Cleaning

 

I was watching Reels this morning and there was one talking about cleaning, specifically about cleaning for people 65+

When an Australian turns 65, they are eligible to apply for support services via the government My Aged Care service. The supports offered are determined by the need of the client so being 65+ won't necessarily mean the service will be approved.

In the Reel I viewed this morning, the speaker was saying that many phone and ask for cleaning services the moment they turn 65 and found to be capable and not in need of assistance. Her question was, does age alone qualify a person for subsidised cleaning?

It seems a simple enough question.

Someone said "my mum is 93 and doesn't receive cleaning but paid her taxes etc" Who ever suggested a 93 year old shouldn't receive assistance? I don't think any reasonable person expects a 93 year old (almost 30 years after qualifying age) to do their own cleaning.

What about the tax part? Do we pay taxes so we can automatically have help at 65? do we pay taxes so people who need help can have help? or do we pay taxes because it is required by law and we don't really care at all about helping people? 

A support worker commented that she didn't do a year of study to go into the aged care sector to become a cleaner. That's reasonable.

Someone else commented that instead of the focus on cleaning, aged care funding should be assisting people to maintain health so they can stay independent for longer. I have to guess this person might have been suggesting a focus on physiotherapy or mental health support or exercise physiology. Somehow I think it's probably cheaper to pay for cleaning than to pay for allied health professionals and cleaning is more likely to be well received by the older person. There's no point paying for physio if a person won't do their exercises. 

Another said that getting cleaners in helps people to get used to the idea of assistance and means there is someone who is checking in regularly and can flag the need for further assistance. 

The question of do we give everyone a cleaner at age 65 is really answered by what we are trying to achieve. Is it because we want older to people to live in clean homes? Is it motivated by safety? or more by human rights? Are we trying to relieve people of burdensome chores so they can do other things? Are we trying to reward people for paying into the tax system? Are we trying to actively watch for signs of deterioration?

Australians can't have an age pension before age 67 but can apply for cleaning services at 65. That seems odd.

Holy Days

 

Today I took myself off to the cinema and saw "Holy Days"

It is a feel good comedy/ drama set in 1974 New Zealand and I must say I enjoyed it just as much as I expected to.

There were a few short segments created with stop motion, which was interesting and not at all out of place.

I enjoyed seeing the old HR Holden. ( I had a white HR sedan as a wedding car.) 

I enjoyed the story and the scenery and the actors.

The film was loght and enjoyable but had things to say about love, miracles, community and dying.

Palace Fail

 This week I returned to part-time hours at work after a six month stint of full time filling in for a maternity leave position.

Fifteen hours/ week is not sustainable and on top of that my ego is bruised because I had been putting in a huge effort, doing a decent job and hoping that if the lady who was on leave resigned (which she did) I might become full time on a permanent basis. When I was there 2 days/ week I found it hard to learn the job and harder to feel part of the team but once I was there 5 days, I was able to improve all of that.

Anyhow, at the same time my favourite cinema noticed that I hadn't been in a while and offered me a half price ticket.

I didn't have to be at work in the morning and the ticket was so cheap, I made a booking for Monday evening.

When I got there, the lift from the car park was not working and there was a sign to call the box office for assistance. I couldn't imagine that they would be able to fix the lift but I called anyway and the phone went unanswered.

From the  underground carpark to the cinema foyer (which is above street level) there must be about 25 or 30 stairs and the majority of those with no hand rail.

I decided not to attempt the stairs and reluctantly headed for home.

I emailed customer service with a request for a refund and received a reply saying that the carpark is not operated by the cinema and therefore it was not their problem but they were giving me an opportunity to buy two more half price tickets. (The carpark is leased to a car park company but the lift belongs to the cinema building)

The wording was sneaky, though and for a few minutes I thought I was being given two tickets.

The dodging of responsibility was not the response I hoped for but I replied and thanked them for the tickets.

It was only after I hit send that I realised that not only did I not receive a refund but they were asking me to buy two more tickets.

So how come they have failed on multiple levels but I am the one who feels dumb?

Who's an Orange Poo Bum?

 

There certainly is plenty said online about Donald Trump's incontinence. There are references to his diapers, there are videos of people near gagging on what we can only assume is the smell of the guy. There are many jokes and memes. The topic has a life all of it's own.

Now, Trump appalls me. His behaviour disgusts me. His hatefulness depresses me. His destruction of so much that was good horrifies me.

In many ways I am happy to see him mocked. I think he deserves plenty of scrutiny and he has put himself well in the line of fire for all the mockery he attracts.

Having said all of that, I am really not sure what I think of the whole incontinence issue being so publicly joked about.

If I was doubly incontinent (or for that matter just incontinent of urine) I would be embarassed, ashamed, sad and frustrated.

If the whole world knew about it, it would be worse. If the whole world mocked me for it, I would wish to die.

I think of the aged care residents I know, the majority of them are incontinent but they are still people who have innate dignity and deserve to be treated as valuable.

Trump is a monster but I am not sure I can support the mockery he receives around this issue. It makes me uncomfortable because I think there's a very thin distinction between laughing at a disgraceful politician because of his uncontrolled bowel and laughing at the old bloke in the care home who never hurt a fly but can't recognise his need to go to the toilet. 

I'm also not sure it is the right thing to pick on.

A failing body seems to be the easiest,  laziest thing to laugh at. His moral and ethical failures are so much more significant. Truth be told they are probably even more frequent than the full diapers.

What do you think, dear reader? Does he deserve whatever insults come his way?

Mother

 Tonight I wanted to write a post but couldn't think of a topic. 

And then I happened to come across this art work

I have never seen it before but it recalls my days as a young mother, perched on the edge of a bed or a couch or a kichen stool, feeding a child or two.

The fingers spreading out and pulling on the skin is a detail I had forgotten but I know my hands remember.

I love the light. I love the crib on the floor by the bed, I often used car capsules the same way.

I love the linens on the bed and I know the comfort of those sheets.

I loved to wear a rustling skirt like the one worn by this mother.

I love the water jar by the bed and remember how there has never been a thirst like that of breastfeeding.

I love the hint of lace on the baby's blanket

and the exquisite beauty of the newborn's head.

I think I want to buy a print. A large one.

Mother. Elin Danielson-Gambogi

Breakfasts

 Earlier this year I started to eat the same breakfast every day. Greek yogurt with berry and chia compote. It's easy to organise, high protein, high fibre and I like it. This was a deliberate strategy to get the day started with a good choice and it was going really well. 

Then winter came and I really want to have a hot breakfast but it's not possible to pull a hot breaky out of the fridge in the morning.

Instead I have been eating:

leftover daal   6/10

porridge  with berry compote     4/10

porridge with peanut butter and brown sugar     7/10

barley cooked in pear juice and cardamom pods  topped with a small dot large spoon of cream    9/10

cheese on toast      8/10

Some of these do better at hitting the nutrritional goals than others and none are as good as the yogurt and compote. I am doing badly at fibre and protein but well at whole foods. i will keep trying and it will soon be warmer weather and I will go back to yogurt with fruit.

I really encourage you to try barley cooked in juice. It's quite delicious.

Responsibility

 After my mum's last hospitalisation I wrote about delirium. My reflections on that hospitalisation and on the recovery led me to question whether I should not have given consent for the procedure she had. It was a tough time for her and I am still not sure if I could have made another choice.

Knowing that these decisions are not going to get easier, I recently asked mum about her wishes for the future. "I don't want any treatment, leave me alone and let what happens, happen"

I can respect this view but I didn't feel that mum's behaviour matched her words so I asked again:

"So, you'd be happy to just stay in bed and be looked after until you die?"

"I didn't say that! Why are you asking me this?"

I explained that I want, in fact need, to understand her wishes because there may come a time when she can't advocate for herself.

Mum told me it was not my decision to make, that she can choose, that her doctors will choose. And on it went. 

I interpret her resistance to my genuine enquiries as evidence that my understanding was correct. She doesn't want to decline all treatments, she has an expectation of continuing to live and be treated and make decisions for herself. The unfortunate part is that she doesn't make decisions any more. Ask her if she wants chicken or fish and she will say a sandwich. 

All of this has been weighing on me intermittently. Mum is very frail and has several non-healing wounds. There is a very strong likelihood that one day, a wound will be infected or she will develop pneumonia and if I am to have any chance of handling the situation I need to be considering options before the crisis comes.

And I don't know why I have written all of that in present tense because mum's care manager updated me last week to say that we have very few options left for mum. Heart failure is impeding her circulation, which is why her wounds don't heal. She is on all the heart drugs, diuretics and blood thinners she can be on and she is no longer strong enough to survive a surgery.

What all of that means is, if mum has a sudden decline for any reason, there are very few options left for her.

It would seem that my efforts to understand Mum's wishes have become almost redundant and I am glad I don't have to carry that but I am not glad of the reason.

For the moment she is well so I shove all of that to the back of my mind, take her treats and try to mollify the irrational, complaining person she has become.

A good week

When I started at the job I am in, I shared the job and I was doing two days/ week. After a while my colleague went off on maternity leave and I hoped to work her days until she came back. It took a while for everything to shuffle into place but I did eventually pick up her days.

This week, I was told that my colleague has resigned and I was invited to apply for the position on a permanent basis.

This is very good.

The job is low paid and exhausting but it makes me feel alive and the low pay is more tolerable when there are more hours.

It has been a long time hope of mine to go to a Christmas in July dinner but for years now I have not booked anything early and as July progressed I have run out of time to squeeze in a Christmas in July event. 

This year, my daughter Briony organised and paid for me before I could miss out for another year.

Last night I went with Briony and Caitlin to "Yulefest" at the Hydromajestic, a lovely old hotel in the Blue Mountains. 

The hotel  is gorgeous, the service was sublime, the five courses were all wonderful, there were twinkling lights and Christmas music. It was just a lovely evening.

Having ticked that off my bucket list, I will be content if I don't do it again. That's not to say I wouldn't do it again, just that it was lovely but there are other restaurants, festivals and joys to experience.

I am so blessed by my kid's generosity to me and wish I had done these kinds of things with my own mum but the whole dynamic was different. 

Just a few years ago I tried to take mum and dad out for a delicious brunch but they ate beforehand and then didn't want more than coffee. In many ways mum and dad were quite modern but an "expensive" brunch was a bridge too far.

Today, my grown children, partners and grandson came "home" to celebrate the twins' birthday with cake. It was good. The young fella was particularly keen to hang out with "Keegy" as he calls his uncle and Keegy was happy to oblige. Many guavas were pulled from the tree and dandelions picked before a quick return to mum and then back out the door with upturned palm opening and closing "Keegy Come"  

Mural on Thursday

 

Well I am sure you all know by now that I took the trip to the funeral. 

When things seemed to keep going badly I thought I should have listened to the people here who advised against it but the problems didn't happen because I had been unwell so it was just one of those things.

I drove to Goulburn on Thursday night and as I got into town I had problems with my Google Maps and couldn't find my accommodation. I ended up phoning my daughter for directions and interrupting a night out.

Then I couldn't for the life of me find the cabin in the caravan park. Then there was no handrail on the steps into the cabin so I had to do a strange pull-yourself-up manouvre. What should have been a two hour drive was over three.

In the morning I had a 2.5 hour drive to do but there had been a fatal truck crash and there was a long diversion. I can't complain, I am alive.

The diversion and ongoing navigational difficulties made me forty minutes  late for the funeral. Embarassing but in the circumstances punctuality didn't matter.

Grenfell, a town of under 3000, had five funerals last week so there was no accommodation available in town and I stayed at my friend's family home. The first and only time I will see her in her childhood environment. I had always wanted to do that and now I have. I also met her brother, an interesting man.

When I did my silo art tour a couple of years back, I didn't make it to Grenfell so now I have seen the silos, painted by Heesco.

The photo is not mine, I saw the silos at night and forgot to get a daytime photo

The problems made the whole trip feel like I had to use every bit of patience and persistence I have ever developed. It was a test of stamina, for sure but I feel that I was true to my values and I am happy with that.

The Unlikely Doctor

The cold I was developing on Thursday became fully fledged on the weekend. My eyes and nose streamed and I cancelled all plans.

Yesterday I felt a wee bit better and went to work, mostly because there was an admission to do. The boss asked if I was sick and made an issue of me spreading germs. I said I only came in to do the admission "get it done and then go home"

Maybe I take things to personally but I didnt like being the bad guy. The fact that they told me to do the admission then go pretty much says everything.

It's an odd thing, one minute I can feel quite good and the next my energy tanks.

I am home today. I had a chiro treatment and went out for coffee and now Buffy is sleeping on my lap.

A dear friend lost her mum last week and I want to go to the funeral on Friday. It's a 4.5 hour drive and I would normally do it with one arm tied behind me but I am nervous about doing too much too soon. I didn't think I was exhausted before I got sick but it's here now and some moments feels almost insurmountable.

While I have been taking it easy I read "The Unlikely Doctor": Timote Timoke tells his remarkable story about a childhood of disadvatage and violence, leading to gang life and gaol. The memory of the aroha he received from his grandparents sustains him until he can become a paramedic and eventually a doctor.

To say the book is inspirational would be trite so I won't. I will say it's a great example of how genuine love is never wasted.

A post about nothing

 Years and years as the person who eats the things that will be wasted if I don't eat them means my standards are quite low. As the person who was responsible for all the planning, all the shopping, all the food prep and all the cleaning up, my interest in doing a single unneccessary skerrick of work conspired to further lower my standards.

Today I thought we were having a lunch provided by work but I had the wrong day. I messaged my girls to say it was a huge disappointment but I would be ok because I have an office fruit bowl.

The responses:

"I thought chopped up fruit but not Kylie"

"I had the same thought. Pictured some cut up apples and some mushy pear and maybe some tinned cherries or something just for fun"

After I got home and had a small apple pie with my dinner, Keaghan asked "Did you at least warm it up?'

No, I did not.

"I knew you didn't, that's why I asked"

I appall them.

I also have a cold and got my car locked in the basement at work and had to get an Uber home. They say I have drama every day but I absolutely swear I don't create these situations on purpose.

How about you?

 A quick little bit of fluff tonight but these kinds of memes are always fun.

1. Scrambled on sourdough

2. Prawn salad or egg or chicken, lettuce and mayo. Honestly, how am I supposed to choose? I also like banana, sultanas and peanut butter or butter and honey.

3. Hot chips. Followed by potato bake, mashed potato, roast potato, hash browns and potato in curry.

4. Coriander

5. Salt

6. Wooden spoon, wooden chopping board, quality knife.

7. Bolognaise

8. Lamb Shoulder

9. As a kid I always thought it was Christmas if we had fish and chips. Fish and chips was always take-away but Mum made lots of things I still enjoy: pavlova, vanilla nut custard, apricot chicken, Madras Steak and swwet and sour chicken. 

Winter

 For the 29 years we have lived in this house, the gas heater has been a feature of winter life. One of my twins stuck her finger inside the grill at 10 months old and got her finger burnt. I still wonder what I was thinking to leave the kids unattended but I really never expected anyone to do that, she had previously ignored the heater completely.

I remember the kids dressing in the loungeroom in front of the heater on cold school mornings. 

I remember setting up a broom across two chairs in front of the heater and using it as a clothes dryer.

I remember once hosting a party and being so happy to be able to have a warm and welcoming home but with all the people in the room we sweltered.

These days Keaghan spends all his time in his bedroom with a small heater keeping the room warm, only appearing for food and to razz Buffy so I am alone in the lounge room and it seems wasteful to run the gas heater for such a large room with only me in it. Instead, I spread a heated rug over the couch and sit on it. My back and legs are toasty warm, my ankles and hands are colder.

Buffy is snoring beside me, taking up her allocated part of the rug. She would rather be on my lap but can't compete with the laptop.

Soon I will make a hot chocolate and dip a buttermilk rusk in it. I first saw the buttermilk rusks at Aldi last year and because I can not resis trying a new product, I bought some. When they arrived in store this winter, I bought some more. It's quite a delicious and comforting little treat.

And as I write, I remember that we are almost out of milk. Will i have the chocolate tonight or will I have coffee in the morning? Choices, choices.

Talking of winter, they say that more people die in winter than any other time and I don't know what the statistics say but this week, the first time we have had temperatures below 10 degrees, and the week of the shortest day, we have seen six aged care residents go to the next life. Six.

Before I turn in for the night, I will heat my wheat bags in the microwave. That winter tradition has been going a good few years now. One heat pack at my back, because who doesn't love a heat source on their back, and the other will keep my hands warm while i drift off to sleep.

 

Easy Faith

 Somewhere recently, in comments on one of the blogs I read, somebody said that they wished they could have a "easy faith" it might have been the same person or someone else who said they wished they could just believe what they were told.

I thought I would try explaining my "easy faith"

I was born the child of church going people and I went to church with them every week. Was it easy? It was just what our family did and kids just accept what happens in their homes but no, I did not find it easy. I lived in a subculture and I felt isolated and different. Even at church, in the subculture, I felt isolated and different. I'm beginning to realise there is probably a chunk of neurospice in my family of origin so maybe that was the real problem but I blamed church and no, it was not easy.

I didn't mind church itself, I learned the stories and the ideas easily so I always felt smart but as I said, the social isolation was hard.

As a teen, all of the "hard" I had already felt was added to as I tried to figure out if it was real. Was this God thing something I could believe? Was it something I could not-believe? Was I prepared to stray from the identity of my family? If I did believe it, how should it look in my life? All those years of hearing people talk about "God's will" and "hearing God" had me confused. I couldn't hear God talk and I didn't know if I would recognise Him if I did. I didn't know "God's will for my life" and despite asking, wasn't seeming to get answers so I lived my life assuming I would be hit by a bolt of lightening or some other dramatic event if I needed a re-direction.

None of this was easy.

At one point my abusive husband tried to stop me from attending church and although I was unsure of the faith aspect, I knew that my church was my community and my faith, such as it was, was part of  my identity. When forced to choose, I chose a life of faith. I wasn't really sure what I was choosing but I wasn't allowing it to be taken from me. This was important because I had allowed many other parts of my life to be stolen or eroded.

Life continued. I tried to understand what a life of faith means. I tried to apply my faith to my every day. I still wasn't confident I was getting it right. I must have been almost 40 before I was prepared to say I was a Christian because I never wanted my imperfection to turn anyone else away from exploring faith themselves.

Faith isn't hard like hard work. It's not hard like watching a loved one in pain. It's not hard like being in pain yourself.

 Faith is hard because just when you think you are confident, you wonder if your confidence is a sign you have it wrong. Faith is hard because there is never proof of God. It's hard because it has to be reassessed all the time, chosen every day, added to, chiselled into shape. It is never complete.

Back when I chose faith I thought of it as a structure for becoming a better person, not the only way to being a better person but the way I knew, the way I had been schooled in and was familiar with.

These days, I find a life of faith is more than a way to be better: it is a way to find meaning, it is an enjoyable intellectual pursuit, it is a way to have community, a reason for hope and a touchstone for everything.

Even now, when faith has become all of that, there are still days I wonder if God is real, times I wonder who I would be if not for the influence of faith, times I wonder if I would judge myself less harshly if not for faith. 

A life of faith no longer fills me with the angst of wondering if I am even close to the track, let alone on it but there are lots of times when the angst is just subtly there, unnoticed but ready to spring up and cause a skirmish.

In ending, I feel like this post will read as a very negative review but I don't want that. My best description might be to say that a life of faith is like many worthwhile pursuits: irritating and difficult in the moment but ultimately rewarding. The consistency needed is sometimes tiring. The reassessments that come can be humbling and painful. The rigour needed is sometimes just not what I want.

I speak only for myself when I say I don't have an easy faith. What I do have is a rich and interesting life with hope and growth and joy all built on a scaffold of faith.

I will never tell you that my way is the only way but I will ask you not to underestimate it.

Being human is hard and we all have to make choices about which hard things we want. Faith is one of mine.

Tales from Aged Care

A while back I told you how my one time piano teacher is a resident of the aged care facility where I work. Her husband lives in the retirement village on-site. Even when I was a student, I was aware of Mr Piano. She spoke of him often and I was aware that he was used to having people jump to attention.

Now he is an old man who phones persistently and sometimes makes unreasonable requests. It didn't take me long to realise he is highly anxious so one day we silently came to an agreement. Mr P was being a bit demanding and I gave him all the respect in the world but held a calm, firm line. I can't remember what it was about but I know he has treated me like an old friend ever since.

Mrs P is coming very close to the end of her life and Mr P is distraught. Today he was nearby and I popped out to talk to him. "Did you know Mrs P was my piano teacher?" 

"No, I didn't, do you still play? I'm so glad you told me that. I still have the piano, you know....."

And off he went, telling me about the piano and various other things.

At one point he told me he doesn't mean to be but he thinks he is a pain to the staff. The right response just came to my head and I told him, very truthfully, that we are all very respectful of his dedication to her.

It was just a ten minute conversation but it was one of the most beautiful ten minutes of my week.

Able-ism and Age-ism

 

A few years ago, an elderly lady (old enough to be my mother) told me that she had been advised to wear orthopaedic shoes. She then commented that there was no way she wanted to wear those ugly things.

And I understood. Wearing ugly shoes was never something I wanted to do but I do. I accepted that if i want to walk, I need AFOs and they need to be worn in a solidly constructed, supportive shoe.

Anyhow, I had a giggle to myself because the old lady was complaining about something I had been forced to make peace with forty years younger. She was also unintentionally insulting me.

Over the years, I have heard many of these types of comments about walking sticks while I stand there with my pink and red stick. I usually nod sagely and say "well they are a pain until you really need them"

I often hear about old people who resist the move to aged care because of "all the old people"

This week, I asked mum if she would go on the Friday bus trip her aged care facility organises. She was horrified at the suggestion, saying that she doesn't want to do the silly activities. Then she told me that she once went to a sing-along and hated it because it was "a bunch of old people in wheelchairs" Guess who is an old lady in a wheelchair?

If we could just get past the able-ism and age-ism where all this originates, if we could just see people using a variety of adaptations as people who are trying to get the most out of life, maybe we would all do better when we got to the point where we become the person with the daggy shoes, the walker, the wheelchair or for that matter, the incontinence product.

Himmel und Erde

I saw this German dish created on Instagram. "Heaven and Earth" is mashed potatoes, stewed apple and caramelised onion.
Apparently potatoes are called earth apples in Germany (if you know better then let me know) so I guess the name is a play on words with earth apples and heavenly apples.

Anyhow, the idea of apple, mash and onion grabbed my attention and I intend to make it some day. I did make a variation which was sauteed leek and apple with mash. It was good and I put the left over apple and leek in the fridge and ate it on toast with cheese. Also very good.

My cooking becomes simpler and simpler as my life gets busier and I also have less stamina for standing than I once did so even though this is a simple dish, it is more peeling and chopping than I really want to do. As I thought about how I really wanted to try it, I decided to make it easier by using frozen mashed potatoes.

I have never bought frozen mash before although I have probably eaten it any time I have a pub meal of sausages and mash. On my regular shopping trip I bought a bag of frozen mash. It's about $5 for a kilo so actually about the same price as the potatoes themselves. I understood every listed ingredient, too: potatoes, milk, salt and pepper. 

 

Can I tell you, frozen mash is a revelation! It is frozen in little cylinders (extruded from a pipe and snap frozen, I would think) I put the little cylinders in the microwave for a few minutes, added a splash of milk to create the texture I like and hey presto, delightful mash.

The downside is, it is imported from Belgium. A very long way with a very big lot of fuel used. I don't like that part but I think if I remain committed to eating Australian potatoes when they are cooked another way, I can justify it.

A Sick Day

I have been working full time hours for the last three months and at times I have left work early or gone in late because I have had some kind of personal business to attend to. 

I think it's good to be present every day, even if it is for reduced hours but today I decided to take sick leave. If I reduce my hours, my pay is docked but if I take the full day off, I get paid for it.

I feel a bit like a kid wagging school.

So, today I renewed my Working With Children Check. It has been a bureaucratic nightmare but it is finally done for the next five years.

I have sat in the sun with Buffy.

I have changed my bed linen.

I have had multiple cups of coffee.

Soon I will put a curry in the pressure cooker so I can have pre-cooked food for another day.

Then I will do my online exercise class and watch tv.

Obviously I don't have a lot to say!

 

Picnics

 A while back now, Hels wrote a post about the history of picnics and it made me think about the picnics in my life.

I don't remember family picnics at all. On weekends, my parents were always entirely bound to the house so we ate at the table, the same as we did every other day. I suspect the idea of packing up food and going somewhere else was all too much work for mum to want to bother with and in many ways i felt the same when I had a house full of people. Cook, pack up, find a destination, eat in an inconvenient location then pack it all up and go home to wash up. Those picnics are not for me but I'm happy to take a bunch of snacks and eat outdoors. Or, as I did one day recently, take my own sandwich and meet up with friends in a park, buying coffee nearby.

What we did quite a bit of when I was a child, was church picnics and the very specific Sunday School picnics. It was common place for our church to declare a "Church Picnic" for one or two of the public holidays each year. A park would be chosen and anyone interested would come along with their picnic chairs, cold meats, canned vegetables, home made slices and cakes, balls, bats and bikes.

Everyone would get set up in a single, ever growing circle. There would be chatting and silliness, people would pass around their cakes and there would likely be sunburn. 

I can't remember what mum took but I know that I was always jealous of other people's food. Pretty much any biscuit from a packet seemed more enchanting, prettier, more perfect than mum's home made things (which of course were superior but try telling that to a kid who was entranced by the perfection of machine made)

The Sunday School picnic, now I think of it, seemed to really hark back to different times. Any kid who attended Sunday School at all was invited to the annual event. We all scrambled onto a bus to a park, usually with a beach, and the ritual picnic would be on. There were games and races, swimming and of course the food. Sunday School  picnics had the same menu every year: sandwiches made by some of the older church ladies, ice creams on sticks which were transported on magical dry ice, jugs of cordial, cream buns and watermelon.

By the mid-eighties somebody had decided swimming was too hard to supervise and keep safe so on this particular, very hot day, there was no swimming (was there even a water course? I don't remember)

I was about 13 or 14, the park was a dustbowl, we were hot and at a slightly loose end, probably waiting for the next  treat to make an appearance and someone started a water fight. I don't remember what we used to carry the water in but we must have had something because very soon we were all taking turns filling containers at the tap and throwing water at each other.

One parent who was known to be very strict indeed, lost the plot about his daughter's lack of decorum and the water fight was shut down. My mother talks about it to this day. 

The daughter went on to have an unplanned pregnancy within a few years. The family had moved away by then but by all accounts, the dad was a changed man under the influence of a grand baby.

As I write about it, I am awestruck by the risk taken, the work load involved and the commitment of people who worked their butts off for us kids to take it all for granted.

I never became much of a picnic person, as I mentioned earlier, but for a period of time I had a small picnic-ish tradition with my own kids. We would spend school holidays going on little jaunts into the countryside. I would take haloumi cheese and cabanossi and bread rolls and drink and we would find a public barbecue, cook up the cheese and cabanossi, picking it off the barbecue like hors d'oeuvres before sitting at an adjacent table and having a slapped together lunch served off paper towel. All I had to wash up when I got home was a knife and a pair of tongs.

Good days.

Fragile

 I'm working full time at the moment, which is good for me and necessary but it makes me feel like I have very little time for blogging. Maybe it's more a matter of time management than hours in the day. I don't know. I miss you and I know I have thought of a number of topics and forgotten them again. Frustrating.

This evening I watched the livestreamed funeral of a man who was once vaguely in my orbit. I mostly think of him as the brother of a school friend, Cath. Chris was in my brother's year at school. The family lived a couple of blocks away from us. 

When my first child was born, Chris came with my brother to see me in hospital. I remember them, two 20 year olds, commenting on the size of my newborn's balls.

Recently Cath made a non-specific facebook post about heart break and not having really been in touch for 30 years, I watched silently. It became obvious as I watched the funeral that Chris took his own life.

Soon after watching the funeral, a facebook post came up about the death of a church pastor in Queensland. The guy's name was unusual and a girl I had known in high school had married a man with the same name. A quick google revealed that he was, in fact, the husband of the girl I knew and he, too, took his own life. 

These events are distant from me because the people haven't been in my life for so long but in degrees of separation, they are incredibly close. Both men died within a month of each other.

I can't even describe why I am writing about it because it doesn't affect me. 

But it does.

Last week I sat opposite an 85 year old who tearfully told me "I promised my sister I would never put her in aged care" and I responded with something I say quite often "Most people eventually become too old to properly care for themselves and if they don't end up in aged care it is usually because something tragic happens"

I started saying it as an attempt at comforting people but now I am seeing just how brutally true it is.