Dormitory of the Dead

There was a time I would not countenance this. 'Ashes to ashes' is good and well. But, let them be scattered to the four corners. What cannot be brought to memory, is well left to eternity.

So many once-people rest here, with nary a visitor. Nary a soft word, nor tender touch on the sandstone. Chiselled words erased by the passage of time, if they were there to begin with. Perhaps an unmarked grave. I walk the row, weaving my still warm body through the dormitory.

Widow's waeds

They set a cracking pace, chattering as they scurried, throwing hurry-ups over their shoulder to ensure none was tardy. Checking that I, the intruder, didn't miss my step over the gutter, I snatched a glimpse as they ducked around the back of the crematorium. Luckily, I caught the hem of the black sheep as he stepped in behind the Eastern Wall. An unexpected vista opened before me.


Could they have internalised Robert Frost's 'Mending Wall'? In this small section, maybe half a dozen rows, there they were, laid cheek-by-jowl, peas-in-a-pod, not an inch between them. One big, happy family with bountiful tending and respect. I heard the tumbling gush of ancient-tongue, the bustle as bouquets unfurled, and water fetched. The tsk-ing and the tut-ing as the week's embarrassments were confided.

I moved on, with a spring and a smile. Not only Frost, but Dylan Thomas as well:

Though lovers be lost, love shall not; And death shall have no dominion.

Paying one's respects

As the bus meandered down the peninsula, it increasingly filled with passengers who, to me, were all very similar. I took a wild punt that they were going my way. And sure enough, the bus emptied at the Botany Cemetery stop.

Mostly the other passengers were in their 70s, short and a little overweight, wearing black. Predominantly they were female, but not exclusively. I followed them; they were all in a jolly mood; and, they all seemed to know each other well.

Mostly, they were Greek. Am I supposed to say 'of Greek extraction'? Anyways, they were Greek. They led me to the most beautifully maintained section of any cemetery I have ever visited. *whispers* I think they compete with each other. *shhh*

Shall show you more over the next few days.

Homing pidgeon

What better birthday present could I receive? My daughter, Kirsten, returns home today after facing her demons. In about ten days, the pathology on the excised ameloblastoma will pronounce whether the demons are vanquished. All data thus far is very encouraging.

Legbone connected to the jawbone

This is my daughter, Kirsten, and her family. These shots were taken whilst they cycled around parts of the state of Tasmania during Easter 2011. At that stage, they were oblivious to the ameloblastoma pedaling with them.

Kirsten is in an induced coma for the next 12 hours or so. There are tubes everywhere. She did not need any blood transfusions but took 4 litres of fluid and is quite puffy. Her vitals are strong, with maybe her heart a bit fast. The nurse on duty when my son-in-law visited just now, was happy both with Kirsten's colour and with the colour of her new new jawbone.

Kirsten has been writing a blog to help her understand what was happening to her and how it was going to be 'fixed'. When she googled she could not find enough 'reliable' and detailed information, and she thrives on information-overload (she has law degrees). So, for herself, and for future sufferers, she started a blog. There is one particular post which is a good summary: http://marsupialmum.wordpress.com/2011/07/20/reconstruction/

Having read that, you are welcome to go to 'Home' and follow the postings by her husband, Darren. Kirsten hopes to post from her ICU bed by week's end. I hope she does, too. She is one courageous woman. Her father and I hope to catch a glimpse of her tomorrow afternoon.

On the same wavelength

Rushcutters Bay playground, Monday afternoon.

Time out

Will lay low a bit for a couple of days with pre-loaded one liners.

On gossamer wings

I am spending three days with my older brother in Wauchope. Be back late on Saturday.

May I introduce my grand-daughter

Born on Thursday 22nd July 2010 at 2:13am, to Kirsten and Darren, a daughter, Alannah Jane, weighing 3.16kgs and measuring 49cm. Mother is exhilarated. Father is pooped. Baby is much loved.

Mother turns 31 years of age today.

Pleasures of late Winter 4

The mother - who I would lay odds is a flaming redhead! - was not in the park with her brood. Father assumed the entire responsibility for all four of them. And they had a ball ... There was going to be a lot of washing to be done when they eventually arrived home.

As much as I love mogs, I can't see a cat participating quite like this ...

Pleasures of late Winter 2

Some kids have an inbuilt eye for sport. Their brain calculates the geometry of a kick, catch or throw exquisitely. Their body responds with the elegant curve of mastery even at a young age.

Running ahead of the ball and delivering a perfectly targetted back flick was not a problem for this fellow. And his dad was up the other end being ball-boy. Such hard and hot work this playing in the park with dad in winter. Centennial Park in the Eastern Suburbs is perfect for people watching ...

Was I to touch my hat to him: was I his bloomin’ dog?

A Bushman's Song I’m travellin’ down the Castlereagh, and I’m a station hand, I’m handy with the ropin’ pole, I’m handy with the brand, And I can ride a rowdy colt, or swing the axe all day, But there’s no demand for a station-hand along the Castlereagh. So it’s shift, boys, shift, for there isn’t the slightest doubt That we’ve got to make a shift to the stations further out, With the pack-horse runnin’ after, for he follows like a dog, We must strike across the country at the old jig-jog. Andrew Barton (Banjo) Paterson (First verse and refrain only)

Man's best friend ... phooey!

Dogs are nowt but status symbols on a leash! If you want an animal who worships the very ground you walk upon: share your life with a cat!


How can Fido give unbridled love and adoration to an owner who walks him in pink fluffy slippers and meets friends wearing thongs ... some folks have questionable taste, I tell ya! How can Fido look up to anyone who half strangles him whilst doing endless thumb exercises! And she can't even see that the bloke on the receiving end is not really into her!

Mogs rule!

Firing the imagination

Once upon a time there was a poor widow who lived in a little cottage with her only son Jack. Jack was a giddy, thoughtless boy, but very kind hearted and affectionate. There had been a hard winter, and after it the poor woman had suffered from fever and ague. Jack did no work as yet, and by degrees they grew dreadfully poor. The widow saw that there was no means of keeping Jack and herself from starvation but by selling her cow; so one morning she said to her son, "I am too weak to go myself, Jack, so you must take the cow to market for me, and sell her." Jack liked going to market to sell the cow very much; but as he was on the way, he met a butcher who had some beautiful beans in his hand. Jack stopped to look at them, and the butcher told the boy that they were of great value and persuaded the silly lad to sell the cow for these beans. When he brought them home to his mother instead of the money she expected for her nice cow, she was very vexed and shed many tears, scolding Jack for his folly. He was very sorry, and mother and son went to bed very sadly that night; their last hope seemed gone. At daybreak Jack rose and went out into the garden. "At least," he thought, "I will sow the wonderful beans. Mother says that they are just common scarlet runners, and nothing else; but I may as well sow them." So he took a piece of stick, and made some holes in the ground, and put in the beans.

Harbour Islands - Shark (2 of 9)

Much to my dismay, the ferry to Shark Island does not run during the winter. Being a cold bleak day (by Australian standards!) I shot from the Rose Bay jetty and then skedaddled back home. I asked my daughter for permission to use some of her wedding shots.

As they boarded the water taxi for the trip back to the reception at Catalina's, the photographer captured the perfect view that Shark Island affords down the harbour. Shark Island is the closest island to the heads.


Top row: From Rose Bay jetty with 250 zoom, the day was grey as, but the harbour was riddled with boats of myriad kind. All this has been classified as park of Sydney Harbour National Park. There is a rotunda on the island plus a few other benches but that is about all.
Bottom row: Kirsten and Darren chose to marry on Shark Island as that is where they met on Valentine's Day three years earlier! The jetty on the left stretches back SW into Rose Bay itself. The point immediately behind the jetty is Point Piper and that is pretty ritzy. As they walked up to the grassy knoll, the city stretched out behind them. It was a gloriously sunny March day in 2007.


Top row: Back on the Rose Bay jetty, to the left of me I had a companion who was being pestered by gulls and as I shot photos and shivered both a taxi and a ferry siddled up to the jetty.
Bottom row: To the right of me, was the pontoons at which the Flying Boat squadron tied up. I can remember back in the early 50s when my aunt would fly from Rose Bay to Lord Howe Island for holidays. Behind the pontoons partway up the rise, is the gloriously gothic Kincoppal Sacred Heart School for Gals and on the horizon, the Dover Heights water tower.


Finally, the only other shot showing the island itself: the proud parents toast their daughter and the life-partner of her choice.

Sisters-in-law

Happiness is a growing thing

Physicality of love between father and child ...

The curve

With apologies to Jane Austen, it is a truth universally acknowledged, that a city in possession of a good harbour, must be in want of an icon. In this city, there is an immense affection for the bridge. The Bridge. The Opera House is an architectural wonder; it is beautiful; it graces its location. But we don't have a heart-felt and abiding affection for it. We do for the bridge. I do ...

This is the curve of the northern abutment taken from the Kirribilli or eastern side. I had my back to the opera house - literally. Beside the photograph is a 1928-29 painting by Grace Cossington-Smith who - I feel certain - would have understood inately my feelings about the "coat-hanger" - the old girl. Cossington-Smith died in 1984 after 92 years of spinsterhood on the North Shore of Sydney in the suburb of Turramurra. The style you see here is typical of her work. Walking through a gallery of her canvases, my head is flooded by the richness of a Bach 'cello suite - say, either of the Minors - or even Brahms' Piano Trio in C minor. She is definitely a Minor: full of such melancoly and loss that she sweeps up with a riot of geometry and colour.

Joys of Childhood 3

Mumma was never far away. There were times when she had to clench her fists; times when she had to shove her hands in her pockets. She was the most concerned, but probably also the one who realised that letting go was the only way.


Her son had a ball: constantly challenging himself and squealing out with pleasure when his sneakers slipped and he flipped base-over-apex. Even Dad could see that not only was their physical ability being challenged, but their openness to the challenge was changing the way their brain approached the world in which they lived.

Sydney Park, the old Bee-hive kilns, St Peters

Joys of Childhood 2

The poor mother of these two was in a no-win situation: my father wanted this little girl down. NOW! And there was no way in God's heaven that this little miss was having any of this whatsoever. She had a ball! She worked so hard that her poor mother - who was standing underneath most of the time - had to strip her down to just bright pink knickers at one stage! Dad reckons the mother was just there to break the fall! But there was no way she was going to fall ...



And the reason is before our eyes: her brother was beside her during the climb. His hand at her elbow ... just in case! I took him to be 7 or 8 and the girl to be 3 or 4. It was a joy to watch. Wish I had recorded Dad's constant chatter for you ...

Sydney Park, the old Bee-hive kilns, St Peters