The crab apple is singing its bee song. The buzz created by thousands of bees beating their wings in a steady rhythm draws me from my garden shed this fine Benalla spring day.

I marvel at the industry of these pollination warriors and reflect on the work needed to produce the honey we value.  Today in my yard it was the crab apple but on another day, it could be the rosemary or borage that provided the pollen and nectar for the scout bee. On her return to the hive, she had passed on the information as to the new nectar source by an intricate dance routine. Since bees cannot talk she had used the language of vibration, the dance routine and number of vibrations telling the other bees the exact distance and direction to the crab apple blossoms. Talk about good vibrations!

To the steady drone of the bees I weed the veggie patch, turn over the compost, check the seedlings and pots and water the garden. I am reminded of a song from my childhood and neighbours might have heard an offkey rendition of When the bees in the blossom trees busily hum and the birds are all singing then springtime has come with assorted Tra La Las.

The wind waltzes into my garden and choreographs some amazing dance routines.

The posture perfect yellow tulips flutter together just like a corps de ballet ready to take off across the stage. I think of Swan Lake. On the trellis, the sweet peas, the show girls of my garden, are dressed for success in their purple and magenta finery and sweet, sweet, perfume. The Manchurian Pear blossoms float on the wind like bridal confetti and land on the lawn and washing.

Somewhere nearby a neighbour’s wind chime provides a musical accompaniment and I think of weddings and celebration.

The birds are chirping, probably telling the rest of the flock to come and help themselves to the mulch they have chosen to remove from my veggie garden. I might have sung, When the daffodils dance in the sun and the rain, then you know that the springtime is coming again. I don’t dance but there is a happy, vibrant spring in my step.

My yard is filled with singing and dancing.

The wind on the river walk sings a different song, an older song that lingers in the tops of the rustling river reds. The birds are more diverse in their songs. They sing of food and territory, mating and belonging. Their spread- wing mating dances are a sight to behold.

I watch for the ripple dance that tells of the presence of a platypus and am elated when I see one.

When a kookaburra laughs my day is made.

A day of song, a day of dance.

Thank you Benalla.
 
Pat Treleaven
October 2017


Thank you, Pat, for letting us post this beautifully written story which won the Open section in the 2017 Benalla Festival Writing Competition in which the topic was 'Good Vibrations'.  

I thought I heard a growl
A throaty growl
A catch you unawares growl
And I was surprised
I'd never heard my teddy growl before.
I took him in my arms
And cuddled him
As I had seen Mother do with baby Lucy.
I rocked him back and forth.
'What's the matter, Mr Bear?"
'I heard a fighter 
In this room. 
The bombs will come.
We need to shelter under the table.'
I looked around my room.
The blackouts blocked the light
But I could just see
Dad's photo
Squadron 609
My model plane
My gas mask
But no fighter.
Still, I listened and listened.
Then I heard it
The whirring drone that would soon bombard
I laughed.
'A mosquito Mr Bear.
It's a mosquito and Mother has a swatter.
She'll take him down in the morning.'
I held him tighter
And tickled him under the chin
As Father had done with me.
'It'll be all over by Christmas, my boy'
He'd said.'
'It'll be all over by Christmas, Mr Bear.'
We snuggled down under the blankets
Hoping it was true.


Pat Treleaven
April 2017

I once shared a house with a ghost.

Not that I saw him all that often. After a long day and six “I deserve it” Glenmorangies, he would materialize. We would sit. We’d chew the fat about our day and work at solving all the world’s problems until my head would sink slowly down on to the food splattered table.

“You Lumpies,” he would say. He thought we humans were too over endowed with blood and bones and flesh. All those lumps and bumps. Bits that fall down, fall apart and fall off.

This was funny coming from someone you could see right through.

I remember one night I asked him, ‘Where do you ghosts normally live?’

‘In ghost towns,’ he laughed. ‘Nothing better – open spaces, doors falling off their hinges, tumbleweeds carousing down the main street. Best of all – no Lumpies!

Then he added, ‘Of course, the better class of ghost might prefer a castle or pre loved manor house. Highly desirable don’t you know. Opera Houses are the crème de la crème but… realistically, many ghosts live in houses just like yours.’

I nodded with some understanding.

‘Then again, some ghosts prefer a tree change. You’ve heard of ghost gums haven’t you?

We both fell about laughing. Somehow this was the funniest thing we’d heard all day.

On another night we discussed the problems of disenfranchised youth. ‘Do you have any problems with young ghosts?’

‘Don’t get me started. Festooned around the grave yards they are, lip studs and nose rings, dragging chains and scaring the bejesus out of any Lumpies who want to take a short cut through a cemetery at night. All that wailing and wooing.

‘Tell me about Hallowe’en,’ I once said.

And tell me he did. Such festivity, family fun and fellowship, much like our Christmas. Apparently the best fun comes from watching Lumpies as they “do” Hallowe’en. With their shonky costumes, over- photographed foods and attempts at trick or treating.

 I thought of my childhood and Mum’s white bed sheets making us into ghosts.

All in all, I found him good company. He never drank my whisky; he could be relied upon to keep up his end of the conversation and most of all he laughed at my sick jokes.

I found that as I progressed through the AA program I saw him less and less.

Finally, the time came when I realized that I no longer saw him at all. I was disappointed.

Occasionally when I walked into the bathroom I would see a sudden misting on the mirror – a misting that came and went as suddenly as I had seen it.

I’d wipe my hand across the mirror in a wave motion.

‘Hi there, Ghost Guy,’ I would say. And then…‘Looks like you’ve seen a ghost!’

I’d laugh uproariously.

Sometimes, I swear to God, sometimes, in the distance I would hear a faint ghostly chuckle
​.
Missing you already, Ghost Guy.
 
 

​I had my first cup of tea at eight years of age.

Mum would pour the tea, (LAN CHOO – one for each person and one for the pot), light up the Turf cigarette, add the required white sugar and we’d talk.

‘What am I getting for my birthday/Christmas/Easter? Why didn’t I get a box of Derwents Mum? How come Billy got 8 Easter eggs?

Whatever the answer, the message would always be, ‘The best is yet to come.’ And that would satisfy me.

Mum gave up cigarettes by the time I started secondary school but the tea was still “white and one” and poured with love. ‘Why is it taking so long to get to the holidays? When can I go on the train by myself?’ The answer would be along the lines of “Everything comes to those who wait,” but the underlying message would always be, ‘The best is yet to come.’

College was a new experience. Mum was moving with the times too. Tea bags! The tea pot now lived under the sink and the tea canister had been banished to the pantry. Cups of tea, hands around the cup, became the conduit for in depth discussions about boyfriends, (lack of), potential husbands, (unlikely without a boyfriend), and marriage. I wanted to believe, ‘The best is yet to come.’ It did.

With my marriage I saw less of Mum, calling in as I did for “a quick cuppa” in between work and social engagements. Now Mum’s tea was stronger. ‘I’ll have your tea bag as well, Love.’ Sometimes she would forget that I now had raw sugar. With the birth of our daughter I saw her more often but for less time. ‘Thanks Mum. Gotta run.’ Working mothers are good at drinking tea on the run.

As time went by Mum’s mobility decreased as a degenerative muscular disease took over. ‘What can we do for you Mum? What would make it easier?’ She would always shrug off our concerns and offers of help. After all, ‘The best is yet to come.’ While this mantra was now embedded in my mitochondrial DNA, I found it increasingly hard to believe this standard answer.

The tepid tea in the nursing home came in a half-filled, lidded plastic mug. Whilst mum sipped it through a straw we would sometimes talk about what was to come.

On that fateful last day, I whispered, ‘Mum. You are the best.’ And then as she slipped slowly away I reminded her, ‘Mum, the best is yet to come.’

I didn’t need to say it. She’d always known it.
​
It was a comforting thought.

​It will never get me a job and it is not on any list of life skills. In my other life I am a four leaf clover gatherer and in my lifetime I have found at least fifty of the little charmers.

My mother got me started.    
​‘Go outside and look for a four leaf clover.’

​This was her way of getting a bookish child outside for a bit of fresh air and sunshine.

I can only suppose that one day I did find one and became intrigued by the fuss it caused.

I have an Irish heritage and people talked easily about “The luck of the Irish.” and “lucky four leaf clovers” My mother sang, “I’m Looking Over a Four Leaf Clover.”

A lot of my childhood was spent head down, bottom up, duck diving in clover patches looking for amazing, attention grabbing “four leafs.”

‘Look Mum! Look! I found one.’

‘Good girl. Press it in your bible for safe keeping.’

We covered all bases in my family.

With adolescence serendipity came into play. Waiting for the bus and looking down I would find a four leaf clover staring back. Go for a walk and there, by the side of the path, would be a cheeky, “look at me” four leaf . I felt they were actually looking for me.

As a young adult, the work ethic kicked in.

Luck, it seemed, had nothing to do with anything. Hard work, persistence, organization and getting along with others seemed to be the keys to success.

‘You do know, don’t you, that they’re only mutant three leaf clovers?’

Of course I knew it but I also knew a good clover patch when I saw one. There always seemed to be a little voice that said, ‘Might as well have a look.’

These days, on odd occasions, I still look for, and find, four leaf clovers but now I only pick some of them. It’s enough to know they are there. If I know of someone who would find one appealing, lucky, amusing or fortuitous I might pick one and put it in a card for them. If I locate one, I might leave it and steer someone nearby so they can have the thrill of “discovering” it.

Do people think I am weird, quirky, eccentric? Probably all of the above though no-one has ever refused a four leaf clover when I have given them one.
​
As for five leaf clovers. They…are a completely different story.