That's What Friends (and Family) Are For....To Keep Us On Our Toes!

 2021 appears to have begun with another mad dash. 

Tomorrow is Australia Day, which means being in the East End Gallery, due to the public holiday. 

Today has been thoroughly low-key, mostly spent rather unexpectedly in our courtyards. I had grand plans of catching up on the neverending housework, but instead, I plonked my hat on my head and tackled a tad of external tidying up. I moved pots and swept up the debris. A few spiders that had made homes in unfortunate places were dispatched. Scraggly plants were given a makeover and new potting mix. A touch of rearrangement and the addition of a metal stand for a tumbling succulent freed some space and created the illusion of a lush and colourful garden bed in the northeastern corner. Michael, ever the perfectionist, flitted around our spaces giving considered and stylish trims with his favourite snips. Both of us also enjoyed nanna naps to recharge our batteries. In the cool of the late afternoon, we sat in our main courtyard and congratulated ourselves on a job well done. Rather than missing the expansive garden of Brooking Street, our three courtyards provide us with just enough satisfaction and delight.

The relatively slower pace also allowed me time to reflect on the year thus far. We have kept the Gallery operational every weekend as an official Beverley tourism location. We have caught up with Callum, Bron, Immy and Alex. We have had Brenda and her daughter Louise to stay for two nights. The routine of shopping and bill paying has continued unabated. January was previously the month of two anniversaries for me - babies that didn't survive. We have added the loss of Ruby the cat to these occasions of remembrance. And we have enjoyed frequent visits from friends, including several of our artists. Lastly, we have pondered the actions and attitudes of those we hold close and those who are less welcomed.

Curious how we tolerate and embrace our friends, even when their attitudes may differ rather wildly from our own. Take Ron, a true Beverley character, for instance. In particular, our divergent political views could possibly lead to fierce debate. Or blows...Except Ron is a friend who is nothing but supportive of us, a regular attendant of our Sundowners, drops in for no particular reason other than sharing a coffee and provides us with endless amusing anecdotes of his life and other Beverley Hillbillies.

Families are problematic. We are born into groups that often dictate with whom we should form our first relationships. Even if we don't like them. Or have nothing in common with them. Or cause disharmony or disunity within the family, leading to abandonment, isolation or fractured relationships. My Mum was a master at manipulative games. I loved her, but I don't miss her at all. I don't miss the chaos. Her passing allowed all four of us siblings a chance to begin afresh. Without her death, we would not have had that opportunity.

I understand that those who have been hurt or abused may not feel any closeness whatsoever with some or all of their family. Or with those previously called friends. And is repairing ever possible after the breakdown of these relationships? Can trust be rebuilt? Or love? That takes willingness on all sides and commitment that some relationships are important enough to salvage. I remember a lawyer counselling me against divorce at the end of my first marriage unless there was no other option. There was no other option as far as I was concerned but the process was truly awful.

These are all tricky scenarios. On Saturday, a bunch of seven eclectic women, including me,  met in a garden cafe in Guildford to celebrate Jan's sixty-fifth birthday. We all had our individual foibles and we probably would not have been all together except to honour and love our friend Jan. And we had a thoroughly eclectic and fabulous afternoon.

Likewise, Ernie, my ex and I have buried the hatchet, firstly with Callum and Bronwyn's wedding and then the arrival of Immy, our beautiful grandbaby. Ernie and I made Callum and he in turn with Bron, made our divine Imogen. Why on earth would we want to jeopardise being part of six grandparents who adore her? Imogen is the glue that binds us together and how lucky are we all. 

I guess we can't expect everybody that we love to get on with each other as a matter of course. However, I think we should expect civility and respect at the very least between our family and any friends in our house and our Gallery. 

Otherwise, what are we?

Keep smiling, keep shining

Knowing you can always count on me, for sure

That's what friends are for

For good times and bad times

I'll be on your side forevermore

That's what friends are for

With Miss Immy on her first birthday...

Helen and Ernie - the second set of grandparents!

Immy and Great-Granny Ivy...

Rob and Michelle (Ma and Pa) and Michael and me (Nanny and Grampy)

Our kids...

The Birthday Girl...

Patricia and Jan in Patricia's garden...

Patricia, Val and Nan...

Yvonne, Jan and Nancy...

Still life of Michael, Celeste and the Mandala. Celeste helped with the cold bending of the circles...

In the East End Gallery - yesterday with Jan, Mardi, Celeste, Belinda and Robyn...

This is what friends are for.

Remembering Our Fickle, Fairweather, Funny Feline...

Our eminently pretty little cat, Ruby, died on Wednesday. She was sixteen, which was a great age, and until the last couple of years of her life, had enjoyed both rude health and ruling the roost. She was adored particularly by Callum and Michael, whom she reciprocated in kind. I was a poor second after the Men became her all-important lovers. 

Ruby came into my life in late January 2005. Her colouring and curiosity drew her to me whilst visiting the Cat Haven with Sian. A gorgeous mix of apricot, grey and white with inscrutable green eyes caught my attention. I hadn't had a cat since Coco the Siamese when I was a child, and Ruby was as far removed as possible from him in looks. 

So, I took her home to the kids and Sascha, my young adult Weimaraner blunderdog. Sascha loved her on sight; Ruby took a few days to warm to this canine Gigantor. That's when I first heard her very distinctive Siamese-like cry. Somewhere, tucked into her DNA, was a smidgen of Coco.

She was quite the gypsy cat for the first eighteen months of her life. From Karrinyup in Perth to Tewantin on the Sunshine Coast, back to Perth, temporary digs in Padbury at Sian's and then to Marangaroo, all between October 2005 and April 2006. 

When I was busily having a nervous breakdown, she began her quest for a slave who was slightly more stable. Having already been fond of Callum in the Karrinyup family home, she directed all her feline allure to him once he moved back in me in July 2006. Callum was delighted with his separate bachelor pad at the back of the property and Ruby was delighted to share the space with him, often refusing to leave when Callum went out and then waiting impatiently for him to return to her bosom.

She was less amused when the dog population steadily increased. Pip joined our family in winter 2007 and they formed a grudging mutual toleration of each other. The brief appearance and then the disappearance of a second beautiful cat, Captain Jack, barely ruffled her fur. I was convinced that she had taken out a contract against him as he vanished one day, never to be seen again.

Life continued as our private three-ringed circus. I entered into a romance with a Sicilian sociopath, who had several women dangling and a wife at home. I was only alerted to this situation when his wife ran my phone to track him down. Oops...Pip bit him twice. I should have paid attention.

Following a series of hilarious First Dates and a brief sojourn with a very nice and uber-boring New Zealander, I met Michael in May 2009. He had inherited Ruby the Beagle as a consequence of his wife dying and his daughter losing interest in the puppy. She would accompany him to my house and then she moved permanently in with me nine months later, three months before Michael began living with me.

This was a bitter pill for Madame Cat to swallow. She lost her name, as Ruby the Beagle was too dumb to take on another title and what was worse, she had to contend with three canine clowns. No wonder she chose the sanctity of Callum's room.

So, she began answering to a variety of other names, including Madame or Cattelle. Housesitters swore she responded to Puss. She lost her initial companion, Sascha and then Ruby the Beagle. I half-heartedly began calling her Ruby again, but not consistently. 

Meanwhile, she had latched onto her second servant. On moving to Heavenly Beverley, she formed a bond with Michael that remained unbroken until her death. She talked to him in lengthy conversations, kneaded his legs, purred loudly in his lap or close to him on our bed. Michael was convinced he would have recovered from double pneumonia faster in 2014 if he's been allowed to have Ruby the cat with him. In the height of delirium, he was sure she was on his bed and stroked the sheet to comfort himself.

She was a brilliant mouser and even took down a young rabbit. I countered her hunting bird urges by placing a variety of bells on her collar. She would retaliate by losing her collar...repeatedly, along with her registration tag, painstakingly attached to one of the many collars she then discarded.

Only in the last years of her life did she begin to slow. Unbeknown to us, galloping blood pressure caused a bleed in one of her eyes, kidney damage and significant weight loss. The latter two symptoms were solved with medication and a specialist diet, but her eyesight continued to deteriorate. She began sleeping curled into Michael's armpit for protection. The litter tray took up residence in our bathroom, but with her sight, there were frequent misses. Her long life was winding down.

Sometime after Christmas, we believe she became totally blind. She no longer left the house and her anxiety was high all the time. She used her hearing and whiskers to find her way around inside, but she was fearful and unhappy and began spotting urine all over the floors.

Wednesday she had no interest in drinking and only a scant nibble of her favourite kibble. Feeling her way back to our bed, she climbed up and slept. I rang the vet. Graeme Penno, the most gentle and empathetic vet was on duty. We loaded her into her cat carrier at three o'clock. Even that was a breeze compared with her previous entrapments, which had usually involved hand-to-paw combat. She miaowed in protest and turned her back on me as we drove to Northam.

I met her with Graeme in the consulting room. The staff had inserted a cannula into a vein and wrapped it in a bright blue bandage. She lay on a bright blue mat, a perfect contrast to her colouring. We stroked to her, talked to her and said our goodbyes. I cried and Graeme's eyes were also damp. Afterwards, he curled her up into her sleeping pose and I hugged him as I left his room. Thank you to the team at the Northam vet hospital on the Goomalling Road who cared so much for her over the years.

Not to end on a sad note, Ruby, being our cat, left me with two exquisite reminders. I drove with cat hair up my nose all the way home and then discovered a puddle of her wee in my side of our wardrobe. I laughed out loud with love for our feisty Ruby.

Fly high, Cattelle.

With Sascha...

Hover Cat...

Zzzzz...

Just me and Ted...

On top...

Beautiful girl...

With her lover and two Undesirables...

Don't stop...

Sod off...

Walkies!

No fear...

On the couch...

A Mad Dog Or An Englishman? Decisions, Decisions...

Four o'clock in the East End Gallery yesterday afternoon. An hour until we closed up, walked the sixty-odd steps homeward bound, put my feet up, poured a gin and lemon, was entertained with the arrival of Jan, Greg and Jodie (with Zeus), and then contemplated the last few days whilst watching the telly. 

With the arrival of 2021, I removed all the Christmas decorations in the Gallery. We farewelled photographer Peter and partner Ann from the Station at the conclusion of their Artist-in-Residence stay. The beginning of 2021 also seemed like the perfect opportunity for a rejig of the East End Gallery...When will I ever learn? The upheaval of one hundred and fifty square metres took three days before order was restored. Worse was to come. Due to unforeseen circumstances, one of our artists' works needed to be taken down, leading to yet more mutinous muttering by Michael up a ladder. All as a heatwave gathered strength over Saturday and Sunday.  

Today, we were finally able to fling the house open. Breeze instead of airconditioning. Ceiling fans were all that was required to keep the air moving. We decided on a spot of gardening, which turned into an enterprise bigger than Ben Hur. The transplanting of Michael's Ficus into a bigger pot ended up with some major pruning of both roots and foliage. The root ball had become totally snarled and knotted, hence the drastic operation. Once the roots were trimmed, the tree itself had to be reduced in size. Eventually, after three hours, the operation was complete. The planting of a lemon Cyprus was a doodle after the struggle with the Ficus! And then, we were able to apply the brakes and replenish our garden with some leisurely watering.

I think most people have noticed the opportunities being offered for a less frantic life. Slow TV. Slow hobbies, such as walking, pottering in the garden or reading. Slow lunches or dinners. In some ways, COVID 19 has done us some favours. Many of us were forced to stop.

Getting older also marks the return of delight at simple (and slow) pleasures. Taking boots off at the end of the day. A drink together or with our tribe. Dinner at the pub on Friday night to celebrate Gem's birthday. Chatting to new guests in the Gallery. Welcoming old friends back. Laughing at Stella and Pip's rowdy games. My new steam mop (!). The bliss of bedtime. The relief of a cool change after days of unrelenting heat. The dismissal of (most) set timetables. Appointments still have to be attended at the appropriate juncture.

Michael has been at his McGyver best. Yet another repair of my Gallery vacuum cleaner head. Figuring out how to cold bend two mild steel rings for his Mandala so he didn't take his eye out when he released the clamps.

We survived yet another weekend of pretty extreme temperatures. We are now enjoying cooler days. We love the long daylight hours. Summer in the Wheatbelt does have its advantages. And was I a mad dog or an Englishman for labouring away on hot days? Whatever I was, I have no doubt I will continue to do so until our West Australian summer is over.

Peter and Ann's farewell at the Station Gallery - 

The East End Gallery - 8 January 2021...

McGyver at work with my vacuum cleaner -

With his mandala -

Wire snail by Celeste -