Sunday Roast

Sundays were Sundays. It was a day of rest and mass. Catholics, as we were, would trudge off to mass where a lone figure floundered sadly on a cross while we sat on well rounded bottoms with wet finger-tips from dipping them in the holy water.

The priest would drone on in a matter-of-fact tone and I would sit there, not in awe, but in terror. What of living forever and ever and ever? What would you do? Can you read books and sleep and play with dolls? I was not in fear of damnation, because I suspected that damnation was slightly less worrying than eternal life. Eternal life! It must be boring. How many lutes can you play? How many clouds can you count? I'm sure flying would be fun for the first 567 years but what after that? Question felling question.

And as I sat there participating in synchronised sitting, standing and kneeling, I ate the hymn books. Well, it started with the hymn sheets. Good roughage, I'm sure my grandmother would've approved, had she known. I never ate the staples, hunger does not equate to stupidity. And hungry and bored, I may have been, but I was never stupid.

But one day as I chomped through a hymn book, leaving out the slightly tatty red cover and rusty staples. I nibbled through Christening hymns, wedding hymns and funeral dirges. They were digested, whatever notes of wisdom or heart swelling tunes each page held my stomach was immune. My digestive tract was not interested in which notes should be played or who should be singing which part. Masticating reverantly, each chew was completed in silent, wonderment. An intestinal sack cloth.

But the wonderment did not belong to me alone. My sister spied my mastication at the point of the index.

Her eyebrows lifted and then narrowed and I knew. I didn't know what, but I knew that I was in line for some EST (elder sister torture). Internalising the hymn book, I returned my attention to the priest. He stood pumping up our guilt at our good fortune in light of the misfortune of small, very hungry children living on a far off, poverty stricken island. I suppressed an inky burp.

Sitting at the opposite end of the blue vinyl ocean of the Falcon seat, my sister sat smugly on Big Sister Island. My blue-eyed brother occupied his car seat in the front seat, as my mother was indulging in Geogette Heyer at home, under her candlewick bedspread. We didn't talk. We sat and listened.

Brrrmmmm... brmmmmm...

Stopping at the local bakery, my father bought our hot, crusty loaf.

Returning home, I didn't look at my sister. I didn't want to find out what her mental machinations were producing. I was much more intent on my rather full, round tummy which now housed 75 hymns.

But I very discovered what she'd harvested.

As I sat on the side of my bed waiting for Mum to call down. My sister came into the room. Her head was a perfect halo of curls. Her lips, cupid's buds.

'You'll die of ink poisoning,' she said.

'Really,' I said.

'Yes, die of ink poisoning,' she said.

'No, I won't,' I said.

'Yes, you will, ' she said. 'You'll be dead before lunchtime.'

My eyes widened. How could I die before we had lunch? I'd never be able to learn to fly or play a lute or eat Nana's crispy roast potatos.

I was going to die and miss lunch. How unfair, I love roast potatos.

'There is an antedote. A cure.'

My eyes wondered. Now I was going to have my potatos.

My sister procured a white loaf from behind her back. 'Eat this. If you eat this you'll be able to eat lunch.'

'How much do I have to eat?'

'The whole loaf,' said my sister, stroking the loaf as if it were a white rabbit.

Taking the loaf, which was about the quarter of my size, I started to eat it. Breaking through the crust, the crumbs soon snowed upon me. Crumbs after crumb was forced to reside with the displaced notes.

My tummy extended with each mouthful, my chewing slowed until my jaw ached. My eyes started to pop.

Just before my eyeballs fell onto the floor and rolled into the garden, Mum came into our room.

Her eyes narrowed, as she saw the storm of crumbs.

She spied my sister.

The last thing I remembered was falling back and burping - notes and crumbs made a fine covering over my orange, candlewick bedspread.

And I never ate hymn books ever again but I still eat toast.

Stella Bella

Close your eyes
And count some sheep
It’s time for Stella
To go to sleep
Bacio, bacio, sssh
Bacio, bacio, ssssh

Dream sweet dreams
Of stars and moons
See elephants dancing
In pink pantaloons
Bacio, bacio sssh
Bacio, bacio, ssssh.

Hear giggly fairies
With fine sugary hair
Dance the tango
With great fairy flair
Bacio, bacio, sssh
Bacio, bacio, ssssh.

Sleep little angel
Close your big blues
Can you see
Hippos in floaty tutus?
Bacio, bacio, sssh
Bacio, bacio, ssssh.


Under the covers
Snuggle down tight
Sail to Sleepyville
On this beautiful night
Bacio, bacio, sssh
Bacio, bacio, ssssh
Ssh, sssh, ssssh
Ssh, sssh, ssssh

Copyright V. Hall 2007

'A 'we' speech

A perfectly formed chip of guilt rests perpetually and snugly on many parents' shoulders. It nudges and torments relentlessly as 'the child' eats Mac Donald's two days in a row or coughs as the parent pushes him through the school gates. Sometimes a glass of two of wine can dislodge the little chip, but it always finds its way back.

As 'the child' crawls through the early years and then trudges into school, you'd expect that the chip would lose a little of its grip as 'the teacher' can be apportioned blame. Afterall, 'the child' spends a great deal of time with 'the teacher'.

But the chip grows faster than 'the child'.

Homework fuels its growth. But as any good parent would know, it is 'the child' who should be doing the homework but what if it's not done? Who is held responsible? Even if 'the child' is sitting in homework detention it is 'the parent' lamenting his fate. So to ensure that 'the child' does not enter the detention pit, the parent offers a little help. It might be colouring in ballooning letters one day or carefully decorating the borders of the story the next. Just a little help.

The worse type of homework is the dreaded 'speech'. Parents react differently to this task. Some applaud its potential usefulness in the corporate world, others cross their fingers that their child doesn't make the cut because that will mean at least two hours out of a day in which to hear speeches being delivered by other gifted children and one is only interested in the child oneself has spawned (if the parent is honest).

One parent, was intent on helping 7 out just a little with his speech. A visit to the library was planned and books on the Titanic were accrued. The internet was surfed and the parent soon came to learn the meaning of downthrust and starboard and all about poor old Captain Smith. The speech was preened and polished as the 'two' worked tirelessly on it. Words cut out, perfect timings, chartings and laminations.

One afternoon, as the parent prepared the little cards explaining the tragic sinking of the unsinkable, she looked over to 7.

'Pop these in your bag darling.' She handed him the speech cards. Each one printed in her neatest scrawl. Some she'd had to do several times to make sure they were readable on the small cards as they needed to fit snugly into the seven-year old's palm. 'You'll need these for your speech tomorrow.'

7 took the cards, then gave them back.

'Mummy, I don't need them,' he said. 'I said my speech today. Mrs Hally said I spoke very clearly.'

The parent's heart sank faster than the ship.

'Oh,' said Mummy. 'Did anyone ask how the Titanic sank?"

'No,' said 7. 'Why would they? I was talking about soccer'

Smiling tightly, she took the cards and put them in a drawer. A little keepsake to her stupidity.

Red Rubber Ball

One day the sun was shining.
The sky was as blue as Grandad’s shiny Falcon.
We went to school.
Nana read the paper.
Mum went for a jog.
And Grandad went to work.
Brmmm…brmmm… blah… blah… blah.

When we got home.
We forgot to put our lunchboxes on the bench.
And didn’t hang our bags on the hooks.
Mum tripped over our shoes.
And moaned about our squashed, uneaten bananas.
We forgot about our homework.
But we remembered our red rubber ball.
We bounced it and threw it.
Aiming it through the hoop and at each other.
Bumped it against the wall.

Ring…ring… ring…
1-1-1
“Yes, of course, how? Ok… thank you.”

Grandad’s sick, lying out flat.
Mum told us.
We’ve never see him horizontal.
He’s cutting the hedge. Big and strong, clip-chop.
Or he’s puffing and jogging.
Mowing the lawn. Moving, moving, moving.
Clanking about in his garage.
Showing us pieces of history.
Or snoozing in his blue chair.

Grandad is very, very sick.
Today he recognised Nana.
She started crying.
Mum said Grandad’s had a stroke.
It’s like a big hand has slapped him down.
When will he come home?

Hospitals smell.
But the nurses are friendly.
Nurse Tina said we could come in.
She said not to worry about the beeps and blips.
Or the tubes.
They’re helping Grandad get well.
Last week Grandad didn’t need tubes or blips.

Nana looks like she’s been crying.
And Mum is rushing about.
Grandad is slow but smiles.
Grandad’s just sleeping, big heavy sighs.
Uncle Mike is very serious and not pulling our legs.
Grandad’s shrunk.
And he’s as pale as the sheets.
He has grey hair, was it grey before?
And tubes are sticking out of funny places.
Lines and bumps jump across a small dark screen.
We don’t belong here.
We feel like shoes on a snake.

We sit in the waiting room wishing we weren’t here.
The couch is faded and ripped.
Wish we were home having tea.
Other people sit here too.
We roll our ball across the room.
Sometimes, when noone is looking, we bounce it.
Chris is cool, his dad is sick.

Wish we were sitting with Nana and Grandad.
Eating potatoes rolling in gravy.
Or with ice-cream dripping from our spoons.
Making sure we pass the salt with the pepper.
With mouths closed and clean fingers.

Grandad shook our hand to day.
Firm. Not soft.
Just like he always does.
He showed us how the bed goes UP
And down.
We wonder if Mum would let us have one.
But it might be too big for our room.

Grandad is surrounded by people.
Some joking. Some not.
They do jobs that don’t dance off our tongue.
Doctor. Physiotherapist. Occupational therapist.
Sometimes they speak as if he is not there.
Or they talk to him like he’s a small boy. He’s not.
Grandad’s big and strong and doesn’t need little words.
Last week he was sitting at his computer
Working out things we don’t understand.
Things Mum doesn’t even know about.

Today we want to be nurses.
They wear medals which make them look like they’ve been to war.
Maybe tomorrow we’ll want to be doctors.
I like the tea trolley.
And the lady smiles big as she gives Grandad cups of tea.
His hand shakes as he takes a sip.

Grandad is up.
He’s not quite straight but like our cousin Dylan
Who’s learning to walk.
A bit unsure, a bit unsteady
But he’s not lying down, getting lost on the sheets.
He walks with a walking frame.
It’s not like his car - big, powerful and blue.
It does have wheels and brakes.

Nana picked up Grandad today.
He’s coming home.
Grandad is coming home!
He will sit in his blue chair and make cups of tea,
Telling us about life as a boy. Grandads were kids too.
But some bits of Grandad are a little lost.
Maybe one day they will come back.
Or perhaps they will stay buried
Like lost treasure.
His eyes are still bluer than blue.
And his smile just as big.
Handshake just as tight.
Grandad’s sitting in his blue chair.
Nana’s in the other one.
And Mum’s still tripping over our shoes.

A stroke is one of the main causes of disability in our country. An elderly person or a young person can have one. Many New Zealanders do not recognise the signs that someone is having a stroke. FAST helps you to learn the signs so that you can act quickly to save someone’s life.
Here is the FAST way to recognise a stroke:
F – Face – smile (is one side droopy?)
A – Raise both arms (is one side weak?)
S – Speak a simple sentence (Is the speech slurred or is he/she unable to speak?)
T – Lost time could be lost brain! Go to hospital fast!

Is it a stroke? Act FAST. Call 111
Act FAST - you could save a stroke victim’s life! Learn FAST off by heart and tell your friends and family about it too.
For more information visit www.stroke.org.nz

Copyright V. Hall 2008

Confoosister says

"It is wise not to throw up on the roller coaster, as it'll catch you up on the bend"
Confoosister

Sunny Times

When you were littlish, you could sit on one side of the car and not have to touch your sister on the other side. The seat was like a small sea stretching across to Big Sister Island. Was it because the seats were big or we were small? Not sure really, perhaps a bit of both. The good old days.

Well, mostly good. If you put a little brother smack in the middle of the female siblings, then that blue seat became a battleground during long trips. Hair was pulled and arms were pinched. Dad's arm could magically snake around and tap a knee or whip an ice cream out of an unsuspecting hand.

There was another unsettling, feature of these car trips, as one sister peered out the window as Dad pointed out horses in the paddocks. The blue-eyed brother when not acting out some minor torture was inventing them in his mindseye as he sucked his thumb. The sun would shine, it always did. Happy childhood can seem like one big, sunny drought. It had to rain, but when?

Our car was a big, white Falcon. Shiny chrome and seats still preserved in a plastic covering. It smelt of Falcon, a vinyly blue, slightly petrolly smell. And on longer trips, thanks to the motion, the small blue ocean would sometimes offer up the whiff of forgotten bile.

The bile always emanated from one child. The child who got car sick.

On one trip, rolling along gravel roads towards Whitianga, the heat and the rolls of the car, caused the car-sicker to green with apprehension.

'Mum, I feel sick.'

'We're nearly there, don't worry.'

A little further, a little more petrol.

'Mum, I really feel sick.'

'Of course you don't darling.'

'I do.'

'You don't.'

The thumbsucker moved nearer his older sister, as near as his seatbelt would allow.

'Mum.'

Mum, turned, her hair full and firm, as was the style. Her glasses, big and round. 'We're nearly there.' Her irritation was carefully buried.

'Mum... I do.'

'No, you don't.'

And as she turned to me, smiling reassuringly, the little girl did.

Mum didn't say anything. Removing her glasses, only her eyes had escaped.

The little girl didn't have anything left to say.

Confoosister says

"You can lead a horse to water but you shouldn't hold its head under"

Confoosister