This is a ‘Strange New Year message’ because it’s all about ‘lasts’. Usually, as a new year rolls in, we are caught up in thinking about everything new and shiny: new year plans, resolutions, a new calendar on the wall…
And I’ve been doing all that too, of course. I’ve set my goal for 2019: to have a completed and edited manuscript of my first novel, and be well and truly on the path to approaching agents and publishers to gauge interest in the story.
For this post, though, I want to write about ‘last’ things.
How do we know when its the last time we do something, see something, speak to someone?
I ask this because last night, I called to wish Happy New Year to an elderly person in my life. After I had hung up the phone, I began to wonder if this was to be the last New Year greeting I would exchange with that person, who is not in the best of health and approaching the grand age of 90.
Would knowing that it was the last time I wished her a Happy New Year, change the way I did so? Or the way I act before or afterward? Probably. But of course I don’t know, and generally speaking, we never do. Which is, perhaps, for the best.
That got me thinking about other ‘lasts.’
The last time I might kiss someone hello, or goodbye.
The last breakfast I might eat.
The last coffee I enjoy.
The last swim ( I’m writing this post after 20 laps at my beautiful local pool, and it’s mid summer here in Australia, so swimming is definitely on my agenda right now)
The last piece of beautiful music I hear.
The last book I read.
Disappearing down that particular rabbit hole has me reflecting on what I would choose, if I knew that a book was to be my last one ever…and I truly don’t know the answer! Would I choose to re- read a well loved favourite, perhaps one I hadn’t read in a while? Or would I elect to tackle one of the many, many books on my ‘to be read’ list?
Even thinking about that incites a little bubble of panic. I always say, only partly joking, ‘So many books, so little time’. But of course I never really think that I won’t actually have enough time to read all the books I want to. Despite being perfectly aware of the reality that we all leave this life some day, I have never truly considered the fact that there will be a last book. So, which one would I choose?
Which book would you choose for your last book ever? Let me know in the comments.
And, Happy New Year to you and yours.
Here’s my little entry into the December ‘Furious Fiction’ at the Australian Writer’s Centre. 500 words, the story had to be set on Christmas Eve, either 40 years ago or 40 years in the future.
When Greg Stopped Believing in Santa By Denise Newton
I looked out at the red and green tinsel around my neighbour’s front window and the Merry Christmas written in white window spray in the centre of the pane.
“Merry Christmas,” I said, to myself—not aloud. Greg always said it’s safer to keep some things to yourself, in case people get the wrong idea about you. Greg was so wise for his age. Missing him was a sharp hurt, a pain deep in my chest. He was so far away this Christmas. All the way across the Nullabor. Past the Great Australian Bight. I’d never been but he described how it looked from the plane window when he and Sally flew there to start their new life in Perth. He’d said perhaps, I could go and visit them one day, stay for a couple of weeks.
Greg had gone away the year after he stopped believing in Santa. Well, okay—maybe a few years after…perhaps twenty years…but I found it hard to believe it was that long.
One Christmas Eve, he was staring, rapt, out our back door at the garden, the grass made dewy by the cool of the night.
“Look, Mum!” he breathed. “Santa’s sled tracks on the grass.” He pointed to a spot in the middle of the lawn, little finger trembling with joy. I couldn’t see anything but I smiled and ruffled his hair, loving his willingness to believe.
“Best be off to bed, then, love. Santa doesn’t stop at homes where the children are still awake.”
And he raced to leap into bed where he lay, eyes pressed closed in case Santa peeked through the window.
The next Christmas he was silent and embarrassed if Santa was mentioned. I knew he no longer believed but didn’t want to hurt my feelings. Sweet boy.
And then, what seemed like the very next year, he was off to Perth, he and Sally together. I was glad for his new job, his new city, his new wife. Sally with her miniskirts and her glossy hair piled high in the beehive hairdo that was all the rage now. She loved Greg—that was what mattered. Still, I hurt inside, though I never said it aloud. I’d learnt that from Greg. He called every Christmas Eve and all the other special days and I loved hearing his voice, though it never made the hurt go away.
Seems we are galloping towards the end of another year. The big speed bump before we get to the festivities of New Year is, of course, Christmas.
I know that this time of year is not easy for many people. Sometimes it’s agony to spend time with family, when you might prefer to be elsewhere. For others, it’s missing a loved one. And for other people it’s just a crazy busy period, full of family and food and festive spirit, and nowhere near enough time to sit down and really enjoy it all.
For some, Christmas is a time of quiet reflection, even welcome solitude.
Some hearts may be full of regret for mistakes made during the past year, or longing for better times to come.
Some folks choose to spend Christmas Day with strangers – handing out Christmas hampers, for example, or helping serve a Christmas meal to people who would otherwise have a lonely day with no special food or decorations to mark it as a special day.
(Shout out here to the Wayside Chapel in Sydney, which every year hosts a street party, complete with Christmas dinner, for those doing it hard on Christmas Day. You can find more about the Wayside here)
However you might spend your Christmas this year, I wish you a beautiful one…and perhaps a book or three under the tree for that precious summer reading time.
I could not resist this one: I saw the explanation of the expression ’slapstick’ (as in ‘slapstick comedy’ or ‘slapstick humour’) on a British TV doco on Regency English towns. The Cheltenham Theatre in this era was known for its pantomime productions, in particular those featuring the character Harlequin who originated in Italian comedy theatre. He is recognisable in his diamond chequered costume and magic sword, which he used to create new scenes, conjure a particular atmosphere on stage, or perform tricks.
In the documentary, the theatre historian showed the way the ‘magic sword’ was often made from two long pieces of wood, joined together at one end but loose on the other. When slapped against a leg, the wood made a sharp slapping sound, loud enough to be heard by audience members, and was the signal for the lights to dim, or a new prop or action to appear – hence the ‘magic’, but also how we get the term ‘slapstick’.
I went to a screening of ‘Ladies in Black’ recently: it was a fundraising event for a local community group. Having seen the stage play musical last year, I thought the screen version a little lighter than the play, which I found had a few more pointed comments about the sexism and xenophobia of 1950’s Australia. However, for a light-hearted dip into our social history, the film does a terrific job. Great performances by Noni Hazelhurst, Shane Jacobson, Susie Porter and Julia Ormond, as well as the younger cast members. The real star, of course, is Sydney in the late 1950’s – the trams, the department stores, the fashions and hairstyles.
I haven’t read the book so I can’t comment on how well the movie adapts the original story by Madelaine St John.
If you have read the book, I’d love to know your opinion of the adaptation. Does the film do the original story justice?
As I work on re-drafting and editing my first draft, I am more conscious of the fear evoked by the thought of eventually putting my work out into the world. I know it’s common to writers, artists and others who work in creative pursuits. I suppose because when we write, compose music, or paint, we put a fair chunk of ourselves into whatever we are creating. It’s natural to be tentative about inviting a response from others.
In response to that fear, I’m working on making my story the best it can be. And when I’m satisfied I’ve taken it as far as I can on my own,that’s when I’ll invite others to read my work and give me feedback and suggestions. Yikes!
In the meantime, I can take baby steps in other ways. Submitting short stories to competitions, for example. Reading little pieces at a writer’s group meeting. Posting blogs. It’s all part of the process of putting my writing (and therefore myself) out there. Small steps. One at a time, each building on the ones before.
Where does the English word ‘hobby’ originate?
The etymonline website tells me that hobi or hobyn originated from Anglo-Latin in the 14th or 15th century.
It meant ‘horse’. No surprises there!
Our two more modern versions are from the early 19th century. Probably referring to a wooden or wickerwork toy figure, or a costume in a dance (such as Morris dances).
Today, ‘hobby’ can mean either:
1) a child’s hobbyhorse (stick with horse’s head, or a rocking horse). I can remember happy times galloping on my hobbyhorse when I was a very little girl. Then there’s the shortened version of this word resulting in ‘hobby’, meaning:
2) a spare time activity or past time, for pleasure and recreation, (From Macquarie Compact Dictionary 2017)
In my part of the world, today is the official first day of spring. It’s an amazing time of year: I can almost hear the plants grow and feel the earth, busy with its task of warming and nurturing all that new growth along.
When life gets busy it is so easy to slip into ‘not noticing’ mode. Each winter day feels like the last. I get tricked into thinking that summer will always be here. Those moments that herald a change of seasons, especially spring and autumn, are the little wake up calls I need to notice: ah yes, the earth is definitely turning, on its yearly trip around the sun.
So today, I’m noticing. My clematis are in bud; the daffodils are done for the year but the neighbour’s crabapple is dressed in pink and white splendour like a bridesmaid ready for the wedding. The bees are out in full hum and yes, those lovely little wrens and finches have returned to sip nectar from the flowers.
It’s all about the birds and the bees, folks.