Christmas: remembering fascinating family characters

Christmas is a time to remember the past and to dream for the future.

Tinsel is hung, solar lights flicker and laser lights dance on the water. Christmas has come to the Tidal Canals and we are celebrating another year of sun, sand, great neighbours and good cheer.

Today we drove past our old house in Edithvale and delighted in the changes that have taken place over the years. Opposite was Ma and Pop Whitting’s home and I couldn’t help smiling at my memories of Pop.

My dad was an engineer and pedantic about everything being correctly measured and assembled with care and attention to the finest detail. Pop Whitting used to drive him mad. Pop was a cockney lad  from England and near enough was good enough. I remember the day he decided that the refrigerator in the kitchen was taking up too much room so he grabbed a saw, and cut up the left side of the wall beside the refrigerator, across the top and down the other side. He then shoved the refrigerator back level with the kitchen wall. Brooms, pans and a mop went flying out of the broom cupboard in the laundry behind the refrigerator.

‘Where will I put my brooms?’ Ma cried.     ‘You’ll find somewhere,’ Pop replied. ‘At least you now have more room in the kitchen.’ I’ll never know how he managed to miss cutting the electrical wires inside the broom cupboard . Sheer good luck, I guess. To cover the jagged edges of the sawn kitchen plaster he simply tacked a wooden strapping edge around the fridge  and painted it the same colour as the walls. I’d love to go into the house one day just to see if the refrigerator is still recessed into the laundry cupboard.

Pop was an original, a one off character who lived off his wits. When he was eighty he decided one afternoon to climb a ladder and paint the guttering. No preparation, just slap on as much paint as possible to cover any dirt. He happily painted a section of the gutter before deciding it was time for a cup of tea. Balancing the nearly full open paint tin on top of the ladder he proceeded to climb down. On reaching the bottom rung he looked up in time to see the tin of paint spill all over him. Thank goodness he was wearing glasses because it covered him from his bald head to the tops of his shoes. Instead of standing still, he yelled ‘Ma’ and proceeded to slosh down the side way, around the back of the house and into the kitchen leaving a trail of white paint behind him. It was left to Ma to clean up and the rest of the guttering was never painted.

My dad, on hearing the news shook his head and said, ‘You mean he didn’t even sandpaper the guttering before he started?’

Family characters. How they fill our memories and our hearts with love. 

Ben, Hoda and their Kabt Ill Katab

How wonderful is a wedding in any language.

Hoda and Ben recently realized they had found their soul mate. Last Friday, surrounded by family and friends  they joined hands and declared their love in a magical wedding ceremony against a backdrop of the sun setting in a blaze of glory over Port Phillip Bay.

Living next door to an Egyptian Family for over fifteen years has been a delightful experience. We have learnt so much over those years and been included in many celebratory occasions: cakes at the end of Ramadan, sweets and gifts exchanged at Christmas and bowls of nuts, spices and snacks during the year have not only expanded our culinary tastes but also our knowledge of a different culture. Both families respect and understand their different religions. To be Christian or Muslim simply means trying to be the best people we can be.  To me, we are taking different paths that lead to the same destination.

It has been a privilege to watch Hoda grow from a vivacious little girl into a beautiful young woman. We met Ben for the first time on Friday night and immediately fell in love with his outgoing friendly nature and happy smile. His entire family were supportive, fun loving people.

 

We wondered how different this marriage ceremony would be compared to the others we had attended and were amazed at the similarities. Out of respect for the English and Arabic cultures present, the Imam conducted the ceremony in both English and Arabic . Both fathers gave their blessing, the happy couple said ‘I do’, papers were signed, cake cut, and, instead of a soprano singing Oh Perfect Love, Hoda and Ben had an Australian belly dancer who, much to the delight of the guests, managed to entice the recently married couple to join her dance.

  

The wedding breakfast was superb. How wonderful to be able to taste a portion of all the entrees, mains and sweets, instead of having to choose one or the other.  Sometimes it’s impossible to decide

     

 

 

We have a special relationship with Hoda’s grandmother.and were delighted to see her surrounded by her lovely daughters and son. I wanted to take a picture of them all together but we were all so busy having a good time the evening was over before we realized it.

The most fun came from a photo booth set up to one side of the restaurant. We wandered over to see what all the shrieks of delight were about only to be dragged in front of the hidden camera. Hats were plonked onto our heads. Because you had no idea when the photo would be taken some of the photos were hilarious. Ours included.

Several seconds later we were handed a strip of photos which we then put into a book  and were asked to write a message to Hoda and Ben . Our photos followed a collection of very funny pictures complete with rabbit ears and hysterically laughing faces. The caption  underneath was ‘Your crazy cousins’. I loved that Hoda’s name had the Wonder Woman sign beside it and Ben was obviously Superman.

We had a wonderful evening and wish Hoda and Ben a long and happy life together

Friendships Between People Who Love The Same Books

There are no faster or firmer friendships than those between people who love the same books (Irving Stone)

My cousin Julie is part of my life, part of me.

For many years we have shared the trials, tribulations and joys of our lives, including books, quotations and inspirational verses. I pass on to her any that I enjoy and she does the same for me. Recently we have exchanged the Desiderata , The Rosie Project, Cleo, Tumbledown Manor and the complete book of Great Australian Women.  Last month she moved into assisted care and had to clear her unit.

She has passed on to me her most treasured books; prizes awarded when she attended Fintona Girls’ School many years ago. Books by Jane Austin, RD Blackmore and George Eliot. With love I have placed these new additions to my book ‘family’ amongst fellow companions and I will care for them, love them but most of all enjoy them and think of her whenever I do. They are here in my safekeeping. Hers to visit or take home whenever she likes. However, later they will be passed on with love to whoever needs them at that time and I will be guided as to who that is when that time comes

Julie used to teach piano and music is part of her life. When feeling blue, listening to classical CD’s always sooths her soul. Books to me are like her music to her. They are my Bach and Beethoven. Old friends who comfort, exhilarate and transport me into so many different worlds. I don’t sit and read line by line like Julie. I dip in, flick through, but always find what I need at that particular time. My books are not worthy tomes, they are about everyday life and are dog eared, preloved, tatty, often garage sale gleaned and anyone searching for first editions lined up in library neatness will be disappointed. I make no apology. From the crayon scrawled Dr Suesse to the thesis written in longhand on aboriginal children in schools during the last century thrown out by an uncaring family, to precious school awards, they are my treasures.

Often I find scraps of paper buried between the pages, such as ‘Live more in your heart and less in your head’ or ‘There are two dominant energies, love and fear and love conquers all’. Boring to some but often photocopied and sent with love to uplift others. These days I also find many inspirational verses on Facebook and love to see people sharing these treasures.

FRIENDS

Through laughter and light

And the dark soul of night.

Deep rooted as a tree.

Our mothers were cousins. They whispered together and walked hand in hand. Every Sunday, side by side, their voices soared in harmony. Handbags hanging, they linked arms and, with heads close together, magpie chattered, oblivious to the world. They laughed, cried, told jokes, criticised their husbands and praised their babies.

Julie was eight when I arrived.

Julie’s parents had elegant Christmas parties. I admired ruby glass from afar and ate jelly cakes and lamingtons, never spilling a crumb. Julie played Beethoven on the grand piano. I saw her wear dresses that with a tuck would be mine.

Julie went to college, studied at the Conservatorium and sang in the Sun Aria.  She whispered of love. Her family disapproved but she married her ‘commoner’. I saw her look of defiance and the family’s look of defeat.

We  met weekly in the Botanic Gardens where we laughed, cried, told jokes, and tended our babies.

The battered doll is bruised to the core

Convinced no one will love her any more.

 Julie grabbed her music, called a taxi and fled to a flat.

Julie lies quietly in the hospital bed.  ‘The cancer operation will be a success,’ she says.  I lie beside her, our heads touching. We sip Chardonnay in elegant glasses hoping the nurses will leave us alone. We talk for hours until the late bell tolls and I train home filled with courage.

Julie is fighting. She has chemotherapy, loses her hair. We sit in cheery waiting rooms amongst smiling faces beaming love to anyone near.  Life seems precious and eggshell fragile as we talk with others of hopes and plans.  ‘I will beat this,’ she says.  ‘I will be well.’ Seeing her confidence I also believe.

Julie cuts her hair, rents and laughs at her family. “They tell me I must save for my old age,” she says.  She travels to Assisi convinced she is cured.  Sits six hours on top of her luggage at Calcutta station talking to soldiers.  Lives in an Ashram where she silently peels vegetables, takes cold showers, swirls in dervishes.  She lives in her tracksuit. “But where is the love,” she cries as she travels to England, Austria, America and Italy. “Where is the peace in the world?”

Julie is happy. She sits in Yoga lotus when we talk on the phone.

Meditates in her special place, mentally cleansing her body and soul.  I see her graduate as a Yoga teacher, write a book Love and Light and help others through cancer and HIV Aids.

One night, we light a candle, sit cross-legged on the floor our hearts soaring with symphonies and talk about Chin Maya, Satyananda yoga, her Swami, our angels, our chakras, our energy. “Live now,” she cries.  We discuss  life, love, miracles and healing and…

Through love and light

Soul mates set free.

Deep rooted as a tree.

‘What does she mean to you’  is asked of me