Cheese 123

Posted on August 29, 2013 by Irene Waters 19 Writer Memoirist

Clutter – although most people have a little clutter only 2 – 5% will have the debilitating form. Pathological hoarding (or Compulsive collecting), combined with an inability to discard these articles can cause severe problems. Filling an entire house in severe cases leading to risks from fire, poor sanitation, economic concerns, adverse effects on family and friends and other health concerns.

I come from a long line of hoarders. My father collected everything. In his entire life he had not thrown away one catalogue which had arrived in the mail. Luckily we had a huge house but it was a nightmare for my mother when she came to sell. Another of his many collections was the BIC biro. After cataloging when it started and finished and estimating how many writing hours it had done he would then reduce it to its components. The brass nib would go in on shoe box, the outer plastic case would go in another and the inner small tube would go in yet another. When asked why he did this he would reply “if there is ever a world’s shortage of brass I’ll be able to help out, you can  never have enough pea shooters and who knows when you might need a small piece of tubing.”

I did not think that I had inherited this family trait ( I thought my husband was just a whingeing pom)  and I like many with this disorder did not realise that I was afflicted. Not until I saw the television program “Hoarders” and recognised myself did I become aware that I was well on the way. I immediately made a huge effort to declutter – much to my husband’s delight. I now follow one golden rule –

Don’t buy anything without throwing something away.

  Although you may not have this hoarding problem there is one area in everyone’s life that is prone to excessive clutter. Photographs.

  Do you have photo albums galore, many shoe boxes full of photos that haven’t made it to the albums, tins of slides? I discovered on looking that many of my photos in albums were deteriorating and rusting. I decided to do something about it. 

  I am in the process of scanning all my photos into the computer. Putting them into folders named with the event. But can I find them when I want them? No, I can’t. Does anyone look at these thousands of photos on my computer? No, they don’t.  Will they be safe and last forever on the computer? No they won’t.

  The Solution – Cheese 123 or one of the numerous companies on the internet which sell photo books. I use Cheese 123 (Australia) because it downloads the software to your computer giving unlimited time to pick your best photos, arrange, put in text, choose page colours, photo frames and much more whilst not being connected to the internet. When completed a choice is given to post on disc or as I do download online. Approximately ten days later, voila, your quality photo book arrives. 

You store it on the bookshelf (it takes up much less space than an album) or on the coffee table for everyone to see. I then put my folder of photos into an external hard drive which takes up much less space than a number of shoe boxes. If I could seriously declutter I would discard them but I just can’t bring myself to do it.

Thanks to Cheese 123 my clutter has significantly reduced without having that mental anguish of the throw out.

 

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The Leper (2)

Posted on August 28, 2013 by Irene Waters 19 Writer Memoirist

I fitted into my family in the same way I fitted into society. I didn’t. My father was a minister and my mother one of the original Quiz Kids. My “outside world” expected me to be either a goody two shoes or a younger example of my mother and brilliant elder brother. I was neither of these things. I was an exuberant, easily bored child who looked forward to school just to have company, to skip rope or play hopscotch. We lived at the end of town where the church and grounds occupied the entire block. The church was on a busy road (in a small country town this doesn’t mean a lot), but our house was at the rear of the church and bordered by parkland and the river on two sides. There were no children nearby with whom to play except the Catholic children who lived opposite the church, but for some reason they were unsuitable companions.

I had learnt that the friends of my choice were not to be brought home. When I was five I took Raymond Fardon home. He had asked me to marry him and, as I was giving this serious consideration, I felt I should take him home to meet my parents. That was a real disaster as he was given short shrift and sent home, never to darken our door again. He then totally ignored me and took up with another girl whose parents were no doubt more accommodating.

My next failure was when the Tattersall girl came to town. Her father owned Tattersall’s Hotels all down the eastern seaboard. They would spend three to six months in each town overseeing the local hotel operation. I immediately clicked with Rhonda. We were inseparable at school and walked home together as the hotel was on my route. I stayed at the hotel with her a little too long one afternoon and was forbidden to go there again. When I attempted to bring her to our house my mother always had an alternative arrangement and Rhonda left town before a time could be found.

My mother turned yellow one day and the doctor diagnosed her as contagious.  My brother and I were quarantined and not permitted to attend school so that we wouldn’t pass on this dreadful disease. My brother’s spirits soared as he could continue reading the book he’d started and then start another and another. My heart sank. No-one to play with. How was I going to cope? It would be the same as our Christmas holidays at the beach where the other members of my family would lie in bed all morning reading their books and eating their chocolates whilst I annoyed them all, agitating to go to the beach. Even threatening to hang myself moved no-one from their books except my brother. He stirred out of bed as he wanted to watch. It only gave him something to crow about when I failed in my attempt. I had tied a slip knot in my noose.

How was I going to survive this enforced isolation? Then it came to me. My father had given a children’s address in church about the leper and Jesus. I could be the leper! I raced up to the church and hid behind one of the fir trees. Whenever anyone approached I would jump out from behind the tree yelling and waving my arms around wildly “Stay away! I’m unclean! I’m a leper and my mother is yellow. Beware! Don’t come near me or you’ll turn yellow too.” Most people just ignored me but I got a huge thrill when some crossed to the other side of the road. My new game kept me happily occupied for a day until Dad, informed of my activities, issued a severe reprimand. I was forbidden to continue with this pursuit. Luckily the Department of Education decided that quarantine for family members of someone with hepatitis A was not necessary and we returned to school the next day.

My game then well and truly backfired on me as none of my friends would let me near them just in case I “really was a leper”.

1961.7 Irene,Jim in bed

Written 1st person adult voice in past tense. For me much of the emotion from that written in the child’s voice is lost however there is a lot more in this version.

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The Leper (1)

Posted on August 27, 2013 by Irene Waters 19 Writer Memoirist

“Mummy I want to go to school.”

“You can’t because I’m sick and they won’t let you go to school so that you won’t give the other children the sickness I have.”

“But Mummy I’m not sick.”

“You just can’t go and that’s all there is to that. Go outside and play.” I’m frightened of the hairbrush if I disobey so I do as I’m told. But I’m bored. Bored before I even get outside. 

An idea comes rushing into my head. My Daddy’s sermon last Sunday. I could be the leper. I walk up to the road where the church sits and wait patiently. Here comes some-one. I jump out of the bushes screaming “I’m a leper. Don’t come near me, I’m unclean.” I jump up and down with glee.The person gives me a strange look and crosses to the other side of the road.

Here comes another. I surprise him with my maniacal appearance, again screaming “I’m a leper. I’m unclean. Stay away.” If only more people would pass this way. Here comes another. I like the ones that look afraid and cross to the other side of the road.

I have to go home for lunch. My Daddy looks angry.

“Irene. What are you doing?”

“I’m playing lepers.”

“You are not to do that anymore. It’s not nice.”

I love my Daddy. He is never angry with me. I don’t want him to be angry with me.

“Alright Daddy.”

“You can go back to school tomorrow. They aren’t worried that you will carry any germs to the other children.”

1961.6 Audrey & Irene

An exercise in free writing – child’s voice, 1st person, present tense. Writing as a child puts the emotion in the forefront. Tomorrow’s exercise will be writing this in adult voice, 1st person past tense.

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Holidays at Grandma’s House – My First Fashion Purchase

Posted on August 20, 2013 by Irene Waters 19 Writer Memoirist

1960.6 Col&Ir Kingsgrove 1960.4 Irene 4 yrs

We loved going with my Grandfather to the shops at Kingsgrove. Being country children the walk down the street, past all the red brick and tiled bungalows, gave us plenty to gawk at.  Reaching the shops from the rear we would walk through an arcade to the main shopping precinct. 

When we went with Pa our excursion took us to different shops to those we went to with Grandma. He took us to exciting shops that had plenty of items for sale that interested us. The newsagent had books and colouring books whilst the hardware shop had equipment that we had never seen; our father having no idea how to do anything handy.

My Grandfather and brother spent hours in the toy shop, fixated by the tiny metal pieces that could be purchased to expand the meccano set that had been a present to my brother from Pa when he was three. I found out later in life that my mother had always wanted a meccano set but as she was a girl my Grandfather would never give her one. When my brother was born  Granddad was thrilled because finally he had someone he could fulfill his construction dreams with. This really rankled with my mother.

The place I liked best however, was a shop on top of the shops which lined the arcade. Crowded in this smoke-filled room were many men of my Grandfather’s age standing around a huge railway track. It went up hills, through tunnels, over bridges, and had many tracks and points to turn trains to a new line. There were stop and go lights, railway stations filled with tiny people, level crossings, cars on the roads, trees and bushes, houses and of course, locomotives with carriages chuffing around thanks to the hand-held remote controls. The men would have races and get very excited. Sometimes tempers flared but when they did my Grandfather decided it was time for us to go home. It was a world unlike any we had encountered before  and we were as good as gold whilst there so that Pa would stay longer.

One day, on our way to the train shop, we passed a dress shop and I saw a red suit that I fell in love with. It had a pleated skirt and a collared coat which did up with four buttons. It was the first time I desired anything in a fashion line and hankered after it long after it was out of sight. On our return home I described it to my mother and whined about it all evening. 

The next day my mother took me to the shop and I tried it on. Although the coat sleeves were too long I still wanted it badly. My Mum complied and bought not only the suit but also a matching red had with a huge pom-pom in its centre. I thought I was the ants pants. I donned it the next day when we travelled by train to town (Sydney) and of course I wore it to church when we returned to our small country town. It held its appeal until it sadly no longer fitted.

Another aid to memory is to visit the place that events happened. It is amazing the memories that come unbidden when you stand in a street of the past, look at a house, a shop or re-tread a path that you had trod many years earlier.

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Holidays at Grandma’s House – television

Posted on August 18, 2013 by Irene Waters 19 Writer Memoirist

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My Grandmother and Grandfather and aunt lived in Caroline Street Kingsgrove. My Grandma was a very stern looking woman and had lots of rules and regulations. Before our visit she covered the lounge with sheets. I could never understand why she did this as my brother and I were not permitted to go into the lounge-room  except to watch television  for an hour before dinner, and then we had to sit on the floor, as still and as quiet as mice.

We didn’t have a television until 1967 so to watch the Three Stooges, Father Knows Best, Woody Woodpecker and Felix the Cat was a real treat. Apparently, the first time I saw television, my mother was appearing on a quiz programme. I cried out to her and ran around to the back of the television to join her, crying when I couldn’t get into the box. I’m not sure of my age but I would have been younger than three.

My Auntie Boudie had a colour television where Grandma’s was black and white. Auntie B had covered her television with strips of coloured cellophane. Blue for the sky, red in the middle and green at the bottom.

My Father’s mother we visited whilst holidaying at Grandma’s house. She lived in Mosman in a small brick house which was very old-fashioned. Her beds were so high off the ground that we had to get a stool to get onto them. In my Granny’s bedroom was a closet which when unfolded turned into a toilet (chamber pot). It was resplendent with a wash basin and jug decorated with huge red roses. Neither my brother or I were brave enough to ask whether Granny used this. Her hot water was an archaic system that required lighting with a match. If you didn’t get it quite right it went off with a bang. It From the green enamelled heating chamber copper pipes went in all directions: to the shower above, the bath below and outside the house.

Watching television here was quite different. We all sat on the old lounge which smelt of smoke and ash. We could put our feet on the lounge without getting into trouble and I would snuggle into my father’s mother armpit and lie, looking up at the ceiling, yellowed from the years of cigarette smoke. Here we watched programmes that were of no interest to me, such as the news but, I enjoyed the comfortable, welcoming atmosphere.

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I repeated Kindergarten three times.

Posted on August 17, 2013 by Irene Waters 19 Writer Memoirist

1959.5 I,Tamworth CofEkindergarten

I commenced school very early in life. At three my parents enrolled me at Tamworth Church of England Girls’ School in Kindergarten. As my mother was getting bored at home and because the school required a latin teacher for their higher classes  a solution to my child care had to be found. Hence my enrolment. I of course do not remember this but gain an insight into what I was like at this age from the three report cards I obtained whilst there. One general comment  was “Irene has fitted in very well to our kindergarten group and is interested and co-operates well in all our activities. She is not very voluble yet but apparently absorbs much of what she hears. Has an independent spirit and a lovable personality.” 

1960.1 Irene 4thbirthday

After a year my family moved to Casino where I attended another kindergarten. Although it was called kindergarten, these days it would be called a pre-school. Although this was my second kindergarten it was my first age-appropriate one. Mrs McDougal was the principal and only teacher. Although her voice boomed like a sergeant-major, she was always smiling, and her bosom wobbled like jelly when she laughed. She was old and lined like my grandmother. She would gather her children to her, enveloping us in her embrace whilst she read us stories. We also played games, did craft work and music. I went home one afternoon and ran around in circles with my arms outstretched. My mother asked me what I was doing and I replied “I’m playing hocker hen hips.” This had my parents baffled for some time until they realised that I was playing Focker Friendships: the first of these planes having flown into Casino airport days before.

1961.1 Irene starts school

Kindergarten at Casino Public School was my third kindergarten and my first experience of falling in love and having an idol. I idolised my teacher Miss Rogers. She was young, pretty and had really soft, silken skin. Her musical voice was mesmerising and I hung on her every word. We all vied for individual attention and tried to become the teacher’s pet. At the end of the year it was devastating to learn that she would not be returning as, she was marrying a man in Sydney and would move and live with him there. I was lucky however, as we were in Sydney on holidays and my parents took me to the church so I could see her as a bride. She looked even more beautiful.

I also had my first boyfriend in kindergarten. Raymond Fardon. He asked me to marry him and as I was giving this serious consideration I took him home to meet my parents. My Mother had no time for this nonsense and quickly showed him the door. It was many, many years before I again took a boyfriend home. I had learnt my lesson well: Raymond no longer spoke to me and took up with another girl, whose parents were no doubt more accommodating.

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Every day is different – yet the same.

“Except in dreams, neither detail nor colour has ever since been so detailed or coloured: the fine edge of seeing for the first time too early wears blunt. But the first seeing is so sure that nothing smudges it” – Hal Porter The Watcher on the Cast Iron Balcony.

Such is the vividness of childhood memoirs. Seen for the first time.

Posted on August 16, 2013 by Irene Waters 19 Writer Memoirist | Leave a comment

The Axe Attack

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

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My brother and I had been fighting for days, over what exactly I can’t remember, but it would be over something that I wanted that he wouldn’t let me have. I screamed at him whilst he taunted me. We had moved from the backyard into the garage. My Dad must have been out as the car was not there. My rage was building to a point where I felt I was going to  explode. My face felt hot and red, then suddenly, blood draining away a white rage took over. I picked up the axe which was lying against the garage wall, raised it as far as my seven-year old strength would allow me and brought it down on my brother’s toe.

Blood gushed in volumes from the wound. My brother screamed “You’ve cut my toe off.” My mother came running and bundled her beloved son in her arms and carried him into the house.

“Irene, go to the courtyard and stay there” my mother commanded as she left. The courtyard was a cement slab between the garage and the house. We didn’t use it for anything so it was bare of even a chair to sit on. Certainly there were no toys to play with and I was a child who was easily bored. 

I don’t know what happened to my brother in the house. After an incredibly long time my mother came out to me, hairbrush in hand and I knew punishment was close at hand. Worse though, I was not permitted out of the courtyard for the rest of the afternoon. My loneliness was immense. I stood on my tip-toes at the door and stared, watching for any activity; attempting to remind them that I existed, being worried that as I was no longer loved I would soon be forgotten.

 

Truth in Memoir

The beauty of memoir is that your memory is your truth as long as you stay true to your memory. It is unlikely that any two people will have the same memory of an event. This becomes clear when comparing eye-witness  statements.

This is the case in the above story. My mother has absolutely no recollection of this incident at all. My brother has only a vague memory of it. Where I thought I’d cut his toe off, the injury was obviously insignificant and forgettable. Does this make my memory invalid? I would argue that it does not. I have ownership of my memory and my memory is my reality. Does this therefore make a memoir sit somewhere between fiction and non-fiction?

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Cutting my First Vinyl

Posted on August 14, 2013 by Irene Waters 19 Writer Memoirist

Again I was four. I remember our pre-school Christmas Party/Concert, at least the occasion.  Our teacher Mrs McDougal was ancient. Lines made road maps on her face but she was always smiling. When she laughed her huge bosom would wobble up and down like jelly. She controlled us kids by the tone in her voice. She had no need for punishment, maybe occasionally standing in the corner, certainly not rods, rulers or hands.

We had practiced for weeks for the concert. All the parents were going to come, but better than that Santa was also going to attend. And there was the food. There is nothing in the world like a spread put on by country women in Australia and having a particular liking for sweet things, I looked forward to the cakes and slices that would definitely be there.

What I didn’t know at the time was that one of the children’s father ran a recording studio and our concert was going to be recorded for posterity on vinyl. Jon Mison with his frog, a couple of other children and myself had solo parts. Despite my standing ovation for my rendition of Silent Night a recording contract was not forthcoming.

But I was four, what did I care? I was tucking into the slice with the biscuit base, white custardy middle with the red jelly on top that wobbled in a similar fashion to Mrs McDougal’s bosom.

 

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Six years old again

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

1962.6 Irene 6thbirthday

Suddenly I was six years old again. I had forgotten how it felt and fifty years later the feeling came flooding back. The unbridled joy followed by the knowledge  an emptiness and longing was to follow. The indecision as to how I would tackle the problem.

Transported back to childhood, I remembered each Monday. Pocket money day. Unlike my brother who banked his, I visited the Popular Cafe. They had the best lolly selection in town. Leaving early for school on these days I ensured that I had enough time to make a really good choice of sweets. Sixpence bought a lot in those days. I had to deliberate on whether to buy one all day sucker for a penny or maybe get six mint leaves, which I didn’t like quite as much. The four for a penny musk sticks were a definite must, as were the milk bottles. The sherbet, with the bit of licorice to suck it through or the Donald Duck sherbets with little spoons, that fizzed on your tongue were also possibilities. Chocolate bullets, jubes, raspberries and cream, licorice all sorts, jelly babies, fruit salad chews, arctic mints, humbugs, bulls eyes, false teeth, wine gums, chocolate eclairs, rosy apples, frogs of the jelly, white and brown chocolate varieties, cigarettes and jaffas were all considered seriously. Freckles weren’t really on the list as already I was a bit of a chocolate connoisseur.

Exhausting my money  I would leave the shop with a white bag full of delicious treats that would be eaten over the day. I would deliberate on the order to eat or suck them. I savoured every mouthful. I sucked the musk sticks revelling in the taste and odour. Cigarettes I would smoke, sucking them to a fine point. The babies I would eat limb by limb. Was I a head person or a bottom person? At six who cared but we always used to pay attention to it. I would eke out each lolly for as long as I could. I would resist chewing as using the teeth would make them go quicker: but it was hard. I’d suck the jaffas until all the red colour had gone and the candy became a cracked white, then, puff, the chocolate would melt in a stream and run down my throat signalling the end of that one. All day suckers were disappointing as they did not last all day although, they did last considerably longer than most of the other sweets. Dissecting the licorice all sorts I’d suck the candy until the sugar totally dissolved and then chew the liquorice. They were better in those days as they would always have at least six layers.

I relished in my gorging. Before the end of the day I would be drawing towards the bottom of my bag and inevitably there would be only one sweet left. What should I do? I had a whole week to go before I would see another lolly. Should I save the last remaining for later in the week? What would make me happiest?  Eating the candy or knowing it was there, constantly battling the urge to eat it. It was an unfair dilemma to place a six year old.

And here I was, feeling just as I did then, only now it was my retirement present from work that was causing the angst. They had asked me what I wanted and told me how much money they had collected. With disbelief  at the esteem in which I was held I decided to forgo the gold watch requested a set of four glasses. They were the finest lead crystal, beautiful not only to look at but also to hold. I insisted on using them and couldn’t understand my friend’s reluctance to do so when I told them each glass cost two hundred dollars. What was the point of having a nice glass if it wasn’t used?

The first had shattered into a thousand pieces when it dropped on the tiles near the barbecue. The second had  a similar fate as a result of a washing up mishap. Now the wagging dog’s tail had collected the third in its happy trajectory, sending it flying across the room, exploding on impact. Now there was one remaining.

I had kept my cool on all three occasions. There were no recriminations or tears; it was fate. Now, however, I was feeling as I did when I was six. Should I continue to use the one glass and inevitably lose it forever? Should I place it reverently in the cupboard, not have the pleasure of my lips on its cool surface, the feel of it in my hands, but at least I would know it was there?

I oscillated backwards and forwards. I had always survived once the lolly was gone. It was a relief when it was gone because then I could stop agonising over what I should do. Perhaps that was the best way. Get it over and done with. I filled my glass with a lovely red and slowly sipped and enjoyed. When it was empty I raised it, taking aim at the fireplace. I couldn’t do it. I decided that I would wait for the inevitable natural attrition.

 

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