My Girl Sophie

          A little less than three years ago, after months of poring through internet sites and visiting animal rescue facilities, I found the puppy I’d been searching for.  A fluff ball of brown, black and white fur, who tilted her head to the side as though listening to my question when I asked ‘do you want to be my doggie?’

          I named her Sophie because it seemed to suit her.  Much better than the ‘Princess of the House’ moniker she thought she deserved.  Sophie is a Bichon Frise mix.  No one was too sure what that ‘mix’ actually might be, but as her legs continued to grow and she lost some of the color in her makeup, I thought an Old English Sheepdog might have been in her lineage.  Either that or a white St. Bernard.

Sophie at 3 months

          A little less than two years ago, I had an emergency replacement of a perfectly nice, relatively new, laminate floor in both my living room and in my dining room.

          And what has one to do with the other?  Ah, you might well ask.

          At the time, my daughter was visiting from Australia when, at about 2 a.m.. she stuck her head into my room and, very calmly, asked about towels.

          ‘Towels?’  I gave you towels.’

          ‘We need more Mum…lots more.  The house is flooding.’

          I was out of bed like a shot and followed her downstairs.  The living room floor was covered in about two inches of water, the accent rug in the center of the room a soaked blob.  I looked further past the soggy furniture to the dining room.  It too was fast becoming a sea of wet rugs and wetter furniture legs.

          Frantically, we looked to find the source of all this water.  Now, there is no way for me to prove this…but I swear I heard distinct musical sounds coming from the half bathroom under the stairs.  Something like, ‘tra-la-la-la-la, tra-la-la-la.’

          And there was Sophie, standing under a gorgeous, and very large spray of water emanating from the chewed through flexicord that connected the toilet to the water pipe in the wall.  We stood transfixed as Sophie splashed and played and romped.  She was having the time of her life!

          Needless to say, despite our best efforts and every towel I possessed, it was obvious the water had gotten under the laminate flooring and it would all have to be ripped up and replaced.  And of course the toilet flexicord substituted for an unchewable stainless steel job.

          It took several days to dry out the floor and for the new laminate to be installed, with Sophie checking everything to ensure quality work was being performed.

          But one good thing did come out of all this.  We dispensed with ideas of sheepdogs and St. Bernards…Sophie’s mixed lineage obviously included a  Portugese Water Dog!

                   

                                                  Sophie at about 18 months

The Little White Jug

          My Mamma, sister and I, entered Australia as refugees back in the 1950’s.  We had nothing but dreams and my Mamma’s incredible work ethic to start a new life in a wonderful new, free country.

          My sister and I had very little in the way of toys and other kid stuff but we loved the movies.  Perhaps because our Mamma realized how little we had or perhaps because she loved them too, on Saturday afternoons we were given one shilling each with which to attend the local cinema.

          Across from the movie theatre was a small corner store that sold all kinds of knick knacks.  Everything from necklaces and earrings that we believed were made of real diamonds, to fringed silk stoles, to pretty cups and saucers.  Today that stock would probably be referred to as ‘collectibles’ and cost a small fortune.

          We particularly admired the teacups and matching saucers; some even had little plates for sandwiches as part of the set.  For us, this kind of thing was only ever used by the very rich.  Our crockery supply at home consisted of mismatched and chipped plates, cups and thick ceramic bowls picked up cheaply at secondhand shops.

          Since my sister and I usually had time to spare before we had to be seated for our movie, we would always cross the road to gaze in the shop window and practically salivate at the array of wonderful things we saw.  We devised a little game in which we each had to choose one thing that we would buy for ourselves.  The only rules were that one person could not choose the same thing as the other, and, you couldn’t choose the same item two weeks running.

          For weeks we had such fun.  Our noses pressed up against the window, pretending we could ever afford any of the beautiful things we saw.

          And then it happened.  One Saturday afternoon, staring into the window again we saw it:  a little white jug.  The kind rich people used for cream.  What made this little jug so very special was that there was a picture painted on the side.  I think we both saw it at the same time and I truly believe we both had the immediate and exact same thought.

          Mamma had often talked about owning her own house.  Her dream house was pristine white with a red roof, a white picket fence around the front yard, an arbor of roses over the gate and beautiful flowers abounding in the garden.  The picture on the side of the little white jug was exactly that.

          We knew we had to buy that jug for Mamma.  It held all the promises of Mamma’s dreams and our future.  We also knew we had no money except our movie admittance shillings and no prospects of getting any more.  Still, the least we could do was ask the price of the jug.  Perhaps we could save up for it?

          I cannot imagine what the proprietor thought when she saw these two little girls enter her shop.  Ten and eight we were, each clutching our cinema money and wondering about the price of the jug.

          It was far more than we had of course, and, the shopkeeper added, such a pretty piece would not last long in the shop.  It would probably be snapped up before the next weekend.  We were devastated.  But we were also resilient.  After all, we were Mamma’s daughters!

          We offered to pay a small amount each week until we had paid the full price of the jug and we could take it home.  We told the proprietor it was for our Mamma and that she would treasure it far more than anyone else could or would.  My sister and I were unaware of such a thing as lay-by or layaway.  For that matter, I’m not sure it had even come into practice.  But that sweet lady must have seen the desperation on our faces and agreed to take the jug out of the window and keep it behind the counter for us.  But, she emphasized, we had to pay something towards the total every single week without fail or not only would we lose the jug, we would lose any money we had paid on it.

          So for many weeks my sister and I bought our movie tickets but resisted buying lollies or the Screen News magazines.  The latest gossip about our favorite stars would have to wait.  And each week we crossed the road to the knick knack shop and handed over our pennies until finally the little white jug was ours.

           We were in our 50’s when Mamma passed away.  While sorting through Mamma’s things some weeks after the funeral, we came across the little white jug.  No longer white, fine crack lines running down its sides and a small chip in the lip, it had remained Mamma’s prized possession all her life; her dream on the side of a little white jug.

Whispers in the Dark

          A girlfriend in Australia is in the middle of rehearsals for a play about King Edward VIII and his American love Wallis Simpson.  A very talented actress in her own right, she is also a great director…which is the hat she is wearing for this production of ‘Crown Matrimonial’.

          We two were very active in community theatre many moons ago.  Both as actors, directors and in various other roles…from stage manager, to property master to prompter.  There are no big heads in community theatre where it really is a case of being a rooster one day and a feather duster the next.

          So there we were discussing her production and, of course, the reminiscing about our repertory days snuck into the conversation.  In particular, the time I was left on stage with scrambled egg running down my face.

          The play was a plot twisting murder mystery with me playing ‘the other woman’ to a young man whose experience on stage prior to our production was nil.  But since males were always in short supply, lack of acting experience was not a big issue.  As long as they could learn lines they would be fine.

          My friend had taken on the job of prompt.  The only requisite for a prompter is a soft, clear voice and good sightlines of all the actors on stage.  In this case she opted to sit on the floor behind a fireplace façade.  The grate of the fireplace was filled with beautiful Boston ferns and looked quite lovely on the set. 

          Our community theatre was very small…intimate would be a more precise description.  It seated 200 patrons and the beginning of the audience seating was only a foot or two from the edge of the stage.  Very cosy indeed!

          The play was well underway when, after delivering a line I looked at my leading man and was struck by the frozen stare on his face.  I took a step towards him which somehow brought him out of his trance and, in quick succession he delivered his next two lines.  The problem with that was that I was supposed to insert my line between his two.  And it was crucial.  After all, we were plotting how to murder his wife!

          My line was ‘you mean suicide?’  But since he’d more or less already circumvented the need for me to say that, I was left trying to figure out what to say that would make sense and move the play along.  But our prompter thinking I had forgotten my line started doing her job.

          ‘Suicide,’ she whispered.

          I ignored her, still trying to work out what dialogue to use.

          ‘Suicide,’ she said in a stronger voice.

          I flicked my wrist sideways trying to get her to stop but succeeded only in looking like I was swatting away flies.  I looked towards the fireplace thinking I’d communicate my problem with a bug-eyed stare.

          All I could see was my friend’s face planted between two bins of Boston ferns mouthing, ‘suicide, suicide, suicide.’

          To this day, I still don’t know if he was trying to be helpful or was just frustrated by my seeming deafness, but a member of the audience suddenly yelled in a very loud voice.  ‘She said suicide.’

          The theatre erupted into laughter and I buried my face into my leading man’s chest.  As much to hide the redness creeping up from my neck as to stop my shoulders from shaking with a fit of the giggles.

          But, like true troupers, after a moment, we got on with it and finished one of the most successful plays our little theatre had ever produced.  Still, every time I see a Boston fern, I remember that evening and the heat pops up on my face again.  If I forget everything I’ve ever learned in my life, I shall never again forget the line, ‘you mean suicide?’

           

         

Living Aloha - It's Expensive

          Stuff in Hawaii is expensive.  Not just purchases that visitors make like gifts or hotel accommodation or fancy restaurants, but general, every day, ’got to have it to live’ type stuff.   For instance food immediately comes to mind. 

          Shopping for the family, weekly, bare essentials at a grocery store in any town or city on the mainland might cost you somewhere in the vicinity of $70…the same shopping list here would easily amount to double that.  But hey, you live in Hawaii, so suck it up…and do that with a smile.

          Of course the reason for the additional cost on everything from food to petrol to clothes and furniture is because very little is made in Hawaii.  Perhaps the odd surfboard, or a macadamia nut or conch shell, although those, unless they’re plastic and made in China, are usually picked up off the beach somewhere...everything else is brought over from the mainland or the aforementioned China.

          Living here you get very used to hearing:  ‘oh, we don’t have that in stock.  We can order it for you…it’ll take six weeks to get here.’  Why we can put a man on the moon in eleven days but it takes six weeks for transport to get from California to the islands is a mystery to me, but there you are.

          So, locals get very good at saving a penny or two wherever we can so we can lash out on a few luxuries from time to time.

          This saving thing actually came to mind when I received my last electric bill.  It was nearly double the usual monthly ransom I was required to pay and left me gasping.  The electric company’s explanation was that it was my fault not theirs.  I was simply using too much electricity on non-essentials.  Hot showers and a grilled chop apparently fall into this category.

          A day or so later, while watching TV I was mesmerized by the electric company’s advertisement extolling the virtues of solar, wind and geothermal and the advice that we should all investigate these as ways of saving loot on our electricity bills.

          Well, apart from the fact that six or seven heavy solar panels on my roof would quickly convert my timber two-storey townhouse into a one-storey shed, solar panels are jolly expensive.  As to windmills in my backyard?  Well, I guess I could tizzy them up with crepe paper and pretend they were palm trees…but, not a really sensible way to save on electricity for me.

          Still, for several weeks I ran around turning off anything and everything that even looked like it might be connected to a power outlet.  I didn’t go so far as to read by candlelight nor cook on a camp fire in my yard, but I’m sure power usage, much to my discomfort, was substantially lowered.

          Imagine my surprise then when I received a nice little note from the electric company advising that, in the not too distant future, it would be increasing electricity rates across the State because…wait for it…the company was losing too much money due to so many people going solar!

          It seems that we simply can’t win.  But that, my friends is the cost of living in Paradise.  I am now seriously considering those windmills in my backyard; I already have the green crepe paper left over from Christmas.

         

         

                   

         

Loving America

          Most Australians have always been madly in love with America and anything American, particularly the accent.  Before jet travel closed the gap between the two countries and travel became more readily available to everyone, Aussie’s based their idea of life in America on the movies and magazines.  Often stuff that was featured in one or the other was unavailable in Australia and therefore became a source of speculation and desire. 

          Young girls poured through the pages of hard to find American magazines like Seventeen to establish how they should dress and look.  They styled their hair into flips and shortened the legs of their pants so they could sport ‘capris’ and therefore more closely resemble their American cousins.

          Anyone lucky enough to spend a vacation touring around any part of California or even further East, arrived back in Australia with an American accent so thick it was easy to assume they’d been born and bred in the US of A.  Well, for at least a week or two until the accent slowly disappeared.  But for that week, they felt special and were often treated as celebrities.

          ‘Wow, you’ve got an American accent!’

          ‘Really?  Ya think so?  Well, I have just returned from the States.  I guess I must’ve inadvertently picked it up.  The Yanks sound like this all the time ya know.’ 

          This said with much rolling of ‘r’s and the chewing of gum to emphasis the point.

          I mentioned this love affair to an American I worked with in D.C. some years ago.  He had been debating spending a few days in Sydney on his way home from a business meeting in Singapore but was hesitant because he didn’t know any one in Sydney and would feel lost.  I must explain here that despite his business acumen, this man was extremely shy and the fact that, unfortunately, he looked like a run-over tennis shoe as well didn’t help matters.

          But knowing how Aussie’s adored Americans I told him that if he followed my instructions to the letter, he would meet some lovely, friendly people and have a ball in my favorite city, Sydney.  He did and he did.

          These are the specific instructions I gave him.  They can be used by any American visiting Australia and will have the same result.  Trust me!

          Start by standing on a busy, city street corner clutching a map of Sydney and look confused.  Within a few minutes an Aussie will stop and ask if you’re looking for directions to any particular place.  Tell him or her that you’re hoping to visit (insert name of place).  Make sure you string enough words together for the Helpful Aussie to hear your accent. 

          The HA will immediately brighten and ask:  ‘Oh, are you an American?’  A quick affirmative response and the doors are open for you to be the recipient of some overwhelming hospitality.

          Having established that you are indeed a ‘Yank,’ the HA will offer to drive you to your sightseeing destination, and will play tour guide for the duration.  Also, noting that you are alone in the city, he/she will invite you home for a backyard ‘barbie’ and to meet all their friends and neighbors.  This invitation is not as noble as it appears at first glance…having an American as their guest elevates them into special neighbor status in the eyes of everyone in their street and surrounds.

          If it happens to be the weekend, you’ll be invited to join your host/hostess in a game of golf at their club the next day, or if you’re not into sports, the offer will be to pick you up at your hotel and take you for a lengthy drive around the beaches and gorgeous suburbs of the city.  If there’s time in your schedule you’ll also be taken to a wildlife sanctuary so you can cuddle a koala or feed a kangaroo.

          And if you’ve made a real impression with your ‘Americaness,’ at the end of your stay you’ll be driven to the airport for your flight home with lots of ‘do write and come back soon’s.’

          But you don’t have to take my word for all this.  Let me know when you’re planning to visit Oz and I’ll make sure the cheering squad is waiting at the airport for you!  You’ll be glad you did.

         

           

Walking Through Doors

          I walked into a half open door yesterday.  Today I have a black eye and a slightly bruised cheek to show for it, not to mention all the other stuff that goes with being so clumsy.

          My encounter with the door was entirely my own fault.  Walking into the grocery store…one of those where the door opens automatically…I was concentrating on the shopping list in my hand and didn’t notice the door had stopped opening…wham, bam!  I saw thousands of very pretty little stars and while the grocery store clerks who were privy to my collision rushed around enquiring whether I needed medical attention, all I wanted to do was quietly die of embarrassment.

          I could just imagine how I was going to explain my lack of coordination to my friends.

          ‘Howdja get the black eye?’

          ‘Walked into a door.’

          ‘Yeah?  Why?’

          ‘Ummmm.’

          But it did remind me of another incident that took place between me and a door some years ago.

          I had rushed home from my job to be able to do a quick change of clothes and generally tizzy myself up for a date with a promising new chap.  We had arranged to meet at a little restaurant not far from my house.

          At the time, I lived in a small apartment building:  six units on three floors.   The entrance to the building had a miniscule lobby with stairs up to each floor.  Directly in front of the stairs was a glass door.  The glass in the door had been vandalized months before and had never been replaced.  What remained were the wood frame and the door knob.  Actually, to the residents, the lack of glass was quite a handy feature.  No one had to struggle with packages while trying to turn the knob.  Entry was a simple matter of stepping through the frame.

          So, on this lovely summer’s day, I stepped through the glassless frame of the lobby door and ran upstairs to my apartment.

          How long does it take to brush your teeth, run a comb through your hair and retouch your makeup?  Ten minutes?  Fifteen?  Apparently it is long enough to replace glass in a door.

          Ready to make a stunning impression on my prospective new beau, I ran down the stairs and straight through the newly installed glass in the lobby door!  It is only because the putty holding the glass in place had not had time to harden that my injuries were not more serious.  My head and right knee hit the glass in beautiful unison.  Then, as I reeled back in shock, the whole thing became a slow motion movie.

          The glass broke at the point of head contact and turned into a guillotine.  The top section scraped past my nose taking a chunk off the tip and continued down to my knee, putting a gash in that, while the bottom section bounced off my big toe.  And the blood flowed.  Down my face, onto my dress and over my best pair of sandals.

          Needless to say I missed meeting my date.  Instead, I was taken care of at the Emergency Room and, hours later, allowed to go home.

          What upset me more than the actual accident was the result of my hospital visit.  After checking me over for more serious injuries, the Doctor discharged me with a pink band-aid over my nose, another across my kneecap and a third wrapped around my toe.

          Now I ask you.  How could I convince anyone that I had been badly hurt in an altercation with a glass door when all I had to show for it were three band-aids!  In which case, perhaps the black eye I got yesterday is a better result.  At least that can garner a bit of sympathy.  Well, can’t it?

                   

           

         

Love is in the Air

          Gorgeous red hearts are fluttering everywhere.  On cups and saucers, on balloons and pretty cards; and on cookies and cakes in my bake shop window.  Even I have been the recipient of some lovely cards.  Admittedly they are from my dentist, my doctor and my insurance agent who wants to make me even happier with a new car/home plan, but why quibble.  It’s the thought that counts and a card is a card, isn’t it?

          The florists too are having a wonderful time making up vases, pots and baskets filled to overflowing with bright red roses to offer their buyers.  It will soon, after all, be Valentine’s Day, the day when men, young and older alike, can make their intentions known by delivering a card, a rose, or, if they’re feeling fairly flush, a gemstone trinket to the girl of their dreams.

          Of course not everyone follows tradition.  There are some who think Valentine’s Day is a dreadful commercial enterprise thrust upon an unwilling public by the Association of Rose Growers and Red Paint Owners.  Perhaps they have a point, for pity the poor man who didn’t send (or simply forgot to send) a posy of flowers to the office of his beloved.  It is after all an unwritten law that the more elaborate a Valentine’s floral arrangement sitting on your desk happens to be, the more loved you are by your husband or boyfriend/admirer and therefore the envy of the rest of the office staff rises exponentially.

          While in Paris with my granddaughter last year, we happened to be walking across the Seine along one of the smaller bridges from the Left Bank over to Notre Dame.  A bridge made of cyclone wire fencing rather than bricks and mortar.

          It was my granddaughter who pointed out the odd appendages fastened all over the bridge completely covering the cyclone wire.  We stood open-mouthed and amazed.  Hundreds and hundreds of padlocks with names painted or scratched onto the face of each, completely covered the bridge.  The padlocks were of all sizes and shapes, and of all colors, some had ribbons or tiny cards tied to them too.  What could they mean?

          The concierge at our hotel filled us in.  Apparently newly weds or starry-eyed lovers fasten the padlocks onto the fencing material and throw the keys into the Seine.  A testament to their everlasting love.  I can’t help but wonder though…what happens if or when, the ‘everlasting love,’ is no more?  Do the people concerned hire divers to search for the key to their padlock?  Do they appear on the bridge with wire cutters in hand and with one clip remove the now offending padlock? 

 

          I’d like to think that all those who placed padlocks on that bridge will indeed experience a wonderful and everlasting love.  Hey, this is Paris after all…the city of romantic love.  Where else if not there?

          Happy Valentine’s Day to everyone…enjoy it with your loved ones.