I have spent a few hours of this good Friday reading the diary of my Great Aunt Dora. The story begins all full of the hopes of a young 18-year-old first-generation Australian girl whose parents had migrated from Germany to South Australia around 1877. I know her story, I knew and loved my great Aunt Dora. She will never marry. One of many women of her time, when, after World War 1, there were not enough men to go around. I imagine this is what life in the 1920’s was like for her, a maiden aunt caring for her parents.
Dora
She had one once. Before the war.
He came from Hamburg. A distant relative from the family.
But the Great War intruded. He was the enemy.
Interned. Never to return.
She perched on the bench in the Royal Botanical Gardens. Watching. Men promenading in pale pinstriped suits, on their arms women in their frilly-white Sunday best, giggling.
Easy for the men, she thought. Pick and choose. Pick and choose. Even the damaged men, the cripples, have a chance.
She sniffed.
What about me? Is that my future? Caring for my aging parents? No choice but to be an old maid?
Our next challenge in our road trip to Sydney in the Charger were car repairs. Car parts in the outback were not so available, and in the middle of summer, the group were feeling the heat and they were hungry.
Waiting for the Alternator
Mitch’s hopes turned to practicalities as the morning dragged on while we waited for another elusive item, the alternator. I figured that the alternator must be hiding in the same place that the roadhouse in Dubbo must be.
By the time my watch read 8am, us four who were not mechanics, once more headed down the main road to the town centre in search of a “deli” as we in South Australia call corner shops, or a supermarket of some description.
We found a supermarket come snack bar, and treated ourselves to a meat pie, chips and Famers Union iced coffee. Just the sort of food one has for breakfast after a grueling sleepless night. Mitch, appreciative of my mechanic brother’s efforts, brought him back the same fare as we had eaten.
Rick was leaning against the side of his precious Charger, still waiting for the elusive alternator.
A heated discussion ensued amongst the fellows. Mitch put forward that we could be using daylight to drive to Sydney.
Rick refuted that suggestion with, ‘Do you want to sleep in the car again?’
Jack began to raise his hand, but Mitch cut in. ‘No, you’re right, Rick.’
Rick went onto explain that the problem with faulty alternators is that they affect the battery. He described how in the short but slow drive to Dubbo, he drove the car in a lower gear to get the most out of the failing battery.
And so, we waited, sitting in what little shade the garage’s carpark afforded, waiting for the alternator to arrive.
Early afternoon, the sun’s heat beating down on us, Jack, Mitch, Cordelia and I again walked down to the main street for some lunch. Upon our return with stale ham sandwiches to share, Rick was hunched over under the Charger’s open bonnet.
I put my hands together in a half-hearted clap. ‘Hooray! The cavalry has arrived!’
‘No,’ Mitch had to be correct, ‘it’s the alternator.’
‘I had an idea how to repair the existing one,’ Rick said.
‘Hooray! Rick has worked out how to fix the alternator,’ I laughed.
‘You have a strange sense of humour,’ Cordelia said. ‘No wonder you find it hard to make friends, Lee-Anne.’
‘Praise the Lord!’ I raised my hands. ‘My brother can fix…’
‘Don’t make it worse,’ Cordelia said.
Perhaps she’s right, I thought, then took my sandwich pack, split from the “social police” before drifting over to Rick, to watch him as he operated on the car. Strange thing was, Mitch made a speedy dash away from Cordelia and followed me.
‘Hey, Rick,’ Mitch asked while hovering over his shoulder, ‘how long till you’re finished?’
Rick grunted in reply and swore.
I stepped back, knowing all too well not to crowd my brother when he was concentrating. Obviously, Mitch was not as aware. He leaned over Rick, blocking the sunlight from the engine. Rick poked out his tongue as he tackled a stubborn bolt.
Mitch stuck by Rick’s elbow. ‘Is that all you have to do?’
Where’s the social police now? Oh, there she is, staring at her sandwich and grimacing. She looked like a chipmunk.
I smiled observing Rick as he gritted his teeth and muttered expletives. Mitch seemed totally unaware that his attention wasn’t helping.
‘Bu#@%er!’ Rick cried.
A ping and a clunk, and the spanner dropped into the engine of no return.
‘What happened?’ Mitch asked all innocent.
Rick narrowed his eyes at his friend. ‘What do you think?’
‘Did you drop the spanner?’
‘Yes. And now I’m going to have fun getting it out.’
Mitch rubbed his hands together. ‘Can I help?’ Mitch loved to help.
A grin slowly formed on Rick’s face. ‘I think you can, Mitch.’
Mitch was dancing on the spot in anticipation. ‘How?’
‘See the engine?’
Mitch nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘I want you to find the spanner and pick it out for me.’ Rick wiped his sweaty brow. ‘This is hot and thirsty work and I need a drink and some lunch.’
‘Okay,’ Mitch said while studying the engine, ‘I can do that.’
In the shade of a scraggly bush by a low stone wall, I handed Rick a quarter of sandwich and bottle of Fanta. My brother and I sat on the wall and watched Mitch hunt for the spanner. Rick munched on his ham and relish sandwich, unperturbed by the dryness of bread and ham tasting too salty. He washed down some of the fizzy drink and then said, ‘Well, I better go and rescue Mitch.’
The sun travelled westwards, and shadows lengthened as the “quick” job took several hours to complete.
Just before the sun set, Rick rubbed his grease-covered hands on an old cloth and declared the vehicle ready for action. He hoped the battery would give us no trouble.
Once again, we piled in the car and Rick turned the ignition.
A squeak.
A sputter.
Then a roar.
The Charger puttered and shook as the engine turned over and the beast began to move out of the garage carpark.
We entered the main street, passing the store which had provided our breakfast and lunch. Closed for the night. Jack gazed at the store and sighed.
As if reading his mind and everyone else’s, Rick said, ‘We’ll need to drive for an hour or so before we stop.’
Mitch put on a brave face. ‘We’ll find a roadhouse sometime later tonight to have tea.’
We watched Dubbo’s Shell service station come roadhouse flit past as we left the town.
Sitting in the front passenger seat next to my brother who was driving, I pulled out the RAA strip map and flicked through the pages. Locating the one with Dubbo, I scanned the last few pages and calculated the distance and time to reach our destination.
‘According to the strip map, it will take us about six hours to reach Sydney,’ I said.
‘So,’ Mitch from the back replied, ‘we shall make it in time for the conference.’
‘Where, exactly is the conference?’ Jack asked.
‘Randwick Racecourse, if I remember correctly,’ Mitch said.
‘Where’s that?’ I asked.
‘Beats me,’ Rick said.
‘Do we have a map of Sydney?’ Mitch said with an edge to his voice.
Rick shrugged and planted his foot on the accelerator. The Charger roared to the highway’s maximum speed of 110 km/ph.
Cordelia who seemed to be quieter than her usual demur self (I guess she had no social mores to report on), clutched her stomach and whispered, ‘I don’t feel very well, I need to find a hospital.’
Slowing the car, Rick sighed and shook his head. ‘I guess we better go back to Dubbo.’
Tyres crunched on the gravel before he swung the car in an arc performing a seamless U-turn and headed back towards the twinkling lights of Dubbo.
I go to the shops as I do every second day. At the checkout, the girl asks, ‘And how has your day been?’
‘Busy,’ I say.
‘That’s good,’ the girl says with a sage nod as if involved in some conspiracy to keep me on the hamster wheel of busyness.
In the Twenty-first century world “busyness” is good. Not being busy, then, is undesirable. Our Western Protestant work ethic touts, ‘Idleness is the devil’s workshop’. The state of “idleness” is to be avoided at all costs. These days, we equate idleness with boredom.
‘I’m bored,’ say your children (so did mine, when they were children many years ago, back in the good ol’ 1990’s), and terror strikes at the heart of each mother when they hear these words. Bored? We can’t have our children bored—idle—just imagine what devils will come to play if we allow boredom to fester. First, the grizzling, then, the niggling at each other, and before long, World War Three amongst the siblings and the house ends up looking like the Apocalypse.
So, in my quieter times now, I reminisce the days as a young mother, structuring each day, every hour—especially during the holidays, to avoid boredom—any strategy to avoid my tribe from becoming restless.
‘What’s wrong with a bit of boredom,’ my mother would say. ‘They need to learn to entertain themselves, you know, use their imagination. Nothing wrong with being still for a while, I say.’
Mum should know, she grew up in the Centre of Australia on a mission in the 1940’s and ‘50’s. Those were the really good ol’ days with no shopping centres, no electronic games, nor television. They did have radio, but her minister father only allowed the news to be heard from it. Heaven forbid they listen to modern music. During the War, even the radio was confiscated by the allies. So all my mum as a girl had to entertain herself were books. Even so, the Protestant work ethic was a major value in mum’s family as her mother, when she found her daughter reading would say, ‘Isn’t there some housework you should be doing?’
As expected, then, I grow up in a world that values industry, productivity and filling each day to the full. The schools I attend are hot on producing good grades, projects and students who go on to university and become wealth-producing citizens.
Then, at sixteen, I have a revelation. We sing a chorus at church, “Be Still and know I am God”.
Being still…forget the homework…forget the housework…put aside my racing head of worries…centre my thoughts on God and his greatness. Pause for a moment and remember, God is God and He’s in control.
So at sixteen, I do just as the chorus bids. I hop on my deadly treadly (bike), and pedal down to the beach. I figure that’s the best place to be still; the waves lapping the sand, the sun on my back as I comb the shore for shells. Or on a sunny afternoon, I lie in the backyard and sunbake, think and ponder.
The result? Wow! Those mountains? School and pedantic teachers going on about uniform—my socks, my hair? Boyfriends or lack of them? Life and my future? …All my concerns become molehills.
December 1979, I write a poem “Be Still”. Perhaps not the greatest work of literature, but the values stick with me…until I embark on university, work, and then a family. The poem hides in a book of my teenage missives. Ten years ago, I pull it out for a devotion. I preach being still, but I fail to apply the principles. I must keep busy. If I stop, even for a few minutes, what will others think? There’s just too much to do. Everyone’s depending on me as wife, mother, bible study leader, committee member …to produce the goods. I can’t let them down.
The culture to keep moving is ingrained. Go to meet people for the first time and they ask, ‘What do you do?’ The doing has to have a dollar sign attached to it. Not enough to do all the above as a mother. Must produce money to have status in the group. Without status, I am not heard. Ironic how the under-valued creative arts of writing and painting, though, afford status. I am creating. I am producing.
Even so, in this creative phase of my life, if I stand still, I feel guilty. Now, there are novels to write and art to produce. My “work”. I’m on the hamster wheel, but I can’t get off.
However, in all the busyness expected of me, the cogs of my life are unravelling. I drive to a cafe to meet a friend. She’s not there. I’d forgotten my mobile phone. I drive the thirty-minute return home and check my phone and then ring her. I’d gone to the wrong place. A misunderstanding. If I had taken the time to listen and ask the right questions…
The voice of my sixteen-year-old self still convicts me. ‘Be Still’.
For over forty years, I’d not been following my own advice. After the misunderstanding of the other day, I give myself permission to have time each day to rest…Time to be still…time to know God.
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