Sailing away from pea green boats

I am spending money like a drunken sailor. Or is that offensive to sailors? No idea, but it's what my father used to say. And it is stressful. Anxiety attacks in the middle of the night and counting pennies by day. Checking my budget a thousand times and breathing deeply as I see the figures increase in the spending column and decrease in the bank account. Oh my word. Why did I ever think that building a granny suite would be a good idea? I know that the stairs are starting to catch my knees and climbing them to my present bedroom will only get more difficult as I age. But sigh, shrug and hyperventilate and do my calming exercises,... never again. The builder, the plumber, the electrician and I are all scratching our heads trying to decide where the shower should go and what size bath I really need. Why is it so difficult? Oh well, if I survive this, I will be stronger and happier. Or is happiness really something I should expect. Masaru Emoto is a Japanese author who says that words can shape and affect the molecular structure of water. Humans are 70% water. Mmm? Does that mean that when I say I am stressed it just makes the problem worse and my molecules react to my thoughts? But if I am saying happy things with my mouth, and my brain is in turmoil, can the molecules figure out I am lying? Oh dear, this is making me freak out even more. Deep breaths Pat, in through the nose, one, two, three, four, and out slowly through the mouth. Ah yes, that is better. But now I feel like chocolate. Dark black chocolate with bits of liquorice. Yup, that should do the trick. But it's times like these when I miss my husband the most. He would know what to say to the builder and to me. A good hug can cure a million problems. (Well, I am not hugging the builder, that is for sure.) My father only had one eye after an accident at work and afterwards judging distances was very difficult for him. Hitting a nail with a hammer was nigh impossible and the stream of swear words would increase with every hammer blow. Consequently he would rather have others do the carpentry work around the house. So, when I married my husband and he enjoyed the odd handyman job, I waited with bated breath for the language to degenerate. Oh, and yes, it often did when things didn't quite go his way. And then when he too lost an eye, I expected a re-run of my childhood to ensue. But no, Barry continued on until his death to make all sorts of odd things. Book cases, raised garden beds and garden seats. Now I need his ghost to appear before me and say "Hey, it will get better and the builder is doing his best." Yup. And a big hug.

Last week I came across a man called Robert in my genealogical wanderings. Two days before Christmas (in 1920) he drove to the city to buy Christmas gifts and food for the family. Parked his car, slept overnight in a hotel and then vanished. The police, his family and friends were flummoxed and searched and searched. He had promised to be home on Christmas eve at the latest, but instead he jumped on a ship and sailed away. Who does that? Who puts their family and friends through the hell of not knowing where they have gone or even if they are still alive? Well, Robert did. He died 20 years later in Australia and I have no idea if he ever told his family where he was. I only found his death because he had a very unusual name ... no, not Robert, the rest of his name was unique. Did he fight with his wife? Or worry about finances? Or hated the choices he had made? In today's world he would have been seen on CCTV or tagged at the borders, or used his cell phone or credit cards and been tracked down. But back in the old days, he put a bit of cash in his pocket, threw clothes in a bag and vanished. It kind of reminds me of The Owl and the Pussycat, who went to sea in a beautiful pea green boat. They sailed away for a year and a day to the land where the bong tree grows. (Written by Edward Lear in 1870) It's a nonsense poem that has no known meaning. As an aside, I always wondered what a Runcible spoon was, but apparently it was a made up word that Lear enjoyed using. If Robert went walkabout today, would we blame it on mental health issues and say tut-tut and forgive him? Or would we demonise him and call him a terrible man? His finances were obviously in a bad way because he was declared bankrupt within a year of him vanishing. I once had a friend who had two children by her first husband and two by her second ... and then she walked out the door one day and left all four kids with husband number two and never came back. After a few months she contacted me and said she regretted what she had done, but there was no going back. She never tried to stay in contact with her kids and they grew up not knowing their mother. Which was sad because there was a reason behind her madness. Her first husband had been abusive and suddenly all that trauma came home to roost. There are millions of sad stories out in the world and sometimes we do feel like taking the example of the owl and the pussycat and sailing away from life's problems. I wish I could say I knew what the balm was that would heal the hurts, but I don't. Some folks look for oblivion in alcohol and others in good works. My own grandfather went from an intelligent, contributing member of society, to a man living homeless on the streets. My grandmother gritted her teeth and carried on. In effect, Grandpa ran away from home at the age of 45. His was a case of Post Traumatic Stress disorder from World War 11 and being taken prisoner of war in Egypt, but the only therapy those men received was being told to 'be a man and have a stiff upper lip.' It didn't work too well in my grandfather's case. Or in anyone's case really. Robert who went missing before Christmas had served in World War 1 .... now doesn't that beg the question of if he was suffering from a trauma of his own?

My father dealt with his PTSD by going jogging every morning. His early morning runs were pure escapism. He ran across the golf course in our town as the nocturnal animals strolled off home and the early birds munched on their worms. He would come in from his exercise and tell us what he had seen. From the new flush of wild flowers, to a particularly unusual bird or animal. The small duiker, the noisy Hadedas, the crocodile in the water hazard or the porcupine family in single file. Mist still hung low in the valley as he disturbed it with his presence. As he aged, my parents moved homes and he had to find a new route to run. By this time I was married and my husband would join my dad. My father was twenty-five years older than Barry, but in the beginning, he could run rings around him on their jogs. Barry said my dad would chat as they ran up hills and point out things of interest, while Barry himself was struggling for breath and could certainly not utter a word in reply. But the time came when Barry could keep pace and loved those times bonding with his father-in-law. They shared a special relationship. When my father reached the age of 65, he retired from running. Instead he would climb the mountain behind their retirement home before breakfast each day. Sitting at the top of the AmaHaqwa, he would gaze over the valleys and watch the world awaken to the day. Baboons barking in the caves around him and snakes finding a warm rock to sun themselves on. I think my mother worried that one day she would have to climb the mountain if my dad didn't return. And my mother was not a mountain climber, or a jogger, or a walker. In her youth she had played tennis, but those days were long gone. Lucky for them both, my dad died in a hospice facility and not half way up a mountain track. When my parents bought a dinghy for us to sail on the waters of Richards Bay, my mother stayed on shore. Nothing would convince her that the boat was safe. She had a fear of drowning and seldom entered the water even on the hottest of Summer days. So, how does this relate to PTSD? or noisy builders who create dust and disaster before building a room for me to live in? I suppose the noise reminds me of something I cannot control. The dust gets in everywhere and that tells me to take time away from the mess and find a peaceful place. I was buying the bathroom suite and the woman who was making the order offered me a hot chocolate drink. I sat sipping my beverage, and I thought that it was a beautiful moment of calm amongst the storm. Forklifts buzzed across the yard, people yelled out orders and demands, there was music blaring and I was like the owl and the pussycat and sailed away in my imagination to a land where the piggy wig stood with a ring on the end of its nose. I thought, 'Do I want a ring, or a pig or just somewhere exotic to escape to?' And the answer was no. A friend collecting for a fundraiser offered desserts and I clicked on her page and ordered a tasty cheese cake. Her son delivered it with a nice thank you for supporting his team and I got my moment of decadence which fed my soul. And in Summer I hope to dance on the edge of the sand and dance to the light of the moon. Oh yes, dance to the light of the moon.

The Owl and the Pussycat

Edward Lear

The Owl and the Pussycat went to sea in a beautiful pea-green boat,

They took some honey, and plenty of money wrapped up in a five pound note

The Owl looked up to the stars above, and sang to a small guitar,

"O lovely Pussy, O Pussy my love,

What a beautiful Pussy you are,

you are,

What a beautiful Pussy you are.

Pussy said to the Owl,"You elegant fowl!

How charmingly sweet you sing!

O let us be married! too long we have tarried: