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This was a black pleated school skirt that was around 19" in length. I finally decided it was too long and so shortened it to 13" to add to my collection of micro skirts. I'm glad I did because I enjoyed wearing it much more at this length :-)
Didn't like the upstairs so I changed it back to the original design in Diagon Alley... It's a small living area with an orange armchair...
...plus c'est la même chose.
When I used to frequent Tonbridge West Yard in the 1980s, taking the long way round from school to the station, there were usually a few 73s on show - albeit not the re-engined variety. GBRf's 73963 waits for its next task as 73141 shunts RHTT wagons in the background.
Locomotives: GB Railfreight Class 73/9 73963 "Janice" and Class 73/1 73141 "Charlotte".
Location: Tonbridge West Yard, Kent.
Take me to the magic of the moment
On a glory night
Where the children of tomorrow dream away (Dream away)
In the wind of change...
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Shifting through some old files, passing the time while it rains cats and dogs outside...
After shooting 1309 a little bit, we went down to CSX and saw a train leaving Advanced Auto Parts' crew change platform. Pacing it up towards MEXICO, we noticed a fun engine up front and decided to shift focus.
Notice: We have attempted to identify each mushroom correctly, please be aware that we are not experts. Please do not solely rely on this source for identification and determination of edibility.
Oh, how the light changes… it gave Monet his Haystack Series,
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Haystacks_(Monet)
And never fails to delight and surprise me here, when least expected.
This photo was taken 5 minutes before 'Last light'..
Can you believe it…and one of the swans is just paddling into view..
Besides a little straighten up, no edits.
This is exactly what I was seeing.
Reminds me, well, it's almost the colours of our Australian flag of the indigenous.
aboriginalflag.com.au/history.html
Each colour has a symbolic meaning for them as a collective people.
Which brings me to this story, of when I was last here at the lake...
Almost this time last year, mid-August, 3 days after my mother's birthday, I took a few hours off and met up with a fellow poet and high school teacher, Robert, for lunch at the kiosk at the other end of the lake.
We chose this spot because there wouldn't be many people around during the week, and we could be as loud and animated as we like, reading each other our latest poems.
There was only one other table occupied at this outdoor café, an older lady and her male friend, and on second look, I realised it was Liz, whom I hadn't seen for years.
We used to swap my kinesiology for her Reiki, way back in the 90's...
She was having lunch with a fellow whom she'd met on holiday up at Wilpeena Pound, and he was passing through on his way back to Sydney.
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wilpena_Pound
(Thought this was a weird coincidence as the poem I'd planned to read gave mention and great respect to this place.)
They were both indigenous. (Also a coincidence, in regards to the poem..)
LIz recognised me too and we were both delighted to see each other, so I invited them over to sit and listen to my reading after we'd all finished eating.
The poem I'd intended to read to Robert now had a surprise bigger audience, and little did Liz and friend know that they were in for quite a surprise…
My poem was about rural life in the 1900's and onwards, as had been told to me, about how it was for the aboriginal peoples when us 'whities' moved in, just a bit further south of here, in western New South Wales.
It takes a final twist at the end, relating to the events surrounding my mother's birth on a sheep station, outside Tamworth, 1929.
Mum's mother had come down with influenza which rapidly became severe pneumonia. This brought on early labour, and she died giving birth to a tiny premature baby, who grew up to be my own mother.
This took place in the harshest part of the freezing cruel winter, that is well known to descend and sweep across the broad expansive Liverpool Plains, that has no protection against the icy gale force winds..
Mum's Aunty Ida was a full blood indigenous lady from the 'Kamillaroi' people, married to my white Great Uncle Bill.
As typical of the times, this was quite a bone of contention, quietly chewed upon by the rest of the family..
But amongst all the following grief and mêlée, she was the one who stepped forward to take this fragile premmy home, to raise her with her own half cast children after the death of her white sister-in-law.
Mum's own father, a butcher and book keeper for the Currabubulla Sheep Station was a drinking, gambling man who, in shock at the sudden death of his very capable wife, was ill equipped to run the house and care for 4 other children.
And so he let this new fragile baby go, thinking she was so weak, she wouldn't survive for long anyway ..
Two years had passed when he heard through the grapevine that little two year old Betty was actually blossoming with robust health, and from the urgings of his other children, now settled into coping without their deceased mother and two years older as well, quite looking forward to having their little sister rather than facing the ordeal of caring for a sickly newborn…well, he went and took her back from their aboriginal Aunty Ida..and brought her home.
My mother had grown up for her first two years, quite happily with this loving blended family.. who, of course, were left heartbroken, when discovering they'd been told a lie, and little Betty wasn't going to visit her real siblings, just for the day …and wouldn't be 'coming back tomorrow'…as promised...
In fact, Mum had to wait another 45 long years before I could find her half cast cousin, Una , to be reunited..
Her father justified it all with the excuse to the rest of his family that he'd heard that full blood Aunty was going on Walkabout soon and was going to take little Betty with her.
My poem concluded that without this wonderful aboriginal woman, my Great Aunty Ida, and her huge heart, my own mother had little chance of survival, and my immediate family that is a little twig of the whole ancestry tree may never have existed.
Well, all three of my audience sat transfixed at the social/anthroplolgical details I'd managed to write in rhyming, rhythmic, poetic verse.
While reading it aloud to my indigenous friends, at various points I became painfully aware of how close to the bone some of the subject matter was in their history of dismissive disregard from the white man, and I'd pause, almost to gasp for the next breath... should I skip the next bit? It's so raw!
But I'd glance up from the page at Liz, and see her sitting back with a grin from ear to ear, gently nodding with such huge satisfaction and appreciation that her people had just received a gift of precious, heartfelt validation of their struggles of recognition ever since 'civilised colonisation' began over 200 nears ago.
Lets just say it surpassed a certain flaky, belated "Sorry…" message from the govt about 7 years ago.
I won't risk my "Safe" category by saying the more earthier Aussie version of that..
Gosh though, I'm still glad I'd already cut three of the most graphic chapters out of it…
The poem begins with a tribute to Eddie Mabo, tireless campaigner for indigenous rights, then there's about ten pages of a collection of stories told to me first hand from various people over the years, entwined together to paint the bigger picture, concluding with my mother's rocky beginning in life and how she was given a second chance at this life by an indigenous angel..
There's more to the story of this day, to be continued another time perhaps…but for now I'll finish by telling you that during one chapter I had to stop reading completely and break down into sobs.
I was in such a state of overwhelm, it had hit me that it was such a privilege to be able to read it to an indigenous audience and they absolutely loved it.
Yes, I had written it, but it was only then that I really started to feel the depth of it..
Meanwhile, poor Robert, my straight-laced, conservative, whiter-than-white teacher friend sat at the end of the table gobsmacked-speechless with awe throughout the whole proceedings, and totally forgotten, due to all the interaction between the rest of us..
But hey ~ Phew! ~ What a day...
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011 :: 365 :: 11th January 2013
This is one of those things that you can push an object through is and it will make the shape, for the life of me I don't know what it is called, hope all you smart people out there can tell me.
Originally I had posted a bw mono version of this but changed my mind and it is now pink mono :)
Adam Dental Clinic always has an amazing light show. So here are a few examples! Here the colours change over tine so look at all three!
Some of the trees are starting to turn colors in Queen Elizabeth Park. This one is in the large quarry garden.
We have 55018, in 1979, working the 10:45 Leeds - Kings Cross passing Lofthouse Colliery. I am stood on the road bridge, which now gives access to Outwood station.
The view 41 years later, has an Azuma, working a Leeds - Peterborough service (due to Sunday engineering works). This shot is from the drone, as no photo is possible from the road bridge due to trees.
Lofthouse colliery site is now a nature reserve, and has a memorial to the 7 miners who lost their lives when the workings at the colliery were flooded on March 21st, 1973.
If you were to ask me what my favorite meal of the day is, my answer would be breakfast... followed closely by lunch and supper. Might as well throw “elevensies” in there as well... with size 13 feet, I’m obviously part Hobbit. I feel much the same way about seasons. I’m not so sure that I could fully appreciate living in a place where there are no seasons. I would miss the sultry greens of summer, the ephemeral vividness of autumn, the sleepiness of winter, and the hope of spring... there’s something to look forward to in each coming season, even in so brief a moment as this one from Rough Ridge here in the mountains of North Carolina.
There’s always something to expect in the season we’re now in... Christmas. The crisp, dry air makes the stars shine a little brighter... and makes me realize Christmas wouldn’t be the same on the beaches of Australia or New Zealand! I wouldn’t pass up the opportunity, though Christmas in winter just seems right. Why else would Bob Cratchit need an extra lump of coal?
My expectations for the season changed some years back when I was part of a music team that visited a particular nursing home... I played carols and hymns on the guitar, along with my friend, Clyde, as others sang along. The women in the group decided to buy presents for everyone in the home... men got a comb and a pair of socks, women got a hairbrush and Chapstick, and everyone (that could have one) got a big candy cane. My first thought concerning this was “We could do better.” My second thought wasn’t much better... but then I noticed something. Most everyone there were crying tears of joy, because someone remembered them. The presents were small tokens... but they came with a powerful added gift of touch as a hug or a hand held, or a word spoken, or a willing ear... expressions of love for those who feel left out or forgotten. It truly is the little things in life that make lasting differences. Remember that this season!
This has been a year of challenges and firsts for me... this will be my first Christmas as a married man, and I’m loving it. I’d better be, as I just read the loving inscription in my ring, “If you can read this, you’re in trouble!” That’s one expectation I didn’t expect... don’t tell Joyce!
Check out this song by Matthew West, My Own Little World... it touches on issues that would do well for us to know, especially in this season. Seven little words in that song greatly impact how I see this world... “Break my heart for what breaks yours.” Listen: www.youtube.com/watch?v=M9Yasgzjc0w