We've just had the television on and seen the tons and tons of fireworks that are going to light up the Sydney sky tonight. Wowsers always exclaim what a waste of money it is but I think as it gives pleasure to so many people it is worth every cent. My husband and I will be admiring the fireworks on TV (as long as we are still awake then).
I have always been a sleepy person and not terribly much into staying up late on New Year's Eve, although I do enjoy the festivities. We have been to plenty of parties to commemorate the ending of one year and the celebrating of a new one just starting but I can't remember any really outstanding ones apart from a party at our house to welcome in the year 2000.
It was a combined party - our girls had their friends over as did my husband and I. We all ate and drank and were extremely merry until 7am! I don't know that I had ever stayed up for that length of time before (how boring am I!).
Because of the change of decade all sorts of terrible things were supposed to happen such as planes falling out of the sky due to computer failures etc etc. All that happened in our house that night, which was a bit of a misadventure, was that one of our younger guests imbibed a bit much and mainly missed the toilet when he threw up.
I was mowing the lawn years later and spied something sparkly amongst the grass. It was a year 2000 decal. That little sparkly shape brought back memories of the latest I had ever gone to bed.
When my husband and I were dating we organised a New Year's Eve party at his parents' place. They had gone to a concert and said we could have a few people over as long as they didn't come further into the house than the back room. This was in the days before social media and about 200 people turned up. I wonder what would have happened these days. Our only contributions to the party were the venue, the music, a disco ball and a huge old copper bowl of punch with masses of plastic 'glasses'. People kept adding to the punch bowl during the evening and it kept tasting better and better. The next day we were somewhat startled to see how brightly the copper gleamed. Even with such a crowd all went well apart from someone's unhappy tummy. T's best friend cleaned up the mess before his parents came back from their concert. They then also joined in the revelry as well as partaking of the punch.
A couple of years ago T and I celebrated a very pleasant New Year's Eve at a beautiful restaurant 'The River' at Moruya with some friends. It was a tasting menu with matched wines that continued for many hours, finishing just before midnight. 7 course with 7 wines I think. I was certainly a little unsteady on my feet as we headed for our cars.
As we sedately drove home we could see fireworks let off on the various beaches blazing brilliantly in the sky. It looked very festive. I was surprised to be able to see the red and blue lights flashing behind us in the rear vision mirror as well and thought that T was pulling over to the side of the road to admire them better. Luckily I wasn't driving. He blew .02 in the breathalizer. I would certainly have been miles over the limit! The police wished us a happy New Year and went on their way.
Tonight T and I are going to be eating prawns and oysters on the deck of our family coast home. Perhaps we will even celebrate with some champagne. It has been a hard year and I'm glad it's over.
May 2013 be kind to us all.
Sunday 30 December 2012
Wednesday 26 December 2012
Bluebottles and friends
I can't remember this incident but my mother told me that at my very first visit to the beach in Australia when my father carried me into the water I screamed and screamed. He and my mother were very concerned when they couldn't calm me down. Someone kindly came to help and said that I had probably been stung by a bluebottle (jellyfish) and that they should take me to see a lifeguard. Sure enough, there was the mark from the stinger. The lifeguard got out a little bag of laundry blue and held it on the sting. I stopped screaming and my parents were amazed at the solution. In the old days 'laundry blue' always got placed on stings and bites of all kinds.
Last week my daughter and son-in-law walked along Malua Bay beach and photographed long lines of stranded bluebottles which had come in with the on-shore wind. They are little nasties which are taken where the wind blows them thanks to their air-filled floats, trailing their stinging tentacles in the water where they enmesh and devour small sea creatures.
Years ago my father and I went to Balmoral Beach for a swim. Even though it was a very hot day we were surprised to see that the water was empty even though the beach was crowded. "You beauty!" we thought as we galloped over the blistering sand and plunged into the cool briny and swam out into the deeper water. All of a sudden I became aware of being surrounded on all sides by masses of bluebottles. The water was thick with them. I shouted at my father who was still obliviously swimming along. When he finally realised what was happening he cleverly suggested I hold onto his shoulders and he would breaststroke his way through the multitudes of stingers, thus protecting me. The theory was good the actuality not quite so. As my father pushed the bluebottles away and to the side with his strokes, they swirled around and behind him efficiently avoiding him and floating straight at my chest and shoulders. We progressed to shore and sheepishly got out of the water with everyone looking at we two idiots. Amazingly neither of us was stung.
We usually swam at 'the net', a large area protected from sharks by a very long suspended net. Years later I saw underwater photographs of this shark proof net. It had such massive holes that anything could have got through had it wanted to, but we were oblivious to any danger and happily swam there for years. These days the net is regularly inspected and repaired.
I was at Balmoral baths when I was stung once. The baths were enclosed with metal poles. There were walkways all around and springboards, change rooms and showers and you had to pay to get in. It was where I learnt to swim and where the local schools had their swimming carnivals. I had been swimming around for a while and when I got out of the water my skin felt like it was burning. I got back in the water and the burning sensation went away. As soon as I got out of the water the burning came back and that's when someone noticed all the red weals on my skin. Ouch! There was a lifeguard who had never seen such a thing - they weren't bluebottle stings. With the lifeguard and my friends we went around the walkway inspecting the water. We spotted a massive brown jellyfish who must have been the culprit. It was fished out of the water with a net on a long pole and I was treated with 'laundry blue'. I survived.
My father and I loved to dive around the rocks within the netted area at Balmoral and would probe the various crevices looking for interesting shells etc. Luckily we never chanced upon the deadly blue ringed octopuses which apparently (we found out years later) bred there.
Over the years I have had several painful brushes with bluebottles. Once in the surf during my bikini days a bluebottle got entangled around my middle. I pulled it off, and cleverly threw it back into the water so that with the next wave it was again entangled around my waist. I had scars from that encounter for some time.
Even popping dead bluebottles on the beach can be fraught. Occasionally bits of their stingers can fly up and though the creature is long dead you can still be stung. It is, however, hard to resist popping dead sun dried bluebottles.
Last week my daughter and son-in-law walked along Malua Bay beach and photographed long lines of stranded bluebottles which had come in with the on-shore wind. They are little nasties which are taken where the wind blows them thanks to their air-filled floats, trailing their stinging tentacles in the water where they enmesh and devour small sea creatures.
Years ago my father and I went to Balmoral Beach for a swim. Even though it was a very hot day we were surprised to see that the water was empty even though the beach was crowded. "You beauty!" we thought as we galloped over the blistering sand and plunged into the cool briny and swam out into the deeper water. All of a sudden I became aware of being surrounded on all sides by masses of bluebottles. The water was thick with them. I shouted at my father who was still obliviously swimming along. When he finally realised what was happening he cleverly suggested I hold onto his shoulders and he would breaststroke his way through the multitudes of stingers, thus protecting me. The theory was good the actuality not quite so. As my father pushed the bluebottles away and to the side with his strokes, they swirled around and behind him efficiently avoiding him and floating straight at my chest and shoulders. We progressed to shore and sheepishly got out of the water with everyone looking at we two idiots. Amazingly neither of us was stung.
We usually swam at 'the net', a large area protected from sharks by a very long suspended net. Years later I saw underwater photographs of this shark proof net. It had such massive holes that anything could have got through had it wanted to, but we were oblivious to any danger and happily swam there for years. These days the net is regularly inspected and repaired.
I was at Balmoral baths when I was stung once. The baths were enclosed with metal poles. There were walkways all around and springboards, change rooms and showers and you had to pay to get in. It was where I learnt to swim and where the local schools had their swimming carnivals. I had been swimming around for a while and when I got out of the water my skin felt like it was burning. I got back in the water and the burning sensation went away. As soon as I got out of the water the burning came back and that's when someone noticed all the red weals on my skin. Ouch! There was a lifeguard who had never seen such a thing - they weren't bluebottle stings. With the lifeguard and my friends we went around the walkway inspecting the water. We spotted a massive brown jellyfish who must have been the culprit. It was fished out of the water with a net on a long pole and I was treated with 'laundry blue'. I survived.
My father and I loved to dive around the rocks within the netted area at Balmoral and would probe the various crevices looking for interesting shells etc. Luckily we never chanced upon the deadly blue ringed octopuses which apparently (we found out years later) bred there.
Over the years I have had several painful brushes with bluebottles. Once in the surf during my bikini days a bluebottle got entangled around my middle. I pulled it off, and cleverly threw it back into the water so that with the next wave it was again entangled around my waist. I had scars from that encounter for some time.
Even popping dead bluebottles on the beach can be fraught. Occasionally bits of their stingers can fly up and though the creature is long dead you can still be stung. It is, however, hard to resist popping dead sun dried bluebottles.
Monday 24 December 2012
Christmas Day when I was young
We always had our main Christmas celebration on Christmas Eve, so Christmas Day was always a low key affair.
My parents would sleep in. I would get up and play with my doll's house until they surfaced. Then we would have Stollen (German Christmas cake) for breakfast and have a relaxing morning. Often the neighbours would drop in and we would exchange gifts, have a cup of tea, a bit of a chat but they would be off to their own flats to prepare the Christmas dinner, usually turkey or chicken (which was very expensive in those days and considered a real treat).
My mother always cooked a turkey for Christmas lunch which we ate with dumplings, red cabbage and lashings of delicious gravy.
We would set the table at the end of the lounge room with a white starched damask tablecloth and it's matching napkins. The good china and silverware would be used and my parents and I would wear something special. My father even wore a tie.
Every year my mother worried about the turkey - was it a bit dry? My father, such a gorgeous man, would say that it was the best ever and ask for second helpings. We always enjoyed the meal. After cleaning up we would have a snooze followed by a gentle walk.
Later my doll's house would get another good workout.
My doll's house was popular with all my friends and we must have spent hundreds of hours playing with it. When I now tell friends that I received it every Christmas for years they are astonished - didn't I feel cheated? The same present? Every year!
Compared to modern flash doll's houses the actual house was pretty basic. There were three rooms - large and rectangular, one room above the other. The kitchen was at the bottom, the bedroom was above and the lounge room, another rectangular room was balanced on top. There was a set of stairs at the side that had a toilet at the top. There weren't any stairs to the lounge room but the dolls had no trouble jumping between floors. The whole house sat on top of an old metal trunk that had come with us from India.
All the furniture had been sent from Germany and it was lovely - all the drawers opened. The dresser in the kitchen held little china plates, jugs and a beautiful cheese bell. Many of the pieces had belonged to my grandmother. There was even a tiny blue and white Delft vase into which I put Cecil Brunner rose buds from Mrs Hummerston's garden.
Hanging from a hook in the kitchen was a variety of tiny brooms and mops and underneath a little stool was a miniature dustpan and brush. The stove in the kitchen was metal and I was able to take it out of the kitchen, open the oven door and put in a candle so I could cook something in one of the tiny pans.
Every year there was some sort of addition to the doll's house, a new piece of furniture, electric lights one year, a new carpet, so exciting.
The neighbours also gave me things for the doll's house. One year Aunty Helen gave me a tiny toaster and telephone. Aunty South, Uncle Don and Uncle Mac gave me the most beautiful wicker pram which the teeny baby doll spent most of her time in. Someone also gave me a pink and blue plastic high chair, which didn't really match anything, but it stayed in a corner of the kitchen. Mrs Brose gave me a whole set of pot plants which I put on the balcony that was outside the bedroom. Mrs Hummerston gave me a tiny china tea set.
As I grew older I would make things for the dolls house, a new bedspread or curtains. I made little books to put on the bookshelves in the lounge room Also I made a set of coloured pencils using matches with the end sharpened off and coloured. They lived in the sideboard.
The neighbourhood children all played with my doll's house but I was most definitely 'the boss' because I was afraid that people would be too rough. I had a little motorbike which one of my playing companions broke. It was only plastic but I remember being furious and banning people from playing with the doll's house for a while.
I spent many happy hours playing alone, making up little stories, having conversations amongst the dolls, putting tiny meals on the plates. It was good fun. Eventually, however, the novelty would wear off and days would pass when I didn't play with the doll's house at all. This usually happened by about Easter time. Then, one day, I'd get up and the doll's house would be gone. I'd briefly mourn the loss but know I'd see it again and looked forward to the reappearance.
My girls had the doll's house when they were little and enjoyed playing with it too. They had many more things though - Barbie cars, Barbie beauty salon, Barbie horses and campervan etc. They also had each other and television. Things are different these days so I don't think that the doll's house will ever be as passionately loved as it was by me. I'm planning on keeping it and if I ever have grandchildren it will be set up and they can play with it at my house.
Getting back to Christmas Day......it was always a peaceful, enjoyable day. The neighbourhood children used to get up at obscenely early hours to dive on their presents, play vigorously and be a mass of tears because they were overtired, by mid afternoon. Everyone enjoys their own traditions. My girls have partners who always celebrated on Christmas Day so they are now enjoying both traditions. If they ever have children though, I bet they will keep Christmas Eve as their main celebration, as they both love sleeping in!
My parents would sleep in. I would get up and play with my doll's house until they surfaced. Then we would have Stollen (German Christmas cake) for breakfast and have a relaxing morning. Often the neighbours would drop in and we would exchange gifts, have a cup of tea, a bit of a chat but they would be off to their own flats to prepare the Christmas dinner, usually turkey or chicken (which was very expensive in those days and considered a real treat).
My mother always cooked a turkey for Christmas lunch which we ate with dumplings, red cabbage and lashings of delicious gravy.
We would set the table at the end of the lounge room with a white starched damask tablecloth and it's matching napkins. The good china and silverware would be used and my parents and I would wear something special. My father even wore a tie.
Every year my mother worried about the turkey - was it a bit dry? My father, such a gorgeous man, would say that it was the best ever and ask for second helpings. We always enjoyed the meal. After cleaning up we would have a snooze followed by a gentle walk.
Later my doll's house would get another good workout.
My doll's house was popular with all my friends and we must have spent hundreds of hours playing with it. When I now tell friends that I received it every Christmas for years they are astonished - didn't I feel cheated? The same present? Every year!
Compared to modern flash doll's houses the actual house was pretty basic. There were three rooms - large and rectangular, one room above the other. The kitchen was at the bottom, the bedroom was above and the lounge room, another rectangular room was balanced on top. There was a set of stairs at the side that had a toilet at the top. There weren't any stairs to the lounge room but the dolls had no trouble jumping between floors. The whole house sat on top of an old metal trunk that had come with us from India.
All the furniture had been sent from Germany and it was lovely - all the drawers opened. The dresser in the kitchen held little china plates, jugs and a beautiful cheese bell. Many of the pieces had belonged to my grandmother. There was even a tiny blue and white Delft vase into which I put Cecil Brunner rose buds from Mrs Hummerston's garden.
Hanging from a hook in the kitchen was a variety of tiny brooms and mops and underneath a little stool was a miniature dustpan and brush. The stove in the kitchen was metal and I was able to take it out of the kitchen, open the oven door and put in a candle so I could cook something in one of the tiny pans.
Every year there was some sort of addition to the doll's house, a new piece of furniture, electric lights one year, a new carpet, so exciting.
The neighbours also gave me things for the doll's house. One year Aunty Helen gave me a tiny toaster and telephone. Aunty South, Uncle Don and Uncle Mac gave me the most beautiful wicker pram which the teeny baby doll spent most of her time in. Someone also gave me a pink and blue plastic high chair, which didn't really match anything, but it stayed in a corner of the kitchen. Mrs Brose gave me a whole set of pot plants which I put on the balcony that was outside the bedroom. Mrs Hummerston gave me a tiny china tea set.
As I grew older I would make things for the dolls house, a new bedspread or curtains. I made little books to put on the bookshelves in the lounge room Also I made a set of coloured pencils using matches with the end sharpened off and coloured. They lived in the sideboard.
The neighbourhood children all played with my doll's house but I was most definitely 'the boss' because I was afraid that people would be too rough. I had a little motorbike which one of my playing companions broke. It was only plastic but I remember being furious and banning people from playing with the doll's house for a while.
I spent many happy hours playing alone, making up little stories, having conversations amongst the dolls, putting tiny meals on the plates. It was good fun. Eventually, however, the novelty would wear off and days would pass when I didn't play with the doll's house at all. This usually happened by about Easter time. Then, one day, I'd get up and the doll's house would be gone. I'd briefly mourn the loss but know I'd see it again and looked forward to the reappearance.
My girls had the doll's house when they were little and enjoyed playing with it too. They had many more things though - Barbie cars, Barbie beauty salon, Barbie horses and campervan etc. They also had each other and television. Things are different these days so I don't think that the doll's house will ever be as passionately loved as it was by me. I'm planning on keeping it and if I ever have grandchildren it will be set up and they can play with it at my house.
Getting back to Christmas Day......it was always a peaceful, enjoyable day. The neighbourhood children used to get up at obscenely early hours to dive on their presents, play vigorously and be a mass of tears because they were overtired, by mid afternoon. Everyone enjoys their own traditions. My girls have partners who always celebrated on Christmas Day so they are now enjoying both traditions. If they ever have children though, I bet they will keep Christmas Eve as their main celebration, as they both love sleeping in!
Friday 21 December 2012
Christmas Eve when I was young
Coming from a German background our main Christmas celebration has always been on Christmas Eve. I love the celebration. It is an extra special family time and I have kept some of the traditions I learnt through my parents going, but when I was young and a believer in Father Christmas, it was a magical time.
A couple of days before Christmas, my father and I would go to Mr Morrissey's fruit and vegetable shop and select a Christmas tree. As the Christmas trees you could buy years ago were only the branches cut off a pinus radiata, my father was always annoyed that we could never get a lovely straight tree with short needles like the spruces he remembered from back in Germany. We would always take ages choosing the tree, holding up one after the other, turning it this way and that trying to get the most regularly shaped one. Then he and I would carry it down the hill from the shops and back to Clitheroe. When home, he would try and shape the tree as best he could, often strapping it to a broom handle to make it stand straight. That was the last I would see of the tree until Christmas Eve.
Mutti spent many hours in the kitchen on Christmas Eve. Our feast in the evening was (and still is) a lavish smorgasbord of cold delights including a large variety of salads, smoked salmon, devilled eggs, ham, cheeses, breads etc. Usually there was so much we would have yummy leftovers for the next few days, which made catering easy for a while. The hot Christmas dinner of turkey and dumplings we ate on Christmas Day.
In the early afternoon we would dress up and go into the city to the tiny German Lutheran church in Goulburn Street. There was a short flight of stairs and at the top we would be handed a hymn book before we went into the church. It would always be dim and cool inside and at the front was a beautiful Christmas tree, not a branch tied to a broom handle, but a fragrant 4 metre pine tree cut from someone's property that morning, decorated and glowing with hundreds of real candles. A hand carved nativity scene was beside the tree. It was beautiful. Of course we knew masses of people and everyone would be smiling and nodding their greetings.
Mr Holler, the choir master and organist, would have been playing the organ quietly until the pastor was ready and then the music would swell, we would all stand and joyously sing one of the beautiful familiar German Christmas carols. I always enjoyed the Christmas services - the well known story, the singing, the choir, the happy people and sitting between my beloved parents.
After the service we were farewelled by the pastor, milled about outside talking to people we hadn't seen for ages before it was time to catch the bus and then the ferry to go home.
I can remember feeling quite confused one year while I was on the bus. I must have been very young because I couldn't explain how I felt. We had just been in a cool dim church where the atmosphere was calm and the people smiling and festive. Outside, on the bus, it was hot and sticky and through the windows I could see crowds of harried shoppers rushing about. The two experiences did not match up at all and until we were on the ferry and the view was calmer I felt quite unhappy.
When we got home Mutti would bustle off into the kitchen and I would go to play with my friends until I was called in to dinner. Our kitchen had a special area where we usually ate. The dining table that was at one end of our lounge room was rarely used except for special occasions such as when guests came or for Christmas or birthday dinners etc. We ate in the kitchen on Christmas Eve because I wasn't allowed into the lounge room at all until I was invited. All the doors and curtains had been closed for a few days so I couldn't even peek in there.
After we had eaten our fill of the goodies Mutti had prepared I would be sent outside again. By this time I would be very excited because I knew that Father Christmas would be arriving shortly.
Father Christmas always delivered the presents without me seeing him, so one year I was determined I WOULD see him. I sat by the front steps of Clitheroe and looked down the path that led up the hill. I envisioned him riding up in his sleigh with all the reindeer and me helping him take the
presents into the house. Our friend Annedore was staying with us at the time. While I was impatiently looking down the hill she called out that Father Christmas had been. How could that be? I had been keeping a really close watch......and then I remembered. We had chimneys at Clitheroe. I hadn't once thought to look up! Silly me!
Going into the lounge room was magical. We had a little old record player playing our one Christmas record that started with the pealing of bells followed by all the familiar carols. The room was dark, the beautifully decorated tree sparkled in the light of its and the many candles on all the Christmas ornaments, mainly wooden and hand carved which had been sent from Germany. Underneath the tree lay the brightly wrapped presents and beside the tree stood my doll's house which I got for Christmas every year (it would disappear around Easter time when the novelty had worn off and I no longer played with it all the time).
I was always overwhelmed and would sit quietly on the couch just taking the scene in. It was a sensory overload. The scent of the tree, the smell of the candle wax and the gingerbread treats that would be eaten later, the music and the special light cast by the candles combined to create an indelible memory. I'd feel too shy to get the presents and my father would hand them out, much to my delight.
Mutti had a nice singing voice and she would sing along to the record. We would have a marvellous evening and I would go to bed that night wishing we could have Christmas every day.
A couple of days before Christmas, my father and I would go to Mr Morrissey's fruit and vegetable shop and select a Christmas tree. As the Christmas trees you could buy years ago were only the branches cut off a pinus radiata, my father was always annoyed that we could never get a lovely straight tree with short needles like the spruces he remembered from back in Germany. We would always take ages choosing the tree, holding up one after the other, turning it this way and that trying to get the most regularly shaped one. Then he and I would carry it down the hill from the shops and back to Clitheroe. When home, he would try and shape the tree as best he could, often strapping it to a broom handle to make it stand straight. That was the last I would see of the tree until Christmas Eve.
Mutti spent many hours in the kitchen on Christmas Eve. Our feast in the evening was (and still is) a lavish smorgasbord of cold delights including a large variety of salads, smoked salmon, devilled eggs, ham, cheeses, breads etc. Usually there was so much we would have yummy leftovers for the next few days, which made catering easy for a while. The hot Christmas dinner of turkey and dumplings we ate on Christmas Day.
In the early afternoon we would dress up and go into the city to the tiny German Lutheran church in Goulburn Street. There was a short flight of stairs and at the top we would be handed a hymn book before we went into the church. It would always be dim and cool inside and at the front was a beautiful Christmas tree, not a branch tied to a broom handle, but a fragrant 4 metre pine tree cut from someone's property that morning, decorated and glowing with hundreds of real candles. A hand carved nativity scene was beside the tree. It was beautiful. Of course we knew masses of people and everyone would be smiling and nodding their greetings.
Mr Holler, the choir master and organist, would have been playing the organ quietly until the pastor was ready and then the music would swell, we would all stand and joyously sing one of the beautiful familiar German Christmas carols. I always enjoyed the Christmas services - the well known story, the singing, the choir, the happy people and sitting between my beloved parents.
After the service we were farewelled by the pastor, milled about outside talking to people we hadn't seen for ages before it was time to catch the bus and then the ferry to go home.
I can remember feeling quite confused one year while I was on the bus. I must have been very young because I couldn't explain how I felt. We had just been in a cool dim church where the atmosphere was calm and the people smiling and festive. Outside, on the bus, it was hot and sticky and through the windows I could see crowds of harried shoppers rushing about. The two experiences did not match up at all and until we were on the ferry and the view was calmer I felt quite unhappy.
When we got home Mutti would bustle off into the kitchen and I would go to play with my friends until I was called in to dinner. Our kitchen had a special area where we usually ate. The dining table that was at one end of our lounge room was rarely used except for special occasions such as when guests came or for Christmas or birthday dinners etc. We ate in the kitchen on Christmas Eve because I wasn't allowed into the lounge room at all until I was invited. All the doors and curtains had been closed for a few days so I couldn't even peek in there.
After we had eaten our fill of the goodies Mutti had prepared I would be sent outside again. By this time I would be very excited because I knew that Father Christmas would be arriving shortly.
Father Christmas always delivered the presents without me seeing him, so one year I was determined I WOULD see him. I sat by the front steps of Clitheroe and looked down the path that led up the hill. I envisioned him riding up in his sleigh with all the reindeer and me helping him take the
presents into the house. Our friend Annedore was staying with us at the time. While I was impatiently looking down the hill she called out that Father Christmas had been. How could that be? I had been keeping a really close watch......and then I remembered. We had chimneys at Clitheroe. I hadn't once thought to look up! Silly me!
Going into the lounge room was magical. We had a little old record player playing our one Christmas record that started with the pealing of bells followed by all the familiar carols. The room was dark, the beautifully decorated tree sparkled in the light of its and the many candles on all the Christmas ornaments, mainly wooden and hand carved which had been sent from Germany. Underneath the tree lay the brightly wrapped presents and beside the tree stood my doll's house which I got for Christmas every year (it would disappear around Easter time when the novelty had worn off and I no longer played with it all the time).
I was always overwhelmed and would sit quietly on the couch just taking the scene in. It was a sensory overload. The scent of the tree, the smell of the candle wax and the gingerbread treats that would be eaten later, the music and the special light cast by the candles combined to create an indelible memory. I'd feel too shy to get the presents and my father would hand them out, much to my delight.
Mutti had a nice singing voice and she would sing along to the record. We would have a marvellous evening and I would go to bed that night wishing we could have Christmas every day.
Tuesday 18 December 2012
Birthdays then and now
I have an appointment diary into which I write all my upcoming events including regular activities such as nursing home volunteering days. In the run up to Christmas I have been particularly diligent because it is such a busy time. All last week I kept thinking there was something happening on Wednesday. I'd glance in the diary but there was nothing written down. What had I forgotten? Such a puzzle until I read the date - it was the 19th, my birthday! Now that really means I'm getting old!
When I was a child birthdays were looked forward to with breathless anticipation. I'd count down the days and wake on the morning of my birthday and think, "I'm 10". I was always a bit disappointed that I actually didn't feel at all different.
My parents always made the day special with cake for breakfast and a special dinner at night. Also there were presents waiting for me on the sideboard in the lounge room which I would ceremoniously unwrap and exclaim with delight over, even though sometimes it was a bit hard to get too enthusiastic because my mother liked to give me 'sensible' and 'useful' gifts. It was usually gifts from overseas or from neighbours which were a bit frivolous and more appealing to a child.
I think I was about 3 when I received my first doll. I was led into the lounge room and looked on the sideboard where the presents usually were. There was hardly anything there. I can remember feeling disappointed until my father suggested I look on the couch. There, nestled among the cushions, looking very comfortable sat Hansel, a boy doll. He had a cloth body which had some sort of firm filling and his head was some sort of compound over the top of fabric with a painted on face. He wore a blue 'playsuit' and had a jaunty red felt hat and matching shoes. I was thrilled and couldn't be separated from Hansel for weeks. I've still got him. ...somewhere.
Over the years I got some really good presents. My rope petticoat deserves its own blog at a later date but my first transistor radio was a marvellous gift. Compared to the tiny radios these days it wasn't terribly small, in fact it was a bit like a brick but I thought it great. It had a smart leather case with a handle so I could carry it around with me.
There are special ages. Turning two digits, 10 was exciting. The next special date was 13 and becoming a teenager. My mother said that you weren't a teenager until you were 17 which took the gloss off being 13 a bit. I never quite understood her logic! Then being 'sweet 16' was good. Being able to vote at 18 and then a big party when I turned 21. All were milestones to be celebrated.
I didn't like turning 25 and had a bit of a downer. Half of 50! Quarter of 100 was how I saw 25. What a long time ago that was! Other people get depressed when they turn 30, 40 or 50. I had my depression at 25 so I figure I'll just get older and not fret anymore.
I turned 62 today. I was up in the kitchen with my husband singing 'happy birthday to you' before I remembered. I had baked our special birthday chocolate cake yesterday because the family always enjoys it so much although I don't usually eat any. Our elder daughter and her partner came up to share it with my husband for breakfast as is our tradition. Tonight the family went to her house for a wonderful dinner and the remainder of the cake was enjoyed by our other daughter and her husband who chose it for dessert rather than the panna cotta and berries that the rest of us had.
The thing I enjoy about birthdays these days is the time spent with my family. My girls put in so much effort to make it a special occasion. Although I never expect it, they choose thoughtful gifts that they know I will love. Such considerate and kind people.
My husband is a very talented poet. For many years he has written poems for my birthday and I usually end up shedding a few tears because I am so touched. This year was no different.
I guess I'm lucky that birthdays just seem to keep coming. Lots of people aren't so fortunate. My mother was 87 and my father was 92 when they passed away. If I take after them I've got quite a few more birthdays to go.
When I was a child birthdays were looked forward to with breathless anticipation. I'd count down the days and wake on the morning of my birthday and think, "I'm 10". I was always a bit disappointed that I actually didn't feel at all different.
My parents always made the day special with cake for breakfast and a special dinner at night. Also there were presents waiting for me on the sideboard in the lounge room which I would ceremoniously unwrap and exclaim with delight over, even though sometimes it was a bit hard to get too enthusiastic because my mother liked to give me 'sensible' and 'useful' gifts. It was usually gifts from overseas or from neighbours which were a bit frivolous and more appealing to a child.
I think I was about 3 when I received my first doll. I was led into the lounge room and looked on the sideboard where the presents usually were. There was hardly anything there. I can remember feeling disappointed until my father suggested I look on the couch. There, nestled among the cushions, looking very comfortable sat Hansel, a boy doll. He had a cloth body which had some sort of firm filling and his head was some sort of compound over the top of fabric with a painted on face. He wore a blue 'playsuit' and had a jaunty red felt hat and matching shoes. I was thrilled and couldn't be separated from Hansel for weeks. I've still got him. ...somewhere.
Over the years I got some really good presents. My rope petticoat deserves its own blog at a later date but my first transistor radio was a marvellous gift. Compared to the tiny radios these days it wasn't terribly small, in fact it was a bit like a brick but I thought it great. It had a smart leather case with a handle so I could carry it around with me.
There are special ages. Turning two digits, 10 was exciting. The next special date was 13 and becoming a teenager. My mother said that you weren't a teenager until you were 17 which took the gloss off being 13 a bit. I never quite understood her logic! Then being 'sweet 16' was good. Being able to vote at 18 and then a big party when I turned 21. All were milestones to be celebrated.
I didn't like turning 25 and had a bit of a downer. Half of 50! Quarter of 100 was how I saw 25. What a long time ago that was! Other people get depressed when they turn 30, 40 or 50. I had my depression at 25 so I figure I'll just get older and not fret anymore.
I turned 62 today. I was up in the kitchen with my husband singing 'happy birthday to you' before I remembered. I had baked our special birthday chocolate cake yesterday because the family always enjoys it so much although I don't usually eat any. Our elder daughter and her partner came up to share it with my husband for breakfast as is our tradition. Tonight the family went to her house for a wonderful dinner and the remainder of the cake was enjoyed by our other daughter and her husband who chose it for dessert rather than the panna cotta and berries that the rest of us had.
The thing I enjoy about birthdays these days is the time spent with my family. My girls put in so much effort to make it a special occasion. Although I never expect it, they choose thoughtful gifts that they know I will love. Such considerate and kind people.
My husband is a very talented poet. For many years he has written poems for my birthday and I usually end up shedding a few tears because I am so touched. This year was no different.
I guess I'm lucky that birthdays just seem to keep coming. Lots of people aren't so fortunate. My mother was 87 and my father was 92 when they passed away. If I take after them I've got quite a few more birthdays to go.
Friday 14 December 2012
Hospital
Last Friday my husband had to go to hospital for a small but painful operation. Everything went well and he is home again - has to take things easy for a few weeks, no heavy lifting or running marathons!
We have top hospital cover but he ended up in a share room next to the door, not even the window. It was a tiny dark miserable space and we were very happy that he wasn't staying in for more than one night. I could go on and on about hospital care, the mix ups, the inefficiencies etc etc. It is all so frustrating.
Last year at about this time a close friend spent 5 days in the emergency department in which time he hardly slept at all, I understand sleep deprivation is one form of torture. By the time he went into a ward he was as crazy as a cut snake. He didn't have private health insurance so was dependant on a public room being available so was housed in one of the most expensive parts of the hospital, the ED! - it didn't make sense at all. Earlier this year he was admitted again and again spent days in the ED. He was finally given a room but died soon after and I maintain he was so stressed it hastened his end. I had been told less than a week before by one of the specialists that he would have at least another two years.
Medicine has improved in leaps and bounds though and if you don't succumb to stress like my friend did, or die of a superbug or a mix up of medications, the breakthroughs are astonishing.
Years ago my husband wrecked his knee in a soccer accident. He severely damaged 6 of the crucial parts of his knee, cruciate ligaments, tendons, the actual knee cap, you name it, he damaged it. At the time, had he had a repair done, his leg would have been in a cast from his calf to his mid thigh for six weeks, then there would have been months of physio. The statistics of a complete recovery were something like 20%. He chose not to have the operation and walked very gingerly for about 15 years. Finally there were a whole lot of breakthroughs (pardon the pun) in knee surgery. T had the updated procedure, was home the next day with a sticking plaster on his knee and now his once damaged knee is probably stronger than its partner! Absolutely marvellous.
My first brush with hospital was when I was six or seven. In the 1950s if you had a sore throat or a bit of a pain in the side your tonsils or appendix were whipped out. I had had a few bouts of tonsillitis so was booked into the Mena private hospital in Mosman.
As lots of my classmates had had the operation, though NOT at the Mena hospital, and had told me about ice cream and jelly, a treat I rarely enjoyed, I wasn't at all worried about the prospect.
We turned up at the hospital, I was taken away from my parents and then woke up in a room with 3 adult strangers in the other beds. Nothing like a childrens' ward, just a big room with 4 beds separated by curtains. No parents to hold me in my hours of pain - there were visiting hours which had to be strictly adhered to - once a day.
I remember being very unhappy. When it was meal time I got a tray holding a baked dinner and a glass of orange juice! No jelly or ice cream! The next morning my breakfast tray held toast and tea! The nurse shouted at me to eat or I would get sick. I tried but the pain was excruciating. My mother came to pick me up as I was originally only scheduled to be in overnight, but they wouldn't allow me home because I had a fever and my wound was bleeding. What a surprise! Mutti told me later that she went home and cried.
When I was finally released from hospital Mutti had bought strawberries as a special treat (they were very expensive and we had very little money) but of course I couldn't eat them because my throat was raw. My fresh fragrantly laundered bedding was turned down and waiting for me. As well Mutti had bought me a box of pink tissues, something I had coveted, which was sitting on the table by my bed and a brand new pink metal reading lamp was clamped onto the metal frame of my bedhead. I loved all those things and really appreciated the love that had gone into the thought. It took a while but I recovered without any ill effects.
In those days children weren't allowed into maternity wards and I remember visiting hospitals with tearful young friends and having to stand outside with them while their mothers came to the window to wave.
When I had my second daughter it was lovely to have my first born come and visit me and her new sister in hospital. I can't imagine how distressing it must have been not having your children visit at such a special time.
I stayed in hospital for a week when my daughters were born. It was great because I was taught all sorts of things like how to bathe a baby, how to put a nappy on a newborn, feeding techniques etc. I think it is awful that new mothers, unless they have had a Caesarian, are choofed off home after a day. Unless you have had some experience with babies, how do you know what to do? My husband and I minded a friend's little boy for a couple of hours before we had our first child and we made such a botch of putting on his disposable nappy that I ended up using about a mile of masking tape to keep it on!!!
I strongly disapprove of sending new mothers home so quickly, unless they wish to do so, but it is great that you can go home so quickly after other operations. Years ago you would have to lie flat with bandaged eyes for a week at least after cataract surgery. These days you are in and out in a day, a routine procedure which has a huge success rate. Think cardiac surgery - multiple bypasses, transplants even, great strides have been taken forward. All the mechanical surgical procedures are greatly improved. Hopefully cancer treatment will continue to improve. Poisoning the body to get rid of nasty cells just doesn't sound right to me, but that's the option at present. Some diseases that were death sentences years ago, aren't anymore and that is wonderful. If drug companies supported research that actually fixed a problem rather than continued it, because they are making money, that would be even better.
Although most of us don't ever want to be sick and infirm, thank goodness for doctors and hospitals.
We have top hospital cover but he ended up in a share room next to the door, not even the window. It was a tiny dark miserable space and we were very happy that he wasn't staying in for more than one night. I could go on and on about hospital care, the mix ups, the inefficiencies etc etc. It is all so frustrating.
Last year at about this time a close friend spent 5 days in the emergency department in which time he hardly slept at all, I understand sleep deprivation is one form of torture. By the time he went into a ward he was as crazy as a cut snake. He didn't have private health insurance so was dependant on a public room being available so was housed in one of the most expensive parts of the hospital, the ED! - it didn't make sense at all. Earlier this year he was admitted again and again spent days in the ED. He was finally given a room but died soon after and I maintain he was so stressed it hastened his end. I had been told less than a week before by one of the specialists that he would have at least another two years.
Medicine has improved in leaps and bounds though and if you don't succumb to stress like my friend did, or die of a superbug or a mix up of medications, the breakthroughs are astonishing.
Years ago my husband wrecked his knee in a soccer accident. He severely damaged 6 of the crucial parts of his knee, cruciate ligaments, tendons, the actual knee cap, you name it, he damaged it. At the time, had he had a repair done, his leg would have been in a cast from his calf to his mid thigh for six weeks, then there would have been months of physio. The statistics of a complete recovery were something like 20%. He chose not to have the operation and walked very gingerly for about 15 years. Finally there were a whole lot of breakthroughs (pardon the pun) in knee surgery. T had the updated procedure, was home the next day with a sticking plaster on his knee and now his once damaged knee is probably stronger than its partner! Absolutely marvellous.
My first brush with hospital was when I was six or seven. In the 1950s if you had a sore throat or a bit of a pain in the side your tonsils or appendix were whipped out. I had had a few bouts of tonsillitis so was booked into the Mena private hospital in Mosman.
As lots of my classmates had had the operation, though NOT at the Mena hospital, and had told me about ice cream and jelly, a treat I rarely enjoyed, I wasn't at all worried about the prospect.
We turned up at the hospital, I was taken away from my parents and then woke up in a room with 3 adult strangers in the other beds. Nothing like a childrens' ward, just a big room with 4 beds separated by curtains. No parents to hold me in my hours of pain - there were visiting hours which had to be strictly adhered to - once a day.
I remember being very unhappy. When it was meal time I got a tray holding a baked dinner and a glass of orange juice! No jelly or ice cream! The next morning my breakfast tray held toast and tea! The nurse shouted at me to eat or I would get sick. I tried but the pain was excruciating. My mother came to pick me up as I was originally only scheduled to be in overnight, but they wouldn't allow me home because I had a fever and my wound was bleeding. What a surprise! Mutti told me later that she went home and cried.
When I was finally released from hospital Mutti had bought strawberries as a special treat (they were very expensive and we had very little money) but of course I couldn't eat them because my throat was raw. My fresh fragrantly laundered bedding was turned down and waiting for me. As well Mutti had bought me a box of pink tissues, something I had coveted, which was sitting on the table by my bed and a brand new pink metal reading lamp was clamped onto the metal frame of my bedhead. I loved all those things and really appreciated the love that had gone into the thought. It took a while but I recovered without any ill effects.
In those days children weren't allowed into maternity wards and I remember visiting hospitals with tearful young friends and having to stand outside with them while their mothers came to the window to wave.
When I had my second daughter it was lovely to have my first born come and visit me and her new sister in hospital. I can't imagine how distressing it must have been not having your children visit at such a special time.
I stayed in hospital for a week when my daughters were born. It was great because I was taught all sorts of things like how to bathe a baby, how to put a nappy on a newborn, feeding techniques etc. I think it is awful that new mothers, unless they have had a Caesarian, are choofed off home after a day. Unless you have had some experience with babies, how do you know what to do? My husband and I minded a friend's little boy for a couple of hours before we had our first child and we made such a botch of putting on his disposable nappy that I ended up using about a mile of masking tape to keep it on!!!
I strongly disapprove of sending new mothers home so quickly, unless they wish to do so, but it is great that you can go home so quickly after other operations. Years ago you would have to lie flat with bandaged eyes for a week at least after cataract surgery. These days you are in and out in a day, a routine procedure which has a huge success rate. Think cardiac surgery - multiple bypasses, transplants even, great strides have been taken forward. All the mechanical surgical procedures are greatly improved. Hopefully cancer treatment will continue to improve. Poisoning the body to get rid of nasty cells just doesn't sound right to me, but that's the option at present. Some diseases that were death sentences years ago, aren't anymore and that is wonderful. If drug companies supported research that actually fixed a problem rather than continued it, because they are making money, that would be even better.
Although most of us don't ever want to be sick and infirm, thank goodness for doctors and hospitals.
Tuesday 11 December 2012
First & second grade - Mrs Strang
Mrs Strang was my teacher for both first and second grades. My really happy time at Infants' School was over. We moved out of the airy kindergarten room into a grim brick building with windows so high you had to stand on tiptoe to look out. I'm sure the designers of schools in those days decided children shouldn't be distracted by being able to see out. The rooms were high and there were special poles with hooks on the end that opened the top windows. In the corner at the front where the teacher had her desk was a tiny fireplace which in winter received a daily shovelful of coal put in by the janitor before we all arrived. In the opposite corner was a big cupboard that held all the goodies such as books, pencils, paper and chalk.
The wooden double desks were in rows and were screwed to the floor. Each desk had a seat attached which could be folded up with a loud crash. The desks at the front were lower than those at the back of the room so you were seated where you fitted. You were really lucky if you were the same size as a friend because that meant the possibility of sitting together. We had to practise sliding in and out of the seats without making a loud crash if the seat flipped up. Mrs Strang would cane noisy stander uppers. We would always have to stand if an adult came into the room so there was plenty of opportunity for banging the seats and being caned.
We were forbidden to talk. You could be caned for that. We had to be neat. You could be caned for any number of reasons and I was always terrified. I would suffer just as much as a caning victim and had nightmares for the two years I was in Mrs Strang's class.
Luckily Mrs Strang liked me so I never really got into trouble. I was too frightened to be naughty anyway. One day Mrs Strang heard my friend Vicki call me Gabi (pronounced in the German way - Garby) and was absolutely furious. She said that my full name Gabriele was beautiful and that if she ever heard anyone calling me Gabi they would be caned. It had such a profound effect on me I remained Gabriele all through school and even for my first few years of teaching.
Teaching in the 1950s was very different from what it is today. There was a lot of rote work, which is still the best way to learn times tables I think, but reading was a chore. All the class had the same reader whatever the ability, and we all read the same page at the same time although each person had a turn at reading aloud. I sweated blood fearing I might not know a word and suffered with those who struggled, particularly as Mrs Strang would stand beside the person having a hard time whacking the desk with her ruler for emphasis. It was ghastly.
You could get a star on your hand if you brought in flowers. We had lots of flowers at Clitheroe so I often brought in posies. My work was also always neat and I drew well so I was classed as a 'pet'. That didn't make a scrap of difference, I was always scared anyway.
One day Mrs Strang announced that it was her birthday and told us to sing 'Happy Birthday to You' as she conducted. We all obliged of course and then some bright spark asked how old she was. "21", she answered. Afterwards in the playground there was much discussion if Mrs Strang was actually 21. I adamantly insisted she must be 21, she was a teacher and she would never tell a lie! I obviously didn't have any concept of age. My mother told me years later that Mrs Strang was certainly 'over the hill and far away'.
Upstairs was a young teacher who was even crazier than Mrs Strang. She belted one of the boys and then locked him in the cupboard for the rest of the day. Thank goodness things have changed. My parents didn't dream of complaining about the terrible treatment and when I cried and didn't want to go to school they told me to behave myself so I wouldn't get into trouble.
We were allowed to stand in front of the class and hold up any lost property. This was where my friend Vicki and I did the 'naughtiest' thing we ever did. We would take turns and hold up each other's hanky saying we had found this and ask if it belonged to anyone. Either she or I would claim it back.
Mrs Strang chose me to stand up in front of assembly to count to 100 in German. Also I was 'the queen' in a parade we had. My father made beautiful golden crowns for the 'king' and 'queen' and the whole parade was filmed. I wish that film would resurface somewhere but I guess it was lost eons ago.
Mrs Strang was obviously being kind to me but I was constantly frightened. The way she treated other children was nothing less than cruel. I was always shy in a school situation after being in her class. When I think about it, it is amazing that I became a teacher. I did want to make learning an enjoyable experience for children. Perhaps my career choice was thanks to Mrs Dawney and a reaction to Mrs Strang.
The wooden double desks were in rows and were screwed to the floor. Each desk had a seat attached which could be folded up with a loud crash. The desks at the front were lower than those at the back of the room so you were seated where you fitted. You were really lucky if you were the same size as a friend because that meant the possibility of sitting together. We had to practise sliding in and out of the seats without making a loud crash if the seat flipped up. Mrs Strang would cane noisy stander uppers. We would always have to stand if an adult came into the room so there was plenty of opportunity for banging the seats and being caned.
We were forbidden to talk. You could be caned for that. We had to be neat. You could be caned for any number of reasons and I was always terrified. I would suffer just as much as a caning victim and had nightmares for the two years I was in Mrs Strang's class.
Luckily Mrs Strang liked me so I never really got into trouble. I was too frightened to be naughty anyway. One day Mrs Strang heard my friend Vicki call me Gabi (pronounced in the German way - Garby) and was absolutely furious. She said that my full name Gabriele was beautiful and that if she ever heard anyone calling me Gabi they would be caned. It had such a profound effect on me I remained Gabriele all through school and even for my first few years of teaching.
Teaching in the 1950s was very different from what it is today. There was a lot of rote work, which is still the best way to learn times tables I think, but reading was a chore. All the class had the same reader whatever the ability, and we all read the same page at the same time although each person had a turn at reading aloud. I sweated blood fearing I might not know a word and suffered with those who struggled, particularly as Mrs Strang would stand beside the person having a hard time whacking the desk with her ruler for emphasis. It was ghastly.
You could get a star on your hand if you brought in flowers. We had lots of flowers at Clitheroe so I often brought in posies. My work was also always neat and I drew well so I was classed as a 'pet'. That didn't make a scrap of difference, I was always scared anyway.
One day Mrs Strang announced that it was her birthday and told us to sing 'Happy Birthday to You' as she conducted. We all obliged of course and then some bright spark asked how old she was. "21", she answered. Afterwards in the playground there was much discussion if Mrs Strang was actually 21. I adamantly insisted she must be 21, she was a teacher and she would never tell a lie! I obviously didn't have any concept of age. My mother told me years later that Mrs Strang was certainly 'over the hill and far away'.
Upstairs was a young teacher who was even crazier than Mrs Strang. She belted one of the boys and then locked him in the cupboard for the rest of the day. Thank goodness things have changed. My parents didn't dream of complaining about the terrible treatment and when I cried and didn't want to go to school they told me to behave myself so I wouldn't get into trouble.
We were allowed to stand in front of the class and hold up any lost property. This was where my friend Vicki and I did the 'naughtiest' thing we ever did. We would take turns and hold up each other's hanky saying we had found this and ask if it belonged to anyone. Either she or I would claim it back.
Mrs Strang chose me to stand up in front of assembly to count to 100 in German. Also I was 'the queen' in a parade we had. My father made beautiful golden crowns for the 'king' and 'queen' and the whole parade was filmed. I wish that film would resurface somewhere but I guess it was lost eons ago.
Mrs Strang was obviously being kind to me but I was constantly frightened. The way she treated other children was nothing less than cruel. I was always shy in a school situation after being in her class. When I think about it, it is amazing that I became a teacher. I did want to make learning an enjoyable experience for children. Perhaps my career choice was thanks to Mrs Dawney and a reaction to Mrs Strang.
Sunday 9 December 2012
Sanitary matters
In the school holidays between primary and secondary school, not long after I turned 12, I started to 'become a woman', to use the words of the sex education lecturer who had been at the 'Mother and Daughter night'. My body was maturing but I was really still a little girl and had been playing with my friends on a pogo stick, boinging around the backyard for ages.
I had a bit of an ache and then when I went to the loo and saw what I had never seen before - nothing like the 'tiny drops of blood' the lecturer had mentioned, I asked my mother. It couldn't possibly be a period she declared, I must have scratched myself somehow and gave me some Vaseline to apply. The Vaseline didn't work.
Reluctantly my mother agreed that it must be a period and showed me how to deal with it. We had belts of elastic that had strips attached which had hooks or safely pins at the end. Sanitary pads were basically cotton wool encased in a soft woven paper, a bit like a strong tissue, that had long ends which were held by the hooks or pins. When wearing the contraption I guess it looked a bit like a modern day G string but not even a teeny weeny bit glamorous.
My mother was 17 when she started her period and she was so ashamed and embarrassed that I was only 12 that she couldn't bring herself to tell my father for about three days. It was awful. When my own daughters started their periods we went out and bought them a handbag - it is a celebration of growing up. You might as well celebrate because it's going to be with you for a long time!
I hated having my period. It made
me feel awful. Also Mutti had all sorts of rules that she had learnt from her mother - you could only wash, not have a proper bath and hair washing was absolutely forbidden because you were vulnerable and would get terribly sick. Eventually I didn't pay any attention and had showers as well as washed my hair. It made me feel heaps better.
In those first few years I used to have terrible period pains and got sent home from school because I wasn't of any use to anyone. I always got into trouble because my mother had never experienced any pain herself and thought I was play acting.
One time I went on a church camp to Boydtown on the NSW south coast. Unhappily my period arrived just at the wrong time so one of the older girls kindly offered me a tampon. I had never used tampons. Tampax came with a special applicator but if you aren't told how to actually 'apply' the tampon things can turn out tricky as they did for me - somehow I inserted the cardboard applicator along with the tampon. Agony! I couldn't understand how people could bear the pain so I resorted to the tried and tested solution.
Many, many years later when my parents were old my father became somewhat incontinent so Mutti decided to get him to wear sanitary pads to ease the problem. She said that things weren't so easy any more and that you couldn't buy the belts for sanitary pads anymore. I agreed. Sanitary belts hadn't been available for ages. Mutti said that that was terribly inconvenient though. After questioning her I discovered that she had been stitching the pads into my father's undies. I couldn't help it. I laughed and laughed before showing her that you could peel the paper off the back and just stick them into the undies. I had visions of armies of women all diligently sitting in the loo stitching and unstitching their sanitary pads. But just like me with the tampax applicator if you don't know and if no one tells you, how do you know. The stick on pads had been around for so long before my parents needed them there were no longer any instructions on how to attach them.
I don't have to worry about sanitary pads any more. Not having a period certainly is a bonus of growing old. But as your oestrogen levels drop so do your boobs. Your skin, no longer tight becomes more of a 'relaxed fit'. Your bones thin as do your eyelashes and hair. All part of ageing unfortunately and I guess I have no alternative but to accept it. At least I have lots of friends in the same boat so we can moan and console each other as well as have a good laugh about how things used to be.
I had a bit of an ache and then when I went to the loo and saw what I had never seen before - nothing like the 'tiny drops of blood' the lecturer had mentioned, I asked my mother. It couldn't possibly be a period she declared, I must have scratched myself somehow and gave me some Vaseline to apply. The Vaseline didn't work.
Reluctantly my mother agreed that it must be a period and showed me how to deal with it. We had belts of elastic that had strips attached which had hooks or safely pins at the end. Sanitary pads were basically cotton wool encased in a soft woven paper, a bit like a strong tissue, that had long ends which were held by the hooks or pins. When wearing the contraption I guess it looked a bit like a modern day G string but not even a teeny weeny bit glamorous.
My mother was 17 when she started her period and she was so ashamed and embarrassed that I was only 12 that she couldn't bring herself to tell my father for about three days. It was awful. When my own daughters started their periods we went out and bought them a handbag - it is a celebration of growing up. You might as well celebrate because it's going to be with you for a long time!
I hated having my period. It made
me feel awful. Also Mutti had all sorts of rules that she had learnt from her mother - you could only wash, not have a proper bath and hair washing was absolutely forbidden because you were vulnerable and would get terribly sick. Eventually I didn't pay any attention and had showers as well as washed my hair. It made me feel heaps better.
In those first few years I used to have terrible period pains and got sent home from school because I wasn't of any use to anyone. I always got into trouble because my mother had never experienced any pain herself and thought I was play acting.
One time I went on a church camp to Boydtown on the NSW south coast. Unhappily my period arrived just at the wrong time so one of the older girls kindly offered me a tampon. I had never used tampons. Tampax came with a special applicator but if you aren't told how to actually 'apply' the tampon things can turn out tricky as they did for me - somehow I inserted the cardboard applicator along with the tampon. Agony! I couldn't understand how people could bear the pain so I resorted to the tried and tested solution.
Many, many years later when my parents were old my father became somewhat incontinent so Mutti decided to get him to wear sanitary pads to ease the problem. She said that things weren't so easy any more and that you couldn't buy the belts for sanitary pads anymore. I agreed. Sanitary belts hadn't been available for ages. Mutti said that that was terribly inconvenient though. After questioning her I discovered that she had been stitching the pads into my father's undies. I couldn't help it. I laughed and laughed before showing her that you could peel the paper off the back and just stick them into the undies. I had visions of armies of women all diligently sitting in the loo stitching and unstitching their sanitary pads. But just like me with the tampax applicator if you don't know and if no one tells you, how do you know. The stick on pads had been around for so long before my parents needed them there were no longer any instructions on how to attach them.
I don't have to worry about sanitary pads any more. Not having a period certainly is a bonus of growing old. But as your oestrogen levels drop so do your boobs. Your skin, no longer tight becomes more of a 'relaxed fit'. Your bones thin as do your eyelashes and hair. All part of ageing unfortunately and I guess I have no alternative but to accept it. At least I have lots of friends in the same boat so we can moan and console each other as well as have a good laugh about how things used to be.
Sex Education
When we were in about 4th grade we had our first sex education lecture. A 'Mother and Daughter' evening was organised and we all trooped into the assembly hall with our mothers. Boys had an equivalent 'Father and Son' evening on another night. Other girls may have been more aware of things, particularly if they had older sisters, but I was blissfully unaware of any sort of reproductive activities.
I had somehow decided all by myself that you take a special tablet and that a baby would then grow in your stomach. On the very morning of the aforementioned talk I had asked my mother about baby tablets, how you ask the doctor for them and if it was embarrassing. She said that it was embarrassing and you just said, "can I have a baby tablet please". So I knew what the talk was going to be about and confidently told my friends.
Well, of course the talk wasn't anything like I expected. "Men-stru-ation, a wonderful part of being grown up," the lecturer told us, "tiny drops of blood in your undies show that you are about to become a woman". Then terms such as womb, egg and sperm were mentioned and diagrams flashed on and off the screen (there was a film) and we were told sternly NOT to discuss this topic with anyone other than our mothers because it was PRIVATE.
What!!!!!!! I didn't have a clue what was being talked about. Where was the information about the baby tablets? My father was waiting to walk us home and I was so confused all I wanted to know was where was this womb and how does the sperm get to the egg, what were these things??? He patiently started to say something about bees and flowers and I was so frustrated that I burst into tears and said I wanted to know about humans, not bees and flowers. My parents' reaction - "you are too young to know, you'll find out at school when you're older".
I decided it must be something really awful. The worst thing I could think of was poo so I decided it must have something to do with that. I ended up being so distressed I had nightmares afterwards.
Of course I discussed the topic with my friends and we all had theories, none correct, but our main concern was not how the baby got IN but how it got OUT. There were many theories ranging from vomiting it out, to undoing the navel and to having the doctor cut it out. We weren't really happy about any.
Finally someone's brother told her a version of how babies actually got in the womb and she told us. We all declared that absolutely disgusting and none of us would ever do anything like that. I didn't ask my parents if this information was true because I knew they were too embarrassed about 'business below the belt'.
I did swear to myself if I ever had children I would always tell them the truth, and to my knowledge I have kept that promise.
I had somehow decided all by myself that you take a special tablet and that a baby would then grow in your stomach. On the very morning of the aforementioned talk I had asked my mother about baby tablets, how you ask the doctor for them and if it was embarrassing. She said that it was embarrassing and you just said, "can I have a baby tablet please". So I knew what the talk was going to be about and confidently told my friends.
Well, of course the talk wasn't anything like I expected. "Men-stru-ation, a wonderful part of being grown up," the lecturer told us, "tiny drops of blood in your undies show that you are about to become a woman". Then terms such as womb, egg and sperm were mentioned and diagrams flashed on and off the screen (there was a film) and we were told sternly NOT to discuss this topic with anyone other than our mothers because it was PRIVATE.
What!!!!!!! I didn't have a clue what was being talked about. Where was the information about the baby tablets? My father was waiting to walk us home and I was so confused all I wanted to know was where was this womb and how does the sperm get to the egg, what were these things??? He patiently started to say something about bees and flowers and I was so frustrated that I burst into tears and said I wanted to know about humans, not bees and flowers. My parents' reaction - "you are too young to know, you'll find out at school when you're older".
I decided it must be something really awful. The worst thing I could think of was poo so I decided it must have something to do with that. I ended up being so distressed I had nightmares afterwards.
Of course I discussed the topic with my friends and we all had theories, none correct, but our main concern was not how the baby got IN but how it got OUT. There were many theories ranging from vomiting it out, to undoing the navel and to having the doctor cut it out. We weren't really happy about any.
Finally someone's brother told her a version of how babies actually got in the womb and she told us. We all declared that absolutely disgusting and none of us would ever do anything like that. I didn't ask my parents if this information was true because I knew they were too embarrassed about 'business below the belt'.
I did swear to myself if I ever had children I would always tell them the truth, and to my knowledge I have kept that promise.
Mosman Infants' School - kindergarten
It is always interesting to reflect on what influenced your career choice. I'm pretty sure I decided to become a teacher thanks to Mrs Dawney's beautiful chalk drawings on the blackboard. I always looked forward to the princesses or spring flowers, or whatever delights were awaiting us on the blackboard on Mondays.
Mrs Dawney was my kindergarten teacher and she was lovely. Unfortunately I wasn't with her very long because my mother enrolled me late (see the 'buying shoes blog'). Not all that many children went to preschool in those days so nearly everyone would cry when they had to leave their mothers for the first time. As all my classmates had already been at school for months they were used to leaving their mothers and there wasn't a tear. I on the other hand had never been away from Mutti and I sobbed. I sobbed with relief to see her again at the end of the day so she assumed I had been distraught all day, even of I had had a thoroughly good time for most of it. Years later, when I was a kindergarten teacher myself, I always made a point of ringing mothers who felt terrible leaving crying children as soon as their little one had settled down and was engrossed in a fun activity, to let them know that all was well, because Mutti told me that she had always felt bad all day.
The kindergarten room was the largest in the school and was used as our assembly hall as well. There were low blackboards around the walls and little pastel coloured tables and chairs all around the edge of the room. At the front of the room was a piano, the big teacher's blackboard and Mrs Dawney's desk.
There was a set of 'mats' which were unrolled and put on the floor when we sat crosslegged listening to stories or singing. We also sat on these mats when we had assembly. They were hard and thin and were dark red or green in the hope, I guess, of trying to disguise how grubby they became. After lunch in the kindergarten room we were supposed to have a sleep so we lay down on them as well.
I loved the activities we did in kindergarten. We had wooden templates of animals that you would trace around and then carefully, not going out of the lines, decorate or colour in. Sometimes we had specific instructions like putting vertical coloured stripes on the animals. My favourite was the 'free choice' where you were allowed to do whatever decoration you liked on your traced animal. I can remember choosing to do brown spots all over a dog shape and telling Mrs Dawney that it was a Dalmatian. Some people who lived close by always had Dalmatians. She got me to take my picture all around the school showing the other teachers who all put star stamps on it, but I can't help thinking there was more to my picture that I wasn't aware of, like the time I got a little girl to take the 'mouse' she had made at home as a craft activity to all the teachers in the school. The 'mouse' was a tampon on which she had drawn eyes and stuck little ears. It was very creative. I wonder what that little girl's mother thought when she went home and proudly told her that every teacher in the school had seen it.
To my absolute delight and amazement we were all given an activity book featuring David, Sue and Wendy. There were dotted shapes to trace and then you had to join up the mothers to their babies (mother duck to ducklings etc) and statements such as 'Sue has a blue dress' so you would colour it in. Lots of activities which I found easy because I was fairly good at wielding a pencil. My book was always neat and I couldn't understand why other children made such a mess. It earned me lots of star stamps too which made me try even harder.
A great daily pleasure was the singing and dancing to Mrs Dawney's piano playing and I joined in with enthusiasm.
Another thing I really loved, as did the other children, was drawing on the little child height blackboards. We were given bits of broken chalk to work with and I always thought it must be marvellous to be able to take a brand new whole unused stick of chalk out of its box.
Finger painting was another wonderful activity that I wished we could do every day. And cutting out shapes and then pasting them with the glue that had been especially mixed was fun too.
Kindergarten was enjoyable and I never realised that I was learning things. We all loved Mrs Dawney, unlike other teachers in the Infants' School who were feared. She was always kind and understanding and was the kindergarten teacher at Mosman Infants' for many years. I visited her to tell her that I also wanted to become a teacher when I was finishing high school. She still remembered me and was very encouraging and wished me well.
Mrs Dawney was my kindergarten teacher and she was lovely. Unfortunately I wasn't with her very long because my mother enrolled me late (see the 'buying shoes blog'). Not all that many children went to preschool in those days so nearly everyone would cry when they had to leave their mothers for the first time. As all my classmates had already been at school for months they were used to leaving their mothers and there wasn't a tear. I on the other hand had never been away from Mutti and I sobbed. I sobbed with relief to see her again at the end of the day so she assumed I had been distraught all day, even of I had had a thoroughly good time for most of it. Years later, when I was a kindergarten teacher myself, I always made a point of ringing mothers who felt terrible leaving crying children as soon as their little one had settled down and was engrossed in a fun activity, to let them know that all was well, because Mutti told me that she had always felt bad all day.
The kindergarten room was the largest in the school and was used as our assembly hall as well. There were low blackboards around the walls and little pastel coloured tables and chairs all around the edge of the room. At the front of the room was a piano, the big teacher's blackboard and Mrs Dawney's desk.
There was a set of 'mats' which were unrolled and put on the floor when we sat crosslegged listening to stories or singing. We also sat on these mats when we had assembly. They were hard and thin and were dark red or green in the hope, I guess, of trying to disguise how grubby they became. After lunch in the kindergarten room we were supposed to have a sleep so we lay down on them as well.
I loved the activities we did in kindergarten. We had wooden templates of animals that you would trace around and then carefully, not going out of the lines, decorate or colour in. Sometimes we had specific instructions like putting vertical coloured stripes on the animals. My favourite was the 'free choice' where you were allowed to do whatever decoration you liked on your traced animal. I can remember choosing to do brown spots all over a dog shape and telling Mrs Dawney that it was a Dalmatian. Some people who lived close by always had Dalmatians. She got me to take my picture all around the school showing the other teachers who all put star stamps on it, but I can't help thinking there was more to my picture that I wasn't aware of, like the time I got a little girl to take the 'mouse' she had made at home as a craft activity to all the teachers in the school. The 'mouse' was a tampon on which she had drawn eyes and stuck little ears. It was very creative. I wonder what that little girl's mother thought when she went home and proudly told her that every teacher in the school had seen it.
To my absolute delight and amazement we were all given an activity book featuring David, Sue and Wendy. There were dotted shapes to trace and then you had to join up the mothers to their babies (mother duck to ducklings etc) and statements such as 'Sue has a blue dress' so you would colour it in. Lots of activities which I found easy because I was fairly good at wielding a pencil. My book was always neat and I couldn't understand why other children made such a mess. It earned me lots of star stamps too which made me try even harder.
A great daily pleasure was the singing and dancing to Mrs Dawney's piano playing and I joined in with enthusiasm.
Another thing I really loved, as did the other children, was drawing on the little child height blackboards. We were given bits of broken chalk to work with and I always thought it must be marvellous to be able to take a brand new whole unused stick of chalk out of its box.
Finger painting was another wonderful activity that I wished we could do every day. And cutting out shapes and then pasting them with the glue that had been especially mixed was fun too.
Kindergarten was enjoyable and I never realised that I was learning things. We all loved Mrs Dawney, unlike other teachers in the Infants' School who were feared. She was always kind and understanding and was the kindergarten teacher at Mosman Infants' for many years. I visited her to tell her that I also wanted to become a teacher when I was finishing high school. She still remembered me and was very encouraging and wished me well.
Thursday 6 December 2012
Buying shoes
The other day I bought a new pair of joggers. I was the only customer in the 'Athlete's Foot' so had the undivided attention of a lovely young man named Jake. My feet were measured, he watched me walk and I stood on a gadget that showed the pressure spots on my feet. I have tricky feet. I should have been a good swimmer as my feet are so wide they could have actually been flippers, but Jake managed to find suitable footwear. I chose a nice conservative pair of white and pale blue 'New Balance' joggers however I could have chosen a pair that was a lurid pink, green and blue. I wore my new joggers home I liked them so much.
Buying the shoes and having such attentive service reminded me of the days when I was a young child. I always wore my new shoes home then too.
The first pair of shoes I really remember was a pair of patent leather court shoes. I wore them when my mother took me to enrol me at school. I was already five and the headmistress lectured my mother that she was cruel because she was enrolling me late in the year. In Germany children only start school aged 6 and my mother hadn't been told that in Australia it is a year earlier. She was very upset - that headmistress was mean and none of the children liked her (neither did my mother). I sat next to Mutti in a chair and my feet couldn't touch the ground. I squeaked my patent leather shoes together and the headmistress kept sending me dark looks. Mutti didn't say anything, I guess she was too upset about being told off, so I kept squeaking the shoes because I liked the noise.
When I was young it was recognised that having ill fitting shoes was a bad thing so an X-ray machine was developed so that the assistants could see if the bones were being correctly aligned or not. It looked like a tall box. You would step up to the box and put your feet into a slot at the bottom and the shop assistant would look down through the top and see how the shoes fitted. The kids all loved putting their feet in the machine as well as looking at each other's bones. I wonder how many shoe salespeople ended up suffering from radiation exposure. Those machines weren't around terribly long, thank goodness.
Buying school shoes was a regular occurrence. My mother thought you should grow into things so my school shoes were always a size too large and the toes stuffed with cotton wool. By the end of the first day of school there would be blisters at least or at worst bleeding heels. I wasn't allowed to walk around bare footed so I would limp home feeling very sorry for myself. My father would hammer the heels of my shoes to try and soften them and eventually when they really were comfortable my feet would grow and I'd have to go through the whole agony again.
When I was in primary and then high school we had uniform inspections and shiny school shoes were compulsory so I polished my shoes every day when I got home. We also had sandshoes for sport and they had to be a blinding white, so they were painted with a thick white chalky mixture on the afternoon after sports days.
For casual wear my parents and I wore sandals and because we were German we wore them with socks. As soon as I see anyone in sandals and socks I just know they are German, or northern European. This is embarrassing to admit but sandals with socks are actually very comfortable however I wouldn't ever dare wear them together again or my daughters would die of shame.
I can't remember much about 'good' shoes but I do remember wearing rubber thongs (flip flops) and loving them when they were properly worn in and moulded to the shape of my feet. It was upsetting when the strap broke and we'd be off to get a new pair which would pinch and stab the skin between the big toe and it's neighbour.
My first pair of 'high heels' were white, impossibly pointy and with kitten heels which are mini stilettos. I got my first pair of stockings at the same time and felt pretty special. I practised walking in the heels and became fairly competent until I got on an escalator in the city. One heel got stuck in the grooves on the step of the escalator and my foot came out of the shoe as I stepped off whilst the heel of my beautiful shoe was chewed up by the teeth in the grid at the end. It made a dreadful grinding crunching noise. The heel was mashed beyond repair and I was devastated. Luckily there was a plethora of boot repairers in those days of having shoes reheeled and resoled and I was able to have the complete kitten heel replaced. Apparently getting heels stuck in escalators was a common problem and the design of the steps was changed to make them less dangerous.
Before I got married I kept having a nightmare that it was my wedding day, that I was dressed in all my wedding finery including long veil and then realising I had forgotten to buy wedding shoes. I would rush to the shops, veil streaming out as I ran and the shoe shops would close just as I got there (shops always closed at 12 on the dot on Saturdays in those days). I was so neurotic about the shoes that I bought them before I even had my wedding gown.
Over the years I've had lots of lovely shoes. My feet probably are as awful as they are now because I forced them into footwear that was either too high or too tight. In my teens and twenties I wore high cork soled shoes which were all the fashion. People kept breaking their ankles thanks to the teetering height. Also we had long bellbottomed trousers that covered the shoes - no wonder there were so many accidents. I can't believe the height of the shoes that young women are wearing these days. As I wander past the shops with my friends we tut tut sagely knowing that the wearers will be crippling themselves just like we did.
I love nice shoes but am definitely built for comfort and not for speed these days. I had a pair of Italian flatties years ago that were woven red, yellow and navy blue leather and super comfortable. I loved them so much I bought two pairs. Unfortunately both pairs finally wore out. I keep looking but I've never seen anything like them since. Perhaps going on a shoe hunt would be a good reason for going to Italy.
Buying the shoes and having such attentive service reminded me of the days when I was a young child. I always wore my new shoes home then too.
The first pair of shoes I really remember was a pair of patent leather court shoes. I wore them when my mother took me to enrol me at school. I was already five and the headmistress lectured my mother that she was cruel because she was enrolling me late in the year. In Germany children only start school aged 6 and my mother hadn't been told that in Australia it is a year earlier. She was very upset - that headmistress was mean and none of the children liked her (neither did my mother). I sat next to Mutti in a chair and my feet couldn't touch the ground. I squeaked my patent leather shoes together and the headmistress kept sending me dark looks. Mutti didn't say anything, I guess she was too upset about being told off, so I kept squeaking the shoes because I liked the noise.
When I was young it was recognised that having ill fitting shoes was a bad thing so an X-ray machine was developed so that the assistants could see if the bones were being correctly aligned or not. It looked like a tall box. You would step up to the box and put your feet into a slot at the bottom and the shop assistant would look down through the top and see how the shoes fitted. The kids all loved putting their feet in the machine as well as looking at each other's bones. I wonder how many shoe salespeople ended up suffering from radiation exposure. Those machines weren't around terribly long, thank goodness.
Buying school shoes was a regular occurrence. My mother thought you should grow into things so my school shoes were always a size too large and the toes stuffed with cotton wool. By the end of the first day of school there would be blisters at least or at worst bleeding heels. I wasn't allowed to walk around bare footed so I would limp home feeling very sorry for myself. My father would hammer the heels of my shoes to try and soften them and eventually when they really were comfortable my feet would grow and I'd have to go through the whole agony again.
When I was in primary and then high school we had uniform inspections and shiny school shoes were compulsory so I polished my shoes every day when I got home. We also had sandshoes for sport and they had to be a blinding white, so they were painted with a thick white chalky mixture on the afternoon after sports days.
For casual wear my parents and I wore sandals and because we were German we wore them with socks. As soon as I see anyone in sandals and socks I just know they are German, or northern European. This is embarrassing to admit but sandals with socks are actually very comfortable however I wouldn't ever dare wear them together again or my daughters would die of shame.
I can't remember much about 'good' shoes but I do remember wearing rubber thongs (flip flops) and loving them when they were properly worn in and moulded to the shape of my feet. It was upsetting when the strap broke and we'd be off to get a new pair which would pinch and stab the skin between the big toe and it's neighbour.
My first pair of 'high heels' were white, impossibly pointy and with kitten heels which are mini stilettos. I got my first pair of stockings at the same time and felt pretty special. I practised walking in the heels and became fairly competent until I got on an escalator in the city. One heel got stuck in the grooves on the step of the escalator and my foot came out of the shoe as I stepped off whilst the heel of my beautiful shoe was chewed up by the teeth in the grid at the end. It made a dreadful grinding crunching noise. The heel was mashed beyond repair and I was devastated. Luckily there was a plethora of boot repairers in those days of having shoes reheeled and resoled and I was able to have the complete kitten heel replaced. Apparently getting heels stuck in escalators was a common problem and the design of the steps was changed to make them less dangerous.
Before I got married I kept having a nightmare that it was my wedding day, that I was dressed in all my wedding finery including long veil and then realising I had forgotten to buy wedding shoes. I would rush to the shops, veil streaming out as I ran and the shoe shops would close just as I got there (shops always closed at 12 on the dot on Saturdays in those days). I was so neurotic about the shoes that I bought them before I even had my wedding gown.
Over the years I've had lots of lovely shoes. My feet probably are as awful as they are now because I forced them into footwear that was either too high or too tight. In my teens and twenties I wore high cork soled shoes which were all the fashion. People kept breaking their ankles thanks to the teetering height. Also we had long bellbottomed trousers that covered the shoes - no wonder there were so many accidents. I can't believe the height of the shoes that young women are wearing these days. As I wander past the shops with my friends we tut tut sagely knowing that the wearers will be crippling themselves just like we did.
I love nice shoes but am definitely built for comfort and not for speed these days. I had a pair of Italian flatties years ago that were woven red, yellow and navy blue leather and super comfortable. I loved them so much I bought two pairs. Unfortunately both pairs finally wore out. I keep looking but I've never seen anything like them since. Perhaps going on a shoe hunt would be a good reason for going to Italy.
Sunday 2 December 2012
Christmas mail
This morning with great satisfaction I posted 64 Christmas cards. Many contain the annual Christmas letter as well, but there are friends who know of all our doings so we just want to send them the yearly greetings which are a reminder that we are thinking of them.
On our walk this morning my friend M and I were discussing this annual mail out. She hates mass Christmas letters and much prefers just a card and doesn't mind a bit the card that says your name at the top and that of the sender at the bottom. I LOVE Christmas letters that contain a snippet of the life of the sender. It doesn't bother me a jot if I don't know the people who are mentioned in the letter, the fact that they have some impact on the sender is all that is important and in that regard the letter makes it interesting to me as well.
Whenever I receive a card with the hastily scribbled names, top and bottom, I feel as though the sender has heaved a sigh, thought 'not another card!' rather than actually called me to mind. I guess I'm being precious, but that's how I feel.
These days people's every minute seems to be accounted for. Doing things like writing Christmas cards is a bother rather than the joy it used to be. I have friends who wish they could just do a Christmas message on Facebook, but how can you put that up on the wall to admire and be part of the Christmas decorations?
When I was little my parents were avid letter writers. Their family was in Germany and nearly all communication was by mail. If there was an emergency a dreaded telegram would arrive. My mother originally wrote letters every week, using carbon paper so that several letters could be typed at once and then she would hand write extra bits to personalise each one.
Mail took at least six weeks to go from one destination to another and occasionally letters would overtake each other so I have a feeling that Mutti would number her letters so that they could be read in the correct order.
We had to prepare our Christmas mail early as it was sent by sea. Airmail was terribly expensive. I used to draw and paint well and was in charge of making the cards. My parents would write long letters to all their friends and relatives and we also sent parcels to our relatives who lived in the communist East Germany where there were many privations.
The parcels included delicacies that weren't readily available, such as sultanas and other dried fruit, coffee, instant coffee, tea as well as cocoa. I can't remember all the goodies that were packaged up but I do know that my mother sent both grandmothers good quality warm singlets and bloomers which they said were greatly appreciated. When Mutti's mother died all those undies were found in her cupboard. She had been keeping them 'for good'! I learnt from that - use stuff. Even if it is really special!
When all the Christmas goodies had been collected they would be packaged up, first in cardboard and then my mother would sew the whole lot up in calico. This would discourage pilfering by the postal staff at the other end. We often heard about parcels 'going missing' but none of the calico wrapped ones ever did. The calico was put to good use by the relatives as fabric was in short supply too.
We would buy Christmas cards to give to our Australian friends. In the early days we never bought packs of cards and would select individual cards which we thought suited the recipient. It was fun though time consuming.
I always loved the arrival of Christmas cards. Actually I still do. Each card was admired and then displayed on the mantelpiece or sideboard. It got you right in the mood for Christmas which always was and still is my family's favourite time of year.
We should all slow down a bit and rather than be frustrated about all things that need doing, enjoy doing them. I set the timer yesterday - 30 minutes ironing, then 30 minutes Christmas card writing and I repeated these activities plus others in a similar vein until it filled the day and no job became too much of a burden. I really felt like I had achieved something by the end of the day.
When the mail arrives and contains Christmas cards I read and enjoy the contents. When my husband gets home I show him the card, we discuss the sender and if there is a Christmas letter I read it aloud to him so I get to enjoy it twice!
I'm looking forward to our Christmas mail. It should start arriving any day now.
On our walk this morning my friend M and I were discussing this annual mail out. She hates mass Christmas letters and much prefers just a card and doesn't mind a bit the card that says your name at the top and that of the sender at the bottom. I LOVE Christmas letters that contain a snippet of the life of the sender. It doesn't bother me a jot if I don't know the people who are mentioned in the letter, the fact that they have some impact on the sender is all that is important and in that regard the letter makes it interesting to me as well.
Whenever I receive a card with the hastily scribbled names, top and bottom, I feel as though the sender has heaved a sigh, thought 'not another card!' rather than actually called me to mind. I guess I'm being precious, but that's how I feel.
These days people's every minute seems to be accounted for. Doing things like writing Christmas cards is a bother rather than the joy it used to be. I have friends who wish they could just do a Christmas message on Facebook, but how can you put that up on the wall to admire and be part of the Christmas decorations?
When I was little my parents were avid letter writers. Their family was in Germany and nearly all communication was by mail. If there was an emergency a dreaded telegram would arrive. My mother originally wrote letters every week, using carbon paper so that several letters could be typed at once and then she would hand write extra bits to personalise each one.
Mail took at least six weeks to go from one destination to another and occasionally letters would overtake each other so I have a feeling that Mutti would number her letters so that they could be read in the correct order.
We had to prepare our Christmas mail early as it was sent by sea. Airmail was terribly expensive. I used to draw and paint well and was in charge of making the cards. My parents would write long letters to all their friends and relatives and we also sent parcels to our relatives who lived in the communist East Germany where there were many privations.
The parcels included delicacies that weren't readily available, such as sultanas and other dried fruit, coffee, instant coffee, tea as well as cocoa. I can't remember all the goodies that were packaged up but I do know that my mother sent both grandmothers good quality warm singlets and bloomers which they said were greatly appreciated. When Mutti's mother died all those undies were found in her cupboard. She had been keeping them 'for good'! I learnt from that - use stuff. Even if it is really special!
When all the Christmas goodies had been collected they would be packaged up, first in cardboard and then my mother would sew the whole lot up in calico. This would discourage pilfering by the postal staff at the other end. We often heard about parcels 'going missing' but none of the calico wrapped ones ever did. The calico was put to good use by the relatives as fabric was in short supply too.
We would buy Christmas cards to give to our Australian friends. In the early days we never bought packs of cards and would select individual cards which we thought suited the recipient. It was fun though time consuming.
I always loved the arrival of Christmas cards. Actually I still do. Each card was admired and then displayed on the mantelpiece or sideboard. It got you right in the mood for Christmas which always was and still is my family's favourite time of year.
We should all slow down a bit and rather than be frustrated about all things that need doing, enjoy doing them. I set the timer yesterday - 30 minutes ironing, then 30 minutes Christmas card writing and I repeated these activities plus others in a similar vein until it filled the day and no job became too much of a burden. I really felt like I had achieved something by the end of the day.
When the mail arrives and contains Christmas cards I read and enjoy the contents. When my husband gets home I show him the card, we discuss the sender and if there is a Christmas letter I read it aloud to him so I get to enjoy it twice!
I'm looking forward to our Christmas mail. It should start arriving any day now.
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