Tag Archives: Life Writing

Happy Valentines

The Luck of the Valentine

♥ ♥ ♥ Valentine Vignettes ♥ ♥ ♥

A Valentine’s Day  card came in the post in an unfamiliar hand.  He signed his full name on the card. Since school she had never thought about him …

♥ ♥ ♥
She sent him, who featured large in her reckonings, a Valentine’s  card with a candle attached, and the hope he might light it under him…

♥ ♥ ♥
He realised at once that he had posted his lovingly worded Valentine’s card complete with declarations,  and the many joys he  would bestow, under the wrong door. He tried to retrieve it with a wire coat hanger, undone, but pushed the envelope out of reach….
♥ ♥ ♥
In the grandest restaurant, highly reputed for its game,  he ordered bread and butter pudding then turned to her, took her hands in his and said marry me…
♥ ♥ ♥

Happy Valentines
Flowers awaiting instructions

Twice on Valentine’s Day, many years apart, the RL me has been in car accidents.

The first was in a purple Valiant with  bench seats, sitting in the front between two boys. We were all smiles on our way to a party, until we skidded off the road and  came to a crashing halt into a metal pillar. Turned out that pillar was holding up a water tank  but not for long… I was embarrassed about us tanking that tank.

The second was on the way home from the art gallery, a rare mother and son day, where we had sketched like Matisse and  had a  good lunch.  I awoke as we crashed into the central fence on  motorway. Then we bounced across three M1 lanes to the feeder lane before coming to a halt.

In both of those accidents, everyone involved was technically unscathed, yet we changed. Lucky Valentines!

This Valentine’s Day there was no crash, just everyday love. Which is the point.

MJ Edmunds

On an indigo night

By MJ Edmunds : I glimpsed the moonlit sky in the last hour of darkness. For this I give gratitude to the cat that found me at my early desk and brushed by my legs to say he had a night mission. As I slid the door open I spotted the moon just up there and liked how it glimmered on the roof of the house next door and onto the road. Barefoot, I crossed the deck and leaned on the railing to crane to take in  the  indigo sky. I drew in a deep breath at the pleasure of it. As light as it was, you (if lucky) could see stars still strewn across the sky, and what I call in all of my stories a dance hall sky. Some were dimmed by now. A car came up the hill, two white orbs showing the way although almost not needed. This driver was making an early start, a nurse heading for a shift, a lover stealing home before dawn, a traveller heading for the airport to go south for weekend, or a surfer racing to catch a wave at daybreak…
The Paradigm Shuffle~MJ Edmunds

Indigo night : MJ Edmunds
Indigo night : MJ Edmunds

Perfect Day

Perfect Day, Mountsfield cover version

Perfect Day has been on automatic replay in my head this past day since the news Lou Reed had passed away. The cover of this tune that stands out in my memory was played on a clear blue June Saturday in Mountsfield Park, London. People’s Day.  A jobbing muso of whiskered jaw in black uniform playing guitar under trees to weekend flower children, jigging toddlers, people yearning  something or someone never reached, remembering things that never quite were. Remembering flashes of fun. We sing along. Together. Weekenders on our own. 

Was it the 444,000th cover of Perfect Day ever made? 

A reggae beat rolls up the hill to warn it will be in charge from sunset.
I rarely carried a cameras in the 1990s.  It is clear in the big screen inside my head. I wish there was a kind of camera that could take the image in my mind and show it to you.  It would show you the plant stall on the left as you came in, the crumbling outbuildings, the craft stalls, and the cakes liquefying even in the shade, flowered icing smearing. It would show you young love. Problems all left alone.  It would show you the children in spangly costumes, it’s such fun.  It would show you  buggies laden with goodies and babies, smiling, sleeping and squirming. It would show you the cream of London apiarists, who for five minutes would make you think of keeping bees. It would show you the tiny stream train and driver, a portly Gulliver. It would show you the tables of ezy cleaning products, and dolls in crinolines with  toilet paper petticoats that will do another twirl at a boot fair soon.  It would show you old love. It would show you  chutneys and pickles with floral covers, and it would show you the donkeys and falcons. Just a perfect day feed animals in the zoo. 

Just a perfect day you made me forget myself.

One perfect day. Luckily, it’s not the only one.

MJ Edmunds

Italics are  from Perfect Day by Lou Reed.

Today is the 30th birthday my father did not reach

A painting of my father by his Aunt Augusta ©
A painting of my father by his Aunt Augusta ©

Today is the 30th birthday my father did not reach.
I can’t recall the other 29 clearly. They are shadows of an anniversary that given the preference, I’d rather not discuss. I’d rather just think of him quietly.
My father’s only grandson sleeps. If they’d met, they’d have had a quiet bet together, and agreed between themselves not to tell me. They are so alike – not in love with academia, liking a bet, loving to collect what others see as junk, sensitive to others, and with a wicked sense of humour.
My father’s only granddaughter plays, making, chatting, imagining, devising, her giggles impervious to the coldness of day and a long ago loss. She loves birthdays. If only they’d met.

What would he have made of the person I became? What would he have thought of me with my volatile writing life and my weight lifting under the supervision of a personal trainer for goodness sakes? What would he have thought about us never voting the same way?

He had this scheme or dream of travelling the countryside collecting antiques for a shop on Sydney’s North Shore and me running the shop. He was about to start on his side of the plan. He and Mum had the caravan ready but then he became ill. Now I see the antique shop was quite a good plan. I would have found good stories there.
In the southern tablelands town where my father spent his childhood, one of his oldest friends was interred yesterday. He was 92 when he died last week. I make no comparison. He too was a good man. Both of them now gone. My father would be 77 today, were he here. I will bake a birthday cake.