Jam berapa? ( what time) and the Mexican Fuchsia.

Fuchsia Splendens

There is nothing like the expiration date on food labels that makes one focus on the possibility of getting oneself a bit expired or stale, let alone going off altogether. One really ought to consider going for a practice run to the funeral parlour, lay across the counter and yell ‘shop’! Perhaps glance through the casket catalogue, pick a suitable comfy softly lined coffin. These are terrible times!

Of course, the other alternative to this gloomy and somewhat negative reflection on this otherwise sunny morning is the thought of yet a lifetime of years beckoning ahead. There is nothing unusual of centenarians still whooping it up. I watched a short video of an elderly couple in their nineties jiving around the place. It doesn’t do me much good and I generally stay clear of those kind of depressing prompts to go and jig around the place. There is nothing more discouraging than old people pretending to be younger. People should be their age and I love the sound of tapping sticks and whirring by of mobility scooters. I am on the cusp of turning eighty and now too part of this brave lot of people. I always though old was someone being fifteen years older than me. Now am  fifteen years older than me and have arrived!

Also, have reached the age when people might start saying,  ‘you are looking well today’! The emphasis on ‘today’ would be a worry but they mean well. I certainly don’t think of any age but that might be a common refrain used by those sad men who cling to the wish of taut midriffs and bulging biceps. Getting out of the shower with open eyes is really as good as going to those earlier confession with Father Murphy, but not advisable for any octogenarian irrespective of spiritual bends, unless one takes the mirror down. Any idea of romance or dalliance gets instantly a drooping down and was a waste of the previous caressing, encouraging and soothing warm waters.  I must re-read Oscar Wilde’s ‘The Picture of Dorian Grey’.

It is no good reflecting on time or years. Remembering a wise Balinese man telling us that time (jam) is of little use in Bali. Indeed, at the many  times we were there, it baffled me that the Balinese were totally free of time constrictions. They had no clocks, or wore watches. Tourists were running about all tense, tapping their watches, with faces contorted in case they were missing out on something. Festivals are a big part of daily life in Bali. In fact their life is celebrated without apparent time constraints. When asked what time?  (berapa jam) a Balinese dance performance would start, the inevitable answer would be ‘perhaps soon’.

As for the Mexican Fuchsias. (Fuchsia Splendens). A frost had decimated a lot of plants at one of Australia’s major hardware stores named ‘Bunnings’. I love this store and could easily spend whole week-ends there. It is a treasure trove of tools, gadgets, shelves of locks and wooden things, including rolls of totally unrecognisable materials and many over-excited customers.  I saw a woman once with a large spanner wearing a T-shirt with, ‘I’ll do you’. Going through Bunnings is as good a mental aphrodisiac as a  stroll around Amsterdam. Bunnings is a Nirvana for the insatiable curious. On top of that they have barbequed sausages on Saturdays to raise funds for Police clubs or the Elderly (That’s us).

Well, through the frost and plant damaged stock, I managed to rescue the half frozen Mexican Fuchsias that are not only very beautiful when fully grown, but also provide the worlds best tasting and most desirable berries. I was so lucky to get them and the above photo shows how well they have fared since I bought and nursed them back to robust health. It is also nice and reassuring that the flowers are bi-sexual and with axillary, pendulous armpits in the distal armpits.

I’ll think of that next time I eat their berries.

The way forward to a more rounder and softer future.

Etching by G. Oosterman

It seems hard to believe but the past is so much larger than the future. Joining the army or the police force is now definitely off my agenda. From my previous abode in Bowral I used to see a large crane helping to build a new hospital. I could have been a crane driver, but that did never eventuate. Mind you, I did work on swinging stages on multi story buildings and was lucky not to suffer from fear of heights, and it paid well.

Each day that crane almost towers over me when meeting my new friends at the cricket park where we queue for a coffee first before sneaking round the back to sit in the grandstand. It is a very sunny grandstand. There are many chairs whose seats are spring-loaded and of a faded green that I think might well have something to do with the game of cricket. Perhaps it helps the patrons seated on those chairs to see the cricket ball clearer as that has a dark reddish-brown colour. A matter of contrasts perhaps to the chairs? The spring loaded part gets a bit snappy and for those with the male propagation equipment it calls for some caution when getting up. One doesn’t want to be tethered to the seat of a chair that is bolted to concrete.

Six months have passed. Living on my own has been painful but also rewarding in that I am still alive. It surprises me daily. If grief was capable of causing mortal wounds I would surely have died many times over. On the contrary, I am now having moments of great happiness and joy as well as those on the opposite scale of feelings. I feel, therefore I am, even sometimes catch the sound of laughter coming forth just like that. The miracle of friendship with others and especially during the lockdown has been a blessing and will be treasured. Overcoming has been successful, so grateful!

Not only laughter springing forward but thoughts about a friendship of the more intimate nature. Would that still be possible? Care has to be taken not to assume that things are still the same as before. It has been noticed for a while that the awakening in the mornings, and situated underneath the doona, are not so gloriously filled and swollen as used to be in the past.  I can hear a refrain from those from the so lovely and more softly endowed opposite or female gender; ‘It is not important, there is more to life or love than your stupid state of tumescence on your awakening.’ Yes, that is true, but even when faced with mortality getting closer, I am not totally sex-dead yet. I still get twinges and even suffer (at infrequent times) thoughts of a clearsighted sexual clarity and vividness that can be utterly mouth-watering. Perhaps I am bragging, in truth my sexual clarity would probably be pretty meek and limp towards the need for a hug and a kiss more than anything.

Even so, I am now giving vent to thoughts of romance and a possibility no matter how faint and ridiculous, in trying to find a person of the softer, rounder and more opposite, nubile sex that can forgive and put up with a less than mouth-watering male.  We shall see. I am no Ferrari with twelve cylinders, more of a smoky Goggomobil with worn out rings. You have to be attracted to the simple things in life. (like men)

Just in case!

oostermn@tpg.com.au

 

Benevolence and benefits of Sharia Law explained

It is really unfortunate that so few of us, including myself, remain ignorant of Islam, and what it stands for. It really came to the fore when  last week’s Q&A featured a verbal fight between senator Jacqui Lambie and the  engineer and Muslim activist  Yassmin Abdel-Magied.  It seems that Islam is more tolerant of Christianity than the other way around.We should try at least understand what Islam and Sharia law means.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/qasim-rashid/shariah-law-the-five-things-every-non-muslim_b_1068569.html

Islam and Sharia law are not, as so many believe all about female subjugation by men,  beheadings, stoning, cutting limbs. It is astonishing how much nonsense about Islam and Sharia law gets dished out by those that do not even go to the bother of at least getting an understanding of something they are so keen to demonise. It’s plain stupid. I wonder if those that have such racist and xenophobic views have ever taken the trouble to talk with an Islamic person?

http://www.abc.net.au/news/2017-02-13/jacqui-lambie-and-yassmin-abdel-magied–in-fiery-qanda-debate/8267212

In the meantime till about 20 minutes ago, 377 incidents of domestic violence have been reported to the police nationwide.

” Australian police deal with an estimated 657 domestic violence matters on average every day of the year. … Those figures are based on data provided by police services around the country about how often their officers work on domestic violence cases. … attendance at suspected domestic …”

I assume that most of those crimes are committed by us, good old Christians.   Let’s also not delve too much in those hundreds of cases now before the Royal Commission on sexual abuse on children committed by countless priests and bishops. Perhaps, before we again try and vilify people with a different faith we should reflect on our own beliefs and values.

Fire, fire…

 

Just when I thought to take a break, we had a big fire in our small town. As we left to go shopping a huge black billowing sky-high tower of smoke was churning upwards. It was darkening the sun and moving rapidly towards us. Helvi thought we should not venture out. ‘It scares me’, she said.

Smoke and fire are to me what for others might be shopping or leafing through fashion magazines. I don’t want to cast aspersions onto the differences between the many sexes. The burning down of someone’s property and taking a delight into this plight can hardly be seen as an endearing quality or an enlightening embodiment of sensitivity. The taking pleasure in shopping or interest in fashion surely has a more noble aspect. No matter what indeterminate sex choses one such delight over the other. ( one has to be careful not to fall into the trap of just referring to male or female only)

If I suffer condemnation for seeking out and watching fires, so be it. It is all too late to change now. ‘I want to look at this fire,’ I announced to my wife. ‘Well, leave me home, I am scared,’ she said firmly. Firmly is what she is all about. In the meantime there were sirens and flashing police-cars adding to my now unstoppable curiosity about the fire. This black smoke, ‘It must be a large rubber depot or something,’ I surmised with an air of an incendiary expert. By now lots of kids were rushing by, mainly boys with some smaller children being accompanied by anxious looking mothers. You could tell the mother’s hearts were not really into the spirit of fire-watching.

By now the smoke was in such fury it formed and looked like a mini tornado. It was too late for me to drop Helvi back. With total selfishness and abandonment of common-sense I drove towards were I thought the fire was. I remembered a tyre outlet at the back of Aldi’s supermarket. We were on our way to Aldi anyway. I thought to combine both. Buy salmon cutlets and watch a good fire.

However, here is where it all came to nothing. The roads towards the fire had been blocked, and police were diverting traffic well away from this great fire. The only way would be to park the car and walk. But, so many cars had already done the same. Parking anywhere near the fire was already taken by those who wanted front-stall position. ‘Why don’t you have a look tomorrow, Helvi offered kindly?’ ‘I am sure the firemen don’t want the public hindering their work.’ ‘I am scared and want to go home, she said again. ‘Perhaps you can watch it on television,’ she added.

The fire turned out to be this tyre outlet. I drove by this morning. The firemen were still raking through the remnants of this building. Aldi survived and I managed to get the salmon cutlets just now.

Pity, I missed out on watching it.

The police, all geared with revolver, baton, capsicum spray…

The sun is out.

The plot thickens. The police turned up as promised after we attended the local Police Station. The Déjà vu feelings accompanying our second reportage of our stolen pot plants did not escape Helvi or me. Visiting Police Stations again? Is this now becoming a ritual in our retirement? The policewoman behind the counter remembered us well. To have potted plants stolen twice within a few weeks was a bit out of the usual, she admitted. How did you go with the sensor lights? ‘Well they worked but did not deter anyone,’ The thief must have got well lit, we answered. She nodded and asked which plants got stolen and the value. ‘Cyclamen, the same as last time but not in ceramic pots.’ ‘They were housed in those white plastic mixing bowls.’ Now I know what happened to my bowl I used for pan-cake mixing, I added. This anecdote to pancakes made the policewoman smile. Perhaps she too understands pancake making and grandkids. It showed a rarely seen but warm human side to the police force. The total value would have been around $ 50.- or so, we said. They had flowered so beautifully since the last theft of the previous cyclamens. They too were stolen at the peak of their lives.

‘It’s really the threatening letter left in our letterbox more than the stolen plants which we take more seriously.’ And with a flourish I showed her the note that asked us to ‘stop bullying or sell up,’ signed by ‘owners.’ ‘This was left in our letterbox,’ we added for good measure, and emphasized the threat to our wellbeing in urging us to sell up and move. ‘At our age, we don’t easily move as when we were young,’ we demurred. We pointed out the second plant stealing must be connected. The reason for this bullying was complex. They always are of a human nature unable to give and take. I gave the policewoman some short snippets of how I fared for about twenty minutes as secretary of our Shared Housing Complex, the Body Corporate, after refusing to engage perfectly good neighbours in guerrilla warfare about parking cars.

I assume that my refusal to engage in neighbourly fights must have been the catalyst in this bullying letter-box note and subsequent plant thefts, I added, with some earlier practise in using the word ‘catalyst.’. Getting-on with neighbours is clearly not in the world that our chairperson resides. ‘So much time on hands, yet so little time left to sow seeds of misery, unhinge others,’ I told the policewoman. I thought it prudent to add a little earthly philosophy now, encouraged by her recognition to the earlier pancake bowl reference. ‘The main suspect is 84, and probably on her final few years.’ She is on borrowed time. What drives this woman to do this?

We could tell that the policewoman now wanted to wrap this up. We felt, that the essence of our concerns of the bullying, was understood. ‘We will make a report and the police will visit you in the next hour or so.’ After that we thanked the nice police woman and hurried to get some shopping done. I needed to buy some aspirin which I take on a daily basis. The taking of aspirin and a wine or beer are my only drug habits. I resist seeing doctors, and so far so good.

We drove home and once again looked at the little table outside now looking forlorn and empty of the cyclamen. We went inside and fiddled around a bit waiting for the policeman’s arrival. We were not disappointed. He arrived fully decked out as if on an Isis terrorist mission. Gun in holster, baton at the ready, canisters of what we assumed to be deadly sprays, incapacitating even the most hardened psychological disturbed maniac.

He made a report and told us he would go and question the 84 year old neighbour woman, the main suspect of the bullying note and organiser of the continuing theft of our loved cyclamen plants. The report has a number for future reference.

I will keep you, dear readers, informed.

Stealing cyclamen is almost an oxymoron. ( seniors)

Could a gardener have stolen these cyclamen?

One would not think that stealing cyclamen is common. It defies logic. Why steal something so beautiful and totally free to look at? Is it true that the temptation to steal a beautiful object is in some people very strong and so overpowering it overcomes their moral stance and honesty?

We woke up one morning and after a good coffee went outside. It is a rather nice exercise, and we often look for new buds or growth in the garden. Our garden at the front is small. Through the years, Helvi managed to make it a small piece of paradise. We also have a small white painted cane table outside under our two windows on which we had three beautiful cyclamen. One really deep red-purple, a pink and one glorious white one. All flowering profusely and some twenty centimetres is diameter each. They were resting on ceramic dishes from which they were free to quench a thirst. The plants themselves were also surrounded by ceramic bowls. All scrounged from second hand places. The bowls and saucers were somewhat rare and beautiful but not in a pretentious manner detracting from the beauty of the flowering plants, they always would have first ranking.

Note how I wrote ‘had’ three cyclamen. As we looked around, and as it was raining, Helvi asked me if I had put the cyclamen in the rain. We both looked at the cane table and all was gone. It seemed empty. No matter how hard we looked, they did not return. We were stunned. How could this be. We looked in the bins next to the garage. As if they would re-appear, and after apologizing, somehow get back on the white painted cane table.

Both of us felt almost sick. They had been stolen. Unbelievable. Who would go and steal flowering plants? I mean, we could understand vandals stealing and throwing them about. We walked around the block of our eight town-houses in the hope of finding them alive and intact. No. Our sadness turned into anger. Who would do such a thing? As I was casting around again and looking opposite to the garden of our neighbour I notice that her ceramic angel’s head was gone as well. The three cyclamen and an angel head in one hit would not have been the work of school kids or any young person. It would have to be the work of an adult. Did the thief drive by and loaded up his/her car? The neighbour opposite told us that the Angel head was a gift from her mother twenty years ago.

After overcoming our sadness including dejection we decided to take action. We went to the local police station. After a few questions the police woman was going to write a rapport. I showed proof of identity, and supplied all the information regarding size, colour and details about the plants and the ceramic items, including their monetary value. We ensured to the police, it was the horror of the theft more than the value. She was understanding and fully understood.

As we got back I printed five posters;

“Thief Alert.” “You have been reported to the police”. “Please, return the items.”

All in very large lettering. I stapled the notices around our compound with one at the front on the street near the letterboxes. I felt good having done this plea to the thief’s conscience. But… much to my surprise, I was angrily reprimanded by one of our less convivial neighbour last evening. She bailed me up driving to the shop to get a bottle of well-earned good Shiraz. All red in the face, she was. “Why do you put those posters up?” This was followed by, ” I am a single woman and live alone with my children.” “I know delinquents, and you are inviting them with your silly posters.” I was listening and gave her the time to vent her anger, but at the same time felt a reasonable response welling up. “Yes, I said, but what about the theft of our plants and your neighbours’ Angel head?” “What do you want to do about it then?” She dismissed it totally and ripped off one of my posters.

The question is; what do you, dear readers think the right action would be? Just cop it sweet, do nothing? Or, should I proceed in stapling up more posters on fences , telegraph poles around the place? Warn others and try and get our cyclamen back.

Even now thinking of making posters offering “Reward for stolen Cyclamen and Angel’s head.”

What do you think?

The Roof Cavity Inspector’s job is never finished.

Aspidistra

Readers might know from a previous article that I have ventured into a new career. With winter half way, the gas bill came in much lower than over the same period last year. I am just re-tracing again! We know that bills always feature strongly in the lives of Seniors. I do keep old bills in my filing cabinet for scrutiny and comparisons. Modern bills also have comparisons printed on the back, often accompanied by graphics showing little towers that go up and down according to the consumption of either gas or electricity. Many do spend time studying those. It helps to pass the day.

Of course, with rates going up, many try and economize to try and lower the bills. Again , as previously mentioned, we installed double glazing and blanketed all our ceilings with insulation. We chose the more expensive one. The specialist installer advised that the more expensive insulation blanket would keep their ‘loft’ for much longer. I like the word ‘loft.’ It probably alludes that the blanket will not collapse on itself like a pre-mature cake mixture not giving enough time to raise.

It was only after I ventured in our roof cavity that I discovered lots of light and heat escaping. Hence, the idea of becoming an inspector of roof cavities took hold. I bought a khaki coloured Yakka bib and brace overall, a sharp pencil and wooden fold-up ruler. The Peugeot had a roof rack installed on which a nifty 16ft aluminium extension ladder could be held with special straps. I had a few caps silkscreened on which ‘Roof Cavity Inspector’ ( RCI) was duly inscribed.

My life has never been better. With coups, rampaging terrorists, and police killings going on everywhere, there is nothing more peaceful than sitting in someone’s roof cavity. It is so serene. One comes to an inner understanding of what the essentials of life are all about. Of course, there are some hick-ups. Last week I inspected a roof cavity for an old lady who lived by herself. She complained of hearing scurrying going on. It turned out to be a busy rats family nest in one corner of the ceiling above her bedroom. I had to call a pest inspector. It made for social contact and we both exchanged the latest gossip about our joint inspectorial duties.

He told me how a manager of a motel at Ballina, NSW, was caught out in a cavity above the honey-moon suite of his motel. A young couple on their first honeymoon complained they heard a noise coming from above the ceiling of their room. ( with en-suite.) When the police arrived, they found the manager and wife very properly attired and in bed. However, when they inspected the noise complaint they found that the cavity above the honey-moon room with en-suite was all planked out, had comfort cushions and a thermos. What did it was that the thermos still had warm coffee and the managers finger prints. There was also a hole drilled next to the electric wiring holding up an ornate light in the room below through which it was assumed the motel manager was observing the frolics of the honey-moon couple down below.

We both shook our heads. I mean, the thermos with coffee? Can you believe it? I bet the manager had to do some explaining.

Pensioners and Wildly gyrating Markets.

Put and call options. Etching 1991

The last few months have seen the price of oil dropping to $27.- a barrel. Some years ago, it was ‘peak oil,’ with dire predictions of shortages. People were hoarding it.  Now, they are finding oil everywhere, even under our houses, the local cinema and park-land. People have signs in the window; ‘Close the farm-gate, we want water.’

World markets are reacting like the drunken sailor at Woolloomooloo before being chucked at the back of the Bumper Farrell  Wagon. Bumper Farrell was a revered rugby player and policeman. (1916-1985) His first name derived, when as a schoolboy at the back of the school, he would be caught smoking used second hand cigarette butts, named ‘bumpers.’ He became a most feared policeman. His great grandfather was an Irishman who left the potato shortage for Australia in 1837 as a convict for having stolen a pig.

His fame as a rugby player grew in tandem with his rise in the police ranks to such an extend, the police paddy wagons (Irish again) were suitable named ‘Bumper Farrell wagons.’ It was a badge of honour to make a claim to have been picked up by such a wagon. Of course, if by the man himself, it would ensure an entry to almost everywhere that was unlawful, especially at illegal betting joints.

With the fluctuating money markets, the money men are back in full swing again. They are the ‘Short and Long sellers.’  They thrive on volatility. They are busy dealing in contracts of ‘options.’ An option is usually a contract in buying and selling shares   ( or currencies) that the trader doesn’t actually hold. It usually has a delayed settlement date. This means that provided the market goes your way, either up or down, depending on going ‘short or long,’ you only pay for the option contract and not for the shares.  And collect the difference!  A single contract holds 100 shares. It is believed that the short sellers (and long sellers) are actually negatively manipulating markets. The leverage on options, both selling and buying (Puts and Calls) are much higher than with ordinary shares.

I wonder what the return of retirement funds will be this year? The return on superannuation income is for many retirees the income they have saved up for during their working years. Australia also has a pension system that pays roughly 30% of average earnings. Not a fat pot. Our pension is minimal because of the ‘means test.’ The value of assets and other income is taken in consideration and the pension gets deducted accordingly.  I have a small pension from Holland. This resulted the Australian pension promptly being deducted. It seems a hand-out in Australia, instead of an entitlement that one has worked and paid for. I don’t know what happens if one has too many assets. Does one perhaps end having to top up the politicians to supplement their income?

It’s all good if health continues,…but what about if one gets ageing problems? I mean, a fall and lengthy hospital stay? The loss of eyesight and the driver’s license, a sense of direction or loss of not knowing where the fridge is, (where is my potato-leek bake)? I read a post whereby an old person needs a toilet every hour.  I am not quite there yet! But, what then? So far so good. I can still take two steps at the time. I was told by a friend that I am merely old and not yet ‘old old.’ That is when eighty is reached.

And then there is that sweet couple, George and Irish, who both turned 100 years and still together. Have a look!

http://www.abc.net.au/news/2016-02-13/canberra-couple-george-and-iris-barlin-celebrate-100th-birthdays/7166080

First day after Bali.

Bali

It shows some courage to begin writing again so soon after Bali. One does not really know how one is affected by surroundings and mood of a country, till one leaves. It is even stronger on the return. While Bali’s airport seems just as busy as Sydney’s if not busier, the smiles were still free. I don’t know if smiles are free in Sydney too. We just did not see them. Perhaps they were in hiding, deep inside the multi pocketed ‘Border Control& Protection’ uniforms.  There were hundreds of them carrying serious frowns and some had guns!

At Sydney’s airport rail station we asked for 2 tickets to Bowral. The man did not look up from his computer; kids or adults, he asked crankely?’   ‘Have a look,’ Helvi smiled back. ‘That’s 42 dollars then’, the man said grimly. ‘We are pensioners, Helvi said!’ ‘That’s 28 dollars,’ the station man said, and ‘show me your pension card’. Fair enough, but does it have to be so unfriendly and with so much officialdom, such sticking to facts and rules? Many foreign people arrive in Australia as tourists. What do they make of that sort of treatment? He could have smiled. He could have advised us the nr of platform and the time of departure. Helvi always smiles. No, we had to ask for each item separately.

And now the train; It was unheated and for us it was a killer of a downer. I mean at 7am Sydney’s winter is serious and at 9c climbing steadily towards a balmy 12c at 10am, it wasn’t tropical. We were prepared but not to the arctic blasts coming through the doors every time they opened. Again, there were some people with huge suitcases. They might well have been tourists. You wonder what they will report back? We had to change trains at Campbelltown. Again, difficult to find out which platform. A loudspeaker kept saying, over and over, that the train at platform 4 was not to be boarded because it had terminated. That was fine, except there was no train to board (or not as the advice was bleating) at platform 4.

Bali (Ubud)

Another message warned people that all platforms were smoke free. All the platforms were in open air and outside. A strong wind was merrily blowing around. Surely, someone wanting a smoke could have been given that freedom. There were no shortages of Coca Cola machines and chocolate bars, crunchy violent bars and other snacks to tempt the terminal obese with. I would rather see a smoking person than hear a slurping Coke being downed.  Anyway,  both sugar and smoking is bad, so perhaps I am just cranky or being difficult again. The loudspeakers at Campbelltown rail station certainly work and the next dire warning came soon after the advice of not boarding a non-existent train.

Listen carefully to this one now! ‘Will all train passenger, please disperse along the entire platform, please (second time). None of the 4 platforms had more than 12 passengers. I can only surmise the messages were on an endless tape that would just drone on and on, giving the warnings over and over again. The last message now. Again, a beauty for making tourists welcome and safe; ‘All platforms will be regularly patrolled by our police to make sure no criminality will be committed on our platforms or trains.’ Indeed, we noticed police and dogs strolling around the platforms. It made us pass the time as there was 55 minutes waiting for the next train (another unheated one) on platform 4 to take us to our final destination. The loudspeaker was still warning us endlessly not to board the train at platform 4 as it had terminated!

Ah, we knew we were back. All this made us feel home!

Frank and Callan Park asylum.

Callan Park

The firing of the shotgun and the commotion in the street resulted with Frank being put in a police paddy wagon. My parents were interviewed . They must have told police of problems they were having with Frank’s violence.  The incident with the scissors was considered serious enough and culminated with Frank being taken away to Callan park for  assessment. Callan Park was a mental asylum situated close to the City in very large park like surroundings.  It consisted of many  double story Georgian old sandstone buildings. It had a very high wall around it and looked intimidating when approached from the front. It would be Frank’s main home  for the next fourteen years. He was diagnosed as suffering from schizophrenia.

wedding photo of my parents with mum’s brother and sister.

A sigh of relief was washing over our family. The children came home from school without the fear and expectation of another shemozzle or explosion of anger. We could sit around without skulking away in our rooms, out of troubles way. Dad and mum were happy that Frank would now get care and attention from experts in a place designed for people with a mental illness. A cure or some form of action would be initiated and Frank would get back in charge of a life and return home soon. That must have been my parents fervent wish.  And, surely not one that could be seen as extravagant?

My memories so far are from between fifteen and twenty years of age, so the atmosphere and family life then lived is from that period which since has clocked up another fifty years. And yet, it will not let go of me. What is this compulsion and why can’t this episode let go of me? Is there a link somewhere that explains those events of much further down life’s river?  Were Hansel and Gretel’s white pebbles of  this period strewn already then?  Will an answer be there when  the trail has been followed to the end ?

It has to be admitted that my view of Australia hasn’t always been so benign and lofty as they should or could have. I have spent far more years here than anywhere else and am a naturalised Australian, born in Holland. So why at times, the chagrin? The naturalisation ceremony and oath were taken with  swearing allegiance to the Queen of England, which I thought odd as I could have sworn we migrated to Australia. But, the cup-o-tea and the S.A.O. crackers with ‘tasty’ cheese ( Salvation Army Officer) afterwards were welcome. It was a mass naturalisation ceremony at the Sydney Town Hall. It was a period when cinema goers were slowly starting to refuse and stand up for the National Flag raising and Save the Queen anthem before the movie. Some cinemas had a Hammond organ rising up majestically from below the stage. A  Liberace like suited and war medalled bedecked man would belt out this Anthem. It did not help and soon no one stood up anymore and this little irrelevant ditty was dropped. Oddly enough, Australia today still prefers the monarchy to a republic. If ever there was proof of being a bit miffed about Australia. Just contemplate that little contradiction!

mother on left. her brother and sister.

The initial stay of my brother Frank at Callan park was short lived. My memory of the first visit to Frank at Callan Park asylum was when the brother to brother recognition was first starting to melt and flee.  It was a pitiful sight. He was so dishevelled and had trousers that were not his. They were for someone twice his size and without a belt. He could only walk by holding his trousers with both hands. The warden unlocked him with a large bunch of keys hanging from his belt. No chairs for visitors, no visiting areas. Just a large court-yard with no trees.

The demented and the declared insanely inebriated patients standing there as if all hope was now held by the unyielding surrounding stone wall, spoken to in gravelled voices. Frank said he had been held in wet bed sheets for hours. Later on we found out that that method was common to restrain patients. He was so very much not there and must have been heavily pilled up. I asked were his clothes were. Mum had brought some oranges which she peeled for him. Frank smoked a cigarette from a packet that dad had brought along…Was Frank going to be lining that court yard and become part of the stone wall? Mother had tears and dad was numb with shock but had to drive home with much silence in the car.

Frank on the left. Gerard with hair sticking up. In Rotterdam.

We could not get over that visit and the sun wasn’t shining much better with Frank not at home. The nightmare of Callan Park courtyard and the bunches of keys hanging from the wardens belt wasn’t  acceptable, the wrapping up of Frank in wet bed-sheets. This was 1960 not 1860.  Frank soon came home again.