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More and more people are joining a gym. Why do we need to do that? To keep fit? To keep slim? Generations ago gyms were not heard of except occasionally in a school.
But nowadays, with little physical labour expected of us as we go though our day, to keep fit we are expected to go to the gym. Walking past our local tennis courts, I see the coaches & their pupils taking turns in collecting the tennis balls that lie around the courts. Well, yes, they are exercising by playing tennis, but to pick up the balls they have a long tube which somehow just picks or sucks up the balls as one end is placed on it. No bending the knees or arm stretching needed. The golf course in our neighbourhood is a-buzz with electric buggies carrying the ‘sports’ men & women chasing after the little white balls they have hit. I suppose there’s a bit of exercise needed in clambering on and off the buggy seat – and a small walk to the putting green but no longer the long walks of the old golf-playing days. It gets worse: Time and ‘labour saving’ items at home are becoming laughable. Who buys ready-chopped onions? Well, apparently a lot of people, as there are packets of them filling freezer compartment in supermarkets. Same goes for most vegetables: chopped up broccoli, carrots etc. Then there’s the grated cheese. Too much like hard work to grab a grater and a block of cheese and use a bit of man-power? And…was that true, the news I saw in social media the other day? Shops in USA (where else?) selling pre-peeled oranges! (Sealed in plastic containers, no less!) Oh, such a messy effort to remove the peel from an orange! How did we ever do that? Then there are all those household appliances – including the TV: does anyone even remember having to actually get out of a chair to change channels or alter the volume? No way! Even the kitchen sink, for heaven’s sake has a lever tap (no need to use the wrist and turn anything) not to mention a plug that sits waiting for a tiny push to set it in place. No more bending down to search under the cupboard to find the blessed plug. It’s there already. In many homes both indoor and outdoor lights turn on when someone walks by or into a room. Of course, washing machines and dishwashers do away with much physical labour. None of that old wrangling – not even a turning of a large knob – just a wave of a hand over some symbols. Some people actually use up energy and still lug out a basket of damp clothes to a washing line, but most seem to transfer washing directly into a dryer. What about those robot vacuum cleaners. Do they really work? Stupid things! The car is so automatic that it has ‘cruise control’, eliminating the need for foot movement on the accelerator – and headlights that turn themselves on when it becomes a little dull. AND even windscreen wipers that know when it’s raining! So, these smart ‘self-driving’ cars we are hearing about cannot be too far away. The garden hose has a trigger lever on the nozzle, therefore no running back and forth to the tap or wrestling with the hose in an attempt to bend it to stop the flow. In the bad old days when people wanted to get rid of flies or mosquitoes they used up some energy by pumping away at the old tin poison dispenser. Then came the push button aerosol insect spray. Now it’s an automatic (poison) dispenser mounted on a wall (not on my wall, though!) Sure, some old time routines did save people energy when grocers called and delivered orders and shop keepers used to fetch and carry, which is in contrast to now when we are expected to look for and select items and deal with them all the way until we lug them inside at home – including the check out (humph!) which is a different sort of progress, I suppose. But, all in all, we are either a lazy lot or technology has simply altered our lives greatly. Whatever, it seems as if it’s the gym or go back to the past, which is possibly not a good move. Did someone say ‘move’?
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There seems to have been talk recently – and a few books on the subject – about children losing the ability to use their imagination and about kids living in cocooned inside worlds, with nothing but electronic games to amuse themselves.
Whilst I disagree with some of the more dramatic (hysterical?) statements concerning the demise of real, active and experience-filled, learning childhoods, I am in agreement (as I think I have stated before) with the people who suggest that an outdoor play-time led childhood is the more beneficial one to be experienced. The topic of cubby houses has been in my mind lately as I have been seeing far too many of those terrible pastel or brightly coloured plastic ‘play houses’ both in back yards and in sales catalogues from (cheapish) department stores. What’s the point in producing a lollipop-looking dolls-house thing that’s just big enough to fit a small child? A plastic set-up that’s destined to fade and fall apart shortly after the child has become terminally bored with attempts to make it into something exciting – or even satisfying. Whatever happened to the idea of a family collecting building scraps of timber and constructing a real ‘cubby house’ – or even a tree house, as both an interesting activity and a personalised play space for the kids and their friends? Is it too much like hard work to build something? Would such a construction spoil the neat look of the perfect home? Is it the dangerous possibility of a child getting a splinter in his or her finger? Is it not safe for a child to learn to use a hammer and nails? Is it the even worse fear of a child falling from a home-made play house and actually hurting themselves? I fondly recall the cubby of my childhood, the dirt floor of which my sisters and I constantly swept clean with an old broom. The cubby that had a (glass-free) window that served as everything from porthole to shop counter. I recall the cubby my husband built for our small children (with their help and advice!). It was in a corner of the yard, therefore negating the necessity of constructing two of its four walls, as they were provided by the paling fence. Our young daughter often invited neighbourhood children into “her house” and even enlisted me as an occasional drinks’ waiter to bring out plastic mugs of cordial and sometimes a plate of plain biscuits. That cubby house even had a (low) second storey, with a makeshift ‘ladder’ of wooden steps nailed to the nearby gum tree. Certainly, there were a few falls and knocks, but not one child broke a bone and I cannot remember blood being spilled. But fun they had in spades. There doesn’t seem to be much fun associated with the plastic ‘already-prepared’ constructions I see lately. But I may be wrong. There is no picture because I cannot bear to see another photo of him.
But I keep thinking of that old saying ... something like, "How can you fly like an eagle, when surrounded by turkeys?" That's all I have to say.  gA week or so ago, I wrote about poems and stories read to children that perhaps, in hindsight – decades later - were not suitable for childish ears.
It brought to my mind a poem I adored as a kid. Called “The Snare”, by James Stephens, is a sad pleading tale about a rabbit caught in a trap, “crying on the frightened air…”. Such a sad little poem for a child to hear – and read. My heart used to go out for the poor little creature, struggling, calling for help. The author was obviously an Englishman, for whom rabbits are cute little creatures who live in the countryside. Perhaps not such a beloved creature in Australia. Many decades after loving this poem, when I was an older adult and had just left behind a 30+ year teaching career the topic of rabbits once more popped into my life. In an attempt to remain a helpful member of community, I undertook a short course in palliative care volunteering. I then began the rewarding task of helping people who were caring for a family member at home who was very ill and, most likely dying. (Bear with me now, I am not veering right off course!) One of the lovely people I cared for was an old farmer. I would lend a helpin hand by simply sitting with him, to give his wife some time to do whatever she wished – either to go shopping, visiting or, even, at times, just have a good night’s sleep, while I sat with her husband through the night. During some afternoons, I would read the newspaper to him and we would discuss the day’s news, or occasionally politics. He had been a farmer for most of his life and he would often reminisce at length about his farming days. One of the most frequent stories he related was about the rabbit plague that had been rampant in his area. At one stage, rabbits had eaten every blade of grass on his property and the amount of holes and the depth of their burrows made parts of his farm unsafe to walk over. One day, when he was remembering the disaster the rabbit plague had created - leaving him with no income, a devastated acreage of land, and a family to keep, he began to weep. It was then that I realized what devastation rabbits had wrought in Australia. Eventually, as we now know, poisons were introduced into Australia – firstly Myxomatosis and later Calicivirus, which have fortunately managed to keep the rabbit population in check. My old farmer lived to see his farm regenerate and all was well. But I think back to the tears I silently wept as a child on reading about ‘the rabbit in a snare’ and wonder how these two stories can ever be about the same animal. The Snare I hear a sudden cry of pain! There is a rabbit in a snare: Now I hear the cry again, But I cannot tell from where. But I cannot tell from where He is calling out for aid! Crying on the frightened air, Making everything afraid! Making everything afraid! Wrinkling up his little face! And he cries again for aid; - and I cannot find the place! And I cannot find the place Where his paw is in the snare! Little One! Oh, Little One! I am searching everywhere!  “One day Mamma said, ‘Conrad dear,
I must go out and leave you here But, mind now, Conrad, what I say, Don’t suck your thumb while I’m away…’” And so begins the poem warning Conrad not to suck his thumb, else ‘the great long, red-legged scissor man’ comes and cuts his thumbs off. This poem, written by Henrich Hoffmann, in 1845, was either a fun poem or a warning to children not to suck their thumbs. I’m not sure which it was, but, taking into account the year it was written and attitudes to ‘naughty’ children in those days, I think it was likely to be used as a stern warning. In my previous life as a primary school teacher, I used to read this poem to six-year olds, who would laugh and ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ and laugh some more as they held up their little hands at the end. Fingers spread and thumbs tucked away to show how they’d look minus thumbs. Last week, I was reading a memoir style book, “Telltale”, written by Australian author Carmel Bird. In her memories, she quotes the ‘Suck-a- Thumb’ poem, and tells what a shocking and terrifying story it was for her to hear. She told how it frightened her: The way the Scissor man ‘leapt at Conrad’ with ‘scissors resembling hedge cutters’. ‘Blades closing’ and blood ‘spurting on the floor’. Carmel Bird must have possessed an illustrated version* of the poem, which perhaps the children in my care were fortunate not to see. The children and I used only imagination – mind pictures, I guess – and each child would have had his or her own mental vision of what Conrad endured. But, now, I am left wondering if I may have damaged any little minds of the children in my class. Did I scare them? Were there any thumb suckers in my class who were forever terrified and mentally damaged by hearing of the ‘Great long, red- legged Scissor Man’? In, what I thought was the same vein as Conrad’s poem, I would also read Ogden Nash’s poem about Isabel and the bear. ‘The Adventures of Isabel’, by Ogden Nash (1902 – 1971) “Isabel met and enormous bear, Isabel, Isabel didn’t care… “ In this poem, Isabel wins, by eating the bear, instead of the other way around. The kids perhaps laughed more at Isabel’s predicament – and action – more that the ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ of Conrad’s piece, but I (perhaps foolishly) considered the poems on equal footing. In contrast to this, I would never (ever!) read the Brothers Grimm ‘Hansel and Gretel’ story to small children. To hear that Hansel and Gretel were so hated by their evil step mother, that she tried to permanently lose them in the woods, was, I thought, a story more likely to frighten and upset children, who may have had concerns about a mixed situation in their own family. Was I wrong? (Not to mention the gruesome way the children dealt with the witch – into the oven!) Many years ago, in the 1940s and ‘50s, the Victorian (Australian) school Reader for Grade Three included a poem, from the 19th century, ‘Little Boy Blue’ by Eugene Field, that told of the death of a small boy, whose toys were gathering dust as they waited for his return. As a child, I adored that poem and loved the emotion (and tears) it stirred in me. Now, decades later, I wonder what the educators were thinking, allowing – encouraging even – eight year-olds to read such awful verse. From a vantage point of decades gone by, we may have differing views about scary, entertaining or suitable reading material for children. Books and stories are far different today from those of years ago. But, thanks to Carmel Bird for her lovely book “Telltale” of “reading, writing and remembering”, some great memories have been reawakened me. *I discovered the illustrated version of ‘Little Suck-a-Thumb’ on line. It is, indeed, horrendous - and terrifying for a child to see! Find the whole poems online: ‘The Story of Little Suck-a-Thumb’, by Henrich Hoffmann. ‘The Adventures of Isabel’, by Ogden Nash (1902 – 1971) ‘Little Boy Blue’, by Eugene Field (1850 – 1895)  Politics of other nations have always worried me, especially when wars are waged. I can never understand what wars are supposed to achieve; they are killing ‘opportunities’ - out of control of the normal populace.
But now there is something new – and different - to worry about. Let me start by saying I am not an American citizen. I am Australian and always have been. A few days ago, in America, during what was labelled “a conservative Turning Point Action Believers’ Summit”, the United States Republican presidential candidate Donald Trump told Christians(?) that if they vote for him in November, they won't have to do so again. He said: "In four years, you don't have to vote again, we'll have it fixed so good you're not going to have to vote." Now, what does that imply? To me, it seems ex-President Trump is announcing that he will “fix it so good” that it will be him - and him alone - who will be in charge of the U.S. forever. No more elections by the people. Does that not set off some rather large red flags for you? Might that mean a King Donald? And, when this King ages (even more) or dies, will Donald Trump Junior become the next King of the United States of America? Then who? Eric (or whatever his name is)? Is the youngest son, Barron Trump, being groomed to be a U.S. prince? The mind boggles! And yet, there doesn’t seem to be anything posted in any media News that is taking Trump’s statement seriously. Perhaps the world, in general, should be more wary of what this maniac is claiming.  How fortunate we are in Australia to be free of war, famine, earthquakes, and other man-made and nature-induced calamities. Any dramas that come our way are not of the same magnitude as wars, but on Christmas Night our neighbourhood was in the middle of a tornado; a tornado unprecedented in ‘our neck of the woods’. The wind around our house reached 200+ kilometres an hour. Huge gum trees over the back fence crashed to the ground or lost large limbs. Our rear fence, in a row of four, was the only one left standing (minus a gate). In the terrifying wind and driving rain, a woman climbed out of her car nearby to check if she could continue driving past a fallen tree branch, only to be struck by the rest of the tree as it fell. Tragically, she died. Sheltering in our home, we watched as the shade sail that sheltered our driveway was ripped from its anchoring, ending up over the neighbours’ fence. Palm trees that surrounded our pool bent almost double, some ending up lying on the ground. Branches from one of our trees went flying and two (metal) gates were ripped from hinges. Roof tiles changed position and leaves and debris was flung against windows…and into the swimming pool. All electric power turned off as over a thousand powerlines in our area broke and fell. By candlelight, we watched the outside world blow apart as lightning bolt, after lightning bolt lit not only the sky, but the whole surroundings. It was four days before power was restored to our house. We have a small (single) gas burner on which we boiled water in a saucepan to make a cup of tea. Insurance assessors will come on Monday to check the damage. Fortunately for us, they sent repairers within two days to make the roof safe and to cart off the now torn and ‘relocated’ shade sail. On the afternoon of the morning our electricity was restored, we welcomed seven guests from Interstate and overseas. I’m resting now.   As Christmas and the year’s end approaches, I despair at the state of the world. Wars of unimaginable horror in two main arenas, (today’s news reports that 20,000 Palestinians have been killed), hunger and starvation, drought and (un)natural calamities corrode whole countries; volcanoes erupt, and earthquakes wreak destruction.
And, Covid still lurks in the wings. We in Australia think we’ve been hard done by this year, with the high cost of living being difficult to deal with. Also, the disappointing referendum concerning recognition of First Nations People was demolished, thanks to a pliant media and a nay-saying Opposition Leader. But our ‘afflictions’ hardly register on the scale of global suffering. And yet there is a whiff of depression emanating from many news bulletins and social media posts. In what should be considered a safe and ‘civilised’ country (ours), the reported level of aggression exhibited in such incidents as road rage is at an all-time high, and we are told that youth crime is ‘out of control’. Not even mentioning the real — and possibly worst and most urgent — problem facing mankind, alarming climate change effects and the inability, or refusal, of world leaders to fully address, and therefore, take steps to alleviate it. So…in attempts to find a more positive attitude and to seek a glimmer of hope for the future, I recently borrowed a newly popular book from the library, titled, “Bright Shining, how grace changes everything”, written by Julia Baird. I wondered if reading it might lead me and others to a happier frame of mind. Suspecting the author has lifted the title from the words from the song/hymn, ‘Amazing Grace’, she inclines towards — and emphasises — what she describes as ‘grace— and how ‘it changes everything’. (‘Changes’ in a commendatory way, I assumed). Well, that sounded positive…and, for a brief time I tried to attach the feeling and attitude of what is termed grace to how to think — whether relating to how I dealt with others, or how I viewed the world and local ‘situations’, soon finding that (as the book’s blurb states): “Grace is both mysterious and hard to define…” Searching various definitions of grace from different dictionary sites revealed differing interpretations; none of which seems to match the author’s positive and affirming view. I did find a quote, attributed to Aristotle, which stated, “The ideal man bears the accidents of life with dignity and grace, making the best of circumstances.” That seems right, I thought. But, still, how to define ‘grace’? Then I recalled Ernest Heminway’s quote: “Courage is grace under pressure.” Mmmm, perhaps that’s it. But I still couldn’t see a positive way to deal with the negativity and sombre tone of the past year. I searched for answers to how we could cope with the onslaught of truly horrible world happenings and the troubles, sorrows, needs and sicknesses that confront us. Browsing through Merriam-Webster word definitions, I came across the word, ‘benevolence’ and it seems to ‘click’. Benevolence means ‘disposition to do good’ and is related to ‘an act of kindness’. Perhaps I have found some sort of answer to the negativity that is surrounding us. So, perhaps ‘benevolence’ is the better attitude, if we can’t define grace. Really, we can only live our own lives. Let’s be benevolent as we do so. Benevolent also means caring, compassionate, generous, and humane. By the way, happy Christmas wishes to everyone.  In the 1800s, an American Quaker poet and advocate of the abolition of slavery, John Greenleaf Whittier, wrote a poem he called, ‘O Brother Man’. The poem has been around for many decades; some have renamed it as “The Tree of Peace”. It has also occasionally been turned into a hymn.
The reason I mention it is that the last verse has been stuck in my head since the escalation of the horrendous Israel - Gaza war. I cannot comprehend the horror of this disgusting, (am I allowed to say ‘one-sided’ ?) conflict. As hospitals, schools and homes are bombed, harrowing numbers of doctors, health workers, and peacekeepers, as well as civilians are being killed daily. The number of dead CHILDREN is now well into the thousands. THOUSANDS! I see that, here in Australia, social media contributors are exhorting our Prime Minister to insist on a ‘Cease Fire”. Some are even calling him ‘weak’ because he is not telling Israel to end the killing. Have they not seen the international condemnation? Have they not read that the UN Secretary-General António Guterres has reiterated his call for a sustained humanitarian ceasefire in Gaza and the unconditional and immediate release of all hostages? When this has no effect, there is NOTHING you or I can do. Our PM does not have the ability to stop such warfare, even though Australia is a member of the United Nations. Most world leaders have tried – and are trying, pleading even - to stop the slaughter, but it seems that Israel is not going to stop. This war may never end. Visions of carnage – wrecked buildings and wrecked bodies - fill our television screens every day. We are powerless to stop it. Sadly, it’s more than a bit hopeless to even think of a gentle peace settlement. But, until men (and it’s mostly men) continue to be warmongers, lusting after total power, all we have is words of hope; words of poetry swimming around in our minds trying to keep a scintilla of hope alive. “Then shall all shackles fall; the stormy clangor Of wild war music o'er the earth shall cease; Love shall tread out the baleful fire of anger, And in its ashes plant the tree of peace”! *John Greenleaf Whittier (December 17, 1807 – September 7, 1892)  I’m old enough to remember the aftermath of World War Two. (Baby though I was).
In the years that followed, I recall my parents’ generation rejecting with horror anything manufactured in Japan. The Japanese were the ‘enemy’ and thank goodness for the Americans who put an end to the fighting and killing and threats, by dropping a couple of nuclear bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. What heroes the ‘Yanks’ were. Never a thought (then) of the horrendous carnage the bombs wrought on Japanese people! When I was a little older, I learned a bit about the horrors of the Holocaust. The word ‘Nazi’ was one that struck terror in our little hearts. Later, when I pondered on the absolute abomination of Hitler’s Germany, with gross cruelty & mass murder, I would wonder why the rest of the world stood by and let that happen. I assumed that messages and ‘news’ was slow and difficult to get out into the world – after all, it was almost in the ‘olden days’ – and I chose to think that, if only the world knew of what was occurring it would – or could – have been stopped. How wrong I was! NOW, what we have is the unstoppable murder of Palestinians, right in front of our eyes, in daily visual reports on our big flat-screen television sets. Horrendous is not a big enough word to describe what we are seeing. I, like many others, am too weak-willed to watch much of the sickening news bulletins. What I thought, as a kid, when I assumed that wholesale murder and genocide on such a scale could never happen, is now proven to be a very false assumption. The ‘rest of the world’ can protest, plead, order, beg, instruct, condemn, all to no effect. If a ‘leader’ of a nation desires to eliminate a whole population, he can. Simple as that! Summon up an endless billion-dollar army and set them to it. (Yes, yes, I know, ‘They didn’t start it’). And thousands of children, babies, mothers, fathers, grandmothers, grandfathers, and anyone who gets in the way of a warmonger’s army is massacred - as hospitals, homes and all other structures are bombed into oblivion. And there is nothing – NOTHING – we can do.  As current world ‘leaders’ present their ghastly - and deadly - version of ‘boys with toys’.
it’s never them who go off to fight. And it’s never them who die in wars. And it’s never them whose family suffers. And it’s never them who pay for the weapons – the cost of which could eliminate world poverty. *I know the word should be 'they', but 'them' seems to sound better in this case.  I had vowed not to mention it again, but..
The Referendum: Decision day is less than two weeks away. We have a ‘Vote YES’ corflute in our front garden and I am happy to say that it has been there for two weeks and has not been vandalised by ‘NO’ voters. At least that gives me confidence that our neighbourhood is a decent and friendly one. Or perhaps no one has noticed the sign. Having earlier avoided writing too much about The Voice referendum, I am ‘speaking out’ now, as I find it upsetting to watch the ugly — and quite public — fight that has developed over it. I am incredulous to discover how many Australians are either racist, easily manipulated, selfish or just plain ignorant. They think a referendum asking all Australians to ‘walk with First Nations People’ is unfair and divisive and that they (the white inhabitants) will suffer. First Nation People have been —and still are— discriminated against, both overtly and covertly. But, according to today’s ‘The Saturday Paper’, a focus group has revealed that, “…almost a third of all participants believed First Nations people had been treated fairly. Not just now, but since invasion.” ‘since invasion’ ? Where have these people been? What have they ever read? After British colonists first came to Australia, First Nations People were shot, poisoned, shackled, tortured, and infected with (previously foreign to them) diseases, such as smallpox, measles and influenza, which killed them in their thousands. There have been attempts to ‘wipe them out’, by brutally massacring them, by sending them off their land, by destroying their country and more! White settlers, convicts and soldiers kidnapped Aboriginal women and impregnated them, only to use the ‘offspring’ as slaves. Later, many mixed-race children were taken from their mothers and attempts were made to assimilate them – or use them in other ways. This was not hundreds of years ago. This was still happening during the 1970s and even more recently. A family in the town where we once lived ‘adopted’ three Aboriginal children in about 1970. The family were praised as “good Christians”, but we saw how differently they treated these FN kids from how they treated their (biological) sons. When circumstances changed and those FN kids grew up, they left to try and find their own families. The ‘Christian’ couple then fostered two more small Aboriginal boys, but that lasted only a year, as they were returned to their families and the adoptive ‘parents’ then complained loudly how ‘their’ boys had been ‘taken back to live in the gutter’ (a quote I will never forget). But as for now… On referendum day, voters will be asked to vote 'yes' or 'no' to a single question. The question on the ballot paper will be: “A Proposed Law: to alter the Constitution to recognise the First Peoples of Australia by establishing an Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Voice. Do you approve this proposed alteration?” We are asked to write YES or NO on the ballot paper. ___________________________________________________________________ If you need more details: A new chapter of the Constitution will be added. (‘129’ Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Voice). In recognition of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples as the First Peoples of Australia:
It is about recognising Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people in our Constitution and paying respect to 65,000 years of culture and tradition. In other words, recognising and listening to First Nations People. No longer doing only what the white man considers best for them. I do not intend to delve into the deception and mistruths that have been forced upon us – and magnified by some Right-Wing media. It has been more than nasty. It has become political for reasons other than seeking a Voice for the first people of Australia and I am appalled. It is interesting to note, though, according to the results of the focus groups: “…your average ‘Yes’ voter is… university-educated and predominantly [from] inner metro areas…” But there are many, many other ordinary, decent Australian, from all over the country who will be writing YES. Are there enough of these ‘educated’ and decent YES voters to swing the country in the right direction? Let’s hope so.  In Martin Flanagan’s school memoir, ‘An Empty Honour Board’ he writes of journalism: “I did a law degree that taught me valuable lessons that benefited me as a journalist, the biggest being that if your work is being scrutinised by trained minds, you won’t get away with bullshit.”
Lately, it seems that not only is journalistic ‘work’ not being scrutinised (or even read) by minds remotely trained in any way, the minds of ‘journalists’ themselves – and anyone associated with much of our current media - seem not to be trained at all. Hence, bullshit reigns supreme! Take, for instance the prevalence of rubbish writing appearing on Sky news and other Murdoch productions. The other day, a Sky news broadcaster announced that a sporting team was going to “verse” another team. I have heard a noted ‘journalist’ twice recently say that a politician ‘should of’ made a different decision. Or perhaps it was ‘could of’. I think I was so stunned that I have now forgotten the ‘mis-spoken’ phrase, as she ignored the word, ‘have’! Minor errors or misspeak, you may think – and maybe you are correct in not worrying too much about these modern (wrong) usages of words. But there are far more serious consequences of broadcasting actually falsified stuff, A survey recently undertaken concerning the percentage of negative and false reports of info concerning The Voice to Parliament showed that somewhere around 80% of reports offered by Sky News was pushing a “NO” vote and much, if not all, of it was completely false. (“Sky News is regularly promoting anti-voice misinformation that is demonstrably false..”. - Malcolm Turnbull & Sharan Burrow, The Guardian 25.7.23). And yet this rubbish is provided by the Australian media, to the Australian public. Apparently, SKY News now has a channel devoted solely to The Voice ‘Debate’. (Hang on to your hats, anyone mad enough to seek it out!) Not everyone has the time to check the veracity of statements they read in newspapers or hear on television, so naysayers and mischief-makers are able to broadcast and brainwash the public in any way they wish. We deserve more scrutiny and honesty from our media and far less blatant bullshit and ignorant broadcasting. (Can’t see it happening). PS: Sorry about using the term ‘bullshit’, but cannot find another word that truly fits. AND…Just in: 50 individual claims by ‘NO’ advocates have been investigated and found to be false by the independent AAP Factcheck unit since May 2022.  Does Australia still need (want?) “Mother England”?
Thinking about the recently cancelled Commonwealth Games. (Excellent decision!) Decades ago, these Games were “The Empire Games”. There was even an annual “Empire Day” holiday in Australia, with lots of parades and flag (Union Jack) waving. In the 1940s, little Australian children sang songs with words such as “The north wind doth blow, and we shall have snow, and what will the robin do then, poor thing?” * The north wind= snow? In Australia? England ruled Australia. Did Britain support Australia in the ‘great’ wars? Not really; it was more like the other way around. After World War 2, Britain was in dire straits, with food and materials in scarce supply. We Australians sent them eggs so their kids wouldn’t starve! “….Federal Government to supply the British Ministry of food with approximately 30,000,000 dozen eggs, representing a surplus which could not be absorbed by the Australian market, stated Mr. E. Knoblauch, a member of the South Queensland Egg Marketing Board. The eggs would go partly in shell, and the balance dried.” Sept 1947 (from Trove). The (then, much loved) Royal Family was treated as a special part of Australia’s own ‘family’. Aussies loved the new little prince (Charles) and baby princess (Anne). Andrew and Edward not so much – it had begun to be a bit boring. Then in the 1980s, although starting well, with happy news of a ‘Fairytale marriage’, blots began to appear, and Charles, having followed orders (I suspect), undertaking a great deception, married the gorgeous, young Diana, before showing his true colours. Diana was killed and the rot really set in. Now, the poor old Queen has died and what do we have? Boring, staid King Charles and his execrable wife, the “Queen” Camilla! Heaven preserve us! Only this week news has appeared that the (un)deserving King has just given himself a 45% pay rise. (True!) Then there’s UK’s appalling politics; humorous, if not for the seriousness. And the Brexit debacle. (I have resisted temptation and not gone back to mention 1975 and John Kerr). It’s time we Australians stood on our own strong feet, ditched the Crown – and all it stands for. It’s time we became a proud independent nation, with our own genuine story to tell. And no north wind blowing here! “The north wind doth blow, and we shall have snow, and what will the robin do then, poor thing? He’ll sit in his barn, and keep himself warm, and hide is head under his wing, Poor thing…” (For heaven’s sake!) (Children’s song, dating from 16th century)   There’s a place we sometimes stay, when heading south from the Gold Coast.
It’s called Eungai Rail and is on the mid north coast of NSW — the most southern part 0f Nambucca Shire. A few trains still rattle by daily. A small cottage that was once a schoolhouse is where we spend the night. It’s nestled in amongst farmland, with Mount Yarrahapinni in the distance. The lush green grass and an occasional visit from cattle tells us we are in farming country. Most mornings and afternoons, kangaroos hop by or stop and graze. It’s a lovely peaceful sight. “Oh, such a typically Australian view” you would think - and rightly so, I suppose. But delve into the past of this pastoral scene and you discover that the land was once completely forested. It was a place for hunters and gatherers to live; a place of food and shelter for First Nations People. When early European settlers discovered vast forests of valuable cedar, a booming timber industry soon completely depleted the wooded area and, once all other hardwood had been harvested as well, the land was perfectly cleared for cattle grazing. It became transformed land. Where once First Nations People had lived for thousands of years, farmland for the newcomers appeared. We will still stay at Eungai Rail when we can. We will still admire the scenery and welcome visits from kangaroos, but we will also try to think of what the area once was.  Later this year, Australians will be given the opportunity to come together to recognise Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Australians in our Constitution, through The Voice.
There is one vote for each person; no political or lobby group pressures should be involved. It is ONE vote per person. It’s up to you. It’s been a long time coming. From a ‘Day of Mourning’ way back in 1938, through to the 1963, Yirrkala Bark Petition, to 1966 Walk off at Wave Hill, then in 1967, a successful Constitutional Referendum, followed by 1979, Call for Treaty, to 1988, the Barunga Statement…and then 1992 Mabo, where things were looking positive; 1997, Bringing Them Home, leading to 2008, Apology to The Stolen Generations. So many attempts to ask us to listen and ‘walk with’ First Nations people. For generations, Indigenous Australians have sought recognition of their unique place in Australian history and society. They have been knocked over, knocked down and denied a voice too many times. Finally, in 2017, along came the carefully worded and simple ‘The Uluru Statement from the Heart’, addressed to the Australian people, gently inviting the nation to create a better future via the proposal of key reforms. (And on which Malcolm Turnbull unwisely placed the wrong slant - and binned.) ___________________________________________________________________ From Wikipedia: The 2023 Australian Indigenous Voice referendum will ask voters to approve an alteration to the Australian constitution, creating the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Voice to represent Indigenous Australians to the parliament and federal government on matters of Indigenous affairs. Simple as that! (By the way, Australia is one of the very few liberal democracies in the world that doesn’t have any arrangement or settlement with its First peoples). BUT this planned YES/NO question is turning into a mad political and social brouhaha. Social media is bursting with weird false claims of what this referendum will mean to the people of Australia. This morning I saw a statement that claimed we, non-Aboriginal citizens, will no longer be able to own any land. WHAT? Where did that idea come from? Similarly, the woman who states, ‘I was born in Australia. I am Australian. I do not want to be welcomed into MY OWN country’ … is not being smart. She is simply showing wilful ignorance. And it’s not becoming – nor is it helpful. Social media has exposed a few individuals, acting like 10-year-olds. You know those kids who like to show off; to look tough and special as they challenge rules. ‘Look at me!’ they say, ‘I’m powerful. I can break the rules of decency. I am not going to be told what to do!’ Then they say, ‘I’m going to vote No – just because I can.’ These attention seekers are not being clever or brave. Nor are they showing how powerful they are. They are simply ignorant. Put simply: “A Voice to Parliament will give Indigenous communities a route to help inform policy and legal decisions that impact their lives.” Every person (18 years and older) will be able to show that they care. It is not an order. It is a gentle and heartfelt request. You are not being compelled to write that simple word ‘YES’. Ignore fabricated non-facts. Don’t listen to racists and don’t listen to manipulated suckers, some only intent on making squillions of dollars digging up Australia. We have been invited “to walk together to build a better future by establishing a First Nations Voice to Parliament enshrined in the Constitution, and the establishment of a Makarrata* Commission for the purpose of treaty making and truth-telling”. You and I will be given the chance to use our one vote, just the same as any other person. Our vote has no different worth from that of any well-known, outspoken, big-shot politician or your next-door neighbour. One vote, one person. Use it wisely. I will vote YES, in October. Will you? *Makarrata is a Yolgnu word meaning 'a coming together after a struggle'. A Makarrata Commission would have two roles: supervising a process of agreement-making and overseeing a process of truth-telling.  Skipping Girl
“I can skip”, the words are loud and clear, and I watch the rope go over her head and under her feet. Through the marvel of technology, I see this child of my child, skipping on a cold and sunny morning in England. “I can skip”! It is a call of victory and my mind retreats, past my allotted three score years and ten, to a cold and sunny Melbourne day, when I called to my mother, in the same voice of victory, “I can skip”! ___________________________________ I don't usually post poetry on this blog site, but I had written this just the other day and thought that it was maybe good enoug to 'put out there' - plus I am lazy and it was easier than tackling a new topic. (Sorry!) I posted this blog six years ago. It is very much still relevant to me today. I thought it was worth a repeat! I remember when children called adults ‘Mr’ or ‘Mrs’ – or sometimes ‘Miss’.
I remember when all children AND adults respected teachers. I remember when children stopped talking and stood when their teacher entered the room. I remember when children used decent table manners – and cutlery. I remember when parents didn’t swear in front of their children – or almost anyone. I remember when children went to bed at a decent hour. I remember when children received one or two gifts for their birthday and one gift plus a few extra treats for Christmas, instead of receiving a gift or a treat every time a parent visited a shopping centre. I remember when children didn’t EXPECT to receive treats and gifts a hundred times a year. I remember when children slept in small single beds and didn’t expect a ‘queen size’ bed by age 12. I remember when children wore children’s clothes, suited for children and not imitation adult wear. I remember when children walked to school or to the bus stop – on their own or with friends. I remember when playgrounds had tan bark for ‘soft’ landings and not sponge rubber. I remember when it was ok – a badge of honour even – to have a broken arm in plaster from a fall and not a disaster of huge proportions - and an invitation to sue. I remember when children drank water when they were thirsty – even if it was from a garden hose. I remember when, if children were bored in school holidays, they had to resort to using their imagination – and that of their friends - and not expect parents to provide entertainment. I remember when movies were acted stories of adventure, usually with faithful dogs or other animals, and not with unfunny (often rude) cartoon figures - or violence, blood and gore. I remember when children shared peanut butter sandwiches and no one died. I remember when children had coughs, but didn’t need to carry a ‘puffer’ with them forever. I remember when bananas came in varying shapes and sizes – some as doubles – and if they had brown spots, that was only a sign of a more sugary taste, not a reason to chuck in the bin. I remember when carrots sometimes came with two ‘legs’ and were enjoyed and not discarded. I remember when school lunches contained meat or cheese and did not require a special cooled lunch box - and no one was sick. I remember when mothers made cakes or biscuits and children were allowed to ‘scrape the bowl’, without being warned of the dangers of digesting raw egg. I remember when farm kids drank milk straight from the cow and grew healthy bodies. I remember when shop-bought milk was just milk, with no fancy brand name or additives providing a dozen choices. I remember when a telephone was attached to the wall and not something carried in a pocket. I remember when pop tunes were called ‘hits’ and were often quite tuneful. I remember when you needed a new pair of socks and you didn’t have to buy a pack of five. I remember when Hot Cross Buns were eaten on Good Friday and not all through the first four months of the year….and never contained chocolate. I remember when an ‘electronic device’ was a term used by scientists or technical experts and not something owned by children. I remember when people registered a polite complaint about a perceived omission or mistreatment and didn’t react by screaming obscenities at shopkeepers or service personnel. I remember when children stood and gave their seats to the elderly on public transport. I remember when motorists grouched about another motorist’s driving, but resisted the urge to get out of the car and ‘punch their lights out’. I remember when an authentic Australian flag was expensive and could only be bought at an Army Disposal store or from a Government official - and was not a cheap, nylon (‘made in China’) item to drape on shoulders to express a suspect form of patriotism. I remember when the word ‘terrorist’ was never seen in newspaper headlines.  Further to my last blog about music in classrooms:
Many decades ago, when I attended Burwood Teachers’ College (now renamed Deakin University), students enrolled in the course I was undertaking – called then, “Infant Teaching”- had to be able to play a musical instrument to pass the course. Luckily for me, I could already play the piano a little. But I also had to join the others in mastering the recorder – and the ukulele (!). So, even the unmusical students had at least some musical knowledge and could hold a tune, enough to encourage singing in their future classrooms. Music was considered a vital part of education. (Before those times, old-fashioned teachers often used tuning forks and taught their pupils the sol-fa, “Do Re Mi”, scale to start their songs. An excellent educational tool, sadly lost to all but professional musicians now, I guess). Teachers’ College in the 1960s was quite awash with music. There were music classes, of course, but also more specialised music extras, called ‘electives’ as well as several choirs. I sang with the ‘Women’s Choir’ as well as a more general one, aimed at competition between colleges. Also, every Wednesday morning, the entire college population would gather in the large hall to share latest college ‘doings’ affecting students and lecturers. There would often be a guest speaker or a visiting musical artist of some sort. But the best thing was the community singing that followed. We had a college song book, containing words of nearly 100 songs. They were mostly ‘oldies, but goodies’, such as “The Road to Mandalay”, “Bush Night Song”, a few “Negro Songs” (ouch!) and even some Christmas carols. One or two would be chosen, with hundreds of voices ‘singing their hearts out’. I imagine that activity would be ridiculed nowadays. Deakin University is no ‘Teachers’ College’. Far too sophisticated for community singing. It seems to me to be a shame that music as a general inclusion in our lives is missing now. Sure, you can play music, using many various devices but it’s a far cry from joining in music all together. As a start, I think it would be better for us to turn on a CD player or some other device in the mornings instead of turning on television or checking Twitter. In place of hearing about the latest gruesome news or silly gossip, if we all started the day with a song – and I mean a musical song, not rap, (See, I am old!) how beneficial that would be. “He who sings scares away his woes.” Cervantes  Not long after I had retired from full-time teaching, I visited the local pre-school centre, with an offer to play the piano for the children, if, and whenever they would like.
“Piano?” the teachers questioned. “Piano?” they again asked, looking at me as if I were a visitor from some distant galaxy. “We don’t have a piano,” they said. (AS if!) I could only apologise for being such an ignoramus but retained enough courage to ask what they ‘did’ for music. “Oh, we have a CD player,” was the answer. I walked away, feeling demoralised, elderly, and disappointed. Perhaps it was just me who assumed that music – and, in particular piano music - played an important part in young children’s learning days. Apparently not. It was then that I realised I had been fortunate to have a had a piano in my classroom more often that not during my 30+ year teaching career. Although there were a couple of times when I had made do with an electric keyboard, that was okay. To ‘start the day with a song’ had been my sort of credo when teaching in primary school. This often extended to a joyful 20 – 30-minute session with other classes joining ‘my’ kids. Therefore up to 90 children beginning the ‘working’ day with songs and smiles. Lately, I am hearing a lot about how stressful school has become for many little children. Mainly connected with the disruption caused by Covid-19. Parents have spoken of their children refusing to go to school or being miserable about school days. I may be naïve – and I know that there is a huge worry about the Covid virus for parents and children, but I do wonder if a little more music in schools, especially first thing in the mornings, creating a happier start to each day, might appeal to the reluctant students.  Hey, King Charles. . . Listen up!
The year is 2023. Displays of pomp and ceremony - and vulgar wealth-splashing - are well past their use-by date. Your coming coronation is nothing but a gaudy, ostentatious display of privilege that is unnecessary in these times. Too late now, I suppose, to stop this spectacle. But, once it is over, how about you have a good hard think about what it was all about and what it achieved? Time to sell off the diamonds and other crown jewels. Use the money towards helping the sick and needy. Give the golden coach to a museum and charge for viewing. Auction off the golden thrones. There’s sure to be narcissistic American billionaires who would buy them at a price. Rent out rooms in the various palaces to ‘entitled’ poseurs who would delight in possessing a posh address, and give that income also to the sick and needy. Cast off the hangers-on and leeches, such as your brother Andrew, and make him fend for himself. Free the servants and find them constructive jobs elsewhere. Set the horses free to roam in peaceful country paddocks. You and “Queen” Camilla could surely find a small cottage in Surrey or Devon to live self-sustainably. Be useful for once. And, while I’m on the subject of gold and wealth and spectacle, don’t start me on the Pope and the Vatican! (WWJD?)  Any followers of my blog posts will know that I had stopped posting for a while, due mainly to the ‘argument’ I have been having with Weebly, who insist that I pay them for the privilege of posting words attached to their site.
The upshot of this is that (paradoxically), even though I have succumbed and am paying a small amount, I am now out of the habit of blogging. I have been reading over my past blogs, starting back in in 2012, and am a little amazed at what I was writing over 10 years ago. Nevertheless it has been interesting to read, but now I seem to be out of ideas. No subject that grabs me seems worthy of writing about. Politics is boring and, in many cases, depressing and maddening. Take, for instance the Australian opposition leader’s approach to wrecking what I consider to be an essential referendum to recognise Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples in the Constitution. Then, looking overseas, in U.S., the bizarre debacle over Trump’s criminal charges and the response of his supporters is too grotesque to even bother reading about, let alone commenting on. In the UK, the resultant mess of leaving the European Union and the ghastly state the nation is in is too upsetting to mention. France is descending into chaos over a two year increase in the pension age. And Putin is demolishing Ukraine because he wants it. So….in desperation I Googled “subjects to write a blog about”, only to be disappointed to see suggestions included writing about fashion, celebrities, business, films and a few other unappealing (to me) topics. So, here I am, back on the blog wagon, with nothing to say. Astounding that I can just now write over 300 words about ‘nothing’, but there you go! www.diannaedwardsandwriting.com  ,After a bit of to-ing and fro-ing, I am back on my blog site, allowed to post, as I have reluctantly paid Weebly a small sum ($10 per month) to allow this.
I am not happy about it and will follow their plans and regulations to see if I will be permitted to, one day, after ceasing to write blogs, I may stop paying the fee, yet NOT have Weebly obliterating everything I have written over the past 12 years. Hopefully I will have some interesting thoughts to share soon. In the meantime, I have been reading over blog posts from 2012 and discovered that I wrote more frequently then - and yet not as many words. Interesting!  I have had a little bit of a scary time with my website.
Once I decided I could not pay for its 'upkeep', I attempted to convert to a free version. The problem was that I had to change the domain name slightly to include the Weebly name, which I was content to do. However, once I did that, my original website address disappeared . . . not only the domain address, but the whole website . . . erased from everywhere and everything. The whole site demolished! (sob). Not a word could be accessed by anyone except me. I panicked a bit (well, a LOT) and sought help from Weebly. "Fat chance" I thought, knowing that Weebly had MILLIONS of 'customers' and that I, a 'little old lady' who just likes to write, would not even be considered as worthy of helping. HOWEVER. . . a lovely helpful person by the name of Ira answered my panicky plea and carefully (via email) guided me though the tricky method of regaining my original domain site. PHEW! Sometimes a kind person comes along - and today I was the recipient. |
