Category: Reminiscences

Tiki had become eligible to vote in an election for the first time, on the very day that followed our marriage.

Unable to suppress the urge to tell the electoral officer of this fact, he had cheekily replied that it was, indeed, a weekend of “firsts” for her.

Tiki’s father was a knockabout bloke with few, if any, airs and graces. He would quite often refer to his attractive and refined wife, even in front of complete strangers, as his “old bag”. However, in the months prior to her inevitable obit, she was effusive in her praise of how he doted upon her in order that she might remain in her own home for as long as possible.

Other men at the business he owned used to comment on how an ugly looking individual like him could have produced as pretty a daughter as Tiki! However, in spite of his tactless nature and brusque demeanour, he was an impressive provider for his family and, despite his disapproval of my source of employment, he could see that his daughter was, in general, happy and as the years progressed, I became more of a son to him than his adopted son ever was!

He was a practical man, always working on engines and other physical activities. I still remember some of his pet sayings: “It fits like a bum in a bucket!”; “Any better and it would be good!”; “You always have to leave something for the critics!”; “Don’t talk with your mouth half full. Fill it right up!” and, when referring to those who litter, “They can bring it here full, but they can’t take it away empty.”

It wasn’t uncommon for him to put his time into helping others. However, he was too trusting of a certain member of the family and, financially, this was to cost him dearly in his latter years.

Tiki reminded me some months ago of how we were given permission to select three recordings that were to be played at his funeral. We had set about choosing ones that we believed pertained to aspects of his life. We had selected two, namely Rod Stewart’s ‘Sailing’ and Eddie Fisher’s ‘Oh Mein Papa’ and were left to agonise as to what should be the third.

It was during this time that I reminded Tiki of how her father had once forgotten to raise the handle of the rotary clothesline and as he was mowing his lawn, using his rideable mower, the handle found its way up a leg of his overalls. Suddenly, his leg was being savagely pulled in one direction while his mower was hellbent on travelling in another!

This incident didn’t end well and because he was in discomfort for some considerable time, I had suggested jocularly, that the third recording to be played should have been ‘Great Balls Of Fire’.

Now that I have been diagnosed with the onset of Parkinson’s Disease, Tiki expressed the wish to play “Shakin’ All Over” at my funeral.

“Just make sure it’s the original by Johnny Kidd and The Pirates!”, I retorted.

We had arrived home at 9.a.m. and while Tiki was about to put away one of our three garbage bins, she handed me the three keys that are required in order to obtain access to our house.

Normally, in my advanced years I become confused, but on this particular occasion I achieved the task without faltering.

“You’re in before noon!”, she commented light-heartedly.

“That’s because I started at 6 a.m.!”, I quipped, with a smile.

I was struggling to complete a crossword, therefore, I resorted to asking of Tiki, “What’s a word for a ‘pasta strip’?”

“Sermon?” Came her thoughtful reply.

“That really sounds like a church service with a difference!”, I responded, amidst much laughter.

Tiki was recently stargazing during one of our daily walks. This resulted in her losing her footing and almost before she knew of it her legs were seemingly going in all directions.

Quite remarkably she managed to remain upright and once we’d stopped splitting our sides with laughter, she reminded me that it had been just two years since one of her feet had been confined to a ‘moon boot’; having broken a bone in it due to a similar occurrence.

This led me to joke, “If you continue in this vein, I’ll have to change your nickname to ‘Lunar’!”

During a news bulletin, I heard that New York was planning to join several other American states by granting its citizens the right to have their deceased bodies turned into soil.

“Knowing your luck,” I remarked to Tiki, “my body would turn into another form of four letters that would also begin with an ess!”.

Tiki had completed telling me of how she would be waiting for me in the park once I had returned from having purchased the Sunday paper.

She had turned to leave, when I informed her that she’d forgotten to hand me the four dollars, I required.

“I don’t want to rob the place”, I exclaimed in jest.

“Oh, I thought you could just show them your body and they’d hand you the paper out of sympathy!”, she cheekily replied.

I was in the process of booking a night in a cabin, at a caravan park, when the receptionist asked for the name of our dog. Having furnished her with the name, the young lady began to write it down only to pause and inquire of me, “Does she end her name with an ‘ie’ or a ‘y’?”

“I’m unsure. I haven’t asked her lately!”, I replied with a smile.

It was via a friend of a friend that we were invited to travel to Brunei on the island of Borneo. Once there, the sister of the invitee took the opportunity to show us around. She even managed, via a letter, to convince the British officers at the airport to begrudgingly allow us to accompany what we, in Australia, know as the ‘flying doctor’.

Seated on what equated to a metallic box, we faced the starboard side of the helicopter, as we were conveyed deep into the dense jungle. The pilot skilfully landed the aircraft on a green, grassy, flat knoll, that was not an inch longer than its skids.

The doctor informed us that it would take about an hour for him to consult with his patients and, therefore, he suggested that we make our way down the hill and into the village. As we set off, we were amazed to learn that his surgery was nothing more than a tiny wooden ‘box’ on spindly wooden legs.

Down in the village, all we encountered were shy children with broad smiles. We soon realised that the visitation of tourists from the outside world must have been a rarity. They bashfully retreated beneath the wooden buildings that had also been constructed upon stilts. They were dressed in their school uniforms. The boys attired in collar and tie and shorts, which seemed somewhat incongruous when all of the children we saw were barefooted.

Upon our return to the helicopter, we waited for the doctor to conclude his final consultation. Once he had, he inquired as to how we had fared down in the village and we conveyed to him that we had only encountered children. He regarded that favourably and added that it would not have been wise to have ‘antagonised’ anyone because it was, indeed, only two or three generations beforehand that this particular tribe practised head-hunting!

It was almost in the very same breathe that he broke the news to us that he would have to leave us there for an hour or so, as he had received information that the helicopter had been instructed to stretcher a patient from another location to hospital and that there would be ‘no room’ for us. We waited patiently, all of the time mulling over what he had divulged to us and hoped that neither he nor the pilot would forget about us.

In order to make the most of our time in the sultanate of Brunei, it was suggested that we board a ferry for the island of Labuan, quite some distance of the coast, to visit what was an immaculate war cemetery. Workers crouched beneath umbrellas as they clipped its lawns by hand.

The ferry was a surprise to me, as it appeared to have been constructed of little more than varnished plywood. This made me so pleased that the sea was calm. One of its male passengers had boarded on the outward voyage, with a large, magnificent multi-coloured parrot perched on a cruciform, hand-held roost. Regretfully, the gentleman chose to take it downstairs to the enclosed deck on what was a hot, sunny day, only to re-emerge perhaps halfway to our destination with its limp, lifeless body in hand to solemnly release it from the ferry’s stern, to its watery grave.

We had arrived at our usual parking station to find so few vehicles present that it led me to quip to Tiki, “The inspector, who marks the tyres, could find himself without a job! He’ll have so little to do, he’ll have to start marking parts of his own body! How long has this leg been here?!”

Tiki laughed heartily and patted me on the thigh.