Alex has a Forever Home!

We all know the old saying - "good things come to those who wait". If this is the case, Alex and I must have the patience of a couple of saints.

Yesterday was one of those days when dreams do actually come true. After eight years on the Homeswest public housing waiting list (including four years on the Priority List), Alex signed up for his forever home. He is the uber-proud lessee of a one bedroom villa on one of Perth's main drags. Two houses from a major shopping and cappuccino strip. Bus at the doorstep, so he can easily make his way to all his weekly activities.

Alex's house boasts both front and back courtyards, with a side path and a clothesline outside his laundry. These areas are a bit sad at present due to the proliferation of weeds. However, somebody had created garden beds and some of the plants are still alive and kicking. Can't wait to get into his little garden with the secateurs and a hose. There is even a little pond in the front. Clean it up and add goldfish? Not sure at this stage. The yuccas are certainly doing well in their positions. I discovered this fact as one stabbed me in the forehead as I was poking around. I am now sporting a tender lump on my left temple to remind me that my disaster genes are fully functional.

His property is fully fenced. Step inside to an open plan living/dining/kitchen area. Newish lino and a brand spanking new gas upright stove and oven. Nice bland tiles and only one burn mark where a previous tenant didn't know that hot saucepans and laminex benchtops don't mix well. A functional gas heater is in the living area. All his windows are screened. Bathroom and laundry are combined. Shower, loo, sinks and linen storage. There are actually cupboards everywhere, except in the kitchen! Never mind.

Alex's bedroom is at the front, large and with built in robes. The traffic is ever-present but this will not worry him in the least. He quite likes the hustle and bustle of busy areas and once he's asleep, he is impervious to most noise. And an added bonus - no air-conditioning. Others may not agree but as long as Alex is warm, he remains happy. And the beach is only a short bus ride away.

Julie, the allocation officer at Homeswest seemed as delighted as we were. Pascal, Alex's indispensable support worker was also there to share in Alex's triumph. Next week, I hope to organise another clean of Alex's home - the floors really need a good scrub, amongst other jobs -  and we will move him the week after that.

At long last, my autistic superstar has most of his life's goals. A place to call his own. Friends, outings, the Baptists (I love them for what they have done for Alex), the Bible College, studying for his Diploma in Hospitality, back in the Warehouse Cafe where his love affair with food really took off.

Last on his agenda will be a part-time job in food! And with Alex, the sky is the limit.

Alex in the Masterchef Challenge at the Duncraig Senior High School kitchen.

With Poh Ling Yeow at the official opening of the Warehouse Cafe in Shenton Park. She ate all Alex's cupcake!

With Adrienne at the BeFriend Ball.

With one of his best buddies, Chris.

Alex's new bedroom, flooded with afternoon light.

built in robes!

Living area (with gas heater) looking towards the front door and courtyard.

His new kitchen, 

Lack of cupboards is made up for by a pantry. And his gorgeous shiny stove!

Bathroom (decent sized shower in the right) and laundry leading outside to the side path and his clothesline.

BLISS

Another Date with the Delicious Doctor Daram

Getting older sometimes sucks. My body no longer functions as well as I would hope. I do not leap out of bed anymore. Kneeling is uncomfortable and returning to a vertical position is slow and cumbersome. Bending over my rounded figure is becoming more difficult. My ankles crack, shoulders creak, muscles ache after surprisingly little effort and my back stiffens and cramps, often without warning.

As for my skin, this is a consistently faulty organ. Back in the time of the dinosaurs, I barbequed myself every summer until I was sixteen. My Anglo-Saxon skin had two colours - pale and scarlet. I remember nights when I was so sunburnt that the heat would radiate off my body and sleeping was almost impossible.

As a result of my self-inflicted idiocy, I now suffer the consequences. I have had spots burnt, biopsied, scraped and scalped off various parts of my body, primarily my shoulders, upper arms and face. I have had ordinary general practitioners, plastic surgeons and dermatologists inspect, poke, prod and stab.

The good news is that although I am growing older, the specialists are getting younger. And some of them are quite delectable. Take my newest quack. I share him with Michael but I am pleased to say that Doctor Daram has taken more bits out of me than my husband. Hence I get to spend more time in his company.

Young, with curly black hair, a good looking face, trendy glasses, a sense of humour and a love of dogs, Daram is pretty close to perfection. He even makes scrubs look like a fashion item.

Except, much to my sorrow, he is capable of lying through his teeth. Take my latest visit yesterday. After pronouncing my nose as well healed, he then took a critical look at the rest of my body. There is nothing quite so soul destroying as stripping to my bra and jeans and exposing my roly-poly body to a gorgeous young thing. A few superficial lesions were burnt off. Worse was to come. Daram spied a suspicious spot on my right shoulder. No problem, he said. I'll just shave that off. Great, I responded. No needles? Only a very small one, he assured me.

Hence my disappointment. The needle was not small, in my opinion. And he stabbed him on multiple occasions. That's not a small prick, I roared. That's a big prick! And I don't like you anymore.

Michael and Daram were in fits of giggles. I was not amused. The job was done, a band-aid was dispensed and I informed Daram that due to his propensity for both lying and causing pain, I could not possibly leave Michael for him. He grinned back at me.

Having a doctor like Daram is like giving birth. I will dutifully return for my next appointment in a couple of weeks and drink in his cheerfulness and good looks.

However, Michael need not fear. He will remain my man. Daram is far too young for me.

An approximation of Doctor Daram (without glasses)!

Conversations with Alex

My son Alex has just turned twenty-six years old. He is polite and amiable. He loves cooking and is a volunteer at the Warehouse Cafe in Shenton Park. He is studying for a Diploma in Hospitality externally. He also attends Perth Bible College, to become a well-rounded person with better communication skills. His words.

He has lived by himself for eighteen months in a privately rented unit in Yokine. He has just been offered a unit through Homeswest after a marathon eight years on the public housing waiting list. He is delighted and can't wait to move in. This will hopefully be his "forever home" at a rent less than through the private market.

He attends personal training sessions at a Perth gym, attends church and young people's groups and has a busy social life. He studies at home for his Diploma most Fridays. He is an earnest young man with a very positive manner.

He also has significant health issues and a diagnosis of autism. When I talk about Alex, I am very aware that some may view my comments as "inspiration porn". I am very proud of his achievements as I believe he has overcome many obstacles to become the fabulous young man he is.

I am also very proud of my other children. I continue to be thrilled that somehow I produced a ballroom dancer such as Callum. He also has a gorgeous partner (my intended daughter-in-law), their own home and my grand-cat. Vanessa is about to complete her Masters. She taught for three months in a very isolated part of China (she was the only European in the town). She is a talented artist and a tenacious researcher.

The world is not a fair place. I would be ecstatic if disabled people were able to live as they choose. But to quote Stella Young - "no amount of wishing will turn that flight of stairs into a ramp". So I was relentless in moulding (?), shaping (?) or altering (?) Alex's behaviour so he would be fit better into this world as I see it. And Alex responded. Between June 1995 and February 1998, Alex underwent an ABA programme using Discrete Trial Training techniques. Most weeks, we averaged between twelve and fifteen hours one on one with his therapists. We added occupational therapy, speech therapy, physiotherapy, play therapy, day care and then pre-primary to his programme. In June 1995, Alex was non-verbal, was not toilet trained, couldn't dress himself, feed himself, did not sleep. Two and a half years later, he was ready to enter Year 1. Did he appear to suffer? On the contrary. Alex appeared to blossom, to develop a sense of humour, to be able to express fear, to tell me if he was sick and play with his pre-primary classmates.

So, am I encouraging "inspiration porn" when I am thrilled at my son as he is today? This is a fine line. Who Alex is, what Alex does, how Alex lives should be accepted regardless of his level of functioning. In my experience, this is not the case. And so, I am caught between celebrating Alex as he is and encouraging him to behave as mainstream society would have him.

And Alex's essence, his soul, his humanity is unchanged. He is less frightened by the world. As I see him, this is a wonderful by-product of ABA. He is more confident. more adaptable and more comfortable. He is also bolshy, opinionated and exceedingly stubborn. That was evident long before ABA. Alex and his autism are intertwined. And I would not change that connection, even if I could.

Which brings me to the subject of this post - conversations with Alex as he emerged from silence. Our earliest chats were usually one-word replies from him. "What did you do today, Alex?". "Jigsaw". Or watching him playing with another child "Catch me! Catch me!" Or driving with him - "Mother is that driver a lady or a man?" "A lady, Alex". "Then why does she have a moustache?" Or telling his first joke in therapy when our dog stuck her big head between him and his therapist "Sophie is not teacher!" and bursting into repeated peals of laughter. Or a mind blowing moment - "I remember when I was four". "What was that like Alex?" (He was non-verbal at four) After a long pause "It was really hard".

Last Friday, in spite of an incredibly stressful day, we still managed to have marvellous conversations. He chatted about a church conference he was going to attend on the weekend. "Alex, you can celebrate your Homeswest unit!" "Mother it's a conference. I can't celebrate" "Why not?" Further food for thought. And then, talking with Keryn, the Homeswest goddess - "I shall probably go to heaven on Alex's shoulders" "You can't Mother" "Why not?" "Because you haven't given yourself to Jesus".

From Alex's point of view, that was a fair comment. However, in this real world, anybody not associated with Alex's church could question his beliefs. And to give him credit, he did not kick up a stink when I disagreed with him.

I told him I believed in Jesus, that I though Jesus was a pretty cool dude, that he saved the day at the wedding in Canaan, that he provided for some additional guests at a picnic (with a few loaves and fishes), and that he helped the sick, the poor and the vulnerable.

And, God bless him, he didn't contradict his nutty mother. And he was able to understand my answers, even if he didn't agree with me. And although the day was very very intense, Alex remained reasonably composed. In the Homeswest office "Mother needs a drink of water". No, I actually needed a wine. But he considered me before himself and I was very touched.

I suspect that there are some "neurotypical" young adults that would not have the same consideration as Alex does for me.

And yes, I think of Alex as a superstar.

Round and Round the Garden...

Friday unfolded like a deranged episode of "Yes Prime Minister" or "Utopia" with a good dollop of "Max's Dragon Shirt" thrown in for good measure. I was sure that I could hear John Clarke's laughter in the background all through those furiously frustrating daylight hours. By the time darkness was falling, I could have written an entire series based on the repeated insanities I had experienced. And I just thank the universe that there was actually a happy ending.

The events that became Friday had their genesis the day before. After eight years on the public housing waiting list, (including four years on the Priority List), Alex was offered a property by the Housing Authority, otherwise known as Homeswest. I sent Alex and his support worker, the invaluable Pascal, to check out the property. From Beverley, I had repeated amiable conversations with a Homeswest representative, Narelle. The unit was deemed perfect by Alex, a few faults were noted and photographed and as Alex returned the key back, he delightedly announced to the entire Homeswest office that he was accepting this property. He needed to return the following day to fill out and sign all the necessary paperwork for his forever home.

During a couple of phone calls between him and me, I asked Alex if he would like my company for this very important task. Initially, he responded he would be able to manage the process himself. I could almost see his chest puffing with pride. Later he thought better of this decision and asked if I would come to Perth to see him through the piles of paper. We arranged to meet at Homeswest Mirrabooka at around 9.30 am. I warned him I may be a little late as I would be having an early start from Beverley.

An enormous agricultural machine taking up the entirety of Waterhatch Road and the ongoing saga of roadworks in Mundaring slowed my progress. As I pulled up outside the Homeswest building, I could see Alex straining to catch sight of my car. I waved, parked the car and went to meet him on foot. His agitation was palpable. Waving a Centrelink income and assets statement in my face, he continued his descent into a panic. The statement showed an "asset" of $38,100, dated 4 August 2016. Alex was distraught, stuttering that a Homeswest officer had told him he may not be eligible for his property due to his financial status.

For the first time since Michael had nearly died three years ago, the world turned red. Instantly I knew my ex-husband (Alex's biological father) had his fingers all over this transaction. Years ago, I'd had to go to the tax office as Alex's voice to get a previous family trust disaster removed from Alex's record. And now, it appeared that the same tactics had been used by my ex all over again, with no regard for the consequences that Alex may have to suffer.

Alex was adamant he needed bank statements to prove his innocence. My mind was whirling in response to his distress. We decided to go to the library across the road to print off the documents. In hindsight, we should have just gone and done this deed at Centrelink. I just wanted to act quickly to reduce Alex's confusion and fear.

Around the same time, I received a phone call from the ex himself. He was somewhere overseas and the line was terrible. I was only catching every second word and his flippantness was enraging. With as much composure as I could muster, I asked him to get his accountant to ring me to sort out this mess. What I really wanted to do was to smack him out of his complacency.

My handling of printing off the required bank statements was the stuff of bedlam. The library was packed with families preparing for story time. I needed to fill out a membership form and show ID to use their computers. In the midst of this chaos, the accountant's office rang. The accountant responsible for the ex's affairs was in a meeting. I stated the accountant had better get out of the meeting and fix this disaster. In my anger, surrounding by masses of mums and small children, I denounced the ex and used a particularly colourful metaphor to describe him.

A librarian suggested I take this conversation elsewhere. I hung up, took a deep breath and apologised to all those present shorter than me. We were able to print off Alex's bank statements without further ado and then set off for Centrelink. I doubt I could ever return to Mirrabooka library.

After standing in the queue and waiting for assistance, the very polite and pleasant Centrelink officer was unable to alleviate Alex's misery. She told him he needed a document that stated this asset was not assigned to Alex. Almost unable to bear the dazed and disbelieving expression on Alex's face, I decided then and there that I would secure the desired notation from the accountancy firm before the end of the day.

In the meantime, we returned to Homeswest to clarify the situation. At last, a gem named Keryn provided us with a glimmer of hope. Even with this imaginary farce of an asset attached to his name, Alex was just under the threshold and would be able to take possession of his Homeswest unit. And his rent, until he was able to remove this asset from his financial record, would only be very slightly higher.

For the first time that day, Alex smiled. We waited whilst Keryn completed yet more paperwork, which Alex duly signed. All his information would now be given to a housing officer, who would process the application and contact Alex when all this was finalised. Alex could then pay the necessary rent, collect his key and move into his unit in due course.

After a quick bite, we were off to the accountancy firm in Osborne Park. I had arranged to pick up a letter stating that Alex had not received this asset and that he was no longer part of the family trust as of 30 June 2016. Whilst speaking to this smarmy accountant, I managed to wipe her air of amused confidence. She had queried the amount of the asset distributed to Alex and the date of that distribution. I responded that her understanding was irrelevant as both the tax office and Centrelink thought otherwise. She was silent so we hung up in mutual loathing.

En route, we stopped at Alex's proposed home. We could not get inside but I was pleased with the location and the layout. Boasting a front and a back courtyard with a side clothesline, security screens and doors and an open plan layout, I was pretty happy. Yes, it was still a Homeswest property and needed a great deal of spit and polish - somebody had attempted to set fire to the benchtop - but I was sure that some elbow grease and cleaning products would do the trick. And Alex was so proud.

Onwards and upwards. The letter received from Carbon Accountants (with a big C) was so grammatically untidy. I was highly amused. However, at least the letter stated the bleeding obvious. As a final port of call, we tried to lodge the letter at Centrelink. The staff were unable to receive the letter as they were engaging in an afternoon of strike action. At that point, I nearly broke into hysterical laughter. Alex and Pascal would have to undertake this task next week.

I dropped Alex back at his current digs, attended to a monetary disaster of my own making, performed the minimum shopping and turned Goldie in the direction of home. Having left at 8.30am, I was ecstatic to sight Beverley just before dark. A quick toilet break and we retired to the pub. There was no way I was cooking dinner at the end of this memorable day.

And I have lived to fight yet another day! Stay tuned.

One of the modes of communication I used frequently on Thursday and Friday

Welcome back!

Repeatedly...

At last, a saviour at Homeswest...

which positively encouraged me to keep going

And after many hours followed by a fortifying vino at the pub, I felt a sense of quiet achievement. 

At last.

Another Extraordinary East End Gallery Easter

What a surprise. Finding myself in the complaints line, again, for Centrelink has provided me with an unexpected opportunity to write this post. This is a far more useful and rewarding activity than wondering if my life will terminate before I reach the head of the queue.

I must admit that I am rather weary today. Michael has headed to the Big Smoke to begin the necessary distribution of his Dad's belongings with his sister and brother. We both felt that the siblings alone should decide the outcome of Lucky's personal and household items.

My failure to launch is wholly due to opening the East End Gallery for six days straight. Easter in Beverley is the beginning of our tourism season that runs until the hot weather makes its inevitable reappearance. We were delighted with the number of guests, their enthusiasm, their praise for the Gallery and their pleasant surprise of finding a Gallery such as ours in a regional town.

And we have welcomed new artists. The dynamic Paul Kendall, who has family in Cuballing, has gained the mantle of our third metal artist. Since he retired as an English teacher, he has decided to devote himself to creating pieces of art. And given his story telling and wordsmith abilities, he is tremendously entertaining as well. Due to my Dad's influence, I had felt that I had a reasonable grasp of English. Paul's vocabulary has put me firmly back in my place and reminded me to keep learning.

Sharon Ellis is another new artist from York. One-half of "Dark Sunshiny Days" Gallery, she and fellow artist Jane Gates have had to shut up shop due to financial constraints. We are delighted that Sharon has joined us and we hope to include some of Jane's pieces in the very near future. Sharon's art is at once scary, jaw-dropping and hilarious all at the same time.

Jan George has added some marvellous screen printed and linocut pieces to the Gallery to show more of her tremendous talent. Once more, our beautiful Gallery is bulging at the seams. We are even displaying one of Tim Burns' astounding paintings once more as he has yet to come and collect it from our store room.

Saturday evening was our Sundowner. These events are becoming traditional for us during most long weekends. A chance to enjoy a vino, a canape, music, company and of course our artists' efforts in a relaxed and unhurried way. Our next scheduled Sundowner falls at the beginning of June, so we will be adding an open fire to the mix. Ooh, did someone say "mulled wine"? Now there's a thought.

We finally threw out our last guests yesterday afternoon at five-thirty. Our last two groups were fortunate enough to partake of some vino as my feet had demanded pain relief and I was sipping a cheeky little Sem Sav Blanc. Exceedingly civilised.

Today and tomorrow are my days off. Vanessa has held the fort over the last week. Now I must endure the endless cacophony of washing and washing-up, of hanging out and bringing in clothes and keeping my eyes firmly on the Problem Child and the Delinquent Grand Old Dame.

Thursday back in the Gallery is looking decidedly more exciting.

Paul Kendall - "Heroes and Villains"

"Bat out of Hell"

"Fistic Des Pas Deux"

"Atlas", "Sysuphus" and "Still Life"

Sharon Ellis - "Nullarbor Sinkhole"

"The Gatekeeper"

"The Keeper"

"Winstan and Posey"

The Grand Old Dame and the Problem Child

Sun goddesses both

The Three Stooges on a well-earned break...

Our Mediterranean House is Born.

What a day of awe and wonder. What a fantastic outcome. A dream come true. Our house is painted. Naturally, as we are quiet retiring types, our house reflects us. So we have created an absolute riot of colour. We will be living in a work of art.

Michael steeled himself for an early start. He was vertical, coffeed, fed and not happy by nine o'clock. Gary, trusty second in command, arrived to take his Grumpiness in hand. Gary, whose trade is an industrial painter, has an array of gizmos designed to make painting large surfaces as quick and painless as possible.

Needless to say, the boring preparation had to be accomplished first. Gap filler was applied, duct tape was added to strategic spots and windows were covered. Scaffolding was arranged in the appropriate places. Then the airless spray gun began its magic.

By three o'clock, we had a fully painted house (except for one smallish area of Carona, as we ran out of paint). A busy day in the East End Gallery prevented me from checking on the progress as often as I would have liked. When I stepped out the back door of the workshop in the glorious mid-afternoon, I was blasted by a wall of brilliant colour. Forget about the Wall of Sound. We have a house that sings to the world.

Michael was absolutely spent. Thus, his ill humour returned, but I understood he was tired and sore. I just laughed at him after a minor spat. He was not amused. In spite of this slight inconvenience, we proceeded to have a marvellous meal at the Red Vault with John, Jacqueline, Greg and the divine Jan.

On returning home, I surrendered my bedroom water bottle to Michael and gave him a tablet. He was out like a light. And he slept well. Even better, This morning, he has reverted to his usual placid amiable self. However, he will be eating humble pie to Vanessa when she surfaces. And ask very nicely for some grooming as he is currently resembling the Wild Man from Borneo.

This post needs to come to a close. The East End Gallery is beckoning me. We have a fantastic day planned. Open until nine o'clock tonight and with a Sundowner starting at four o'clock, we can guarantee wonderful art, genial company and cheap and cheerful vino.

In the meantime, I need to clarify the colours of our new home. Station House is not an Eagles house. She is the epitome of a Mediterranean house with inspiration provided by the amazing works of Vincent Van Gogh. The Colour Police may tutt-tutt about our choices of "Mystification" and "Carona". That is their prerogative.

To quote the inimitable Billy Connolly, Station House does not and will not have a "beige" bone in her body.

So, join us today in the East End Gallery, take a peek at our house and relax with drinks and nibbles.
Or join us anytime over Easter. We look forward to meeting all our guests.

Playing Elastics with (Demented, Defiant and Deaf) Dogs...

Back in the age of the dinosaurs, I played some quite obscure games during my primary school years. We used to jump rope and play hopscotch and test our foot-eye coordination by the prowess of elastics. Two girls at each end holding the elastic apart with their legs at knee height. Scissor in, scissor out with a variety of set moves jumping in, out and on the elastic oval.  Needless to say, I was never much good at this game.

We are now four months into our tenure in the Residence. The length of our stay is starting to be irksome. This has nothing to do with the actual living conditions, which are reasonably cosy in the diminishing warmth of autumn. We are lucky enough to have both a remarkably efficient oil heater and the choice of firing up the pot belly stove if the weather turns colder.

The painful reality is being provided but not only Ruby the Problem Child but Sascha the Tottering Blunderdog as well. Ruby is well known for her cunning, her persistence and her complete focus on replenishing her stomach at all costs. She has been noted checking out the bins behind the bottom pub, strolling with purpose around town and behaving with unwavering resolve in her quest to track down any delicious morsels that tempt her exceedingly warped tastes.

Sascha has changed somewhat in her character since December. She used to be utterly reliable at staying within the confines of the property. Not anymore. As the year has advanced, she has developed some rather annoying habits. Part of the issue is her unreliability with her waterworks. No longer can she cross her legs and wait until morning. So we can no longer leave her contained inside the Residence. If we do, we face a canine urine evacuation the size of Noah's Flood. So, in her twilight years, and developing cataracts, she also has increasing signs of deafness, defiance or dementia. Bollocks.

Now we deal with both the Beagle and the Blunderdog taking off on expeditions of curiosity and gluttony.  We seek them here, we seek them there, we seek them everywhere.  We are trying as much as we can to keep the girls contained. We often spend time with our eyes as wide as possible, trying to track the Dynamic Duo as they seek to escape the tenuous confines of our imaginary boundaries.

Which brings to this morning. Sascha had been returned to our humble home by the inimitable Julie Paull last evening. She had been discovered strolling the main drag. We had squirmed with embarrassment. Thus we had decided to keep the the Determinedly Delinquent Duo under house arrest. Or we would die trying.

When I awoke, the Blunderdog was contentedly snoozing on the large dog bed with her lover, the Jack Russell. The Beagle was tied to the bedpost. All three trundled outside. Ruby engaged in the longest wee known to man. Both Pip and Sascha marked her expanding puddle before she had finished. Then came morning treats - pigs' ears for the girls and chicken tenders for Pip.

I then tied the offending pair onto leads to prevent any absconding. Following their imprisonment, I attempted to undertake the dishes. Both the Femmes Fatales seemed to take great delight in tangling me amongst their leads. Suddenly I was transported back to playing elastics in primary school. How to jump, how to plant my feet, how to scissor, how to enter, how to exit. I did manage to disentangle myself without mishap and finish the cleansing of the dishes skilfully avoiding the mayhem of dogs and leads.

An absolute miracle. Until the next time.

How each morning begins...

Except for Madame Cat (sod off you peasants).

The Problem Child on her lead...

Thus begins a brand new version of elastics!

Warning! Warning!

Let the fun commence!

On the way to entanglement, Ruby hones her gynaecology skills...

whilst Sascha suffers in silence and Pip is rewarded for his good behaviour (no lead!).

The Joy of Being Alive

The last couple of weeks have been very grim. Lucky's final illness and the circumstances of his death affected us profoundly. We had both seen death before but this did not and could not prepare us for the reality of what happened to Lucky.

So we were left exhausted, emotional and unsettled. Our routine of home, the Gallery and the gentle repetitiveness of our lives vanished into the ether. We spent those ten days going backwards and forwards between the hospital and Beverley, sleeping over some of the nights and not being able to predict the sequence of events. Death was coming to take Lucky - we just didn't know when.

His funeral was last Thursday. We all said our goodbyes. Michael was courageous and humble, quietly shattered but extraordinarily composed. His tribute to his Dad was told as simple snippets of gratitude and love. I could not have been prouder of him.

We did not open the Gallery on Friday. Instead, we decided to be kind to ourselves. We watched the roof being installed on our house. That spectacle was surprisingly engrossing and brought us back to the here and now. Suddenly, a bit of excitement and wonder had returned to our lives.

Then we opened the East End Gallery for the first time since mid-March. A new artist and her paintings to hang. A new catalogue and new numbering to complete. Interesting and delighted guests and a few sales. A chance for Michael to teach a young man some welding skills to repair a component of a quad bike. Lining up a new metal artist for Easter. And networking with one of our visitors to sort out a tedious water issue. All in all, a most pleasing couple of days.

I rediscovered joy over the weekend. The thrill of our new home's construction. Good friends dropping in for a chat, a vino and laughter. Entertaining two children with our artists' table whilst Michael caught up with the accompanying adult and a close friend. Another friend dropping off an interestingly burnt and rusty metal saw stand. Even the mundaneness of catching up on the washing and the insanity of trying to watch an absconding Beagle and a demented or defiant elderly Weimaraner at the same moment has brought me back to uncomplicated pleasure.

And we have had time to catch our breath, sleep comfortably in our own bed, return to the fantastically ordinary and smile. We have read that pinnacle of journalistic achievement - the West Australian Weekend newspaper. We have been to the pub for dinner on Friday. We have watched some quite dreadful and escapist television and listened to our favourite music in the Gallery. We have revelled in sitting together in the Residence and not dreading the ringing of the phones.

This week promises to be full. We are opening the Gallery on Wednesday and continuing through the Easter weekend. Then we will plunge again into the aftermath of Lucky's life and begin the sorting, the distributing and the disposing. At least we have had this time to gather some vim, vigour and vitality. And we have tasted the joy of life again.

Lucky and Michael July 2010

Lucky and Judy 2.1.2012

The Beginning of our Roof - 7.4.2017

Introducing Sharon Ellis, our latest artist in the East End Gallery

Rediscovering the joy.