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Normal programming has been temporarily suspended, because…

Beach selfie #over50 #positiveageing #beachwalk #onlinedating #love #Australia

Beach selfie #over50 #positiveageing #beachwalk #wellbeing #love @boneAndsilver

… because I’m attending a 7-day intensive on the creation of an intentional Eco Village community near the beach, so I’ve decided to try and blog about each day’s events, partly as a way of integrating all the experiences.

“Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful committed citizens can change the world. Indeed it is the only thing that ever has.”

Margaret Mead

The vision is a Permaculture-based village, with clusters of dwellings, and shared community resources, such as a school, a restaurant, a community centre, a swimming pool and a small commercial centre that will include a general store, a medical centre and a community bank.

“We’re doing things differently. We’re challenging the mainstream concept that success = ownership and are advocating for the concepts of success = connection and success = energy independence, but also success = interdependence.” BEV website 2018

One of the most basic premises is that no one ‘owns’ their home; they’ll already be built by local architects and builders, to passive-solar designs, then you buy a share in the Village, and pay a weekly rent, but it’s secure for the rest of your life. Interesting.

We’ll also be studying Non-Violent Communication (NVC), with conflict resolution as part of that, plus Permaculture, alternatives to current world economics, Indigenous perspectives, cultural capital, Dynamic Governance/Sociocracy as opposed to Democracy, as well as meditation, yoga, an Empathy Bath (?), and delicious vegan lunches provided.

I’ll share everything except the lunch.

Sounds interesting/slightly weird/challenging doesn’t it? I have no idea what I’m letting myself in for, but I cleared my week’s calendar months ago, so can attend everything 9-5, plus the early morning yoga if I’m super keen- but to be honest, I’ll probably be lying in bed answering all your curious comments!

Has anyone out there done such a thing, or been part of an Eco Village? Any stories of delight, or warnings? I am partly motivated by the idea of living in a solid community as I get older, and being able to walk everywhere, and cycle to the beach- they estimate no one will be living on the land for at least another 3-4 years (so let’s call that 5 or 6).

Which would be perfect for me then.

I’m looking forward to sharing the privilege of this journey with you for 7 days (hopefully), unless I get too worn out with all the bathing in Empathy…

In gratitude for alternative perspectives, G xO 

Fiction Friday: Full long version of short story “Roadside”

 

My niece captured me perfectly #portrait #black&white #snapshot

boneAndsilver’s G, happy in France in 2017 #over 50 #blogger #writer #authentic #fiction #shortstory #longread @boneAndsilver

Hello All- I’m posting this Australian fiction short story in its entirety, so feel free to skip this post if that’s not yer thing obviously.

Make a cuppa and spend five minutes with Lucy and Eris, as several readers commented that they’d prefer a longer read, to sink into it, so I decided to post the full story.

This piece won tiny accolades in several small writing competitions here, although it’s a few years old now.

I hope you enjoy it, and thanks so much for reading.

In gratitude for words, G xO 

 

“Roadside”- (c) bone&silver 2018

Lucy’s silver waterfall hair tilts when she moves. The tiny peace badge on her jumper glints. She leans like a rusty hinge to stroke the cat, book forgotten. Elegant fingers smooth the purring animal. She always wears gloves when gardening, and marinates in moisturiser every night. Like Cleopatra, she wishes she could bathe in milk. She knows she looks good for her age, but still bristles against seeming ‘invisible’ to anyone under thirty. She can remember wearing miniskirts, and going braless to parties, brave and ready for the freedoms the new birth control pill could bring. To be seen as an ‘old woman’, slow to cross the road sometimes, makes her blood yell with rebellion. But despite strong legs from cycling now that she’ll never drive a car again, her spine aches.

She joked once that the ache mirrored her soul.

In the kitchen, husband Eris has a cake in the oven. Spicy ginger and orange, her favourite. She loves a piece after yoga, or while listening to political debate on the radio, arguing opinions between mouthfuls. She nearly choked on a walnut in the carrot cake one day, but insisted it was the Prime Minister’s stupid policy remark that really caused her problem.

Eris is battling the weekend cryptic crossword. It’s guaranteed to keep any chance of Alzheimer’s at bay he claims. Certainly worked for his Mum, still beating him at gin rummy, aged eighty-nine. But he’s stuck on twenty-five across. And Lucy’s sulking through the baking scent, bricking out his tendrils of conversation.

The cake timer ticks.

He lowers his pen. ‘I’m sorry to upset you Lu. I know we’re both in this together. And that it’s rotten. But I’ve got my needs too y’know.’

Silence.

‘God you’re a stubborn woman. Can’t we talk about it, please?’

Nothing.

The smell of the cooking cake meanders. Lucy’s cat purrs, slinking across the floor, while another two sleep on a windowsill in the late sunshine. The timer ticks on.

‘I know you’ve got the tree. And it comforts you.’ He moves into the living room. ‘But I’ve got nothing. I just want somewhere to go. Can you leave the damn cat alone and look at me?’

A tree stands tall along a straight road, sentinel on the only corner for five kilometres. A ring of wildflowers in pink and white hugs its base.

 He slides the animal gently away with his foot as it twines around his legs. He doesn’t really like cats, although they live with four.

‘Don’t touch him! And don’t touch me! I hate you!’ Blowing the lid off her temper, Lucy pushes past Eris. She shoves open the kitchen screen door, and slams out into the garden. Her exit seems trailed by black vapour that sucks energy out of her husband.

‘I can’t fucking believe you’re hassling me about this. Isn’t it hard enough already?’ she yells from the lawn.

He can hear the tears catching round her words, and hurries with arthritic knees toward the door.

‘Stay away from me, Eris, I mean it. Leave me alone.’ Her command whips between strands of hair as she runs out the garden gate. ‘I’m a nightmare.’

In the kitchen, the timer’s bell rings.

‘You’re being a nightmare today, that’s for sure,’ he mutters, following her outside. ‘Don’t be silly Lucy,‘ he calls. ‘Come back inside. It’s getting cold, and you’re barefoot. Let’s not scream at each other in front of the neighb…’

‘Stop telling me what to do. Sod the neighbours. Leave me alone!’

At the base of the tree, the wildflowers thrive, leaning into the wood, casting fine lace shadows. At odds with the thin dry soil and scrubby weeds everywhere else.

She didn’t notice the bus driving down the hill. All she could think about was running away from her husband. Tyres screeched, muffled cries from passengers, the stench of a skid across tarmac. Then a sickening quiet, as if everything in the area was holding its breath. But still it came: the soft punch of metal meeting flesh.

She twisted and fell.

‘Oh my God. Lucy!’ He runs toward her, feeling like his legs are moving through mud. Damn knees.

In the kitchen, the smell of burning begins.

As eucalyptus leaves drop from the branches, they flicker past the homemade roadside marker. Neat, white, firmly nailed into the trunk.

Thirty minutes later, the bus and its ruffled cargo have travelled on, feathers smoothed. Lucy and Eris sit on their rough garden bench under a weeping tree. Tears are being dried. Hers and his.

‘I do understand you need a proper headstone to mourn at, Eris.’ She touches his knee. ‘I’m sorry. I just resist making it so official. And you know I hate cemeteries.’

Her weak smile gifts the words to her husband. He strokes the silver hair, remembering how much he has loved it since the days it was gold. He cleans with his handkerchief the blood that sits in small cuts on her forehead and elbow. Bruises are already darkening the skin around her eye, cheekbone, and exposed shoulder through the torn jumper.

She was lucky. Argument and burnt cake are forgiven.

‘You’re hard work all right, there’s no doubt about that,’ he jokes. ‘You’d better turn out to be worth it.’

She gazes at him, seeing him afresh for a moment. Almost forty years together, but still he can surprise her.

‘I can’t believe we have to find a way to live through this.’ She pulls at leaves that want to tickle her shoulder. ‘And I am a nightmare.’ A twig is snapped. ’You don’t deserve this.’

A cluster of leaves is wrenched and dropped, with fresh tears.

Around their homemade seat, the plants in her garden push back attempts to contain them. A palette of colours ramble. Daisies nudge native grasses, roses dance with succulents. An indecent blend that always draws a crowd to the garden Open Days.

Again he strokes the silver waterfall. ‘What’s happened happened. No reason. No purpose.’ A deep breath. ‘None of us deserved it. All we can do is keep breathing, keep eating, keep learning and loving. That’s all I’ve got Lu. I just keep hoping it’s enough for you.’

The hot tide rises again in his eyes.

Eris had used his best two pieces of wood and neatest copperplate writing. Did it straight away, first thing on the Monday morning.

She looks into her lap at the wrinkled hand holding her own. A recent memory slips in, of Eris dancing to his favourite Curtis Mayfield Motown song. He was in the kitchen, and hadn’t heard her arrive. His eyes were closed, body spiralling, lip-syncing the lyrics like a geriatric drag queen having a make-up free day. He was a boy in that moment. The boy who took ballet lessons from age eleven, until he discovered the complete freedom of improvised movement. Even now, at sixty-five, he was a regular at the weekly freeform dance classes held in the heart of the city. He went every Wednesday evening, at peace in his long blue nylon leotard, always returning content. Despite the knees. She had never gone, although she would love to. But she didn’t want to steal anything more from Eris.

Lucy’s response was slower, less practical. She watered the wildflowers every week, while her aching fingers stroked the tree’s marker: ‘Callahan family. Lost here. Gone home to God. Sunday Feb 7 2005’.

Friends have called her resilient, dealing with loss as she has. Two generations of family erased in one accident. Daughter, son-in-law, and only grandchild, a precious girl. But this afternoon, she’d recoiled from Eris’ headstone request as though it stung, and not even beloved cats or favourite cake could soothe the arrival of the rains inside her.

Sitting close on the bench, she squeezes his hand. Feels the hairs on the back of his fingers, and suddenly thrills at the passions they have shared. She remembers clasping him, pulling his hair. Remembers trying dirty words, then giggling together, under the pant of loving breath. She smiles. She can’t help it.

‘Thatta girl Lu. We’ll be okay.’

‘God, I must be crazy. After all that’s happened today, believe it or not, I’m feeling a bit cuddly,’ she says.

A laugh snorts out of him. He shakes his head, and pats her hand. ‘I don’t honestly think I could rise to the occasion, honey.’ Pause. ‘I’m still very upset about that lovely cake, and not finishing twenty-five across.’

They chuckle as the last sun warms their faces. A paint shop of tints jostle for sunset, eager to start. She helps him stand, while he brushes her hair away over the bare shoulder. Walking back along the garden path rubs them between lavender and lemon myrtle, scenting the air, but she’s hobbling a little, as is he. A lone bee rushes home before curfew, like a teenager.

‘You can’t get a limp too Lucy. That’s my signature movement.’

‘Again with the telling me what to do. Now is that wise? Haven’t we been through this already today?’

A perfect duet of smiles.

‘I’m surprised you didn’t dent that bus y’know. You hit it pretty hard.’

‘But I went with it y’see. Our motion became “as one”. You’ve taught me a lot Eris, with your dancing and prancing around all these years.’

Another duet as they reach the backdoor. He naturally pauses to let her go first, but she stops. ‘No, you go ahead darlin’. I want to get a look at your cute bum.’ She pats him on the rear, and he laughs out loud, creasing eye corners and cheeks.

The screen door closes behind them, and soon the sound of a kettle whistling floats into the garden. The tinkle of cups, saucers and plates becomes a chandelier draped from a nearby tree. Crystals of conversation decorate the shrubs. Wood smoke begins to flavour the air around the house, and ss dusk fades the scene to shades of grey, it feels like a contented breath is drawn.

Through the window, Lucy’s outline examines the dreaded crossword. She presses an icepack to various bruises. A plump cat crashes through the cat flap, too early for dinner, but meowing at her just in case the rules have been amended in its absence. Eris moves back and forth, readying tea. He clicks on the radio, and its sound is added to the chandelier outside. His face softens as he begins to hum and then sing along to a tune, body unable to resist a jig or two. His wife slides glances at both his face and wiggling rear end.

‘I love you Eris. I don’t think I tell you enough. I know you know, of course, but I think I need to tell you more.’

He stops pouring the tea, and puts the knitted pink cosy back over the pot. Both hands cradle it for a moment, feeling the warmth passing through the wool.

‘I know you love me Lu. You don’t have to say it.’ He winks. ‘Now make yourself useful, and finish that bloody crossword.’

Friends have called him courageous, dealing with loss as he has. Two generations of family erased in one accident. Daughter, son-in-law, and only grandchild, a precious girl. Used his best two pieces of wood and neatest copperplate writing. Neat, white, firmly nailed into the trunk. First thing on the Monday morning.

They have called him generous of spirit as well.

He never once held it against his wife that she was driving the car.

World Weds/Random Thurs combo: What we can all do about plastic, ‘cos it sure ain’t fantastic

Hiking boots and cut off baggy shorts, so glamorous now I'm over 50

These boots are made for walkin, And that’s just what they’ll do, One of these days these boots are gonna… #Australia #wellbeing #over50blogger #walkingboots @boneAndsilver

I walked on the beach here in Australia yesterday morning after the farmers’ markets; it was wild! I’ve never seen the water so high, and I wouldn’t swim in that ocean if you paid me money; it was thrashing, and whirling.

Still, I pounded my way up and down for 45 minutes, as I’m beginning training for a 4-day hike… but that’s another post (and hence the fairly ugly new boots I’m breaking in, and old shorts- sorry ‘H’, I know you don’t really like them. *grins)

The point is, I began to pick up bits of litter/plastic. I always do, but this time, perhaps because of the storms and rain we’ve just had here, there was much more.

Nothing like an early morning beach walk to start the day right

Australian beach walks can be wild sometimes #Australia #beach #wellbeing #over50blogger #selfcare @boneAndsilver

Which reminded me of this fantastically-informative, well-laid out, beautifully-photographed blog I like to follow called The Zero-Waste Chef.

Whose recent post was called Go Plastic-Free in 2018 (or Close to It). Please check it out, and let yourself be inspired.

Let’s do it together! What ways do you think you could easily reduce your plastic consumption? Here’s my top 3:

  • Take my own shopping bags to the supermarket
  • Use beeswax wraps instead of plastic wrap over your food (remember that post I did HERE about how easy it was? It truly was)
  • Use bamboo toothbrushes- did you know that every toothbrush ever used EVER is still in existence?

In gratitude for our natural environment, G xO

Teenage Tuesday: A discussion about ‘Teenage Tuesday’ in the car

My teenage son makes me put my thinking cap on, with his philosophy of life on creativity, blogging, and self promotion

A contemplative Mum tries to come to terms with her smart, opinionated teenage son #over50 #blogger #Australia #teenager @boneAndsilver

Me [checking WordPress stats]: Your ‘Teenage Tuesdays’ are without doubt my most popular posts.

Him: That’s great Mum.

Me: People love them- I get so many comments- they think you’re hilarious, they love you!

Him: Wait, who are all these people?

Me [bragging a little I admit]: I’ve got Followers all over America, in Canada, England, Europe in general, Australia too of course… nearly 650 now…

Him: Hold on; I don’t know if I like all those people knowing stuff about me, and the things I say.

Me: But… I… um…

Him: It’s starting to feel like you’re just making notes about me to write on your blog; you’re not valuing sharing the funny moments with me, as they actually happen.

Me: But… I… um…

Him: And what does it say about your creativity Mum? You’re just quoting me. I thought your blog was about your life and viewpoint; surely using me and mine defeats the purpose?

Me: Um…

PAUSE

Him: I don’t think you should do ‘Teenage Tuesdays’ any more, it’s not serving you.

 

Me Monday: celebrate Australia Day? No damn way. And here’s why

An Australian flag, representing ties with England

A symbol of the ownership by England, and the star constellation called The Southern Cross #Australia #flag #changethedate #AustraliaDay @boneAndsilver

I emigrated to Australia in early January 1987, aged 20. Moved into a run-down three level terrace house in a dodgy inner suburb of Sydney, and began settling in to the new ways, sights and scents of my adopted home. The smell of sickly sweet mangoes rotting and fresh frangipani flowers still triggers memories of my first real Australian summer.

A national day of celebration was quickly upon me: January 26 is nominated as ‘Australia Day’, celebrating the first arrival of Captain Cook, who claimed this land for the British Crown. It’s a public holiday 3-day weekend, involving beer, barbecues, and ridiculous waving of the ugly Australian flag with patriotic pride.

That particular morning dawned hot, and outside our scruffy student home, on a wide street where the heat was already shimmering off the asphalt, folk began to gather in the park. There were banners, drums, didgeridoos, ochre body painting, and cardboard signs everywhere, plus lots of black.

Aboriginal flag for Invasion Day #Australia #AustraliaDay #changethedate #respect @boneAndsilver

Aboriginal flag for Invasion Day #Australia #AustraliaDay #changethedate #respect @boneAndsilver

Black armbands, black T-shirts, black flags, and of course black, brown, white, and pink faces. It was a peaceful protest parade.

Because for Australia’s indigenous population, it is a terrible day of mourning, and a reminder of the ‘sorry business’ which drenches their most recent history since Cook arrived.

Acts of murder, deliberate poisoning and introduction of diseases like Smallpox, plus the tortuous ongoing removal of children from their families:

“Official government estimates are that between one in ten and one in three indigenous Australian children were forcibly taken from their families and communities between 1910, and 1970, affecting all regions of the country.” – Wikipedia

[Have you seen ‘Rabbit Proof Fence’ ? Watch it as soon as you can please.]

And we’re supposed to celebrate that?? Even after only 3 weeks in town, I knew it was wrong.

There’s a big push now to move the date of Australia Day elsewhere, and I want to add my voice. Pick any one of the other 364 days, for god’s sake! How hard can it be? It’s been re-named Invasion Day or Survival Day by the Aboriginal and Torres Strait cultures, and is a time of sorrow and remembrance.

A welcome change to the Hottest 100 date in Australia

An announcement in all the national media about moving the Hottest 100 countdown #triplej #hottest100 #changethedate #australia

But cultural change is S L O W. Yet momentum is building, and a small but significant shift happened this year for the first time: the alternative youth radio station Triple J (which I still listen to because I’m, y’know, cool, and have to keep up with ’17’s world) changed the date of their ‘Hottest 100 Songs of the Year’  (a soundtrack to all-day backyard parties across the nation) from Jan 26 to the following day, out of respect.

In this year’s Hottest 100, a Darwin-born Aboriginal artist named Baker Boy, who raps in his native language of Yolnu Matha, came in at number 17.

Aboriginal rapper Danzal Baker who performs as 'Baker Boy' #bakerboy #triplej #hottest100 #changethedate @boneAndsilver

Aboriginal rapper Danzal Baker who performs as ‘Baker Boy’ #bakerboy #triplej #hottest100 #changethedate @boneAndsilver

“It’s perfect, so I can actually feel comfortable and have fun, instead of just thinking about what happened in Australia that day,” he said. “It’s a massive change, especiall­y for Aboriginal and Torres Strait people.”- NT News, Jan 28, 2018

Let’s celebrate with him; for the survival of his people, for their creativity and determination, and for the wicked dance beats he’s offering us in healing- such a killer chorus, and check out the synchro dance moves!

Please enjoy this live performance clip here:

Baker Boy ‘Marryuna’ Live at Triple J Unearthed

And Australia: #changethedate

In gratitude for social evolution, G xO 

 

PS: I’m submitting this as part of Forgiving Fridays at ForgivingConnects, for without acknowledgment and forgiveness, we can’t move forward.

Fiction Friday: Final part of short story “Roadside”

My niece captured me perfectly #portrait #black&white #snapshot

boneAndsilver’s G, happy in France in 2017 #over 50 #blogger #writer #authentic @boneAndsilver

Hello All, time for the final part, yay. It’s Fiction, so feel free to skip this post if that’s not yer thing! This piece won tiny accolades in several small writing competitions here in Australia, although it’s a few years old now. PART ONE is here, and PART TWO here, so please read first.

A few readers commented that they’d prefer a longer read, to sink into it, so I decided to post a long one, rather than make it another two posts…

I hope you enjoy it, and thanks so much for reading!

In gratitude for words, G xO 

 

“Roadside”- Final part

‘I can’t believe we have to find a way to live through this.’ She pulls at leaves that want to tickle her shoulder. ‘And I am a nightmare.’ A twig is snapped. ’You don’t deserve this.’

A cluster of leaves is wrenched and dropped, with fresh tears.

Around their homemade seat, the plants in her garden push back attempts to contain them. A palette of colours ramble. Daisies nudge native grasses, roses dance with succulents. An indecent blend that always draws a crowd to the garden Open Days.

Again he strokes the silver waterfall. ‘What’s happened happened. No reason. No purpose.’ A deep breath. ‘None of us deserved it. All we can do is keep breathing, keep eating, keep learning and loving. That’s all I’ve got Lu. I just keep hoping it’s enough for you.’

The hot tide rises again in his eyes.

Eris had used his best two pieces of wood and neatest copperplate writing. Did it straight away, first thing on the Monday morning.

She looks into her lap at the wrinkled hand holding her own. A recent memory slips in, of Eris dancing to his favourite Curtis Mayfield Motown song. He was in the kitchen, and hadn’t heard her arrive. His eyes were closed, body spiralling, lip-syncing the lyrics like a geriatric drag queen having a make-up free day. He was a boy in that moment. The boy who took ballet lessons from age eleven, until he discovered the complete freedom of improvised movement. Even now, at sixty-five, he was a regular at the weekly freeform dance classes held in the heart of the city. He went every Wednesday evening, at peace in his long blue nylon leotard, always returning content. Despite the knees. She had never gone, although she would love to. But she didn’t want to steal anything more from Eris.

Lucy’s response was slower, less practical. She watered the wildflowers every week, while her aching fingers stroked the tree’s marker: ‘Callahan family. Lost here. Gone home to God. Sunday Feb 7 2005’.

Friends have called her resilient, dealing with loss as she has. Two generations of family erased in one accident. Daughter, son-in-law, and only grandchild, a precious girl. But this afternoon, she’d recoiled from Eris’ headstone request as though it stung, and not even beloved cats or favourite cake could soothe the arrival of the rains inside her.

Sitting close on the bench, she squeezes his hand. Feels the hairs on the back of his fingers, and suddenly thrills at the passions they have shared. She remembers clasping him, pulling his hair. Remembers trying dirty words, then giggling together, under the pant of loving breath. She smiles. She can’t help it.

‘Thatta girl Lu. We’ll be okay.’

‘God, I must be crazy. After all that’s happened today, believe it or not, I’m feeling a bit cuddly,’ she says.

A laugh snorts out of him. He shakes his head, and pats her hand. ‘I don’t honestly think I could rise to the occasion, honey.’ Pause. ‘I’m still very upset about that lovely cake, and not finishing twenty-five across.’

They chuckle as the last sun warms their faces. A paint shop of tints jostle for sunset, eager to start. She helps him stand, while he brushes her hair away over the bare shoulder. Walking back along the garden path rubs them between lavender and lemon myrtle, scenting the air, but she’s hobbling a little, as is he. A lone bee rushes home before curfew, like a teenager.

‘You can’t get a limp too Lucy. That’s my signature movement.’

‘Again with the telling me what to do. Now is that wise? Haven’t we been through this already today?’

A perfect duet of smiles.

‘I’m surprised you didn’t dent that bus y’know. You hit it pretty hard.’

‘But I went with it y’see. Our motion became “as one”. You’ve taught me a lot Eris, with your dancing and prancing around all these years.’

Another duet as they reach the backdoor. He naturally pauses to let her go first, but she stops. ‘No, you go ahead darlin’. I want to get a look at your cute bum.’ She pats him on the rear, and he laughs out loud, creasing eye corners and cheeks.

The screen door closes behind them, and soon the sound of a kettle whistling floats into the garden. The tinkle of cups, saucers and plates becomes a chandelier draped from a nearby tree. Crystals of conversation decorate the shrubs. Wood smoke begins to flavour the air around the house, and ss dusk fades the scene to shades of grey, it feels like a contented breath is drawn.

Through the window, Lucy’s outline examines the dreaded crossword. She presses an icepack to various bruises. A plump cat crashes through the cat flap, too early for dinner, but meowing at her just in case the rules have been amended in its absence. Eris moves back and forth, readying tea. He clicks on the radio, and its sound is added to the chandelier outside. His face softens as he begins to hum and then sing along to a tune, body unable to resist a jig or two. His wife slides glances at both his face and wiggling rear end.

‘I love you Eris. I don’t think I tell you enough. I know you know, of course, but I think I need to tell you more.’

He stops pouring the tea, and puts the knitted pink cosy back over the pot. Both hands cradle it for a moment, feeling the warmth passing through the wool.

‘I know you love me Lu. You don’t have to say it.’ He winks. ‘Now make yourself useful, and finish that bloody crossword.’

Friends have called him courageous, dealing with loss as he has. Two generations of family erased in one accident. Daughter, son-in-law, and only grandchild, a precious girl. Used his best two pieces of wood and neatest copperplate writing. Neat, white, firmly nailed into the trunk. First thing on the Monday morning.

They have called him generous of spirit as well.

He never once held it against his wife that she was driving the car.

 

THE END

(c) bone&silver 2018

World Wednesday/Re-blog Thursday: ‘The Goddess’

Thank you to all the women (& supportive men, and inbetween folk) who did The Women’s March for us; we are indeed all Goddesses, as we march, and as we age- this reblog post is so perfectly macro and micro #TIMESUP #thefutureisfemale

Empty Nest, Full Life

goddess-1875722_960_720

I grew up as a good Catholic girl. In my world, God was man. He was a tall white man with a light brown beard and a white robe.

God was male.

But I’m not a little girl anymore.

Now I am a mother. I saw my own body grow and stretch and bend itself to give life to my three children. That made me wonder if perhaps the true deity was a woman.

I have been lucky enough to watch my daughter become a mother.  I watched her body grow and stretch and bend itself to give life to my grandchildren.  That made me suspect that I was right is seeing the true deity as a woman.

Today I helped my 87 year old mother as she took a shower, washed her hair, got dressed and settled herself into her favorite chair to rest after those efforts.

It wasn’t…

View original post 285 more words

Teenage Tuesday: Sharing the bathroom cabinet

A selection of organic face creams and cleansers we use #selfcare #wellbeing #over50 #organicfacecream #australia #facials @boneAndsilver @sanctumskincare #byronbay

Locally-made and sourced organic skincare products I treat myself to #selfcare #wellbeing #over50 #organicfacecream #australia #facials @boneAndsilver #byronbay

Him: Mum, I really need to cleanse and do a facial; my skin feels dirty from all the pollution… [after one week in Sydney]

LATER [having worked his way systematically through a variety of my locally-made, organic skin-care products]

Him: Feel my face now, how soft is it hey? I don’t like the smell of all your creams though; they actually smell of nothing, but in a health food store kinda way

 

Me Monday: The big reveal, for our one year anniversary

Over 50 new romance blossoming after online dating in Australia

I love this hand drawn image of me after our first date #handdrawn #over50 #comics #backyardcomics #australia #queerlove @boneAndsilver

So, regular folk round here know I’ve been dating ‘H’ for a while, with both of us shuttling back and forth between Melbourne and home (near Byron Bay, Australia) once a month.

We chanced across each other online, then spent three months emailing or texting, plus exchanging stories and hand drawn comics; we never spoke on the phone.

Finally, we met at noon outside Flinders St train station, an iconic Melbourne landmark.

And the rest, as they say, ladies and gentlemen, is Herstory. If you’re really keen, you could revisit or explore these past posts:

Episode 2: ‘Yes Lets’

Episode 4: Multiple choice

Episode 8: Best thirty bucks I ever spent

We’ve just had our one year anniversary, where we recreated our first date exactly, meeting at the train station, going for Japanese lunch, wandering the streets of downtown Melbourne, then returning to the dusty second hand bookshop where we had our first shy kiss.

So cute.

And we agreed it was time for the big reveal, so here we are, standing at Flinders twelve months later, totally in love.

Over 50 and in love, celebrating with a selfie, thanks to online dating

Our one year selfie celebrates finding love online over 50 #romance #onlinedating #queer #over50 #Melbourne #Australia #FlindersSt #anniversary #love @boneAndsilver

Over the course of a year, we’ve managed to see each other 12 times, for about a week each time (thankfully, I travel for work as a performing street theatre and stilts artist, so some of that travel expense has been paid for), or I’ve been able to treat H to a complimentary festival ticket so that we can hang out together when I’m not covered in make up, sweat, and an outrageous costume.

We also text daily, and now talk too, sometimes with dress up Skype dates, or Facetime.

I can honestly say I’ve never met anyone with whom I can be more ‘myself’, and that’s partly simply because of who ‘H’ is, as a sweet, complex, fluid creature whom I have no interest in putting a binary gender to.

We match on a wide variety of levels, and that includes creatively, which got us into this situation in the first place. I love H’s drawings/comics, and H loves my stories; it was an old-fashioned courtship but using the web.

Going out for dinner is a good excuse to dress up and celebrate love with gratitude

Nothing like the gratitude of a birthday dinner with friends and loved ones #over50 #queer #celebration #Australia #love

We’ve misunderstood each other, sulked, fought, apologised, made up, laughed, longed for, and sat silently together on the end of a phone line, while washing dishes or sunset walking. We’ve had some lovely real life adventures, met each other’s friends, and are now getting close to meeting family members (Xmas didn’t seem like a good time, Grinch that I am).

H made me the most wonderful book for my 51st birthday, remember that HERE, while I flew down for H’s 51st, where we dressed up and went out to dinner with friends.

So we wanted to share this first anniversary with you, as some of you have watched this romance unfold from the beginning, and me getting more serious about this blog was part of the creative inspiration I got from H.

THANK YOU All.

In gratitude for Love, G xO

PS- Let me tell you a secret: ‘H’ stands for ‘Handsome’

 

Fiction Friday: Part Two of short story “Roadside”

My niece captured me perfectly #portrait #black&white #snapshot

bone&silver’s G, happy in France in 2017 #over 50 #blogger #writer #authentic @boneAndsilver

 

Hello All, time for Part Two, yay. It’s Fiction, so feel free to skip this post if that’s not yer thing! This piece won tiny accolades in several small writing competitions here in Australia, although it’s a few years old now. PART ONE is here, so please read it first.

Then let me know what you think, G xO 

 

“Roadside”- Part Two

‘Don’t touch him! And don’t touch me! I hate you!’

Blowing the lid off her temper, Lucy pushes past Eris. She shoves open the kitchen screen door, and slams out into the garden. Her exit seems trailed by black vapour that sucks energy out of her husband.

‘I can’t fucking believe you’re hassling me about this. Isn’t it hard enough already?’ she yells from the lawn.

He can hear the tears catching round her words, and hurries with arthritic knees toward the door.

‘Stay away from me, Eris, I mean it. Leave me alone.’ Her command whips between strands of hair as she runs out the garden gate. ‘I’m a nightmare.’

In the kitchen, the timer’s bell rings.

‘You’re being a nightmare today, that’s for sure,’ he mutters, following her outside. ‘Don’t be silly Lucy,‘ he calls. ‘Come back inside. It’s getting cold, and you’re barefoot. Let’s not scream at each other in front of the neighb…’

‘Stop telling me what to do. Sod the neighbours. Leave me alone!’

At the base of the tree, the wildflowers thrive, leaning into the wood, casting fine lace shadows. At odds with the thin dry soil and scrubby weeds everywhere else.

She didn’t notice the bus driving down the hill. All she could think about was running away from her husband. Tyres screeched, muffled cries from passengers, the stench of a skid across tarmac. Then a sickening quiet, as if everything in the area was holding its breath. But still it came: the soft punch of metal meeting flesh.

She twisted and fell.

‘Oh my God. Lucy!’ He runs toward her, feeling like his legs are moving through mud. Damn knees.

In the kitchen, the smell of burning begins.

As eucalyptus leaves drop from the branches, they flicker past the homemade roadside marker. Neat, white, firmly nailed into the trunk.

Thirty minutes later, the bus and its ruffled cargo have travelled on, feathers smoothed. Lucy and Eris sit on their rough garden bench under a weeping tree. Tears are being dried. Hers and his.

‘I do understand you need a proper headstone to mourn at, Eris.’ She touches his knee. ‘I’m sorry. I just resist making it so official. And you know I hate cemeteries.’

Her weak smile gifts the words to her husband. He strokes the silver hair, remembering how much he has loved it since the days it was gold. He cleans with his handkerchief the blood that sits in small cuts on her forehead and elbow. Bruises are already darkening the skin around her eye, cheekbone, and exposed shoulder through the torn jumper.

She was lucky. Argument and burnt cake are forgiven.

‘You’re hard work all right, there’s no doubt about that,’ he jokes. ‘You’d better turn out to be worth it.’

She gazes at him, seeing him afresh for a moment. Almost forty years together, but still he can surprise her.

‘I can’t believe we have to find a way to live through this.’ She pulls at leaves that want to tickle her shoulder. ‘And I am a nightmare.’ A twig is snapped. ’You don’t deserve this.’

A cluster of leaves is wrenched and dropped, with fresh tears.

 

… To Be Continued…