Chapter 153 : postcards for sale

On a recent holiday I saw something strange. Postcards for sale. I couldn’t resist buying some. My memory told me postcards need stamps. I was then told we don’t sell stamps. You have to buy stamps elsewhere. She told me where to buy stamps.

I returned to my holiday room. The postcard gave me a standard picture.  The same picture as everybody else. They also gave me a space which told me how many words I could write.  I then wondered how to address them.  What are the addresses of these grandkids? I could send them an email and ask them their address.

I find a shop selling stamps. The stamps have very tiny, beautiful pictures on them which I manage to fix to the cards. In the right place and up the right way.  The lady says, “To post them you have to exit the front door, turn right and you will see a post box.”

After sending the postcards I send a group email to my grandkids. I include a photo of grandma. I tell them in the email they will receive a postcard. Watch out for it arriving in your letter box.  I receive an instantaneous reply.

Every day I send group emails to my grandkids. The amount of words varies. Most days I add a photo. A photo I have taken. Grandma Facetimes the kids. She talks to them. Somehow I have to explain to them what a postcard is and how popular they used to be. I can’t imagine them seeing numerous advantages in postcards. I can’t imagine postcards becoming the latest craze.

Loitering in a souvenir shop the advantages of postcards manifests. We now see a souvenir we can buy that they will use. A fridge magnet for affixing postcards.

When we return my grandkids excitedly greet us and say, “Look what I got.”

They love their postcards. They show me their fridge and its adornments. They all want their postcard to be the highest.

Even better is the day after we arrive back in Hobart. More postcards mysteriously arrive. We watch them retrieve the postcards from their letter box. They love them and love displaying them. I suspect one of them took a postcard to school for show and tell.

As I watch them use their fridge magnets my thought bubbles move from postcard to telegrams. I could tell them the story of when I first worked overseas 40 years ago. International phone calls were very expensive and involved a lot of planning. They were special. They were not spontaneous and routine.

One day I returned to my place of residence. A telegram was waiting for me. I thought I’m not opened that.  Telegrams are always bad news. I put the telegram on the mantelpiece and stared at it. I left it there for at least a day. Eventually I thought I had better open it. Must know the truth.

The telegram said, “Happy birthday.” Even though it was a day late I was mightily relieved.  Not all telegrams are bad news. I never thought that one day telegrams will cease to exist. A new and more effective way for people to communicate with other distant people will exist.  

Slide nights have gone the same way. When young a few of my cousins made the trip by boat back to the “Mother Country.” They returned a few years later with a box of slides. A slide night was arranged. 

The night arrived. A slide projector was fiddled with, a screen hung and everybody seated suitably.

And then it began. The slides. Every slide had a story. Sometimes the story was told by my uncle who had remained home. That didn’t stop him. Slide nights have gone the way of telegrams. It’s assumed everybody has already seen everything on Facebook.

My turn to travel eventually arrived. Being a dentist I didn’t go to England. I listened to older, respected dentists and they all said don’t go to England. If you go to England, work on the NHS, your work will go downhill. I went elsewhere. And I found where-ever I went they sold postcards.

Chapter 152 : waiting for the bus

We walk towards the bus stop.

We don’t know when a bus will arrive. We will wait. Waiting is okay. Watching a bus depart as we approach the bus stop is not okay.

There is a timetable displayed. I ignore it. As we wait other people arrive and wait. We take it in turns to glance up the road.  Then we all see a large, bulky, steadily bus moving relentlessly towards us.   

No hurry to board the bus. We know it will wait for everyone. After boarding we have to choose a seat. After boarding I have a quick squizz around the passengers. They having a sneaky squizz at us people boarding.  If there were no empty seats I would have to sit next to someone. Who could it be?

With my grandkids they always want the same seat. The very back seat. It is high and wider. They can sit and survey everybody on their bus.

The bus driver drives nonchalantly. Seemingly unaware that he just missed that car. Going around that corner she seemed a bit close. She is oblivious to all his near misses.  

Sitting on the back seat we have a good view of the other passengers.

A guy with headphones singing loudly.  Singing as if home in the shower.

A lady with two kids. A fussy mother hen. Fluffing and clucking to her kids. Sit down here. Don’t stand. Don’t throw that packet.

  

An older lady. Protecting her enormous bag as if it contains crown jewels. Her clothes are either from or are going to an op shop.

A lady with a pram. She maneuvers the pram and holds it to prevent it rolling. She smiles as she leans and tickles her baby. She loves her child.

A gaggle of young school kids with heavy school bags.  Talking incessantly.  Peripatetic arms. 

A man in a suit with a brief case. Two stories bubble up and emanate from him.  His car is being repaired due to an accident. He has lost his license due to drink driving. I won’t ask him which story is true.

A young female wearing a t-shirt telling me a band she likes. My shirt doesn’t talk to her. My shirt tells her that I am boring.  I could go and tell her my favourite band. 

A man closes his eyes and lies his head back. His wife peers at him and smiles to herself. She thinks about how much she loves him.  

In front of me a lady continues her phone conversation.  She is inviting me to listen to her conversation. I imagine the person she is talking to. Going by everything she says it is female friend. They are talking about what happened last weekend and what it means when he says, “I like you a lot.”

An older man walks past me, bends over and says, “The zip on your bag is open. Stuff can fall out.”

I nod and do up the zip.

My grandkids become aware that there is a button they can press. I wait for someone to press the “Next Stop” button and see the sign light up. I then say to Kay, “Show me how to press the button.”

Kay presses the button and says, “You’re the best grandfather I’ve ever had.”

At the next stop some people alight through the rear door. Some from the front door. They all say, “Thank you.” 

I say to Kay, “They are all thanking you for pressing the button.”

We look down on all the cars containing one person. All the cars united by the road and separate from each other. A lady is on her I-phone. She is communicating with somebody. Maybe in Sydney or Europe or USA. Maybe even someone in Hobart.  

I peer back down at the cars.  I hope to see a politician caught in the traffic. Hopefully one who sees traffic as a problem? Hopefully one who wants to spend my taxes to build a tunnel or a by-pass. Unfortunately I don’t see any politicians.

I see two cars both thinking a precious parking spot belongs to one of them. One of them will have to give up. One of them will drive on. One of them will think parking their car sums up their day.  

I peer back down at the cars. Hermetically sealed bubbles that stop, start and crawl.  

Sitting by themselves the drivers all look incredibly unhappy. They all behave as if invisible.  I look around the bus at all the people and see why the car drivers are all so unhappy. They are missing out. They are missing out on humanity.

Chapter 151 : Hobart is the fresh, cold wind...

The plane aims for the runway and lands with a bump then taxis across the runway. We stand and wait while people jostle for their luggage. When the door is opened I am expecting Hobart.                                            

The door opens and coming out of the warm plane I stand at the top of the stairs and feel Hobart.

Hobart is the fresh, cold, windy air that hits me.

I imagine the buildings around Hunter Street. These stone buildings have existed forever and will remain forever. They don’t make them like that anymore and we don’t know how they made them and who made them but we love them.

My mind drifts towards the dock.  Princess Wharf 1. Often bypassed, ignored and invisible. It normally sleeps but periodically awakens for food, fun and people.

Some tourists are taking photos of statues that us locals often ignore. We all sup and drink together and watch the boats. Some coming.  Some going. Some working. Some recreational boats. We then wander around the docks dodging cars looking for a place to park.

There is a seal scavenging between the boats. Attracting cameras from the docks. And pointed at by a group of kayakers.

On Saturday everything changes. Salamanca Market arrives. Most Saturdays at one of our parkruns I speak to one of our visitors. They are all heading towards the Salamanca Market after the parkrun. With high expectations.

Sometimes a cruise ship will dwarf the docks. Ejecting queues of lanyarded people. They will see a lot more of our state than we will see of them.

When I head towards the shops I come to Macquarie and Davey Street, full of endless streams of advancing cars.  Arterial roads clogged and constipated with cars. The same roads become clear and spacious when everybody is in their idyllic, semi-rural, dream home with a view.

From the docks I head towards the Tasman Bridge. Which connects the two halves that can’t live by themselves. Like the two halves of a heart they need each other and keep each other alive.

Pass the Queens Domain. Bypassed daily it is silent, mysterious and unknown. Now home to an empty dilapidated cage which once housed the last of its species. The decrepitude cage stimulates thoughts of Benjamin. Pacing forlornly back and forth in his cage. We still have the cage. We don’t have what lived in it. 

The Queens Domain is named after Queen Victoria. A lady who never saw her Domain, didn’t manage it and probably didn’t even know about it. There were people who lived there for thousands of years and looked after and managed it. All that remains of them are a few middens by the river. 

The Queens Domain stimulates thoughts of our parkrun. Everybody enters. Males, females, old, young, all ranges of ability or lack of. Another thought bubble floats up. The Bellerive parkrun. Adjacent to the Bellerive oval where elite sportspeople with ability play and we drink, eat and watch.

Further on we come to the bipolar Botanical Gardens. One day we wander, mooch and admire the plants. The next day we lie on the grass, sup and peer for the performers on the stage and listen to music.  The next day we are back photographing the flowers.

The Derwent River is brooding, slow flowing and broad. Continuously becoming wider and wider.  Sometimes home to regattas of boats. Not home for fishermen or swimmers.  They are well aware of the Derwent’s hidden secrets. It’s cold and full of heavy metals. 

I reach the bottom of the stairs. My mind drifts to the always slumbering Mt Wellington. The mountain that comes and goes. When hidden behind clouds it is always present. Nestling in its foothills is The Lady Franklin Gallery. Displaying art by us.

Guided by a florescent jacket and flags on ropes we head across the tarmac towards a sign that says “Welcome to Hobart”.  We wonder what new renovations have occurred at our airport in the last few weeks. When will they hammer in the final nail.? Where do we get our luggage from this time? How many people will we meet and talk to about our trips?  As we walk across the tarmac I can feel Hobart.

Hobart is the fresh, cold wind hitting my face and it feels good. 

Chapter 150 : Christchurch

Being “retired” my wife and I occasionally travel. Recently our travels deposited us in Christchurch eight years after an earthquake destroyed much of the CBD and three days after a horrific tragedy ended many lives.

Christchurch is a spacious, well planned city on a small river.  It is stained and marked and dominated by the two recent tragedies.

We find ourselves in a hotel very close to the recent tragedy. We wander up to the Botanical gardens and Hagley Park. We see massed flowers lying beside a wall. We see messages written in chalk. I happen to have chalk in my backpack and add a few words. A lady next to me borrows my chalk and adds her words. We both stand back silent and overwhelmed. 

All the messages and flowers express love and good will. There is a feeling of unbelievable goodwill and love towards everybody from everybody. All throughout the city we saw messages and words telling everybody that Muslims are loved.

In Christchurch we see many buildings destroyed and held up with external scaffolding looking like insects. We see many open areas with installations, street art or plants and grass.  The street art all looks fantastic. Much better than a brick wall. The installations often look fantastic and say different things to different people. My wife and I couldn’t agree about most of them. What they were saying.

We see many recent new buildings and others being built. Buildings better than in the past. All wires are underground. No ugly poles and wires. The new buildings are not high rise. 3/4 stories max.

We don’t see 70/80 percent of buildings in CBD which were destroyed.

We see an incredible powerful memorial. 165 empty chairs. One for each person who’s life ended in the earthquake.   We stand mute and overwhelmed. 

We return to Hagley Park two weeks later for the local parkrun. The day after a memorial service.  Nothing remains except the temporary fences and portable toilets. No rubbish. No signs. No people. No chairs. All gone leaving a beautiful spacious park and outside the park a wall of flowers.

All the park runners talk about running. No mention of the local tragedy. Last week the local parkrunners commemorated the tragedy appropriately. Today they have moved on.  Today they are out to celebrate their community. To prove they cannot be broken. The course is through Hagley Park. It is flat and fast.

The recent disasters have shown the world that Christchurch is a good city.  Christchurch has been tested. It has been given difficulties and proved that it knows how to cope with them.

The city has regenerated itself and is resurrecting itself from the earthquake in 2011. It will eventually finish up better looking, more livable and stronger than previously.

For Hobart the message is our planning should include rebirth, renewing and rebuilding without the death and destruction to proceed it. Our planning should involve resurrection without death?

In Christchurch the horrific tragedy this year has resulted in outpourings of goodwill. Hagley Park was full of compassionate, sensitive people with positive, good thoughts. Many of them placed flowers or wrote in chalk on the wall.  Many stood.

The tragedy has bought the best out of the people of Christchurch. Shown the world that their community can rise above; is better than a lone mad, deranged gunman.

Christchurch will be a community welcoming people from all around the world believing in every possible religion. Where everybody celebrates the differences between people and where everybody respects other people. Christchurch will triumph.  Good will win over evil.

Chapter 149 : Christchurch E

Chapter 149 : email from Christchurch 31 March

31 March

Christchurch parkrun amongst the temporary fences from yesterday‘s service.
Inside Hagley Park nothing remains except the fences and toilets. No rubbish. No signs. No people. No chairs. All gone leaving a spacious park, a wall of flowers (outside the park) and 260 runners.

All the runners talk about running. No mention of the local tragedy. Its move on time.

The course is flat, good paths, good weather.
We walk there and back from the hotel. 

Day to be a tourist in Christchurch. Tram, museum, gondola, curio shops, cafes, talk to fellow tourists.  We are suddenly the experts. Telling them were to go and how to do it. 

Dad

Chapter 148 : Christchurch D

Chapter 147 : Christchurch C

Chapter 147 : email from Christchurch 30 March

30 March

Christchurch was hit by an earthquake in 2011. 

Today we see; many buildings destroyed and held up with external scaffolding looking like insects; many open areas with installations or plants and grass; signs of building it better this time. All wires are underground. No ugly poles and wires. 

Lot of street art.  Every piece looks good better than a painted wall.

70/80 percent of 2/3 story buildings in CBD were destroyed. Some have been replaced. Some made into open areas.

The new buildings are not high rise.3/4 stories max. Plenty of land.
Spacious well planned city. Not on a port or river. There is a small river but it does not influence planning.

City of death, destruction and renewal, rebirth. See destroyed buildings, 165 empty chairs and new buildings, open spaces better than previous. 

Is an earthquake and destruction the only way to rebuild and regenerate a city?

Dad

Chapter 146 : Christchurch B

Chapter 145 : Christchurch A

Chapter 144 : email written in bus on way to Christchurch 29 March

29 March

A day of travel to Christchurch. 

"It is a busy day. A memorial service. Cat Stephens; Scott Morrison; Prince William will be there.”

Some people have had their parents, children, relatives murdered and are now part of a media circus. I just want to leave them alone.

In our travels we see tourist attractions which exist because of a disaster years ago.
Time seems to turn some personal disasters into a great story and a tourist stop with a cafe and curios.

I hope we don’t see any famous people or TV cameras in Christchurch.  The TV journalists and people around the world want to know how Christchurch is recovering. They can do their job and I’ll do a small walk around Christchurch.

The people on our tour are all like us. Retired Australian couples. Rich or comfortable. You can tell they are rich because they never talk about the cost of things. They just pay.

They all have grandchildren; a footy team; a history of successful and demanding work and future travel plans.  You can decide how typical we are.

Dad

Chapter 143 : Mt Cook C

Chapter 142 : Mt Cook B