A principled man

Eighty years old - that's a milestone in anyone's book. I am a young whipper-snapper by comparison. Even so, I have found my self thinking a lately about the relevance of the elderly in our society. The media and most movies portray life as exciting for the young and almost irrelevant for the old.

So what relevance does an 80 year-old man have? I'll tell you. 

Ignoring all other contributions for the moment, one thing that the elderly provides society with is an "ancient landmark". Key that phrase into Google and see what you get. I know there may be exceptions, but I dare to venture that there are not too many octogenarians that are living irresponsible and reckless lives. 

Now I realise that living to an old age is as much about the gene pool we came from and factors outside our control as it is about responsible diet, behaviour and life choices. I also realise that bad habits don't just go away with age, and it is human to arrive at the last years of our life with attitudes and habits that are less than exemplary.

My father turned eighty today. He has lived a life as a principled, honest, truthful, reliable and humble man. He has done so, having come from a background of economic depression, war, bigotry, family abuse and low self-esteem. He worked hard to stop any shadow from that past being cast over those he loves.

He has lived through the decades of political upheaval, workplace "reform" and relentless media advertising that were unknown to his parents. These things did not deter him one little bit.

He has been generous to strangers and helped those in need, even when he had his own large family to feed and clothe. He taught his children the real meaning of love, forgiveness, and tolerance without once ignoring the sanctity of an individual's dignity or breaking any principles of relationship. He taught us to maintain a respect for authority that is completely lost on the youth of today.

Is my father perfect? Of course not. He would be the first to confess that inadequacy, weakness and personal bias has caused him to make errors, mistakes and blunders that he still feels ashamed of.

And that is why my father and many like him are owed a debt of gratitude and honour they rarely receive. Because despite all their short-comings, the elderly still provide us with example and education on how to live and they maintain a steadfast hold upon principles simply because they are just that - principles by which to live. 

When I say 'simply', I do not mean they they hold to these out of naivety or ignorance. No, they hold onto them because they have a lifetime of proof that such principles should, and do, guide a life. My father has been married for over 56 years to the same wife. Anyone who has been married for more than a few years knows how difficult that is to do. That kind of commitment only comes through the determination to hold onto promises and vows made regardless of how long ago they were made.

By refusing to assign a lesser value to things simply because of the passing of time, the elderly teach us that there is a different perspective on life that is so easily missed by we who are young.

Happy birthday Dad.

Over-reaction?

One of the enduring memories I have as a youngster is working with my father and brothers in the vegie garden on week-ends.Our vegie patch was as large as our family. It had to be to feed two adults, five boys, two girls and any number of visitors. 

In order to produce enough vegetables to feed our family, constant work was required to keep the garden free from weeds and keep the produce in a healthy condition. I have many fond memories of my father's long arms scooping up weeds in a single swipe. My brothers and I would endeavour to emulate this practice but all our attempts seemed puny compared with his.

I also remember one particular Saturday morning when my mother called us for morning tea on the front verandah. My father's instructions were to finish the area we were working in, wash our hands and come once we were finished. Of course, no sooner had my father disappeared around the corner of the house and the competition was on to see who could pull the most weeds in the shortest period of time. Once done, we proceeded to wash our hands at the water tap at the back of the house.

Something else we admired was the way our father could make the garden fork stand upright by simply throwing it into the ground. For boys who had not yet reached puberty, this was a feat that was oft-attempted but as yet, success had escaped us.

While washing my hands, one of my brothers was pursuing this elusive goal; throwing the fork into the Kikuyu hoping it would stick. As luck would have it, the fork went straight through my foot in the webbing between my big and second toes. Once the fork was extracted, there was a square, neat hole through the skin. My brother's immediate consternation relaxed when he realised I was not in pain and when I  said, "Hey look, I can see straight through my foot!". "Cool", he said. "I wish I had one too."

"You can", I said.

Well, it doesn't take much imagination to wonder what happened next. Suffice to say, in a very short space of time we both sported the latest in see-though foot accessories. To say that we were pleased with ourselves would be an understatement.

We went around to the front of the house, beaming with pride, and exclaimed, "Look what we've got!"

I only remember two other things about this little event.

The first is my mother's scream. It was not the reaction we were expecting.

The second is the bewildering pain that came when she poured Mercurochrome on the "wound". Once that yellow solution touched our skin the pain was far worse than we expected, and importantly, unnecessarily so. Up until that point we had a fantastic talking point with our mates that had cost us nothing - no money, no shame, and no pain. Now we were subjected to baths (we had just washed), more pain (the original portion of Mercurochrome having been washed off by the unnecessary bath), a tetanus shot (those things sting!), bandages (inhibiting for any physically-active young boy), and once we recovered, two weeks of full kitchen duty (the most despised of all family chores) to help us consider our foolishness.

Over-reaction on my parents part? While I long considered this to be the case, I have noted that since that day I have never gardened bare-foot.

Time

Time stretches itself, silently yawning

Age hurries forward, death dawning

Travail finally ends, new life spawning

Folly and glee leave no room for mourning.

MDC

6/11/82

Perspective

A couple of years ago, the child bride and I took a short holiday to Vanuatu. I won't bore you with a long list of things we did or places we saw. As much as these things contributed to our happy holiday, the thing that really made it enjoyable was seeing life through the eyes of another culture.

In Vanuatu, there is only one rule to become a taxi driver. You must own, or have access to, a vehicle. If you have a sedan you can become a bona fide taxi driver by painting the letter "T" on the front of your number plate. If you have a people mover and want to become a bus driver, then it is the letter "B" that must be painted instead. As a result it seems that every vehicle owner on this small island has entrepreneurial aspirations. I don't recall seeing a single vehicle that did not have the obligatory letter added to the number plate. 

This means that you meet the real people who live on the island, not some trained and approved representatives. We found them all very friendly and very informative, and very frank. 

We were being taken somewhere one day and struck up a conversation with the driver. We commented that we often saw men walking around the roads of the island with large machetes in their hands. We asked why this was so. The driver explained that the jungle grew so quickly that the paths needed to be cut back on an almost constant basis. The island did not have council workers that maintained these paths, so the locals did it each time they used them.

My daughter commented that in Australia, if we saw a man walking around with a machete, we would call the police.

The bus driver was silent for a moment and then said, "Oh, if we saw a white man with a machete, we would call the police too."

Ah, perspective. It changes everything.

Adding to the fabric of family life

We are a family that enjoys discussing the past events and incidents of our life together. Over the years, anyone who has spent time around our dinner table has been regaled with more than one story about a randomly selected family member or two. The stories become well-known, and though they do not change, they are told with humour, affection and much laughter.  These times and stories help introduce new friends into the wider family context. Such is the content of this blog post, although in this instance the story does not remain the same for a surprising addition must be included.

One of our daughters was the nurse in a very remote part of the Outback for a few years. The work was exciting, but the hours were gruelling. One of the side-benefits of this employment was an excellent wage, and as a result of this, when it came time to leave, our daughter had some extra savings.

She decided to purchase a Peugeot 306 soft-top sports car. It was second-hand and old and did not cost very much, but it was in good condition. It was bright yellow and cute and the family started calling it the Jelly Bean. The child bride loved this little car too, and the two of them were often ducking off somewhere with the top down.

Fast forward a few months and we were looking after it while our daughter was away at another remote outpost. One day the top would not go down. No matter how long or hard we pushed the button, the best we could get were a few shudders, and eventually, not even that. Feeling responsible, I took the car down to the local authorised dealer to see what was wrong.

Some days later, I received an unbelievable call from the service department manager. Apparently, the hood was opened and closed by a hydraulic ram. This unit was broken and needed replacing. There was none in stock in Australia, and he had scoured the country to see if there was a wrecking yard somewhere that might have one. No such luck. A new unit would have to be ordered from France with a waiting time of at least three months.

This was not good news, but it got worse. The price quoted for the replacement unit, NOT including freight or labour, was twenty-one thousand, and sixteen dollars! Yes, you read correctly. $21,016.00 As you can see, that number is forever burnt into my memory.

Not only was this unit broken, but while dismantling portions of the car to access the faulty unit, a mechanic had broken one of the actuator arms too. No apology; just a grunting comment that it was no real loss because the thing didn't work anyway.

I'm not sure what upset me the most. The fact the car had become broken while in my care? While I knew my daughter would be upset, I knew it would not have a detrimental effect on our relationship. Perhaps the fact the cost of repair was so extortionate that approval would never be given to proceed? Not that either. Such things happen in life and any mature adult soon learns to get over them. No, the thing that got under my skin was the attitude of the service department manager. Having been involved in business consultancy for many years, I knew there were oh, so many ways that the guy could have improved his service in this particular instance.

The whole affair eventually became another story in the fabric of our family. After all, how many people get a quote to repair a car that is more than four times the value of the car? The car has remained reliable and as our daughter is currently working closer to civilisation she is able to use her little Jelly Bean for commuting to work. 

I got a call from her last night. It seems that she has had some problems with the air conditioning; it would not turn off. A friend had explained to her the steps to troubleshoot a problem in order to ascertain whether the fault lay in the electrics, the plumbing, the pneumatics, etc. She was able to successfully diagnose the cause of the problem and rectify things so her air-con now behaves itself.

She decided to apply the same troubleshooting process to the soft-top. Would you believe she came up with a completely different diagnosis than the service agent did? As repeating the process brought the same result, she decided to spend the few dollars and replace the signal cable that her diagnosis indicated was faulty. Lo, and behold! the soft-top now closes as expected. I  was flabbergasted when she called me. We laughed for some minutes; I not sure whether from sheer surprise at the unexpected result, or in derision at the "professional" service team who clearly need further training in trouble shooting techniques. Perhaps a little of both.

Either way, we now have an even better story that will now be re-told around the dinner table for many years to come.

Driving in Massachusetts

During a business trip to the USA in the early 90's, I spent a few days in Boston. I did the usual touristy things and walked the freedom trail, saw Johnny Tremain's grave, toured the harbour  where the Boston tea party took place, drank a beer in the Cheers Bar and rode the lift in the John Hancock Tower. Nothing unusual or worthy of particular note.

However, one day I hired a car and drove the the Faneuil Hall markets. Parking spaces were at a premium, so when I saw a spot behind a row of cars I grabbed it eagerly. I spent quite some hours wandering around the markets and soaking in the history of the place. On my way back to the car I saw a vehicle like mine that had a bright, iridescent sticker on the windscreen. Once close enough, I realised the sticker covered the whole of the windscreen, and screamed the word, "VIOLATION!". Drawing even closer I realised the car was mine. Apparently I had parked in some space I was not supposed to.

I was immediately in a quandary. How was I going to remove the sticker? It was large enough and presumably sticky enough that removing it was meant to impose some sort of punitive time impost upon the offender. I was also uncertain whether the windscreen would be clear of adhesive or not. I had found driving in America to require much more of my attention than usual, being unfamiliar with driving on the right so I was unhappy about driving without completely clear vision.

So I walked away.

Yes, I did an about-face and walked all the way back to my hotel. It took me so long that by the time I got to the car rental office, which was near my hotel, that it was closed for the day. I slipped the keys through the slot provided for that purpose and returned, exhausted and foot-sore to my hotel.  I flew out the next morning so did not think any more about the matter.

More than a month later I received a letter in the mail from the State of Massachusetts along with a fine advising that if I did not pay the fine within 7 days the matter would be referred to the local courts. Seeing as the letter arrived some weeks after the deadline, I did noting about it.

A couple of months passed by and another letter arrived from the State of Massachusetts advising that a court date had been set and that I needed to appear to defend my actions. As this letter had arrived well after the court date I again did nothing.

Another month later and I received what turned out to be the final correspondence from the State of Massachusetts advising that as I had not made the court appearance, the matter had been awarded against me and in view of my recalcitrant and obstinate silence, driving privileges were hereby revoked in the State of Massachusetts.

I suppose I deserved this outcome. I accept my guilt. After all, I did apparently park in a no-parking space. I willingly submitted to the loss of a driving license in Massachusetts. 

I thought that this would be the end of it but, oh no, my family have not let me forget my moment of socially irresponsible behaviour. 

 I travelled to the USA again in the late 90's.  I was not arrested upon arrival. I had no trouble entering or leaving.  But my wife did not accompany me. To this day, not one member of my family has travelled to the USA, ostensibly due to fear of being harassed by the authorities for being related to a person convicted of a mis-demeanour. Hokum, I say, but my family reckon that's proof that I still harbour anti-social attitudes.

I hope you can all forgive me.

Words

A word is more than air with meanings;

having power and possessing such strength that it can camouflage its prowess

as the meekest of suggestions,

and an assurance so confident it willingly waits aeons for the truth of its assertions

to be proven.

Weightless as air oozing through conversation,

untouchable syllables lodging without contest in our pores,

mining deep into our souls,

changing our perceptions and defences,

without effort,  without resistance,

without cognition.

MDC 23/03/2012

Arriving

Travel is so easy to us these days that we reach destinations too quickly and so we under-appreciate them as rewards for our efforts, and as places in their own right. They’re merely “on the way” somewhere. We have lost the ability to arrive. When we deliberately spend time in these unexpected or unplanned destinations we often are surprised at what we find, see or experience.

My father has never done this. Some how, some time, he learnt to give equal weight to every place he found himself in. On holidays as kids, we knew that we would stop at every city, town, village, watering hole and tourist stop along the way. Initially the excuse was that someone in the car would need a toilet stop (and he was always right), but that does not explain the need to read every sign, memorial, plague and tribute in all parks, gardens and civic buildings within line of sight of where the car was parked.

I remember only a few years ago on a road trip back from Melbourne, my father waxed lyrical about a particular small town on the way. While cruising along a multi-lane freeway, all other occupants of the car fast asleep, I flashed past a sign and realised I had missed the turn to this town. Screeching to a stop and reversing brought everyone out of their dreams and the car was filled with questions about what was happening. Once I was headed down the turn-off I explained that I had missed the sign but there was nothing to worry about as we would be arriving at our next stop in a few minutes. "Oh, we don't need to go through there", my father explained, "That's quite a bit out of our way."  My mistake. I had forgotten that places that do not lie on our chosen path of travel did not reduce their importance or meaningfulness to my father.

While I do not give attention to places outside my current itinerary, I do think we miss a richness in our lives that comes from paying attention to the small things, the seemingly insignificant things that fill our day. I'm not expecting to ever re-gain the wonderment of childhood experience, but I am hopeful that occasional attention to the small and the tiny may bring a greater insight into those things that loom large in my life.

Winter

The wind’s blowin’ leaves across the street

It’s sure getting cold down ‘round here.

Westerlies start blowin’; rain turns to sleet

I could easily hate this place this time of year.

Water from the fountains fall across the paths,

Everywhere the grass is turning yellow.

Wood fires, and pine-cones crackling in hearths

Fashion styles for women are more mellow.

Tree-tops toss and writhe in the windy gusts,

All of Nature’s starting to look bleak.

Hot-food shops cater for people’s hunger-lusts,

And the colour of the gardens become weak.

The sky is grey-blue ashen, rather overcast

Sparrows cry and wheel upon the wing

Sunshine wanes; its time of reign is past

And people’s hearts are yearning for the spring.

MDC 14/05/81

The sad, sad truth

I had a good week-end; a very good week-end. Well, most of it was great. A house I really wanted to sell, sold; and it sold for a good price. Both the buyer and the seller were very happy. I also had the chance to have some 'coffee and cake' time with the child bride.

Although this is where the week-end took a turn for the worse.

Apparently I have been operating under a misunderstanding for a long time. I thought the definition of a week-end was that time in the week when sleeping-in was considered de rigueur, shaving was not necessary, watching a movie was allowed regardless of the time of day, and tangible concessions were given in the wardrobe department.

It turns out I was dead wrong about that last one.

Ask any man over the age of 40 about what he considers is important about the clothes he wears and I'll bet one answer you will never get is "fashionable". I will also bet that the most common, if not the only answer you will receive is "comfortable". The fact that the jeans may be a little worn, the shirt a little faded, the shoes a little misshapen, are not entered into the equation. The issue of a belt will be, at best, an after-thought, just like whether or not a comb is required to be run through my hair. Over 40, wearing clothes that are sartorially-lacking should not be considered a crime upon humanity, nor grounds for casting aspersions upon one's character or intelligence, and it's certainly not acceptable to throw them all away and go on a shopping spree.

This raises a serious dilemma.

For clothes to be truly comfortable, they must be soft. They must either fit the contours of your body or they must loosely ignore it. For clothes to acquire this essential attribute, it takes the determined passage of time and many, many washings. In my experience, one to two years at a minimum. Hanging in the back of a closet for a few years is also known to add the desired level of softness. 

There are many of us males who endure the grief and discomfort of hard, harsh clothing for many days and months, in the hope that our wretched clothes will one day be soft and pliable. We look long into the future, willingly delaying wardrobe gratification, so we can one week-end enjoy the comfort of "good" clothes. Imagine then our utter dismay when our respective partners turn around and say, "You're not wearing that old thing are you? That shirt's faded. It's time you threw it out." Just when it's reached its peak!

Oh, the horror of it, and most of all the sadness of it. I am not sure why I felt a little ashamed. I truly did not intend to offend the clothing gods. What this means for any future week-ends, I'm not sure. One thing is certain, some elements of my wardrobe are clearly unwelcome on any out-of-the-house activities.

Still Life

Chilly night; moon bright;

Intermittent star light.

Dark ground; street light round;

Shooting star earthward bound.

Thin cloud; spreading shroud;

Silhouette trees standing proud.

Shadows cast; dawn at last;

Winters night is finally past.

MDC 19/6/81

Sesquipedalian

I learnt a new word today

Don't know when I'll use it

Normally I have little to say

Not much chance I'll abuse it.

It seems there are some people

Who use words long and fancy

Sitting high up in their steeples

For me it'd be too chancy.

What I want to know is

Who needs such arduous words?

Well, maybe the folks in showbiz

They don't do things by thirds.

And maybe the legal eagles

With their tortured, twisted tongues

And the investigative beagles

Chasing fugitives on the run.

And I suppose our politicians

Need a large vocabulary

And of course magicians

Like to take you up a tributary

And doctors write prescriptions

In their homologated text

For therapeutic medications

To keep their patients so perplexed.

And writers, authors and poets

Love the polysyllabic

Journalists and other all-know-its

Love the detail and the graphic

Even cowboys must'ring cattle

Issuing orders with invective

Want to show their mettle

Though simple words are as effective.

So I suppose there is a place

Other than a diphthong

For words in lowercase

That seem really, really long.

MDC 4/5/2005

Art for art's sake ...

Local artist, Cathy McClelland, recently tweeted that she had sold her Tabletop Mountain to a private Sydney art collector.

Prolific is not a word you can use to describe Cathy's work. No, better words would be exceptional, notable and remarkable. Stand on the escarpment on almost any morning in Spring or Autumn and the view of the real article will be little different to this masterpiece of poise and accuracy.

Unlike that popular 70's song by 10cc which had the lyrics of "Art for art's sake, money for God's sake" Cathy continues her habit of producing low numbers of exceptional quality. I don't know what Cathy sells her paintings for; I suspect I will never be able to afford one, but one thing I do know is that Cathy is not driven by the money. She paints because she loves to, and her care for her subject is evident in every brush stroke and palette knife dab.

Enjoying both national and international acclaim, Cathy's work is quintessentially Australian, supported by a technically adept and consummate talent . You can check out her paintings at https://www.facebook.com/cathymcclellandfineart.com.au

An Ikea Experience

Fourteen of us flat-packed into a lift

barely enough room for us all, more claustrophobic than cosy

all silently watching the floor numbers counting upwards

as if the only way to ensure we reach the correct destination is to monitor that meter mutely

and just like the delivery of a new dining suite we all disembark at the same floor

leaving the lift lacking and empty

except for a child’s shoe.

(There’s always some small part left over after assembly.)

Mark Chimes

A new wind blowing

There was this Greek guy called Aesop who became famous for a whole lot of pithy sayings, one of which was, "The little grapes are the sweetest". 

Life is made up of big things and little things. I don't know about you but my life has probably been 20% big things and 80% little. If we live by just the big things, then there is a whole lot of life we miss out on. And upon reflection, oft times, the joy in the small things is just as good as in the big events.

I've just moved to Kleinton. It's not really Toowoomba, but it's so close, and I've lived in Toowoomba for so long, I'm still going to be calling myself a Toowoomba boy.

One of the little things I discovered about Kleinton is that there is almost always a breeze blowing. This is not a startling revelation. It's not worthy of a comment on the evening news. It's not even something I would normally mention in conversation, let alone in a blog post. 

Maybe it's because moving house this week has been one of those big events in life. The days have been filled with cleaning, packing and unpacking, moving furniture, looking for lost items, moving more furniture, finding treasured items broken, discovering things thought to have been lost in a previous move, feeling exhausted from dawn to dusk and by the time it hits mid-afternoon the day already seems to have exceeded its 24 allotted hours. It's right then that the cool breeze has been very welcome indeed.

Regardless of where you live (even if you have the misfortune of not living in Toowoomba) make sure you take notice of the small things that happen around you. They very well may be the things that get you through the big thing that is transpiring in your life right now.

The child-bride is calling. Apparently there is more furniture that needs to be moved.

Moving house

My parents have owned the same house for over 54 years. Think about that for a moment. When was the last time you moved house? How many times have you moved in your adult life? 

Two years ago, they realised that somewhere in the near future there might be a possibility that they would begin to need some assistance. Their house is a big old Queenslander and upkeep of the yard and building was starting to become too much for them both. So, we started making plans to take them in under our roof.

Now there are a number of things that are fairly obvious to anyone making these kinds of decisions. For example, my parents wanted to maintain their own living space and their own car. My mother loves to cook, and she is a quilter of some note, so it was important for her that these activities could be maintained. In other words, they wanted to retain their own independence. These were simple matters to agree upon, and while the pragmatic implementation of some of these things took a little discussion, in the main they provided no hindrance to progress. 

We started looking for suitable homes that could house two separate family units. We saw many that might have been suitable. Most would require some minor alterations, but that presented no problem to us either. As time went by, it looked like my parents were having second thoughts about moving in with us.  When I raised this with them, they assured me that they were still keen to proceed. I finally realised that this "reluctance" was not about the new house.

It was all about leaving the old.

Despite my assurances that they could, would and should remain independent as  long as they felt comfortable, leaving the house that had been the family home for over 54 years was similar to a death in the family. There was a process of leaving and separation that could not occur over just a few days or even weeks. And like the five stages of grief we all go through with the death of a close friend or family member, time needed to be given so that this process could be properly dealt with. Leaving the family home meant that a time of grieving and reconciliation was needed so this season of my parent's life could be completed properly.

We are all faced with decisions that a sometime unpalatable to us. Sometimes, the harder the decision, the longer we take to make it. I'm not just talking about procrastination. Procrastination will rarely change the decision once it is made. But sometimes we need time to allow our heart and soul to catch up with the decision the brain has already made. This is not to say that the decision was hasty, but it's our heart that grieves, not our brain. Even when the decision is a good one, and the fruit of that decision is eagerly anticipated, there can still be a need for comfort and solace over the necessary cessation of long-held habits and views.

Possessing sturdy resolve and never ones to allow a little pain to hinder necessary progress, today my parents move from the old home to the new one. Already they are involved in decisions over shrubs and gardens, tools and sheds, wall colours and curtains. And because they took the time and meditated on all the various aspects of the wonderful life the old home had hosted, and because they have concluded this season appropriately and with deliberation, they have a very good life ahead of them.

Storm brewing over Yugildah

I took this photo late Friday afternoon as storm clouds gathered overhead. Yugildah was built in 1903 and is the only remaining example of a triple gabled Queenslander in Toowoomba. I have been told that a local guided tour of the city includes a drive up Godsall street to view this masterpiece. The grandeur of the house never really impacted any one of us in the family. It was just 'home'.

My parents move from the family home this week-end, after 54 years. Fifty-four years filled with laughter and tears, joy and sadness, triumph and tragedy.  There has been much sadness over the last two years as they came to grips with the inevitability of their leaving. There's been excitement too as they looked forward to a new, more comfortable home. And this week-end they leave in triumph, knowing that in this house they successfully raised seven children and hosted many, many more. 

So many more in fact that the one thing we lacked when I grew up was enough chairs to seat everybody. It always seemed necessary for two or three to sit on the floor. In the October before Suzanne and I married, my mother averaged sixteen people for every meal that month, and we were usually light on for breakfast. Do the maths and you will understand why evening meal time at the Chimes' was an exciting, rowdy time where you needed to be involved in three or four conversations at once if you were to hold your own.

The was an occasion where one visitor burst into tears during the evening meal. Apparently our conversation about smoking affecting your genes had been punned into a second conversations about fashion jeans. This poor unsuspecting guest had become completely confused and thought someone at the table was suggesting she should not be wearing jeans because they would stunt her growth. It took us some time to piece the tangential train of thought together; and even longer to assuage our visitor's distress.

Those days are long gone of course, but over the past two years I have spoken to many former visitors. To a person they all have fond memories of their stay, regardless of how brief. (Although there were some whom we thought would never leave!)

Investing in personal possessions was not something my parents every taught my siblings and me. Investment in emotional connections and personal relationships was considered far more important. So as they leave this week-end, there will not be a single thought given to what will become of the house after they go. The treasure-trove of memories they hold dear of the acquaintances and loved-ones that have filled the last 54 years is so large there is no room for thought of mere possessions.

The Biscuit Barrel

The old hall of old Mrs Chimes' very old house is not particularly grand.  Although by the standards enlisted in today's modern abodes where a tiny alcove is trumpeted as a grand foyer by real estate agents, said hall is indeed imposing. Compared with more regal efforts, however, it would go completely unnoticed, for it was just a hall as was typical in its day.

It is about twelve feet long and barely four feet wide, so it's physical dimensions garner no enquiry. Half way along its right wall is a door that leads to the main bedroom. On the left wall is another door that leads to a second bedroom, (there being another two further within the house).

Immediately after the left door, is a low bookcase that runs the length of the hall. It has only two rows of shelving, and while the books contained within those shallow rows are eclectic and cover a very wide literary taste, they are remarkable only in the fact that they are unremarkable.

Hanging on the wall opposite is a framed copy of a Dorothy McKeller poem, learnt parrot-fashion by every child that attended an Australian school in the 1960's.

On the heavy front door, made of some indeterminate dark hardwood, painted so many times that the original wood grain will never see the light of day again, hangs a large brass knocker that thunders the arrival of every guest, unsolicited salesman, and Girl Guide selling cookies to the home’s inhabitants.

When this door is opened to an adult, their first impression of the hall is one of tidiness, quiet style, and perhaps a hint of musty history.  They glance around and see nothing remarkable. The eyes of many fall upon the very large, very heavy family bible that records, not only the holy scriptures in that most faithful of dialects, the Old King James English, but the improbable yet equally true names of children long since abiding in their own homes.

All of this serves as no indication of the import of this habitat, nor does it provide any assistance to warn the guest of what many of them indeed miss.

When the front door is opened to a child, whether attended by an adult or not, there is one additional item residing in this hall that sooner or later never fails to draw its younger victims into its clutches. It is this very item that provides this old hall in old Mrs Chimes' very old house a status of at least great desire, if not downright awe.

Sitting on top of the bookcase, trying to be obscure, right beside the very large, very heavy family bible is a small biscuit barrel. Made in the days when biscuits were small and only eaten by ladies and well-to-do gentlemen, biscuit barrels in general were used to present biscuits to guests who visited the house. The styles, colours, shapes and presentations were as varied as the cooked delights that resided within. This one never held a place of honour when it was used for its original, intended purpose. It did its job no better, or worse, than thousands of its brethren the world over.

It looked like it was made of fine bone china, bleached-bones white, but it was not. It looked like it was painted in the blue style of the Royal Doulton bamboo landscapes, but it was not. It looked like its handles and lid were made from electroplated nickel silver, a very common look. It was, in fact, sterling silver, but even this gives no indication of the real value of this lurking artefact.

When the keen-eyed child lifts the lid, a feat certain to be attempted regardless of how observant any accompanying adult may be, an Aladdin's Cave of treasures is revealed. In what proves on subsequent visits (Oh! What joy!) to be an inexhaustible supply, the contents of the humble biscuit barrel prove to be better than treasure.

Stiff, fragrant musk sticks, liquorice all-sorts, liquorice logs, chocolate-coated liquorice bullets, chocolate-coated peanuts, chocolate-coated almonds. Sugar-coated almonds; shiny, red, chocolate Jaffa balls, chocolate kisses, chocolate squares. Jelly snakes in an assortment of colours. Aniseed jelly-rings, their sugary coating glinting in the light. Minties wrapped in paper, bulls-eyes, cats-eyes, striped jawbreakers, and fruit jubes. The array and variety seems endless and the supply inexhaustible.

No adult eye is fast enough to see the lightning-fast acquisition of a tasty morsel or two. No adult hand is speedy enough to provide effective defence or hindrance to wave after wave of attack. No adult stomach can cope with the quantity of sheer sugary sweetness that is so quickly consumed from the depths of the barrel's largess.  Indeed many an adult, having become aware of the barrel's presence and purpose, find restraint a futile notion.

Hospitality is effective, the blessing often a surprise, and memories are long - very long. For I have seen visitors, who have not graced the hall with their presence for many years, eagerly look for this little biscuit barrel upon their return. I have heard conversations expounding the hospitality of the old home, focus their enthusiastic support upon this small container, and I have seen grown men reminisce over the particular delectables that graced their day from the offerings of the humble barrel.

So this old hall in old Mrs Chimes' very old house stands indeed in the company of greatness.

Published to honour 53 years of living in "Godsall Street" by Dudley & Ina Chimes and family.