Category Archives: Photographs

Computer troubles overcome:

Having been off the air for some time, I forgot to mention that my beloved contacted a firm to help me resolve my computer problems.

MacKeepers are a firm who assist Apple owners resolve their problems remotely. I had lost use of my iPhotos and not being resourceful and wanting to go out of my way, instead found other things to keep me occupied, rather than fix the problem. The first man to help lived in the Ukraine. By paying rather a lot, I now have oversight of my computer without having to worry about new bugs invading. The first help took 13 hours to rectify the 2052 problems and freed up some GBs. It is now in the regular helpful hands of MacKeepers who are also at the end of the telephone if I have questions or problems. This is a wonderful service and I really am grateful to have the computer back. Of course there are lessons for me to learn to help keep my computer healthy. I have utilised this telephone service once and the man was very patient and talked me through, seeing what was on my screen he could see what the problem was.

The relief is enormous. I hadn’t realised just how much it was bothering me subconsciously.

Here are a few more photos, left over from my last post of our visit to Arthurs Seat, Mornington Peninsula.

Tree surfing

Tree surfing

One of the Mazes at Enchanted Adventure Garden

One of the Mazes at Enchanted Adventure Garden

The Fairy Garden

The Fairy Garden

Cherio from M & J

Cherio from M & J

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Easter holidays over:

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safety instructions

safety instructions

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These holidays coincided with our grandson’s 8th birthday. Jack and Mackenzie really enjoyed the water park, and on Jack’s birthday we went to Arthurs Seat on the Mornington Peninsula. Here they have lots of child friendly activities. It was the first time we’d been. Tree surfing for nippers included being suspended in the trees with a harness with many challenging obstacle courses ending with a wonderful zip, or flying fox after each course. There were three courses for the young nippers and it took about an hour. The adult course looks very hairy and that takes two hours, though that wasn’t for us.
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After a picnic lunch we then discovered the many mazes and some slides that were in constant use. Carrying the blowup tubes to the top of the hill was part of the experience. Exhausting grandparents who just gazed and children who climbed again and again.
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The gardens were beautifully maintained and my favourite part was the Japanese garden. My photos don’t do it justice. Having our grandchildren over to stay makes us realize why people have children when they are young.

Farewell:

Life has become very exciting. My beloved had an article written about himself and his work by Andrea Louise Thomas for a Mornington Peninsula paper called ‘Mint.’ This young woman, a poet, came into our lives like a hurricane. After much talk, we were encouraged to see the play, ‘Hamlet’, directed by Damien Ryan for the Bell Shakespeare Company. A really fresh approach was taken as a modern day thriller, with modern dress and a simple but magnificent set. This brought back memories of my student days.

Thursday I joined a Writing Skills workshop from 9.15-2.30 in Sandringham, an hour from where we live. The tutor, Claire Gaskin, is also a poet. Her class is inspirational. The group is full of keen writers of different genres, all willing to help one another. I had taken the first couple of chapters of my book, and with their input, I’m totally rewriting it! Besides rewriting, there is homework. Five questions, and then a 500-word short story. So this ten-week course is certainly helping me to refresh my ideas.

Thursday night we went to hear Rosie Batty, Australian of the Year, talk with Jon Faine, an ABC radio personality, in Mornington. Rosie was launching her book, ‘A Mother’s Story’, which I have read. It is inspiring to read and hear how she overcame so much and is continuing to work bringing family violence to the fore. Laws need to be changed and much has begun to change already.

Friday night Christopher had his painting in the Salon des Refuse´s, opening in Mornington. It was a big crowd and Rosie Batty opened the exhibition.

Mornington Gallery Photo: Susan Gordon-Brown

Mornington Gallery
Photo: Susan Gordon-Brown

This is the piece that I wrote for my writing class that had to start with, ‘And we’d been so clever,’ that links into the story above.

And we’d been so clever sitting in the second row, out of the limelight. The woman in the front row turned around and denounced my husband’s painting. ‘It’s a terrible painting. I ‘m familiar with Rosie Batty and that’s not her, she is such a strong woman. It’s a complete dirge, just look at it!’

My husband said, ‘That’s an old word.’

‘Yes, I’ve an understanding of words and I’m prepared to use them.’

My husband eggs her on some more,

‘Yes, she wears black glasses and here she’s wearing really light ones.’

The woman finding a ready audience really steamed ahead.

The speeches started and very soon Christopher is pointed out as the artist of the Rosie painting. The redness rose from her neck to her hairline in total embarrassment. She turned around to apologise at the end of the speeches, and Chris dismissed her, saying,

‘Don’t bother, I’m used to it,’ and walked off. It made our night seeing this haughty woman squirm.

Barbara, Christopher Pyett and Rosie Batty Mornington Gallery photo: Susan Gordon- Brown

Barbara, Christopher Pyett and Rosie Batty at Mornington Gallery with Rosie’s portrait
photo: Susan Gordon- Brown

The painting looks very light and doesn’t photograph well, but it has some amazing detail if closely examined. Chris found it a deeply spiritual experience painting Rosie.

This shall be my last post for some time. I have been having computer problems, and continue to have them. So I’m going to have to learn to use a new laptop. I am not sure if the number of e-mails has been choking my computer, so I am cutting off for the present. I shall miss you all, but am sure one day I’ll get this computer business sorted out.

Thank you all for being my friends from afar and I wish you all well with your writing and blogging. Adieu for the present!

 

Waterhouse Island for sale:

http://www.themercury.com.au/lifestyle/rare-chance-to-snap-up-waterhouse-island-off-north-east-tasmania-for-55m-plus/story-fnj64ocs-1227552310180

The above article shows pictures of Waterhouse Island, off the Northern coast of Tasmania. My brother, Clive, saw an add for this island back in the 1970s and determined to buy it. My father and brother, Nigel, plus a cousin, Rod, and some friends were roped into the project. Clive and Dad were the ones who maintained the property, keeping sheep to pay off the island. They spent many years planting trees and won a Greening Australia award for their efforts. The fairy penguins and Cape Baron geese claim it as their own. Chris and I share some wonderful memories of staying at this peaceful sanctuary.

‘Getting the Wool off’ Eric Pyett © 1981, is a short story I published on my blog some time ago, written by my father in law, describing the other- worldliness of Waterhouse Island. I’d love you to read it.  For those who missed it, here here is the full post:

When Chris’ parents died, we went through the house before putting it up for sale. We thought we’d finished when I discovered a high cupboard, above the linen cupboard, boxes stuffed full of papers. My first thought was to toss the lot. On reflection and some perusal we discovered Chris’ father had written stories, (unbeknown to us). He had completed courses in mathematics, English literature and philosophy. He was a quiet achiever.

Eric’s quiet, unassuming nature brought him close to my father, as he was a similar character. This short story describes my father, Frank, who was part owner of Waterhouse Island. Tom is Eric. He has encapsulated their characters perfectly. I hope you enjoy his short story:

‘Getting the Wool off’

Reg circled the grassy strip, noting the wind direction, and the sheer drop at the windward end of the runway where the level plateau fell abruptly two hundred feet to the sea. In this breeze, it will be like taking off from the deck of a carrier, he thought.

He circled again for another look, losing height, and searching for hidden fence-wires, or rocks buried in the long billowing grass. Reasonably satisfied, he made a wide banking turn over the island and came in to land at stalling speed. The wheels touched, and the aircraft ran along for a short distance over the bumpy ground before coming to a halt near a stack of up-ended bales of wool, where two men stood waiting.

Reg cut the motors and climbed out.

‘Morning, Frank. Morning, Tom.’ He called. ‘We’ve a nice fine day for it. Good fresh breeze along the strip. What d’you reckon, twenty knots?’

The two men walked over to meet him. Frank, tall and rangy, in a checked shirt and stained khaki pants, a striped woolen hat on his head; Tom, shorter and more stocky, wearing khaki overalls and a black beret.

‘Morning, Reg. Yes, it’s a good day for it. Wind’s in the right quarter and, yes, I suppose it would be about twenty knots.’ Frank studied the short, white-capped waves and the distant shore. ‘Yes, about twenty knots, I’d say.’

‘I saw you looking at the strip, Reg, Tom said. I’ve been over it pretty carefully and filled up all the holes.’

‘Yes, but it’s old fences and bits of wire hidden in the grass that bother me most. They’re inclined to get foul of the wheels, or flick up and hit a prop. But it looks pretty right to me, it’s clear of sheep, anyway,’ Reg chuckled. I nearly landed on top of a sheep once,’ he laughed, ‘it ran the wrong way. I don’t know who got the bigger fright, him or me.’ He squatted down on his heels against the bales, prepared for a yarn. But Frank, who was paying the bills, headed him off.

‘Well, we’d better get on with it, I suppose,’ he said. ‘How many can she lift each trip, Reg? We’ve got seventy-eight all told.’

Reg got to his feet, chewing a stalk of grass, and glanced at the stack of bales.

‘Oh, she’ll lift far more than you can squeeze into her,’ he said. ‘I reckon about four bales will pull you up, but we’ll soon see.’ He opened the big side door of the plane, and hooked it back. All the seats had been removed, except the pilot’s seat, but the space inside seemed very small. They rolled the bales over and lifted one through the doorway.

‘Up in front with this one, ’said Reg. He sunk his hook into the bale and stood it up on end, behind the pilot’s seat. ‘Now another one behind her.’ They lifted another bale through the doorway and stood it up behind the first one. Then another, lying flat on the sloping space in the tail. Then one more, standing up inside the doorway, and the plane was full. Reg was already in his seat, fastening his belt, as the two men closed the door. He glanced around to see that they were clear. Then the motors coughed into life, and the plane swung round and taxied back along the strip.

Reg turned the plane into the wind and revved up the motors, flattening the long grass. He released the brakes and the plane bounded forward, rapidly gaining speed. Half way down the strip they were airborne and climbing. He roared low over the stack of bales and the two watching men, then, catching the up-draught from the cliffs at the end of the strip, he leveled-off for the short trip across the water to the landing strip on the mainland, about ten miles away. The men watched the plane disappearing into the distance.

‘He used only half the strip,’ Frank said. ‘I bet he’ll cut his run much shorter next time.’

‘Yes, He’d no problem getting off in this strong breeze,’ Tom agreed. They sat on the grass in the lee of the up-turned bales. In front of them the island sloped away gently for about a mile, to a low rocky beach on the western side. Beyond that the blue sea, flecked with little white-caps, reached out to the empty horizon. Only to the southward was the sharp division between the sea and the sky interrupted. Here, across the channel, the coastal dunes and scrub hid the farmlands, which spread to the smoke blue ranges beyond.

Tom turned his head listening.

‘He’s coming back, Frank. I can hear him.’ They watched the tiny black spot in the sky growing larger, until the plane banked steeply and dropped down to land two hundred yards away. Moments later it stopped beside the stack of bales, and Reg jumped out.

‘Sixteen minutes for the round trip,’ he said. ‘We can get that down to fifteen this time, I reckon.’ He climbed back into the plane to help stow the first bales. Then, as the last two went in he got back into his seat and fastened his belt. Tom locked the door and stood clear as the motors roared.

This time Reg taxied only half way along the strip before swinging the plane into the wind and pouring on the power. The wheels left the ground as the plane raced past the two men sitting on the stack of bales, and it had gained twenty-five feet of height before crossing the cliff edge and lifting on the up-draught. Reg levelled-off at three hundred feet, singing quietly to himself. It wasn’t really like a carrier take-off, he had to admit. How could it be, in a fifteen-year-old Norman Islander with a belly –full of wool and a top speed of 150 knots? Yet some of the old thrill still remained. It was good to be still flying, and in his own plane too. He sighted the farm buildings, and the landing –strip beyond, with the truck waiting for the wool. A few moments later he commenced his descent.

Back to the island the two men lounged on the bales. Above them the sky was a vast empty dome of cloudless blue. They were watching a skylark which had risen from the grass nearby, and was gradually ascending into the clear air in effortless, soaring flight, singing and trilling in sheer joy.

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/immortalized-in-stone/

 

End of September

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Frankston Beach, Victoria, Australia

Frankston Beach, Victoria, Australia

Out the study window

Out the study window with bird’s nest ferns in the foreground.

Tomorrow October starts and day light saving begins on Sunday. Our weather has been beautifully cool, but a hot weekend is forecast. It is perfect weather for writing, but everything else seems to be getting in the way. We received a marvellous short story this morning, written by a friend from art school, all of those years ago. He writes with such humour, I’m hoping he’ll let me share it with you. I’d love to be able to write like him. Chris Fooks, the author of this piece, now lives in Scotland. What a small world we live in.