Civic duty or grumpy old lady??

We went for a ride on the river ferry on a variable day of wind, rain and sunshine. Pleasant to sit and watch the river and its craft and the buildings on the banks - and the people.
Two people got on with bikes - looked like grandson and grandfather. I was impressed that there is a bike rack for them - right next to my seat. The riders moved away and soon after the pedal and crank started going around. I looked down and a little hand from behind me was giving the pedal a workout. An adult voice told him to stop. He didn't, so I turned round with a bit of a disapproving look in an effort to discourage him. I figured I wouldn't want someone messing with my bike, plus I think it's good if a kid is encouraged to do what he is told.
The kid persisted so I said, 'Don't do that, Matie.' So he swapped to doing it with his foot. Another discouraging word and the adult got stroppy and told me it wasn't a problem. I said I thought it was and left it at that.
The kid, however, did stop.
So what's your verdict? Grumpy old woman stopping a kid having fun or a mature adult doing her civic duty of protecting someone else's property?

PS I watched later as a little girl refused to do what her parents told her eg not to hit her sister, not to put her feet on  the seat and how they didn't continue to insist. I watched her as she obviously tried to see how much she could get away with. Recipe for disaster I reckon. But I can be pretty grumpy about such things,,,

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Bedding matters

Nearly fifty years ago I bought bedding for my marriage bed. The bed itself was leftover from the sale of my Grandmother's furniture. Just two bed end really as we replaced the old spring base and, with great excitement, covered up the beautiful wood with Estapol antique white.
But back to the bedding.
I bought double bed sheets in tasteful orange patterns (well, it was the 70s!) They are long since gone as is the bed, although only recently from my daughter's spare room.
A lovely golden (later dyed brown ) candlewick bedspread went on the top.
And for warmth, lovley thick pure wool Onkaparinga, made in Lobethal South Australia, blankets.
Later I inherited Mum's satin bound woollen blankets. Hers were in tasteful green whereas mine were - yes, you guessed it - orange.

So when did the whole quilt (doona, duvet? ) thing happen? My children had them and I have some quilts and  covers. But I really don't like the whole thing that much.
There has been debate (yep, hear it on the radio while shopping) about whether you need a top sheet with a quilt. You sure do and I instruct my visiting grandies as to which part of the bed they insert thier body into. Under the top sheet, so I only need to wash that sheet and not the whole quilt arrangement, because I particularly dislike wrangling quilts into and out of thier covers. Yes, I know there are YouTube clips about how to do it as there are on how to fold fitted sheets, but I still dislike both.

In a recent hotel stay there was a very thick quilt on top of a bottom sheet and no way to adjust it. So it was either be too cosy or throw it all off and lie there with no covering.

In some places we've stayed including the one where I am right now, there is a bottom sheet, a top sheet a quilt and then another sheet tucked in over the top so it looks like a quilt in a cover but isn't really. I quite like that idea and have adopted it at home, with the quilt, then the unfilled quilt cover right over the top of the top sheet and trusty orange Onkaparinga, made in SA blankets. All eminently adjustable for temperature.
My dear blankets, I salute you.

How's it going and other silly questions

Slim Dusty's song suggests 'G'Day and How're you going?' as the universal Aussie greeting.
Let's start right there.
How're you going? What's the answer to that? By train or car, perhaps?

Then there's the alternative version 'How's it going?' What is the it exactly? Life, the universe and everything?

I had a manager who used to ring and ask, 'How's things?' I quite liked it but what things? Work things or the weather things or my private life things?

The other day I was happily reading on the plane and a work acquaintance  walked past, tapped me on the shoulder and asked 'Having a good read?' Answer that one. 'No, I actually hate reading. ' or 'Of course' or a long review of the book which is an excellent one.

I was reading Cadence by Emma (now Eddie) Ayres about her bike ride from London to Hong Kong with lots of musical commentary along the way.  I was gripped by her account of arriving in Pakistan and carrying her bike up the steps of a hotel. A woman asked her, 'Oh are you cycling in Pakistan?'
Emma wondered if she should have replied that she wasn't but it was an experiment she was trying in various countries to see what inane question people ask.  Because she likes lugging a  fully loaded touring bike up steps in 50 degree heat after cycling one hundred kilometres.
I'm glad I'm not the only one who finds some questions pesky.

Of course if asked how things are going you can always answer, 'I'm OK. I'll get there.' The only problem is I'm never quite sure where there is...

Stories without end...

It's been a while, but the prospect of a week away  seems to have stirred up the writing bug. Are you still following me, Ernest?

Just lately I've been feeling a bit 'peopled out' and relished the idea of being away in a strange city for a week, free to be anonymous. So why is it that at the first opportunity I hasten to engage people in conversation, interested to know a little of who they are and what they are doing.

Mind you I wasn't quite so thrilled to talk to the taxi guy  (Executive Passenger Service, no less) decked out in a spiffy suit. He was due to arrive at 8.40 am. At 8.45 a phone call assured us he was in our street. We could see no sign of him. At 8.50 we were told the same. It's not that long a street although it does have a bend in it. Eventually he turned up having mistaken the time as for 9 am and been parked down the street waiting! He was pleasant and we made it to the airport.

All good after that. In the crush of the airport lift I assured the tall, dark skinned man next to me that we'd need to be friends to which he replied that it would only be for a minute unless I was heading to Brisbane. I told him I was and asked what was taking him there. It turned out he was heading for Nauru and the detention centre. I did see him briefly later but didn't get the rest of the story.

As we were queued waiting to drop our bags off, I heard a large sigh behind me and turned to find a woman stressed because she had been held up in traffic and thought she was late. I waved a hand gently towards her arm (comfortingly, I hoped and assured her we were on the same flight. Also that we had missed two flights in our lives and lived to tell the tale. 'All would be well,' We went on to teak of her family having breakfast together at Macca's as they always do before she goes off working away from home, and she told me she runs quilting workshops. And the queue  moved us on. I saw her board the plane after us and smiled but that was it.

There were six of us in the Flinders Uni party ( David is working but it's a party for me!) and we were collected from the airport by a pleasant young man in a minibus. I ended up in the front next to him and on the way into town found out he runs a small tourist business as well as driving, and is about to shift into a new house with his Korean wife and 3 year old son and 5 week old daughter. They plan to provide Homestay accommodation for overseas students. I heard a lot of Adam's story but would love to have heard more.

So David began setting up for the workshop and I went exploring. I spoke to Tor (short for Victoria) at the Woolies checkout and resorted to asking a pleasant middle aged woman how to get back to the hotel. Who would have thought that going round the block would be so tricky! Her directions got me to the back door but that was fine.

The next time I made a foray into the Brisbane CBD I had a little hand drawn map and found most of what I wanted but one place eluded me, so Beth (about my age) at the Info Centre was super generous in her help.

I even think fondly of the fairly ample gentleman who sat next to me on the plane - sat by the aisle rather than pushing past us to get to his window seat and our only communication was a couple of words and a few smiles. I don't know his story at all but was happy with him as a travel companion.
So many lovley people out there.  I wonder who they all are...

Close to the neighbours

It was our wedding anniversary and in the early 70s in the small country town we lived in entertainment was non-existent. So we decided to go to the drive-in at the town about 40 minutes away. We thought about inviting our neighbours to go with us. They were teaching colleagues and good friends but we decided that it wouldn't be so romantic if we weren't alone.
So off we went. Drove to the town, found a good pace at the drive in and got settled. Soon another car pulled up next to us - and there they were. Our neighbours!

Today we set off from home for a weekend away. We didn't start very early and as I was getting the  mail from the letter box I saw the neighbours leaving and noted that his car was home so he must be having a day off. We took our time and finally stopped at a pleasant park for a pit stop and to eat our sandwiches. I pulled up, opened my door and the driver of the next vehicle waved and his wife came wandering up. Yep, you guessed it. The neighbours. They'd been ahead of us on the road but stopped at the same place to eat their sandwiches, just as we were about to.

What are the chances...

Nobody tells you...

Years ago I thought I was the world's worst mother. Nobody told me about the lack of sleep, the feelings of helplessness when the baby cried and kept on crying, the loss of my place in the world as a competent teacher, in control. I was now a weepy, inept person.
There was a distinct conspiracy of  silence. I'd read the books, knitted the booties and thought I knew what to expect but nobody told me it might not be quite like I expected.
So I decided that I would make sure that any new mums I came across knew that there would be some days that were just plain awful. Not to mention some nights. 'Just don't be surprised,' I'd say, 'If it doesn't quite all go as you expected.' If they didn't need that advice, well and good but maybe one day it just might ring true for them.
Fortunately there has been more written in the following 40 plus years about varying experiences of motherhood (and fatherhood). And I  have not had to write my book which I planned to call 'No Weekends.'
But recently I was talking to a brand new first time grandmother. From my vast experience (my oldest grandchild is now 20) I detected a little moment of hesitation. The baby is born safely and is the most beautiful baby on earth, of course. But there are challenges. The father wants to protect his wife from too many tiring visitors and so he calls the shots. 'But she's my daughter', thinks the new Grandma. And then there's the matter of two sets of grandparents with different ideas and expectations not least of all  what they will be called. 'I thought I'd like to be Grandma, one of my co-grandparent stated. But I was already Grandma to three grandies and can't a child have more than one Grandma? Mine did. An don't even get  me started on who lights the birthday candles when it comes time for the first (and second and third birthday).
And what if one set of grandparents live close by and the others live half a day's drive (or half a world) away. How does that work out? And what about fair shares on Christmas Day?
And this is your grandchild not your child and so there is a time to keep your mouth shut about how things should be done. So, you've seen 4 hourly feeding and feeding on demand go in cycles, but it's their choice and whether to use disposable nappies or cloth, whether there should be a strict schedule, whether the kid should be swaddled, use a dummy, be in child care. It's endless.
So let's not have a conspiracy of silence on this one here. Grandparenting is great but not without its challenges.
Love and cherish - and enjoy those weekends...

Public Holiday, Doctor

Ida was tall and strong with grey hair and blue eyes. Her feet looked like scrubbed potatoes, not always that well scrubbed, and as she strode along the main street and through the shops their was a distinct waft of 'old lady' overlaid with talc powder.
Ida had an amazing memory citing anything from the birth dates of distant cousins to the date her trailer registration ended. She loved nothing better than finding a connection with someone and she'd chuckle with glee if she found out she'd been at school with them.
Ida was a little strange and somewhat socially isolated so on a number of occasions she joined us for a meal on Christmas Day usually in the evening. The kids loved to roll their eyes at her stories, especially when she got started on the hoons who parked in the parklands near her home and used 'f words and k words.' They knew about the f word (sadly) but often speculated on what the k words might be. Or whether t was a spelling issue.
Ida suffered from some health problems and if she had been absent from our street for some time would often tell us how she had been 'flop' in the hospital.
One particular occasion she told us the doctor had chided her for not coming into the hospital soon enough.
Her response to him was, 'Public holiday, doctor.' She didn't want to cause extra work on his day off. This phrase became part of our family lingo. Much to the consternation of others, the words 'public holiday' are invariably followed by 'Doctor'. For example, 'The shop won't be open. It's a public holiday, Doctor.'
Ida was different, shunned by many, challenged in some ways, but she enriched our lives. And so on this public holiday (Doctor) I remember her.
With love...