Things my father taught me

To grow tomatoes love compost eat grapes including the seeds eat apples including the core shoot watermelon pips that fruit tastes even better with cream on it to lick my plate at the conclusion of a meal

to drive a car back a trailer ride a billycart that getting bogged every weekend is fun to ride a horse kayak in white melt water kayak in rough surf to jump into deep muddy rivers to skip stones on a lake blow up a bullants nest to  shoot snakes to love dogs

to build a campfire whittle a toasting fork to lose it completely when pitching a tent to tell a good yarn to enjoy a road trip with no stops for any reason to play a gum leaf

to milk a cow to milk a goat to love a cold bath to fast to hate authority to use a powertool to conduct a choir to laugh just because somebody hurts themselves when in doubt take vitamin C to rebel to tease 

to never give in.

Thanks Dad.

RIP

Wild Mind

Once upon a time I had a dream to be a writer. My sister Jenni also loved to write. She wrote more than I did - she walked the walk. One birthday I gave her the book I'd just read: 'Wild Mind - Living the Writer's Life' by Natalie Goldberg. Jenni said she didn't want to read because it might spoil her writing style. I thought her objections bold, but left the gift with her.

Jenni went on to become a published and much loved author of several childrens' books. I went on to graduate from a 2 year writing course, and to know a lot more about the theory of writing and how to talk about it.

My sister began a weekly writing class in our home town in the mountains. I needed some structure to my writing practice. I also wanted to spend time with her, so once a week I did the 3 hour round trip to join her class. Her primary school teacher training meant she was a gentle and patient facilitator. She creating a loving, open hearted classroom - even for the strange boy-goth with tourettes syndrome who interrupted the class with startling whistles and who wrote about goblins in such tiny writing that nobody could read it. Sometimes I wanted Jenni to jump in and tell somebody their writing was bad. Or boring. To shake things up a bit. She never did. My elderly mother also attended the class, recalling heart-breaking, filmic stories of her childhood during The Great Depression. She never came to class without a lemon sponge or a fruit cake for morning tea.

I was proud of the stuff I wrote in Jenni's class. I think she enjoyed having me there, and when a piece I shared touched her, we'd exchange a sisterly, knowing look across the room. For a while I also aspired to teach writing, and Jenni gave me her teaching notes. They were based on the book I'd given her 20 years ago - 'Wild Mind'.

Jenni became ill. She withdrew from the world, spending her final precious months finding strength and peace in the works of 13th century Persian poets. After her death her family discovered pages of beautiful writing nobody could believe she'd written, so ravaged was she by the cancer that tore through her entire body. In one of our final conversations she told me to remember to take back the books I'd given her..

Today I went to my bookshelf, seeking inspiration, craving to read about the writing craft rather than to just begin to write. 'Wild Mind' was there among my novels. Now it's spine is warped and the cover torn. It has the discoloured, dimpled shape of a book that's sat in a puddle or been left outside in the rain.

I began to read, remembering again how much I loved the writing of Natalie Goldberg. How she urges the reader to WRITE, and her  exercises to stimulate thought and the flow and spill of words onto the page. I recalled doing the exercises in Jenni's class and her gentle encouragement.

A dog-eared bookmark falls from the book's yellowed pages. Turning it over there's a scribble - a password or a phone number perhaps, written in faded blue biro.

My sister Jenni's handwriting...

Your Final Autumn

The golden autumn of your death

looms large in my memory of this year.

The drive through the hills.

The gathering dread of the sight of you - fading.

Relief at the welcoming flicker of recognition.

Your stricken shamble -

Your soul, still strong,in it's faltering shell.

The baby smell of your naked head.

The shuffle to the garden.

We stand, warming our backs in the waning sunlight

as it struggles to earth

through the forest that is your sanctuary.

We play with the hens.

I say to you - 'Catch him',

You say - "City mouse doesn't know the difference

between a 'she' and a 'he' chook!"

We laugh together

For the last time.

Seasonal Update

Dear Jen & Dad -


I dug in the garden today -
found some little potatoes
nestled there, in the earth.
Remember when we harvested potatoes
and found baby mice nests? The baby mice
looked like beagle puppies...


Planted grosse lisse tomatoes - 
your favourite, Dad. A bit early,
but put some in, like you showed me.
A hole, filled with water, a slurry of
blood and bone, firmed down around the roots.


I pruned the lemon tree you gave me, Jen.
The last trim it had - you did.


The day before you left us Jen, 
I hacked back the bougainvillea.
Something to do as I wept for you,
slipping away from us
in your bed in the mountains.
Today, while gathering the prunings
I found the earring I lost.
The ones you said you liked
that last day we spent on earth together.
They matched my scarf, you said.
That I was always good with colour.
Thank you for finding the strength
to gift me with this memory,
while your life was ebbing from you.


I sat beneath the umbrella at the table after gardening.
The rain came.
I saw your hands, Dad.
The way they looked at the close of the day.
But they were my hands -
caked with dried earth.


Picking some baby broad beans in the soft drizzle,
I ate them, still warm from the mother-stem.
You'd have loved them, both of you.
The sweet, bright beans
snuggled down inside the furry pod.


We loved the earth, us three
and in my simple, city plot
we communed together; 
you sweetly haunting me,
this early spring afternoon
in the gentle, misty rain.

The Visit

It's the wrong hospital room.
Covered in rain, an armful of green roses, 
I peer at you in bed.
An old man? A foetus? A bald boy? A baby bird?
Not you, my sister!
Your mouth - it's your mouth.
I touch you, your blue eyes open - too soon -
before I'm composed.
It's you, in there.
Slowly, you return to the world.
Memory vague, gentle laughing.
I prattle, hiding my horror at the change in you
these last ten weeks.
A seizure. Calcium deficiency. No brain tumour.
You can't remember yesterday.
Can't recall the name of the designer whose dress you'll wear
to your daugher's wedding.
Then, later, suddenly - Carla Zampatti.
Your armpits are scarred.
Cancer.
Your wig is in a bag at the bed's foot.
'It's beautiful. How much?'
Your lips are crusted, I give you my lipbalm.
Doctors and nurses are beautiful, you say.
It's their job.
You point, saying 'The lace on your top.
It's like the lace on your bear - when we were kids.'
Supper comes - vaccuum sealed orange juice.
Ditto cookies. 
Remember Akta-Vite, I say.
I open your juice - a struggle, like on an aeroplane.
The juice spits onto the table. 
More gentle laughing.
The nurse brings a carafe for the green roses.
We talk of our children, grandchildren. Christmas.
Your arms are brown, but with the muscle gone.
You're getting tired.
I don't want to leave you by yourself, here.


You say -
I won't know.
I'll be asleep.

A Matter of Priorities...

I still resent the way

your final months prior to confinement

Did not include me.

The precious people you chose

to share your precious time with,

were other folk.

People you paid to help you.

Not for you my humble offering

of laughter and sisterly love.

Kineasiologists, buddhists, oncologists

and charlatans

were your lunch dates.

You drove past my door

to give them your money -

to pay them to lie to you.

Did they expect payment

for attending your funeral too?

Were they absent

Because they were unsure

Where they should send their invoice?

Or that perhaps someone

may request a refund?

Relentless Memories

There's a red enamel jug filled with jonquils

this book I'm writing in right now

the painting hanging over my fireplace

oil lamps on my mantlepiece

photos of us together, laughing, on my piano

your christmas gift - a lemon tree - in my garden

your daughter's voice to me on the phone

your recipes in my book

your letters on my laptop

your books in my library

your candlesticks on my table

your face on your daughter

How will i ever compose myself

Now that you're gone?