Things to be glad about

It occurred to me the other day that I’m extremely glad never to have to darn a sock again. I’m mildly pleased that I know how to do it but some decade or so ago was forced to the conclusion that socks were a) cheap b) frequently no longer made of wool and c) that darned socks are extremely uncomfortable to wear.

I’m glad that I no longer have to visit a bank, and that all my financial transactions are electronic. And I’m glad that I can understand just enough about electronic banking to actually do it.

I’m glad that my extremely low capacity for abstract thinking no longer troubles me. Take e=mc²; I’m lost before I get to m. I cannot understand what philosophers mean when they philosophise and my eyes glaze over when faced with certain levels of political discourse.

Discovering Dandelion Tea is another thing I’m glad about. I have never before liked “smelly” teas but I’ve become used to Dandy T which is a good thing as the water you use to make the tea is counted in your daily water intake. I know it’s very Byron Bay of me to mainline an alternative to real tea but it’s working well.

I’m especially glad we now use doonas instead of blankets. Blankets were so heavy that in my debilitated breathing state I doubt I’d be able to lift them.

I’m glad all the way to thrilled to open my diary and see no entries. I love pottering about with my knitting, sewing, embroidery and other crafting and do not love what sometimes seems like perpetual doctors’ appointments.

Not having to sing the National Anthem at the cinema is another thing to be glad about. Also, the cinemas up here on the northern beaches are delightfully old fashioned and never full, at least when I’ve been there. And thinking about entertainment has made me realise how glad I am that I’m not 20 today and don’t have to listen to the awful music that the rest of my family loves.

As the weeks go on I’m sure I’ll find more to be glad about, but I’m now going to segue back to he topic of interesting phrases and sayings.

Why do we have a “pair” of pants? A pair of shoes makes sense but why are pants a pair? Is it because they have two legs? And while we’re in the shoe department, do you remember referring to someone as a “goody two shoes”? Why two shoes? Why not wellington boots (or should that be Wellington?) or “goody bananas”?

When we’re flustered, we often say we’re “hot and bothered”. It’s very expressive but what does it actually mean?

I found myself the other day saying a movie we’d just seen was “not a patch on” its predecessors. This phrase is a complete mystery. Less mysterious is a “splitting headache”. I suppose it means that your head feels like it’s splitting open but it could so easily be a “thundering” headache or a “pounding” headache.

Equally close to being meaningful is the sentence: “I cried my eyes out …” It seems to imply that you were crying so much that you had no more tears left. But it’s still a trifle quirky.

And finally still on the topic of eyes, there’s the possibly politically incorrect assertion that “blind Freddy” could have seen what’s going on. Why Freddy? Why not Marmaduke or Evelyn or Peregrine?

 

Quote of the week from Chambers Dictionary of Modern Quotations:

US writer Mark Twain: “Golf is a good walk spoiled.”

 The rituals of life

 

When I was a young person living at home with my parents and brother, we had a ritual each time we came home after a night out at some celebration or other. Off would go our coats and down would go our handbags and one of us, often my father, would head to the kitchen to put on the kettle for tea. We’d all sit around the kitchen drinking tea and eating biscuits until one by one we headed for sleep. I take two things out of this: one is a reflection on our relative thinness as a family which made eating biscuits not particularly sinfull and the other is an explanation for my lifelong problem with falling asleep which may well have been caused by the caffeine before bed.

There are so many rituals which studded my life. One small example: when my brother and I came home from school, we would sit down to an unvarying afternoon tea of bread and jam in winter or watermelon in summer.

There were many rituals connected with Judaism. Friday nights, for example, were fairly sacred in the sense that we were always at home. I think I was in my 30s before I went out on a Friday night to anything other than Shabbat dinner at someone else’s home. My father would make what I now know was a fairly truncated Kiddush, or set of prayers, and my mother would cook either chicken “cacciatore” or roast beef. The chicken was cooked to extinction in margarine with onions and tomatoes; the roast beef so un-tender that it was virtually un-eatable unless shaved into very small slivers. Other ritual foods like chicken soup and chopped liver were by contrast extraordinarily good.

In my pre-teenage and a little older, I went each Saturday morning with my father to the synagogue. For some reason our shule-going did not include Friday nights. We also went to synagogue in the yearly rituals of holydays such as Passover, Purim, Shavuot and more and, of course, the High Holydays of Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur and Sukkot. Another ritual associated with the High Holydays was buying a new set of nice clothes and a hat. This business of a hat was contentious. I always wanted a great cartwheel of a hat but my mother said I couldn’t have one as I was short and would look like a mushroom!

There were certain rituals connected to rites of passage like barmitzvahs and weddings. The receptions which followed these family events were usually in the evening with dancing to live music and large dinners. In my middle to late teenage it was a ritual to wear a long dress, frequently with a small jacket like a bolero, to these affairs. Long dresses were also worn to balls like those held by various institutions at university and also bridesmaid dresses (of which I had several) were usually long.

I recall an incident associated with a ball which gave me a pretty strong indication that the Almighty took an interest in my spiritual welfare. I had been invited by a non-Jewish boy to a ball being held at one of the posh colleges. Unfortunately, it was scheduled for a Friday night. I begged and pleaded with my parents to let me go and eventually they reluctantly agreed. The big day approached. On the day before, I was sitting in the sun in the Quadrangle at Sydney University when I noticed a rash over both my arms. It was measles! Of course, as fate would have it, I missed the ball. Strike one for the Almighty!

Back to the evening receptions for barmitzvahs and weddings. As I grew independent and came to these events on my own, one ritual was to seek out my parents first thing, say hello and exchange kisses. Another was to greet all the family friends whom I called Aunty and Uncle. Another ritual was to waltz with my (real) Uncle Reg. He was a fantastic dancer so this was a pleasure.

Another ritual in the olden days was to write thank you notes every time you went to a party or a wedding. It was simply de rigueur and the next day, out would come the notepaper, envelopes and stamps.

And a final two rituals concerned with shoes. My father would clean our school schools regularly, buffing them to a shine. And we would store our wellington boots with the tops folded over and pinned down with a peg so the spiders couldn’t get in.

 

Quote of the week from Chambers Dictionary of Modern Quotations

US President Harry S Truman:

“It’s a recession when your neighbour loses his job; it’s a depression when you lose yours.”

 Spidercide and other conversations

I seem to be spending a considerable amount of time having deep and meaningful, if one sided, discussions with insects, birds and other creatures.

As I don’t speak spider, I’ve had to use English to explain to the multitude of daddy-long-legs spiders which festoon their cobwebs all over my house my reasons for seeking their demise. I, rather reasonably I think, explain to them that I dislike cobwebs and I‘m therefore about to commit spidercide and they’re just going to have to cop it. Large garden spiders, otherwise known as tarantulas, require a different sort of communication which largely consists of screaming. Occasionally they are captured using the glass and cardboard method and sent outside or murdered by Mortein. When I see small spiders rushing about, I tend to leave them be although they may be co-opted as specimens for my grandson’s new microscope.

I also have lots of one-sided conversations with Chico the bird. The bird’s repertoire of conversation consists of squeaks and chirps at various decibel levels including the extremely high. He frequently uses me as a kind of super-highway, waddling up to my leg, then up my trousers to my arm then around my neck to the other arm and down onto the desk. Occasionally he will stop on my shoulder and start eating my ear. No matter how much I remonstrate with the creature, he comes back for more pecks. There are times, however, when he sits just next to my neck and croons to himself; it’s very sweet.

Little lizards always get the glass and cardboard treatment and taken outside. However, should a large lizard ever migrate inside I can confidently tell you that my language would be much like that used for furry big garden spiders – screaming!

Small mice, which have set up home in our pantry, are dealt with in a slightly different way. We weren’t prepared to kill them so we’ve purchased dinky little traps which you bate with peanut butter. So far we’ve captured two infants, which Jessica released up at the park. They are the most attractive little creatures, medium grey with the classic long tale. We did explain to them our need to relocate their little tribe so we didn’t feel too authoritarian.

We no longer need to speak often to the big dog as he is mostly now living elsewhere. Which is a shame as the dog was the only creature who appeared to understand English. There was a repertoire of words which he understood, most referring to going walkies, having treats or eating. The wonderful Jack Russell whom we had years ago had an enormous vocabulary of words he understood including walking on the left or right as instructed, leaping to attention when anyone mentioned going for a walk, going to this person or that as required and much more.

This week’s blog is a trifle short for various reasons but I can’t go without sharing a few more interesting phrases.

My friend Denise says her father used the expression “put a sock in it” when he wanted someone to stop talking. Recently I said I was “gob smacked” by something said by someone else and I also used the classic when talking about money or rather the lack of it: “I haven’t got a brass razoo.” And there’s doing something “in a trice”. What’s a razoo? And why is it brass? And if gob is slang for mouth, why are you smacked in the mouth by someone else’s words? And why is a sock the thing that’s shoved into the mouth to stop words coming out? Why not a cardigan, or a sheep’s fleece … And what’s a trice?

 

Quote of the week from the Chambers Dictionary of Modern Quotations:

British writer Gwyn Thomas: “She was a blonde – with a brunette past.”

 The good oil

 

My daughter got in touch with her inner Hungarian this week and cooked lángos (pronounced “lungosh”). It’s pieces of bread dough which you fry, then smother in garlic by rubbing cloves across the surface. Truly delicious!

I’ve spoken before about the two greatest Jewish contributions to the culinary world: chicken soup of course, and latkes, which are ambrosial grated potato and onions fried in oil.

There’s obviously a “fried in oil” trope happening here. There’s also donuts for Chanukah which are again fried in oil and injected with jam. Hamentaschen, the three sided pastries eaten on Purim, rather spoil the narrative because they’re baked in in the oven.

Eaten at any time are blintzes, or rolled-up pancakes. They’re fried on one side (in oil of course), then stuffed with traditional fillings like mushrooms or cheese, rolled up like a parcel and fried on the outside.

Gefilte fish which is usually served on Pesach but also eaten through the year, comes in a boiled version (yuk!) and a fried version, in oil of course.

While my daughter was doing creative cooking, I was, as promised, revelling in ABC Classic’s Top 100 music for the screen. I knitted my way through two consecutive days of John Williams and more John Williams and even more John Williams – Superman, Jaws, ET, Raiders of the Lost Ark and, taking out the Number 1 spot, Star Wars. My Number 1 was Schindler’s List , also by John Williams, which came in at Number 5.

Re knitting … I have recently taken up knitting as another craft skill. Of course, I’ve knitted before, including a multicoloured lap rug made up of long strips of different coloured squares sewn together, which I made a few months ago. But I’m now knitting scarves. So far, one for my youngest granddaughter, one for my daughter and one and two halves for me. One of the halves is about a third of a scarf in a stripe-y pattern which I decided I really disliked, having substituted wools from those prescribed in the pattern. I was so cranky with the colours I’d chosen that I ended it at the one third mark point and draped it over the couch back as an antimacassar. I have now started it again in the correct wools and it’s already looking gorgeous. Before I started this one, I began a rather sweet, lacy scarf which used light weight wool. It was also looking gorgeous until I realised I’d made some huge mistake about 10 inches in and try as I might I couldn’t fix it. One day I’ll get some more wool and try this one again.

One of the advantages of knitting is that you can do it while watching your preferred screen. Wherever possible I find television series of many years duration and watch one episode after another, knitting away very comfortably at the same time.

Sometimes I watch British crime series, other times US legal or medical series, but I’ve noticed a bizarre thing. In these shows, it’s always winter. The cast spends a great deal of time rugging up in jackets with scarves, knitted caps and gloves. This appears to be a given, along with the goodies always winning.

Two of my correspondents have told me that the meaning of “it knocked me for six” of which I wrote earlier, comes from the world of cricket. Apparently if the ball is batted so strongly that it goes over the fence, the team is awarded six runs. I have this on the authority of Carolyn who lives in Double Bay when she’s not living in Israel, and Monica, who lives in Bangkok and as an American shouldn’t know anything about cricket, but there we go.

And four sayings for this week.

The first is “dirt poor”, which could possibly come from the situation of a family’s house so poverty stricken that it had beaten earth floors.

The antithesis of this is “stinking rich”. I can’t for the life of me think where this may have come from, unless it’s a commentary on the rich by very angry poor.

The third is saying someone lives “cheek by jowl” to someone else. It makes some sort of sense in that a cheek can become a jowl when a person ages.

Finally, I found myself saying “goody gumdrops” last week. A hangover from childhood? Who knows?

 

Quote of the week from Chambers Dictionary of Modern Quotations:

Poet Dylan Thomas:

“An alcoholic is someone you don’t like who drinks as much as you do.”

 

 The aftermath

 

“Today is election day and I hope that, like me, you find it a bit of a thrill. Not too thrilling – we are not Americans after all. But, once you have exercised your democratic right to grumble about over-long queues, over-cooked sausages and over-zealous volunteers, I hope you can take a little pride in participating in Australian democracy.” This from Misha Ketchell, editor of that excellent on-line source The Conversation.

Yes, what a day and night that was. Our voting queue at the local public school was very, very slow but it gave you time to vet your queue mates for prospective friendship and admire their dogs and children. And, of course, to scoff down a democracy sausage liberally covered with onions. This took me back to helping out at a sausage stall at Bondi Public School to benefit WAYS, the wonderful youth service in the Eastern Suburbs. My job was to chop up 20 kilos of onions! I’ve told my offspring I want this achievement on my tombstone.

Our electorate, Mackellar. was being contested by one of the so-called “teal” independents, Dr Sophie Scamps, who won relatively easily against an incumbent Liberal; my previous Eastern Suburbs electorate, Wentworth, also fell to a “teal” independent, Allegra Spender. These wins and those like them around the country may have brought talented women into the governing mix but oddly removed sitting Liberal members who can be said to be centrist. So the Liberal party must inevitably reflect a more right wing position.

This tectonic shift in voting patterns which brought a slew of talented women into parliament has also taken me back towards my earlier news obsession. For all the years I edited the Australian Jewish News I read inter alia each day two broadsheet newspapers and weekly news magazines like The Bulletin, Time and Newsweek as well as the Jerusalem Post and others. I also watched ABC news obsessively along with whatever commentary programs were on at the time like This Day Tonight and Four Corners for example. Even when I worked at the Great Synagogue, I kept up much of my news obsession. But in recent years for no good reason I’ve turned into a news hermit. I don’t even buy a newspaper.

Election night has stimulated me to change back a little. I’ve found myself watching The Drum and ABC news in the evenings this past week. The big difference from my earlier life as a news junkie is that now I watch on my computer and knit or embroider while I do it.

I wonder if this huge shift in voting patterns has anything to do with the huge shift in working patterns. Never since the introduction of the eight-hour working day, or the insertion or women into the workforce during the War, has there been such a change with so many people now, men and women, working from home. I can’t yet see the link but the coincidence is curious.

And a last offering in our phrases department. My dear friend Janet in London told me that her father used the saying “better than a slap in the face with a wet herring” rather than just  “wet fish”. Very Monty Python!

 

Quote of the week from Chambers Dictionary of Modern Quotations:

Italian novelist Italo Svevo: “There are three things I always forget. Names, faces and – the third I can’t remember.”

 Elections and other matters

 

I’m an election tragic. I take up my place on the lounge opposite the TV at 6pm on election night, turn to the ABC and don’t leave till the broadcast ends hours later. Interruptions are dealt with harshly. I have lots of nibbles and continuous cups of de-caf coffee or Dandelion Tea and will probably spend the hours knitting while I watch and listen.

I love the way Antony Green parses the results, the way the best ABC journalists and commentators handle the cut and thrust of the voting all around the country. I love listening to serving and former politicians waxing lyrical or looking worried depending on the vote as the coverage moves from electorate to electorate. I love the graphics which show the makeup of the lower house as the votes are counted and individuals can be linked to a parliamentary seat. This election is going to be particularly fascinating as the population’s apparent fondness for the so-called “teal” independents plays out, especially as I live in an electorate with a particularly well supported independent. It will also be interesting to see how the lower house voting paper is arranged and whether it might lead to so-called donkey votes favouring the less savoury small parties. With Clive Palmer’s United Australia Party having an innocuous or even encouraging name, is it possible that many Australians will vote UAP accidentally, so to speak?

Incidentally, how do you think people get up the telegraph poles to nail in the advertising for various candidates. Do people slink around in the dark of night carrying extremely long ladders? Or is it possible that the political establishment hires people who know how to shimmy up coconut trees to cut down the fruit?

Australia is a shining light electorally because in this country voting is compulsory. I have no idea why some countries – and the USA is the most prominent of these – permit their citizens not to choose a candidate but to choose whether or not to vote. It’s very odd. Surely the parliament should be made up of women and men chosen by all the people. I think so, but then again I didn’t study politics at university. There’s possible some fiendishly subtle argument for the US system; do let me know if there is.

I thought I’d come to the end of my extended coverage of fancy phrases, but I’ve found some more.

How about “it doesn’t cut the mustard”? There’s a vague suggestion of something extremely easy but when I’ve tried to argue this to the ground I can’t quite put my finger on it.

Then there’s “bright eyed and bushy tailed”, presumable a reference to some animal like a squirrel. But why a reference to a small evidently alert animal should lead to a generalisation about someone being ready with the right answers escapes me. I’m also unsure why I often berate myself by saying I’m a goose. Why a goose? Why not a two headed tiger or a tree frog? I’m also given to self-apostrophising myself as a “dipstick”. Hmmm!

Quite recently I heard someone referred to as a person who “really knows his onions”. Just where onions come into it is a mystery.

And another with a food reference: So and so “saved his bacon”. Why bacon? Why not chocolate cake or meat pie?

To continue the food theme, how about describing something as “spilled milk”. It could have been spilled porridge or whiskey or orange cordial.

I also came across an oldie I hadn’t heard for a while: He is “happy as Larry”. Why Larry? Is Larry that much happier than Jim or Bert, or for that matter Hermione or Myrtle?

I have a favourite phrase I use from time to time when commenting on some setback or another: “Well it’s better than a slap in the face with a wet fish”.

And my final offering: the oddest bad wish to someone you aren’t pleased with. “Up your nose with a rubber hose!”

 

Quote of the week from Chambers “Dictionary of Modern Quotations”:

US writer Laurence Stallings: “Hollywood – a place where the inmates are in charge of the asylum.”

 The upside of ageing

There are many things about ageing which range from the annoying to the inescapably awful. And let’s not forget expensive. Doctors’ and dentist’s bills proliferate, only marginally offset by the government throwing money at you when you turn 75 to keep you out of a nursing home.

In the arena of appearance there’s a cascade of age-related changes which take a lot of getting used to. Take the face, for instance. Mine is now papered with age-spots and gouged out with wrinkles. I’ve got interesting, corrugated wrinkles on one cheek as if I’d fallen asleep on a rucked-up sheet. I’ve got a positive forest of wrinkles on my top lip and of course there’s the upside-down Tigris and Euphrates of lines running from my nose to either side of my mouth. (Those who warned me about the perils of smoking stressed its damaging effect on my lungs but failed to point to the certain appearance of witch-faced wrinkles on my face.) There is also the problem I’ve mentioned before – hair on the chin. I’ll quote again the words of Germaine Greer: “You know you’re getting old when your hair migrates from your legs to your chin.

My arms are also covered with age-spots, extremely blue and prominent veins and thin skin which often shows nasty bruises where the bird has bitten me. (At least this bird’s nips are moderate in size where the cockatoo bites were enormous.)

My legs are covered with spider veins and the even uglier varicose veins. Living on the Northern Beaches means a lot of unwrapped skin but I no longer do that – I wear trousers instead. My upcoming need to wear a skirt for Nicholas’s barmitzvah means the purchase of black stockings is on the shopping horizon.

Thinning hair is an ageing problem requiring attention. Some time ago I bought a gorgeous wig of white hair – you can see it in the picture which accompanies this blog – which I suspect I may have to wear regularly down the track. I bought it because I really wanted white hair and my hair was spending too long being pepper-and-salt. Now I fear I may have to deploy it for other reasons.

Ageing plays havoc with your joints and other bits of you. I’ve already had back surgery, but I suspect my knees and hips might have to play catch-up. Mind you, much of the ominous creaking and hurting of knees and hips has probably a lot to do with my overweight torso bearing down on my joints. And about that “overweight” state. Some elderly people like my mother become very thin as they age. Others become seriously plump; in my case that’s fat, really. Plump is far too coy.

But this blog is going to talk about the upside, not the downside, of ageing. And there is definitely an upside.

Let’s start with the upside of forgetting things. I’m sure you think that forgetting is, generally speaking, a bad thing but I don’t see it that way. For example, I’ll never run out of books to read as it’s fairly certain I’ll forget books I’ve already read and happily read them again. This is particularly useful with non-fiction.

I never again have to worry that I’ve forgotten someone’s name. I just call everyone darling, or occasionally dear. You have no idea how this de-stresses social interaction. I bounce around in slightly larger-than-life style and really don’t worry about what I’m forgetting because I can parlay my ignorance into amusement shared by all parties.

Empowered ageing – and I know not everyone is empowered – usually means you can charm people in authority and smooth over any rough edges in your dealing with Centrelink or Service NSW or your insurance company or your bank …

I do recognise that I am empowered by virtue of my middle-class upbringing, education, work experiences and positions serving numerous boards and committees. And I do know that many older people find they have become invisible or talked down to. I suppose I’m just suggesting that there’s an upside to ageing to match its downsides.

There are even good things about ageing when it comes to one’s appearance. The migration of hair from leg to chin means, obviously, that the old chore of shaving one’s legs is no longer necessary. Neither is the waxing of other parts of one’s anatomy.

You could, like the amazing Iris Apfel, go completely over the top in layering jewellery of multi colours round neck and wrists and probably make people smile instead of mock.

You can offer your services to your grandchildren’s schools and be delightedly welcomed whether it’s to the canteen or the library. In fact you can volunteer anywhere without being viewed suspiciously.

Generally speaking, people one deals with are kindly and help out where they can. They also take your goo-ing over their babies or toddlers pleasantly.

Every now and again you can put your foot down with your family without creating a war, even though occasionally you get the harmony wrong with the grandchildren. I think they all still like me although grandma is really boring when it comes to their manners. (In fact, grandma is quite generally boring as she can’t – or won’t -- engage physically with the brood.)

I’m sure there are many more examples of the upside of ageing but grandma is tired now and has to stop. You, my dear readers, have to do your part and let me know what you think are examples.

 

Quote of the week from Chambers Dictionary of Modern Quotations:

British novelist Howard Spring: “The author of this novel and all the characters mentioned in it are completely fictitious. There is no such city as Manchester.”