First Impressions: Galveston, not just a Glen Campbell song

We made our first trip to Galveston yesterday. LomL had described it to me as a mix between Rockingham and Mandurah - and that's about right. Those of you who live in Perth know exactly what I'm talking about. Mostly white, middle class, with a vague, uncomfortable undercurrent of prejudice underpinning society. Nothing you can quite put your finger on, just a feeling of unease.

Once you're outside the actual town, it's haunting. Winter in Galveston is despair-inducing. What is clearly a Summer hive of activity becomes effectively a ghost town. Evidence of the Summer playground atmosphere is everywhere; a cross between National Lampoon and a Gidget movie. Pastel coloured, multi-storey hotels, kitsch dining restaurants (no really, check this out Rainforest Cafe) and holiday houses abandoned to the ravages of the cold weather.

It's beautiful, though. In a lonely, wintry way. One imagines staying in the holiday homes, fire lit, large white cable-knit cardigan wrapped around you, sipping hot chocolate or a good red wine. It's the place of long, cold, lonely nights, walks along a windswept beach collecting driftwood and shells, and writing novels. It's where you'd picture Diane Keaton or Meg Ryan in their latest rom-com, blonde hair blowing, all turtle-necks and linen pants. It's where I'd like to own a holiday home for the Winter. Not for the Summer. I imagine the place is chock full of holidaying families, too much exposed flesh and sweltering bodies, too many tailgate parties and bonfires on the beach - or perhaps I'm just projecting the too many cheesy American movies I've seen...

First Impressions: Food Labelling and Ingredients

It's our second day in Houston and I'm trying to be vigilant about making observations about our new home. My love for food and all things foodie is well known by now. Ok, so it borders on obsession, but hey, everybody's gotta have a hobby. So it's no surprise that one of the first points of difference I notice between Houston and Perth is the food.

Yes, it's true that food is generally cheaper in Houston; both restaurant food and fresh food/provisions. If you think about it, that's not surprising. Perth is isolated. Remote even by Australian standards. The capital city of a state that's 3.63 times the size of Texas, but containing a population of just less than 2.5 million people (with about 1.8 million of those people living in Perth and its surrounding suburbs). It's big in terms of land mass, but teeny tiny by world population statistics. And it's far far away. There's a distance of 3301km (2051mi) between Perth and Sydney. That's a long way to transport goods. Add on the comparatively high labour costs in Australia (I'm not griping about the wonderful wage structure negotiated over time by unions, or the taxation system that allows those in need to continue to subsist in something approximating adequacy, but it's a fact that it adds to the general costs of living), and you have high prices generally, with particularly high prices in Perth. But I digress. This isn't meant to be a comparison of the socio-economic structures of Houston and Perth. It's about food.

We hear media reports on a reasonably regular basis about the quantity of additives and preservatives in food in the US, and of the rates of morbid obesity. Watch Dr Oz or The Doctors for more than 5 minutes and there's bound to be some discussion on the unnaturally high levels of chemicals in food, the increasing weight of the populace and how Americans should all be turning towards whole foods or raw foods. It's easy to sit in Australia and think we have it better, our food is higher quality, with fewer additives. It's easy also to assume that if you move to the US, you will have limited (or no) choices about what kind of food you can buy. This impression is exacerbated by shows like Jamie Oliver's Food Revolution. And I'm certainly guilty of thinking all of those things: the US population is generally fatter, the food choices are limited and there's little or no access to good quality, organic fresh foods. So imagine my surprise (and delight) when I discovered that that's simply not true... well, not true in Houston anyway.

There are plenty of good food alternatives. There are large (warehouse sized) stores that house fresh food markets - Central Markets, Whole Foods Markets, HEB and Trader Joe's for a start. There are also plenty of what we in Australia would consider supermarkets - Kroger's and Randall's come to mind. Yesterday I stopped in at a Kroger's for some ingredients for dinner. This is a store that's about the size of a Woolies or a Coles, but it's the Houston equivalent of a small suburban IGA. Even here, the choices were astonishing. There must have been 25 different varieties of plain/all purpose flour on the shelf. And here's the important part. Each one of those packets of flour was clearly labelled with the ingredients and processing of that flour. You know immediately what grain the flour is made from, what other ingredients have been added to the flour and whether or not the flour has been bleached. You know from the labelling on the packet. That's not so in Australia. Some packages have labelling, others don't. Most have labelling that requires you to spend 40 minutes reading packages before making a choice and some require a higher degree in chemistry to decipher the baffling ingredients.

So, this is what I've found. Yes, there's a lot of talk in the US about the ingredients in food. Yes, there's a problem with increasing weight and morbidity as a result. Yes, we all need to be more attentive to what we're shovelling in our mouths. No, things are not better in Australia; food labelling is not clearer (actually it's more obfuscated and confusing) and choices are actually more limited. If carbon miles are something you consider when buying food (as I do), then you're more able to make informed decisions in Houston than in Perth. Not all supermarkets in Perth label where food is sourced from, or whether it's organic (as confusing as that term is - I mean really, the debate that rages over what constitutes organic is migraine-inducing).

Perhaps there is more to be concerned about in the US. Or perhaps there's more concern because there's more information already available from which to make a comparison. I'm not sure yet, but it does bring another perspective to the argument.

Bidding Farewell to our Home

Our household contents have finally been packed up and removed. I watched the last of the boxes be loaded onto the truck, ready for shipping to the other side of the world. And it felt ok. The emptiness of the house didn’t really strike me. There was still so much to do. The mess left behind still needed to be dealt with. Besides, we’d recently had all the carpets in the house replaced, so it had been emptied of its contents just a short while ago. This didn’t feel any different.

B2 and I got to scrubbing while B1 was spending the day with a friend. We vacuumed, we cleaned cupboards, we cleaned bathrooms, we dusted, we picked up all the last bits of rubbish. Then B1 arrived and helped with the last few things. When we were done, I went from room to room, closing blinds and doors and saying goodbye to this home. I hadn’t expected the wracking sobs building from my gut, or the fat wet tears streaming down my cheeks. They took me somewhat by surprise. I thought I had rationalised it. After all, it is just a house. A building. A place to stop and rest. Why this sudden emotion?

B1 came in to find me in the kitchen, patting the countertops and sobbing. He hugged me, asked me why I was crying and said “but it’s just a house”. That’s when I was able to articulate what I was thinking and feeling. This was not just a house. This was the first home that LomL and I had ever owned. It was the home where both my children lost their first teeth. It was the home from which I sent them off to their first day at school. It was the home in which I home schooled them. It was the home from which they started at their new school, the one in which they had both been so happy. This was the home in which magic had been woven and letters from the Toothfairy, the Easter Bunny and Bilby and Santa had been received. It was the home where both children learned to ride their bikes, fell, grazed knees/arms/faces. It was the home where they learned to be pirates and climb trees and make fortresses out of branches. This was the home where a hundred parties were thrown, a thousand arguments were had, a million meals had been cooked. This was the home that both LomL and I had celebrated our 40^th birthdays in, where both the boys had achieved double-digit birthdays. This was the home from which both LomL and I had completed yet another tertiary qualification. This was where new friendships had been made and old ones renewed - friendships that transcend time and continent.

This home had housed us, the dog, chickens, geese, goldfish, rabbits, guinea pigs, frogs, bobtails, monitor lizards, gallahs, corellas, black cockatoos, herons, wattle birds, magpies, 28s, red-caps, splendid wrens, bronze-winged pigeons, tawny frogmouths, kookaburras, geckos, spiders and the various “pet” insects the children captured. This was the home in which I learnt so much about Australian indigenous flora and fauna and ecology. This was the home where we truly established ourselves as a family. And cleaning her felt like performing the last rites. It was my gift to her for having housed us so well, for having allowed us to grow. It felt very like my final gift.

 

Oh, I’ll go back before we leave the country. There are still things to be done. But last night was my farewell to her. I leave her with wonderful memories and immense gratitude for our time there.

I knew him

Penny (Australian) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Old Harry lived in a house near the end of the car park of the doctor’s surgery two doors up from our house. I don’t remember anymore what his surname was. But he was old. We moved to the suburb when I was 7, and Old Harry was already a shuffling old man, perpetually in his chequered house coat and slippers, suffused with the smell of old age. You know that smell. Dead skin cells and unwashed hair. It defines old age. As a child, my nose seemed particularly attuned to it. Like a bloodhound, I could smell when Old Harry was near. My nostrils would prickle and I would curl my nose and top lip with the pungency of it. Recently, I noticed my own hair has begun to emit the same odour. But I digress.

Harry was a friendly and lonely man. His only son had attained some prominence as a minor politician and was busy making a life for himself with his own family. I know so little about Harry. Children are rarely privy to the mysteries of old age, and it had never occurred to me to ask him what had happened to his wife. The egocentric world of childhood doesn't encourage that kind of curiosity about people. Those questions are for the socially aware and curious middle-aged. They are the questions I would ask him now.

Back then, I was content to know that Old Harry was the friendly old man who would periodically shuffle across the blistering heat of the bitumen car park to our back door. That was enough for me. That and the fact that he called the neighbour who lived behind us “Girl Gallagher”, despite the fact that she must have been well into her 50s or 60s by that stage. Mrs Gallagher was also on her own and had spent most of her life in that suburb. She may well have spent most of it in that house. I don’t remember any more. Old Harry remembered her as the child she must once have been and insisted on referring to her as a girl. I recall hearing him talk for the first time of “Girl Gallagher” and the sense of shock as I realised who he was talking about. For a 7 year old, a woman in her 50s or 60s is as far removed from girlhood as the Earth from the Sun.

Harry would wrap his dirty chenille housecoat around him, slip his house slippers on his feet and amble painfully over to our back door step. He would wait at the bottom of the steps that led to our back door till he could see someone moving around inside. Our back door would invariably be open. This was in the days before home invasions and burglaries. It was a more innocent time when doors were rarely closed, let alone locked, cars were never locked and you knew everyone in the street. It was a time when children played in the dirt lane way till they were tired and hungry, then landed at any one of the houses in the neighbourhood for a glass of milk and some afternoon tea. It was a time when the two old ladies who shared a house at the end of the lane way, whose children were married to each other, would take in playing children to feed them cake, teach them a little piano and send them home with armfuls of silver beet.

Old Harry would wait patiently at the bottom step, regardless of the weather, until he saw or sensed movement from the dark, cool recesses of our home. Then shyly, quietly he would call out till one of us came to the door to chat with him. He would keep us talking until politeness kicked in and we invited him in for tea. He would drink his tea with relish, but it was never the tea he came for. Harry was seeking company. I imagine now, though I couldn't then, that he had reached the age when partners die, children move on with their own lives, friends of the same age have moved away or shuffled off this mortal coil and the neighbourhood he knew had changed so radically that it was no longer recognisable.

Looking back on that time, I see how remarkable Harry was. A man who had lived his life in the same suburb, who had seen the deprivations and loss of war, who had known only a white, middle-class society would seek out our company. How strange we must have seemed to him. The smells of unfamiliar spices emanating from our house, the flavours of foreign sweetmeats and savoury treats served with tea, the sounds of ghazals and hindi movie music pouring from the record player, the sight of my mother swathed in her sari or my father pottering around in a lungi. All so removed from anything he could previously have experienced. Yet Harry would settle himself into a seat at our kitchen table, nurse his tea and seem content with simply being surrounded by the noise and bustle of our family. I am grateful to have known him. I am grateful to have had the opportunity to reflect on Old Harry and his quirkiness.

A Day of Hearts and Poetry Scribblings

I love my Queen of Hearts cup and saucer (it came with a teapot that I also love). It was my birthday present a few years ago and it's the cup I now use every morning to have my coffee in.

When I was younger, I would have saved this cup and teapot for a special occasion. It would have been carefully placed on display and probably never used. But what I've learned is that every day you're alive is a special day. Every day free of pain, free of torment, filled with first world problems, is a special day and worthy of celebration. So now, I celebrate by using all those special-day items that I love and that make me happy.

Since Alice in Wonderland is possibly my favourite book from childhood to now, this tea set holds a particularly special place in my heart.

I've also been working on one of my favourite poems and how I can create something out of it. Perhaps a quilt, perhaps a soft book, perhaps some embroidery. I'm not sure what yet, but it was in my head and I needed to start scribbling. Can you guess the poem? It is rather obvious!

Exhaustion

Exhausted. Just exhausted. The morning was characterised by some phenomenal dream that had me thrashing about. I have no memory of the dream itself, but did wake to find my pillows perpendicular to each other and items from my bedside table flung unceremoniously across the floor. I wonder what it was that had me so agitated?

I went to bed irritated and don't doubt for a second that that was what triggered the dreams, but the actual content of the dreams completely eludes me. Whatever it was, it had me flailing like I was fending off some monstrous beast.

Sleep has once again become an issue. It had been controlled for a while with the advent of regular swimming, but it's been nearly two weeks since I last swam any laps and I'm climbing the walls. Motivation is hard to find and lethargy curls its sinewy fingers throughout the day. My eyelids grow heavy and my brain grows dull. I hear the buzzing return of tinnitus and know that there's some low-level infection working its sinister magic on my immune system.

It's a vicious cycle this exercise and sleep business. I exercise, I sleep well and wake with energy. I don't exercise, I sleep poorly and fitfully and wake exhausted to my very bones, unable to muster enough interest or ability to complete even simple tasks.

My day has consisted of completing online forms and sending emails. Another contributing factor to the lethargy. Instead of revitalising me, it has made me long to curl up and sleep. My head feels filled with cotton wool and I cannot wade through the viscosity of it. I know there are tasks to complete, but have no will to summon. I suspect the weighty burden of all that needs to be done is also adding to my paralysis. I find myself near catatonia every time I consider the enormity of what remains to be done.

I'm sure there's a solution. I daresay it's a simple one - perhaps a reversion to my trusty lists is what will snap me out of this. The cotton wool in my head makes thinking clearly seem like trying to swim my way through a swimming pool filled with treacle. Every time I think I'm making progress, the sticky, gooey morass of impending deadlines and tasks yet to be done drag me inexorably to the bottom.

Still, to quote my favourite southern belle, "tomorrow is another day".

First Encounters

So here we are on our orientation trip to Houston, preparing for the big move over at the end of the year. We have a one week orientation to the city and surrounds and it's our opportunity to see if this is really something we could do.

We had always talked about living outside of Australia at some point in our lives, preferably while the children were still young and able to make the transition relatively easily. Over the last 10 years or so, we have considered and rejected many possibilities for overseas postings. LomL works in the petroleum industry and that pretty much limits the number of fun places we're ever likely to live in the world through his work.

A few job offers have come up for Mauritania. Ones we did seriously consider for a minute, but the thought of living 24/7 in a gated, barbed-wire, electric-fenced community and taking the kids to school with an armed driver, really did very little for my peace of mind.

There were job offers for Qatar and Saudi Arabia. Both involved living in gated compounds and, for me, living a very restricted life. Singapore came up once or twice, but we couldn't see that the life would be better for us than what we had.

Eventually, we got to the point where we began to resign ourselves to a life lived in the same place. This may not seem a big deal to most people, in fact, I can see how it would be a comforting thought to many. The familiarity and comfort of all you know, all you have ever known surrounding you. The problem for us, however, is that we're essentially restless and adventurous souls. LomL came to the realisation the other day that this is the longest we've ever lived in one place since we've been married; 9 years. Recently, I had a very dear friend tell me I'd done a lot of brave things in my life. It has never felt like that. We've always just faced the challenges and lived our lives without consideration for how hard things were - without ever really considering that things were hard. I think that because of that, we've managed to have fun and make wonderful friends in some of the most unlikely places.

Still, after 9 years in the same place, doing pretty much the same things (with a little overseas travel thrown in), one does tend to become rooted to the spot. I don't know whether familiarity breeds contempt, but in my case, it has certainly bred complacency. One does tend to give greater importance to petty worries and irritations than they deserve, because life is overwhelmingly carefree. What that parent said at the last school event suddenly gains far more importance and weighting than it should in my mind. I worry over what this person thinks, how that one was affected by my words or actions, I worry about whether I'm advocating enough or too much for the children at school. I worry about minor, silly things that deserve no time or space in my consciousness, because, frankly there are no big worries. We are surrounded by family, by friends, by support systems and by unnervingly familiar ways of working and living. I find myself growing roots out of my toes to the place we live, the places we shop, the places we visit. I appreciate less what's around me, and take for granted more all the advantages we have. I complain more. I become more scared of doing things and going places. And I become lazy about fighting those parts of my personality that I don't particularly like. There's no need. I have family that love me. I am surrounded by a wonderful network of friends that love me. Why change? Why even be pleasant or make an effort?

While my initial reaction to the prospect of moving permanently to another country was fright and anxiety, it really didn't take much thinking to know it was the right thing to do for us. The children are both young enough not to be adversely affected by the change and old enough to be excited by the prospects of a new adventure. LomL is going to a new, more exciting job that has effectively been created with him in mind. And I, I am going to a new place. A new house, a new community, a new way of living. I don't have to worry about learning a new language or be super cautious of cultural sensitivities. I do have to learn a new way of thinking about distances and temperatures and other measurements. All in all, there's some new stuff to learn, but quite a lot of what awaits is familiar. But the best bit of all? It's a huge opportunity to reawaken my adventurous spirit, dust off some cobwebs and push myself to be less introverted and more social. That excites me.

Day 5

Ok, I was less inspired by today's criterion, but here it is anyway.

From a high angle

Note: One should always have one's knife handy when one is on an iPad. Who knows what might leap out of the screen?

Day 4

 I've always thought it odd that we have one word that is meant to sum up so many shades; green. It's nonsensical, of course, and also not true. English is replete with words that mean green. My two favourites are Cerulean and Chartruse - not because I like the colours/shades particularly, but I love the words. They conjure up images of long-ago-times and far-away-places, of ships and sealing wax, of dragons and swords, of forests and hooded archers, and ever such a teeny-tiny amount of magic and fairy dust.

Sadly, green has evoked a turmoil of emotions in me for many years now. Years of wearing a green school uniform that incorporated every possible unflattering shade of green (unflattering to everyone who wore it), left me somewhat gun-shy of the colour in all its shades and hues. It has taken me nearly 30 years to overcome this aversion and I'm learning to love green again.

I loved this part of the project. It gave me an opportunity to reacquaint myself with green in all its many incarnations, and to truly appreciate how inadequate that humble word is to describe the spectrum.

Day 3

Today's project was meant to be "clouds" but on a day when it's 31C and cloudless... well, this was what I could do. Any guesses?

Day 2: Lest We Forget

What I wore today

Well, I've made it to day 2 of the project. Day 2 is about what I'm wearing. For once, it's not my usual uniform of jeans and a cotton shirt, which is pretty handy really as it's ANZAC day here in Australia.

We have a family tradition of going to an ANZAC service every year. One of the boys wears the Love of my Life's grandfather's medals, and the other wears my grandfather's epaulette. Both of us had grandfathers that saw active service in different countries in WWII (mine saw active service in WWI and some of the Indo-China conflicts too), so ANZAC day is significant and moving for us.

We've made it to a few dawn services, but more often than not, we go for the services that are a bit later in the morning. The services are always moving, current and ex-servicemen and women will tell of their experiences or the experiences of some member of their family. It's hard, when you have boys, not to think of those grieving mothers and wives, those very young men and women who gave so bravely of their own lives in order to preserve the freedoms that we enjoy. It's a wonderful reminder that our lives, the things we take for granted, the freedoms we enjoy were paid for with the ultimate sacrifice of many. And it's an opportunity to honour that and give thanks to those who sacrificed so much.

As a migrant to this country, I find the meaning of the day is in no way diminished. Instead, it has become for me, a day of reflection, of understanding what it is my parents sought when they came here, and of appreciating the liberties and choices that I and my children now have.

Without fail, every year, as the Last Post plays on the bugle, I dissolve into a wash of tears. This year was no different. I managed to hold my emotions in check through the heart-rending stories, through the calls to remember those who had died and those still engaged in conflicts around the world, through the reminders of the luxuries we enjoy and the rebuilding and good works our service people conduct throughout the world. But the first tremulous notes of the Last Post begin and I find great, fat, warm, wet tears snaking their way down my cheeks.

To all of those who sacrificed their lives so that Australia could afford us the freedoms we enjoy, and to all of those who continue to heed the call of duty of our nation, I thank you.

Ode of Remembrance (stanza 4):

They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old:

Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

At the going down of the sun and in the morning,

We will remember them.

Lest We Forget

Day 1

I'm beginning another project. Let's see how long this one lasts!

Self-portrait

Another day in Paradise...

So, today I've escorted a random, but super friendly, neighbourhood dog off the property, only to then  break up the ensuing dog fight between random-dog, dog across the road and Shadow the wonder dog. Polly from across the road and Shadow both decided that random-dog had no business visiting us.

That was quickly followed up by having the drains professionally unblocked of tree roots... again... and now there's an unholy stink outside but I can't figure out whether it's from the drain-unblocking or the major road works going on. Oh yes, and we've had the window-shaking rumble of heavy machinery all day as the road we live on is systematically dug up and widened.

Now it's suddenly gone dark and cold and is pouring with rain, so all the washing I've done has to go in the dryer. Sigh. This is not quite how I envisaged spending school holidays.

Walking through the Park and Reminiscing

B1's drawing and my sewn interpretation of it

In the spirit of recent posts, I've been reminiscing again. This time on happier thoughts. It was my sister's birthday a few days ago and while thinking of what to get her (yes, the usual gift card for the bookshop was also obtained), I remembered a drawing that B1 had done of the two of us, when he was only four.

In the drawing, we're skateboarding. This in itself is remarkable given that both of us have severely injured our ankles merely walking along pavement. The very idea of either of us getting on something less stable than a motorised, four-wheeled vehicle is hilarious, to say the least. So the fact that my then 4 year old thought it was a real possibility that we would a) get on a skateboard and b) perform tricks while on said skateboard was nearing hysterically funny.

This drawing, for ever so many reasons, is a favourite of both mine and my sister's. It shows us both scooting along on our boards, (limited) hair flying, manic look on our faces, arms flailing and clearly completely carefree. It is such a lovely insight into how he saw us when he was that age - daring, risk-taking, fun, brave. So much to live up to.

The completed cushion.
I don't think I conveyed quite enough "manic"!

Since we both love this picture, and I'm in the mood for reminiscing, I thought I'd use the excuse of her birthday to make the drawing into a cushion. Of course, since I'm never one to plan too far ahead, all this occurred to me late yesterday evening. I duly dug up the picture from its safe place (it really was stored in a safe place), photocopied it and began copying and sewing it. Thankfully, B1 wasn't a master artist at four, and there weren't too many strokes to copy. I finished it off this morning, filled it and sewed it up. I hope she's as excited to receive it as I was making it.

"The time has come", the Walrus said...

My recent trip to India invoked a flurry of reminiscences. Memories of childhood days, passed idly in my own company, wandering through the ample gardens of my grandmother's home, talking to myself and creating games, visiting the cows or finding abandoned kittens and puppies come flooding easily to my mind. Delightful memories. Though at the time, I didn't see it in quite the same light. I remember the intense sense of loneliness and boredom. Being the youngest in that family was no fun. I listen now to the tales of childhood holidays that my siblings tell. Stories of times spent in the joyous company of cousins, uncles and aunts. Times when gangs of cousins would gather together and get up to no good. Times when the house was filled to bursting with family, laughter and noise...and the many arguments that ensued.

My cousin remembers a time when they all played cricket in the upstairs hall at the ancestral home. Inside. The hall was huge and when the families gathered, this was where the children would congregate to sleep, reacquaint themselves with each other, tell stories, gossip and play. I imagine the excitement. I can see the hall filled with them all, their younger selves. I hear their voices raised in argument, jokes and storytelling in a variety of languages. I hear the giggles and squeals as they delight in each others' company. But they are not my memories. Simply my imaginings of their memories.

My memories are quieter, lonelier. Perhaps even tinged with a little sadness. My memories are of wandering that very same hall on my own. Of the stillness and silence that surrounded me. Of feeling the presence of ghosts and spectres, but not fearing them. My memories are of dusty rooms filled with decaying mounted deer's heads, of oppressive heat in the middle of the day and a silent house as the adults all slept off their lunch. My memories are of sitting in the windowsill of the upstairs room, staring through the ornate wood-barred window and imaging a tale of a princess trapped in her tower. The silence broken only by the call of the postman, the dog barking or the cows lowing. In my memory, there was a permanent heaviness in the pit of my stomach. Nervousness? Loneliness? I don't know. But discomfort certainly. I remember every inch of that garden, of the house, because for me, that was my company. The garden became my magical forest. The place where a thousand adventures befell me. The house was my plaything. Immense and elusive, keeping her secrets well hidden, but tantalising me with the hint of a hidden secret if only I cared to look.

Tamarinds, Alor, Indonesia (Photo credit: GlobalCitizen01)

I remember the exquisite tang of tamarind plucked from the tree, tingling my tastebuds into life. Followed quickly by the sharp slap of fresh green peppercorns, snatched from the vines that entwined the tamarind trees. Saliva fills my mouth as I recall the sourness of the bilimby pulli stolen from the trees on my way to the outside bathroom. Even that bathroom evokes a great sense of joy in me. The time spent waiting in the kitchen with the servant as she boiled the water for my bath. Her remonstrations that I shouldn't touch the pot because I was just a child and I would burn myself. Watching her heft that heavy pot past the well to the bathroom, and then return to the well for cold water for me to mix with the hot to achieve the perfect temperature for my bath. I remember those bucket baths with great affection.

മലയാളം: (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I remember also the servants who, with extraordinary patience and kindness, would incorporate me into their daily tasks. Each of them assigning me a job that they would oversee with great gentleness. I remember laying tamarind, chilli and pepper on great white sheets, weighed down in the corners by large stones, out in the bright hot sun to dry. I remember having to shoo the crows who would try their cunning best to steal the drying goods, and claiming a stalk of tamarind or pepper as my reward. I remember learning to light a fire with nothing more than the husk of a coconut and a long metal tube, of nursing those early flickering flames into a healthy fire. Of the smoke that would fill my eyes, nose and lungs. The ring of the servant's laughter as she guided my feeble efforts at fire-lighting.

I spent a long time in my life feeling sad that I had missed the joy of the company of my cousins. I felt somehow cheated of that companionship, that consolidation of our relationships. Now, I choose to see the great gifts I was given by those wonderful people who worked for my family. Their patience, their kindness, their love are what sustained me through many lonely days spent over many years of Christmas holidays. There was so much that I learnt from them. So much about the simple things in life. So much about hard work. And most importantly, so much about generosity of spirit and pure love. For that and for the many joyous days of my childhood, I hold them deeply in my heart with gratitude and thanks.

A Segue into Memories of Childhood

Seeing Dasamaama, memories came flooding back. This uncle, ever-present through my childhood visits to the ancestral home, and his sister were my saviours from boredom. They were the ones who would come home after a long day at work and insist on taking me away from a day spent in my own company wandering through the ample gardens, making up games as I went. Thinking of them evokes memories of orange ice-cream in a neat square on a saucer, a walk along the beach with roasted peanuts in a newspaper cone. The simple pleasures that defined the bulk of Christmas holidays of my childhood.

But he is old now. At 81 he's no longer fleet of foot, striding impatiently far ahead, dark skin gleaming and muscles rippling. Always lean, now he looks gaunt. My heart feels heavy. This may be my last goodbye with him and I don't feel ready to make it. Are we ever ready?

The first day passes in a haze of sweat and heat and bustling in the kitchen. Fish cutlets for dinner, a bridge too far for Dasamaama. His stomach can no longer cope with even that, let alone the scorching chillies of the past. A restless night, antacids the outcome. The second day was better. The opportunity to reminisce with him, to tell him of our potential futures. Not all our futures are rosy. Dire and depressing, hard to bear for the young, necessary to hear for the old.

Already the passing of his younger sister is playing on his mind. Now I have added to that with news of his even younger nephew. But we are old now, he and I. The days of my childhood exist only in my memory. As the song goes... those schoolgirl days, of telling tales and biting nails are gone. Childish thoughts evaporate like mist and we are forced to face the stark, grounded and cruel reality of our own mortality. With immense sadness, I sought his blessing and parted, perhaps for the last time.

The time has come,

For closing books and long last looks must end,

And as I leave,

I know that I am leaving my best friend,

A friend who taught me right from wrong,

And weak from strong,

That's a lot to learn,

What, what can I give you in return?

If you wanted the moon I would try to make a start,

But, I would rather you let me give my heart...