My Musings on Life.

Throughout my past 70 years, I have never been able to understand why mankind, (especially me) never seems to have the ability to gain enduring happiness and satisfaction.

There have been numerous occasions when I have experienced total engagement with life and had a complete belief in the fact, that, all the events of my past experiences have been favorable to me, and, for a short while that satisfaction of being completely fulfilled has been deep and at times even joyous, and possibly the closest to what I imagine to be complete satisfaction with life.

Conversely, however, those good feelings are continually interrupted with unforeseen and unexpected  occurrences that have at times led me down the path to the deepest, darkest, caverns of my mind, where I have endured lengthy episodes of being incapable of dealing with the current circumstances of what life has served up to me, and, that pain causes me to ponder, will this period of  unhappiness ever leave me.

Given the above description is universal and simplistic and can be deemed as “generic thinking” in written form for so many of us, the actuality of it remains comprehensively vast, and, at times insurmountable. These events are not unique to me alone, but in varying degrees and magnitude are shared by us all as an inherent aspect of the human condition.

One major concern for me is the gathering together of the sad times that visit me when trying to sleep,and, those thoughts keep me awake for much of the night, but, only to find in the light of day, whilst the nights mind games cannot be ignored due to their reality in my waking hours, they occasionally are not always as bad as the night portrays them to be and at times as bad as they can be.

As I am writing this, it is 7 am on a Sunday morning in early winter of June 2018, and one of those sleepless nights have again paid me a visit. I have just made myself a cup of tea and moved into my office, and, from where my desk is positioned, I’m able to see my front garden bathing in the early morning dew and sunlight that causes the leaves on my Maple and Silver Birch trees to exhibit the beautiful colors of late autumn in all their splendor.

The contradiction of all this beauty is that this magnificence is coming from a phase of the tree’s dying off period for their winter hibernation.

Farther past the two tree’s can be seen the pinkish/red clouds of a new day against a deep  blue sky, all further enhancing the varying shades of red and yellow colors of the leaves to gift me a potential joyous welcome to a new day. This can provide me the opportunity to once again reset my thinking and strive to find the courage to enjoy the numerous non material blessings bestowed, but, to also reflect on ongoing reciprocal problems and occasional misfortunes.

This daily review of circumstances is my constant companion that takes me to the heights of joy and almost to the abyss of despair when some events are such they appear unresolvable.

I suppose that on both speaking and listening to many others life stories , I must somehow strive to reach an acceptance and conclusion, that, my emotional roller coaster is, in fact, an inherent aspect of being human, and peace will not find me until “maybe” I can accept the good and bad as being somewhat equal and in balance.

Life’ events could be described as “If that’s the way it is that’s the way it is“!

If only it could be as cut and dried as mentioned, for then, life may be more tolerable, however, our free will does offer us some opportunity to maybe lessen our lot in life. If we keep thinking and doing the same thing over and over again we will always get the same outcome, therefore,  its not until we seriously stop, and take stock of our life and maybe reconsider, and, act upon other options we have previously never tried or said no to, we might just be able to bring change and more happiness and positivity into our life.

  • So how do we do this, well, for me it has meant becoming more involved with other people, joining a Men’s Discussion Group and Probus, where I now meet with others of similar age and realize behind the laughter and smiles of others, there always is lurking circumstances or events that effect us all at one time or another.
  • Ensuring that I am physical active most days of the week and expose myself to natural light and go to the gym as both generate more positive brain hormones to be released and lift my mood.
  • Eating only healthy food (most of the time).
  • and continue learning through study and striving to never give up, even when all hope seems to have faded.

My final conclusions are that every one of us, at some time or another, are confronted with either physical, mental, emotional or financial anxieties, and in order, where possible conquer them, we must have the courage and endeavor to continually reach out of our present situation and make the necessary modifications to our life, otherwise nothing changes and life can pass us by!

Apart from that, it is still very good to be alive!

Finish.

 

Lee Chenoweth


Life has been very interesting and exciting:

  • Near the Dartmouth Dam I have crawled onto a large tiger snake and had its head hovering just a few centimetres from my nose

  • I have been tracked by a large wolf while alone in Kazakhstan

  • In Uzbekistan I was captured by Islamic terrorists and later released without incident after sharing a sheep with them

  • At Benambra in the Australian Alps I have fallen over a cliff

  • Near General Santos in the southern Philippines I was targeted for a kidnapping but the kidnappers could not work out where my gun was (I did not have one)

  • In Kazakhstan I have watched a Soviet rocket launch into orbit

  • Near Boulia in Queensland had a fierce snake (desert taipan) between my feet while I cracked a rock next to its head

  • In Moscow I attended the Bolshoi Theatre with the Russian and Chinese leaders to see Swan Lake (the equivalent of a Royal Command Performance) performed by the Bolshoi Ballet

  • In northern Laos I sat on an unexploded bomb from the Vietnam War in a formal meeting with a village chief (many large bombs lined the central street through the village for use as seats)

  • I have undertaken successful industrial espionage over a new gold discovery in Queensland

  • I have been bitten on the top of my rubber boot by a large and angry brown snake, even though the ground was covered with snow and it should have been hibernating

  • I have eaten a meal in the same restaurant as Australia’s richest man at that time (Lang Hancock)

  • I was nearly shot in Laos when I blundered into a large opium crop ready for harvesting.

 

The Lost Recipe

There comes a time when we all actually get serious about cleaning out our “stuff”, items we no longer need, but still retain for various obscure reasons.

We recently helped my daughter and partner move house and I was amazed at the amount of “stuff” they had accumulated after only eight years together. This prompted me to get serious about getting my own house in order, sorting out my historical detritus.

It’s a complex, difficult process, more emotional than physical. Particularly with sorting through old items of one’s parents. It’s as though your childhood is finally slipping away into the darkness, it’s a type of guilt about disposing of items which once meant something to them. But there is little stuff that I would personally use, and I know my children would not be interested in these superfluous snapshots of family history.

With Dad, I have many memories and reminders. The piles of his writing, the boxes of slides, and a few treasured old tools. With mum, it’s not so easy, she was mainly involved in the garden club. But thinking about her life, if there was one particular remnant I would choose to mentally retain it would be her cooking. It was her role in the family. The Sunday roasts, the apple pies, but particularly her famous tasty Christmas pudding.

From a young age I looked forward to Christmas day on my aunt’s farm on the Mornington Peninsular.  For lunch, the huge dining table seated a horde of assorted uncles, aunts, grandparents, cousins, friends and other hangers on, to consume a massive meal.  After the main Christmas course, all would keenly await the highlight of the day – the grand entrance of the pudding.  This icon would be carried into the room by my mum, the maker, and would be flaming with lashings of brandy, (in itself a fire danger in the old timber cottage.)

We would devour the pudding, hoping to get a thruppence or sixpence, which sadly we had to return for next year’s pudding.  There were second helpings, laughter and compliments to mum that this was her best pudding yet.  Then onto the second highlight of the day, giving out presents.

This ritual lasted for decades.   Faces changed, older family died, cousins brought new partners, grandchildren arrived, but mum always made the pudding.  In October, the annual process would begin.  Mum would spread the ingredients on the old timber kitchen table, and clamp on the heavy cast iron hand mincer. I played a critical role as the suet mincer, laboriously but proudly mincing up a huge pile of suet, at that young age not knowing what this tough sinewy stuff was.  Mum would start up the big Sunbeam mixmaster; we would all give the mix a stir with the old wooden spoon, throw in the money and make a wish.

Dad’s role was to maintain a steady fire to steam the pudding for eight hours. Our old house in Clifton Hill had an outside laundry with a huge copper boiler..  He would rig up a device to support the pudding by its cloth loop at the right height, and every hour would stoke the fire and top up the water.  Finally the pudding would be hung in its cloth ball in the laundry until Christmas day.

The huge family gatherings finally ended, but mum still made a smaller pudding for the immediate family.  After she died, dad continued the tradition until he died.  All this time, I never actually knew what the pudding contained, as mum refused to give away her recipe, and dad continued this secrecy.  We were simply happy to enjoy the rich sticky tasty treat.  When he died I found the recipe, scribbled on a piece of tattered paper in an old diary.

By that time I had forgotten about the suet, and was horrified to see what we had been eating all those years —  slabs of saturated fat, plantations of sugar, chocolate, gallons of alcohol, all bound together by healthier mixed fruits, but topped by a sugary creamy custard sauce.  Great for me as a diabetic.  My wife was horrified at what her mother in law had fed her. I thought it best to keep quiet about the huge tub of lard in mum’s fridge, used to baste the rich Sunday roasts, which all enjoyed.

In honour of my dear old mum, I made her pudding, only once, the first Christmas after dad died when the recipe came to light.  It was not as tasty as mum’s, as I left out the suet, and went easy on the sugar, but my family enjoyed it and I had fun telling the kids tales about their gran and pop and aunt May’s farm.  It brought back happy memories of our big family, now dispersed, and about our times on the farm a long time ago.

The recipe?  Long since gone.  I recently spent hours searching through old recipe boxes, through my parents’ papers, and I couldn’t find it.  I would not have thrown it out, and it must be somewhere in the house, and may turn up one day, maybe my kids will find it when I go. But in the process I had a beautifully poignant time, trawling through mum’s old recipes, dad’s old stories, ancient photos and the memories of my early life.

Out of curiosity, I googled “old fashioned plum pudding” and hundreds of hits came up, all with the same type of ingredients, including the suet.  This was slightly surprising as I thought mum’s recipe was unique, but clearly many mums in that era were busily boiling up puddings pre Christmas, and their little kids were busily mincing suet. But I guess the eating environment gives each pudding its own unique flavour.

In mum’s memory here is an old imperial recipe which from my early memories seems to most resemble her one. For the fun of it, I may make it one Christmas, and we would greedily and guiltily consume the sinful product, but I reluctantly think not. Maybe a synthetic suet pudding will suffice.

 

The could have been mum’s Christmas suet pudding.”

4 oz plain flour

2 oz dark chocolate grated

1 teaspoon mixed spice

6 oz fresh white breadcrumbs

10 oz suet ground

8 oz brown sugar

2 oz dried apples and apricots

2 lbs raisins, currants and chopped dates

2 oz hazelnuts, walnuts and almonds chopped

zest of one lemon and orange

2 teaspoons of vanilla essence

1 teaspoon almond essence

4 large eggs

1 tablespoon honey

qtr pint dark rum or brandy

Visit to Ellis Cottage

Ellis Cottage WPEllis Cottage 2

On Tuesday, men from Diamond Creek OM:NI visited Ellis Cottage just north east of Diamond Creek. The cottage was built out of uncut local stone circa 1885 by William Ellis, who with his nephew Nathaniel Ellis, established a model farm on 150 acres on the site now known as Ellis Park.

In 1850 William Ellis purchased a large portion of land between Diamond Creek East and Wattle Glen. A successful farmer and businessman, Ellis also purchased land in Yarra Glen, Diamond Creek, Woodstock and Greensborough.

The cottage and grounds houses the Nillumbik Historical Society’s collection of historic photographs and documents of pioneering families from the area.

Unfortunately Daryl was unable to obtain the recipe for the delicious scones we had for morning tea.

 

Cota’s Morning Tea

Council On The Ageing

I was looking at the wicking boxes of free vegetables growing at the station platform. It was trying to rain as the silver train slowly stopped to pick up more commuters heading to the mysteries of Melbourne. Ken and I said goodbye to David as he went to do battle with Centrelink in Greensborough and we continued on to the big smoke. It was now a typical scene on the train with computers, iPhone’s and not a newspaper to be seen and as we chatted we felt like aliens among robots.

Arriving at Flagstaff  Station at about 9-30, a bit early, we walked down a cobblestone lane way to view a blue-stone building wall and to our amazement there were several two tone brown Sparrows waiting to dive down and check out the menu in the open rubbish bins, there was a man sitting there also, with his shoes off, eating some kitchen offerings. Back into Lonsdale St and up to level 4 a different world, clean bright and cheery faces of all the invitees to Cota’s Volunteer’s Morning Tea.

What a very impressive attendance of mixed cultures and volunteers both men and women who support all those aged in need of direction. Cota knits many services together and helps the aged in their golden years. A 100-year-old man gave a heartfelt speech and support for both Cota and OM:NI. After the awards and speech’s Cota put on a wonderful morning tea enjoyed by all and networking was further fertilized among Melbourne and Geelong volunteers.

Leaving, we stopped for a while in Lonsdale St, amazed at the variety of people’s dress from Barristers wigs and all, office attire, workers, shoppers and a homeless man huddled under a thin blanket with a skinny dog shivering from cold and hunger – a street displaying the wealthy and the homeless.

Like two rabbits heading for home we scurried down the staircases of Flagstaff  Rail Station and boarded the Eltham train, you never know who you may meet on a long silver train, it’s very random which carriage you get into and who you sit next too but a smile can engage the most amazing encounter and enter Olaf, an amazing young man with technical skills and a great personality in conversation we found he lived at the end of the same street as Ken in the same suburb!  

Arriving back home I felt so humble, a warm home a welcome from my wife, cat and a comfy lounge chair to sink back into reminisce over the day’s experience and watch the log fire turn into red embers as I slipped into a welcome warm slumber time.

Autumn at Robe – SA

We are having a restful Autumn break away in South Australia, good to get away from the routines at home.

After Warrnambool the weather gradually improved as we drove west. The weather has been mostly overcast but some blue skies and the cold wind has gone despite our unit over-looking Hooper Bay.

A Chance Encounter

The ride had started nicely. It was a sunny Tuesday afternoon, my solo riding day; I can ride where I like, explore trails, without having to follow the wishes of the Thursday cycling group. That day I had suddenly decided to explore a new trail, branching off from the main track to Warrandyte, reached by a wide gate.

To my delight it began well; the track was a gently winding dirt one, following the river on my left, so according to my calculations I could casually ride back to Fitzsimmons Lane, a fairly short distance.

However, the track steadily became rougher, steeper and rocky, seeming also to veer away from the river. After a while I lost my bearings, but hoped the track would eventually head back to Eltham. But the track petered out into a steeply hilled area, with power lines leading in a straight line into the distance. Definitely lost, but feeling safe, I reasoned it would be too far retracing my steps, the power lines must lead to somewhere familiar.

A rocky four wheel drive trail followed the pylons. I had to walk up the steep rises and carefully ride down the descents. The thought flashed into my mind about what was I doing here, a seventy year old man in a deserted location, with no help around if anything went awry. My Cyclo Cross bike was certainly designed for severe off road riding, but maybe the rider was not designed for this purpose.

The outcome was predictable. On a really steep descent, I took a chance and began to carefully ride down but lost braking control, started skidding and finally crashed. Fortunately I came to rest on top of a four metre high embankment leading into a steep gully. One metre more and I would have been in serious trouble.

The bike was undamaged, but my knee was badly swollen and painful, I must have knocked it on a rock. The only option was to keep following the trail to civilisation. Finally a fence and house appeared, then another. To my relief, the trail then ended at Beasley’s Nursery, and I rode slowly and painfully home, where after checking the Melways I realised I had gone the wrong way, upstream rather than down, straying into a Parks Victoria reserve. Heading away from Fitzsimmons Lane.

Later that night, I reflected on the event, ruefully realising that it had happened entirely by chance — Why?

Because two months earlier, on the same ride to Warrandyte, at that gate, I had answered my mobile. As I remounted my bike, a man walking past suddenly stopped and started a conversation, mentioning that past a nearby gate, over a bridge, there was a track along the other side of the river that cyclists used. In all my years of cycling this area I had never seen that track, nor seen cyclists on the other river bank, so I thanked him and rode off, convinced he was mistaken.

So on that sunny fateful Tuesday a month later, as I was passing this same bend heading to Warrandyte, on a pure whim, thinking about what the stranger had said, I stopped at the gate, which was normally locked. Now the padlock had been changed to a latch. Naturally I passed through the gate and rode to the bridge. To my surprise, I realised the stranger had told the truth, because a bike trail began. Naturally again, I decided to follow it, as every good cyclist would, with my crash being the unexpected end result.

If my phone had not rung at that exact moment; if the stranger had not appeared at that precise time, if the gate had been locked; I would have remained blissfully unaware of that bloody trail, would have casually continued to Warrandyte and safety home, looking forward to the Thursday ride with the guys.

Instead, as directed by my doctor, who diagnosed a knee hematoma, and prescribed rest, I have been dolefully sitting inside on the healing couch, leg elevated, ice compress in place rather than being cheerfully perched on a bike seat, eagerly traversing familiar and safe trails with the Thursday peloton.

Curiously enough, the topic for the week’s writing group was the expression “chance would be a fine thing.” A fine phrase, meaning ‘it would be lovely if something was to happen, but it most likely won’t.’

It sadly occurred to me that this definitely applied to my unfortunate episode. As I was precariously riding down that steep rocky hill, the thought furiously flashed into my mind was that it would indeed be a lovely thing if I could not crash, but this looked more unlikely the further and faster I descended.

Hopefully, I should be back on the bike shortly, having fun with the Thursday peloton pedalling on our familiar safe trails. The lesson has finally sunk into my

Septuagenarian brain that sometimes it’s not worth taking a chance.