Images of life.

Lost: one tooth. 

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Today my 9 year old nephew, Hamish, showed me the space where he just lost a tooth while eating a pie. 

I commented that he was lucky that he didn’t swallow it. 

“I’ve only ever swallowed one tooth.”

“What did the tooth fairy do then?” I asked him. 

“I wrote a note and told her that I swallowed my tooth, but could I have the money anyway? But I never got the money.”

“Did you look near the toilet?” I asked him. “Maybe you just looked in the wrong place!”

When he finally stopped laughing, I said, “Why don’t you tell that story at ‘Show and Tell’ tomorrow? It will make your teacher’s day.”

I do so enjoy being helpful.

Trying a little tenderness.

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The man of the house cooked steak with Diane sauce for dinner tonight.
It was delicious.

LMC didn’t like it though. Her face screwed up and she very expressively said, “Ugh!”
She scraped the sauce off her steak with a very serious look on her face: there was no way she was going to leave any of that behind. She then ate the rest of her meal quite happily.

We adults were chatting happily as we ate, and then I realised what she was doing.
As she extracted each pea from the sauce, she said to it gently, “I’ll save you!”
Then she carefully rolled each pea around the plate to get the sauce off before she ate it.

After a while, I said to her, “Any talking to your vegetables should be done in your head.”
Silently, she continued the ritual until all the peas were gone and only the gravy remained.

It really was cute and funny. especially as she’s not usually so sentimental when it comes to her food.
I guess next time we’ll just give her the steak without the sauce.

Summer storm.

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The heat and humidity hung heavily in the afternoon air. The yellow of the wattles and the white trunks and green leaves of the gum trees that lined the road became more vivid in contrast to the looming darkness of the sky. In the gully where the koalas and kangaroos thrive, animal scents rose from the recently dampened earth.
A brilliant flash of lightning cut through the air, finding its earth in the paddock just beside the road, electrifying the air and then the earth around it for a white hot, fleeting moment. One flash was answered by another, further east, as the thunder rumbled deep and loud.
The rain splattered to the ground in big, lazy, messy drops that plashed carelessly on the ground, only to evaporate immediately back into the hazy hotness.

Dining ‘al fresco’ in Oakleigh.

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It’s noisy. There’s a general cacophony of people talking and laughing and the clatter of cups, plates and cutlery. Numerous cafes and restaurants, small shops, and several bakeries selling traditional Greek cakes and pastries line the street. The luscious aromas of coffee and souvlaki meats waft in the open air, interrupted from time to time by an acrid whiff of cigarette smoke from a diner at an open-air table. Smoking anywhere in public seems so out of place these days.

A well-dressed woman walks by, her expensive perfume lingering in the air after her. I wonder how much fragrance one needs to apply in order to have that effect.

The service is not terribly quick here, but I think that is related to how Greeks view eating and mealtimes: it’s about enjoying food, sharing conversation and spending time together.

In time, our meals arrive. Freshly prepared, beautifully presented and absolutely delicious. I enjoy every mouthful, but I am glad I didn’t order anything more.

Sated, I walk away enjoying the light breeze and the sunshine on my shoulders.

Waiting Room.

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The Alfred Hospital in Melbourne does some fabulous work in healing and restoring sick and broken bodies. It’s been here since 1871 and still has some beautiful Victorian staircases and hallways.

I’ve been spending a lot of time in the waiting area of the ICU this weekend with family.

It’s one of those places where everyone is truly equal. Grief is impartial: it doesn’t care if you’re rich, or beautiful, or not. None of that matters when you’re on your knees and you’re contemplating a future that is significantly different than you had thought it would be.

There are so many stories here of sadness and brokenness, of fear and loss and sorrow. So many tears.
It’s where people gather for waiting, crying and decision making. The prayers said here are probably more heartfelt and genuine than many of those said in churches on any given Sunday.

I wouldn’t wish this on anyone. Not ever.

Posh.

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High-walled gardens and tree-lined paths. Private mansions. Beautifully presented low-rise apartment blocks. Smartly dressed people walking briskly in the soft rain when they alight from the tram. Maseratis and Alfa Romeos parked by the kerb.

“I think there’s some money here,” says my brother-in-law from the back seat.
“You think?” I reply.

We drive on.

Port Fairy.

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The weather today was perfect  for a visit to Port Fairy, a beautiful little town on the south-western coast of Victoria, Australia. The sun was shining, there was a very slight breeze, and it was a glorious 19 degrees Celsius.

I walked slowly along the boardwalk which extends along the bank of the Moyne River, where the fishing boats moor. The water sparkled, lapping against the banks and the boats as we walked and enjoyed the scenery. Boats bobbed.  Seagulls hovered and swooped. Fishermen tended to their boats and chatted with people as they passed by. Two teenagers enjoyed the sunshine, sitting on the side of the boardwalk and dangling their feet over the water, holding hands and chatting happily.

I made my way to the main street of town, where small shops offer their wares, cafes invite visitors to enjoy coffee, cake or ice-cream, and everything has a rustic feel to it. There are no department stores or fast food chains here.  The cafes sell food that is made on the premises. There are two bookshops – I believe that this is always a very good recommendation for any town. Other shops sell handcrafted gifts, boutique clothing or old-fashioned sweets. The supermarket still has staff that will carry your bags to your car for you.

Whenever I visit Port Fairy, I visit Rebecca’s Cafe. The freshly baked cakes and slices are mouth-wateringly good, and their thickshakes are incredible. The coffee here is also excellent. However, those aren’t the only reasons I visit here. I visited here shortly after the passing of my beautiful friend, Rebecca. She wasn’t connected with the cafe or the town in any way, except by sharing the name, but it occurred to me then that she would have loved the place, too, and the connection has stayed with me ever since.

Many of the buildings and houses in Port Fairy date back to the early years of the settlement that was originally named Belfast by its strongly Irish population. They add to the strongly reminiscent sense of days-gone-by that characterises the township. It may seem odd that a place can be rather old-fashioned and quite up-to-date at the same time, but this beautiful town manages to achieve that balance very nicely.

Moyne River, Port Fairy, Victoria.

Moyne River, Port Fairy, Victoria.
Photograph is copyrighted by the author of this blog.