a hazy moon

Sunday, May 23, 2010

The Notemaker

I have told you before

that I am a note maker

a list writer

It is a trait

that I have inherited

from my Father

His house, his shelves

cupboards, sheds,

his car, writing room

and pockets

are full of notes and lists

all written in capitalized font

in an odd left handed

and backwards sloping script

Lists of seedlings to buy

of bills to pay

of accounts falling due

of flowers to plant

typing to correct

of vegetable planting rows

of editing to complete

in the stories he wrote

of insurance policies and investments

bank accounts and secrets

As he got older

he began to copy the lists

marking the old lists 'obsolete'

but never destroying them

Then he made lists of lists

and lists of lists of lists
and bound them together in bundles
with rubber bands

One list I found was headed

'Jock's Important Concerns'

and indicated a secret place

where more lists could be found

My Mother and I laughed

as we rushed around the house

like we were playing detectives...

When I was a child

the lists were written

on dirt and grease stained used index cards

purloined from his work place

After retirement

they began to be written

on old envelopes

of which he accumulated

an enormous stash

When looking through the pockets

of jackets returned from the nursing home

where he had spent

the last year of his life

I came across many notes and lists;

I found numerous notes

detailing the neighbour's

address and phone number

in case my Father should forget

where he was heading

on his many escapes

from the nursing home

and needed to be rescued

In one pocket I found a list

of his three daughters

with their names written out in full

sadly dementia was beginning to rob him

of his memory of things
that were most important to him

One of the oddest lists I found

was of the serial numbers

of his three wheelie garbage bins,

Red for rubbish

Yellow for recyclables

and Green for green waste

Did he worry that the local students

might steal his bins
and if so

was he going to track them down...

quite probably...

I must warn my kids

of my list making tendencies

and prepare them for my dotage

If I am at all like my father

in this respect
and there is increasing evidence
of this proclivity

I will have filled every nook and cranny

of the house with notes and lists...

I must write a note now

to tell my kids of this...

Saturday, May 22, 2010

A Man's Shed is his Castle

A man and his sheds...

My Dad's greatest passion

was his garden

All of the accoutrements

necessary to maintain his gardens

on his 'eighth acre pavlova paradise'

were contained in his sheds

He began with one

which grew to two

and eventually the garage

became another

and then the spare room

his final sanctum

his first shed

bore the name of his birth town
in the South Island of New Zealand

I asked my Mum last week

why the secateurs were hanging on the wall

outside the shed
in the weather...

They became lost one day in the garden

and were unearthed years later

so were hung as a reminder

of his negligence

the new seedling tomatoes

raised in his miniature glasshouse

were tenderly watered

with the old teapot

come with me now
let's unlock his first shed

and see the accumulation
of nearly 60 years
of hard work
and industry

the precious tools
so meticulously hung

like the instruments
of a surgeon

the more valuable tools
initialled with JN
His given name was Geoffrey
but he went by
the Scottish name of Jock

the seed box
I loved to explore as a child
but only under supervision
as the shed and its contents
were sacrosanct

now rusted tobacco tins containing
packets of miniature seed

and this appears to be a plan
of the rows of veges
he plans to plant come spring

old plastic salt shakers
were fashioned
to dispense the fine seeds

lawns were mowed by hand
trowels stored on the shelf above

a hand made binder twine dispenser

and another for finer string

the worker's boots
now sit idle

paint brushes cleaned
and reused many times over

In shed #2 everything has a place

there is innovative storage

well maintained tools

hang in their mini shrouds

I can see his large hands

gripping the clipper handles

to trim the privet hedges

little bows of string

hang from nails

the dusty

but working wireless

sits in a corner

the black cat

from my Grandfather's garden,

that frightened

not a single bird

from the strawberry patch,

hangs from the rafters

the garage

has a below the ground pit

where I learned to pass the tools

for an oil and grease -

there being no boys in my family

and above, the rings

from which my father hung and spun

and twirled
dazzling us
with his gymnastic ability

over here the hook

from which his punch ball spun

and sang a rhythmic boom ba ba

boom ba ba

binder twine

and New Zealand

go hand in hand

stacks of mats

tarps

covers

and jumper leads

my Dad's sheds

are painted with the stories

of his activities

and his loves

stories of a whole life time...

Friday, May 21, 2010

The Seasons

Spring blossoms

have long since dropped

Summer has swelled

and ripened

The colours of Autumn

have now fluttered to the earth

the bare limbs of Winter

have quietly
become more visible

and now encircle you

in their misty embrace

To Everything There Is a Season

- Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

To everything there is a season,
a time for every purpose under the sun.
A time to be born and a time to die;
a time to plant and a time to pluck up that which is planted;
a time to kill and a time to heal ...
a time to weep and a time to laugh;
a time to mourn and a time to dance ...
a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing;
a time to lose and a time to seek;
a time to rend and a time to sew;
a time to keep silent and a time to speak;
a time to love and a time to hate;
a time for war and a time for peace.

To everything there is a season,
a time for every purpose under the sun.