O cold the black-frost night.
The walls draw in to the warmth
and the old roof cracks its joints;
the slung kettle
hisses a leak on the fire.
Hardly to be believed that summer
will turn up again some day
in a wave of rambler-roses,
thrust its hot face in here
to tell another yarn.
I like Summer. This year was a serious rip-off. Rains and sorrow. Rains and sorrow interspersed with occasional marvellous moments. Today its Autumn and the Rains are back again. “Hardly to be believed that Summer will turn up again some day.” It won’t turn up again for my sister. She left on February 17 2011. What sort of date is that ? She DID want to have one last Christmastime and she got that. With two Xmas trees that we ordered online.
Summer will turn up again. And we will sit on the verandah and watch the moonrise and Yaan with one another. For now I move the e-Bench inside the big house I am sitting in for a week or two. The big dog lies morbidly disappointed beside me and I take an hour or so before tackling the rainy roads and darkened skies to go visiting for lunch.
I take a seat here on my e-Bench and Yaan with you. That’s something I like doing no matter what time of the year it is or what the weather is doing. The clothes are in the washing machine and there is a dryer. I usually hang my clothes out on a line strung between posts on my verandah. But its raining.
Summer Yarns, eh ? Summer yarns. That might cheer me up while I sit here in this fine home built of local stone and very old timbers from the Bellingen Bridge. I think the Grandfather and GreatGrandfather of my children built that old bridge. All around are rainforest plants and tall gum trees and down the bottom of the hill is the North Coast Rail Line. The children’ father worked on that. They tell me an old hotel was once here on this slope. Long gone now. I might hunt the Yarns up from the Digitised newspapers. One about Repton where I am staying for the moment. I shall also take a look at some old summer photographs and see what I can recall for myself.
First thing I am doing is going to visit the grandparents of my children and see what Summer Yarns they have.
See you a bit later with Other Yarns.
4.55pm. The rain seems to have passed and the evening is coming in. Man and Dog are sleeping in the Living Room and I’m taking a Yaaning Seat. We talked of many things today. Of Shire councils and the lousy mayor, of the old bridge being built with no electricity to run appliances and my children’s grandfather tells me he still has the tools out in the back shed.
Now I shall look for the stories of Summertime.
Hardly to be believed that summer will turn up again some day in a wave of rambler-roses, thrust its hot face in here to tell another yarn. Judith Wright.
My children’s grandmother gave me a bunch of red and white roses she grew in her garden and told me to give my white climbing rose a feed since it looks so ill. I didn’t know what a feed for a rose was. Cow manure, says she. That’s one thing I have a lot of.
I wonder whether I can find one Yaaning memory per decade of my life. That’s a good few decades that is.
A PROPOS OF NOTHING AT ALL.