The young adults have opted to spend Christmas with their father as he’s due for major surgery early next year. Although I’ll miss them, I’m touched by their thoughtfulness towards him and have agreed to celebrate Christmas early. I’m headed off to the shops soon having written down my shopping list earlier this morning but thought I’d take a few minutes to reflect what Christmas means to me.
Unlike many others, cooking for family is a special Christmas joy for me. Unlike many others, shopping for presents, is not. When they were younger, I would insist my children write out a list of gifts, identifying shops, prices, and when the sale ended, as well. They would get something off that list but never knew what and looked forward to the surprise. I was relieved to spend less time browsing in crowded shops, parking in car parks filled with impatient people and would beat a hasty retreat home. As they have grown into young adults, their needs are even more simple than when children. They look forward to anything practical and useful. I wonder where that influence came from! I buy my family a small gift each to place under the tree. A symbol, if nothing else. I do give them a gift of $$ which they never ask for, but I know it helps them buy something indulgent, like a weekend away in Margaret River, that they would never otherwise spend on themselves.
The biggest gift for my family and me, is when we meet for the special meal. I’ll cook a buffet straight for two days. This year, they have broken tradition and asked if they can contribute a dish to the table. My daughter sent me a text yesterday saying she had bought all what she needed for her dish. I could sense her excitement. I believe good will and generosity is contagious. I have proof of that.
For twelve years after the divorce, the children’s father joined us and we ate as family on Christmas Day. It was our family tradition, including gifts under the tree to each other. I would cook up a storm, indulge in a few drinks (he doesn’t drink but would pour) and then curl up on the couch to watch my favourite movie and fall asleep exhausted. When I woke, he would have done the dishes and the kitchen would be sparkling new but always, yes always, with at least one glass or dish being broken! The thought of those years, makes me smile. I recall my son who was a very young saying to me, “I don’t remember you being dad’s wife, but you’re a good ex-wife!” Enuf said!
I have always been totally unrestrained with the menu. I buy the best. If you’ve seen the movie, ‘Babette’s Feast’, you’ll know what I mean! It is also the only time of year when I have more than one drink with a meal, so I try a new drink or two as well. We are having gin as our main drink, my daughter’s preference this year. Like his father, my son does not drink at all, so it will be iced teas and virgin mojito for him. My daughter’s partner is an ‘aussie bloke’, so it’s beer, although he does like craft beer, and this year I’ll get to try Sly Fox. My son’s fiancee loves bubbles, it fills the air with laughter, so we’ll have some of that too.
The young men devour meat. My daughter is a pescatarian. My son’s fiancee has been a strict vegetarian by choice since she was 14. All this makes cooking interesting. I cook for my future daughter-in-law first, clean the kitchen so not to ‘contaminate’ her food. Then comes the seafood. Clean kitchen again and lastly, the meat (fillet of beef, duck breasts, pork belly). We don’t eat the traditional turkey and ham meal. Apricot ice cream and pavlova or meringue roulade and fresh fruit and cheese for dessert. As for me, by the time I’m done, I can barely eat anything at all!
My Christmas in childhood was dissimilar but also very similar in many ways. The emphasis was being together and giving of ourselves to family. These memories I’ve left behind in a previous post … What Christmas means to me
The young adults will arrive later today to set up the Christmas tree with beautiful glass baubles I’ve collected over the years. The home will be filled with talk and laughter. I will slip into the role I love best with ease, mum.
Tomorrow Christmas Day will arrive early. And, when I go to bed tomorrow night, the brightest star will be shining over our home.
Until next time
As always
a dawn bird
I woke early one morning, a glorious morning. My hotel balcony overlooked Roebuck Bay in Broome. This is the moment I heard life speak to me, ‘Leave the ordinary behind’.
The tiny silvereye was young and bold, sitting exposed and facing the sun.
The Willy Wagtail chick was shiny as a new penny …
looking intently into the distance with wisdom in beady eyes.
The young crested pigeon was gorgeous with ruffled feathers.
What delighted me the most was the juvenile grey fantail.
This little one had the sweetest call, an overture that filled the canopy it sat underneath.
Then a moment of quiet, except for my heartbeat.
The young wattle bird found a perch here and there on banksia cones. The distinctive metallic call silenced, or perhaps not yet developed.
This is the first time I’ve seen a Western spinebill and try as I may, I could not get a better pic but I know I’ll be back next year for it.
This is a place of history. In the early 1900s the drovers stopped here at dusk, a midway point before they walked across the mud flats with cattle, to the Derby Jetty beyond. The journey must have been arduous for the drovers and their cattle. As is now, the sun would have been blistering hot from early day to night fall. Reflecting on their hardship what comes through for me, time and again, is the sense of community they must have experienced at night fall. The camp fires would have been lit. The talk muted. The cattle satiated having quenched their thirst at the Myall Bore and Trough (another icon), before getting here. What did these men talk about? Did they miss family? Is this the only life they knew? I have walked around this site and come up with all kinds of scenarios and characters that must have squat around a campfire, their weary faces aglow with rest at last. I imagine the dinner of some stew, damper bread and billy tea would have been standard fare. I know this because I enjoyed a similar meal a hundred years later at a cattle station. After their meal, the embers would have been contained in the campfire, swags would have been opened and weary bodies wrapped within only to be unwrapped before dawn, when the next day would begin. These men would have worked and rested as one, they would have got the other’s back and watched out for mates. They were community, friends and family on the road. To do this, they had to stay connected. They must have known, for the common interest, the common goal, they had to be.
The water pipe that runs from Mundaring Weir in Perth to Kalgoorlie, a distance of over 500 kms has been supplying water to the Goldfields for over a hundred years. Driving alongside it or watching it meander through fields gives me pause for reflection. The building of this infrastructure would have been gruelling work in heat with minimal comforts by those who may have yearned to be prospecting for gold instead. Little would they have known, their contribution is a lasting legacy since 1896. It is also ever present company, for solitary travellers, like me.
I’ll aim to arrive just before sunset. It’s always a challenge to get to the town before it is too dark. I dislike overtaking slow traffic on this road. At this time of year, I expect oversized farming machinery and drivers, all wanting to get to wherever, five minutes earlier. I usually stop at a rest stop alongside paddocks between Kellerberrin and Merredin and enjoy a few minutes of quiet. Always different, it’s a highlight for me just before destination.
Whether it is light or dark, the painted silos announce I’m either entering or leaving town. I love them. They are the bright and beautifully thought out art by Kyle Hughes-Odgers, his canvas, 12 storeys high.
I hope to stop for a few minutes at Merredin Peak, where the foundations of the Military Hospital are still visible. Transported from Palestine in 1942, it was a hive of activity for those recovering from war and those who cared for them. It is a place of paradox, historically and contemporary. From the ravages of war, they came here for the peace, to heal. Ironically, in this place of peace, one remembers war.
One of my favourite proverbs is “When one helps another, both are stronger”. I believe it is a German proverb. The picture above illustrates this. I’m told these birds bead together, wing to wing, to appear larger to raptors. If birds help each other, have humans lost the art and science of helping? I don’t believe so. The following story gives me hope.
I usually stay opposite the tree park. It is one of my favourite places to walk in the mornings. I stride across, purposefully, for the massive boab, the matriarch.
This time I found, like me, a butterfly needed a soft place to land.
High above, there were a few boab flowers coming into bloom. They are exquisite. Thick, creamy petals that fold over like heavy taffeta …
… the inside, emits the softest pearly light.
I wandered around for hours, the sense of oneness under these trees consolidated a promise to return.
Beyond the green is Lily Creek Lagoon where this tiny bird held me captive. 
On this morning, Mother Boab taught me, nothing says new life more eloquently, than a sprig of green on gnarly, old limbs. So here I am, typing my post, experiencing life differently.
I sat in the shadow of roses, their heads heavy with petalled beauty.
The cafe garden was a world apart from the Wheatbelt, where I sat roadside to eat a sandwich in the car and watch this quintessentially rural scene.
A Shared Space 
You must be logged in to post a comment.