I acknowledge the experience of being born on and growing up upon Ngadjuri, Ngarrindjeri, and Kaurna Land, and pay my respects to the First Nations peoples past, present and emerging.
Dedicated to Honey,
the cat that saved my life.
the cat that saved my life.
I owe my life to a cat named Honey. She was the best friend of my cat named Tom. Tom would bear with me, despite a history of tail pulling and taunting as a young child. Somehow he still loved me enough to wait at the gate for me to come home from school. Then he would disappear and reappear in time for dinner, and a nice spot by the fire.
After he passed from snake bite, Honey hung around, but she was still wild. It took 18 months of conversation, every day to build a relationship, built on quiet words. Me baring my soul.
One day I found myself pleading to her. I said “If you trust me enough to eat some food, then I promise I will not give up on myself.” She came forward and we were friends evermore after that. And I myself lived.
Preface by Violet Franke
Dear Reader
Soliloquies is from the author’s true persona, Toni Greenwood and her life while growing and maturing into a young adult. Most of the memoir is written in letter form and is autobiographical. Toni has barred no stone really, in spelling out how the quiet in her life and lives interacted with her soul and being.
There is little I can add to this cast of letters, than to admit that the quiet exists in all our lives, in ways we probably take for granted or do not even hear. Or perhaps there is a quiet so loud in your world, it is all you can hear.
Toni has written frankly about her life. At times it is raw and at times so familiar. I hope you can spare another fine whiskey and some careful moments to enjoy each letter just as it comes to you. From a page.
Yours truly, Violet Franke.
The Quiet
Sometimes The Quiet is what is happening because something is not being said.
Sometimes The Quiet happens because the words are not able to be said.
Sometimes The Quiet happens because there are no needs for words.
Sometimes The Quiet happens because you do not speak the same language.
And sometimes it happens because you do speak the same language.
Dear Dad
I found that your perceptiveness and faith often kept me going, even after you passed. Your belief that the child should just be left to find her own brilliant way… that everything – love and home and family would come to her if you just let her be.
There was hardly ever a cross word spoke in our house. Mum and you would spare me from the emotion. And what was left was The Quiet. I really noticed that in adult life, dealing with conflict has been a struggle. The Quiet captures me all up, and keeps me from contributing any a sound. It’s like The Quiet echo’s through my life still some forty years later. Whispers of your ancestors probably on your lips. As you took your angry words to a quiet conversation late at night. No doubt you learned that approach from somewhere. From some people.
But you persisted in the marriage. What was unsaid was more of what you desperately wanted from her. She saved your life. And we all depended on our love, and on your loves of me. To continue. Rarely did you befriend death. And no doubt, you would have only accepted it, as long as you could continue to Love. I tell you now, that is the part that lasts forever.
You wanted to live forever. And sow. You are.
My Mothers Mother
After you had gone, I dreamt of you. Dancing with your hair bee-hived high, in a blue sequence dress. Dancing with champagne in your left hand and your right hand happily wailing above your head. I thought it was a good sign. I had never seen you so happy.
Mother always said it was the six-year engagement your endured, that made you harder. Not that she was around to really be any kind of a witness. I knew you as a righteous woman, a pianist who would ply me with lollies, perhaps slightly jealous of the rapport I had with your beloved husband. What I did notice was the product of the times, the way I was never really hugged. Or how you never really hugged your daughter. Or perhaps because you never really got the hugs yourself. The Quiet was there. In the explanation that was never explained. I did get a chance to talk with your daughter about it… mum said you were probably put off it at a young age. In not so many words. I could relate, because the same thing happened to me. But I always craved touch and hugs. Maybe you did too.
I remember you also for trying it on to eat your sweets before your mains. I remember doing what I was told, and helping you out when we visited. In a quiet way. In a way. I remember the quilt you made for me as a teenager, out of remnants from Hills ironing board covers that brought great comfort at times.
And I remember that it was your mind that left you before your body. And mum saying that I should not visit in your last days. She said she found your suffering to be something she would not want me to remember. But I carried your coffin. And I could not stop crying. Trying as usual to not make much noise. But I will never forget that dream.
A Mother’s Friendship
When I was young, we would do the shopping on Saturday morning. On the way or the way home, we would drop in and visit somebody. And usually for no other reason than to see how they were. Of course my other would have a story to tell, of her mother or husband or me. Or even the cat. And I would sit quietly and just observe, unless spoken to. Not because that was a rule. But because the engagement was precious to witness. And little did I know. My mother was teaching me the way of her friendship. If we ever had something to give, like lemons in Winter, or Tomatoes in Summer, then we would come in hand. Although often the friends had their own supplies in the garden too. My mother met her greatest friend in town, by introducing herself to the policeman’s wife. Turned out they found their commonalities, and mother poured out some kind of vulnerability that day that meant they would always have a bond. Some many years later they did have a time apart – and I intervened by contacting mum’s bestie, and in turn spoke with mum. Turn’s out that they both had not wanted to burden the other, and had been so thoughtful as to forget to water their friendship. And there was a Quiet. Sow, after a time apart, they reintroduced themselves, and how silly they must have thought it all. Such love and sensitivity they had for each other. It had kept them apart.
And. There were the Normans, whom were both retired writers who liked the crosswords, with Mister Norman doing woodwork out in his shed in his other spare time. There were the Seccafein’s who had a little dog called Kitten. They were best friends of both my parents, until my Dad got jealous of Mum laughing so freely and intimately with Mr Seccafein, that they had it out, and Dad refused to believe there was nothing doing, and stopped talking to Mister. But mum still visited. Perhaps on the quiet. And she’d take me with her, always listening with an opinion. Trying to solve practical problems in a social way.
My mother’s laugh was often on display in these friendly interactions. It was the Irish in us passed down I think. Even when there was too much rain or not enough health or money, she would be laughing at the irony or the simple fact. Nodding and smiling as through whatever will be will be. And her laugh was loud and orgasmic, not unlike her sneezes. I would sometimes be embarrassed by that in public.
And there were the neighbours in our street. The Lutheran Minister and his family; Betty and her husband who returned from the war not the same man. There were the Blacker’s, and the Burgess’s at the start of the street and the Weatherall’s sometimes in their holiday house across the road. I got to go up there once. It must have been Christmas. And they could see the Sea, over the roof of our house. And there was the gay male couple next door whom my parents never said a bad word about, but probably ignored their face. And the Dix’s right next to us. Mr Dix often left his wife alone at home, she would muse because of his need to look after their other property in Queensland. But the unwritten text was that he was shacked up with another woman, and too shy to get a divorce from such as dedicated woman. The Quiet was there. And when there was illness amongst any friend, my mother would be brave enough to visit the sick, and make The Quiet loud. Because she’d always been a carer, even before becoming a nurse. She knew that people need people. Even if its company for no reason. With all the quiets that she carried at home, she would come with a beautiful rose posy into a friends or even strangers house, and remind them of their own laughter. This is some thing that is now left with me. A Quiet that I can make loud. Just by visiting a friend. And watering a flower.
Today’s Day
I am writing to you again, even though you are not here. But The Quiet is so quiet that all I can notice is you. I could use a hug, or a laugh. Or a smile. But it is quiet. Like we were outlining your image on a screen but really you were not there. Sometimes I notice this well inside me that you both left. Mostly I have used the well to be a new space in which to express myself. Like writing letters to my love and family.
But today. I am empty. I was not my best on two occasions lately and I am the only one who can pick myself up and try again. Get out of bed, shower and put clothes on. Those three things I often start with. But my stomach turns because I know I could have done better. My own harshest critic I know. But should have done better. And this is the only way I can tell you, that your parental love would be so handy right now.
And then there is tomorrow, a dream I allowed myself to have, where I was open to a new and lovely love. She brought me bread and platters of cheese and fruit. And then I took her on a skimming board, flying down the roads until we rolled off going too fast around a bend. Laughing and exhilarated. It was fun. And then later, she popped her head back in. She had a ball of blu-tac and she leaned through the doorway and pressed it into my wrist. Sow I would not forget. And tomorrow turned out to be lighter and happier again. Reminding me that the quiet has left space for love and support to grow. To literally fly into my heart’s breath. And fill that well with a simple kindness, that you always showed me I needed.
Circles of Women
The first time I found myself in a circle of older wiser funnier women, was playing golf as a junior. I was in high school, and every Saturday I would join the last group of women in the morning competition. This is because I was never an early riser. And 11am start was perfect for me, and perfect for my mother to drop me off, and later pick me up.
People. Like 90 something Dallis McKenzie, and Dot the fashionista, and Carol the retired school teacher … often we would find ourselves as a foursome. And they would go through the same emotions as any other golfer in a round. And along the way they would smile and persevere. They usually had low expectations of themselves, and yet celebrated the company with great gusto. And respect. And laughter. The Quiet was not a thing feared. And their voices and thoughtfulness would scare it off. If there was an issue to be brought aloud, it was talked of and laughed out. Perhaps the only quiet there was the coming of age. The way they had found themselves in their twilight, together. And within themselves. And there I was. Escaping my own unhappiness and struggles of the teenage years. Being nurtured. Because they let me be myself. And simply encouraged. They always said nice things. I was not bad at sport. And they often spoke of envy. But in a beautiful and playful way. I was embraced. At some point later I went to visit Dallis in her house with her husband Ken. Scottish Australian. The way they held their heads. Always with dignity and splash of joy. The way she played golf despite arthritis or the rest. We would all sit after the round at the 19th, and drink and eat. Then I would call my mother and give her some notice to come and collect me. The quiet was even there one year. A female golfer who wanted to remain anonymous, donated her old set of clubs to me. Up until them, I had been playing with my father’s clubs. Definitely not suited to a young girl. That quiet anonymous donation meant I went on to play better and achieve. A circle of Women. Whom made the quiet loud, and any loudness was done quietly. A way passed down I would have thought. As it were.
My Father’s Mother
She was Dot everyone called her. I only found out her real name when I became an adult. Long after she had passed.
But I did know that she was the first white baby born on a steamboat on the River Murray at Mildura. Born on water. Something special there.
Really, I was so young, I was six when she passed and we would only see her a couple of times a year. She smoked like a chimney until 93. Quit, and then died three months later. I don’t remember any conversations with her. I was like a silent observer. Just wandering around her house watching. Playing with the neighbour’s kids and marveling at their sausage dog called Sacha, as being the strangest thing I had ever seen.
Her house was old and odd and wooden. The main room had vaulted ceiling, and was kind of five sided. In the middle was a big round table. It was for playing cards around, and betting with coins. And smoking. And talking. So many memories probably, just stuck to the walls after so long.
And there was the bed that I slept in when I was there. It was waist high. One time I fell out with a thud onto the floorboards. Mum came a running.
But when it came to her funeral, I was devastated my parents would not let me attend to say goodbye. Like it did not matter. They thought that omission would spare me, but it only caused a sadness. Another quiet. One that could not easily be redressed. Until now.
Farewell Nana. See you again sometime.
Save me a dance.
Mary’s eyes
There must have been a quiet in Mary. My mother carried her name as her middlin. And Aunty Mary herself was the one that pushed my Mother to travel to Europe. All by herself. During the 1960s. Amongst mother’s stuff I found a letter signed by Prime Minister McKenzie at the time, wishing her safe passage and diplomatic assistance if she was to need it. For a while I thought my mother had been a spy – I had only ever seen James Bond pull out a letter like that! But it was apparently quite common in the 1960s for Australians travelling abroad.
The stories Mother told me of her holidays with colleagues, in between the work that she undertook. Getting up to mischief all by accident. Doing things that you would not have thought achievable by the locals, like driving a car up a snowy mountain without snow chains on the wheels. And surviving. And she knew. When her Aunty was calling. Mother was in the bathroom one morning, and saw Mary’s eyes where her own should have been. She knew then something was not quite right. But there was little she could do about it being overseas. And what came to light was that Mary had passed. And in their own quiet between them, Mary had said goodbye.
Why
Do you know why I am writing about The Quiet? It is because I find my self in a privileged position where I can hear it all so loudly. My parents have passed, and all of their older kin. I have cousins that are typically strewn about, but not close enough to touch. Sow I have this quiet. It is more than a void. Or a valley. Or a canyon. It is a huge expanse of noise. Of love. Of memory. While I sometimes catch my self wondering what the space will invite into my life, I can also use this quiet time to remember and celebrate the quiets. Like a smile or a laugh. Caught in time just like that particular photograph. And it is all so loud. While I have my memory, it is best to use it wisely. Like a note book I carry with me, like a pencil ready to write. I have time presently to take poise. To recall and reflect. Any question I have about their pasts will likely never be answered. But I can start to sometimes sketch around the matter, and reveal. Sow, I am writing. To hold them in hand. And walk alongside moments in my life, where memory lurked for mere seconds.
And just sit.
A Mother’s Death
She was the type of mother’s heart that if she could have spoken, she would have apologised for making us cry. We watched her shut down on morphine over five days. She had decided to starve herself and refuse medications including pain meds for her cancer. So, her next step was a kind of loophole in assisted dying. Slowly her organs shut down. But the worst thing was the morphine paralysed her. She could not speak. She could not blink for all that time. Early on I told her how much I loved her, and her response was to cry. She had the type of Mother’s heart that would have apologised for making us cry with her. Still, she could also not blink. It was a very sad quiet for those days. She was alert and could hear. She could even watch what was happening in her room. But she could not respond. She groaned when it was time for her body to be repositioned. She never liked being moved about. And then there were the final moments. At 2:22 in the afternoon she passed. She took a last breath. And the oddest thing was her colour came back after she passed. Her lips lost the blue hue for a while. Maybe it was the carbon dioxide building up in her system… Then there was a precious quiet as it turned out. We had some five hours with her body, until the GP arrived to sign the death certificate, and then another wait for the funeral company. And we talked and wailed and cried and held onto her being as though for all that time she could hear. We made promises to her we could probably never keep. I myself was besides myself. She had been ill for some 22 years. And told she would not live more than one. It was so many years of repression and internal, anticipatory grief that fell out into the room.
We escorted her out of the nursing home. I tried to keep the nurse quiet but she had seen too much death to take it seriously. And we watched the big white van drive off into the darkness, as the tail lights faded away. I thought that was the last time I would see her. At least that is how I prefer to remember her.
When it came time for the funeral, the funeral director surprised me, asking me to confirm her identity in the coffin. She did not look like herself. The wrong shade of lipstick along with some wrong kind of hairdo. At least I knew she would smile at the odd socks she was wearing. I just could not find a matching pair in good time.
And so she was cremated. And buried with her parents. Encased in a plastic container for 500 years. I don’t think I want that for myself. But I also don’t think there is much spirit left in ash. Her service was rousing and something we threw ourselves into creating. The right people were there. And the right songs. And the right accent.
But still. Those tail lights, to me, were the last I saw of her.
Christmas
Christmas is of course the time when everybody’s quiets become roaringly loud. Like a train tunnel that has been empty all year, suddenly has traffic. Uncontrollable. One-way traffic. And the sounds were amplified by the struggle of the locomotive pulling an insatiably heavy load, through the darkness, with only hope of getting to the light.
As a child, I found Christmas a strange time. It was something everybody seemed to do and talk about. You would see family you had barely heard of all year. You would see the carrot and cake and milk and whiskey disappear, that was left out for Santa and his reindeer, on Christmas Eve. And I would be given a few gifts. Sometimes they were even things I would enjoy using. I remember one special Christmas, before mother and father both took ill. I received two main presents. But they were both electric racing car tracks. One new from dad. And one second hand from mum. I joined the track pieces together and made a huge track around the lounge room. It was such a cool thing. But there was not a transformer for the power point. And the batteries only last a few hours of play. It ended up rusty and in disuse. Despite me asking for a transformer to be ordered in by the toy shop. I think that was the last Christmas before illness changed the way we coped.
Anyhow, there was always the quiet amongst the loud noise and activity of Christmas. The things – the issues – from the past still running circles in the present. Like the ghost of a wild horse. Or horses. Twisting and riling amongst the interactions. Most of the ghosts were simply grief. From the fact the step kids had to virtually raise themselves after their mother died, despite dad working long hours to keep them fed. There was the quiet of blame just sitting there. It was not my father’s fault. But the grief of you children caught in poverty and loss, meant that this grief echoed all their lives. They could never really grasp that their own father was just as sad about her death. Conversations never addressed this. Quiet was the way things were kept. Like a folded sheet in the linen press. Or like a scar on the soul.
As a young adult, I was savoring every Christmas. The quiet was there too. Illness meant that we never new which Christmas would be our last together. A family of three. Holding each other up. For so many years. Rebonding the glue with laughter and tears. I so often would grieve as I left them after a weekend visit. It had been heavy for so long. Like swimming in the dark with no idea of where the beach is. The grief was an exhaustion. You wanted it over. But you didn’t want to let go. And death, came eventually to the family. The ghosts surfaced in the raw grief. And the quiet remained, as my parents had always protected me from any ghosts that were not mine.
I still do not know what was in that letter written to my parents. It will be a quiet that stays quiet. That letter was destroyed. It broke my father’s heart a mere month before his heart finally failed. He was so heart broken. Angry with tears. He was angry at them. And they probably never knew how it affected them both. In making their quiet loud, they hurt him. As though all their quiet anger and grief had forced them to hurt another human being. Not realising that that human was still a Father. And had his own scars.
That was the year the three of us last had a Christmas together. And Father passed the following November. I will always remember a roast chook and vegetables, and some lime, lemonade and water for my mother and I. And often an entrée of a home-made seafood cocktail, with tabasco, lettuce.
And a slice of lemon.
The Surrogate Gran
Across from our house, was a spare block of melaleuca trees. And next to that block was Betty’s house. She was retired, and lived with her husband Dick, whom had returned from the war, with some of the required scars. Dick used to collect stamps and coins, and would really open up when taking about them. But quite often he was not up to getting out of bed. For whatever reasons. I was too young then to be included in that Quiet.
Betty would go on to be a great friend of my parents and I through the years. Always had an open door for us, and provided quite some respite for my mother, while she was nursing father back to health and coping with her own cancer and demented mother at the same time. It was life as usual for me, but quite an uncommon circumstance for a young white child, I have come to realise.
Betty eventually moved into a retirement unit that had attachments to a care facility if she ever needed that. Heart attacks made her give up smoking, but when I would visit as a young adult, she would say, light it up in my kitchen so that I can enjoy the smell! And we would progress to debrief about love and life and sex and politics. She was a blue voter with a low opinion of First Nations people. And she always reminded me that my first love, would always be the one I would never forget. She would tell me how Dick captured her heart, and how they had had such cheeky times growing up privileged in Sydney. How Dick would ply his dates with fermented peach juice if they chose not to drink alcohol with him. He would just prick a can open and let it sit for a while. Then offer it to his dates. Of course, Betty was the last date that he ever tried that on!
She would tell me stories of being in Sydney during the second world war, how there were enemy submarines in Sydney Harbor and how you had to heard a group of purple rinsed ladies into a bombs shelter as survey planes flew overhead. How the hardest thing was getting them all to put out their cigarettes.
And my father bonded with Betty, once he had recovered from sickness as best, he could, over music. They would swap mixed tapes and talk about crossword solutions for the cross in the daily paper. Mum would disappear and divest herself of emotion when things were tough – as a family we really learnt to laugh through anything, but as I grew older, I realised it was a trait of my mother’s family, and of the times that they had lived through.
And as a young woman in my twenties, The Quiet was made to disappear when I visited Betty. I could ask her how mum was, and the quiet would be admonished. I would tell her things that I would not dare share with my mother. And we would laugh, and share Jazz music and she would dance a little in her lounge. She lived to 93 I think. And we did not get to say goodbye. I took mum to visit her in the nursing home, and she had already passed. Peacefully in her sleep. Probably after a day of dancing to music.
Tomorrow is your birthday, a few past the great one hundred not out I think. I will raise a glass and light a candle, for all the promise you always showed me. That friendships are such a blessing.
Beryl The Great
Dear Beryl
I think it has been 18 months since you passed away. I miss you still when I look out the window to your old house across the road. There is a nice young family and a cat who lives there now. They keep to themselves, but always have a wave if we meet our eyes.
I took me quite a long time to stop checking if your lights were on at night. And for the expectation to rest that you were enjoying the passing of the weather, and the traffic while sitting on your usual bench on the front porch. Still, when the sun is out or the clouds and birds are doing funny beautiful things, I know you would have enjoyed that all.
Sometime I think of our conversations. How you would tell me of your quiet. The things you dare not worry your family about or face them in the heart with. I noticed that you were sad. Or scared of death. I could not be there when you passed, but you would yell out my name and refer to us as your favourite neighbours. I am sure everybody was your favourite neighbours!
So now, when I see a white car passing by, or your roses in bloom in your front garden, I am hoping you still are keeping pace with the seasons. Quietly sitting by. Just taking note. And now, having a great rest.
Sister Marietta
It would have been 1980, and I was in grade one at St Joseph’s Catholic, and you were my main teacher. I have some very distinct memories from that time, and yet relish the fact I ever left.
I found school overwhelming. Growing up a single child, I sometimes interacted with the neighbour’s kids, but seldom was that. I spent more time talking to our new cat that we had acquired when I was three. So one recess time, I planned my way out of school. I collapsed in the playground, onto the ash felt, calling out that I was having a heart attack. The other kids gathered around in a group. Some body said “Give her some space so she can breathe”. And eventually Sister Marietta came out and told me to come back into the classroom with her. She sat quietly with me. And just penned a short letter to my mother. She then said I should walk my way home and give the letter to my mother. We lived very close so it was not problem to walk home. I was light. I was joyous. I had gotten out of school.
Mum was home in the day as she was working nightshifts as a nurse. Mum read the note slowly. Then she said to me “Well. If you’re that sick with a heart attack, you better spend the whole day in bed. Resting.” That was not how the plan was meant to end.
And so at the age of five I had my first heart attack. And survived. I also credit that time for connecting with cursive writing and learning to write the alphabet. It was like falling in love with the curve of the pencil’s tip. But of course, the social aspect of school brought quite a different experience. My first crush on Jeremy. Playing kiss chasey in the break times – rather, trying to avoid playing kiss chasey in the break times.
Anyhow the next year, we move to the seaside. And I had to make new friends. I was the odd one out. And there was no Sister Marietta there to save my life.
Giuseppe’s Pizzeria
I had barely turned 18 and found work in the local pizzeria. Giuseppe’s taught me many things, and placed me again amongst his quiet.
I learnt how to make yiros, pizza and pastas. I learnt to strip a chicken bare of its cooked flesh so that it satisfied inspection. I learnt to make coffees and serve gelato. How to ignore the comments to a pretty young thing from Giuseppe and customers alike. How to smile and please. And of course, how to keep my mouth shut.
There were times, when I thought I cannot handle this. The pressure in hospitality comes in waves. In a tourist town it was like the rains after the drought. There was that time on New Years Eve my boyfriend motorbiked 75 kilometres just to wait for me to close shop, and deliver me a rose. Then he road straight home again. Giuseppe used to say “When you get married, I will buy you a black and white television.” I still don’t know what he was insinuating. There were the regulars like Else and her dog Luka, whom later befriended me. They would stop on their morning walk for a gelato and a chat. There were always cyclists coming in after their practice. Giuseppe had been a diligent cyclist himself, and his son was at the time in training for the Olympics. And in the summer holidays, Giuseppe’s beautiful wife would come and stay at the shop with Giuseppe to spend time together. But there was a Quiet or two in this time and place.
One day, Giuseppe and his wife had raised voices. I did not understand the fast Italian language. But when Giuseppe popped back out to the shop, he grabbed a sugar bowl from the nearest table, and pitched it definitively at the wall. His wife went up stairs. And I cleaned up the mess. I was a witness. And not a voice. It was tense.
It reminds me of other notables. Like when I first started and Giuseppe tried to shock me by showing me how to put a condom on a cucumber as he popped out of the giant cool room. Like when he was so exacerbated with us staff during a busy service, that he went out back and stuffed his head into a bag of flour and then walked back out into the restaurant. There was also the time when my Grandma had passed, and he refused to give me time off for her funeral. I walked out back in the dark, and almost left there and then. To walk home and leave that job. But I somehow could not quit. And walked back in.
Sow I left that job for the big smoke. My mother pushing me to get out of town, and go to the city and study something. But I have vivid memories of that six months with Giuseppe. I was just a kid with my quiet. Serving people and observing people. And sometimes their dogs.
The Quiet Abuse
There has been a Quiet in my parent’s life that I could never had put a finger on. Until we were staying in caravan park for Christmas one year far away. We were there to see family. But not all of them wanted to see us. The rugby between Australia and New Zealand was on TV, and we all had time to sit in the cabin and focus on it. But I had just broken up with my beloved girlfriend and was very sad and emotional. Staying with my parents in a cabin was also intense. The only escape was the pool, and I would try to time it when there were no leering older men in the pool to provide company. It was also a full moon that night. And the confined space and my emotions just grew too loud and too heavy. It was late. Mum confronted me and accused me of just wanting her money. It was so far from the truth. In the end, and in our pajamas, we agreed that we should go for a drive and talk. Perhaps to McDonald’s and get a cheeseburger. That we did. But I was driving. And I had to tell her. She did not know what I thought. There was a quiet to be made loud.
I pulled the car over to some lonely spot on the side of the main road. The road was virtually empty. I said, “I need to tell you something”. I told her I had experienced child abuse as an 8 year old. She asked, “Was it your father – I always suspected him!” I said “God no!” Dad has never been but kind to me. She had all these years, all these 28 years assumed and blamed and distanced herself from her lover because she had suspicions that she never clarified. A Quiet that she carried in her marriage, that had rippled into their hearts and minds. That my father would never know she carried, because she had always been silent with blame. It was a moment that showed me to find the courage to speak your concerns to your intimates; to not let a questionable Quiet dictate your life.
It turned out that while she had suspected my father, she had never suspected the neighbour’s son. All these years had passed. And she had witnessed me upset, angry, suicidal and depressed. And determined. And she had never wanted to make the Quiet loud. Just in case it was her worst fear come true. That Quiet in me lasted until I was 17 when I finally broke my silence in Winter to a best friend. And a month before I turned 18 to a school counsellor after my final year of high school, where I managed to still qualify for free counselling until I turned 18. Then the journey started. For me to heal myself. And the ringing in my ears is still there from making the Quiet Loud. Dealing with the shame that never seems to quite scrub away. And the ripples of the trauma that the survivor discourse somehow has overlooked. There probably still is a quiet, as I keep seeking the answers to completely heal the experiences. My mother or lovers are not here to tell.
Only you.
The Neighbours
Of course, the benefit of not moving around lots, is growing up with your neighbourhood. There were some kids, and animals, and grown-ups. There were bathroom windows to squeeze through when they had locked themselves out. There was Christmas day front yard cricket to join in with. There were times when we would take off on our bikes. Or the time my neighbour and I had found a cigarette lighter and decided to light a fire along the treeline. The local bus driver caught us and dragged us home by the ears. The treeline was bordering a paddock of grass and animals. And we had no idea of what we were doing! That was not a quiet of course. Just lucky.
There was the time my mother told me to go and nurse my neighbour with cancer for two weeks, while her husband was away. It was in the house that my abuser had lived. Basically, I was staying in his bed room. Looking at the same crack in the wall. It was confronting. A strange experience. And the house smelt. Something like vomit and antiseptic. The smells that terminal cancer brings with it.
There was the time our cat went missing for three days, and the neighbour found him, wedge in the fork of a tree just across the road. The cat had been unable to meow loudly at all, since his run in with an Alsatian as a kitten. So he was stuck in the tree with his quiet voice. Not being heard and lucky to be saved.
And there was the time, I wet my pants in my neighbours car called Betsy. I had gone with my neighbours to visit their friends. Their friends had a dog, and the resulting of teasing it with barks and growls and backward pats, was that it bit me on the top lip. I was lucky not to lose my lip or need stiches. But I did wet my pants in the back of their car on the way home to my mum. I was in shock, and have had a fear of dogs ever since.
And then there was the gay gentlemen whom lived next door and mostly kept to themselves. And the quiet of their existence remained quiet virtually until I moved out of home. All I had ever known was that one was a baker and started work early, and thus liked not to be disturbed. One time though, he was sick of us riding our bikes recklessly down his section of the footpath. He came storming out of the house with his long-handled axe and chopped out the remains of the tree stump that we were continuously charging our bikes over to jump. Otherwise, they were fairly quiet people really as they kept to themselves.
The Lady Golfers
From the age of about thirteen to seventeen, I would sometimes pay golf on a Saturday morning at the local club. Mum would drop me off and later pick me up. I think she appreciated the quiet few hours she got away from me. I would not start until the late morning, often signing up with the last group in the ladies competition around 11am. It meant the two things. Playing often in the heat of the day. And playing with the older ladies that did not like to hold the rest of the field up. Dallas, in her nineties whom I have already mentioned, and others like Dot and Carol. It was a laugh. They never took life too seriously let alone the game. But if they hit a bad shot, one might be annoyed while the others found compassion. I recall a tee shot where Dallas and her arthritic hands, managed to hit the ball off the tee and through behind her, between her legs, while the club went flying and nearly landed on the next-door green. No body was injured, but it was a tremendous shot!
Those ladies had determination and humour getting them through every minute. The quiet had been scared off many years aforehand. It would not have had the dare to set foot in their older years after such the long battles of life had been put to rest. Some how we made it back to the 19th, and no one had died. It had been a good day.
The Committed Love
My parent’s managed to stay together, but probably due to the dependency of their own ill health. It taught me much. The Quiet seems to breed in the long-term relationship. Whether is because of the promise of monogamy straining at the sides of individual growth and happiness. Or it’s just the over familiarization that comes with time. We learn each other’s habits, and unlearn how to see our own and change them. Even in friendship the assumptions can creep in with time. We assume we know. Sow. We forget to ask. We carry on as though this familiarity is the coveted love we have always been seeking. Somebody to love and know me like I know myself. But The Quiet pushes out any room for change and discussion. For new discourse to be bred. Until there is a climax. Not always wanted. Where our frustration and anger purges itself in argument. Where our temper boils outside of our skin and words fall out with intentions. We hope this will clear the air. We hope this will change things so much. That the love becomes different. That The Quiet is swept away out to see. To some other place far far away. Banished. But the tension over time builds again. And we had hoped things had changed, but people rarely do. At least now when love is strangling them. We almost hold ourselves down. Hoping that the obvious becomes blatantly clear without even a conversation. The Quiet roars in discontent. And we continue to assume. And continue to be living in frustration. Even swearing does not makes things better. And sex is either a distraction or reinforcement, or another regret.
To find a love that holds you so loosely, so that you do not struggle. To find in close friendship a way of breathing where the fresh air prevents the quiet from nesting. Where gentleness and kindness mean that the quiet is no longer tended to. But growth can actually happen.
But to forget that growth involves ripping the band aids off. It involves discomfort and challenge. It involves determination and hard conversations. It involves not letting a bad quiet settle in any part of your body or mind. It involves so many conversations with yourself, and the time to have them. It involves finding some intuition and listening to it. It involves feeling your way ahead, even if you cannot see the way. It involves. And it all depends. It always depends. Not to worry. Forward is forward. Peace can be loud, it can be joyful. It can be a refreshing quiet. But everything is temporary. And even peace does not last. But nor does discontent. Death will end it if you don’t. Give yourself and hug. Talk to the quiet. At least start to see it. Don’t let it determine the shape of the rest of your lives. Speak or write or forgive or learn and grow. Find some way of not worshipping the quiet in the long-term connection, but make it loud and obvious. Acknowledge that change is the only constant in life. Ask for the freedom to change. And ask for consent.
The Spitfire Dish
My Grandpa’s Brother’s Wife. She lived to one hundred and one and a half. I had the pleasure of being a confidant and guardian during her later years. The very late years really.
It was not long after she shifted into a new home in care facility, that I found I had to shift her mind from any impact also. Although she was described as the Jewel in the Crown of the facility, and God’s own Angel to many. Walking away from you as you were situated in your last independent home is a grief that modern society tends to leave quiet. But she and I talked. She was robust and always taught me more about listening and joy than any book. But I particularly remember and reflect on one day where I promoted the subject of love. In moving her possessions, we had discovered a secret stash of personal diary entries and photos of a love that all of us never knew she had, and had never spoken of to most of us. It was a quiet surprise.
Although she married and was committed to her second love, it was her first that still stayed with her into those last years. His name was Frank. And they had met about in her very early twenties. They had barely been dating, and the war broke out. He proposed to her before he left. And then was shipped off to the turmoil. But he never made it to war. Frank developed pneumonia and was return home. He died before ever seeing my Grandpa’s Brother’s wife again. While she was retelling this story, he most buoyant memory was he and she walking down the street together, and Frank stopped at a shop Window. He went inside and bought a dish that had a picture of a ceramic dish that had a picture of a Spitfire plane on it, hand painted and glazed. She asked him whom he was going to give that to, and Frank replied, “To the most beautiful woman I know – your Mother”. She always found that story hilarious. Because they could never be more in love with each other.
Sow. Her family never really recognised the significance of this odd little dish, until we packed up her things and moved her. It was just a blessing that she was still alive at the time to tell us the story. If I had had children myself in my lifetime, I would have not spared a story from my life about my heart’s journey. Because Love is probably the loudest thing you will ever find in life.
Echoes of Legacy
If all you brothers and sisters could have known what you left to us still here, you would be smiling with the grace of it. I have a cousin that brings it all together. He has files of your voices, and photos of your poses. And story upon story of your interactions and survival. He and his wife look after the old family home. Only one of many in the area. And he sat with me, for less than an hour, trying to impart the facts and colour within the lines. And he told me stories that made me realise, that every time I speak. Every time I hear my own voice. I hear the echo of your legacy. I hear the inflection and vocabulary passed down from generation to generation. The oral code, that makes sense of my life and times. Just as though you were walking with me.
For instance, my cousin told me of a story of Aunt Helen entering the bathroom to get something out, while her brother was having a bath. She announced, “You better shut your eyes! I’m coming in!” It probably was a quip that was a standard thing, but the backwards way of coming forward, was just the lilt of the lingo. For my family at least. And this appreciation has only helped me understand the legacy of culture. Whatever the culture.
I have written in further reflection, how language can enable discourse or disable it. How it shapes the very movements of our bodies, and the attitudes that help build our lives and families. I am sure if you could read my words, that your would smile, in appreciation of the generous grace you have left behind. Woven into every breath. And every heart.
The Garden
Sow. This is my last letter or elucidation. To Mister and Mrs Norman. They built the house I mostly grew up in, and retired there after owning a winery. And they used their horticultural knowledge to found a garden of the best grafted fruit trees, roses and camellias that I ever tasted or saw. What they did not know, was how it would impact all those who came to live in it since then.
My favourite tree. A majestic and full lemon tree, with five different types of lemons grafted onto the one tree. Consequently, it would fruit all year round. The Norman’s would not have heard how one long weekend I made $70 dollars, selling lemons at 10c each. I am sure that I picked only about 300 + lemons, as some passersby would donate a few dollars on top of their purchase. The lemons were huge and ridiculously cheap! This was the same tree that I found a small marijuana plant that the birds must have sown. My mother quickly pulled it out and destroyed it. This was the same tree that we planted on its edges, our two family cats when they passed. And it was the same tree that I still meditate upon when I think of one of my favourite trees.
And the Camellias. Well there were four trees I think. One white and one pink single camellia. And two variegated double camellias. I was so mesmerized by the perfection of the single camellias. I would pick the first flower of the new season and place it in my bedroom in water. It was perfect. Just like that ratio found in nature that makes the complex so simple. I have never adored a simpler flower than that.
I know these are simple things. But the Norman’s would never have known just how beautiful a gift they left, when they sold the house to my parents, and moved on themselves. For a young child especially, the vivid realities of play and discovery has meant that I will not ever forget the legacy that they left imprinted on my soul. Sow. I have left this last note to them. For the garden that left me blessed.