The Search

“It was odd how well he knew me”, muttered Joe as he pulled the faded khaki cap low over his eyes and hurried from the dimly-lit bar, pausing momentarily at the door to check he wasn’t being followed. His heart rate slowed, and the fine veil of perspiration that covered his brow evaporated by the time he reached his vehicle.

Behind the bar of ‘The Five Star’ Lucinda was laughing as she poured a Scotch, sliding it along to the two black leather-clad motorcyclists leaning nonchalantly on the polished oak counter.

“Strange chap that?” Lucinda tossed the words into the smoky atmosphere and without waiting for a reply, turned her attention towards the couple who had just walked in.

Mike and Bobby tipped back their drinks. After riding several hundred miles across barren countryside, the steep hills offering only limited protection from the howling winds that picked up debris and hurtled it meters from where it had been originally tossed from car windows, they were pleased to stretch out and relax. It had been a long day and a decent meal was next on the agenda.

“Lucinda”, called Mike. “What’s the food like in this place?”

Lucinda took the menu across and recommended the steak, with mushrooms and eggs. Mike and Bobby ordered and wandered over to a table near the window. Outside, streetlights cast a muted golden glow onto the pavement and cars, their headlights flashing like torches, sped by. Mike brought a faded photo from his wallet and after wiping the table with his sleeve, carefully laid the crinkled black and white picture out in front of them pressing out the worst of the creases.

“Bobby, do you reckon we will ever find him?” Mike asked, in an anxious voice.

“Of course Mike”, replied Bobby. “It’s a dead cert! There must be someone who knows the old man, even if it has been twenty years since he left.”

“You know what I reckon?” said Mike. He continued, “I reckon it was that old boy with that funny cap. He had a vague familiarity.”

Bobby looked doubtful. That old guy shuffled along and looked scared of the world. Surely that couldn’t be him! But this was Mike’s mission, so he would play along.

“Ya reckon?” he asked. “I don’t think you’re right! That guy was old. He must be seventy if a day! The chap in this photo won’t be more than 50.”

“Yeah” replied Mike, but I am not sure. Looks can be deceiving. Hey Lucinda”, he roared, “Who was that old guy in here before? The one we were asking where Grove Place is?”

Lucinda thought long before she replied that the old guy was Joe Wilson who came into town weekly to buy groceries and a few farming supplies. “He’s not such a bad old chap”, she said, “just a bit of a recluse. And by the way, I don’t know of a farm called Grove Place around here. I only know of The Willow Grove. Are you sure you are in the right area?”

“Joe Wilson?” Mike Wilson whispered the name. “Bobby we have found him! We have found my Dad! No wonder I found him easy to talk with! He’s my Dad!

The Egg

Beyond the water eroded exterior lay another land, another world; a new beginning and as the yellow centre of the universe diminished the translucent white of the albumen disappeared.

For Doni time was running out. As rapid growth cramped his space, his source of nourishment became more precarious by the hour. Doni wondered if he should give serious consideration to moving his head quarters somewhere more spacious.

From the edge of his nose a spur was growing. Imaging a crowbar in every shape and form, Doni knew instinctively this new development symbolised his future. No one had informed him the correct usage of the ugly protrusion that appeared overnight. Living a short life in a tiny universe, which was the only home he knew, had been a period of dramatic development. A humble black dot that was his beginning changed hourly, daily, until he was barely recognisable from that simple single cell.

Frustration teemed with an acute feeling of claustrophobia filled Doni's mind and body. He was trapped. He had to escape before this universe crushed him into oblivion. Banging on walls achieved exactly nothing. Crying was not in his repertoire. Hunger drove him on as an overwhelming urge to leave this place pounded in his mind.

Lying on his back Doni lurched his head upwards ... outwards. The rocky exterior, worn smooth by aeons of ocean flow of the ebbing and surging tide, started to crack. With energy hitherto unknown, Doni directed a massive onslaught at the wall. He pulled the spur back. He lunged it outward. Over and over he repeated the dance.

Music reverberated through his head. One, two, three, lunge; one, two, three, strike; one, two, three rest; one two three lunge... A jagged crack opened up. Doni, his strength charged with ambition, powered all his effort into this, the Escape for Life. Lunge, strike, rest. Lunge, strike, rest.

A trickle of salt water dribbled into the universe that had been Doni’s home for a lifetime. White foam curled around his feet. Doni stretched out ... his legs broke free... the case split open leaving him exposed to another world.
Beyond lay the pounding surf. All around the warmth of the golden sand drifted its welcome; crabs and sand hoppers hurried to investigate. Doni had arrived in another world. There was no hard shell to protect him, no yellow inner glow to nourish him; instead he had Freedom.

My Time in Cue ~ Ends

Teasing

Horses sweat, plants transpire, and people perspire. Those words of wisdom were reiterated by the adults of my childhood … parents and teachers intent on instilling the correct usage of the English language into my young brain. My gray matter absorbed the information enabling me to correctly answer a Biology question at exam time. One rebellious corner of my mind allows me to still blithely comment, "I am sweating!"

Today that phrase is apt. Minute droplets of perspiration cling to my arms. Had I looked at them under a microscope I may think I am looking at rain clinging to a recently cleaned window. The droplets converge as new-born streams joining with other streams to trickle down to become a river that plunges, as a waterfall, down my forehead, spreading across the platform of my face, narrowing its passage over my chin, and before I have time to grab tissues, or a towel, it wends its way into the gorge beneath my shirt. Wiping up the perspiration is futile. As quickly as I mop, another rivulet forms.

Without warning a wind whistles from nowhere swirling mini dust storms before subsiding as quickly as it began. The air is cooler; an eerie calmness prevails.

The sky, which earlier in the day was wall-to-wall, or rather horizon-to-horizon blue carpet now sports a covering of white fluffy mats … sheepskins in the sky. Beyond the caravan park, its ablution block once upon a time the local jail, red dust rises to blur the image of sky, only to race towards the main highway north like a mist rolling in from the ocean. It sweeps down the highway driven by a lone gust of wind that rattles the loose sheet of roofing iron outside my balcony door. Again the wind raises its voice … shaking trees, the flags flying from their respective poles dancing the tango with vigour, as yet another cloud of dust swirls, white this time from the abandoned gold diggings on the outskirts of town.

Cars creep cautiously along the ribbon of highway, their lights on dim to make their presence known to other motorists.

As waves crash on distant shores rhythmically under the baton of a hidden conductor, so the wind rises and falls, its chorus repetitious, its verses as yet undefined. An empty Coke can rattles and rolls its lonely way along the street. The crows that spent half the morning perched on a high vantage point waiting for a suitable moment to swoop and raid the dogs' dishes, cluster in small groups in the shelter of the band rotunda …their flying time under suspension for the afternoon.

Later … hours later … the setting sun illuminates the edges of the cloud that have diminished leaving a larger carpet of blue tinged with gold as the sun sinks to the west. In the distance a veil of rain drifts downwards, but it appears to evaporate before reaching ground level, while north behind the location of the mini dust storm, a rainbow adds a glorious splash of colour. Once again the rain has snubbed us … maybe during the cool night hours it will come calling as a welcome guest.

But hark! Darkness cocoons the town in a blanket until a display of forked lightning pierces the now black ceiling lighting the sky like a New Year's fireworks celebration. Thunder rumbles breaking the silence. Slowly the trees bend to a gentle breeze that increases before easing completely. Rain falls its drop echoing on the tin roof. Five minutes later the rain is over.

Tomorrow?

My Time is Cue is over.

My Time in Cue ~ Part 33

Summer Heat

It's hot! The thermometer on the outside of my balcony door read 43 degrees in mid-afternoon. Now, a couple of hours later, it has dropped … by 2 degrees.

In contrast to this time last year I feel it is at least seven degrees warmer, though this does not necessarily qualify as being caused by global warming. By all accounts these early hot temperatures point towards a cyclone season, and indeed over east, off the north-eastern coast cyclone Guba is building in force. It will not affect us here in the west.

It wasn't until recent years we heard about the El Nino and La Nina effect, but it is these opposing weather symptoms that create our varying weather patterns. The come and go.

Our air-conditioning unit in the kitchen is awaiting a piece of copper pipe … it arrived in the post this morning, but our handy men have gone north … for the day. Our air conditioning is on hold. In the meantime our evening cook is hot and bothered, and with just cause. With any luck it will be in full working order tomorrow!

I sat outside drying my hair and watched the fluffy white clouds moving around the sky like a dancer waltzing around the dance floor for the final dance. The slithered around the blue yonder, some turned gray and on the far outskirts of town I could see the rain falling. If this were a city that rain would still be in the far outskirts.

In my room the air con is rattling as it circulates cool air. It is pleasant and it is where I cheerfully spend my spare time. The balcony loses it attraction after quarter of an hour.

Earlier I headed to the bathroom to shower and wash my hair. The tile floor was warm to walk on and there was no need to run hot water as the cold tap ran warm. This phenomenon occurred last year … after Christmas. This year is definitely hotter, and while I am aware cyclones cause damage to homes and the environment, I secretly hope that one will affect us … we are far enough inland not to be bothered by the extremes. I have been informed should a cyclone hit the coastal area we can expect rain and lots of it. The highways are, infrequently, rendered impassable as surface water drains away slowly. Perhaps the lake will fill? Perhaps the fish that live in the lake mud, awaiting water in which to swim, will hatch and we will see fishing as a pastime. Perhaps … perhaps.

It all depends on Mother Nature, and she is unpredictable. We cannot foretell exactly which way she will turn. It is but a waiting game.

My Time in Cue ~ Part 32

Flutter By

Two nights ago a moth fluttered around my light. It was persistent in its attempt to become amorous with the light, flying nearer and nearer, then in an almost flirtatious manner alighted on the opposite wall as if to say, "Light, chase me!" The light didn't reply. Again and again the moth crept nearer only to retreat. I became a tad annoyed. I was trying to read a book and a moth fluttering around my hair was a hindrance to becoming absorbed in the story line. Switching off the light I scrambled out of bed and opened the door in the hope that the moth would take a hint and vacate my space. That moth was dumb. He flew around and around the darkened space. More drastic action was required! I shut the door, firmly, switched the light back on, found a magazine that I rolled up and swished it suddenly onto the moth capturing it within the magazine pages, and with a quick flick I deposited it outside … back to my book.

The following night I had a visit from it's twin! As large as a 20cent piece, dark murky grayish brown, with white markings on its wings, as similar as two peas in a pod to the intruder of the previous night, this moth performed an aerial swoop of my room as if he was looking for his brother. This time I wasted not a moment, but grabbed my shower cap from behind the door, deftly encompassed the night flier, before tipping it out into the corridor. Those little incidents gave me cause to wonder why is it that moths, creatures of the night, and butterflies, their first cousins who prefer sunlight, evoke different reactions. We gaze in wonderment at the beautiful markings and brilliant hues of a butterfly, yet show little interest in the moth.

My Time in Cue ~ Part 31

Mosquitoes

Over the past two or three weeks the mosquitoes have hatched and in the evening stillness their buzzing advertises their presence, their unwelcome presence, in my room. I swipe my hand in the direction of the invading unwelcome bloodsucker. I invariably miss and two seconds later a bite on my arm announce that they have struck. If it finished there all might be well … but no … I swell up and itch and the unsightly red blotch does nothing to my appearance.

Last weekend they struck in the dead of night. In the morning my eye was swollen, and upon glancing in the mirror thought I had been in a war. Red blotches in the corner of my eye, another on my cheek, and all around was unsightly swelling. I peered in the early morning light and tried not to touch. In the dining room I imagined everyone was staring and wondering if I would come up with the old excuse as to the swelling, "Oh, I just walked into a door". Sad fact is I hadn't. I pretended nothing was wrong … that way I needed make no excuses or offer any reason.

We had a few nights of cooler weather and winds sprung up rattling the door and threatening to lift the roofing iron on the balcony roof. The clanging noise may have helped keep the mosquitoes at bay, or more likely, it was too cold and windy. My face cleared up … they took three days to disappear and the vague itching persisted another day. I almost forgot about mosquitoes.

Until … last night! The army invaded again, stealthily this time. They did not make the buzzing sound or if they did I was sound asleep. I woke this morning and there on my arm were the telltale red blotches accompanied by that old familiar itch. Tonight I will once again spray my door surrounds with fly spray, deadly to insect fly spray!

This hotel is almost a century old and it has gaps at the bottom of the door … gaps that could let in ants if I kept food lying around. I am wise; I use a refrigerator. In cold windy winters evenings the gaps let in cold air, and in the height of summer dry hot air from the desert drifts in making the air conditioner work twice as hard. I have sprayed once before and if it wasn't the appearance of colder nights that made the mosquitoes hibernate, then it worked.

Cue does have an army to fight the onslaught of the mosquito in the shape of a small truck that drives around the streets on dusk spraying in its wake a cloud of kerosene impregnated smoke that creeps into any mosquito breeding homes, and which is supposed to obliterate these pesky pests.

The first time I heard this 'exterminator truck' I thought a small single-winged airplane was circling the town in an effort to find a suitable landing place. We do have an airport on the outskirts, but a vivid imagination working over time envisioned a serious medical emergency necessitating an immediate touchdown as near to the scene as possible. I remember hurrying to the window and in the twilight I thought there was a fire, so dense was the smoke. I peered and noticed the smoke moved. There were no flames … there was no fire! Bushfires are commonplace in Australia, and thankfully I have never seen one, nor do I ever want to. Smoke billowing from behind a small white truck was a novelty, and once the purpose was explained I relaxed. That truck toured the town weekly last mosquito season. I hope it does it job a little better this season! I do not like the raised red blotches and the itching that is part and parcel of a mosquito bite.

Of course I could spray my bare skin with a spray that keeps insects away. Have you ever smelt that spray? It stinks! People who spray their bare skin with that particular insect repellent smell not nice. I think I will keep faith with the spray truck and in a positive frame of mind will knows that the mosquito problem will be reduced, or completely stopped within a week or two.

My Time in Cue ~ Part 30

Citrus Tang

It’s been a citrus couple of days. For a moment imagine me wandering through a citrus grove. [Now isn't grove a wonderful word … so close to grope, which is not exactly a wonderful word or its connotations are not wonderful, and glove, which conjures up a picture of a cold wintry day, one's breath spilling from mouth and nose like steam from a kettle, except steam is hot, and the breath instantly turns cold.] I have never wandered in a citrus grove. I have leaned over a boundary fence and accidentally knocked some luscious ripe lemons onto my side and thus, with a clear conscience turning away from the possibility of stolen fruit, I have picked them up for culinary purposes. I have seen orange trees growing in a neighbourhood, but I have never wandered in a citrus grove.

Some time ago several kilograms of limes were ordered. We do not know why as there is really little one can make from several kilograms of limes. They sat in a cardboard box high in the cool room. The catering had long been completed and not one lime was used. Since then the person who ordered those limes has departed from his employment at this establishment.

We found the limes one day. I picked one up and examined it, having only ever seen pictures of limes. They varied in colour from a deep dark lime green to a lime green such as was the fashion colour many moons ago [lime green, shocking pink, and burnt orange … one day those colours will return … perhaps under another name, but basically still the same colours].

When I discovered Roses Lime Marmalade I thought it the most wonderful marmalade ever made. Only 'Roses' … no other brand came a close second. As winter cut cold and harsh into the bones the light at the end of the tunnel appeared in the shape of Roses Lime Marmalade. Even the jars were distinctive! I saved those jars and used them for storing coffee and other stores. A row of Roses Lime jars with a kaleidoscope of ingredients transformed what would have been a mundane kitchen shelf into something almost reaching exceptional. [Remember that jars can, of their own free will, fall from shelves and break … these were at least cheap and easily replaced!]

The other day we discovered, or remembered, the limes again. We looked. A discussion took place. How to use them up before they passed their use-by date, made obvious by brown marks appearing on the surface. Two were added to the evening meal, unnoticed by diners, while the rest lay less than resplendent in their cardboard box high on the coolroom shelf. Yesterday another discussion occurred. It was decided … make lime marmalade. Instantly the taste of Roses Lime Marmalade gripped my taste buds. I volunteered to make the marmalade. Truth be told, if I didn't no one else would!

After cooking breakfast I settled in the dining room with the cardboard box of limes, some with telltale brown markings on the skin that indicated time was of the essence if we were to salvage these limes. I set the box on my right-hand side, first rolling back the tablecloth.

After all if I cut up limes, washing tablecloths would fall down the list of needs-to-be-done. Morning TV blared in the corner … weather and news, gossip from Hollywood, advertising, a little chat amongst the announcers, weather and news, gossip etc.

To my left I placed a small plate … for the rubbishy parts … those little brown marks. Directly in front I set down a plastic cutting board judicially placed on a larger tray, in case of excessive juice. In my hand, dangerously, I held a sharp black-handled steak knife. For decades I have found steak knives to be the best blades for cutting all types of materials … fruit, plastic binding on cardboard cartons, carrots and cauliflower, and for peeling cooked potatoes for a salad, and slicing unsavoury pieces from food. Not necessarily unsavoury because of age, more likely unsavoury because they were items I did not like.

I cut and sliced, sliced and cut. Slivers of lime covered the board. I tipped them into a large bowl. Thank goodness for weather and news, gossip from Hollywood, advertising, and a little chat amongst the announcers! My sanity may have otherwise been seriously challenged. Almost two kilograms of limes I cut and sliced. My arm ached and my shoulder was a smidgen from contracting RSI. There were two limes left in the box. I discarded them … already the brown colouration of the skin made them unsavoury in appearance. Two tossed out would not unbalance the budget. I measured water and poured it over the cut and finely sliced limes, and topped the whole shebang with a clean tea towel, clamping that in place with a tray before placing it in the corner of the storeroom. [Soak overnight the recipe stated.]

This morning I fed the hungry, and with a great burst of early morning enthusiasm tipped the cut and finely sliced limes, along with the covering water, into a large pot, placed them on the stove and lit the gas. Boil for one hour or until skins are soft, read the recipe. I boiled and a wonderful citrus aroma filled the kitchen and drifted out to the dining room. The hour passed quickly. I tested the skins and they were soft. Now it was time to measure the sugar into the pot, stir until the mix came to the boil, and wait until it jelled. In twenty minutes the lime marmalade was ready for bottling.

Sadly I had no Roses Lime Marmalade jars available. We did have some large, very large, glass jars, with lids, that had once held gherkins. I had saved these for months in the sure and certain knowledge that one-day they would come in handy. Two were already in daily use … as containers for the ice cream mix for the soft-serve ice cream. I warmed the jars, waited a short time for the marmalade to cool, and proudly poured the lime marmalade into the jars. They are now stored on a high shelf in the cool-room … except for a liberal serving ladled into a container for breakfast toast.

To while away the cooking time I imagined a walk through a citrus grove. Blue skies, the glowing orange, lemon and lime green of oranges, lemons and limes, incandescent in their bed of shimmering deep green leaves and emitting an aroma designed to tempt the senses … every time we spread the lime marmalade onto our morning toast a little journey into a citrus grove will be ours … if we so wish.