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Parkes Phoenix

Teenagers

May 6, 2022 By Margaret Irwin

My stepsister, Carole, and I were the same age and when we were 15 years old, we had some lovely times together. Like the times we were supposed to be learning typing at the evening college and learned to play poker at a friend’s house instead. I had won a pocketful of pennies and halfpennies, and my pocket was bulging with them the night we ran back to the college to catch the bus and found Mum and Dad waiting for us. We had nothing to say on the way home and the typing lessons ceased forthwith. 

Unbeknown to our parents, when Mum and Dad went out, leaving us to babysit our younger brother, we invited a few friends around and innocently danced the evening away. This ended abruptly when Carole’s partner failed to catch her hand and she hurtled backwards, crashing into the record player. A couple of weeks later, the damage having been discovered, we both acted innocent and looked in bewilderment at the resultant destruction. 

I think it was the best time we had together, in spite of our naughtiness, or maybe, because of it. 

By Margaret Irwin 

Top Cat

May 6, 2022 By Catherine Pratt

It didn’t occur to me I was different from other cats until my boy, Joe, began to read a story about a dog who taught himself to read and talk. I learned by mimicking Joe’s voice. 

Joe kept my secret, and when he reached adulthood, we moved to study law. After graduation we ran a one-man practice, me his secret partner. He did the face-to-face, and I did the research and some of the calls. 

We were at the height of our game when the pandemic hit. Joe was among the first to fall ill. I begged him to let me call someone, but Joe said he’d spent his life protecting my secret and since that meant isolation, there wasn’t anyone to call. I lay on his chest reading to him until his chest rose no more. 

You may think cats unfeeling, and, after reading this you still might, but I tell you it hurt. I’d lost my friend, familiar, colleague… but I needed to survive. If his body was found I’d be taken to a shelter. I’d worked too hard to end like that. 

As I looked down at his ashen face my spirit roused. I idly batted the virtual reality gaming device we’d often played in, forming an idea. I could use his body scan to create an avatar, like a phone filter, and use that to conduct conference calls from home. Normal practice, thanks to the pandemic and it worked. 

During a call, I noticed the faces on the screen twist in shock and confusion. I peered at the tiny box that showed my video feed. Instead of Joe’s (my avatar’s) face, my own peered back at me. I pounced on the power button. 

Once my avatar was reinstated, I called again: “Sorry about the last call. My phone does this cat filter… A malfunction or something. Then I knocked coffee on my keyboard…” 

“Didn’t you just say you were on your phone?” 

“I…” 

“I’ve organised for the Police to see you’re alright.” 

I maintained my poker face until the call ended. When the knock on the door came, I panicked and scrambled into the garbage shoot. I was spat out just another stray. 

Months later I sat watching a young girl holding a bewildered puppy by the cheeks. 

“C’mon! Speak! I won’t tell!” 

She gave up and resumed reading a book. I’d recognise that cover anywhere. This was my chance! 

“Hello.” I rubbed up against her. 

“You talk?” 

“You can’t tell anyone, or they’ll do nasty experiments on me.” 

She glanced at the book about the talking dog that would confirm my fears. “I won’t.” 

“Even to your parents?” 

“They died, and Grandma’s old.” She sobbed. “Social Services say I won’t be able to stay if she can’t remember to answer the phone and pay the bills.” 

“I can help with that.” I purred. 

It turns out being part of a family wasn’t a bad way to spend your days, after all. 

By Catherine Pratt 

Facing Friday Morning!

March 4, 2022 By Maggi Barnard

Friday morning, 18th February I awoke early to do my art tutorial, with a cup of coffee.

Stop press: a face time call from three-year-old Vincent.

“Hey; Nana, your grandson wishes to talk to you.”

“Oh, nooooooo…I still have not had my breakfast!”

“Good morning Vincent”, I say with a smile.

“Love you Nanny!” I think to myself; what does he want?

“Nanny, how come you’re my mummy’s mum?” Vincent asks.

Yakes this is a curly question before breakfast, I say to myself. “Vincent, your mummy was in my tummy!”

“Hmmmmm! Well, what about grandad?”…now I am in trouble think quick! Well, sweetie I married your grandad and grandad is your mummy’s daddy! Vincent you know above your mummy’s bed there is a picture of your mummy and daddy’s wedding, well; I will show you a picture of Nana’s and Grandad’s wedding.”

I hold the phone up to our wedding photograph.

“Nanna? Who is that handsome man in the picture?”

“Vincent it is grandad! He looks just like you!”

“Nanny, Blue (a fluffy blue elephant) wants to say hello.”

“Blue and I are eating peaches…as Vincent continues to count the peach segments on his plate, one, two three come Nanny you count too!”

“Look Vincent how many pieces of fruit can you see in my box?” I say.

To encourage Vincent to eat his fruit, Nana picks up a fig from the box and bites right into it…One very big mistake! It is alive and most of it is in my gob!

I have to control myself as I try to swallow the wriggling mass in my mouth taking a big gulp so as not to make a song and dance about the contents in my mouth!

With a big smile on my face, I say; “Vincent you are such a good little boy!”

Gulp! Gulp!……and left speechless, I have to sit down and try to read a story to him.

I am saved by the arrival back home of his twin sister who wants to play…” Bye Nanny!”

Does Nana feel like breakfast?

By Bev Rowe

Wwoofers

January 28, 2022 By Maggi Barnard

The old house was fit only to be bulldozed. Foundations had rotted and were mostly absent, bees were busy producing honey in the back wall, three sheep had sheltered in the bathroom, shutting the door behind them and, over time, rotting into the floorboards, and rats had made their homes in the roof. Along with about 6cm of fine red dust throughout the roof cavity, were a huge amount of rat droppings and hundreds of apricot seeds. In our wisdom, we thought it was a challenge and arranged to have it moved onto our two-and-a-half-acre stubble field. Of course, we were 25 years younger then and nothing seemed impossible.

With not a tree on the block, and having made a space to sleep, we set about alleviating the problem of having no shade by digging holes and planting trees. We bought 200 tube stock and set about making future shade with five-inch-tall plants. Together with renovating the house to a liveable state, caring for our tiny trees through a typical 40 plus degree summer was an awesome task. We got a lot of exercise carrying buckets of water from our single yard tap to our 200 trees.

A very wet winter in 1998 ensured a wonderful, knee-high crop of every kind of weed by March 1999 and then Ian hurt his back whilst lifting a set of harrows. With a ruptured disc in his lower spine, he was out of action for a long time. After a couple of fraught years with little let-up from the pain, we joined a program called Wwoof – Willing Workers On Organic Farms.

Our first Wwoofer was a lovely Japanese girl named Akari. It was her first trip to Australia and her second farm stay. She quickly became part of the family and our extended family loved her, especially our little granddaughter, Georgie. We spent our mornings working in the yard – mulching, fertilizing, weeding, and planting, and our afternoons were taken up with things like driving or walking in the forest, searching for wildlife, English lessons at the dining table, watching the local harvest happen, or trips to town.

After two weeks it was time for Akari to return to Japan. Early that morning, I took her for a last ride in the forest, in the hope of seeing more of the kangaroos or wallabies which had so entranced her during her stay. We left home to meet the 7am bus and she cried all the way to town. We hugged each other at the bus station and as the bus pulled away, she waved and smiled through her tears.

By Margaret Irwin

Elf Journal Entry – By Debbie Gould

December 17, 2021 By Maggi Barnard

Date: 16th December

What a day! All I can say is the pressure was on. Major panic in the production line. Blue ducks! Seriously? I did tell Santa that Mac was colourblind. I had to do a back shift to sort it out. Santa said he trusted me to fix the problem, but I think he thought flattery alone would work for me. First thing tomorrow I’m going in to change my time sheet to include overtime rates.

My specialty is attaching wheels to toy cars, trains, skateboards etc. I admit it’s not rocket science, however it does require some thought. While I repainted the ducks to the appropriate sunny yellow Santa let Mac work at my station. Mac upended the tray of wheels all over the floor. Susie was walking past carrying a stack of boxes, trod on the wheels and let’s just say now she has a pair of crutches and is on worker’s comp. Mac apologised profusely and quickly gathered up the wheels and returned them to the tray. Unfortunately, most were in the wrong slots. When I finally got back to my station there were cars with skateboard wheels and bikes with car wheels. I just couldn’t believe it. Mac sat there looking at me grinning proudly.

“Everything has wheels,” he said to me. I was speechless.

Mac’s real name is Macaroni which certainly fits. He’s a bit of noodle. Lots of shape on the outside but hollow on the inside. I will have to sort out the wheels tomorrow. Another long day. I appealed to Santa quite forcefully that perhaps a great job for Mac would be using the hose out the front to water the snow. Santa didn’t look impressed.

Tomorrow I will need to do another back shift to catch up. I’m feeling very unimpressed and somewhat angry at the time of writing this despite Santa’s orders that all elves must be filled with Christmas spirit. I am exhausted and tired of cleaning up after Mac. I’m not happy at all but I can’t do anything about it because Mac is Santa’s nephew. Santa was very definite about Mac working on the toys with me.

“Listen Cheese,” he said, “I think you’ll be a winning combination.” I looked at Santa unconvinced.

“Mac and Cheese?” I replied doubtfully, “I can’t see that working out.”

Christmas – By Margaret Irwin

December 17, 2021 By Maggi Barnard

Irwin I think it was in 1983. It was on the news. A family reunion in the bush on the banks of a creek in southeast Queensland. A small boy, two and one-half years old, had gone missing. The distraught family had searched to no avail and called for reinforcements. The closest town had turned out in force and every available person was out searching the virgin forest. Days went by with no sign of the toddler.

At that time the Nepean Belle was being built on a property adjacent to the Nepean River and our 16-year-old son, Rodney, was employed there. As there was no bus service to the property, I drove him to and from work each day. I dropped him off and as I drove out of the yard, the 8:30am news came on: “As this is the fourth day with no sign of the child, and the searchers are all exhausted, if he isn’t found today, the search will be abandoned.”

Tears streamed down my face as I pictured this child, alone in the forest, nothing to eat, nothing to drink, no change of clothes, alone through the night and with no parents. I had made a habit of giving thanks in all circumstances, so that’s what I did all the way home, for the distraught parents, for the guilt and heartache they would have been feeling, for the exhausted searchers, for the bereft little boy who could not find his way out, for everything I could think of. I gave thanks to God and Father of Jesus, who sent His Son to pay our way and lead us home.

It was coming up to 10am and I was once more in the car, this time to do the shopping when the 10am news came on: “The little boy who was lost in southeast Queensland, walked out of the forest, onto a farm, and made himself known to the farmer… Just after 8.30am this morning.”

Again, I cried all the way home, this time with a heart overflowing with joy and thankfulness. I can’t remember what time of the year it was, but for me, it was Christmas.

By Margaret Irwin

A Christmas Tale – By Heather Veal

December 17, 2021 By Maggi Barnard

One Christmas Eve not long ago

I was lying on the rug,

Eating Christmas fare, and feeling rather smug.

The sound of hooves upon the roof woke me from my reverie

“Whoa” came a cry. “Ho, Ho, Ho!”

Do you know what I did see?

Santa coming through the door,

And this he said to me.

This travelling can be tiresome –

Even Santa needs a break.

He stopped, and helped himself

To a slice of Christmas cake.

Put nosebags on the reindeer,

“It’s getting warm out here”

Santa loosened up his collar,

And reached for a beer.

“Before I leave,” said Santa, “I have parcels for your tree.

(That he had gifts for us had not occurred to me.)

He searched the sleigh. “Here they are!

I know you’ll use them carefully.”

When you see that box stamped Friendship

Beneath your Christmas tree

Count yourself as fortunate and blessed – believe you me.

It’s a gift that brings compassion – and responsibility.

It’s a gift not given lightly, when unwrapped it gives such pleasure.

It’s the same in every country –

A truly national treasure.

Pressed down and brimming over, always given in full measure.

Laughter – a tin of polish for dark and gloomy days

Take care you choose the proper one, wrapped in the correct way.

Make sure how you unwrap it – you do well to be suspicious

Laughter must be happy – it must never be malicious.

For cancer, and the refugees, I have boxes of support.

Small, but constant. They are all so heartened by the knowledge of this thought.

For all the disadvantaged (here Santa shed a tear)

We need more understanding, it’s in short supply this year.

Many gifts to many countries I deliver this Christmas night.

A reindeer whinnied. “Goodness!” said Santa.” I really must take flight!”

He cocked an eye. “This beer is not bad.

Can I take some? Is that alright?”

“Here’s a bottle of Christmas Spirit. All you need is a shot glass.

The glow you will receive from it just cannot be surpassed.

Gather families, gather friends, out in your Australian sun

And share it out amongst you.

MERRY CHRISTMAS, EVERYONE!

By Heather Veal

 

Millenia Wandering

November 26, 2021 By Maggi Barnard

What chance our molecules collide?
Millenia wandering,
Did they suddenly find purpose?
Or have they always sought this circumstance?
Millions of days have brought them to this day,
And in another million, million moments
They will still exist,
Meandering randomly or propelled
No longer your or I,
They may travel far from here,
And perhaps repeat
The kind energy of our collision.

By Jim Cassidy

 

Melodies of Woven

November 26, 2021 By Maggi Barnard

I hear the songs of woven light
I see the warp and weft alight
The wax and wane of moon at night
The molten sun a golden kite
The telescope in silhouette
Canola gold, green fields of wheat
Across the valley tractors roar
As magpies warble, brown hawks soar
Along the day, into the night
Flow memories of woven light.

By Jim Cassidy

The poem ‘Melodies of Woven Light’ was used by Jason Murchie to enter a song for the Parkes Radio Telescope 60th Anniversary Competition. Jason won the music prize in the competition. The song features the sound of two pulsars, and the music’s percussion and melodies were written in response to the interesting sounds pulsars can generate.

Readers can submit creative writing of up to 500 words to editor@parkesphoenix.com.au for publication in The Write Stuff column.

Possum Pandemonium

November 12, 2021 By Maggi Barnard

It’s spring, and mating time. We will often hear the thunder and squeal of a possum fight on the shed. The loser would retreat swiftly – we would hear him gallop over the tin roof. A loud screech, descending into a low growl, would signal a victory.

We got used to hearing these tournaments, so we didn’t worry when we heard running feet on our roof. I thought “that’s not a rat” and went back to the movie we were watching on TV.

Pandemonium!

The air-conditioning vent opened and revealed two pop eyes, and a quivering ball of fur. A young possum hung there, wondering, like us, what the devil had happened.

Rex jumped up, grabbing a protective cushion, and batted him down to the floor. “Don’t try to catch him! He’ll try to claw you,” I yelled. Even an experienced handler uses big leather gloves because of those claws.

The possum began a mad dash around the lounge room, keeping to the wall. Be-hind chairs, fire screen, under the lounge and then he headed for the china cabinet.

The mirror-back must have made him think “Ah, another possum!”. He tore to-ward it and wham! Came up with a bang (thank heavens for toughened glass!). Nowhere to go now but through the double doors and into the dining room. Another mad dash around the room. Two window walls made reflections, which stopped him again. A wedding, a graduation and two lots of parents fell to the floor as he ran along the sill (thank heavens they were only photos!).

Back into the kitchen. Up on the sink. No escape through this window, so he jumped on to the bench, knocking over a ceramic utensil holder, which smashed to the floor in a shower of spoons, ladles, whisks and more. (I had been trying to get rid of that holder for ages – at least that was something good!)

I was frantically drumming my hands on the servery bench to keep him away from me. I may not be a tree, but he could shim-my up me and tiger-stripe my face in seconds with those claws.

Back out to the dining room. Like a rat up a drain pipe. He tried to climb a corner but stopped halfway. Rex picked up a shoe and threw a perfect direct hit. No Ashes cricketer could have done better. Stunned, the possum shook his ears, spotted the open front door, and shot out into the darkness.

I looked up and saw my precious Japanese lady gazing serenely at me, as if to say “It’s OK”. She has stood on the side-board for over 40 years. I gave a sigh of relief as I realised she had not been broken.
Our cat sat outside, watching through the glass with yellow-green eyes. Perfectly still, I swear he was smiling.

By Heather Veal

(Readers are welcome to send creative writing of 500 words or less for publication in The Write Stuff column to editor@parkesphoenix.com.au)

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