So This is Christmas

I have to admit that for a number of years now I’ve dreaded then endured the Silly Season. Maybe it was something to do with all the expectations. It seemed to me there was the expectation that a good time was to be had by all, even if it killed you. Almost a case of “you will have a good time – that is an order!”.  Maybe it also had to do with my perception that in this season of goodwill to all, there didn’t seem to be much goodwill floating around – certainly not in the shopping centre carparks!

So many people seemed stressed, even more so than normal. Looking at the faces of the people around the place (I love people-watching), not many were smiling, or looking like they were even remotely enjoying themselves. Add into the mix the inevitable heat and humidity of living in Sydney at this time of year, and the tensions that arise when putting together groups of people who normally don’t socialise together. It seemed to me to be a recipe for disaster. Just add copious amounts of alcohol to make it a sure thing.

It could be said that I’d become disillusioned by it all – just a tad cynical. Since I’m not a religious person, I don’t have the original reason for the season to help me appreciate it. My idea of the importance of the Christmas season is that it is the time to stop and get off the treadmill, and take the time to appreciate the important people around me, friends and family. But because of the rush, stress, and chaos, this just didn’t happen the way I wanted it to. So I had almost reached the point of becoming a conscientious objector.

the meal table at our Tennis Christmas Lunch

But I’ve changed. I have no idea what brought about the change. All I know is that this year, I’m actually looking forward to having the family here on Christmas Day. I looked forward to the Christmas parties I was invited to, and enjoyed them when I was there, too! I’m not stressed about the preparations, and have just pottered along, doing what I can, when I can, and if something  doesn’t get done, I can live with that. I’ve managed to organise gifts where they are needed, helped a lot by a wonderful husband who did more than his share of the gift shopping. I’m not stewing over whether or not the gifts are “right”. The gifts aren’t the most important thing – the time spent with the people is, and that will happen even if there are no presents.

a good time WAS had by all!

That’s not to say I haven’t put any thought into the gifts – I have. But once they were organised, that was it, with no second-guessing, or changing my mind. It’s done – move on.

This year, I’m not buying into that whole nightmare of doing things because they “should” be done. I’m doing things because I want to do them. I’ve enjoyed the company of friends in the lead up to Christmas Day. My family will be here with us for Christmas Day itself. We found enough beds for them all to sleep in, thanks to a (new) friend here in Bathurst. The food is all under control, although I do have to brave the shops early next week to get the fresh produce.

So, this is Christmas, and I’m looking forward to it.

look carefully - the jenny wren in her nest
she is now feeding at least 3 littlies!

The Best Laid Plans

I may have mentioned before that I like to plan. But sometimes things don’t go according to plan. Sometimes things can work out when they haven’t been planned. And sometimes, no matter how much I plan, it’s just not going to happen the way I want/think/hope.

The basil that I have nurtured since it popped its head up
over 3 weeks ago! It's sad.

Once again, the vegie patch is my best example. By the way, it is now after Melbourne Cup Day, and the tomatoes are still alive – this gives me hope that they might actually survive to produce those beautiful, tasty tomatoes I’ve been dreaming of. But that is beside the point. Where I have planned ahead, improving the soil, growing seedlings in the greenhouse, transplanting out into the vegie patch only after the 2^nd set of leaves have grown and in the season the packet tells me, diligently watered with seasol every 2 weeks, some plants just don’t work. Some go really well. Some just outright go and die. Some just don’t do anything much. But why? I’ve done all the right things, planned what needed to be done. Very frustrating.

The lettuce that is going well after a rocky start

On the other hand, I’ve had success where I was flying by the seat of my pants. Take the lettuce. They got planted before they were supposed to. One got dug up by a bird scratching around looking for nesting material, so I just shoved it back in the ground and hoped for the best. It’s thriving.




part of Ferntree Gully

I have another example. We had a day out last week (a Mid-Week Meander). It was my birthday, and I’d told Les what I wanted to do – the Ferntree Gully Walk, followed by lunch at the Bizzy Birds café in Rylstone. Les had it all planned, what time to leave home so we would get to the walk in time to have morning tea before we set off, allowing enough time to do the walk then make it to the lunch spot at a good time for lunch. All was going well until we got to Rylstone – café closed!!! What do we do??!! Picture me with a very disappointed face.

the steps out of Ferntree Gully - just
a little bit steep, but luckily not too many

Luckily there are other lunch options in Rylstone, and I’m not just talking about the pub (although I’m told it has a good bistro). We wandered up the street and found another nice little café (Café 47), in a huge building that is also a gallery space. We had a lovely lunch, and I had a quick look at the artworks on display. So, we discovered something new – that is what can happen when the plan doesn’t come together.

What got me thinking about plans was a sign in the window of the café, saying that planning to have a bush fire survival plan is NOT a plan. It is a very timely reminder, given the recent fires in the Blue Mountains, and the onset of summer when we have had way less than our usual amount of rain. But this is one of the plans we just haven’t done. We don’t even have a plan for having a plan! I wonder why 2 people like us (both Les and I are planners) haven’t done this most important plan? We live in a place that has open farmland behind us, and if a grass fire came through there, we would be in trouble. Maybe I’m not as plan-obsessed as I think I am.

I don’t think I will ever be really comfortable without things being planned, but I’m not so stuck in that planning rut that I can’t appreciate the fact that plans can change, things don’t always go to plan, and that’s not always a bad thing. And sometimes, just sometimes, not having a plan can work too. Now I’m going to check out the RFS site for a bush fire survival plan.

the surviving tomatoes in front of the
carrots going great guns, then the peas
right at the back - all good

 

The Learning Curve

Thank you to those who kindly answered my plea for comments on my last post. It might seem a small thing, but it really makes a difference to me to know there are people out there, and I’m not talking to myself. So please, if you have any thoughts about what I’ve written, or even on something completely different, take the time to make a comment, just for me!

the apples are coming along nicely
I have no idea what I'm doing!

Different people learn in different ways. I learn best by doing. If I’m just reading about something, chances are I’ll forget it pretty quickly. Learning things by rote also doesn’t really work for me – with the exception of the main rivers along the coast of NSW, from north to south, which for some reason I can still recite all these years after learning them when I was about 10 years old. I also learnt all the train stations from Broken Hill to Sydney Central - it was a good party trick when I was at university, but for some strange reason, I can’t remember them all now. Maybe I just don’t have any reason to anymore.

If I have to use the thing I’m trying to learn, I might actually remember it for next time. But the best way for me to learn something is for me to understand it. If something makes sense to me, and it serves some sort of purpose, then even if I don’t remember all the details, those bits that I don’t remember, I can work out.

the peas are a success!

So, like many people, I have to make my own mistakes. If someone tells me “blah, blah”, and it doesn’t make sense to me, I have to try it myself, just to make sure.

Take, for example, growing tomatoes. I love eating tomatoes. I love the flavour of home-grown tomatoes – they have real flavour, much more so than the ones bought from the supermarket. I love the idea of growing my own tomatoes, so I can just wander out the back and pick one when I want one. I love the idea of being able to snack on cherry tomatoes instead of chocolate – well, maybe that is going a bit too far!


Now I have enough space in the backyard for a vegie patch, I want to grow tomatoes. With lots of help from Les, the vegie patch was set up, and sensible things like peas, carrots, and spinach, planted. But the tomatoes couldn’t go in. Whenever I mentioned tomatoes to a local, all I got was “oh, you can’t put them in yet!”. Maybe if the “when” message had been consistent, I would have just left it at that. But one person said “only after Melbourne Cup Day”. Another person said “not before the end of November”. Yet another person said “only plant them out after the last frost” (how can you know when it is the last frost?). The biggest challenge to my way of thinking was when I was told that it was the aim of every Bathurst gardener to have home-grown tomatoes for Christmas lunch. I’ll show them!

current tomato seedlings in the ground
carrots and peas going great guns in the background

Why shouldn't I be able to grow tomatoes? It had worked for me before. So I planted some seeds, in the greenhouse. They germinated nicely, and were going along OK. Then died. Maybe too early.

So I tried again. This time, they got to 2 sets of leaves (they must have 2 sets of leaves before they can be planted out). Yay! So, out they went. Then died. Still too early.

So I tried again. 2 sets of leaves, out into the vegie patch, and each day I checked what the temperature was going to be overnight, and if a frost was possible, covered them. They lasted about 2 weeks. Then died. Still too early.

seedling at back - plant next week
seedlings at front - hopefully ready to plant in a couple of weeks

I know that I’m still about a week too early (ie before Melbourne Cup Day), but the next set of tomato seedlings are in the ground. I obviously still haven’t learnt my lesson, but I’ve got to learn it myself. If these ones die, and the ones that will be ready to go in after Melbourne Cup Day survive, then next year, the learning curve won’t be so steep.

Fitting In

I’m back. I didn’t mean to be gone for so long. Then when I realised just how long it had been, it became embarrassing. I won’t go into all the reasons why, as that would just be boring. BUT, I have realised that, despite all my grand ideals of wanting to write a blog just for me, I do crave feedback. So, IWBNI (“it would be nice if” – don’t know if that’s an abbreviation used by the texting generation, but this oldie was using it about 20 years ago!) anyone who reads this blog would leave a comment, at least every now and then, just so I know I’m reaching people.

Plattie and Cuddles
made by me for the craft shop

Now on to the subject at hand. Fitting in.

We humans are a complicated lot. Pretty much all of us go looking for similar people, so we can feel part of the group. I think it is a survival thing, from way back in the mists of time, when if you were different, you could be cast out of the safety of the group. Survival outside the group was tough.

But we also want to be seen as different. I know that I want to be recognised as uniquely me. Whilst this seems like a contradiction, I think it is more like a delicate balancing act.

When we moved to Bathurst, I was conscious of the fact that I wanted to fit in, but I also wanted to not fit in so well that I became invisible. And I wanted to fit in with a diverse group of people. I didn’t want to only connect with retired people over 50. I also wanted to connect with younger people, people who are different to me.

how good are the apricots looking!

One of the good things about working was that I was engaging with (those are words from my work life) lots of different people. It was challenging at times, but it was also enriching. It is more difficult to find this sort of thing when retired, and even more so by being in a new town.  

I’ve found a lovely group of people through playing tennis. They are all women, they are all over 60, and they are all not working, but they come from a wide range of backgrounds and have varied opinions on things. Conversation around the morning tea table is active and entertaining. In fact, conversation on the tennis court can be so active and entertaining that we forget what the score is. Lucky none of us are playing for sheep stations!



cross-stitch Christmas decorations
also made by me for the craft shop

Speaking of sheep stations, since starting with the tennis girls, I’ve learnt more about sheep farming than I did in all the years I spent in Parkes. And last week at tennis as I stepped over the lamb tails on the ground as I walked to the tennis court, I realised it was the first time I’d ever seen that.

So back on the subject of fitting in, I’m fairly happy with my progress so far.  As well as the tennis girls, I’ve also found a group of people with an interest in craft, so that area of my

from the social pages
my niece and me at THE local coffee shop

interests is covered.

And I’ve made it to the social pages of the local paper! The tennis girls are so jealous – I’ve been here 5 minutes and am in the social pages, whilst some of them have been here for decades (or from birth, in one case) and still haven’t made it.

Now I just have to find a way to expand the circle so it includes some more different people. That might not be so easy. My hairdresser told me the other day that one of her other clients, also new to town, has found Bathurst to be a difficult town to make good social friends in. I’ll have to put in a real effort, then. I’m not sure how, both from the point of view of finding the people and finding the time. But watch this space!

Junk Food for My Brain

just some of the magazines I used to read

My name is Joy, and I’m a Woman’s Day reader. I first started reading the magazine as light relief on the bus on the way home from work. I thought it was a harmless pastime, but before I knew it, I found I had to buy it every week. I was in denial for quite some time, and even told people that I only bought the magazine for the crosswords and sudokus. But deep down, I knew I was addicted, and loved finding out about who was cheating on who, and who had put on (or lost) enormous amounts of weight, and who was only 28 and having a relationship with their long-lost 60-year-old father. And like all addictions, it didn’t just affect me – if not for people like me, creating a market for paparazzi photos, Posh and Becks could be living a normal life (yeah, right), a whole generation of people wouldn’t be scarred from seeing those photos of Fergie getting her toes sucked, and Diana might still be alive!

I should learn to chill out like Maggie

There you go, there should be a regular meeting for people like me, so we can share our stories of addiction to women’s magazines. Until recently, I hadn’t bought a Woman’s Day since just after we moved to Bathurst. Whilst my life has been busy, and it feels like I just don’t have enough time to do all the things I want to do, it must be the right kind of busy for me, and I must have enough time to just chill out, because I haven’t felt the need to feed my addiction.

When I was working, my brain had enough stimulation that in my down time, I needed something that didn’t require me to think too hard. It was like junk food for my brain, when I read the magazines. And the trivial crap in those magazines was just up my alley – my brain retains all that sort of stuff (Les hates playing Trivial Pursuit with me). Just like real junk food, brain junk food is empty calories – of no real benefit, but you feel good at the time.

a recent visitor -
this has absolutely no relevance to this post!

In my reading prior to retiring, it was said many times that it is important to keep exercising the brain. So since I stopped working, I’ve consciously tried to do just that. I have puzzle books so I can do a crossword, Sudoku, logic puzzle, or any of a number of other brain exercises, whenever I want to. Just recently, I discovered crossword puzzles that are mathematical, where I have to solve mathematical puzzles to find the answers, and they have to fit into a grid the same way as words have to fit into a normal crossword grid – brilliant fun! 

So I’ve been doing all the right things, and feeling pretty good about it all. But then, a week or so ago, I relapsed. Yup, I bought a Woman’s Day. And I hate myself for it. It feels like I’ve gone back to my old bad habits.

if you look carefully, you can see the green of
the pea shooting - my vegie garden project

But it was also educational. I can now see that there are limits to what I can do and continue to live the life I want to live. I can look back at what’s been happening for the last month or so, and learn that it was too much. I can see how out of balance it was, and the effect it has on me.

I can also learn to live with the fact that, just as I will always be addicted to chocolate, I will always be addicted to Woman’s Day. Is it really such a bad thing? I don’t think so. I allow myself the pleasure of a chocolate hit every now and then, and it is only a problem if I eat the whole block instead of just a few pieces. So with the magazine, I’ll only worry if I find myself considering getting a subscription (yes, I have done that in the past).

When I Grow Up

When I was a kid, what did I want to be when I grew up? I don’t remember. In fact, my childhood remains mostly a mystery to me. For some reason, I don’t have very many memories from then – just bits and pieces that make no sense as to why I remember them and not other, more significant things. I don’t know if this is normal, or not. But it’s me.

Anyway, I’m sure I was asked at various times what I wanted to be when I grew up. I have no idea what I might have said in reply to that. Both my parents were teachers, and that may have been a logical assumption as a career, but when it came time to choose something at the end of high school, teaching didn’t even get a look in – I knew by then that I didn’t have the patience for it.

I love walking in the National Parks

I don’t remember having a burning ambition to be anything in particular. But I do remember thinking that a park ranger in the national parks would be a cool thing to be. Back then, that sort of work wasn’t considered a worthwhile career – we certainly hadn’t really started thinking of the environment and national parks in the way that we do today. So when I was discouraged from pursuing that, I gave in pretty easily.

or walking anywhere in the bush

 

In the end, I studied accountancy at university. From there, I worked as an accountant, then a systems support analyst, and eventually a business analyst. I enjoyed the work, for the most part, but I think I was always waiting for that thing that really inspired me – what I wanted to be when I grew up.

Now I’m retired. And I’m still wondering what I will be when I grow up! I don’t think of myself as being middle-aged (well, being over 50 means that I am certainly in that category). In some respects, I still think of myself as being in my early 30s. When I was in my 20s, my mother commented that she still thought of herself as being 27, even though she must have been close to 50, if not older, at that time. So I’m not on my own in my delusion.

one of Mum's paintings

And being retired, I now have the time to spend doing lots of different things – trying to find my passion, maybe? My mum tells me that she also tried many different things. I remember her sketching – sitting on the sidelines whilst Dad played cricket or something. I remember her knitting, both by hand and on the knitting machine. I remember her decorating cakes (she used to get really cranky when we watched her doing it, so used to only do it at night when we were all in bed). I remember her sewing curtains, and cushion covers, and our beloved snake chair. So my memory mustn’t be too bad after all!

Falling into the category of things I know she has done but don’t remember her doing, are patchwork (she still has the pieces ready to be sewn into the quilt), and painting (her art-works are hung on the walls at home).

In the recent past, Mum has been a keen, and very good, photographer. She has made beaded jewellery. She has made her own greeting cards, often using her photographs. Who knows what else she has tried her hand at!

Mum and me (guess which is which!)

So now I know what I’m going to be when I grow up. Whether I like it or not, I’m going to be my mother.

What's in a Name?

A couple of weeks ago, Les and I drove back from Parkes along the back roads, as you do when you are retired and have all the time in the world. The trip took me on roads I’d never been on before, and through towns (or tiny little villages, to give them their correct description) I’d never heard of, let alone visited. It was a really pretty trip, but it got me thinking. There should be a regulation that insists that they (those mysterious people who do these things) include on town signs an explanation of how the town name came about.

what sort of rock would be cranky?

I love words, and as an extension to that, names. It interests me how much a name can influence how I think about something, without me even knowing what that thing is. I love finding out how names come to be.

this is the view at Cranky Rock - sort of what I expected

But getting back to our trip back from Parkes (named after Sir Henry Parkes, because he visited once).  Since I am the navigator, and as I said, we were on roads I’d never been on before, I had to rely on a map. The only map I had on hand was not very detailed, but good enough – how lost can you get, and we had a full tank of fuel? First stop after Canowindra (Aboriginal word, I’d been there before, and know how to pronounce it) was Mandurama (another Aboriginal word, don’t know how to pronounce it, didn’t know where it was, but the signs were there). All good so far.

But from Mandurama, I needed to get us to Barry (can pronounce it, but why on earth would there be a town called Barry?). Hadn’t heard of it before. Didn’t have a clue which direction it would be in. Thought for sure there would be a sign to point us in the right direction. No such luck.

But there was a sign for Neville. Why on earth would there be a town called Neville? Did the townsfolk have a falling out with Barry and become Neville fans? What are the chances I’d be on the right track towards Barry if I directed us to Neville? Turns out, pretty good.

Neville is, in fact, on the way to Barry, when driving west to east. Who knows why they (those mysterious people again) chose Barry to put on the map, but not Neville. The villages are much alike, as their names suggest. They are both VERY small. Neither has anything in particular to make it stand out. Except for the fact that they have names that are not really thought of as town names.

In fact, what else other than a person would be called Barry or Neville? I don’t think I’ve heard of anyone calling even a pet by either of those names.  But the names were very effective in setting my expectations for those villages. And the villages lived up to those expectations.


Chifley Dam - named for Ben Chifley
who lived in Bathurst

How often does that happen? For people as well as for things. I’ve heard of people who had a name picked out for their child, then changed their minds once the child was born, because “he just didn’t look like a Barry”. If they had named him Barry, would that have affected what sort of person he became?

The opposite is also true, though. There is talk around at the moment of changing the names of things as some people may find the current names offensive. One in this area is a road called “Curly Dick Road”. Sure, I had a little chuckle to myself when I saw it, but it is just a name (the road has lots of bends, and a man called Dick killed himself driving too fast around those bends). And it doesn’t change how the road is used. Why change it? Changing the name of something like that doesn’t change the thing.

What is my point? I’m not sure, really. Maybe it is just that I find names, and where they come from, and the way they affect how I think of things, fascinating.

By the way, according to Wikipedia (and I believe everything it says), Barry is probably named after a Caleb Barry who was the former bank manager of Blayney. I’m still searching for a reason for Neville.

It's a Small, Small World

Should I regret the purchase of
these as my gumboots?

I’ve often thought that it is a small world we live in, and that it’s risky to do something that I may regret because sure as eggs, someone who knows me will be there to see it. Even when I was travelling a long way from home, this thought was in my head.  I can’t say it ever really stopped me from doing anything, but I wouldn’t have been surprised if, just after I had done something, I’d heard a familiar voice call out “hey Joy!”.

My parents had an uncanny knack of running into people from Parkes, where I grew up, when travelling. They could be in Far North Queensland, or in Europe somewhere, only to run into someone who lives just up the road. Each didn’t know the other was travelling, so hadn’t arranged to be in the same place – it just happened. This was one of my first indicators that the world is small.

Then when I was working for a small company in Sydney (total employees of maybe 20?), my mother commented that the company must be going OK since we were hiring new people. Now that was information that was news to me, so how on earth did she know that? Turns out that the mother of the new employee lives directly opposite my Mum in Parkes, and they’d been chatting (as you do). I also knew the new guy quite well, because he had been in the same class at school as my little brother. Small World.

Then when I was leaving my last job to retire, I was asked to interview one of the people who had applied for my job. I thought I recognised the name, and sure enough, he turned out to be the husband of a good friend of my sister. Small World.

Turns out, Bathurst is part of this small world too.

When we moved to Bathurst, we went into the bank to change the address details on an account. We got chatting to the person who looked after us, as you do (well, we had to wait for the computer system to do stuff), and not only did he go to school in Parkes, but my father was his teacher. Small World.

Spectators at our tennis venue

Before we moved to Bathurst, we knew just one person who lived here (apart from Real Estate agents and the person we bought our home from, and they don’t really count). We’ve been here 3 ½ months now, so we know a few more, but still not a lot. Then we went to a Christmas in July dinner on the weekend, at a little village halfway between Bathurst and Lithgow. Since it was a fund-raiser for the Bush Fire Brigade there, and we were there because I play tennis with someone who lives there, I wasn’t really expecting to know anyone else. But within minutes of sitting down at our table, we discovered that the husband of one of the tennis people is the boss of that one person we knew. Small World.

Kevin Bacon has a lot to answer for (the Kevin Bacon effect – you know – six degrees of separation?). I am now convinced that the world is small, and getting smaller. I still won’t really stop from doing anything because of it, but take it from me – there is a big risk that just after I have done something, I’ll hear a familiar voice call out “hey Joy!”.

Cross-Training

No, I’m not talking about exercise. I am a firm believer in regular and varied exercise being an important part of living a healthy life, but the cross-training I’m talking about is concerning just about everything else!

a holiday in Africa - before Les - organised
by me!

Once upon a time I was an independent, self-sufficient, competent person, who capably looked after herself (well, most of the time). I paid all my bills on time. I organised my holidays. I kept my home reasonably neat and tidy (in between visits by the cleaner, but then at least I knew I wasn’t much good at housework, so knew to outsource it). I knew how much money I had in the bank. I could mow the lawn. I painted the inside of my house. I could even put the garbage bins out!

But then along came Les. One thing with sharing my life with someone is we share the various tasks that need doing. When one of us was working and the other wasn’t, the jobs were divided up based on that. For example, the person at home did more of the housework and cooking. But most of the time, we have either both been working, or both been not working, and as a result the separation of duties is more even.  But we don’t each do everything.

We both cook meals, shared fairly evenly. We both clean our home, shared fairly evenly. But over time, a lot of the other jobs have become done by just one of us. This hasn’t been a deliberate thing, but rather because either that one person likes doing that particular thing, or has a lower tolerance for it not being done.

even on holidays, Les does the washing

So now Les looks after all the finances. Les organises our holidays and short breaks. Les tends to put the washing on. Les puts the garbage out. Les mows the lawn. I don’t even have to think about those things. I don’t take them for granted (well, not much, anyway), but I know I don’t have to worry about them.

That’s not a bad thing. Les is very good at doing those things. But what happens if something happens to Les? Could I go back to being an independent, self-sufficient, competent person, who capably looks after herself? The answer is Yes, but not without a considerable struggle.

So when we retired, we thought it would be a good thing to cross-train. I learnt how to pay the bills so the power doesn’t get cut off. I learnt how to reconcile the credit cards. I watched in amazement at how Les researches our holidays. I learnt (the hard way) how the lawn mower choke has been put on backwards, so On means Off. I learnt that even though I know perfectly well when and how to put the garbage out, I will have to put a reminder in my diary so I remember to do it.

some of my cross-training - how to be
safe when working with power tools

I also learnt that there isn’t much that I do that Les doesn’t also do. Les doesn’t know how I organise my clothes, so can’t properly put away all the clothes after they’ve been washed. But that’s probably about it – not a major challenge for him if something happens to me.

Occasionally I get a refresher course in my cross-training, but mostly we have gone back to the same way of doing things. Maybe I should put more effort into practising those skills I don’t use very often, but it is so much easier to just let things go as they are. I'm not sure that's the best thing for Les – but it works pretty well for me!

Variety is the Spice of Life

I knew it had been a while since my last blog post, I just hadn’t realised how long. But that kind of fits in well with my topic this time – how I’m dealing with the fact that I have so many things to do and not enough time!

One of the things I was really looking forward to in retirement was having the time to spend doing all the things I wanted to do but couldn’t because I didn’t have enough time. I was spending all that time going to work. I had so many ideas, things I wanted to try, things I wanted to get better at. It was exciting to think I could do them – at last!


One interest - doing cross-stitch

Another interest - making cards

But, and of course there is a but, it hasn’t worked out that way. Yes, I have way more time to do all those things, but I still don’t have enough time. Maybe I have too many ideas, too many things I want to try, too many things I want to get better at. Maybe I should cut things from the list. But which should I cut?

laying out for the coffee table I
started over a year ago

Maybe I should focus on just a few things, and give them more time. Then I could do them “properly”. I’ve heard the phrase that it takes “10,000 hours of practice to perfect a skill”, and the thought of that is pretty scary. 10,000 hours is an awful lot of practice. That’s a full time job for more than 6 years! And that’s just for one thing.  I gave up work so I could spend time on more things, not less.

Getting back to my point, though, is it a problem that I have so many things I want to do? Sometimes, yes. Sometimes it gets a bit overwhelming, and it’s easier to do none of them than to decide which one to do. Sometimes I think that not spending lots of time on one thing, and flitting between many projects, is a bad thing.


I’ve envied people who have a passion in life. I don’t have one passion. I have many interests! As a result, I won’t ever be able to spend enough time on any of them to be great at them. Instead, I spend as much time on them as makes me happy. I will try not to be too critical of my efforts, though. I will try to remember that I don’t need to be perfect at the skills – good enough will do.

working on another interest - the vegie patch
(yes, it was cold)

In my work life, I did OK by knowing a little about a lot of things. And I enjoyed the kind of work I did because I got to talk to lots of different people, and find out how many different people did their jobs. That was hugely interesting to me. And people kept paying me to do it! So maybe being easily bored, and liking variety, aren’t faults – that’s just the way I am.


So mostly, no, I don’t think having so many things that interest me is a problem. I just can’t do them all now. I will have to live to about 150 to get them all done, though. At least I know now that the answer to the question people asked me when I retired – “Won’t you get bored?” – is No.

another interest - making mosaics

yet another interest - making bags

Actually, thinking about it, that phrase about “10,000 hours” may well be one that, through repetition, has gone from a catchy phrase someone thought up, to something people think is true. Don’t believe everything you hear!



Country Town Survival

I was born in a country town. Parkes, NSW, 2870, to be exact. I remember being taught that the population of the town was 7,000, which made Parkes better than Forbes, which was smaller, and better than Dubbo, which was bigger. Parkes was Just Right.

what Parkes is most known for - The Dish

I spent my whole childhood in Parkes, and only left to go to university in the Big Smoke of Sydney, but ended up staying there for work. My mother still lives in Parkes, and sees no reason why she should leave. My father was born there, and only moved away to go to teacher’s college, then to spend several years learning his craft at various schools around NSW. I think the biggest school he taught at was when he came back home and was at Parkes Primary. He taught in a lot of small country towns – I mean small as in he was the only teacher! Mum and Dad did spend a year on a teaching exchange in New Zealand, but even then, the place they went to was a small country town.

One constant topic of discussion in our small country town was how to keep the town alive. I can’t remember exactly, but back then, I think the concern was of what to do if the farmers couldn’t make a living, with the price of wheat and wool being so low. The flow on from this would be that the farmers would not spend money in the town, businesses would go bust, and the young people would leave the town to make a living in the city.

view of Parkes from Memorial Hill

Parkes was lucky, in a way, because a few things happened that meant the town has survived, and grown, in fact. Population now is around 10,000. Parkes was settled originally because of gold. Gold mining didn’t last all that long back then, but the farmers came along, and the town kept going. But just when farming might no longer support the town, improvements in mining techniques meant that a mine could be opened.

Add to this the Elvis Festival, and Parkes was back on the map!

But not much has really changed, all these years later. There is still the discussion – what about when the mine stops? And how long can Elvis keep pumping money into the local economy?

As time goes on, I think it gets harder to find answers. We are trying to balance the needs of so many – how do we campaign against a mine, when not having the mine means the town will die?

view along the Bylong road

I was thinking about all this on the weekend when we were driving back to Bathurst through the Bylong Valley. We stopped for lunch at Kandos, which only exists because of the existence of limestone in the area – Kandos was established by Cement Australia when they started quarrying the limestone and making it into cement.

The quarry was shut down in 2011. But the town still survives. Now, the population of the town is just over 1,000. The town sees itself as the gateway to the Wollemi National Park. The surrounding area, in fact the whole Bylong Valley, is a beautiful place. Again, though, it is fighting for survival.



another view along the Bylong road

Mining wants to come to the area. The locals don’t want it to (Bylong Valley Protection). But how could a town like Kandos survive without it? No quarry, anymore, so without the mine, how could people stay?

Having driven through the valley, I can see why the locals don’t want the mine – that beautiful landscape would be destroyed. Having had lunch at Kandos, I can see why they think they can survive without the mine. We ate in a lovely café that was the old railway station, converted into a café, bar, shop. That was only one of several cafés in town. And going by the number of brochures about things to do in the area, things are going along just fine.

Country towns seem to always be fighting for survival. But if Parkes and Kandos are anything to go by, there is always a way for them to keep going, if only the people who live there care enough to make it happen. We asked the person behind the counter in another of the cafés in Kandos what keeps the town going. Her reply? Love.

Country towns are such interesting places. I desperately hope they can continue to survive.

Coffee, and Rituals

I’m not a coffee snob. I draw the line at International Roast (it’s not really coffee, is it), but other than that, if it’s after 10:30am and I haven’t had a coffee yet, I’ll drink pretty much any kind of coffee. But I do have some preferences.

I like my coffee to be in a proper mug, not one of those takeaway things. I have been known to send a coffee back because I asked for it in a proper mug but it came in a takeaway one. If I have to have a takeaway (because I’m taking it away), I like it to be without a lid. I mean really, since I’m getting a cappuccino, there isn’t a lot of point if most of the creamy top of it, along with all the chocolate sprinkled on top, is stuck to the lid.

I like to have the time to actually enjoy my coffee. Savouring the creamy top and the lovely coffee flavour are a major reason why I love coffee. If I have to rush it, or do something else at the same time, I can’t do it justice.

My morning tea ritual

I like the creamy milk on top of my coffee to be just that – creamy. Not frothy, creamy. Frothy is just all air, and quite disappointing. I’d rather have a thin layer of creamy than a huge pile of frothy.

I like my coffee like Goldilocks does – not too hot, and not too cold, but Just Right! Too cold means I have to drink it faster than I’d like. Too hot means it burns my mouth and I have to wait for it to cool down a bit. Just Right means I can start sipping right away, taking my time to finish it, and not have it go cold before I do.

I like my coffee to have a bit of flavour. Sometimes the smell of the coffee is just wonderful, but the taste is a real let-down.

I like my coffee to come with a spoon. That way, I can spoon the creamy top off and “eat” it first, then sip the rest of the drink. Those paddle-pop stick things do a reasonable job if you just want to stir the coffee, but they just don’t work well as spoons.

We ritually take photos of our Kids, doing naughty things

But these preferences are just me. Most coffee drinkers have their preferences, and I don’t judge them if those preferences are not the same as mine. My Dad, for example, had a simple preference for “ordinary coffee with ordinary milk in it – none of that frothy crap” (that’s a direct quote from him ordering a coffee in a café on the North Shore in Sydney). A good friend always orders hers “extra hot, and if it isn’t hot enough, I’ll send it back”. Another friend always leaves half the cup.

But what do I do at home? Well, that is where the ritual comes in. I didn’t realise how much of a ritual it had become until I was thinking about routine in my day. Morning tea is a significant part of the routine. (Maybe I should call it “morning coffee”?) Coffee in the plunger. Taken to the Viewing Area (the name we have given to the part of our home that looks across the back yard to the farmland). Let sit for just the right amount of time, to brew and cool slightly. Poured into “my” mug. Topped up with creamy milk (Les gave me a milk frother for Christmas). Drinking chocolate sprinkled on top. Creamy milk eaten with a spoon. The remainder of the mug sipped as I chat with Les and look out at the world that is our view.

This ritual calms me. What more need I say?

Our Christmas Ritual - the Santa salt and pepper shakers,
the Christmas bonbons, the sparkling wine

We all have rituals. They help us feel safe. We get a bit tetchy when they are challenged, but that’s just because we are scared, and unsure of how we will cope with change. There’s nothing wrong with that, as long as we don’t hang on to those rituals at all costs. We need to know when to let them change, or even let them go.