I thought I was coming home to spring and warmer temperatures; I thought I was done with long trousers and coats (back in February); but I was wrong, I’ve returned to winter in England. Brr… think I’ll hibernate.
The Green Green Grass of Home
The grass was green but the fields were yellow with rapeseed flowers as we drove from Heathrow Airport down to Devon, which I have called my home for many years now. The sun took its time going down, reminding me that on this side of the world it is nearly summer and everything is to come. In the morning the sun rose early and, ignoring the Arctic wind, Chris put the top down on my new sporty car and we picked up my mum and drove to Teignmouth to see Mary. It was the first of May and the magnolias were out, also the ornamental peach tree blossoms and other blossoms with names I can’t remember because I’m still jet-lagged.
At around the same time that my plane, in readiness to land, had been circling above Heathrow my sister slipped on the wet grass in a hillside orchard and was left with three breaks in the tibia and fibula of her right leg.
Mary held court to her visitors from her bed. We listened with awe as she recounted her misadventure. Mary had been alone when it happened. She had to drag herself for forty-five minutes over rough terrain in order to reach the phone, which was in the car some four hundred metres away near the farmhouse. The goats, her only witnesses (apart from the sheep in the orchard – and everyone knows that sheep aren’t as clever as goats), licked her as she crawled by their pen. Mum cried. I had sympathy pains. Lizzie grimaced. Baby Rosie didn’t quite understand and was a welcome distraction.
This morning I drove Mum in my sporty car but we kept the roof up. The Arctic wind blew stronger than it did yesterday, the sun hid behind the grey clouds and I thought of Australia…
“Green Green Grass Of Home”
The old home town looks the same as I step down from the train,
and there to meet me is my Mama and Papa.
Down the road I look and there runs Mary hair of gold and lips like cherries.
It’s good to touch the green, green grass of home.
Yes, they’ll all come to meet me, arms reaching, smiling sweetly.
It’s good to touch the green, green, grass of home.
The old house is still standing, tho’ the paint is cracked and dry,
and there’s that old oak tree that I used to play on.Down the lane I walk with my sweet Mary, hair of gold and lips like cherries.
It’s good to touch the green, green grass of home.
Yes, they’ll all come to meet me, arms reaching, smiling sweetly.
It’s good to touch the green, green grass of home.
and there to meet me is my Mama and Papa.
Down the road I look and there runs Mary hair of gold and lips like cherries.
It’s good to touch the green, green grass of home.
Yes, they’ll all come to meet me, arms reaching, smiling sweetly.
It’s good to touch the green, green, grass of home.
The old house is still standing, tho’ the paint is cracked and dry,
and there’s that old oak tree that I used to play on.Down the lane I walk with my sweet Mary, hair of gold and lips like cherries.
It’s good to touch the green, green grass of home.
Yes, they’ll all come to meet me, arms reaching, smiling sweetly.
It’s good to touch the green, green grass of home.
[spoken:]
Then I awake and look around me, at the four grey walls that surround me
and I realize, yes, I was only dreaming.
For there’s a guard and there’s a sad old padre –
arm in arm we’ll walk at daybreak.
Again I touch the green, green grass of home.
Yes, they’ll all come to see me in the shade of that old oak tree
as they lay me neath the green, green grass of home.
Signing Off
The time had come for me to sign off (quite literally) and head back to England – it was last Tuesday morning (so close and yet so far, it being Thursday today). Those who did not have to be at work at that hour were there at my brother Bill’s house to wave me goodbye.
William, my nephew (a budding horticulturist), led me over to a fine looking plant in the garden.
“Is it an aloe vera?” I asked, thinking that I should make some comment about the healthy plant.
“No, but it’s a similar succulent,” interjected Loretta, “just mind the thorns at the tips of the leaves.”
“They grow them in the Philippines,” added Will, as he took hold of one of the leaves to show me the shiny upper side which had been etched with a signature and date. “Did you notice this?”
I hadn’t… until then. I marvelled at both the quirkiness and the clarity of the white scarring on the leaf – “Edmon Botor Apr. 12. 2015.”
“An old friend of Lola’s (Grandma) came to visit the other day. In the Philippines they have this custom of writing their names on leaves so that people will remember them when they’ve gone,” informed Will.
“How long do the signatures last?” I asked.
“Years and years,” Will and his sister agreed together.
Will pulled a thorn from the end of a leaf and used it as a sharp nib to write his name and I followed suit on the other side of the plant. Likewise, Loretta and Roland took turns to write their names on fresh leaves.
No doubt, when Bill returns in a week or so from his work in Western Australia, my big brother will see the names on several leaves of his fine plant; and from the date he will deduce the occasion, and he will know that I had a good send off. I hope that the plant didn’t mind our sentimentality.
Roland’s Wit
I had to do a bit of last minute shopping this morning – some fridge-magnets, pens covered with koala and kangaroo designs (you know the sort of geegaws you bring back from holidays in Australia) and some fluid retention tablets (for the flight home) – so I tagged along with dear old Roland (well, much older than me) who had to go his bank at Beenleigh. Rather than wait in the car, in the heat without the air-conditioning on, I went into the bank with Roly.
“And would you like to withdraw any cash sir?” asked the lady bank teller in a very formal fashion.
“Two hundred please,” our friend replied.
“Fifties okay?” she glanced up to look him in the eye.
“I’m only forty-eight!” he quipped.
The teller stopped to think about it for a moment and burst out laughing.
A short while later we were doing some shopping in Coles supermarket. We needed to get special “Earth” washing liquid (our friend has an organic septic tank system) and as we stood in the washing products aisle I noticed that they had also some “Earth” fabric conditioner. We always use fabric conditioner at home so I asked:
“Wouldn’t you like the “Earth” conditioner aswell?”
“No thanks,” Roland sidled up close to me and nudged me on the elbow, “I like it ‘rough and tumble’!”
Last Ride to Hemmant Quarry
When I stay with my brother Bill and his family in Tingalpa I love to cycle over to Hemmant Quarry. My nephew Michael accompanied me yesterday for my last opportunity before heading back to England. We had the quarry all to ourselves and the dragonflies, and it was beautiful.
Something About Mason
“There’s something magical about Mason,” said Lita (my sister-in-law) last night.
“He makes me want to have a child just like him,” smiled William (my nephew) as we waved goodbye in the afternoon.
Likewise, Celing (William’s grandma) waved him off with smiles and a certain wistfulness – she was still swooning because the two-year-old had taken a shine to her and had sought her out for cuddles.
“I could take him home with me,” said Henry (my brother) yesterday morning before we went to the play-park at Wynnum seafront.
“Aren’t you coming too?” Mason, strapped into the baby seat, searched my face for a positive reaction and may have found a tear.
Everyone loves the little boy who shoos away the ibis birds, pats big dogs, plays with the whales and dances to Beethoven…
“And so Faintly you Came Tapping, Tapping at my Chamber Door”
No, the kookaburra has not been back again today, tapping at the window with his beak but, whilst I searched for the lyrics to the songs in my previous blog post, I came across “The Raven”, a poem by Edgar Allan Poe. I hope the kookaburra’s antics bore no such meaning as that of the raven in the poem.
The Raven
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
Only this and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
“’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
This it is and nothing more.”
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—
Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
’Tis the wind and nothing more!”
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as “Nevermore.”
But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”
Then the bird said “Nevermore.”
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”
But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted—nevermore!
Click on the Christoffer Hallqvist links (in blue) below for an analysis of the poem.
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Christoffer Hallqvist, also known as Qrisse, is a computer scientist from Sweden. His reason for dedicating his spare time to Edgar Allan Poe is simply the love and respect he feels towards the author and his work. Qrisse’s Edgar Allan Poe pages, the former host of the Poe Decoder, has been available on the Internet since late 1995, and was one of the first pages available on-line to provide factual information on Poe’s life. The pages worked, and to some extent still work, as a gathering point for Poe enthusiasts on the Internet, and was Christoffer’s way into the Poe community.
The illustration and this text is copyright ©1998, Christoffer Hallqvist. Publishing rights are exclusive to the Poe Decoder. The text may not be published, on the Internet, or elsewhere, without the author’s permission. |
Someone’s Knocking at the Door
It is cold and dark in my bedroom as I awaken to the sound of a knock – two knocks – on the front door (well it sounds like the front door and where else would anyone knock?).
“What time is it?” I ask myself but I’m not fully awake yet and therefore I’m unable to rouse myself to bend forward and turn to look at the alarm clock, which gains time anyway.
Instead, I focus on the window. The blind is shut but thin slivers of light escape from the edges; it must be after dawn, not much after because it’s so cold. I pull the covers up over my ears and shiver (I may be getting a cold).
“Crikey, it’s cold for Australia,” I think to myself.
The rap on the door begins again – about six knocks in quick succession.
“Maybe it’s the postman,” the thought flits through my mind, “The Postman Always Rings Twice” (and I smile to myself because my subconscious is making funny links – besides, the postbox is out by the gate!).
I wonder why Roland hasn’t answered the door yet. Surely he doesn’t expect me, a guest, to get up and answer his front door? He must be up by now – he ought to go… I stay put.
“Who’s that knocking on the door at half-past six in the morning?” Roland calls out from the passageway.
“Ah, half-past six,” I observe silently in my head.
I can hear the front door opening and shutting. (My bedroom is the one closest to the front door.)
“What the…” Roland pauses and laughs.
He knocks on my bedroom door before opening it a crack, then a little more.
“Who was it?” I ask, my face emerging from my huddle of quilts.
“It wasn’t the door at all. Do you remember I told you about that big kookaburra that keeps pecking at his reflection on your computer room window..?” he bursts out laughing.
“Who’s that knocking on the door?” I sing (to the tune of Paul McCartney’s “Inside Thing” song).
“Who’s that ringing the bell?” Roland sings back.
“Or should it be, ‘I’m gonna knock on your door’…?” I begin another song.
“Tap on the window too,” Roland joins in and we sing together.
It’s only just gone half-past six in the morning and it’s dark and cold (for Australia) and I think I have a cold coming but I’m still laughing to myself.
Here are the lyrics to both Paul McCartney’s very long “Inside thing” song and “I’m Gonna Knock on your Door” by Eddie Hodges :-
Inside Thing
(knock knock)
Someone’s knocking at the door (outside)
Somebody’s ringing the bell (inside)
Someone’s knocking at the door (outside)
Somebody’s ringing the bell
It’s an inside thing (open the door, open the door, open the door)
It’s an inside thing (an inside thing)
like rides that only take the tall
The water running down the wall
Your nose is pressed against the glass
You left the club without a pass
They closed the door
You can’t get in
I don’t know where the hell you’ve been
This behaviour isn’t great
Seems to me I’m always late
No matter what you have to say
It’s always me that’s gotta to pay
Your only just a kiss away
You left me here and yes
It’s cold out here
So cold
When the night comes down
Always get so lonely here
In this old town
You gotta change the atmosphere
If I had wings
I’d fly my body out of here
Cause when you get the feeling
You need a little healing
You just need protection
Loving and affection
(that’s all) Love and affection
Oh, Oh, Oh
There’s a ghost outside the window
Oh, Oh , Oh
Don’t know where he’s been
Oh, Oh, Oh
When that old cold wind blows
Open the door and let’em in, oh yeah
Someone’s knocking at the door (outside)
Somebody’s ringing the bell (inside)
Someone’s knocking at the door (outside)
Somebody’s ringing the bell
It’s an inside thing (open the door, open the door, open the door)
It’s an inside thing
Some hearts are made of solid gold
And some are magic I’ve been told
But ever time that I’ve been kissed
I’m so aware of all the risks to take
But my bold heart is bare
Cause there’s many things in there
Even when we are miles apart
It doesn’t matter where we are
Cause you and I knew from the start
The answer lives within the heart
So why are you looking so suprised
You know where the truth survives
Spread your wings (spread your wings, let us sing)
When you see my face
Better look behind my eyes
Cause I don’t show
Everything I feel inside
Sometimes boy
I’ve been known to wear disguise
When I get the feeling
I need a little healing
I might need protection
Loving and affection (love and affection)
Oh, Oh, Oh
Ghost outside the window
Oh, Oh , Oh
Don’t know where he’s been
Oh, Oh, Oh
When that old cold wind blows
Open the door, let’em in, oh yeah yeah
Someone’s knocking at the door (outside)
Someone’s ringing the bell (inside)
Someone’s knocking at the door (outside)
Someone’s ringing the bell
It’s an inside thing (open the door, open the door, open the door)
It’s an inside thing
Oh, no, no, babe
I ain’t gonna ride
I ain’t gonna run
No, no, no babe
I ain’t gonna use a gun
You should know babe
When all is said and done
You could be the one
And maybe sometimes we could even have some fun
Oh yeah
Well if I knock knock on the door
You gotta let me in
And if I tap tap on the window
Even if it’s in
I wanna hip hop all night
You know how old cool boo
With Paul Mac and Lulu
Shouting at the new school
Bringing in the new cools
For students that were tardy
So were fine
Bring your fellows
Cause were having a party
Outside it’s getting funky
So let me bring
The moral here “Make it an inside thing”
Someone’s knocking at the door (Outside)
Somebody’s ringing the bell (inside)
Someone’s knocking at the door (Outside)
Somebody’s ringing the bell
It’s an inside thing (open the door, open the door, open the door)
It’s an inside thing
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah
Someone’s knocking at the door door
(it’s an inside thing)
Somebody’s ringing the bell
Somebody’s knocking at the door, now, now
Somebody’s ringing the bell
Ring-ding-ding-ding-a-ding-ding-ding
Ringing the bell
That’ll be him
I’m Gonna Knock On Your Door 2:05
Eddie Hodges
(Aaron Schroeder, Sid Wayne)
Cacence Records Single #1397
Pop Chart #12 June 19, 1961
Transcriber: Awcantor@aol.com
I’m Gonna Knock on Your Door
I’m gonna knock on your door
Ring on your bell
Tap on your window, too
If you don’t come out tonight, when the moon is bright
I’m gonna knock and ring and tap until you do
I’m gonna knock on your door (how-how)
Call out your name (how-how)
Wake up the town, you’ll see (how-how)
I’m gonna hoo-hoot and howl like the lovesick owl
Until you say you’re gonna come out with me
Hey little girl (how-how) this ain’t no time to sleep
Let’s count kisses ‘stead of countin’ sheep
How (how-how) how can I hold ya near
With you up there and me down here?
I’m gonna knock on your door
Ring on your bell, tap on your window, too
If you don’t come out tonight when the moon is bright
I’m gonna knock and ring and tap until you do
(Instrumental and guitar & piano)
Hey little girl (hey little girl)
This ain’t no time to sleep (how-how)
Let’s count kisses ‘stead of countin’ sheep (how-how)
How (how-how) how can I hold ya near (how-how)
With you up there and me down here?
I’m gonna knock on your door
Ring on your bell, tap on your window, too
If you don’t come out tonight, when the moon is bright
I’m gonna knock and ring and tap until you do
I’m gonna knock and ring and tap
And knock and ring and tap
And knock and ring and tap
And knock and ring until you do.
S(h)ock Horror
You can’t take the Australian out of the girl – me – and it seems you can’t take the Englishness out of the man – Roland – although you’d think that, after all these years of living in our respective adopted countries, there might be more tolerance on my part and more observance to the Australian dress code on Roland’s. Imagine my surprise when I took my morning coffee out on the verandah and saw what our old friend was wearing as he read the paper… well, see for yourself…
I have a feeling he knew why I was laughing, especially when I started taking photo’s under the table!
-
- Twinkle toes!
-
- Thank goodness he’s warmed up!
Beautiful Lake Cooroibah
I’ve known Mary’s best friend Kaylene since I was five years old. In fact I still remember the night that Mary and I stayed over at Kaylene’s house when I had just started school.
“Will you say grace for us Sally?” asked Mr Moss, who probably gave me that special honour because I was the youngest around the table (he didn’t realise I was also the shyest and most ignorant).
“Grace,” I whispered just loudly enough for all to hear.
Everyone laughed and I felt my face go hot.
Later on they popped me into bed with Kaylene’s eldest sister. At sixteen or seventeen, Janice seemed to me to be grown up, highly glamourous and about the prettiest young woman I had ever seen. She cuddled me all night.
“I’ll never forget sleeping with Janice – she was so nice to me,” I told Kaylene this afternoon as we walked back from the shore of Lake Cooroibah to Kaylene’s house on Morning Glory Drive (Near Noosa, Queensland).
“She remembers you too,” she smiled.
No doubt Kaylene remembered also my lack of grace but she didn’t mention it. Lorelle and I had a lovely afternoon and, as always, the lake was beautiful.
