zac might be a happier Zac. Covering the mirrors in readiness for our return, we visited the Cuts for Mutts in Cooroy. An hour later we saw our german shepherd come schnauzer dog. His undercoat was, surprisingly, grey and white. His head reminded me of both a hobby-horse and a mere cat.

Unexpected was his new extreme cuddalability, as I have never been particularly fond of short-haired dogs but, Zac had become irresistible. I just have to pat him. Also unexpected was the  transformation to puppy hood. Long walks have been reinstated. Heeling perfectly until he reaches one of our turn for home points where he takes off at a run until we are past the point where we could turn homewards. He has also stopped panting.

I have seen a few people, mainly in cars driving by, laughing at him but most still find him a good-looking dog.

Sadly I’m not stupid and I know that it won’t last for ever but I am really happy that, at least for a while, my faithful companion has got back his vim and vigour.

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