who’s going to be on the roster while I’m away, came tonight to get some hands-on practice with Jenny and I realised how much of what I do with Jen is dependent on her being made aware of what is expected of her by cues so subtle I don’t know I’m giving them. When a novice is told just do this or just do that, it doesn’t work. I have to stop and consider what it is I’m actually doing and spell it out step by step. Sally was here for over an hour and I keep remembering things I didn’t tell her. Still, people muddle through, Jen adjusts and adapts. Sally’s a strong competent, confident lass; I’m sure she’ll manage.
It was very windy. Very very windy, all night and all day. I spent a restless night, noticing the wind, and worrying and wondering. Do I really want to go tripping off to the other side of the world for a whole month with who knows what horrid things happening at home while I’m away, and how would they contact me, and what if something happens to me and what if this and what if that, as the wind rattled ominously in the roof and shook the windows.
There comes a time on these trips. You decide to go, and there’s months of planning and preparation and anxiety, and you wonder if you’re doing the right thing and what will go wrong, and the time comes and there’s hours of waiting in sterile airport, queues, officials, long long passageways, unending night as you fly west, west, west, airport food, and you wonder why you’re doing this, and you drive through Harare and it’s dry and brown and poor and depressing, and the van is stuffy, the leader racist, the company indifferent, and you think you made a terrible mistake, then as you wind along a dusty, shrubby track the magic comes. Your companions start leaping around in the van like a mob of excited schoolboys driving in to Disneyland as bird after amazing new bird is sighted to left and right. The camp has little oval huts with thatched roofs and trees and cool drinks and you think, ‘Yes! This is the life!’ and you stop fussing about the people at home and start enjoying the birds and the people and the country. There comes a time of magical freedom and rapture.
I’m looking forward to getting home now – to see everyone and be in my own place with my own bed and toilet and talk with my own people. Other people are all very well, just too sweet and gorgeous, but they’re not your own people, are they? It was good to talk to Andrew and Jo this morning and hear that all was well. Jo has organised for Annabel, a dancer, to come and board with us for the rest of the year.
Tearful greetings, hugs and kisses for darling Andrew and Joey at the airport. At home Jen gave me a tired smile then pushed me away and pulled the blankets up and would respond no more. Does she forget or does she resent? Or was she wanting to go to sleep?
Jenny has forgiven or remembered me, and is friendly and happy. Certainly some was memory – she reached down inside my jumper to pull out the locket to bite on it. I’m so pleased to have her cuddles and laughs, hair-pulling and kisses again.
Jen seemed to be enjoying her swim, so I joined her. No wonder she thought it was good. Hotter than a hot bath in Africa. 35° yet. My God, how long has this pool been this hot? No wonder the water is murky – all those teenager bugs multiplying exponentially in a 35° medium. Delightful, but downright dangerous, not to mention the expense. Mother is home – pick, pick, pick, nag, nag, nag.
By Christmas 1994 life was pretty busy at our place. I seemed to be forever rushing off to meetings as the new year got under way.
And so that was Christmas. Church, presents, eating, presents, eating, recovering. Fellowship, friendship and food. We walked to Church, Jo, Kane, Andrew, Jen and I, after an initial present opening session and some nuts, chocolate and pineapple. Andrew liked his VCR. Jo liked her tent. We all admired the gate Kane and Jo made to stop Jen rolling down the decking steps. I wore the new dress Andrew gave me to church, and Jen wore her new clothes. Andrew didn’t wear his new red pyjamas. Jen tore down a paper star and chewed it, and nearly pulled over a big fan.
Jen was in the pool when I got home. Julie stayed on for coffee and a chat so then it was a real rush to get Jen out, showered, dressed, medicated and into bed before I left for the WSS meeting. Jo cooked beef teriyaki and rice for tea and fed Jen in bed. What a good girl!
The special meeting of school council accepted the recommendation that Athalie be appointed principal, and we filled in all the boxes and signed all the right pieces of paper. Everyone is sworn to secrecy until the official announcement next month.
Home. Boring mail. Dithered and dallied, and doddered off to the CAA meeting. Marise, Joy, Helen and I, from 8.30 to 11.00. We talked about vegetables, gardens, seeds, grammar, pronunciation, books, films, short stories, Maori culture, returning ‘off food to the supermarket, the check point for the Walk Against Want, children’s education, local celebrities, newspapers, and painting. We drank tea and coffee, and ate biscuits and cheese and Joy’s tiny tomatoes grown in a continuous genetic line from stock given to Joy’s father in 1952.
At 10.30 I said,’It looks like Lyn’s not coming. Should we start the meeting without her?’ They laughed.
One exciting outcome though. I suggested running a short story competition. They embraced the idea with enthusiasm. I doubt that we’ll raise much money, but I could be wrong, and we’ll have fun finding out. Something to get my teeth into. I’m to take a ‘proposal’ to the next meeting.
Home again. Jen fitting. Football on the TV again (nearly every bloody night there’s bloody footy). Hair on the CD player. Jim occupying the lounge. Jo in bed. Annabel unhappy. Jo doesn’t know why. Andrew unhappy. He’s been at work. That’s his excuse.
The University year started and the boarders returned. Jim to continue Town Planning, Annabel to start her Dance degree. Joey was off to Uni too, and Jen went back to school. Life continued on its merry way.
And now it’s my birthday and we’re out of toilet paper. Great! What did you do on you birthday? Oh, dealt with the great toilet paper crisis. How about you? Oh, I went up in a hot air balloon. Absolutely fabulous darling.
And what a crisis. That Jen had a thing or two up her sleeve. Well, in her pants actually. You guessed it – the lack of toilet paper compounded by shit galore. In the midst of this sweet Jo emerged with presents. ‘Not now, not now, I’m far too busy for birthdays,’ I cried, fending her off with smelly dripping hands. It became my cry for the day.
Fortunately Andrew was going in late, so he fed Jen and met the bus while I dashed off to SSAT.
While I waited for Jen’s bus I read a booklet of winning short stories from another competition I didn’t win and ate sea-shell chocolates from Kane. Suddenly it was 4.45, Jen was home and I was due at a WSS meeting at 6.00 I had one hour to give Jen a drink and a swim, put away the marketing, feed the animals, tidy up, put on the washing, shower and dress Jen, read the papers for the meeting and get myself dressed. Into that hour came Annabel with beautiful tiny pink roses and birthday kisses, Aunty Gwen with birthday wishes and courteous interest, and Nan and Philip with presents, cards, flowers, cake and sparklers. ‘Not now, not now, I’m far too busy for birthdays,’ I cried again and again as I found vases and thanks and made arrangements to meet for cake tomorrow. Andrew came home and I hurried off with my unread papers. Then we waited twenty minutes for a quorum before the meeting could start. It’s always the way.
Home via Food Plus for toilet paper at last, to where Andrew had fedded and bedded Jen and was holding a Windward meeting. Ron called in about 10.00 pm to say Happy Birthday. ‘Not now, not now, I’m far too busy for birthdays,’ I cried, warding off his hug with a bundle of smelly sheets. Yes, Jenny had done it again. Chucking once, chucking twice, and there she blows again! You really know how to make a birthday memorable, Jen.
(Have a seahorse, Mary. Mmmm, thanks, don’t mind if I do.)
While paying an astronomical paper bill at the Newsagent this afternoon, I chanced upon the Australian Rationalist, edited by Kenneth Davidson. It looks promising – rational articles on crime and things, longish and with footnotes even, and inviting contributions. You beauty! So I bought a copy, and I’ve printed out a copy of my ‘Carla’ article and my CV, and dashed off a covering letter to the editor, and it’s ready to go. It being my birthday and all, it must surely have a better chance of being accepted, rationally speaking.