A Parking Lesson
“Hey! Get out of there! Can’t you see me? I was here first!”
I yelled in rage and indignation in the privacy of my car. It made no difference of course. The driver slipped out of his car and sashayed past me, ignoring me completely. I was hardly going to confront a young ‘lad’ and explain that it was my car spot he’d just purloined. Instead, tight chested and red-faced though I was, I chose to forgive him. What a saint!
It took me ages to find another parking spot. It’s all a matter of luck. The mall was a popular place to be before Christmas.
The sounds of mounting anger confronted me as I entered the mall. There was a small crowd of curious shoppers gathering in front of the jewellery shop. A security officer bounded down the escalator beside me, two steps at a time, shouting into his walkie-talkie. The crowd parted for the security man. I caught a glimpse of the man who worked in the jewellery store holding a younger man tightly around the chest. A mess of watches had spilled onto the floor. I recognised the younger man. My parking punk.
“You can’t pin anything on me. I was just taking a look,” shouted the Punk.
“Explain how all these got into your pockets then!” rejoined the furious jewellery store manager.
The Punk sullenly did not reply. The security officer took control at this point and led the Punk off for further questioning. The crowd hissed softly as he was taken away.
I could have let it go at that and glowed in the fitting end for my thief but I decided to follow.
As he was being taken up the escalator I could hear the Punk complaining to the security officer.
“I don’t know how those things got in my pocket? I just wandered in for a look. I wanted something for my mum. Somebody must have put them in there. You’ve got to believe me,” he protested.
I could see that the security officer was interested.
“Did you see anybody behaving strangely in the jewellers? Did you talk to anyone?” he asked cautiously.
“Well, there were quite a few people in there. I didn’t talk to anyone. Santa was in there too. Talking to people and giving them presents,” he remembered.
The security officer pricked up his ears.
“Aha,” he exclaimed. “What else do you recall about Santa?”
“He was pretty clumsy. He knocked against me at one stage and didn’t even apologise. I thought he was drunk,” snorted the young man.
“I’ll need you to come up to the office to give me all the details but I think you’ve been a victim of the Karma Santa,” smiled the officer. “He keeps watch in the car park and when he sees any selfish behaviour out there he follows the perpetrator inside and plays a trick on them.”
The Punk looked sheepish.
I grinned to myself. The Punk had been taught a lesson after all.
Sunday, 11 January 2009
Thursday, 8 January 2009
What Valerie did (Heather)
You head to the mall for some holiday shopping and, just as you're about to park, someone steals your parking spot. Do you do something for revenge or do you stay in the holiday spirit and not let it bother you—and let karma do the dirty work?
Valerie leaned her foot on the accelerator, then jammed on the brake. The car rocked and screeched. There wasn’t much ground, or satisfaction, to be gained, but it provided a moment’s relief from the frustration of the stopped traffic in the overcrowded parking lot. For over 20 minutes she had been locked in a crawl of traffic, each car desperately and hopelessly trying to find an empty spot. She couldn’t believe her own idiocy in coming to the shopping centre two days before Christmas. She couldn’t believe the idiocy of all these other lunatics. She couldn’t believe she’d ever get a spot, or even get out of the parking lot.
And suddenly, out of the corner of her eye, she caught the flash of the brakelight of the car just to her left, about to leave its spot. She was directly at the rear of the car, unable to back up because of bumper-to-bumper traffic behind her, so she flicked on her indicator and pulled ahead. The car manoeuvred out, and just as Valerie was about to back in, the vehicle to her rear accelerated into the spot.
The magnitude of the offence overwhelmed Valerie. She flung open her door and looked back at the offending vehicle, a large black late-model 4-wheel-drive with opaque windows. She glared, considering the bully who was driving it. Then she raced round to the back of her car, flicked open the boot and grabbed the tyre iron lying there. She strode over to the leering black vehicle, her little sandals tapping fiercely and her white cotton dress in full sail. She slammed the iron into the back window, glass showering everywhere!
…Well, she didn’t, actually. But she could taste how much she wanted to. What she did, after the glare, was huff back into her car, slam the door, and accelerate fiercely almost into the rear of the car stopped a few metres ahead of her.
Heart pounding, she continued the snail’s pace. And then, not three or four minutes later, the miracle finally occurred. A lady returned to her car, arms full of packages, just ahead of Valerie, and the catch was hers, all hers. Moments later she was finally in the mall.
Yes, she was in the mall, but still caught in a desperate kluge of people. All her body wanted to do was run! – run! – run to Myers and run to Target and run to the butchers. But running was not an option in this crowd. A seat on a nearby bench was vacated by a large lady who lurched to her feet directly in Valerie’s path. Valerie leaped onto the seat and shouted, “Stop! Stop, all of you!” Everyone turned toward her. “Can’t you see the insanity of this?! Can’t you see the cost of this rampant commercialism?! Go home, everyone. Go home to the people who love you!”
…Well, she didn’t, actually. What she did, after the large woman lurched in front of her, was grit her teeth almost to the breaking point and continue to force her way forward.
That was just before she saw the Santa. One glance showed him to be bored with the boy on his lap, stifling a yawn, barely even making the motions. Valerie grabbed her handbag and slammed it into the side of the Santa’s head. “Wake up!” she shouted. “Make a connection with this child, for God’s sake. He has only moments of pure belief left to him, help him make the most of them!”
…Well, she didn’t, of course. Because what happened was that her eye was caught by another child, a little girl of perhaps three years old, standing on a bench leaning against her tired mother. A haze of golden hair around her face, the child was transfixed by the activity around her. As Valerie watched, rooted to the spot, the little girl shifted her earnest gaze to a little angel with trumpet dangling just overhead. A smile of appreciation mesmerised her tiny face.
What Valerie actually did at that point was smile herself. She suddenly saw around her people committed to the season and to the others in their lives. A man beside her caught the smile. “Sometimes I’m not sure why we do this,” he said wryly.
“For the moments of wonder,” she replied. “For the moments of connection.” They grinned at each other and bustled on their separate ways.
Valerie leaned her foot on the accelerator, then jammed on the brake. The car rocked and screeched. There wasn’t much ground, or satisfaction, to be gained, but it provided a moment’s relief from the frustration of the stopped traffic in the overcrowded parking lot. For over 20 minutes she had been locked in a crawl of traffic, each car desperately and hopelessly trying to find an empty spot. She couldn’t believe her own idiocy in coming to the shopping centre two days before Christmas. She couldn’t believe the idiocy of all these other lunatics. She couldn’t believe she’d ever get a spot, or even get out of the parking lot.
And suddenly, out of the corner of her eye, she caught the flash of the brakelight of the car just to her left, about to leave its spot. She was directly at the rear of the car, unable to back up because of bumper-to-bumper traffic behind her, so she flicked on her indicator and pulled ahead. The car manoeuvred out, and just as Valerie was about to back in, the vehicle to her rear accelerated into the spot.
The magnitude of the offence overwhelmed Valerie. She flung open her door and looked back at the offending vehicle, a large black late-model 4-wheel-drive with opaque windows. She glared, considering the bully who was driving it. Then she raced round to the back of her car, flicked open the boot and grabbed the tyre iron lying there. She strode over to the leering black vehicle, her little sandals tapping fiercely and her white cotton dress in full sail. She slammed the iron into the back window, glass showering everywhere!
…Well, she didn’t, actually. But she could taste how much she wanted to. What she did, after the glare, was huff back into her car, slam the door, and accelerate fiercely almost into the rear of the car stopped a few metres ahead of her.
Heart pounding, she continued the snail’s pace. And then, not three or four minutes later, the miracle finally occurred. A lady returned to her car, arms full of packages, just ahead of Valerie, and the catch was hers, all hers. Moments later she was finally in the mall.
Yes, she was in the mall, but still caught in a desperate kluge of people. All her body wanted to do was run! – run! – run to Myers and run to Target and run to the butchers. But running was not an option in this crowd. A seat on a nearby bench was vacated by a large lady who lurched to her feet directly in Valerie’s path. Valerie leaped onto the seat and shouted, “Stop! Stop, all of you!” Everyone turned toward her. “Can’t you see the insanity of this?! Can’t you see the cost of this rampant commercialism?! Go home, everyone. Go home to the people who love you!”
…Well, she didn’t, actually. What she did, after the large woman lurched in front of her, was grit her teeth almost to the breaking point and continue to force her way forward.
That was just before she saw the Santa. One glance showed him to be bored with the boy on his lap, stifling a yawn, barely even making the motions. Valerie grabbed her handbag and slammed it into the side of the Santa’s head. “Wake up!” she shouted. “Make a connection with this child, for God’s sake. He has only moments of pure belief left to him, help him make the most of them!”
…Well, she didn’t, of course. Because what happened was that her eye was caught by another child, a little girl of perhaps three years old, standing on a bench leaning against her tired mother. A haze of golden hair around her face, the child was transfixed by the activity around her. As Valerie watched, rooted to the spot, the little girl shifted her earnest gaze to a little angel with trumpet dangling just overhead. A smile of appreciation mesmerised her tiny face.
What Valerie actually did at that point was smile herself. She suddenly saw around her people committed to the season and to the others in their lives. A man beside her caught the smile. “Sometimes I’m not sure why we do this,” he said wryly.
“For the moments of wonder,” she replied. “For the moments of connection.” They grinned at each other and bustled on their separate ways.
Sunday, 4 January 2009
The Pink Ute
The pink ute suddenly slows down in the soft sand. Janet stops bumping up and down in her booster seat and peers out. It’s like a fairy glade. Sparkling water glistens from a pool and trees float and wave in the wind. Sand fills up the picture. Mounds of red flour are heaped against the trees and form banks to the little pool.
“I can have a swim. Yeeeeeeeh” and Janet starts to bounce again.
“Can I Mum, can I?”
“No darling, this is water for drinking. For filling up our tanks.”
“Oh Mum. Whyyyyyyyyyyyy?”
“You know that if dirty bodies get into the spring then it will spoil the water. Remember all that soapy scum we left back at the caravan park? And just look at you. How did you get so filthy?”
Janet looks down at her little black shorts. Red dusty streaks make tracks across the pockets and the edge of the hem is almost dripping more dust. Her knees are black and red, an ugly mix of grease from the ute and more red dust. Her long blond hair feels matted and stiff.
She peers out of the side window and hidden up in the trees is a tin shack. It’s lopsided and the door hangs open from just one corner.
“We’ll grab a shower or at least clean off the dust over in that shed over there” says Dad.
“I’m not, I’m not going near that shed Mum, never. You can’t make me” and she stamps her bare foot into the air.
“It’ll be OK darling, Dad will go with you”
But Janet knew they’d be there. There, hiding under the toilet seat. There, clinging to some sort of shower hose and there, hiding in the damp dark corners. Some people love them, some thought they were cute, but Janet was terrified of the little green glossy frogs. The just sit silently and they are so still. They never move. At home, once, she found one clinging and hugging the shampoo bottle. And their little black eye specks just stare.
Dad pushes his seat forward and undoes Janet’s seat belt. She flings herself to the other side and almost topples to the floor. He grabs her. In no time, they’ve crossed the fairy glade, now a monster glade and Dad is trying to move the rusty old door.
“No, Dad, No I’m not going in there” and she drums her little fists on his back. It sounds hollow and hopeless. Red hot tears run down her cheeks, her nose runs too. She kicks his back. She nearly chokes.
Dad puts her down. Her legs feel like jelly and they crumple. She flops onto the ground and a cloud of red dust surrounds her. Her face is rough and scratchy as she burys her hands in her eyes.
“No Dad” a little whimper escapes.
The door flies off it’s only hinge. Sunlight bursts into the little shed. Six little tree frogs are crouched on the metal sink. They hop onto the edge and start to sing.
“Dashing through the bush in a rusty holden ute ……………………”
Janet giggles, hiccups and bursts out laughing.
“Dad, it is a fairy glade”
“I can have a swim. Yeeeeeeeh” and Janet starts to bounce again.
“Can I Mum, can I?”
“No darling, this is water for drinking. For filling up our tanks.”
“Oh Mum. Whyyyyyyyyyyyy?”
“You know that if dirty bodies get into the spring then it will spoil the water. Remember all that soapy scum we left back at the caravan park? And just look at you. How did you get so filthy?”
Janet looks down at her little black shorts. Red dusty streaks make tracks across the pockets and the edge of the hem is almost dripping more dust. Her knees are black and red, an ugly mix of grease from the ute and more red dust. Her long blond hair feels matted and stiff.
She peers out of the side window and hidden up in the trees is a tin shack. It’s lopsided and the door hangs open from just one corner.
“We’ll grab a shower or at least clean off the dust over in that shed over there” says Dad.
“I’m not, I’m not going near that shed Mum, never. You can’t make me” and she stamps her bare foot into the air.
“It’ll be OK darling, Dad will go with you”
But Janet knew they’d be there. There, hiding under the toilet seat. There, clinging to some sort of shower hose and there, hiding in the damp dark corners. Some people love them, some thought they were cute, but Janet was terrified of the little green glossy frogs. The just sit silently and they are so still. They never move. At home, once, she found one clinging and hugging the shampoo bottle. And their little black eye specks just stare.
Dad pushes his seat forward and undoes Janet’s seat belt. She flings herself to the other side and almost topples to the floor. He grabs her. In no time, they’ve crossed the fairy glade, now a monster glade and Dad is trying to move the rusty old door.
“No, Dad, No I’m not going in there” and she drums her little fists on his back. It sounds hollow and hopeless. Red hot tears run down her cheeks, her nose runs too. She kicks his back. She nearly chokes.
Dad puts her down. Her legs feel like jelly and they crumple. She flops onto the ground and a cloud of red dust surrounds her. Her face is rough and scratchy as she burys her hands in her eyes.
“No Dad” a little whimper escapes.
The door flies off it’s only hinge. Sunlight bursts into the little shed. Six little tree frogs are crouched on the metal sink. They hop onto the edge and start to sing.
“Dashing through the bush in a rusty holden ute ……………………”
Janet giggles, hiccups and bursts out laughing.
“Dad, it is a fairy glade”
The Outing - Rick B
“If I’m so smart and so rich, why am I so afraid?” That’s what I keep asking myself. I can’t figure out how this got started. I was ok when I was a boy and loved being outdoors. I loved to go down to the harbour on New Year’s Eve with my parents and watch the fireworks. But somewhere in my 20’s I started to get these anxieties when I went to work. The anxieties built up into dread and the dread into panic attacks. And one day about 4 years ago I stopped going outside altogether.
I’ve stayed in my apartment ever since. IN my apartment. Haven’t even left to take a walk around the block. Don’t even go down to the lobby. I’m a computer programmer and very, very good at my work. I write security modules for brokerage houses and I can do all of my work at home, delivering the finished goods over the internet. Because I write all the security modules, I also know all the entry points and let’s just say that some of the information I’ve had access to has paid off very, very well. And I can order anything I want over the internet and have it delivered here. I’ve got my 3rd bedroom converted to a gym and I workout. I watch my diet, keep my brain active. So what’s my problem?
Well I did a dumb thing. I got lonely and used the internet to find a girl friend. I just wanted someone to chat with, someone besides other programmers and stock broker types. Safe, anonymous – just friendly and sociable. But it was a good news, bad news type of story. The good news is I found someone, the bad news is I fell in love with her. She really liked me too and the extra good news/bad news is that she lives here in Sydney, not somewhere like Boise, Idaho or wherever. One thing led to another and we agreed to a date. We were going to meet down the block at Starbucks. I thought I could break out and do it. But at the last minute I had one of the worst panic attacks ever. I called her up and told her I had a work emergency and would she mind picking up a couple of coffees and coming up to my place. She was a bit suspicious but I guess she liked me more than she feared I was some sort of whacko so she came up. And we had the best time. Since then she’s been here 7 or 8 times but finally confronted me for an explanation. I told her everything, all about my agoraphobia, and she didn’t even laugh.
We agreed that we both wanted a world together, but not forever just here in my apartment. So twice now we’ve agreed to meet and go to Starbucks. And twice I chickened out and couldn’t do it. Well this is it. Three strikes and your out. We do it now or I’m finished. I’ll call her on her mobile.
“Hello honey, it’s me. Where are you now?”
“Just outside. Great. Listen just keep talking. I think if I listen to your voice and not my mental chatter I’ll be ok. I’m pressing the down button.”
“Ok, I’m coming down. Just keep talking. I’ll listen to your voice.”
“I’m going to do this. I’m so bloody afraid I think my heart’s going to stop.”
“Oh, I can see you now out on the street. Hey, you’re crying. Aw, don’t do that. Hold on, I’m coming out to kiss them away.”
And I did!
I’ve stayed in my apartment ever since. IN my apartment. Haven’t even left to take a walk around the block. Don’t even go down to the lobby. I’m a computer programmer and very, very good at my work. I write security modules for brokerage houses and I can do all of my work at home, delivering the finished goods over the internet. Because I write all the security modules, I also know all the entry points and let’s just say that some of the information I’ve had access to has paid off very, very well. And I can order anything I want over the internet and have it delivered here. I’ve got my 3rd bedroom converted to a gym and I workout. I watch my diet, keep my brain active. So what’s my problem?
Well I did a dumb thing. I got lonely and used the internet to find a girl friend. I just wanted someone to chat with, someone besides other programmers and stock broker types. Safe, anonymous – just friendly and sociable. But it was a good news, bad news type of story. The good news is I found someone, the bad news is I fell in love with her. She really liked me too and the extra good news/bad news is that she lives here in Sydney, not somewhere like Boise, Idaho or wherever. One thing led to another and we agreed to a date. We were going to meet down the block at Starbucks. I thought I could break out and do it. But at the last minute I had one of the worst panic attacks ever. I called her up and told her I had a work emergency and would she mind picking up a couple of coffees and coming up to my place. She was a bit suspicious but I guess she liked me more than she feared I was some sort of whacko so she came up. And we had the best time. Since then she’s been here 7 or 8 times but finally confronted me for an explanation. I told her everything, all about my agoraphobia, and she didn’t even laugh.
We agreed that we both wanted a world together, but not forever just here in my apartment. So twice now we’ve agreed to meet and go to Starbucks. And twice I chickened out and couldn’t do it. Well this is it. Three strikes and your out. We do it now or I’m finished. I’ll call her on her mobile.
“Hello honey, it’s me. Where are you now?”
“Just outside. Great. Listen just keep talking. I think if I listen to your voice and not my mental chatter I’ll be ok. I’m pressing the down button.”
“Ok, I’m coming down. Just keep talking. I’ll listen to your voice.”
“I’m going to do this. I’m so bloody afraid I think my heart’s going to stop.”
“Oh, I can see you now out on the street. Hey, you’re crying. Aw, don’t do that. Hold on, I’m coming out to kiss them away.”
And I did!
Considering the Murray-Darling project
Murray-Darling Project
Before I proceed any further with my declared game of creating a proposal for a PhD on the Murray-Darling, I want to clarify my thinking on the idea of doing a PhD and the idea of the PhD being on the Murray-Darling.
Why do I want to do a PhD?
One of the things I enjoyed about doing my Master’s degree was the opportunity to do research, a new experience for me. I loved having the freedom to follow a line of thought through multiple sources and to trace through the new ideas that emerged in the process. I look forward to doing more research and undertaking a PhD would allow me to take this on in a structured environment.
I see doing a PhD as a way of keeping my brain active. I want to be undertaking activities that keep me thinking and challenge me beyond what I already know. The work involved in a PhD would have me engaged in conversations with staff and other students on all manner of subjects. It would also be necessary for me to present papers and ideas to audiences of staff and students. Although at this stage that is a daunting process I want to push myself in the area of articulating ideas and public speaking.
I enjoy writing and am comfortable with writing in an ‘academic’ way if that is necessary. At least using footnotes, references and so on is not a problem and I like the discipline it brings to the writing.
The PhD would also require me to create a body of artwork. Working in an environment with a community of artists and a supervisor to bounce ideas off can stimulate interesting and creative work that pushes the boundaries. This is how I would like to approach my art practice.
Why base the PhD on the Murray-Darling?
The idea of a PhD is that it makes a contribution to knowledge. I have a particular connection with the Murray River having grown up in the Murray Valley. I explored this theme to a limited extent in my Master’s thesis. I think it’s not so much that I have a particular bond with this country but that it is familiar country. Unless I find a more passionate idea to do with the Murray-Darling this familiarity with the country is not sufficient to base a PhD on.
On the other hand, doing research on the Murray would strengthen my connection to that land. For instance, it could be an opportunity to trace the history of the aboriginal population in the area around Echuca. I went to school with aboriginal children who lived on the ‘reservation’ at Barmah and thought very little about their circumstances. It would be interesting to find out what went on before my time in that regard. And to see what is happening with the Indigenous people now, particularly to follow up any creative activities they may be undertaking. At a conference last year I heard about how each Indigenous community in Victoria had made a possum skin coat as a ritual or sacred object for the community to use in special ceremonies. I loved that idea. Perhaps the people on the Murray have a special story or practice that would be of interest. Or perhaps there are no people left from that community. This would have to be checked out for any proposal.
I am particularly drawn to the historical aspects of a study. This may form the basis for the whole study or may be background for a contemporary study.
My intention is to continue exploring my interest in the Murray River country as a basis for a PhD proposal and transform it into a passion for a particular aspect of that country.
Kerry
4/1/08
Before I proceed any further with my declared game of creating a proposal for a PhD on the Murray-Darling, I want to clarify my thinking on the idea of doing a PhD and the idea of the PhD being on the Murray-Darling.
Why do I want to do a PhD?
One of the things I enjoyed about doing my Master’s degree was the opportunity to do research, a new experience for me. I loved having the freedom to follow a line of thought through multiple sources and to trace through the new ideas that emerged in the process. I look forward to doing more research and undertaking a PhD would allow me to take this on in a structured environment.
I see doing a PhD as a way of keeping my brain active. I want to be undertaking activities that keep me thinking and challenge me beyond what I already know. The work involved in a PhD would have me engaged in conversations with staff and other students on all manner of subjects. It would also be necessary for me to present papers and ideas to audiences of staff and students. Although at this stage that is a daunting process I want to push myself in the area of articulating ideas and public speaking.
I enjoy writing and am comfortable with writing in an ‘academic’ way if that is necessary. At least using footnotes, references and so on is not a problem and I like the discipline it brings to the writing.
The PhD would also require me to create a body of artwork. Working in an environment with a community of artists and a supervisor to bounce ideas off can stimulate interesting and creative work that pushes the boundaries. This is how I would like to approach my art practice.
Why base the PhD on the Murray-Darling?
The idea of a PhD is that it makes a contribution to knowledge. I have a particular connection with the Murray River having grown up in the Murray Valley. I explored this theme to a limited extent in my Master’s thesis. I think it’s not so much that I have a particular bond with this country but that it is familiar country. Unless I find a more passionate idea to do with the Murray-Darling this familiarity with the country is not sufficient to base a PhD on.
On the other hand, doing research on the Murray would strengthen my connection to that land. For instance, it could be an opportunity to trace the history of the aboriginal population in the area around Echuca. I went to school with aboriginal children who lived on the ‘reservation’ at Barmah and thought very little about their circumstances. It would be interesting to find out what went on before my time in that regard. And to see what is happening with the Indigenous people now, particularly to follow up any creative activities they may be undertaking. At a conference last year I heard about how each Indigenous community in Victoria had made a possum skin coat as a ritual or sacred object for the community to use in special ceremonies. I loved that idea. Perhaps the people on the Murray have a special story or practice that would be of interest. Or perhaps there are no people left from that community. This would have to be checked out for any proposal.
I am particularly drawn to the historical aspects of a study. This may form the basis for the whole study or may be background for a contemporary study.
My intention is to continue exploring my interest in the Murray River country as a basis for a PhD proposal and transform it into a passion for a particular aspect of that country.
Kerry
4/1/08
Saturday, 3 January 2009
A question of courage (Heather)
Some piece of ancient wisdom has it that the majority of people would rather be the person in the coffin at a funeral than the one delivering the eulogy. I’m dubious, but there is one person I’ve known who I believe might have made that choice.
Her name was Terry Kaiser and she was in my Grade 11 English class. She was a better-than-average student, short and cute with bobbed hair framing a laughing round face. She was well-liked by everyone.
The problem arose when I announced to the class that we were about to launch into a 6 week public speaking module. While no one was passionately looking forward to it that I could see, Terry was the only one who came to me and confessed a terror of public speaking.
“We’ll ease into it,” I suggested. “You’ll be just fine.”
Having taken this optimistic view of things, it was a bit of surprise when, on the Monday of people’s first presentations (a 2 minute speech about a hobby or pastime), Terry wobbled to the front of the room, turned to face the group, weaved slightly, and dropped like a rock. We’d barely got a rescue operation organised when her eyes began fluttering and she was back in action. She refused to leave the room and sat at her desk for the rest of the class, white face propped on her hands.
We conferred at the end of the class. “Take it slow,” I said. “If you want to tackle it again, we’ll take a smaller bite – perhaps just come to the front, look at your audience, take a few breaths and go back to your seat.”
“I just want to be normal!” she replied.
I pointed out that she was perhaps more normal than she thought and we left it at that.
Wednesday, the next class, I exercised newfound prudence and introduced the session with some breathing exercises. Part way into the presentations, Terry came to the front, deep-breathing wildly. Bernice and Kevin, in their front row desks, poised on the edge of their seats, ready for the catch. Terry faced us, turned green and looked about wildly. Bernice grabbed the wastepaper basket and Terry chucked up her breakfast into the bin.
Third time lucky – Friday was a raging success. Terry tried again, this time choosing to immediately sit tailor-fashion on the floor. Amid long deep breaths, she eventually looked up and tucked a dangling lock of hair behind an ear. She hadn’t said a word but her classmates applauded her generously. She returned to her seat with a hint of a skip in her step.
That was the turning point. From there, Terry managed to deliver a 17-syllable haiku, a 1 minute presentation on her hobby (ice skating), a little essay on world peace and ultimately, her piece de resistance, a passionate story about her collie Flaps, who had died recently. It was a gentle, heartfelt and thoroughly heart-warming tribute.
We’d narrowly avoided the funeral and Flaps the collie got a wonderful eulogy.
Her name was Terry Kaiser and she was in my Grade 11 English class. She was a better-than-average student, short and cute with bobbed hair framing a laughing round face. She was well-liked by everyone.
The problem arose when I announced to the class that we were about to launch into a 6 week public speaking module. While no one was passionately looking forward to it that I could see, Terry was the only one who came to me and confessed a terror of public speaking.
“We’ll ease into it,” I suggested. “You’ll be just fine.”
Having taken this optimistic view of things, it was a bit of surprise when, on the Monday of people’s first presentations (a 2 minute speech about a hobby or pastime), Terry wobbled to the front of the room, turned to face the group, weaved slightly, and dropped like a rock. We’d barely got a rescue operation organised when her eyes began fluttering and she was back in action. She refused to leave the room and sat at her desk for the rest of the class, white face propped on her hands.
We conferred at the end of the class. “Take it slow,” I said. “If you want to tackle it again, we’ll take a smaller bite – perhaps just come to the front, look at your audience, take a few breaths and go back to your seat.”
“I just want to be normal!” she replied.
I pointed out that she was perhaps more normal than she thought and we left it at that.
Wednesday, the next class, I exercised newfound prudence and introduced the session with some breathing exercises. Part way into the presentations, Terry came to the front, deep-breathing wildly. Bernice and Kevin, in their front row desks, poised on the edge of their seats, ready for the catch. Terry faced us, turned green and looked about wildly. Bernice grabbed the wastepaper basket and Terry chucked up her breakfast into the bin.
Third time lucky – Friday was a raging success. Terry tried again, this time choosing to immediately sit tailor-fashion on the floor. Amid long deep breaths, she eventually looked up and tucked a dangling lock of hair behind an ear. She hadn’t said a word but her classmates applauded her generously. She returned to her seat with a hint of a skip in her step.
That was the turning point. From there, Terry managed to deliver a 17-syllable haiku, a 1 minute presentation on her hobby (ice skating), a little essay on world peace and ultimately, her piece de resistance, a passionate story about her collie Flaps, who had died recently. It was a gentle, heartfelt and thoroughly heart-warming tribute.
We’d narrowly avoided the funeral and Flaps the collie got a wonderful eulogy.
Thursday, 1 January 2009
A mother's nightmare (Kerry)
A mother’s nightmare
Max is not in the house. He must have climbed out of his cot and wandered outside. Mandy knows he can get from the house to the machinery shed very quickly for a toddler. She dashes to the back door. There is no sign of him on the track to the shed. She would be able to see him through the front window if he was walking to the main road. The driveway is long and straight; nowhere to hide. He can’t get through the fence around the house but from the verandah she sees the side gate is open. Her worst fears are realised. He has gone into the paddock.
It’s only a few weeks since Mandy came out to the farm to be with Max’s dad. It was a big decision to move to the country. Until then she had been a city girl. She loved the high-rise buildings, paved roads, public transport and easy access to shops. It was safe. She was protected. Dave had listened sympathetically to her concerns about leaving the city but he had thought she would get used to the country life soon enough.
Mandy is dressed in shorts, socks and runners. She has no time to put on her leather boots, her protectors or her long pants. Max must be found quickly. It is a hot, windy day; too dangerous for him to be out there in the paddock on his own.
She hurries out onto the verandah and jumps down onto the close-cropped lawn. As she runs across the lawn to the gate her anxiety begins to mount. She is sweating. Her thoughts are confused. She fights to maintain control. She must find Max.
At the gate Mandy hesitates. She forces herself to look into the paddock. The long dry grass stands before her, a hostile army with swords drawn. In some places she can see that it is nearly knee high. The wind dislodges grass seed missiles and sends them flying across the paddock through the heat of the afternoon. Mandy knows they are looking for her. She is acutely aware of the little daggers hidden in the grass at her feet. She recognises the prickle of weapons in the clumps of burrs in the distance. There are no paths, no bare places for refuge. She must simply wade into it, unprotected.
“Max, Max. I’m coming. Where are you?” she cries out over the shimmering arsenal.
The cawing of crows in the trees is her only reply. She turns to the sound and notices a narrow pathway to her left where the grass has been crushed. Max must have gone that way.
“Max. It’s Mummy. Where are you?” she calls again.
She hears a muffled cry and, ignoring the army in her way, tramples it underfoot in her rush to find her boy. He has tripped on a stone and fallen. She finds him, unhurt, lying on the soft protection of the thick grass.
Kerry MacAulay
2Jan09
Max is not in the house. He must have climbed out of his cot and wandered outside. Mandy knows he can get from the house to the machinery shed very quickly for a toddler. She dashes to the back door. There is no sign of him on the track to the shed. She would be able to see him through the front window if he was walking to the main road. The driveway is long and straight; nowhere to hide. He can’t get through the fence around the house but from the verandah she sees the side gate is open. Her worst fears are realised. He has gone into the paddock.
It’s only a few weeks since Mandy came out to the farm to be with Max’s dad. It was a big decision to move to the country. Until then she had been a city girl. She loved the high-rise buildings, paved roads, public transport and easy access to shops. It was safe. She was protected. Dave had listened sympathetically to her concerns about leaving the city but he had thought she would get used to the country life soon enough.
Mandy is dressed in shorts, socks and runners. She has no time to put on her leather boots, her protectors or her long pants. Max must be found quickly. It is a hot, windy day; too dangerous for him to be out there in the paddock on his own.
She hurries out onto the verandah and jumps down onto the close-cropped lawn. As she runs across the lawn to the gate her anxiety begins to mount. She is sweating. Her thoughts are confused. She fights to maintain control. She must find Max.
At the gate Mandy hesitates. She forces herself to look into the paddock. The long dry grass stands before her, a hostile army with swords drawn. In some places she can see that it is nearly knee high. The wind dislodges grass seed missiles and sends them flying across the paddock through the heat of the afternoon. Mandy knows they are looking for her. She is acutely aware of the little daggers hidden in the grass at her feet. She recognises the prickle of weapons in the clumps of burrs in the distance. There are no paths, no bare places for refuge. She must simply wade into it, unprotected.
“Max, Max. I’m coming. Where are you?” she cries out over the shimmering arsenal.
The cawing of crows in the trees is her only reply. She turns to the sound and notices a narrow pathway to her left where the grass has been crushed. Max must have gone that way.
“Max. It’s Mummy. Where are you?” she calls again.
She hears a muffled cry and, ignoring the army in her way, tramples it underfoot in her rush to find her boy. He has tripped on a stone and fallen. She finds him, unhurt, lying on the soft protection of the thick grass.
Kerry MacAulay
2Jan09
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