Performances Around Our Fathers

Fun nights even when he was older

The pre Christmas season is bringing up lots of memories for me, as I guess happens with a lot of people. Maybe it’s the 3 straight nights minus even the 2 or 2 wines , but words are just queuing up in my head . So cousins in UK, brother in Washington DC , cousin here in Freo, what do you think about gathering some of the songs we sung during our family get togethers? Particularly around the dining table. Very early on I think there was a piano : but uncle Michael , the remaining sibling – he would remember,

Remember . I know some of the songs are are published but not all together, and I suspect that many of those songs we sang as children and younger adults were embellished or re -drafted to suit. Sometimes there were short performances and skits. The Death of Nelson for example, my own fathers favourite when he had had a good few beers – the one where we all waited for mum to say “ ….shh Really . No , NO … “ And my father paused to incorporate her intervention into the performance . Then lying on the ground with one hand on his eye he gasped “ “Kiss me Hardy “

He quickly hoisted himself up again and uttered the final insalubrious line. Despite my mother.

The other favourite was Three Old Ladies Locked in The Lavatory( Sorry Aunty Flora and Aunt ? Long dead then , but the butt of my grandfathers annoyance) We laughed 50 years ago . Others were about babies disappearing down the plug hole. I said they were not socially acceptable , not now anyway . Then there were a few Salvation Army ones ( words changed to incorporate family members, or enemies) , and the rousing Rule Britannia* , commencing “Sons of the Sea, bumping up and down like this “. By this time adults were at risk of missing the chair as they leapt up and plonked down again. I just remembered too some of the songs came from Great Uncle Reg , a Boy Scout Leader and veteran of the First World War. He worked as a diplomat in WW2 , a lot of the time in Paris . Hence the innocent songs of that era , with the belief system of duty and responsibility , dibbing and dobbing.

The 3 brothers, Uncle Michael, Uncle Bill , front , and my father . The faded writing at the back says 1937.

Common camping,scout and some army songs were sung with enthusiasm and varying degrees of seriousness : well known Pack up your Troubles, It’s a Long Long Way

Military . Uncle Reg , my grandfather, my father . No date but my father was 15 yrs old in the Home Guard and 18 when he joined up and started officer training

Look they were not all rude, my mothers term . There were a lot of old war songs like Blue Cliffs of Dover and the more rumbustious Siegfried Line * , suitably modified. Other war songs quite racist, sexist, anarchistic , whatever . Understandable if you’d fought in the war or if you’d lived through one and it’s aftermath .

Dad and my grandad beginning of war

My mother loved the lyrical songs and her party piece was Green Grow the Rushes Oh with movements.We all joined in , tripping over each other as we vied for attention .

There were many more and I have forgotten them . As my last uncle is over 90 it’d be good to get a few of the more obscure songs and acts together. Uncle M has written a lot on the family history and I’m sure he will remember some . How about it , all of us cousins and brother?

Postscript

*Songs of the Sea (1897) is a British WE1 Naval song . The parody ‘bobbing up and down like this ‘became popular at Boy Scout Camps , and has been adapted to football songs . Uncle Michael , served in Navy , would know more about the adaptation .

*were going to hang out the Washing on the Siegfried Line “ ( 1939) Written by Jimmy Kennedy while he was Captain in early stages of W W 2 . BUT am sure the words were different ! My mother intervened a lot here.

My Christmas Tree

My very own Christmas tree

So I’ve missed the boat. It’s now the second day of the new year and I have carried around the ghosts of Christmases past in my head for over a week. Time to get them out.

I still drag out the manger every year , even though bits are gradually disappearing, The shepherds and kings have taken off , and Joseph’s head leans over at an angle as his head has been glued back on in a hurry. I love it because of its inadequacies , but mainly because in its chipped edges and basic premise of baby and parents v

There is a larger, shared Christmas tree in the hallway. However some of the old decorations I have held onto for years do not fit onto the tree.I left the manger underneath the hallway tree decorated by the four cousins, and put the remnants up on my own smaller version of a Christmas tree.

The manger was always the focus of my family Christmas growing up . It was made by a family friend and complete with the baby in his manger, the sheep, the wise men from the East and the shepherds . Plus a couple of angels keeping watch . Sadly only Mary and Joseph and the baby in the manger remain after 60 odd years, and the stable is falling apart. I have added to the onlookers with various farmyard animals from Target or Toy World as my own family grew , and various people and animals have been lost or broken .

My manger has a cat watching now

The interest in the manger though has diminished over the years as children , then grandchildren , have got older and candy sticks and chocolate father Christmases have taken over .

New one next year

The star on top of my tree is a replacement too . The old pop -stick one made by one of the children has fallen apart. But my fairy doll still hangs in , minus an arm. My mother is no longer here to dress her in a new outfit and fix her drooping wings.

She dates from my first Christmas so is antique I guess.

My first Christmas Fairy, mended and refurbished but still around

There are other memory triggering objects on my tree :The porcelain tree made by one of my daughters in primary school, the star signed Matilda ( my granddaughter, for her mother), Jimmy’s star in a basket, another porcelain star that looks like it was made in pre primary by one of my sons , and the dainty elf -like little man/ woman , from an old friend . S/he is the last of the four elves which once smiled at me from the tree.

A happy elf . Hello Barbara Sparrow

All the other decorations – stars, angels, a small manger- have been picked up over the years from the Oxfam shop in Fremantle. Sadly missed .

As are the past, magic Christmases with midnight mass, coming back to see the large, REAL Christmas tree with REAL candles flickering and a piece of my mother’s Christmas cake waiting . Then to bed to dream of stockings at the end of our beds . As well as Father Christmas’s visit with our special presents .

Growing up is not all it was cracked up to be .

Lift your Arse ,Man!

The ‘man ‘ is a South Africanism. My English born father spoke his language impeccably as only a Shakespearean actor and Radio announcer ( English Service , RSA) can. He adopted this common SA expression during his time in that country. He used the expression over in SA , and here also. I think being dad he liked to feel he had adapted to his new culture, and then it became a habitual expression. The appendage “ man” usually tagged onto the end of sentences is commonly used to convey emotions from amazement to anger or puzzlement , depending on the inflection .

So he used it when slightly frustrated with my mother. She tripped often. All her life she was in a hurry and as she got older her dashes across roads wearing glasses that she maintained didn’t work resulted in many injuries . She just moved her head both ways quickly and scuttled across, believing that cars would stop . By the time she realised they couldn’t, she braked, lost her balance and fell.

In the beginning she was prey to minor scratches and bruises, until the day came when she was too scared to move , even with a Zimmer frame ( resisted for ages) or sulky daughter by her side. My father, despite his language , was always affectionate to her, even if exasperated at her stubbornness.

With the Zimmer frame she was still prone to accidents, ploughing into people’s ankles and banging into their tables as she headed for the door or the table. Inevitably, when she did sit , she parked the frame as a sort of block. No one could get up and move to the door or counter without asking the sweet old lady to shift it . Looking back she just didn’t have a sense of space and that combined with a blind faith in her invulnerability and the goodness of people lead to the knocks and hurts .

Mum and my favourite aunt out for lunch with the dreaded frame

So why do I write of this now ? Because I reckon I’m prone to the same injuries. Maybe not for the same reasons and, at the moment, not the same injuries . But I don’t see the edges of objects . For example , I bang my already injured shoulder against a doorway;I catch my foot on the crossbar of my bike; I trip over those uneven Freo pavements , bloody council!

This afternoon I turned up at the Physio with a plaster stuck at the back of my leg . Late. So he wasn’t interested in my explanation .

I just happened to graze the leg on the pedal of my bike as I dragged it out the door down the steps . Bloody kids. If they didn’t leave stuff hanging around in the hallway and at the front door I wouldn’t have nicked myself

So I’ll lift my arse, slow up. Slow up . Lift your arse, woman . Sounds pretty rude with the ‘ woman ‘? But that’s another blog ,

Curiosities

So who is he ?

So who is St Elias ? And what is/ was this ‘ Melkite Catholic Eparchy’ which has Divine Liturgies on Sundays in the Byzantine tradition ?

Just one of some curiosities seen a while ago in the Melbourne suburb with the beautiful name of Sunshine.

Amongst the greyness of the streets and buildings, the bits of paper and scrawled messages , another cold dull day , there are small jewels shimmering. Like brightly coloured cafes, signs, graffiti walls. Curiosities because they draw the eye when walking through these streets .

In fact one of the wonderful things about walking is that the unseen or overlooked becomes visible.There is time to look and take in .

Opposite the church this derelict building
The African Coffee Club in the Main Street
And the opposite side of Sunshine , over the railway line

Random photos as I wandered around with the pusher and Charlie asleep . We ended our stroll at the Salamati Cafe opposite the railway station. In a street full of a mix of Chinese, African and Vietnamese shops. Look what I found, beautiful curiosities on the walls.

Salamati Cafe
Dancing

Ending where I began really, asking questions such as Who has written this ? Belief systems ? The link between dance and how we live ? There doesn’t have to be an answer, though we want one .

Curiosities keep us engaged in life, and wondering .

Sunday Contemplations along Melbourne’s Kororoit Creek

Kororoit Creek

So as I was walking along the creek beside Ballarat road on the way to a coffee all sorts of thoughts flashed through my sleepy head. About Sundays, beliefs, nuns and mothers. Specifically the sayings or truisms that were told when Sunday was such a special day a long long time ago in my youth:

Mum : ‘It’ll all come back to you, just you wait.’

The all encompasses exposing my then pudgy but quite shapely body in bathers, too short shorts, or tight skirts .

All equals being rude to my mother, refusal to clean my room or dress as she wants, bad table manners, answering back at school or at home .

All also means sitting on concrete steps with shorts and thin gear on or perching on anything that is not a chair.

Not too clear how or when it would come back to me . Suffice to say that my turn came around when I had children growing up . Perhaps the cold concrete bit is responsible for stiff limbs, and the African sun definitely a cause of horrible scaly skin .

Nuns/ School.

If you sit like that you’ll end up with hunch back / frown like that and you’ll have a deep line between your eyes / scowl and … . All come true .

  • Frown lines
  • A stoop in shoulders
  • Left eye is smaller than right

But you know what, I’m still stubborn enough to say I don’t regret the sun, shorts, squinting, refusing to do as told . ( Even if I do secretly wish I had better skin)

The big one though, from mum and from the convent school I went to in my teens, is around belief . Briefly the Belief/ God/Love one was always a bit sus. I met those concepts with varying degrees of resistance, depending on what I needed at the time . I could easily dismiss the ‘God sees everything; your body is a Sacred temple; you’ll need him someday and he won’t be there; say your prayers at night so that angels is watch over you as you sleep ‘

Lots more but if you were brought up Catholic you’ll know them . I wasn’t even particularly worried about the maleness of God as I think I just thought the naming and the gender were an easy reference point. Adults just didn’t have the words and took an easy way out.

I just knew that the hellfire and damnation bit was theatre, that God who loved could not be so petty , Most of the threats and bribes I rejected .

However from my older perspective there is something precious amongst the words we were surrounded with . Hard to pin down . But it’s a belief in the value of life, and the priority of existence . Also it’s comforting to feel , however imperfectly and tentatively, that there is something beyond this visible life .A something that we cannot grasp , just know.

I like God ( for want of a better name) being around .And I like walking .

Walking along Kororoit Creek this morning I remember those statements , threats and persuasions quite fondly. They gave order to my life. Something to resist. As I get older it is harder to find that resistance.

Hey life was like this then , just keep on the path !

And Sunday is a day like any other now that my mother is no longer here .When the kids were little we reluctantly went along to the Sunday roast after Church complaining about the routine. I was unwilling or unable to sustain that ritual. We gather now as a family in a scatty way, because Sunday is no longer a special day for all of us , and we have so many things to do. A transition from the Sunday Mass/ Sunday best/ scowling drive to Church followed by the lunch.

Sundays are free. I sort of miss the old Sundays.