Again I want to state that my reason for publishing my story is to help others understand the importance of continuing to have mammograms as we age, regardless of what the medical ‘experts’ advise.
If you missed the first chapter, please scroll down and read it, to make better sense of this one.
I hope that by going public with my breast cancer journey I will help others who might also be somewhere on this journey.Continue reading
I have received Highly Commended awards and publication in a collection of short stories for two of my stories. I’ve included a couple of excerpts from each of them.
One Week To Harvest
From the doorway of his shed Gus watched the motor bike – a Harley Davidson, its shiny black metal splattered with mud. His ears throbbed at each rev of the throttle; the pain was nothing compared with the agony gripping his heart . . .
Harry, his black coat dripping, wandered into the shed. Doggy eyes sought answers from his master. He had followed the bike, bearing Amy, as far as the gate. His tail normally wagged so fast it knocked cups off the coffee table. Now it drooped, leaving a wet trail on the floor . . .
Country Life
Waving the torch around, I noted a brick fireplace, pale brown stains on the ceiling, walls painted yellowish green, jarrah floor boards, no curtains on the window. Plonked in the middle of the living room were the boxes that we had packed several days earlier . . .
It was one in the morning when we fell into bed. Almost immediately, it started; thump, thump in the ceiling. Eyes staring into the dark, heart thumping as loudly as the intruders, I was wide awake and ready to defend my babies . . .
I hope you are dying to find out what happened next.
My stories are published in Timber, which is the latest of the Stringybark Stories, published by Smashwords (an Australian publisher, like Amazon) Use the code WK297 when downloading the collection in eBook format to get a 25% discount, making it about A$2.80 until 24 August 2018. Price can vary depending on $Aus/$USA exchange rate. Hard copies will be available around late July.
I have now read the full collection and was impressed. I hope you too, will enjoy them. If you have a problem, please let me know and I’ll contact the publisher.
I’d also like to thank all of you who responded to my last piece, ‘Getting To Know My Dad.’ I’m certainly encouraged to keep writing my memoir and it seems that more than just family will be interested in the story. I hope that at some point my children and grandchildren might take a look at what I’ve written. Finding that cousins, friends and even even passing acquaintances are sufficiently interested to comment, is very encouraging.
Of course I’m very interested to see what you think of my award winning short stories and if you feel like passing on the information to your friends, that’s even better. I love to hear what readers think of my writing, especially something like these stories.
Born at the beginning of the Second World War, I have memories that are unique to an Australian child of that era. Many of us didn’t know our fathers because they went off to England to help the British fend off the Germans, or to places like New Guinea to fight the Japanese. For several years I have been writing my memoir. Not having a father in my life for those first few years meant that when he did come home, I had great difficulty learning to relate to him. In this piece I have tried to portray something of that feeling.
This is the photo, which I think shows my fears on that day when a ‘strange’ man came back into my life.
Because this is a very personal story I’m not sure how it will be judged by others and I don’t know if it is suitable for anyone other than my family to read. I will greatly appreciate feedback from you, my friends and family.
This chapter is an introduction to my memoir which I have called ‘A Child of the War Years.’
Please let me know what you think.
GETTING TO KNOW MY DAD
As a small child I thought ‘Daddy’ was a photo on my mother’s dressing table. When other children had real, live fathers to kiss goodnight, I had only that photo, of a man with bushy eyebrows and ears that stuck out below a dark blue cap. He had kind eyes and a wide smile that showed off his straight white teeth. I wanted to know why he had a picture of a crown on his hat and wings like a bird sewn on the pocket of his jacket. Mummy told me that I should be very proud because he was in the Royal Australian Air Force and he was flying airplanes in a place far away, called England.
The one occasion when I was aware of a man (hopefully my father) visiting our home in Floreat, he arrived at the front door with a broom and flowers for my mother. They hugged and kissed, then raced off into my mother’s bedroom and I continued playing with my doll behind the lounge room chair.
The visit was probably when dad had short leave from Cunderdin or Geraldton, although, even when based in Subiaco he would have had to stay in barracks most of the time. I must have been about two, because in the June he was in Victoria and New South Wales, leaving from there for the UK.
I was three and a half when my father returned home. Mummy, Granny, Grandpa and some of my aunts were at the Perth Railway Station to meet him. My big cousin, John, rescued me from a forest of legs—more legs than I’d ever seen—running past me, making me turn around and around searching for the people I knew.
This weekend I am at the Writers’ Festival in Perth, so I thought it would be a good time to review some of my favourite reads since the last festival. I had the pleasure of listening to and meeting Louise Allan, a lovely, natural lady, who seems surprised and perhaps a little overwhelmed by the success that has come her way. I hope you will all read this, her first novel, and love it as much as I have.
I think all of my choices are excellent reads, but would love to hear your opinions and comments. I’d also like to know what your favourite books were.
The Sisters’ Song: Louise Allan
I am reading this book for the second time, partly because I recommended it to my book club and we are meeting to discuss it next week. I’m enjoying it even more the second time.
This short story will be included in the Memoir I’m writing. It’s all true, even down to the names as I see no need to hide the identities of my fellow gum-chewing partners.
For those of you who don’t know, Alan and I were married in 1961. We traveled around Western Australia with a caravan and a utility, camping for a week or more wherever he had work, surveying new farmland east of Narrogin. I was only on the road with him for a few months,but I have some ‘interesting’ memories from those days.
Chewing Gum to the Rescue
We left the camp near Wave Rock at Hyden at about four o’clock on that October afternoon. The boss lived in Narrogin, so we allowed time to collect the men’s pay cheques on our way and be back in Perth in time to sleep in a proper bed at my parent’s house that night.
All went well until the radiator started boiling. On a Saturday night in 1961, when even the pubs were probably closed, three miles out of town, nothing moved. Hoping to find something open, Alan sent Lou, his assistant, back to the nearest little blip of a town, to buy chewing gum—as much as they could supply.
Never having regarded the chewing of gum as an enjoyable activity, I hoped that my husband’s plan would not involve my participation. I realised that the local garage, if there was one, would be closed and out of action until Monday. The chance of them stocking a replacement for our radiator was remote anyway and with only a measly pay cheque and little cash, we couldn’t have paid for it even if one was available. Alan was pretty good at thinking up new ways to overcome problems but I wondered how chewing gum might help us with a leaky radiator.
Late last year I entered this story in a writing competition. It’s not my best short story but when I won first prize I promised to post it once it was published. I then forgot about it, so here it is. If you read the longer version last year under the title ‘Lightning’, please ignore this repeat so that my newer followers can enjoy it.
I’ll also post a couple of poems from ‘Friends In My Garden’ today as I know that some of you enjoy them too.
WEATHER ALERT
In the paddocks around the house our cows had gathered in groups, their calves, now ready for weening, herded within the protective circle created by their mothers. Hay, almost a metre high, was ready for harvesting in paddocks around the dam and up the hill, towards the forest. November brought hot winds to much of our south west. In Europe they talk of the mistral that blows for days or weeks at a time, sending vulnerable people in France and Spain mad. Coming overland from the desert, our easterly winds had a similar effect on me.
On that particular day I’d gone out to check the water troughs in the paddock below the house and was surprised to note that, instead of lumbering towards the utility which they usually did in the hope of finding easy food, all the cows with calves stayed put. There was little movement amongst them, except for the odd shaking of a head, accompanied by a high pitched moo or a sort of snorting. I could feel their agitation.
The air was still and oppressive. Looking up, I noted thick grey clouds which seemed to grow darker and heavier as I watched. Tails flicked and ears twitched; my four-legged mob didn’t like Nature’s developments.
Then I, too, heard it – the low rumble of thunder. The first bolt of lightning pierced clouds, forking down into the forest. Walking back towards the utility, I heard the thump as a tree or a large branch hit the ground.
Driving back to the house, I felt sorry for the cattle and wondered why they stayed so far from the protective covering of the trees which were all around us. The answer was obvious when, ten minutes later, I watched through the kitchen window as lightning struck the tallest karri, near where I’d parked, shearing it in half.
As a newcomer to the role of farming, I was concerned about fire. Animals grazing near the house were my insurance against losing our home that way. Rain wiped out our first hay crop, but our simple beasts taught me two important lessons – stay away from trees in a storm and if the cattle are concerned, it’s probably time to seek refuge.
THE HILLS IN SUMMER
The throb of the helicopter woke me. Seven fifteen, the clock said.
‘Smell that?’ Another deep sniff and I bolted out of bed. ‘Get up! Get up Tom; there’s a fire.’
‘Wha.’ My husband’s sleepy head rolled over to face me. ‘What’s that love?’ He swallowed, trying to get the juices back into his dry throat after lying open mouthed, snoring.
‘Fire. Can’t you smell it? And listen; the helicopter’s flying overhead. It’s low, so the fire must be near here.’
Running to the window, I pulled back the curtain and peered out. Smoke billowed from the valley below our house and black specks floated past the window.
‘Get up Tom. Now. For heaven’s sake, get up man. There’s a bloody fire at the bottom of the hill. Some idiot again no doubt; probably a teenager seeking thrills. I wish they’d catch the bugger and punish him properly. Oh, come on, hurry up. We have to fill up the bin and the baths and troughs and everything. You know they’ll cut off our water if they have to.’
‘It’s six o’clock already.’ Rain drips from the points of her umbrella as Jasmine checks her watch and tries to move faster through the Friday evening crowd.
Despite the weather, her mouth turns up at the corners. She does a little skip over the next puddle, dreaming about her coming flight and Brendon’s plans for their weekend in Paris. His emails were necessarily brief and vague, sent from his computer at work to the computer at the boutique where she sells high fashion garments to wealthy women living and working in the West End.
Never mind the lack of specific directions, he’ll be at Orly Airport to meet me, she re-assures herself while jostling with the other sardine shufflers making their way through Knightsbridge Underground Station. She squeezes into the carriage and manages to claim a small section of rail to hang onto.
‘You’ll catch your death love.’ The elderly woman sitting in front of her, points to Jasmine’s soggy boots.
Jasmine looks down at the brown suede boots which she had bought to wear on the flight.
‘I’m okay. Thanks.’ She turns away, suppressing a grin. Well, I’m sure Brendon will love my underwear. She sees herself taking off her coat, jumper and skirt. A shiver ripples up her spine as she imagines Brendon slowly removing the black stockings and suspender belt, the lacy French knickers and the deliciously naughty new bra which she discovered in her lunch break.
After Christmas, time to get back to writing at last. Chopin and Mozart are entertaining me from the lounge room and I have been searching through some old stories in the hope that I might find something for my readers to enjoy. This one is based on our years on a farm that was situated in a magnificent karri forest in Western Australia.
Lightning
Grey clouds skittle up from the south, hastened by a blustery wind. From the karri forest surrounding our farm I hear branches crashing to the ground. Electricity in the air makes the hairs on my arms stand on end. A jagged slash of yellow light spears the earth, accompanied by the crack of thunder.
Cows waddle as quickly as their ungainly bodies will allow, away from the fence and tall trees. In tones that vary from soprano shrieks to the calming pitch of more experienced mums, they summon their calves. Soon I am the only lightening rod in the top end of the paddock. I sprint towards the protection of the cattle; like them I seek safety in numbers.
Splattered by large blobs of rain, the thirsty ground releases an earthy smell that sets off primitive emotions in me. I sniff the air and welcome the downpour. Steam rises from hot hides, calves nuzzle at their mothers’ teats and big brown eyes watch for the next flash that might barbecue one of us.
Grey is not one of my favourite colours, but I think it depicts the emotional state of someone experiencing this kind of loss and grief.
The ocean’s rhythm
GREY
She watches the sun set then gathers her jacket closer to her chest. Under her bare feet the sand feels crunchy. It makes a squelching sound with each step. The water whispers ‘Sh-sh-sh,’ then retreats with an inward sigh, as if drawing breath before rushing back to the shore.
Toes half-buried in the sand, the woman waits. No matter how hard she tries to resist, the shock of that first splash catches her breath and forces a short, sharp squeak from her. Two waves later and her response is childlike. She rolls her trackpants higher and dances along the water’s edge, swaying in and out with the ocean’s rhythm.