Posts Tagged ‘Locomotive’

Un petit jardin vertical.

May 15, 2020

 

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Now that the weather is promising to get cooler one way of staying warm is to keep busy. Living on your own the temptation seems to lure one into sitting or just standing and ponder. Not that the ponder goes deep into delving or questioning the philosophical side of things, but more into what I should do next.  The ponder into doing next can be tantalisingly close to a lot more of nothingness when at my age and my singular existence, time is of such abundance. I don’t have to catch the 401 bus at  6.30 in the morning to work or have urgent meetings to discuss a takeover of a multinational.

Of course, with the practice of social isolation the art of pondering can rise to much greater heights than ever before. ‘Singular isolation’ would be a better term than ‘social isolation’ which seems a contradiction or oxymoron. The word social means , group, community, collective.

Perhaps it is meant to sooth the right wingers amongst us in accepting the word ‘social’  when we all know that word for many to be a call to arms and arrest anyone who dares to even think of that dreaded word. We all know where that takes us. Morrison must have laid awake for hours trying to navigate around it. Alas, he could not get it past some of his more reasonable minsters, and so the term Social isolation was born.

To get out of my torpor during this isolation I undertook to do more gardening. The front yard faces a busy trainline and I get a kick out of waving to the passengers on the trains on their way to Sydney or coming from Melbourne. It is as close to keeping in touch with people without risking infections.. There are also numerous goods trains, some of them carry well over a hundred carriages all pulled along by just one diesel fuelled locomotive. I also wave to the locomotive driver.

My garden is perhaps about 100 square metres in total and my intention is to transform it into a small forest consisting of many birch and other deciduous trees. In between the trees will be small bushes and on different levels. I hope that eventually I will be able to take small walks between the trees with an occasional stop to do more pondering. I started to also grow my own herbs in the garden at the back of my place.

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Here is it,

Waiting for its first herbs. I bought a flat pack box which I thought was one of those that click together without nuts or bolts or the need for tools. When I opened the flat box, to my horror rolled out a small packet of screws and nuts, 36 in total. It was a job and half to put it together and I almost gave up. I had Helen here who comes once a fortnight to help calm me down and sane. She also gave me a nice haircut. Here it is.  But, never buy a flat pack that holds nuts and bolts.

Here it is; Haircut by Helen.

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The main job for the forest has started in earnest and I have bought four birch trees so far; and that is just the beginning. The metal box shown on the photo was a delight to put together and did not need tools or used any bolts or nuts. I put it together in 5 minutes. I bought a mixture of soil, turkey and cow manure but was surprised how many bags went into this metal L shaped box.

Here it is: metal box.

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It might be hard to visualise a small forest but believe me, it will happen! I sold my old place in Bowral and will have the money to indulge in this idea of creating a magic forest. It will happen for sure. As for my previous post in my wish for a possible liaison with a soft and friendly female to alleviate the solitude of bed and breakfast on my own.  Not many enquiries so far.

I’ll keep you informed.

 

 

 

My first view of naked Woman.

May 6, 2013

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Retrospection is the reward and pay off for getting old when past events outweigh future, at least in quantity if not quality as well. How did we fare is not an unreasonable question that might arise out of those people faced with the possibility of soon not even able to wonder anything anymore, let alone those questions pertaining to life’s achievements.

How do the scales weigh? Here is what happened during some earlier years; 1956 in fact. This could be seen as giving at least some background or grounding for the unfurling of some sort of life into the future.

After having been wined and dined on our boat (Johan Van OldenBarnevelt) for over 5 weeks or so, the bus trip from Sydney’s Circular Quay to our camp at Scheyville, interrupted by the driver’s ‘pub-stop’ at Home-bush’s Locomotive for a couple of schooners, having calmly left a busload of anxious and nervous European migrants in the sweltering February heat, our arrival at the camp’s Nissen Huts was somewhat of a difficult transition.

After all; the mellow sounds of the violin, piano, with twanging base and the brass instrument (was it a saxophone?) still reverberating from the luxury liner evening soirees ringing in our ears needed more time than just the 3 hour bus trip to our camp…The lingering and haunting tune of Dean Martin; ‘Was it on the Isle of Capri where I met you,’ clashed violently with the lurid car sales yards signage and yawning bonnets of Parramatta Rd, Sydney. Can you imagine?

My mum thought those Nissen huts were for the push-bikes. Yes, but why are there mattresses inside, my dad queried with his Dutch pragmatism coming strongly to the fore? Having to flick maggots of the mutton chops did it for my poor dad. He went on one of those mattresses for two weeks, utterly depressed. He finally got up and put on his polished fine shoes, laced them up and decided to at least move… We moved away from the camp and shared an old half demolished house in the middle of old Mr.Pyne’s timber yard on Woodville Rd, at Guildford, with another Dutch family.  The yard contained stacks of building timbers, baths, bricks and an old 1946 Chevy Ute on three wheels, a Sheppard dog on three legs and a generous abundance of very fast rats outrunning the dog.

They were old friends from the period of war torn bombed out Rotterdam and had migrated to Australia in 1951. No doubt they had experienced the Nissan Hut and maggot delights far more heroically than us, or actually my dad. My mum was made of sterner stuff.

I made the best of it. It was in the camp’s flimsily built shower partitions that I viewed for the very first time a woman’s pubic bush, having peeked through a slight gap between the partitions separating males from females. I was fifteen. I had already seen naked breast in a ‘native African’ news reel in The Hague, a year or so before migration and had lived of that ever since. Considering the daily inspection of food possibly laden with maggots, the very first view of something I was so curious about was a bonus. I leaped with joy. My teen years’ patience was rewarded and had come to full fruition. Well, not fully, that came later, all in good time though, I was still young.

That view of my first female pubic bush in Scheyville migrant camp made up a hell of a lot, considering all the misery that my parents experienced. The woman was a Polish mother of three children. I used to pass her briefly on the way to our huts to eat our meals, hopefully without any extras. I looked her in the eye deciding I would be honest with my little secret, at least by not avoiding her gaze. Was she suspecting something?

I am still gasping over my parents’ bravery. How did they do it with six children?