ARE YOU MISSING HALF THE STORIES?

You could be missing quite a lot if you are only reading this blog, and not following As They Were, which is predominantly Irish history and Irish news, or Irish Graves - those who sleep in foreign lands.

These two blogs can be found at

http://astheywere.blogspot.com/ and

http://irishgraves.blogspot.com.au/

On each blog, there is also a list of suggested blogs and sites which may interest you.

Enjoy and please feel free to tell me of your interests.

The Green Thing

In the line at the supermarket, the cashier told an older woman that she should bring her own grocery bags because plastic bags weren't good for the environment. 

The woman apologized to him and explained, "We didn't have the green thing back in my day."

The clerk responded, "That's our problem today.  Your generation did not care enough to save our environment."

She was right -- our generation didn't have the green thing in its day.

Back then, we returned milk bottles, soft drink bottles and beer bottles. They were then sent them back to the plant to be washed and sterilized and refilled, so it could use the same bottles over and over.  So they really were recycled.

But we didn't have the green thing back in our day.

We walked up stairs, because we didn't have an escalator in every shop and office building. We walked to the grocery shop and didn't climb into a 300-horsepower machine every time we had to go two streets.

But she was right. We didn't have the green thing in our day.

Back then, we washed the baby's nappies because we didn't have the throw-away kind.  We dried clothes on a line, not in an energy gobbling machine burning up 220 volts -- wind and solar power really did dry the clothes.  Kids got hand-me-down clothes from their brothers or sisters, not always brand-new clothing.


But that old lady is right; we didn't have the green thing back in our day.

Back then, we had one TV, or radio, in the house -- not a TV in every room. And the TV had a small screen (remember them?), not a screen the size of Tasmania. 

In the kitchen, we blended and stirred by hand because we didn't have electric machines to do everything for us. 

When we packaged a fragile item to send in the mail, we used a wadded up old newspaper to cushion it, not Styrofoam or plastic bubble wrap.   

Back then, we didn't fire up an engine and burn fuel just to cut the lawn. We used a push mower that ran on human power. 


We exercised by working so we didn't need to go to a health club to run on treadmills that operate on electricity.

But she's right; we didn't have the green thing back then.

We drank water from a fountain when we were thirsty instead of using a cup or a plastic bottle every time we had a drink. 

We refilled writing pens with ink instead of buying a new pen, and we replaced the razor blades in a razor instead of throwing away the whole razor just because the blade got dull.

But we didn't have the green thing back then.

Back then, people took the bus and kids rode their bikes to school or walked instead of turning their mothers into a 24-hour taxi service. 

We had one electrical outlet in a room, not an entire bank of sockets to power a dozen appliances.  And we didn't need a computerized gadget to receive a signal beamed from satellites 2,000 miles out in space in order to find the nearest pizza place.

But isn't it sad the current generation laments how wasteful we older people were just because we didn't have the green thing back then?

A LINK WITH THE PAST

                                                  

A little bit of the past was brought home to me today

wrapped in brown paper, caring and love.

Black and white, pen had captured the spirit of the past

a once grand hotel, the Bellevue, lives again

in the glory of the artist's pen

wrapped grandly in old lace

standing in majestic splendour

beckoning to memories of a bygone era…

pleading to be remembered, for the years it served

until it was destroyed in the dead of night

complete with memories and the anguish

of all those who mourned it's untimely demise.

Accompanying it was an older sketch of memories,

fondly known as the Windmill.

It was sketched in old style, with scenes

evoking thoughts of those who knew our town

so long ago.

What would it have been like to live then?

Alas, we'll never know, but we can still dream,

providing our city fathers leave us some links

with the past, with our heritage.

A little bit of the past was brought home to me today

wrapped in brown paper, caring and love.

Crissouli (c)

THE GIFT

It's such a peaceful time, when they're all tucked up in bed.

As I sit and ponder, breathing in the still night air

I wonder how many kindred souls

soak up these precious hours....

No demands on my time

no one to disturb my train of thought

no interruptions from a television

that simply must be switched on

doesn't anyone sit in silence anymore?

I love to read, but I do it quietly, 

so as not to disturb others

but they...?

Never mind, I enjoyed the dream.

I'm alone with my thoughts

yet not lonely

for, as a bard so long ago said

" 'tis such stuff as dreams are made of ".

A dog barks in the distance

assuring the night he's still in command.

A car door slams

coming... or going? It matters not

then all is still.

As I sit among my potted plants

a cicada serenades the stars

daring them to find his hiding place.

The soft, sweet scent of frangipanni

mingles with the heady scent of jasmine

the ferns are gently stirred by an elusive breeze

the worries of the day are far away.

How I love the still of the night

God's gift to frazzled souls.

Crissouli (c)

ROSEMARY AND MEMORIES

Anzac Day, 25th April, was always a day of great significance in my family. 

Three of my father's brothers had gone to World War II and all  had returned, for which we were always grateful. My maternal grandfather  had served in WWI, as had many of my ancestors and, as I was to learn  when I began researching, many of my family, some whom I didn't know,  had also fought in various wars. I had a second cousin captured in  Singapore, who was to die there. So it was with great pride, that we  wore our sprig of rosemary, pinned to our Sunday best and marched in the annual parade with our heads held high.

I grew up in a small country seaside town in NSW, where the war monument took pride of place in the bottom corner of our school grounds, at the main intersection in town. It was suitably fenced off, and we were always taught to respect it. We were too young to understand what war really was, or where ANZAC Cove was...it was just over there... not in Australia. That meant not on the same page as Australia was, in our blue covered school Atlas, so it must have been a long way away. Papua New Guinea however was close by, so we more or less understood that it was at the top of Australia... no Google maps in the '50s. That's where Dad's three brothers had fought.

We went to the morning services only, as the dawn service was only for  the returned soldiers in the main then. We could never understand why they needed to have two services, after all we held a march before we  laid wreaths at the war memorial. It was with sombre faces that the chosen children would lay a wreath. Then it was three steps backwards,  bow your head and wait... for either your parents, or a member of the RSL (Returned Services League), to tap you gently on the shoulder and you would return to your place. I can still hear the haunting sounds of The  Last Post being played on the bugle, accompanied by quiet sobbing from  many gathered around, particularly one of the older women, who had lost  three sons in WWI. She held her head high, but the tears rolled freely  down her cheeks. Hers was always the last wreath to be laid. Each year,  she would place a wreath of hand made red crepe poppies, with three white poppies in the centre, one for each son. Then she would quietly  take the sprig of rosemary from her dress and lay it at the base of the  memorial on the side where her son's names were and walk home alone. She  had many friends, but kindly declined their offers of company and spent  this day alone. When she passed away, her grave was honoured with white handmade crepe paper poppies... and a sprig of rosemary. 

Crissouli (c)

UNTOLD TREASURES

I wonder what they, the people of my grandparent's and great grandparent's generations would think of the way we live today...

Would they be overwhelmed by what we consider necessities? As I worked in my daughter's new home, helping prepare things for packing prior to a move overseas, I couldn't help but ponder. I have the suitcase that my grandfather brought with him from Greece, carrying all he needed... not very large... and I was thinking of this, as we were working out how much 6 cubic metres would be. This is just the basic shipping allowance that had been determined to cover mainly the children's toys, a few small items of their child size furniture, books, DVDs, etc. It didn't include the three large suitcases, plus assorted backpacks, cabin bags, etc. that would be taken on the flight as personal luggage, with possibly an extra suitcase to be added and paid for under excess baggage. Nor did it include the bulk of the family possessions that were going in to storage for the next two years.

The downsized apartment that they are moving to would have seemed so luxurious to my ancestors...my grandfather built his family's home in a small country town, with some aid from his eldest son, then aged 13. It consisted of a kitchen, two bedrooms and a bathroom, added to over the years to include a verandah, lounge room and an office, tiny as it was, with beds on the verandahs. It was considered quite adequate to house a family of 11, yet the whole place would have more than happily fitted into the downstairs floor of my daughter's home.

It was built of timber slabs, the gaps in between the timber were caulked with old newspapers, torn and pasted with a mixture of flour and water. It didn't have a fan forced oven, just a wood stove which was always alight, always with a kettle boiling on the side and, it seemed, a stockpot, or large pot of soup. The cakes and scones that came from that oven were incredibly mouth watering... no thermostat or temperature controls, just years of experience that led to production of the perfect biscuits or the tantalising roasts.

No foyer chandeliers, just hurricane lamps, or candles, lit the home, prior to electricity, yet what a wonderful atmosphere they provided. I always loved nights at my grandparent's home, I always felt cosy and safe.

A copper served the laundry needs of this large family, as well as providing hot water and coming in very handy at Christmas for boiling the puddings. Try doing that in a water saving fully automatic washing machine! Would they have happily swapped their meat safe, cooled by wet hessian bags draped from the top and over the sides for a stainless steel refrigerator/freezer combination that delivers ice in cubes or crushed, as well as perfectly chilled water, without having to open the door... I'm sure my grandmother would have been taken aback with a buzzer that warns that the temperature is rising as the door has been opened too long!

My own home is also much larger, though by no means a large home. We feel crowded with three adults, admittedly we have two households and all that entails, stored in one. Yet we have room for computers, several sound systems, televisions and all the paraphernalia considered normal today.

I grew up in what was basically a two room house, with a laundry/shower and a small extra room that was used for a bedroom, though it barely held a 3/4 bed. There was always room for family and friends to stay though. We had some great times when my aunt and uncle and three sons came to stay... it seemed there were bodies everywhere, but what fun we had, and what a great excuse to giggle a lot.

As each generation prospers more than the last, it is not the trimmings or the gadgets or the size of the home that matters, rather the treasures within are what they have always been... that is the love and respect that is taught and fostered within a family. That, my friends, is the true treasure of a home.

Crissouli © 2007

INHERITANCE

"What will be mine, Nan?" An innocent question from a six year old... "What do you mean, what will be yours?" "When you live in Heaven instead of this house, what will be mine?"

We'd often chatted about what would be hers 'one day' as we dusted or put things away, or even as we shared morning or afternoon tea. I'm not a great one for putting things aside for good. I'd rather my family and friends get the enjoyment from special china, nice linen or any other good items. I'm sure my granddaughter will remember using beautiful china with special times with Nan, much more than she will recall seeing lovely things in a cupboard. So we use the best china, on a handworked linen cloth, perhaps embroidered by me, or maybe by her great great grandmother... nothing has been broken, without the need for constant warnings. I just tell her and my four year old grandson to take care, as these things will be theirs one day.

The question was repeated... so that began a game. "Will this be mine?" "No, that will be your brother's.." "What about this?" and so it went on. I took a key off the peg on the wall and asked her what it was. She said it was for my grandfather's house..almost right. The key belonged to the lock of the office Papauli built, in the house he built. She's heard the story many times before, but like all children, loved the repetition.. so began a morning of memories. I showed her the family photos and she picked out my grandfather, then we looked at the key and the suitcase. 

The case isn't very large, about the size of what we would call an overnight bag..it was this beautiful, leather case, heavy with it's wooden frame and still in perfect condition, that Papauli brought all he had to Australia from Kythera in 1904. He scratched his initials on the brass locks, whether with pride or for security, I'll never know. What did he pack?  He was from the village of Potamos, newly married.. a farmer, trying to eke out a living in what was virtually a barren land. Australia must have seemed like the Promised land. I was only five when he died, too young to know the questions to ask, those I would like to now. He was a very proud, hard working man, like so many of his fellow Kytherians. Perhaps a clean shirt or two, maybe some extra trousers, a razor and other essentials...something from home as a keepsake...was this what he packed, as he prepared to leave the land of his birth? How do you do that, head off to an unknown land, knowing that in all likelihood, you will never see your family again... not your parents, nor your four siblings? The only time he'd left home before was when he was a guard at The Greek Palace in Athens, but this was certainly different.

At 26 years old, with determination, sadness, memories and courage, he left his young wife and sailed to the other side of the world. So began the journey that took him first to a cafe in Sydney, run by fellow Greeks, then after learning all he could, he saved whatever he could manage and eventually, some years later, brought his wife out from Kythera to join him. When she was pregnant with their first child, to be a boy, they moved to the Lismore area, to try their luck at farming. From there, to Bellingen, where two more children were born. Here, this young man ran a cafe in conjunction with a cousin, then later moved to Aberdeen, in country NSW, and more farming.. and more children... six in all, but one lost at a very early age. Before Aberdeen, his wife had planned a visit back home to Kythera, with three young children. That trip was never to be, as she gave birth in Perth to another daughter, her second.

I told all this to my granddaughter, then told her how the last move for this family, including her much loved Great Grandad, was to the mid north coast of NSW. She rubbed the suitcase with her tiny hands and told me that if I don't need the suitcase to go to Heaven in a very long time away, she would look after it for my grandfather and then tell her granddaughter where it came from. 

"What will be yours, sweet child? All the love and courage, the strength and the caring that helped build your family.. and you can have the suitcase to keep it all in!"

Crissouli (c) 2006