No, it all goes on and on, and thus so does the turmoil, the rage and the tears. Every time I think I am recovering a little, I get walloped by the slings and arrows of outrageous executors and solicitors, and I would not mind dishing a bit out in return. Oner of those clubs all studded with very nasty spikes would do very nicely, but they are probably all locked up in the museum. Alas.
I am neck deep in papers, correspondence, and looking for things which were in my hand, on the floor, or very close by only 30 seconds ago. Much more than 30 seconds is needed to re-locate whatever it was. Such happenings make me wonder whether I am becoming Alzheimic, or whether it is merely the accumulated and undischarged grief, rage and stress provoked by the wicked stepfamily and their minions.
When I asked the solicitor about my being reimbursed for household expenditure for the period up to Dr P's death, I was assured that there would be no problem - just let them know - and similarly that the cost of the wake would be borne by the estate. Fine, although I would happily have paid for the wake. My family, friends and I went out and bought quantities of food and drink, and I meticulously subtracted the amount for anything not consumed at the wake. That has now been paid, after a mere 13 weeks.
However the solicitor says he is 'instructed' to get the particulars of the other expenditure claimed. This was household expenditure paid by me, ACCORDING TO OUR USUAL ARRANGEMENTS, because Dr P was no longer capable of doing anything himself, and, what was more, was in hospital and then the nursing home, soon and unexpectedly to die. I do not have all the receipts, just the note of the costs, and I am certainly not going to itemise every little detail of perfectly legitimate expenses. Like buying takeaway coffee. Or taking Dr P chocolate milkshakes. It is none of their business. They knew perfectly well what our lifestyle was like, what food and drink we had, how numerous Dr P's medications, and our normal routines. I will forego the money.
So I expect that the wicked stepdaughters, in addition to their purloining of 90 per cent of their father's cash assets, will now be enriched by their hanging on to a sum which should go to me. Well, they can have it, as far as I am concerned, and may they all rot in Hell. In fact, right now, I hope there is indeed a Hell, and I must consult my Dante to see into which Circle they should all be put. We had a little discussion at the Italian class last Thursday, about where certain other people should most appropriately be placed, and I suggested they should be cut up into as many bits as needed, and a piece placed in each location, thus excruciatingly exacerbating the torture. I tell you, in this day and age Dante would have been a scriptwriter and film maker of horror movies.
Maybe I will calm down in due course. I wrote to my BIL last night, and am in the throes of writing other stuff as required, losing relevant documents as I go, and busily finding them all, re-labelling them and re-filing them, in the probably vain hope of not falling into this state of disarray ever again. I dare not so hope. Having entered here, it has been abandoned. And not because I am wicked, either.
It is probably time I went and bought myself a takeaway coffee and a takeaway spinach something for dinner.
The ball of dark blue wool has not turned up, either. And the telephone is crackly and fuzzy, and I will have to do something about that too. Drat and darn. Or words to that effect.
Someone just rang up about solar energy, and wanted to know whether he was speaking to the owner of the house. I said No, and looked forward to the likely explication of the situation relating to the owner of the house, but he hung up on me! Small mercies.
I worked off some of my rage by a further discarding of things relating to the stepfamily. I may dump a whole lot of their photos in the garbage bin (it gets put out tonight). Or I may soften and send it COD to the solicitor.
Why I am so fixated on trying not to be horrible or bad? I know why, it is my Catholic upbringing and conscience, and its emphasis on charity. The possibly more fortunate stepfamily grew up without such inhibitions. Possibly genetically immune?
Tuesday, 7 June 2011
Friday, 3 June 2011
Losing things
There is a piece by Beethoven popularly known as Rage for a Lost Penny. It is busy and frantic, and it does not end with any feeling of the triumph of a successful search. This piece resonates, and certainly touched a nerve. So many have had the experience of not being able to find something. And it drives you nutty.
At present I am searching for a ball of dark blue wool. It is being used to make some more crocheted squares, for the ABC's Knit In. (Or is it Knitting with Love?) Anyway, lots of people get together and makes squares, mostly knitted, but some crocheted, and then there is a big day when people get together and join them all up into wraps, or blankets. The squares must measure 10 inches.
I cannot knit, so my squares are crocheted. They are made from spare and odd balls, and are in many different colours, leftovers from previous cot blankets, and from other balls I bought so I could keep my hands busy. Assembling them into a harmonious combination is difficult, and new squares in different colour combinations have been multiplying.
Once upon a time (sighs plaintively here) it was possible to choose from a extensive array of colours. No more. Odds and sods are what is available now. Various shades of murk tend to predominate. Clear bright colours are scarce. I keep buying more balls of wool, advising myself to exercise some restraint, for heaven's sake, and fiddling with the arrangement of the squares.
I was using the dark blue to edge the squares only a couple of days ago, as I sat, peaceably enough, minding my own business, in the lounge while watching the TV. I finished the square, and now the ball has disappeared.
It is not under the chair (I have looked several times already), or in the chair, under the rug, anywhere on the coffee table, up the stairs, in the bag of wool, in the backpack I take with me to my classes, nor in any of my pockets, under the stairs, on the ironing board, near the computer, in the bookshelves, in the bedroom, in or under the bed, in the bathroom, in the cupboards, pantry or kitchen drawers. I cannot find it here or there. I cannot find it ANYWHERE.
It is driving me bonkers. The only thing which might calm me would be to go out and (a) buy the CD of the Rage for a Lost Penny, or b) buy a new ball of dark blue wool - assuming it is still on sale. At choir, I asked our accompanist if she knew and played the piece. She did, but she shuddered slightly.
Never let it be thought that squares are the only thing I crochet, even though there is a spare cot blanket in my cupboards. It is in shades of deep and bright pink and black, but as my nieces have all had boys, I don't think any of them would receive this blanket with glad cries. I think the world believes that if a male child is put anywhere near pink, his vital appendage will fall off forthwith. We cannot have that happen, can we? The risk is simply too great. So I hope someone has another girl child soon....
I have been crocheting a very 1970s style sweater, which I started before Dr P went to hospital. The wool is lovely and a gorgeous shade of wisteria or jacaranda. Very fetching, I hope. I had to pull out quite a lot of it, as I could not follow the pattern. It has been years since I tried to make anything at all complicated. The day before Dr P died I took it to the crochet clinic and the amazing expert sorted it all out for me, and said the pattern was extremely badly written, not to mention wrong.
Since then work has progressed and I am now on the second sleeve. Then will come the fun of sewing it all together, and hoping it fits. Occasionally I take the crochet to places such as choir, where a little can be done while other parts are being rehearsed. Now there are a few of us who do some knitting or crocheting. One of the choristers farms out wool and the pattern to make loose socks for people in nursing homes. The combination of making music and making things by hand is rather pleasant and links us together in more ways than one.
I expect the only way of making the wretched missing ball turn up is to buy another one.
At present I am searching for a ball of dark blue wool. It is being used to make some more crocheted squares, for the ABC's Knit In. (Or is it Knitting with Love?) Anyway, lots of people get together and makes squares, mostly knitted, but some crocheted, and then there is a big day when people get together and join them all up into wraps, or blankets. The squares must measure 10 inches.
I cannot knit, so my squares are crocheted. They are made from spare and odd balls, and are in many different colours, leftovers from previous cot blankets, and from other balls I bought so I could keep my hands busy. Assembling them into a harmonious combination is difficult, and new squares in different colour combinations have been multiplying.
Once upon a time (sighs plaintively here) it was possible to choose from a extensive array of colours. No more. Odds and sods are what is available now. Various shades of murk tend to predominate. Clear bright colours are scarce. I keep buying more balls of wool, advising myself to exercise some restraint, for heaven's sake, and fiddling with the arrangement of the squares.
I was using the dark blue to edge the squares only a couple of days ago, as I sat, peaceably enough, minding my own business, in the lounge while watching the TV. I finished the square, and now the ball has disappeared.
It is not under the chair (I have looked several times already), or in the chair, under the rug, anywhere on the coffee table, up the stairs, in the bag of wool, in the backpack I take with me to my classes, nor in any of my pockets, under the stairs, on the ironing board, near the computer, in the bookshelves, in the bedroom, in or under the bed, in the bathroom, in the cupboards, pantry or kitchen drawers. I cannot find it here or there. I cannot find it ANYWHERE.
It is driving me bonkers. The only thing which might calm me would be to go out and (a) buy the CD of the Rage for a Lost Penny, or b) buy a new ball of dark blue wool - assuming it is still on sale. At choir, I asked our accompanist if she knew and played the piece. She did, but she shuddered slightly.
Never let it be thought that squares are the only thing I crochet, even though there is a spare cot blanket in my cupboards. It is in shades of deep and bright pink and black, but as my nieces have all had boys, I don't think any of them would receive this blanket with glad cries. I think the world believes that if a male child is put anywhere near pink, his vital appendage will fall off forthwith. We cannot have that happen, can we? The risk is simply too great. So I hope someone has another girl child soon....
I have been crocheting a very 1970s style sweater, which I started before Dr P went to hospital. The wool is lovely and a gorgeous shade of wisteria or jacaranda. Very fetching, I hope. I had to pull out quite a lot of it, as I could not follow the pattern. It has been years since I tried to make anything at all complicated. The day before Dr P died I took it to the crochet clinic and the amazing expert sorted it all out for me, and said the pattern was extremely badly written, not to mention wrong.
Since then work has progressed and I am now on the second sleeve. Then will come the fun of sewing it all together, and hoping it fits. Occasionally I take the crochet to places such as choir, where a little can be done while other parts are being rehearsed. Now there are a few of us who do some knitting or crocheting. One of the choristers farms out wool and the pattern to make loose socks for people in nursing homes. The combination of making music and making things by hand is rather pleasant and links us together in more ways than one.
I expect the only way of making the wretched missing ball turn up is to buy another one.
Friday, 27 May 2011
Ignorance is not bliss
It is about time I set about improving my computer knowledge, as I have not been able to cope with documents sent to me in pdf format. While I can print them out, I cannot change their contents. So instead of getting on with the main tasks to do with my future, I am floundering around trying to sort out this technical problem. It is the sort of thing likely to provoke wild sobs, bashing brains out, swearing a lot, and is a substantial waste of time.
When I bought the new iMac, because of Dr P's feebleness it was not possible for me to activate the One to One subscription, which would have been some help. Now that three months have passed since his death, I can probably manage it, except that most of my time is having to be devoted to producing documents and financial records, and working out my monthly expenditure. Ugh!
I need someone to show me how to do it, kindly and patiently. And to write it all down, for future reference.
Somehow the simplest things seem to take such a long time to do. Sometimes I wonder whether senility is rapidly approaching, and there is moreover the lurking fear that I may not be the only person who has this suspicion. I hope the problems are merely the effects of grief and stress, and that they go away soon. In the meantime, I watch SBS's Letters and Numbers, only to find that my performance has sadly deteriorated. At least I can still spell, although my typing is quite appalling. For this latter defect I blame the wireless keyboard that comes with the iMac, which is incredibly tiny and makes it very easy to hit additional keys. Many of my words contain an additional letter - g in particular and thus much time is spent correcting ubiquitous errors.
When I was younger I tried to do a typing course at night. I'd go out after feeding Stomper, leaving her to the care of her father, and would come home feeling I had not progressed very far. Stomper, being a perfect baby, did not play up for her father at all, but she stayed wide awake until I returned home. Every other night she went straight to sleep. I never did achieve a typing speed. This seemed to matter little at the time, and it was not until multi-skilling was introduced into the Public Service generally that all of a sudden we had to do our own typing, without ever having been taught properly to do so, and then get to learn computers, which were then in their very early stages, without having any very adequate training. However, it did seem that multi-skilling did not work in reverse, and thus we gained but did not lose tasks/skills.
In the meantime, I am not a pretty sight. I banged the side of my forehead on the corner of my sister's car door, when I opened it to retrieve a parcel. I now sport an increasingly spectacular and technicolour black eye. This is what comes of loving the colour purple. People are asking me what happened to the other fellow.
As loading photographs onto my blog has somehow become more difficult than it used to be, I have no intention of trying to load a photo of my black eye.
My computer obviously realised I was writing about it, and today shut itself down without my authorising it to do so. This was about the fourth such occurrence, so I rang the Apple Help, and was connected to Ben, from Devonport. The Apple Help centres, I now know, are in Brisbane and Devonport, and while we waited for the computer to do as it was told, we had a pleasant discussion about how lovely Tasmania is.
It turned out that my computer needed its installation DVD to be re-loaded, as all manner of things had gone wrong, and for good measure, we repaired its permissions as well. It is now working much faster, and obviously I should act much more promptly when problems occur.
It has been a busy day, as I went to a film with friends, Mrs Carey's Concert, which was very good, and showed what can be achieved by wealthy private schools with excellent teachers and very talented and privileged pupils. The music education is quite incredibly good - and far exceeds what it was like in the dim distant past when I was at school. We had dinner together afterwards, and I am just home, and preparing for an all day choir rehearsal tomorrow. Unless I rise early and am very organised, I won't have time to get to the market and buy flowers.
When I bought the new iMac, because of Dr P's feebleness it was not possible for me to activate the One to One subscription, which would have been some help. Now that three months have passed since his death, I can probably manage it, except that most of my time is having to be devoted to producing documents and financial records, and working out my monthly expenditure. Ugh!
I need someone to show me how to do it, kindly and patiently. And to write it all down, for future reference.
Somehow the simplest things seem to take such a long time to do. Sometimes I wonder whether senility is rapidly approaching, and there is moreover the lurking fear that I may not be the only person who has this suspicion. I hope the problems are merely the effects of grief and stress, and that they go away soon. In the meantime, I watch SBS's Letters and Numbers, only to find that my performance has sadly deteriorated. At least I can still spell, although my typing is quite appalling. For this latter defect I blame the wireless keyboard that comes with the iMac, which is incredibly tiny and makes it very easy to hit additional keys. Many of my words contain an additional letter - g in particular and thus much time is spent correcting ubiquitous errors.
When I was younger I tried to do a typing course at night. I'd go out after feeding Stomper, leaving her to the care of her father, and would come home feeling I had not progressed very far. Stomper, being a perfect baby, did not play up for her father at all, but she stayed wide awake until I returned home. Every other night she went straight to sleep. I never did achieve a typing speed. This seemed to matter little at the time, and it was not until multi-skilling was introduced into the Public Service generally that all of a sudden we had to do our own typing, without ever having been taught properly to do so, and then get to learn computers, which were then in their very early stages, without having any very adequate training. However, it did seem that multi-skilling did not work in reverse, and thus we gained but did not lose tasks/skills.
In the meantime, I am not a pretty sight. I banged the side of my forehead on the corner of my sister's car door, when I opened it to retrieve a parcel. I now sport an increasingly spectacular and technicolour black eye. This is what comes of loving the colour purple. People are asking me what happened to the other fellow.
As loading photographs onto my blog has somehow become more difficult than it used to be, I have no intention of trying to load a photo of my black eye.
My computer obviously realised I was writing about it, and today shut itself down without my authorising it to do so. This was about the fourth such occurrence, so I rang the Apple Help, and was connected to Ben, from Devonport. The Apple Help centres, I now know, are in Brisbane and Devonport, and while we waited for the computer to do as it was told, we had a pleasant discussion about how lovely Tasmania is.
It turned out that my computer needed its installation DVD to be re-loaded, as all manner of things had gone wrong, and for good measure, we repaired its permissions as well. It is now working much faster, and obviously I should act much more promptly when problems occur.
It has been a busy day, as I went to a film with friends, Mrs Carey's Concert, which was very good, and showed what can be achieved by wealthy private schools with excellent teachers and very talented and privileged pupils. The music education is quite incredibly good - and far exceeds what it was like in the dim distant past when I was at school. We had dinner together afterwards, and I am just home, and preparing for an all day choir rehearsal tomorrow. Unless I rise early and am very organised, I won't have time to get to the market and buy flowers.
Wednesday, 25 May 2011
Let's talk about the weather, and what it does
Not for very long, though. It is COLD! Canberra and Adelaide were very cold. Melbourne was mild, but, back home in Sydney, the mild spell is over and I have had to turn on the heating. My fingers are cold, my shoulders tense up as I try not to shiver.
But the camellias have started to flower. In Canberra flowering does not start until early spring. My sasanqua camellia has been flowering for weeks, and is nearing the end of its season. When I got home there were several open blooms on my pink camellia japonica (which was planted so long ago that I can't remember its name, and the red one, which has struggled since it was planted to survive a couple of searing summers, has a gorgeous and perfect flower. I did what I seldom do - I picked them and they are floating in a couple of bowls. They are thawing slightly a part of my sad and frozen heart.
Usually I buy flowers at the local produce market, but, having been away, I have had no flowers in the house for weeks now. Dr P always thought it was a total waste of money to buy flowers, but eventually he gave up grumbling out loud about it.
Before I moved here, I seldom bought flowers, as there was usually something to pick from my garden. Here there is so little room that the only things which bloom rampantly are the self-sown nasturtiums, the red and green alstroemerias (which drop sticky stuff around), the rather insignificant flowers of the lemon verbena, and the Chinese star jasmine.
I generally buy liliums, or alstroemerias of the hybridised kind.They last well. Sometimes I lash out and get the Asiatic scented liliums. Some people do not like the scent, but I think it is delectable.
I think that once I know what I am doing, ie where I will be living, I will plant something in memory of Dr P. Something flamboyant and argumentative, and spectacularly gorgeous. I can't get him a memorial rose: I never managed to grow roses at all successfully. It will have to be able to thrive anywhere, and be something long-lived. If I stay here, a rampant scarlet bougainvillea could be just the thing. If elsewhere, a strong informal double red camellia could be a good choice. Or a blazing red callistemon.
For myself, I'd like a formal double camellia. If I get through the next year, I think something beautiful and perfect might be merited: as a recognition of my attempts to be a good and loving person, and a kind of absolution for past errors, omissions and failures.
But the camellias have started to flower. In Canberra flowering does not start until early spring. My sasanqua camellia has been flowering for weeks, and is nearing the end of its season. When I got home there were several open blooms on my pink camellia japonica (which was planted so long ago that I can't remember its name, and the red one, which has struggled since it was planted to survive a couple of searing summers, has a gorgeous and perfect flower. I did what I seldom do - I picked them and they are floating in a couple of bowls. They are thawing slightly a part of my sad and frozen heart.
Usually I buy flowers at the local produce market, but, having been away, I have had no flowers in the house for weeks now. Dr P always thought it was a total waste of money to buy flowers, but eventually he gave up grumbling out loud about it.
Before I moved here, I seldom bought flowers, as there was usually something to pick from my garden. Here there is so little room that the only things which bloom rampantly are the self-sown nasturtiums, the red and green alstroemerias (which drop sticky stuff around), the rather insignificant flowers of the lemon verbena, and the Chinese star jasmine.
I generally buy liliums, or alstroemerias of the hybridised kind.They last well. Sometimes I lash out and get the Asiatic scented liliums. Some people do not like the scent, but I think it is delectable.
I think that once I know what I am doing, ie where I will be living, I will plant something in memory of Dr P. Something flamboyant and argumentative, and spectacularly gorgeous. I can't get him a memorial rose: I never managed to grow roses at all successfully. It will have to be able to thrive anywhere, and be something long-lived. If I stay here, a rampant scarlet bougainvillea could be just the thing. If elsewhere, a strong informal double red camellia could be a good choice. Or a blazing red callistemon.
For myself, I'd like a formal double camellia. If I get through the next year, I think something beautiful and perfect might be merited: as a recognition of my attempts to be a good and loving person, and a kind of absolution for past errors, omissions and failures.
Wednesday, 18 May 2011
Known and unknown destinations
Having travelled twice now in the last 12 weeks, and being about to set off again, I ponder the nature of travel, physical and emotional.
With physical travel, you decide on a destination, arrange it, and then do it. You know where you are going, how to get there, and how to return. You decide on what to do while you travel.
Emotional travel, if one can so label the process I am undergoing, has no such certainty. The journey commences without volition. You know not where you are going, how you will travel, what you will do during the process, how you will recognise the destination. Neither do you know whether the destination will be temporary, indefinite or lasting. Sometimes the weather is clear, while at other times, one is shrouded in a very murky mist, with no clear path, and where the choices are uncertain, confused, and just as likely wrong.
The moods can vary between desperate sadness, uncertainty, confusion, irritation, anger, self-pity and resentment to a dull and deadening ache. Or it can happen that the clouds lift somewhat, that company, love and friendship can bring comfort, gratitude, joy and simple pleasure. Nothing is fixed, nothing is lasting. Not yet, possibly not at all. That is how life is, after all.
My time with my friend was good, with many experiences and memories to share. We talked all the time, went to the theatre and to a concert, and saw friends and former colleagues of Dr P. She was widowed two years ago. She is a person of great courage and resolution. Her husband was younger than mine. Theirs was a immensely happy marriage, and a meeting of true minds. His death was unexpected. Dr P's death, while sudden, meant that he did not linger longer in physical and mental weakness and confusion, which was fortunate for him. While we loved each other, we were very different in age, interests and abilities. As well as the good times, there were misunderstandings, and disputes, which inevitably have muddied the waters of grief. It is impossible to say whose path has been the most difficult.
How can such things be measured?
It is necessary to attend to a few things before travelling again to see many of my family. One of my brothers is having a significant birthday. It seems that quite often men are unable to organise a celebration, and thus the task has fallen to his sisters. I will see my elder daughter and grandchildren, brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews, and great-nephews. There will be discussions with my brother in law about how things are going, and what to do next. Perhaps these will make my heaving stomach settle down a little, and enable me to set to work on the next process and get it all done. I hope so.
With physical travel, you decide on a destination, arrange it, and then do it. You know where you are going, how to get there, and how to return. You decide on what to do while you travel.
Emotional travel, if one can so label the process I am undergoing, has no such certainty. The journey commences without volition. You know not where you are going, how you will travel, what you will do during the process, how you will recognise the destination. Neither do you know whether the destination will be temporary, indefinite or lasting. Sometimes the weather is clear, while at other times, one is shrouded in a very murky mist, with no clear path, and where the choices are uncertain, confused, and just as likely wrong.
The moods can vary between desperate sadness, uncertainty, confusion, irritation, anger, self-pity and resentment to a dull and deadening ache. Or it can happen that the clouds lift somewhat, that company, love and friendship can bring comfort, gratitude, joy and simple pleasure. Nothing is fixed, nothing is lasting. Not yet, possibly not at all. That is how life is, after all.
My time with my friend was good, with many experiences and memories to share. We talked all the time, went to the theatre and to a concert, and saw friends and former colleagues of Dr P. She was widowed two years ago. She is a person of great courage and resolution. Her husband was younger than mine. Theirs was a immensely happy marriage, and a meeting of true minds. His death was unexpected. Dr P's death, while sudden, meant that he did not linger longer in physical and mental weakness and confusion, which was fortunate for him. While we loved each other, we were very different in age, interests and abilities. As well as the good times, there were misunderstandings, and disputes, which inevitably have muddied the waters of grief. It is impossible to say whose path has been the most difficult.
How can such things be measured?
It is necessary to attend to a few things before travelling again to see many of my family. One of my brothers is having a significant birthday. It seems that quite often men are unable to organise a celebration, and thus the task has fallen to his sisters. I will see my elder daughter and grandchildren, brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews, and great-nephews. There will be discussions with my brother in law about how things are going, and what to do next. Perhaps these will make my heaving stomach settle down a little, and enable me to set to work on the next process and get it all done. I hope so.
Thursday, 12 May 2011
Forays into other climes
Here I sit rugged up, with a heater nearby, and feeling quite cold. Yesterday I returned from several days in Canberra, where the temperature dropped to minus 5 overnight. Yesterday's day temperature reached only 11 degrees. Suddenly the weather over much of the southern and eastern states has become extremely cold, and there have been early and heavy snowfalls in the mountains. And it is only May.
Fortunately a combination of optimism, prudence and foresight prevented me from chucking out all my cold weather clothes when I moved here. I took my very warmest old clothes, including my purple woollen coat, and wore many layers. But still I shivered.
It was a comforting and comfortable visit, spending time with my son and daughter and their children, and many old friends too. The autumn air was clear and bright, and the city looked beautiful. Being with family and friends felt very healing.
I stayed with my dear friend H, in her warm and comfortable home, with an electric blanket on the bed. She has two cats, Fred and George, who are brothers. It was lovely to sit and talk together with a lapful of purring cat. These cats are well known in the neighbourhood as they range far afield and H is always getting calls from concerned and helpful people who ask has she lost one or other or both of the cats. H was widowed eleven years ago, and it was good for both of us to share experiences and emotions. (There seem to me to be many more widows than widowers. Perhaps I am encountering the wrong sort of random sampling.)
We met about 30 years ago - I had to add it up - when I was on an exchange programme at her workplace. She is a warm, loving, competent and intelligent person, with a kind and generous heart, and has hordes of friends. She was busy rehearsing for a concert of combined choirs, including the choir I used to be in, on Sunday, as part of the Canberra International Music Festival. I went to this concert, and saw many of my chorister mates. It was a wonderful occasion. The choirs performed the Requiem by Victoria, one of my favourite composers, and sang the premiere performance of a Requiem by our Australian National Treasure Peter Sculthorpe, now aged 80. It was a wonderful work, a true Requiem, intensely emotional and deeply moving, which brought tears to my eyes. After the concert, while lots of us were having coffee, I was able to approach the composer and tell him how wonderful his Requiem is. Once upon a time when contemporary music was played, I found it difficult to enjoy or appreciate, but I find the later Sculthorpe works to be profoundly beautiful.
It turned out that it was possible to see another old family friend. She is the widow of one of my father's old friends, and they were very kind and loving to me over the years. Her husband died 17 years ago. She is 88 now, and still lives by herself, albeit with some help from family and carer services. Essentially she manages most things, although she no longer drives. She seems to remember everything, and is writing very detailed memoirs. They will be worth reading. While I was visiting another friend who lives nearby, I asked to use her telephone directory to check the number. My friend knew her: their families were friends and colleagues, and when I visited my old friend, she told me she had known my younger friend since she was born. The connections and complexities of human relationships never cease to be amazing.
Of course, it did not take very long after my return yesterday afternoon for everything to spring up and beat me around the head and shoulders. Some things will have to wait, as I am taking off again to Adelaide. This will be much better than agonising and worrying, and letting things agitate me.
For everything there is a season, and a time and purpose under Heaven. Sufficient unto the day thereof.
Fortunately a combination of optimism, prudence and foresight prevented me from chucking out all my cold weather clothes when I moved here. I took my very warmest old clothes, including my purple woollen coat, and wore many layers. But still I shivered.
It was a comforting and comfortable visit, spending time with my son and daughter and their children, and many old friends too. The autumn air was clear and bright, and the city looked beautiful. Being with family and friends felt very healing.
I stayed with my dear friend H, in her warm and comfortable home, with an electric blanket on the bed. She has two cats, Fred and George, who are brothers. It was lovely to sit and talk together with a lapful of purring cat. These cats are well known in the neighbourhood as they range far afield and H is always getting calls from concerned and helpful people who ask has she lost one or other or both of the cats. H was widowed eleven years ago, and it was good for both of us to share experiences and emotions. (There seem to me to be many more widows than widowers. Perhaps I am encountering the wrong sort of random sampling.)
We met about 30 years ago - I had to add it up - when I was on an exchange programme at her workplace. She is a warm, loving, competent and intelligent person, with a kind and generous heart, and has hordes of friends. She was busy rehearsing for a concert of combined choirs, including the choir I used to be in, on Sunday, as part of the Canberra International Music Festival. I went to this concert, and saw many of my chorister mates. It was a wonderful occasion. The choirs performed the Requiem by Victoria, one of my favourite composers, and sang the premiere performance of a Requiem by our Australian National Treasure Peter Sculthorpe, now aged 80. It was a wonderful work, a true Requiem, intensely emotional and deeply moving, which brought tears to my eyes. After the concert, while lots of us were having coffee, I was able to approach the composer and tell him how wonderful his Requiem is. Once upon a time when contemporary music was played, I found it difficult to enjoy or appreciate, but I find the later Sculthorpe works to be profoundly beautiful.
It turned out that it was possible to see another old family friend. She is the widow of one of my father's old friends, and they were very kind and loving to me over the years. Her husband died 17 years ago. She is 88 now, and still lives by herself, albeit with some help from family and carer services. Essentially she manages most things, although she no longer drives. She seems to remember everything, and is writing very detailed memoirs. They will be worth reading. While I was visiting another friend who lives nearby, I asked to use her telephone directory to check the number. My friend knew her: their families were friends and colleagues, and when I visited my old friend, she told me she had known my younger friend since she was born. The connections and complexities of human relationships never cease to be amazing.
Of course, it did not take very long after my return yesterday afternoon for everything to spring up and beat me around the head and shoulders. Some things will have to wait, as I am taking off again to Adelaide. This will be much better than agonising and worrying, and letting things agitate me.
For everything there is a season, and a time and purpose under Heaven. Sufficient unto the day thereof.
Wednesday, 4 May 2011
Life mimicking art
Despite my lapse into abject misery for much of last week, which must surely be related not only to my bereavement and general plight, but also to the departure of my daughter and granddaughter, somehow or other I have been getting on with things.
I went to the opera study group, which had an excellent speaker on the early operas of Verdi. He commenced by saying he could do without Wagner, because he totally loves and admires Verdi. He played plenty of the music, demonstrating its quality, and made a most convincing case. He also revealed that he owns practically every single CD ever recorded of all the Verdi operas, some 1500 CDs (!) and also has 400 DVDs. He noted that his wife thought this collection was somewhat excessive, but justified it on the basis that the singers are all different. As indeed they are.
He managed to make me feel that my own CD collection is quite modest, really, although most other people might not agree. (I did manage today to get in and out of the CD shop without actually buying anything. I am not quite sure why I even allow myself to go inside...) The speaker convinced me that I should listen far more carefully to these operas, but tonight I am listening to Handel.
After the opera group I had lunch with a friend, who always cheers me up and who is a lot of fun always. When I got home I tackled the telephone situation again and it has been fixed. That's a relief. In due course I will tackle again the relatively minor matter of discovering whether any accounts have been transferred to my name, or whether things will just be switched off. At least when I talked to the telephone company they did not require a copy of the death certificate.
In the evening a Canberra friend and former colleague came here. She moved to Melbourne late last year to be near one of her daughters, and came to Sydney for a meeting, and we arranged to have a meal afterwards. I had expected we would go to a restaurant, but it suddenly occurred to me that there was no reason why we could not eat here at home, So I actually cooked dinner, which was rather nice, we had no restaurant noise to contend with, and had the whole evening in which to talk, to discuss her relocation, my woes, news in general, and to enjoy each other's company. What is more, we may even make an overseas trip together later in the year. We have travelled together before, but she really likes cruises, as she hates having to pack and unpack all the time, and on a cruise you only unpack and pack at the beginning and the end. Mind you, she takes her own pillow when she travels....Whereas I feel that being trapped on board something you cannot get off at will, or slope off easily to do your own thing, would give me the heebie-jeebies. So there is something to look forward to...
I whiled away the morning by making another batch of quince jelly, which took slightly longer than I expected, and which managed to boil over while I dashed upstairs to do something, and was rather messy to wipe up. It was finished and in the jars in the nick of time. This was just as well as I had finally made an appointment with Nick, my foot and leg physiotherapist. I had not seen him since just after my return from Spain last year, and what with everything since then, have neglected all the exercises I should have been doing each day. He has put me into much better shape, and exhorts me to do yoga.
Classes resume tomorrow, there is a concert to go to in the evening, and on Friday I will drive to Canberra, and see children, grandchildren and friends.
I went to the opera study group, which had an excellent speaker on the early operas of Verdi. He commenced by saying he could do without Wagner, because he totally loves and admires Verdi. He played plenty of the music, demonstrating its quality, and made a most convincing case. He also revealed that he owns practically every single CD ever recorded of all the Verdi operas, some 1500 CDs (!) and also has 400 DVDs. He noted that his wife thought this collection was somewhat excessive, but justified it on the basis that the singers are all different. As indeed they are.
He managed to make me feel that my own CD collection is quite modest, really, although most other people might not agree. (I did manage today to get in and out of the CD shop without actually buying anything. I am not quite sure why I even allow myself to go inside...) The speaker convinced me that I should listen far more carefully to these operas, but tonight I am listening to Handel.
After the opera group I had lunch with a friend, who always cheers me up and who is a lot of fun always. When I got home I tackled the telephone situation again and it has been fixed. That's a relief. In due course I will tackle again the relatively minor matter of discovering whether any accounts have been transferred to my name, or whether things will just be switched off. At least when I talked to the telephone company they did not require a copy of the death certificate.
In the evening a Canberra friend and former colleague came here. She moved to Melbourne late last year to be near one of her daughters, and came to Sydney for a meeting, and we arranged to have a meal afterwards. I had expected we would go to a restaurant, but it suddenly occurred to me that there was no reason why we could not eat here at home, So I actually cooked dinner, which was rather nice, we had no restaurant noise to contend with, and had the whole evening in which to talk, to discuss her relocation, my woes, news in general, and to enjoy each other's company. What is more, we may even make an overseas trip together later in the year. We have travelled together before, but she really likes cruises, as she hates having to pack and unpack all the time, and on a cruise you only unpack and pack at the beginning and the end. Mind you, she takes her own pillow when she travels....Whereas I feel that being trapped on board something you cannot get off at will, or slope off easily to do your own thing, would give me the heebie-jeebies. So there is something to look forward to...
I whiled away the morning by making another batch of quince jelly, which took slightly longer than I expected, and which managed to boil over while I dashed upstairs to do something, and was rather messy to wipe up. It was finished and in the jars in the nick of time. This was just as well as I had finally made an appointment with Nick, my foot and leg physiotherapist. I had not seen him since just after my return from Spain last year, and what with everything since then, have neglected all the exercises I should have been doing each day. He has put me into much better shape, and exhorts me to do yoga.
Classes resume tomorrow, there is a concert to go to in the evening, and on Friday I will drive to Canberra, and see children, grandchildren and friends.
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