GRANDPA’S SUGAR    (a little girl chats on)

 

My Grandpa smells like vanilla bliss bombs.

 

When he shaves he scrubs nice smelly white soap onto his face, like the cream Granny squirted onto my cake …She put five candles on too that played Happy Birthday.

 

Grandpa sings in the bathroom when his face looks like a cream cake. He doesn’t sing the birthday song though.

 

He makes me laugh.

 

Grandpa uses a fat paint brush. He told me it came from the end of a cows tail. It is nearly the same as my paint brush at school, only much, much fatter.

 

Lots of bubbles jump from his chin and splatter the mirror, some slide all around the sink. Granny gets cranky having to clean the mess. She likes patting his clean smooth face though.

 

So do  I.

 

I tell Grandpa he has sugar on his face. It sparkles in the sun. I think it collects fairy dust or sunbeams. I know it feels prickly when I kiss him.

 

He should shave the feathers off his chest ‘cause the breeze makes them tickle his skin. Some fly off and float up to his nose making him sneeze. That’s a loud, scary sneeze, exploding out of him as if he’s been shaken up like a can of cola.

 

My favourite play place is under the old creaky verandah where the dirt is cool and soft. Granny keeps pretty dolls for me when I visit,she makes drinks and teeny tiny muffins for my dolls and me to share. We have special cups and plates too.

 

Some floorboards are broken, I like peeking through when Grandpa sits in his big cane chair reading the newspaper, I see him take a big breath, then he screws up his face.

I know what will happen, I cover my ears …AAAH …Aaaah …CHOO!!

 

On Franny’s writing desk sits the most special piece of heavy glass. It’s smooth and round like a balloon, with twisted swirling colours inside, looking as if they’re struggling to get out, to be free. If they did get out, I could use those beautiful colours to paint my Granny a picture. Tiny bubbles are trapped inside too, I believe they are filled with magic dust.

 

Granny says it is a paper weight to stop her papers from blowing around.

 

Grandpa knows the papers under that paper weight are Granny’s private things. He told me never, ever to meddle with that paper weight, ‘cause he says magic might escape and that the papers under it are recipes for strange potions. He says Granny is really a witch, a good witch, who can cast interesting spells. He says both of us have to always be very good.

 

Of course I don’t believe my Granny is a witch of any kind.

 

I think Grandpa has been meddling and magic dust had escaped onto his face. Maybe that’s what  makes his whiskers look like silver sugar. I think he moves that paper weight and pkks at Granny’s private stuff. Maybe she gets cranky with him for meddling, not really because he lift the bathroom in a mess.

 

I so much want to hold that glass paper weight, to see the sun shining through it. I want to see all those colours come to life, and let those bubbles burst open. I would dance in the magic dust.

 

“Granny, can I have sugar on my face when I’m old like Grandpa?”

 

“Sweetheart, you can have any magic you want in your life. Just believe and all is yours.

GRANDPA’S SUGAR    (a little girl chats on)

 

My Grandpa smells like vanilla bliss bombs.

 

When he shaves he scrubs nice smelly white soap onto his face, like the cream Granny squirted onto my cake …She put five candles on too that played Happy Birthday.

 

Grandpa sings in the bathroom when his face looks like a cream cake. He doesn’t sing the birthday song though.

 

He makes me laugh.

 

Grandpa uses a fat paint brush. He told me it came from the end of a cows tail. It is nearly the same as my paint brush at school, only much, much fatter.

 

Lots of bubbles jump from his chin and splatter the mirror, some slide all around the sink. Granny gets cranky having to clean the mess. She likes patting his clean smooth face though.

 

So do  I.

 

I tell Grandpa he has sugar on his face. It sparkles in the sun. I think it collects fairy dust or sunbeams. I know it feels prickly when I kiss him.

 

He should shave the feathers off his chest ‘cause the breeze makes them tickle his skin. Some fly off and float up to his nose making him sneeze. That’s a loud, scary sneeze, exploding out of him as if he’s been shaken up like a can of cola.

 

My favourite play place is under the old creaky verandah where the dirt is cool and soft. Granny keeps pretty dolls for me when I visit,she makes drinks and teeny tiny muffins for my dolls and me to share. We have special cups and plates too.

 

Some floorboards are broken, I like peeking through when Grandpa sits in his big cane chair reading the newspaper, I see him take a big breath, then he screws up his face.

I know what will happen, I cover my ears …AAAH …Aaaah …CHOO!!

 

On Franny’s writing desk sits the most special piece of heavy glass. It’s smooth and round like a balloon, with twisted swirling colours inside, looking as if they’re struggling to get out, to be free. If they did get out, I could use those beautiful colours to paint my Granny a picture. Tiny bubbles are trapped inside too, I believe they are filled with magic dust.

 

Granny says it is a paper weight to stop her papers from blowing around.

 

Grandpa knows the papers under that paper weight are Granny’s private things. He told me never, ever to meddle with that paper weight, ‘cause he says magic might escape and that the papers under it are recipes for strange potions. He says Granny is really a witch, a good witch, who can cast interesting spells. He says both of us have to always be very good.

 

Of course I don’t believe my Granny is a witch of any kind.

 

I think Grandpa has been meddling and magic dust had escaped onto his face. Maybe that’s what  makes his whiskers look like silver sugar. I think he moves that paper weight and pkks at Granny’s private stuff. Maybe she gets cranky with him for meddling, not really because he lift the bathroom in a mess.

 

I so much want to hold that glass paper weight, to see the sun shining through it. I want to see all those colours come to life, and let those bubbles burst open. I would dance in the magic dust.

 

“Granny, can I have sugar on my face when I’m old like Grandpa?”

 

“Sweetheart, you can have any magic you want in your life. Just believe and all is yours.

 

Advertisements

Welcome to my site…

Creating one way or another, as in pretty objects, cute babies and too many marriages, had become my approach to move forward in life, and certainly made for a unique journey.

My first years were spent in the eastern suburbs of Sydney. The beginning of my life included dancing, piano, family life (until that fell apart), then sharing a home with male boarders and suffering school life.

Teenage years lead me on to an early marriage, then the following twenty years I spent a large share of that time waddling around looking like a strange shaped egg.  It was worth every moment living with that uncomfortable body because out of it emerged nine beautiful children. They forged ahead through the years and produced a few dozen grandchildren for me. Now life is quiet and rather a non-event, so writing about my experiences and dramatising them up, just a little, seems to seep automatically from my fingertips onto the keyboard. Married life, singledom, married life, singledom … and on it repeated itself … has added much colour, tears, screams and laughter to work with here, hopefully for your entertainment.

Starting my existence near the beachside suburb of Bondi then to much of the Western Suburbs right up to the refreshing coolness of the Blue Mountains, and now finally resting on the Gold Coast beaches of Queensland, has been quite an adventure. My writing is still a work in progress and so I’ll give you snippets to snack on as you feel so inclined. ~ Carice ~

Bye Hubby…”Unknown Reasons”

Gracey nervously explained she’d been shopping with Ashton (my husband who had run off) to buy me things for christmas, and he wanted her to drop them off for him.
The bags contained fruit cake, a cooked turkey, drinks and a variety of sweets. A card was attached to one of the bags. My emotions were running high, mainly anger at reading the short note. It said, ‘Happy Christmas, I hope you have a lovely day and I hope this food will come in handy. Love to you, from Ashton xxx’
One thing I knew for sure,‘stuff’ is not what makes me happy, does not replace a husband, does not provide the love in a marriage.
Damn it, I needed a husband not a turkey. But then again, that husband was an old turkey and really would I have wanted him to stay pecking away at my self esteem, adding more pain? Strutting around in my space? Gobbling up my peace?

Quote

A Life Changing…

A Life Changing Diary Entry.
Dear Diary. Now, that was a kiss! If only he’d shown passion like that years ago. He’d hefted his bags from the back of the car before opening my drivers’ side door. After planting that kiss his head was buried into my chest. Having no idea if his eyes were moist through sadness or smiling with relief, I held his head and cried. I told him this was for the best. He replied with ‘I wish you all the best too’. It did not escape me how he’d heard me wrong, but understandable given the circumstances, this time. Five seconds later he closed the door before purposefully walking to the train platform, his life in two large bags at his heels.
Who has a memorable diary entry to share?

Women Living Life

There was good reason I found the pleasure in reading Women’s Fiction at a slightly mature age.  Time flew by with nine children to raise, multiple house moves to undertake and four husbands to make life interesting.

It was a mammoth job to adjust all family needs in an effort to please the ever changing household.

Do you know the inner strength it took to keep my backside sitting quietly in that proverbial boat?  Must admit I rocked it now and then, and I know you understand. Women do!

We’ve all had a raging storm swirling inside us once or twice over the years. Maybe from self doubt, or rejection, grieving, the balancing of life in general, or battling to satisfy some creative need festering  away.

Sharing our thoughts is healing, it is entertaining fun and even enlightening… Can feel like a comfy hug, don’t you think?