RUDOLPH & CO ON HOLIDAYS

Figure after all that charging around the globe on Christmas Eve, Santa’s sleigh pullers were hanging out for a few days off in a warmer climate. Dancer or Prancer or one of the bunch have been in my front yard. How can I tell? Well, they have rather distinctive poo, very easy to distinguish who’s paid a visit in the middle of the night.

Then as I came around the corner into the village after midnight following my Boxing Day family get together I caught another couple of them in my headlights as they sprinted across the street and headed for the safety of the bush. They must’ve worked out they could pretty much blend in with the locals and go undetected until it was time to go home.

That was about sixty seconds after almost mowing down three decent sized wallabies who decided to be reckless and cut me off as I headed up the mountain. Guess they’d had a little too much festive fare and were egging each other on to play chicken. Wonder what they’ll get up to on New Year’s Eve.

Mild summer nights in Tasmania can become something of an obstacle course as the resident wildlife decides to venture out of the bush, graze by the roadside or find what roadkill has turned up during the day on which to have a midnight feast before some other creature decides to get in on the act. Possums are the most common wanderers, almost a slalom course in places, but unfortunately the Tassie Devil we used to see frequently is now a rare sight.

Daytime sightings in the past couple of days have been equally entertaining. The biggest hare I have ever seen, and I’m talking back legs as long as Elle McPherson’s, wandered leisurely up the middle of the road out front yesterday, quite unperturbed. He has us sussed out I think, knows there are no cats around and all the dogs are in their yards so he has the run of the place.

Then there’s the magpie with the deformed leg and tufts of feathers at the sides of his face who’s been hanging around for a couple of weeks. Looks like one of the penguins from Happy Feet, and as he spends most of his time squatting on the ground he actually looks like a fat little relative of his Antarctic brothers. Took pity on him and thought I’d give him some food and water whereupon he flew off, so he doesn’t have any trouble in that area. Seems that survival of the fittest hasn’t disadvantaged him any.

YOU WANT A WHAT?...A BROOM?

Joseph headed on boldly down the main street of the village, with Mary somewhat more tentative, slowing down for contractions in their quest to find a room for the night, not alone mind you, but with angels, shepherds, kings and suitably robed local riff raff in tow as well as visitors who had dropped in during the afternoon for Poatina’s first Christmas market.

Their first attempt was thwarted by the deaf innkeeper who kept offering them a broom instead of a room, and responded to their request for somewhere to stay with an offer of hay. Amid constant miscommunication and much hilarity from onlookers, he directed them across the road to the motel, so the weary travellers headed off with a glimmer of hope.

Paying more attention to the constantly ringing phone than their plight, the motel manager was justifiably booed and jeered by the crowd as he turned Mary and Joseph away and sent them packing to the stable on the village green. With more puffing and panting from Mary, they finally arrived at their destination and miraculously produced a baby in the fastest labour ever witnessed under trying circumstances. Not exactly much privacy in an open stable.

With the resident sheep bleating in all the right places, the angels and shepherds did their bit, the kings came bearing gifts of coffee, Avon perfume and Old Spice, and the happy family courtesy of Luke & Ali & little Aimee beamed happily throughout.

Traditions are something we consider as having been around for generations, sometimes centuries, events and rituals instigated to serve us as we attempt to express our personal beliefs as well as our communal life together.

They have the power to define us, to help us express who we are as people and communities and nations. Unfortunately, they can also confine us, constricting us into rigid systems of behaviour which over time feel alien to who we are and how we want to be seen. At such times we often find ourselves prevailing against these traditions, rejecting them, but at the same time feeling unable to replace them with something more meaningful.

Somewhere along the way a tradition has a starting point, and for this little village in the heart of Tasmania our annual Advent Pageant, complete with Aussie barbecue and market and loads of humour as the Christmas story is narrated and re-enacted, is one of the year’s highlights. It has become part of Poatina’s “story,” an event which places Christ at the heart of village life, a tradition which actually liberates people to cast off their daily persona, dress up, laugh and enjoy the company of others while hearing once again of the birth of Jesus.

As Christmas Day approaches and the machinery of getting everything done in time goes into overdrive, I find it helpful to reflect on the experience of Mary and Joseph’s epic journey and struggle to bring their child into the world in far from ideal circumstances. We can make Christmas so complicated, where really it should be so simple. Recognising Christ’s birth for what it is…God’s gift to us.

ZANDAR THE WHIRLING DERVISH

It was supposed to be Bella’s day, and for her 6^th birthday she certainly did celebrate both with her school friends at a Hungry Jacks lunch, then with the extended family later in the day. Grandson Zandar had other ideas though, so to join in the celebratory mood and get in on the act, borrowed his big sister’s dress ups and was adamant he was a princess.

With music playing, off he whirled into pink dizziness, living the moment, oblivious to the constraints of gender stereotyping. Wore the dress for the rest of the day, wasn’t a simple job extracting him from it to get him into his PJs.

Bella played mum to her new little twin cousins, relishing the cuddles and being very responsible with them. Zandar on the other hand didn’t want to give Brodie back after his cuddle, he’s definitely not into sharing at the moment, and had to be extricated from the baby as well, much to his indignation.

Amidst all the new presents and girlie paraphernalia, the 1960s dress up wig brought by her Uncle Kris went on everyone but Bella, there was no way she was putting that on, I mean, really, it wasn’t pink, just what was Kris thinking.

I’m continually fascinated watching my grandchildren as they grow and develop, seeing bewilderment become triumph as they achieve significant milestones, be it socially, physically, emotionally or academically. Seeing their personalities emerge and wondering how they become who they are is always an intriguing process.

Time passes all too soon, and one of the greatest gifts we can offer our children is permission to be a child. As adults we can see only too readily in retrospect how our own spontaneity and sense of wonder goes missing as we supposedly ‘grow up’ and assume more important responsibilities. Little wonder we crave moments of respite from the daily grind to rejuvenate our spirits, and pursue creative outlets to fulfill our need for self expression.

Grow up we must, but nurturing all of who we are is not always a simple undertaking. The spirit of childhood shouldn’t be left behind as we grow beyond those early years, and re-experiencing it through our own children and grandchildren is not only a lasting investment in our relationships with them, but a blessing for us as we dare to seek out new adventures for ourselves.

BROKEN SLEEP

Just how many times can you wake up through the night before your patience starts to wear a bit thin? Fell asleep in the armchair around 9.30 last night so by the time I dragged myself off to bed it was still much earlier than I usually hit the hay. Woke up a couple of hours later which is pretty normal for me, went to the loo, visit to the fridge for a drink and a piece of chocolate to make my furry mouth taste better, back to sleep.

Heavy rain in the early hours woke me again, repeated the process, then at 5am the rumble of thunder in the distance probably woke more than me. Disappointed it didn’t work itself up into a decent storm, it passed in about fifteen minutes, I do like a good storm.

Then as if that wasn’t enough, a little chirper decided to start up just after 6am right outside my bedroom window. It is rare that I am not fond of all creatures great and small, but the incessant cheep cheep cheep cheep cheep at full throttle with no variation in pitch or volume was the last straw. Tapping on the window and telling him to rack off made no difference, so had to resort to opening the window and shaking a branch of the tea tree to send him packing so he could inspire someone else with his dawn chorus.

No chance of nodding off after that, gave up.

RECYCLING AN ANCHOR

Never being one to turn up my nose at someone else’s cast offs, and an advocate of recycling long before it was deemed fashionable or ecologically friendly or simply necessary in order for the planet to survive, I’ve trawled markets, fetes, garage sales, roadside cleanups and second hand shops finding most of what I need over the years.

Right now I am relishing the loan of a computer monitor to replace mine which has been glaring pink at me on and off for quite some time, more on than off to the extent I’ve had very little interaction with the ‘pooter lately. Emails have gone unanswered, no internet browsing, only the bare essentials attempted, so my workmate’s fortune in now having a laptop means I have inherited his 15” monitor until I can resurrect mine.

Mind you, I did have to crawl on my hands and knees and drag the thing from the front door to the study on the front door mat, there was no way I was going to be able to pick up what was definitely big and heavy enough to be used as a boat anchor. I did manage to get it from the floor to the desk though, just, and as is obvious I am back clacking mindlessly away on the keyboard.

Doesn’t take much to keep me happy. I’ve managed to prolong the life of one little monitor and save it from being added to the heap of discarded paraphernalia in the computer graveyard. So much of what we manufacture and consume becomes obsolete almost as fast as it comes off the end of the assembly line, I guess that’s what keeps the economy ticking along and the advertising agencies in business.

Anyway, for this little camper I’m happy with my boat anchor, and if I need to write something important when I’m not actually in front of the computer, well, then I’ll just have to find a piece of paper, the laptop can wait.

TIME TO SEE THE VIEW

A stuffed radiator in my car caused me to rethink how I was going to get to Hobart and back for Jack Jumper treatment No 2. Opted for the bus, a mode of transport I haven’t used in many a year, but in the end the two and a half hour journey proved to be something of a blessing.

When you’re whizzing along the highway you do notice things along the way, but they’re somewhat in the periphery due to the necessity of concentrating on the job of driving. From the elevated perch in the bus though, and seeing as someone else was doing the driving, I was treated to being able to leisurely take in the passing scenery in more detail.

A maintenance truck coming towards us on the train line, they do look weird when they do that, gorse spreading like a cancer wherever it could take hold, the Poms have a lot to answer for besides importing rabbits when they decided to bring in that pest of a thing. Towering Hawthorn hedges in bloom in pink and white, or bloomin’ hawthorn hedges for those who don’t like them because they block the view. Canola, GM or otherwise, growing prolifically by the side of the highway having escaped the confines of their paddocks.

All along the way Tasmania’s convict and cultural heritage was evident, an abundance of historic homes, some humble, others more stately, both privately owned as well as providing tourists with many choices for where to stay the night. The popularity of historic towns Ross and Oatlands was evident by the number of tables occupied outside cafes as people enjoyed their morning coffee in the sunshine.

Roadside sculptures, black swans on the Derwent River at Bridgewater, including the mother swan and her five cygnets I’d spotted last week, bright pink and red pigface cascading down the grassy banks on the approach to Hobart, memorials of flowers attached to trees and telegraph poles marking the place where loved ones had lost their lives. To top it all off, gazing out of the café window during the afternoon on busy Liverpool St, several seagulls were taking the risk of retrieving the remains of someone’s dropped lunch from the middle of the road as all manner of vehicles sped past. Quite comical, they weren’t satisfied until they had it all, no matter how many times they had to weave in and out of the traffic.

It does you good sometimes to stop and have a decent look at what’s going on around you. We can miss so much as we hurtle along, often with blinkers on so we’re not distracted from the seemingly oh so important things we’re doing. I know it did me good to be a passenger for a change, not to be in the driver’s seat, so I could delight in the little details.

JAB JAB JAB JAB......

There are some parts of my life where I have been left behind in the Dark Ages. My little Mazda is still the proud owner of a cassette player, so for my trip to Hobart yesterday I decided to get out my recent 50c bargain from the op shop, Jeff Wayne’s War of the Worlds. Hadn’t heard it for years, so to be lulled by Richard Burton’s rich voice was a treat as I headed south over the twists and turns of the Great Western Tiers. 50c definitely well spent.

The journey down, and an exhilarating walk on Blackman’s Bay beach with a bracing wind off the water, was the pleasant prelude to my real reason for visiting Hobart. Suffering an anaphylactic reaction a few months ago to a Jack Jumper ant sting, a darling species of the ant world which has lethal capabilities, today was Day 1 of my treatment in the Jack Jumper Allergy program. The purpose? To get desensitised so the rotten little blighters don't kill me.

What I thought was going to be a rather uncomfortable day turned out to be something of an anti climax. 2 blood tests, one at the beginning and one at the end, not simple seeing as a search party has to be sent out to find a decent vein any time I have a blood test, and seven injections of venom later, I proved to be a model patient with no bad reactions during the day. Felt like a bit of a fraud, though the staff reassured me they’d rather that than a drama any day.

Only ended up with a significant local reaction on one arm, making me feel like I could give someone a decent right hook, as it is red, hot and swollen from my elbow to my armpit and uncharacteristically “beefy”!

On the bright side, the atmosphere in the Hobart Hospital unit where everyone receives their treatment is a bit of a hoot, and for a while was a bit like Bourke Street with people playing musical chairs and beds just to find a spot to park themselves. With around 350 in the State on the program, and about 20 in and out during the day, Dr Christine Chuter and nurses Rachel and Anna kept track of us all, amidst much friendly banter as the lolly jar did the rounds to keep everyone happy

So, one day down, 5 years to go!!! Back next week for more of the same. Oh dear, what have I signed up for.