Enduring Threads: part 19

Art School 1964-66

Hobart is a beautiful city tucked in under Mount Wellington and wrapped around the port and River Derwent. My mother made arrangements for me to board in North Hobart. Mrs Spencer, (mother of a friend of my aunts), was a widow and took in four young people. She was caring and an excellent cook, so we were all well looked-after. I had my own room.

Art School was more than I had hoped for. I was consumed living in another realm drawing and painting. Here I met Umberto Aureli, or Bert to his Australian friends. He was my teacher for first year lettering, a subject taken only that year.

The first week I went out with a different boy each day for lunch or dinner. My mother told me it sounded like the United Nations and that she wasn’t going to tell my father or else he’d bring me home. On the Wednesday, Christopher took me to a shop where they sold Vienna sausages in rolls with a choice of mustard. He suggested I go out with Bert, as he was part of their group. Chris was in a relationship with Priscilla, who had completed her art studies and was now teaching at Collegiate C of E Girls School.

The German, the American and the other boys (men!) were exciting, but I soon decided Chris was right. So from then on Bert and I became an item. I had my eighteenth birthday party at his parents’ house in Lenah Valley. Elfie cooked the most beautiful Black Forest cake. She cooked in the Austrian tradition for cakes and the Italian tradition for meals. Bert’s romantic Latin ways made me feel cherished, and I was treated like a princess. Kissing me in the street or anywhere else was perfectly normal for him. He also had a great gift for choosing appropriate presents (a talent his daughters later inherited).

Umberto in the late 60s

Umberto

Bert had come to Australia at the age of twenty-one. His parents had arrived a year earlier; the same year Bert won a scholarship to study medicine at the University of Bologna. He did first year medicine and then his parents encouraged him to migrate to Australia. Bert came, not realising the enormity of the change. As he’d learnt some English he started by picking out the words he understood in lectures. He soon realised that his ability and love of art out-shone his will to become a doctor. His father was furious, as every Italian father wants his son to be a doctor.

This caused a ruckus in the family. Bert attended the art school and continued belonging to the university ski club, where he also shone. Bert had a natural ability for graphic design and he excelled. His brother, Roberto, like me, was seven years younger than Bert, but still at school. It was Roberto who fulfilled his parents ‘dreams by completing a dentistry course at Sydney University, when his parents moved with him to Sydney.

The teachers at art school were professional artists. Jack Carrington Smith had just won the Archibald Prize with his portrait of Professor James McAuley. Miss Dorothy Stoner exhibited as a colourist and was a rather vague but charming painting and drawing teacher. Miss McCulloch was a rather intimidating character but full of amazing knowledge. One day she stormed into the drawing class after she’d discovered a student in the act of stealing drawing paper from the teachers’ store. ‘I’ve just discovered Chris Fooks rifling in my drawers!’ she exclaimed. Everyone burst into laughter at the colourful image she invoked. She was not amused.

Our main model was Mrs. Mead. She was a rather shy and reserved person but a very competent model; she had a rounded figure full of rhythm and was ideal to draw. In the cold weather, a little heater would be placed near her, and she’d slowly turn red in one patch until someone moved the heater before she actually started to cook. One day Tony Bowering  brought some chocolate to class as well as a very similar-looking laxative. ‘Would you like some chocolates Mrs. Mead?’ who took the proffered laxative, thinking it was chocolate. Very embarrassed, she soon had to excuse herself to Mr. Smith, several times. Of course this amused us all, not having any thought for the sensitivities of Mrs. Mead.

Geoff Parr became head of the Graphic Design Department and was a very good friend to Bert, appreciating his abilities. They had worked at Cadbury’s Chocolate Factory together in the holidays. When I started art school, Bert began his first year teaching lettering and completed drawing, the last subject for his diploma.

I decided not to tell my parents in advance about an early weekend away. A group of six of us went to the West Coast to stay at Trial Harbour. The first night was at Lake St. Claire in the free bunks available there. Next day, we travelled on to Trial Harbour.

Umberto's photo of Barbara knitting a tie.

Umberto’s photo of Barbara knitting a tie.

Bert and I were in his green VW Beetle, which broke down. We stopped some locals to ask about a mechanic, and it was the first time I’d heard such broad Australian accents spoken. I found it difficult to understand, as did Bert. ‘How’s yous goin?’ ‘Whatch yus want?’ They turned out to be helpful and friendly.

We had tents, which was rather brave considering the westerly winds that tore in off the ocean. Chris and Priscilla, and Robyn and Tony, put up their tents. The West Coast of Tasmania is known for it’s ferocious winds, and walking along this turbulent coastline was invigorating with the waves crashing and the froth flying onto the rocks and into our hair and faces. Listening to the turbulence and the tent flapping, as we snuggled up together in our sleeping bags for the night, was like being tossed by the sea. The final night we stayed at the parents’ house of a fellow student, Wendy, as Bert and I had to wait for the postman to take us back to Hobart in the early hours of Monday morning whilst the car was left to be fixed in Queenstown. We survived the scariest trip with the postman, who drove around those mountainous bends at top speed.

Art school was absorbing. We worked five full days and four nights a week, entranced by drawing and painting. They had other subjects like perspective and cast drawing, history and design, and modelling in first year. Hobart was a vibrant place to live, after the North West Coast. There were exhibitions and concerts to attend. They also had a cinema at North Hobart that showed alternative films. Clive joined Bert and me for movies. We’d know if he considered it a bad movie, as he’d sleep through it. Clive and I went to hear Segovia play, and he gave thirteen encores! What a brilliant guitarist, so modest. In contrast we went to see Nina and Fredrik, folk singers of recorded popular music, who were very disappointing in person. Perhaps they had a bad day, as we did like their recorded music.

Clive was very dedicated to his engineering course and studied hard. He lived at Christ College up behind the university, and we would visit him there. Once he told us about his latest prank, writing to Oral Roberts, a radio evangelist. Clive wrote about his sick sister, asking for money. He received an answer, ‘Dear Brother Roberts,’ with no money enclosed.

At the end of the first year there was an Art School Ball, a big affair. We all went to the Royal Theatre Costumier to hire costumes. I remember finding a frock with a fully gathered spotted skirt and decided I’d go as Mary Poppins, though I had no idea who she was or what the story was about. It didn’t matter. The costumes and wigs made us look magnificent. Taking on a role made it all the more mysterious; make-up gave us masks. It was good to see the staff fully participating and dressed up too.

Bert won several prizes whilst in Hobart; one was to design the tax stamps for the Tasmanian Government, another was for a poster competition. He continued his interests in rock climbing and caveneering. There is even a rock face on Mt Wellington named after him.

In my first year of portrait painting, a model chose to buy my painting. I was delighted as she paid me ten pounds ($20) and that was enough to buy a paint case full of oil paint. My parents had to pay for me to attend art school, so I was thrilled to be able to do this on my own. It also appealed to me because John Hayward’s sister was the model. John was head of the Art Teacher’s course, and he didn’t like me; and he had to hand me the money. He later became head of the whole school.

I guess I should tell you why John didn’t like me. There was competition between the Fine Art students and the Art Teacher students. John Hayward arranged an exhibition with Rothmans, (a cigarette company), with a monetary prize for his students, who were bonded to the education department and on a small stipend.

I wrote a letter to the Mercury newspaper asking why the Fine Art students were excluded, especially since we were a small number and we had no subsidy. John blamed Willy, a German student, and so I had to own up. He had it in for me from then on and was responsible for me failing one subject at the end of my course so that I did not receive a diploma. I had completed the four- year course in three years, but for one subject. I found it hard to forgive him for this, though it taught me a valuable lesson – not to be outspoken with people who can affect your study prospects.

One holiday break I arrived home and told my mother that I had invited two students to call in before catching the Princess (ferry) that went to Melbourne. I thought I’d better warn her that they were lesbians. My mother told me later that she had to go and look up ‘Lesbian’ in the dictionary. She didn’t know that they existed. That shows how little I knew before attending Art School.

The previous Christmas holidays, the boys from art school had taken jobs: raspberry picking and another year at an army camp. After I met Bert he would come and stay with our family, as he worked at Edgels factory at Quoiba with Christopher, packing peas. Christopher has many stories of this time: putting sweets in with the peas, and a note wishing people on the other side of the world a ‘Happy Christmas.’

I worked in Uncle Bob’s newsagency. Most of my pay went on green Penguin paperbacks. The Maigret series was a favourite.

In Hobart our group met Uto Ughi, a young and handsome violinist. Because he was Italian, and Bert’s mother, Elfi, worked with Mr. Bini, the Italian consul, we were given the privilege of entertaining Uto. Bert and I took him to Tony Woods and Chris’s studio in the city, where Uto freaked out as he had a phobia of birds. This surprised me for someone so famous and world-travelled. We played tennis on the Wrest Point tennis courts. That night we all attended his concert and Tino, Bert’s dad, took me back stage to get Uto’s autograph.

Scan 2

Whilst in Hobart I met Edith Holmes, a painter, school friend and contemporary of my grandmothers. She was so totally different from my grandmother, having bright red hair. Edith was devoted to her painting. I found her inspiring. She made me question: did I want to be a painter or a mother? I didn’t think it was possible to be good at both, and I didn’t want to be a mediocre painter. A dilemma.

My life at art school was probably schizoid, divided between being a mad party-loving student and attending Quaker meetings. When I first went to the Meeting House, there was a discussion group before the meeting. I happened to be in Margaret Wilkinson’s group. I asked if Quakers believed in reincarnation. She told me that she believed in reincarnation, but that Quakers had no set doctrine. She then asked if I’d like to join a Sunday afternoon book-reading and discussion group at her home. These discussions could be quite animated and helped develop insights into divergent ways of thinking. I liked the Quakers because they were not judgmental like many other Christians I’d met. The Meeting House became a refuge where I could gather my thoughts; calm could be restored. Bert would come with me to meetings. It was wonderful when someone would ‘speak to my condition’, as they so often did. This means that the person is moved to speak about something that is particularly meaningful, helpful or poignant to another’s inner need or problem. It’s as if telepathy is happening within the Meeting House.

An example of a simple message given during this time: an elderly woman stood and described her contemplation of a strong weed growing up in a cement crack in a footpath. She likened it to the strength of a prayer.

Annie Learoyd, an art student friend, was an orphan and lived with an older cousin who was interested in séances. There was so much to discover. It became quite scary when a friend of Annie’s was so scared that she couldn’t sleep without a light on. The cousin practised automatic writing and was looking up information she received in trance at the library. They seemed convinced that they had contact with ‘the other side’. Annie was sometimes reckless, driving through red lights.I wondered if losing her parents meant that life was less precious to her. She’d stop the car and let me out when I said that I’d prefer to walk.

One of our favourite haunts was called the Bistro, below street level. We’d all go there to drink the house red. We had no money for food other than bread, and that wasn’t adequate to sop up the alcohol. The owner was said to be a sadist, leaving his wheelchair-bound wife at home when he joined us to go to parties, so he didn’t object to us taking up space and getting drunk in his Bistro.

As students we would arrive at any party not knowing whose house it was. The first time getting drunk was disgusting; waking up, having been sick in bed. At least I didn’t ever vomit in bed again. The next day I arrived at art school looking very pale; the hangover took some getting over. I still can’t look at cherry brandy. I did avoid parties that were known to be drug parties, as I didn’t want to get caught up in that scene.

I am sorry that I have none of my paintings of this time. Not even photographs.

 

 

Copper Wire

A friend sent this e-mail, her partner is from New Zealand and proud of it.

COPPER WIRE
After having dug to a depth of 10 feet last year, British scientists
found traces of copper wire dating back 200 years and came to the
conclusion that their ancestors already had a telephone network more
than 150 years ago.

Not to be outdone by the Brit’s, in the weeks that followed, an
American
archaeologist dug to a depth of 20 feet, and shortly after, a story
published in the New York Times: “American archaeologists, finding
traces of 250-year-old copper wire, have concluded that their ancestors
already had an advanced high-tech communications network 50 years
earlier than the British”.

One week later, the New Zealand Herald, reported the following:
“After digging as deep as 30 feet in his backyard in Onerahi, Bill Paku
a self-taught archaeologist and avid Motorhomer reported that he
found absolutely fuck all. Paku has therefore concluded that 250 years
ago, New Zealand had already gone wireless.”

Just makes you bloody proud to be a Kiwi!

Enduring Threads: part 18

A year at home

External exams in the large city hall were very daunting. My mother kept her promise; I left after passing the Schools Board, happy to be away from boarding school. Matriculation wasn’t for me. Mum kept me home the following year. I did part of a typing course and also became totally absorbed in painting and drawing classes at the local Tech. Christopher talked me into going to art school. He painted my portrait in his holidays; but I later painted over it, never appreciating seeing myself, and I didn’t realise its future historical significance.

Religion had always interested me. ‘Why don’t you go to Bible College?’ the young minister asked, when he came to afternoon tea. I had so many questions, but he answered none. He was a total loss. I certainly didn’t want to go to Bible College.

Conventional religion didn’t answer my questions. There were so many things I couldn’t accept. It was the following year that I discovered the Quakers, or Friends. Questions were welcomed amongst Friends. Because they had no set dogma there were all sorts of interesting people attracted to the Meeting House. One accepted principle was pacifism, and this appealed to me. They supported the young conscripts who didn’t want to join the army and fight in Vietnam. My mother and two sisters had been sent to The Friends’ School, as my grandfather had greatly admired the Quakers. Here my mother’s distaste for meat was accepted, and she was able to go home and tell her family she no longer had to eat meat.

 

Barbara, David Brown, Mum, Lea Brown, Uncle Henry at 'Latin Quarter', my first night club. 28-6-1963

Barbara, David Brown, Mum, Lea Brown, Uncle Henry at ‘Latin Quarter’, my first night club. 28-6-1963

In the winter of 1963 Uncle Henry took my mother and me to Queensland for a holiday. We stopped in Melbourne and Sydney on the way, catching up with Henry’s friends in expensive restaurants. After dinner at my first night club, the Latin Quarter, we drove around Kings Cross looking at the night life.

Hiring a car in Brisbane we travelled up to Rockhampton and then west, where we met distant relatives on a large cattle station. Such generous hospitality seems to be the way of the outback. Their closely- knit family was essential for survival and happiness, living in such isolation.

 

Uncle Henry sailing to Stradbroke Island

Uncle Henry sailing to Stradbroke Island

We then holidayed at Surfer’s Paradise. The tropical fruits were delicious; feeding the parrots and watching the dolphins made the holiday seem exotic. Relaxing under palm trees, enjoying the warmth and tasting fresh coconuts, made the Tasmanian winter storms an unreality.

 

In Devonport, Vita Endelmanis helped me design smocks to wear at art school; also suggesting

Barbara at Hawley Beach pre-art school

Barbara at Hawley Beach pre-art school

how I could wear stockings and skivvies to match, underneath the smocks. It was good to have a mentor, as I’d never before been encouraged to think about any form of creative dress, or what might suit me. I loved black and coloured stockings.

Nigel, Graeme and Angus at Hawley Beach 1963

Nigel, Graeme and Angus at Hawley Beach 1963

 

Mrs. Westcombe, the butcher’s wife, was my chaperone when I went to the summer school in January before I started art school. We stayed at a small hotel nearby. It was an enjoyable and appropriate introduction to art school as it was held in the same Gothic building, as the art school, up on the Hobart Domain. Going out watercolour painting in Battery Point and starting my sketch- book helped me feel I was on the way to becoming an art student.

 

Nigel, Mum and Mrs. Westcombe at Hawley Beach

Nigel, Mum and Mrs. Westcombe at Hawley Beach

The year at home was wonderful. During the year I had a boyfriend called Des. I met him at an end-of-school year party in Sheffield. He wore a cadmium-yellow jumper, which suited him very well. He was studying a trades teaching course at Technical College in Hobart and I only saw him during holidays. We went to the drive-in. My mother warned me of what could happen there. I came home most disappointed or was it relieved? This friendship fizzled when I went to Hobart.

 

Enduring Threads: part 17

Selling the farm

Dad was devastated when the time came to sell the farm. Consecutive bad years meant that the farm was not paying its way. The decision to sell was my mother’s.

Dad’s depression following this was hard. He started working for a local builder, Gordon Ibbott, doing his books. Once he managed to get Gordon back on his feet, Dad became a marine and boat building chandler. He loved the sea and was a competent sailor. Getting out to sea suited him. We children were taken out to fish, but often my mother chose to stay home. His first fishing boat was ‘Sabrina’, and then the ‘Brenda’.

Sabrina, Dad's first fishing boat

Sabrina, Dad’s first fishing boat

‘She’s broad in the beam’, my father would say when asked why it was called that. In fact it was called that when he bought it. These boats helped restore Dad’s self- worth. We had many fishing expeditions in both fishing boats. Dad built a fibreglass dinghy in the sunroom, that was too big to get out, so the windows had to be removed to extricate it.

Once, in a storm, ‘Brenda’ was seen floating past the house. She was normally moored opposite the Elimatta Hotel in the Mersey River. Dad rushed out with the dinghy and rescued her.

Dad later bought ‘ Valkyrie’, a beautiful ketch, but I’d left home by then. He also built ‘Argos’, which took years and had to be recorked several times before it went in the water. These boats took the place of the farm by restoring Dad’s independence and need for occasional solitude.

Valkyrie on the Mersey

Valkyrie on the Mersey

One memorable expedition, Christopher and his father Eric Pyett accompanied Dad around to Ulverstone for a race to Devonport. Valkyrie was the biggest yacht in the race; so the Ulverstone Yacht club, put ‘a rooster’, as Dad called him, on board to see that there was no foul play.

Dad silently objected by going below to make a cup of tea. He was always partial to a cuppa. By the time they had had their tea, the other boats had left, and Dad appeared unconcerned, ‘They appear to have left us behind!’

Christopher being competitive was totally frustrated. Eric and Frank enjoyed the trip, but the man was dropped unceremoniously on the Ulverstone wharf, where they had to return him.

Angus said the only time he remembers Dad swearing was when he was below in Valkyrie. As

Mum and Dad on Valkyrie

Mum and Dad on Valkyrie

he checked the speedo log, he said, ‘this thing is f****d!’ Valkyrie was eventually sold to some Victorians, who sailed her back to Victoria, only to sink her on the coast line on their return.

Later in the 70s Dad moved shop. Gordon built another shop with materials from some demolition work, and Dad was more than willing to utilise the materials. Here at East Devonport they built a solar panel shop with slow combustion heaters on one side. His marine shop moved to the other half, next door. Nigel worked with my Father, so they ran the businesses together. Dad was always interested in the environment. His organic garden with chooks flourished; this was well before Permaculture became popular.

Devonport developed; there was now an arcade next to Churches’ jeweller’s shop. That was the arcade my father told Christopher not to visit on a Friday night, ‘ Be careful lad, don’t go there, it’s the tunnel of love.’

 

Enduring Threads: part 16

Salt and Salts

I was fourteen when I housekept in the holidays for my Uncle Henry at ‘Cheverton’. This holiday helped me develop my cooking skills. He shared my grandmother’s habits and rituals, so I attempted to do the right thing. For instance, when I cooked pineapple meringue tart it was considered far too extravagant. With my wings clipped, I no longer tried to cook the extravagant; I’d complete the most obvious chores and then read. ‘Jamaica Inn’, was one of the novels I found on the bookshelf, followed by ‘Rebecca’. To cover my lack of interest in cleaning, I’d arrange flowers to make the house look more homely.

Outside we’d pick up the frozen newborn lambs that had been rejected and bring them back to the house to put them in the Aga warming oven till they thawed. They had to be bottle fed, and then we’d take them back and smear them with mess from another dead lamb, to give the right scent, so that an unsuspecting but accommodating ewe, who had lost her own lamb, would take one or two on as her own. I loved feeding the lambs.

Henry invited an old friend over for dinner. I put the leg of lamb in early to make sure it would be cooked. Henry had warned me that if it cooked too long it would shrink. It was nerve-racking guessing how long to cook things. Mint sauce made, gravy made, and potatoes crispy – it all looked perfect until we tasted it. The salted beans had not been rinsed enough. Not only were they salty but the gravy was also contaminated. I felt so disappointed. The men laughed and drank their way through dinner, as I squirmed, knowing it tasted briny.

Taking morning tea to the shearers the next morning didn’t improve my status. There were jars in the cupboard, all white. I’d hurriedly taken the unlabelled Epsom salts jar instead of the sugar for the shearers to put in their tea.

Henry’s bachelor neighbour, Mr. Brown, had never seen the sea. Henry decided one day to take him to see the ocean at the Bluff at Devonport. When he arrived, Mr. Brown was silent. Henry said,

‘Well, what do you think’?

Mr. Brown drawled, ‘It covers a lot of land.’

 

 

 

 

Enduring Threads: part 15

Angus

Angus

A Reprieve

Nigel, Barbara, Angus, Clive and Graeme. Robinson Studio photo 1958 (Barbara cutting her fringe as usual before photo)

Nigel, Barbara, Angus, Clive and Graeme.
Robinson Studio photo 1958 (Barbara cutting her fringe as usual before photo)

Looking forward to holidays made the school year bearable. We’d go to the farm at East Sassafras where we children would stay in the old house, whilst our parents slept in the new house. We helped paint the old house inside; yellow and grey in the boy’s bunkroom, and pink and blue in my room. How hideous it sounds now, (fashionable 50s colours). The open door to the outside veranda let the possums in, with their shiny black eyes reflecting in the firelight. Both bedrooms had a fireplace that I delighted in lighting. That love of an open fire remains with me. There was magic about the place. The gnarled old apple tree was the backdrop to our lunches outside in the sunshine. Winter days I picked masses of yellow daffodils growing wild. Arranging these inside radiated a warm glow, brightened the very dark kitchen with the camp oven. The windmill overgrown with an old-fashioned pink cabbage rose filled a fron garden.

One sad holiday, Rummy, our Cocker Spaniel, who was getting old and slow, didn’t manage to keep up with the Land Rover. It was one of the few occasions I remember Clive crying. It was a wet, cold month, but the daffodils bravely flowered.

Frank, Clive and Barbara Graeme, Brenda, Nigel and Angus on the farm.

Frank, Clive and Barbara
Graeme, Brenda, Nigel
and Angus on the farm.

There were always plenty of jobs to be done. Milking I decided not to be good at, as I really didn’t want that responsibility. My father milked the cows by hand. Feeding out was something

Angus and Nigel

Angus and Nigel

we all enjoyed, throwing hay from the back of the Land Rover. Learning to drive was fun, and we learnt as soon as our legs were long enough. Once I drove Uncle Bob, (before he married my aunt), to show him around the farm. I took him over Greens Creek and ended up bogged, and both of us had to walk through the mud to organise the tractor to rescue the Land Rover.

Only once do I remember my father getting angry. We children had all gone around the swampy area with firebrands, burning what we thought was just a swamp area, but Dad had just finished planting out new trees, and we managed to destroy them. I can’t remember any consequences, though knowing Dad was angry was enough to subdue us for some time.

Christopher often used to ride his bike out to the farm for the holidays. He says it was about a three- hour ride, though he is inclined to exaggerate. We’d play Monopoly and Ludo by the fire in the old house on stormy days. Clive and Chris would cheat, and Clive had a terrible temper if he didn’t win. Chris was also competitive, so it was always interesting. Christopher would

Baby Angus on the farm

Baby Angus on the farm

sometimes creep into my bedroom after the boys were asleep. He’d lie on top of the bed, sharing my pillow as we quietly talked into the wee hours, watching the shadows from the fire play on the ceiling. He introduced ideas I’d never heard of, like ‘pop’ music. Our fathers only listened to classical music. I had so much to learn.

Walking around the farm we’d sing songs, pick mushrooms, burst stomachs of dead sheep and collect wild flowers. Mary Mayguard helped housekeep for Dad and Graeme White whilst they were living at the farm when Mum wasn’t there. Mary helped around the farm too. We called her Mary Mudguard as she rode a motorbike.

Scan

The Mersey River with Princesss, (ferry) passing our house on Victoria Parade.

Sometimes the first long weekend in the year fell on my birthday. There was an Apex carnival held in Devonport on Victoria Parade that weekend. The man who ran the Ferris wheel would give us free rides before the carnival officially opened. It was always very exciting, and during my school years I was sad to be dragged away to return on the bus to school in Launceston.

Graeme boarded with (Great) Auntie Mynie for part of this time, so that he could attend the primary school in Devonport whilst Mum went to the farm. As a middle child, he probably felt undervalued. He was good-looking and clever too, like Clive. He excelled at school and became a prefect at Scotch College and then went on to study engineering at university, also like Clive.

Nigel and Angus went to Scotch, following in Graeme and Clive’s footsteps. The new principal was a single man. During their time at Scotch, a fire broke out in the boarding house. The house- master’s paedophile activities were uncovered by the discovery of photos hidden in a wall, of him-self with some of the boys. I don’t know if Angus and Nigel were involved but they were brought home to the local high school. Nigel’s best friend committed suicide. It was a terrible time, especially for Nigel.


 

A misused word: daily prompt

A misused word….

An incident from childhood that remains with me, is from my youngest brother.

Angus was the youngest of five children. My mother was often too busy to put him to bed, so I’d help. Angus was such a mischievous and adorable child. We’d say prayers before going to sleep and Angus’ version really cracked us up.

Instead of ending with , ‘For Christ’s sake, Amen.’

He’d say, ‘For Christ’s sake, come in!’

We didn’t enlighten him that these were the wrong words…. I’ve included this incident in Enduring Threads: part 13

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/uncanned-laughter/