Susan Pryke Writing and Communiciation Management

Wagonga Inlet

Fri, 15 Oct 2010 02:39:00 +0000

Wagonga Inlet stops me dead in my tracks each time I see it. Such an impossible, improbable shade of aquamarine. Or is it turquoise?

I can never find the right words. When I look down on it from the hills, and see the boats on their moorings, I want to paint — I want to break open a child’s box of watercolours and scrub my brush around.

But even then I couldn’t capture the clarity of the water. When I stand on the bridge and look down, I can see straight to the bottom, where scraps of weed tumble along. Languid. Lazy.

And I have seen a seal drifting along on his side, raising a flipper now and again like a cheery wave. I have seen the stingrays gliding like giant underwater butterflies, dipping and rising in the shallows near the fish-cleaning tables.

I have rested on the sand at Bar Beach and watched the inlet lift and relax, lift and relax — breathing like a bear in hibernation.

On days when the wind blows, the inlet is rough with white caps. There is no comfort in the steel grey waves that splash over the gunwales of the little tin boats, and drive the sightseers home.

And I have seen the inlet turn cobalt blue, as if Mother Nature had decided to mix up a batch of Aeroplane jelly and was having trouble getting it to set. Oh, these tricks of sun and sand that make the water twinkle and glint!

Indescribable beauty.

In the Suitcase

Fri, 15 Oct 2010 02:28:00 +0000

From a lifetime of memorabilia, I have selected this smooth, round stone with the word HOPE engraved on it. It joins the wicker chicken and the Christmas stocking in my suitcase: three survivors of the downsizing.

You see, the rules for parcel post have changed since the 1980s when I flitted back and forth between Canada and Australia like a gypsy. Back then, an entire year’s worth of souvenir-shopping could be sent by freighter for just $100. Mail carriers did not have rules about size and weight of parcels.

And now, when I am moving from one country to the other, Canada Post will not accept anything that is longer than an umbrella or bulkier than a ski boot. I can ship my books and photos. That’s it. The rest – an entire lifetime of things – must be condensed into two suitcases.

In the end I take little things: the paintings my friend sent as Christmas cards, a tiny, star-shaped prism that captures rainbows, the carnations that I carried on our wedding day.

As for the wicker chicken, it has been with us since Dave and I began. Like us, it has made this journey before. And so it shall sit again on a bench in Australia, a quirky symbol of promise, aspiration, love.

The Christmas stocking? An anomaly; a relic from childhood; thrown out in the first wave of virtuous cleansing. But at the last moment its red flannel cheeriness caught my heart and I snatched it back from the bin. It takes up very little room, after all.

And finally, this smooth, round stone. A silly little table favour received at a banquet. But its message sustained me during those long months when Dave and I were apart, me on one side of the world and he on the other.

I may need a talisman like this again some day.

The Rain

Fri, 15 Oct 2010 02:25:00 +0000

The branch broke before the rain. It lay wounded on the pavement: a premonition of the pummelling to come. Then the rain came down like Niagara, the water bursting from the gutters and drainpipes.

We, in our bed, lay restless while the drumming continued, feeling the solid house become fragile until finally we got up to discover ourselves in one piece and the freshly laid topsoil washed to the bottom of the garden. Then the long-day-of-being-inside: prisoners of the ceaseless rain, its dampness in the pores of our clothes.

In the afternoon a reprieve: a drive to view the impact of the big wet, the alien phenomenon, the introduction to rain with a Capital R in my new country. The creek to Nangudga Lake is alive and gushing. The lake has risen, like a phoenix. The dams brim with turbid water. The relief is palpable, curving up the corners of mouths . Good news for the cattle.

The swollen inlet is muddy with runoff.

Two days later gum nuts and twigs still wash upon the shore but the water is clearing. Cobalt blue, like my Muskoka lakes. A curiosity. Back on land, green shoots push from the branches, growing improbable centimetres each day. A failing hibiscus decides to live. As a gift, its crimson flower trumpets a new day.

Lizzie

Sun, 15 Aug 2010 02:31:00 +0000

Lizzie, in flamingo pink

And gold bracelets,

Brings her Lulu Lemon bag

Of muffins for us

And feeds us all

With happy smiles and silliness

Her feather duster flicks

The committee business away

And we are not allowed

To talk politics

We shop for bric-a-brac

And Christmas bling

And come home to her big house

With wagging dogs

And she gives us lunch

And wine

Red brick house

Fri, 23 Jul 2010 01:06:00 +0000

Red brick house

on a leafy avenue

Old town.

Built when parlours were not family rooms

when babies had nurseries

and maids lived in attic rooms

afternoon tea served on

verandas

Boys with hoops and sticks

Girls with ringlets

porcelain dolls

Grandma in her rocker

The wicker pram

Father, waistcoated with fob watch,

A publisher

Entertains the town’s doctors and lawyers

Under chestnut trees

Mother pump,

A Gibson Girl hairdo

One tendril escaping

She raises her hand

to whisk it from her eyes

the moment caught in the

retina of the back wall

Another fragment

A memory

Pressed between bricks

Unseen, unimagined

by boys playing Nintendo

thumbs drumming like rain

on the gamepad.

Skier

Thu, 15 Jul 2010 23:27:00 +0000

As the wind is singing and the trees creak like galleons,

As the seaweed branches toss in the sky

Blue, I slip through the frost-tipped air, waxing the surface of

Snow with my silver feet

Here, with the wind bending the bark, I race the tumbling leaves

Along the white skin of the earth

Its belly stretched

The sizzle of snow, thin as a whisper,

Frozen and rattling across the barren land

Now, as the day is crystal, the air as cold as a drink

I lick across the snow, my feet whistling in their boots

Laces iced with the frosty tears

Of blue jays, high on the thrones of the wind

Here, in the skittering snow, the underside of the seasons,

I lean forward, loving this sterile land

That creaks and groans, awaiting birth

It sends shoots from the white skin of winter,

To wave in the wheat-high trees

Now, I ride the swell of the land, like a

Thin weed, tossed on the foaming sea

This is the stop and start, the standing-still

Of life,

I gaze at the crumpled bark
On a slim maple bow
Follow the scuttling of dry ash
Leaves, over snow

Storm-stayed in Britt

Thu, 15 Jul 2010 23:15:00 +0000

We arrived at Britt with the wind on our coattails, escaping the roiling waves of Georgian Bay with just minutes to spare before the winds hit. We had never ventured up the Magnetawan River before, but the Ports Guide said the village had fuel, supplies and transient dockage.

To grubby, wind-blown sailors, who’d been on the water for five days, a night at a dock was bliss. Safely landed, we headed for the store and bought all the things we wished we had, when we were in places we couldn’t buy them. Chocolate bars. Potato chips. National newspapers.

And then a hot shower. It was coin-operated and communal, but sheer heaven nonetheless.

Afterwards we finger-pressed our T-shirts, extracted shoes from the bottom of a starboard locker, and presented ourselves at the restaurant. It was a mom-and-pop place, with fish and chips, and hot chicken sandwiches. We ordered salad and wine and ate fresh pickerel while the wind grated the surface of the Magnetawan into shreds.

The wind blew for three days, pushing our catamaran away from the dock like a bully. The lines creaked. The boat slewed back and forth like a kite on a tether. Inside, we listened to the waves beat a mad tattoo against the hull.

Surprisingly the sun shone as strong as the winds blew. Our faces and hands turned as brown as leather as we explored the headlands and village streets. Behind the caravan park, the Roman Catholic cemetery had more plots than the village had houses. The weather-worn headstones bore mainly French names: St. Amant, Boucher, Gervais, Villancourt. These were the pioneers who worked at the lumber mills, the Canadian Pacific Railway coal docks, and the commercial fishing boats.

Beside the graves, stood vases with faded silk flowers, along with portable solar lights — the kind you would place along the footpath to your house. Perhaps in Britt it was important to keep a light on for the souls of the dead.

Along the gravel roads, ATVS kicked up plumes of dust. Poison ivy climbed out of the ditches. Ramshackle fishing cottages rubbed shoulders with timber-and-glass homes in a town without government. There was no municipal council to scrutinise construction. Britt was a ward of the province, a rare outpost called an unorganised township.

It wore the mantle of a frontier town, rough at the edges, but sporting fresh new infrastructure as if it were an afterthought: a medivac helipad, street lights. At the government wharf, the men who worked at the Gervais lighthouse came and went into the Bay in high-speed pontoon boats.

Each morning we listened to the marine weather, knowing we still had a long way to travel to make it back to our home port. We could always phone and say we could not make it. We remembered how Paul Dodington had been storm-stayed on the Mink Islands for four days, with only potatoes to eat in the end. We counted ourselves lucky. At least, we had the comforts of the mainland and a plastic credit card.

On the fourth day the forecast looked encouraging. Winds would calm by evening. We could chance an overnight anchorage at Pointe Au Baril, a day’s travel south.

To be safe , though, we decided not to venture far out into the Bay but to take the easy route: a small craft channel that hugged the shore. As we left the calm of the Magnetawan River, the Bay met us with full force, still windier than we’d hoped. Waves crashed into the twin bows. I steadied my mind for the change in course, to the lee of the lighthouse, into the hoped-for shelter of the inshore channel.

It was not to be.

About a quarter of the way along the route, we realised the placements of the buoys did not match the chart data. Far from being a calm route, it was the route from hell. Better to have been on the open water, with wind and waves, than close to shore with wind and waves and rocks! Plus no confidence in the chart we were following.

But there was no turning back. Dave manned the helm. I, in rain gear, leaned into the biting spray and watched for rocks. They loomed out of the depth like monsters. I struggled to find waypoints. Red Rock, Laird Rock, Mercier Rock. Where were they?

Then all of a sudden Mercier Rock was on our starboard side, its rocks rising to within a few feet of our centreboard. I blessed the shallow draft of our catamaran and prayed that we would make it through this minefield to the headland of Alexander Passage.

And suddenly it was there, and we slipped behind the point, the sun hot on soaked skin, the shorelines benign and comforting, the route as twisty as a paper clip, but marked with buoys that read true.

We inched our way in the turquoise waters to Hangdog Channel, deked left and lined ourselves up with the guiding lights of Pointe au Baril lighthouse. Familiar territory at last.

We anchored at Nadeau Island, our bow tied to the pine tree on shore.

Later we discovered that Georgian Bay had receded so much in the last decade of above-average temperatures that the small craft route from Britt to Pointe au Baril had been changed and a new chart produced.

We had the old one. Small comfort after the fact.

In subsequent years we visited Britt often. We enjoyed the pickerel at St. Amant’s restaurant, revelled in the coin-operated showers. But we never took the easy route back, no matter how strong the wind blew.

Dad's lessons on maple trees

Mon, 28 Jun 2010 04:27:00 +0000

If I could claw back time

I would ask for one more hour

To be there

To hold your big hands

To let my face be a calm pool

To steady you when the startling bolt

came crashing, crushing,

down

I would not tell you I loved you

You knew

I would say

You made a difference, Dad

You were not always right, or honest

And sometimes gruff

And sometimes proud

But you could skate

with long strides across black ice,

and pull a child in a sled

for a picnic in the snow

You, with your bear hugs and barrel chest

your mischievous talk

and yarn spinning

I would tell you I remember best

the tree project we did

for my Grade 7 science class

The samples of different wood, cut from our bush

Oak, basswood, poplar, pine

I would tell you I remember still

the lesson you taught me

about how to distinguish a maple tree in winter

by the way its branches are always in pairs

on opposite sides of the stem

And how the ironwood’s sinewy bark

was as strong as leather

At your grave on the hill

the deer approaches

I look carefully

And see your eyes

Susan Pryke

Talking Strine or "I wouldn't be dead for quids"

Tue, 04 May 2010 01:59:00 +0000

Pity the poor Canadian who has landed in Australia expecting everyone to speak the same English as she does. That’s like expecting the residents of Newfoundland and Labrador to speak the same English as Ontarians. But at least in Canada we are used to the Newfie expressions and have a chance of catching on.

Here, there is little hope of figuring it out on your own.

This past weekend my friend told me the story of an Australian author who autographed a book "to Emma Chisit," then discovered that was not the person's name. She was asking: "How much is it?"

Whether the Emma Chisit incident is true or not, it became the genesis of the book “Let’s Talk Strine” by Prof. Afferbeck Lauder (Alphabetical Order), a pseudonym of Alastair Ardock Morrison, who invented the term “Strine” (Australian).

Using phonetic interpretation of the Australian dialect, he lampooned the Aussies’ penchant for rolling one word into another and placing the stress on syllables in different ways than we Canadians do.

And so you get:

Spewffle climber treely. (It’s a beautiful climate, really.)
Egg Nisher (Air conditioner)
Mare Chick (Magic)
Terror Souse (Terrace House)
Snow ewe smite. (It’s no use, Mate.)
Laughly (lovely)
Butter dinsim carmairt. (But I didn’t see him come out.)

It’s required reading for any Canadian who intends visiting Australia.

I have my own list of words to mispronounce (as far as I am concerned) to avoid drawing attention to myself:

Garage, (gar –ah-j) is gair-ah-j.
Tomato, (toe-mate-toe) is toe-mat-toe.
Our sounds more like air.
Aluminum is not only prounounced differently, it is spelled differently: aluminium with an “i” before the last syllable. It is pronounced al-you-min-ee-um.
.

Then there are a host of new names to learn:

Accident – Prang
Barbecue – Barbie
Bathing Suit – Swimmers, Cossie
Beer (in cans) – Tinnies
Bicycle – Push-bike
Breakfast – Brekkie
Candies – Lollies
Cantaloupe – Rock Mellon
Chard – Silver Beet
Chicken – Chook
Clobber – Clothes
Cooler –Eskie
Cookie – Bikkie
Complain – Whinge
Dinner - Tea
Fight – Blue
Green Pepper – Capsicum
Kangaroo – Boomer
Ketchup – Sauce
Man – Bloke
McDonald’s – Maccas
Mosquito – Mozzie
Parents – Oldies
Pharmacy – Chemist
Playhouse – Cubby House
Sheep – Jumbuck
Shorts – Stubbies
Shrimp – Prawn
Sod – Turf
Soldier – Digger
Sweater –Jumper
Towels, sheets –Manchester
Trousers –Daks
Truck – Ute, Lorrie
Trunk – Boot
Windshield – Windscreen
White lie – Furphy
Woman – Sheila

Aussies also shorten any word they can. Once they shorten the word, they often add a “ie” or an “o”.

The Returned Services League (RSL) becomes The Servo. The Bowling Club is The Bowlo. A work break is a Smoko. The Bottle Shop is the Bottle-o. Afternoon is Arvo.

Ambulance Drivers, bricklayers, tradesmen and journalists, become ambos, brickies, tradies and journos.

Nothing is sacred. Christmas is Chrissie.

And finally, I have a new list of phrases to understand. Here are some of my favourites:

Back of Burke: a long way away
Fair dinkum: true
Good on ya: well done
Mad as a cut snake: very angry
Kangaroos loose in the top paddock: intellectually inadequate.
Don’t come the raw prawn with me: Don’t try to trick me.
It’s gone walkabout: It’s lost.
She’ll be right: It will be OK.
Bob’s your uncle: It will be alright.
Flat out like a lizard drinking: very fast
Wouldn’t be dead for quids: I am very happy and well.

G’day.

Lorikeets

Thu, 22 Apr 2010 23:30:00 +0000

A flock of lorikeets have arrived in the trees outside my window. They dive to the bottlebrush blooms like kids to a freshly cut watermelon. Never still, they tumble over the flowers, their tangerine cheeks as bright as pom poms.

They whistle and squeak with such intensity that the branches vibrate. Then suddenly, inexplicably, they fly off.

In their absence the silence seems more silent. Like a street after the parade has gone.