MAYBE SIMON, JUST MAYBE . . . . .

The lance smashed straight into the middle of the Black Knight’s shield and he fell off his massive chestnut horse. Victorious once more, the White Knight cantered up to the front of the King’s grandstand to accept his prize. The King stood up to make a speech of the White Knight’s bravery, courage and strength. He . . . . .

“Simon!!! Come here now! Stop dreaming this instant!” Simon regretfully put away his fantasy, storing it for further use, as he went to see Rachel, the Dragon Mistress in charge of the kitchen.

“Simon! Get on with your work, you have dishes to do, potatoes to peel and corridors to clean! And they had better be finished before supper or you shall get none!” Simon started washing the dishes, and there were many, considering the many inhabitants of the keep.

Just when he had almost finished the dishes, Remlin, the keep’s wizard swept imperiously in and commanded “Come here, boy! Unless you wish to be turned into a frog?!” Simon hurriedly rushed to his side, keeping his head humbly bowed. (Who wouldn’t with the threat of spending the rest of your life a toad?). Remlin handed him a message, and said, “Deliver this to Atrell, the witch of the fens.”

“But . . . .”
“Do it!”

“Yes, sir!” said Simon, while alternately backing towards the door and bowing his head. He finally turned and rushed through the door, tripping over a broom on the way.

In a way, Simon was glad to be out of the kitchen, away from chores, and into the sun’s warm and friendly rays, on a bright and cheerful day. But then again, who in their right mind would want to enter the forest, a place of dark and mysterious magic, as well as the strange sounds and cries of unseen monsters.

He set off, walking through the bustling village outside the keep. Past the sing-song voices of traders and the cries and laughter of little children, playing childish games in imitation of adult life.

Soon, he was past the village, then the keep’s gates, heading towards the dark, murky, forest. He could hear the rustling sound of the wind, rushing through the trees. It was very spooky under the green canopy of leaves and branches that blocked the bright sunlight which frightened away fear. He walked on, going deeper and deeper into the forest, following the path that winded around the trees, heading towards the fens.

His short, gasping breaths seemed to be the fiery breaths of a dark slimy monster hiding in the bushes. His light footsteps seemed to be the heavy footsteps of an invisible pursuer. His loud, fast, pounding heartbeats seemed to be a beacon for every evil, malignant monster in the forest.

A rustle in the bushes in the clearing ahead stopped him in his tracks. He stood there, petrified, frozen, unable to move, run, fight, or even think. The rustling got louder and louder and more violent, and then . . . . . . it stopped. Simon finally shook himself out of his trance and picked up a long stick on the ground. He bravely told himself that it was a rabbit or something else small, innocent and harmless. But his mind told him that it could be the most ugly, disgusting and revolting creature that he had ever seen. All his fears seemed embodied in the creature in the bush.

He approached the bush with the stick held out in front of him for protection. The closer he got to the bush, the more his fear intensified. When he was almost close enough to poke at the bush with his stick, his fear overcame him and he abruptly about faced and ran blindly away from the bush.

“Coward! His heart cried.
“Clever! Said his head.

Confused and afraid, he ran on and on, his fantasies of valiant knights left behind in a clearing, next to a bush where a small, blue sprite sat giggling hysterically.

Simon finally stopped running, his chest heaving, trying to get precious air into his lungs. He thought of his cowardice and he felt ashamed. “A knight?!! More like a kitchen hand!”, he thought to himself. “Running at the slightest sound, at an imaginary monster. How could I ever think to dream that one day, maybe one day I would be the bravest, the most courageous knight in the entire land?” Despair caught his heart in its inexorable grip. Tears of shame, despair and defeat ran down his cheeks.

He angrily brushed the tears away, and picked his pride of the ground and continued on, determined to complete his errand and return to the keep . . . . . . . . and reality.

He refused to listen and see the sights and sounds of the forest. Concentrating on the path ahead, on each step. Not noticing the smell of smoke, the increasing heat, the tendrils of smoke weaving eerily through the maze of trees.

The forest slowly changed to swamp. As he picked his way through the long grass, the crackling of the fire eluded him. His mind and thoughts were closed off. But as he entered the clearing with the wooden hut of the witch, he suddenly saw that blazing flames licking at the walls, burning, killing.

He stood unthinkingly, staring at the flames. Mesmerised by their dance of joy and hunger. Suddenly, he heard a cry from the inside of the burning hut. His mind clicked together and he rushed into action. Sprinting up the stairs and bursting through the door to see a form huddled near a window at the back of the hut. He ran to her side, narrowly dodging sparks and falling wood, jumping over blazing furniture, trying to get closer to the huddled form.

He finally reached her, knelt down and turned her gently over, shocked and disgusted by the deformed face. He carefully picked her up, shielding her from the flames. He started making his way to the door, through the maze of flames. Quickly, yet carefully, narrowly missing a falling beam on the way. Finally, after eternity was over, he made it through the door and on to the sweet, cool grass. He lay her down, looking for help but seeing none. The clearing was silent except for the crackling laugh of the flames. The smoke billowing up to the sky was a beacon to all around, yet none came.

Simon was very relieved when she started to cough, to breathe fresh air. Her eyes opened and her deformed face faded from memory as he looked into those ancient eyes of beauty and wisdom. She slowly sat up and then thanked him for his bravery and courage . . . . . and her life. Somehow cleansed by her gaze, by what he saw in those eyes that forgave everything, and saw everything.

Simon started to believe again, to hope and to dream of knights in shining armour cantering up to collect their prize, as he thought to himself, maybe Simon, just maybe . . . .

Written by my sister
Dorene Lim
Year 11, 1992
St Peters Lutheran College, Qld.

Pic : Dorene shown er . . . er . . . where is the pic taken Dorene?
Reply : Ok, she has said pic taken in Yosemite National Park in the USA. Apparently not seen in pic are some deer in the background which had really soft flurry antlers.

LISTEN!

Footfalls along the corridor,
Mumbles from within walls,
Birds argue from a distance,
A piano tinkles from afar,
A car drives along an unseen road,
A machine whirrs and hums,
Scrapes and creaks from furniture,
Stirrings of existence, of people,
Laughter and giggling from peers,
Your own breath, your heartbeat -
Rhythms of life.


By my brother
Gregory Lim
Year 11, 1988
St. Peters Lutheran College, Qld.

Rhotograph : Souther France; by Maynard Owen Williams

HOME

The outline of the house stood bleakly against a stark, black stormy sky. Joe Sackett stood at the bottom of the driveway and gazed at the old Victorian house. Joe was a ruggedly handsome man despite an ugly scar that ran from his forehead to his left ear. He put a hand up to it and thought of the events that had happened since he had left this old house where he was born.

Joe Sackett had been a young man of nineteen when he was drafted into the army and sent to Vietnam to fight the Viet Cong. He had served his full tour of duty and had even been in the battle of Khe San. Just before he was scheduled to return home, he was wrongly implicated in a blackmarket raid in which two military policemen were killed. Joe was court-martialed and dishonourably discharged and stripped of his rank. His shame prevented him from returning home and he had caught a plane to America.

That was many years ago – nine to be precise. It was a long time to be away from home. Home. There was a word he hadn’t used much for a while. The sky was darkening, and there was a fresh smell of coming rain. It had been raining when Joe said his goodbyes to his family.

His parents, his younger brother, Jubal and he had been standing on the verandah while the rain poured down and the lightning lit up the sky in brilliant flashes. He had returned from basic training a week ago and now an army Land Rover was waiting to take him to the airfield where a transport plane was waiting to depart to Vietnam with him and the rest of his platoon on it. His dad was shaking his hand and asking him to take care of himself and his mother was crying softly and telling him to listen to his dad. His brother, Jubal, was staring at the Land Rover with the burly corporal in the driving seat and two M-16’s on the back seat. Jubal had been so excited at his brother’s leaving to fight “those b . . . . . . commies” and had been blowing up his toy soldiers with fire crackers. Now that Joe was about to leave, he was suddenly quiet and quite detached. They had sent the first bodies back the day before from Vietnam. They had shown the coffins being unloaded on TV and death was suddenly part of Joe’s leaving. Joe had run to the Land Rover and climbed in and had shouted goodbyes while the vehicle trundled down the driveway.

Joe walked up to the house and stood on the verandah. The old heavy wooden door, the stained glass windows and big round doorbell which had never worked, brought memories flooding back. It had been so long.

After he had arrived in America, he had traveled around the country doing odd jobs just for cash to eat and carry on. After a couple of years he had got a job driving a taxi in New York. That suited him fine for a while but after a few years he had got the itch to travel again and went west. In Nebraska, he got a job as a trucker and traveling was paid for. He had received an assignment to send a truckload of farm machinery up to New York to be sent to Brooklyn to be exported. It was about two in the morning when he was driving through Harlem that he was caught in a gang clash between blacks and Hispanics.

Joe smiled grimly at the memory. It was the first time he had seen the face of a man he killed. In Vietnam, killing had always been so ‘impersonal’, as a colleague of his out it.

The big eighteen-wheeler had the front tyres shot out and it crashed into a parked car. Joe had jumped out of the truck to be faced with a machete-wielding Hispanic who was obviously ‘high’. That’s when his face was cut open. The Hispanic died from a broken neck.

Lying in the hospital, Joe had decided to come home and there he was on the verandah. The house was in pitch darkness and Joe frowned, puzzled. Even if they were out, they would have left a light on.

A car suddenly pulled up behind him and he turned to face it. It was a police car. A young policeman stuck his head out of the window and asked Joe whom he was looking for. Joe replied ‘The Sacketts. Do you know where they are?’ The policeman said that the old couple had died a couple of years ago. Seemed like their youngest son had been killed in action two days before he was supposed to come back from Vietnam and the older one had been missing for quite a while. The policeman asked if they were friends of his, and Joe said, ‘no’. It’s just that he had come by this house when he was younger and he liked it. He thanked the policeman and walked off down the driveway. The policeman watched the lonely figure, carrying his duffel bag, walk down the road through the rain. ‘Strange,’ he said.



Gregory Lim
Year 11, 1988
St. Peters Lutheran College, Qld.

Pic : Greg on his bike outside his home in Melbourne

LOOKING

Hey, who's that playing in the park?









Watching the chickens n' ducks.








Neighbours on a speed boat!








Looking for shells.








Toni looking out our room window.








At the Bird Park, Lake Gardens.








Looking out from the train.








Here fishies . . . . here fishies . .








Fireworks display at New Year.








Looking for fish.








Macadamia Factory, Qld.







With Naomi & Isabel.
Weribee Wildlife Sanctuary, Vic.


Port Dickson.
Club Med, Cherating.
Hey! Theres our dog Rusty!


Jer 29:13 You will seek me and find me when you search for me with all your heart.

BE STILL

In the matter of an hour . . . .

Psalms 46:10 Be still and know that I am God . . .

RICH MULLINS

Lately there seems to be much exposure on heroes cut down in their prime. A song that has been my no 1 favorite for the past 2 months is "Sometimes By Step" by Rich Mullins. Mullins is best known for the church standard "Awesome God". Even my 7 year old daughter sings along in the car as we zip around.

Not surprisingly, with my jurassic exposure to these sorts of issues, I actually thought "Sometimes By Step" was one of the latest songs released. Recently when reading of the demise of Steve Irwin and Peter Brock, I was rather taken aback to see Rich Mullins name juxtaposed as another hero prematurely taken from this world. Another poignant death, and as I will write another day, by no means the last to be brought into "my little world" these few weeks. He died 9 years ago in what the world terms a "tragic accident" when he was just 42. The song "Sometimes By Step" is in fact 15 years old! Do not know that Mullins death was a tragic as we seem to think. It has been recorded that in the afternoon of the accident that took him out, he told his manager that he was in a period of the greatest peace he had ever known. Uncanny huh.

A little about him - whilst Mullins was known as a great song writer, he had a great living compassion for the poor and adhered to a vow of poverty. From his music earnings he took a small salary and the rest was channeled out to the needy world. He modeled his life after his hero St Francis of Assisi and with some friends whom also took vows of poverty formed the charitable support organisation "The Kid Brothers of St Frank" which is still very active today.


Sometimes by Step by Rich Mullins and Beaker
As Recorded on The World as Best as I Remember It, Volume 2

Sometimes the night was beautiful
Sometimes the sky was so far away
Sometimes it seemed to stoop so close
You could touch it but your heart would break

Sometimes the morning came too soon
Sometimes the day could be so hot
There was so much work left to do
But so much You'd already done

Oh God, You are my God And I will ever praise You
Oh God, You are my God And I will ever praise You
I will seek You in the morning And I will learn to walk in Your ways
And step by step You'll lead me And I will follow You all of my days

Sometimes I think of Abraham
How one star he saw had been lit for me
He was a stranger in this land
And I am that, no less than he

And on this road to righteousness
Sometimes the climb can be so steep
I may falter in my steps
But never beyond Your reach

Copyright 1992 - Edward Grant, Inc., 1991 - Kid Brothers of St. Frank Publishing


Pic : The sky at dusk one evening in 2003. Taken from our Templers Park home.

PEACE IN THE STORM

Buttercups are beautiful,
delightful and free
Sleigh bells and mistletoe,
and lights on a tree
The laughter of little ones,
filled with such glee
Yet where are these things,
can the eye see?

The fragrance of a daffodil, drifts through the air
The memory of a charming smile, so fresh and so fair
The touch of the breeze, caressing my soul
But of these things, where can the eye behold?

The mountains, the valleys, the secrets they hold
The clouds in the sky, as they rumble and fold
The vastness of a lake, so calm and serene
So tempting its calling, but where can it be seen?

The tempest of life, is a ravaging force
Hiding the sunshine, with desperation and loss
Do not be fooled, by the storms darkest clouds
For right in its eye, are shined jewels and crowns

For character and humility, there is a heavy price to pay
The results – not efficiency, nor glamour, nor fame
But a broken spirit, mending in time
Able to hope and pray, and hear God’s bells chime

So look for the little things, God has placed at each mile
Through your tears see the sunbeams, and then see His smile
Live not in regret, but in His pictures in your mind
And peace within the storm, you surely will find

Robyn Toh
The Lake Gardens
Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia
8th May 1999


Proverbs 14:30 A heart at peace gives life to the body . . . .

Pic : Ryan looking out from our bedroom.

CRIKEY!

I like most others who have been exposed to Steve Irwin and his fervour for animals, was saddened by his harrowing and untimely death. It was our fortune that my kids Toni, Leon and I had the priviledge of visiting Steve's Australia Zoo with my father on one of our trips to Australia, this one being in July 2004. The Australia Zoo in Beerwah is situated about an hours drive north of Brisbane and is on route to my Grandmothers farm which is yet a further hour north inland. My mother was spending the day with my Grandmother at her retirement home in the quaint town of Maleny not far off which saw the rest of us trooping off the get a dose of Steve's zoological passion.

We did not see Steve on that visit that day. However, in taking in the different aspects of the zoo, we could feel a marked spirit of dilligence and conscientiousness in the animal carers and other supporting staff. The animals were chirpy and healthy, the place was clean and there was a sense of "vision" in the air with us visitors being educated on how the zoo was expanding step by step to deliver a more complete and expansive experience with nature. Passion coupled with practical planning had obviously made the difference.

What however brings me to my blog this time is to recount a chance experience I had at the zoo. There was a daily "ritual" where at a certain time, a few elephants would walk by and stop at a certain spot to be fed by excited (and nervous) children. These children were of course made to line up first and each child was given a piece of cut up fruit. It was while waiting in line that I overhead what seemed to be a senior staff telling a junior compatriot - "cut up more fruit to make sure that every child has a go". There were obviously more children than expected that day and in a spirit of excellence, the carers did not wish any child to miss out on the feeding experience. Steve's rich and wholesome approach to animals and their conservation had so obviously permeated into the work ethic of those exposed to him. Sometimes we seem inundated with cliches but "make a difference" had not been just a cliche to him.

AUSTRALIA ZOO

The "feeding the elephants" ritual. Behind Toni - brave Leon standing as far back as he thought safe.

Lil' crocodile hunter wrestling a croc.

Waiting with their Grandfather at the crocoseum for the show to start. At the time of our visit, the crocoseum had only been open for about a year.

Up close with little kanga.

With a rare albino kangaroo.

Feeding time.

IN MEMORIAM

These past two weeks Australia has lost two living legends whom we picture as having really lived. Unfortunately, both lost their lives tragically. Both with different passions, but both made their mark. Both were offered state funerals. Steve Irwin's family has famously declined the offer saying he would have wanted to be sent off like an "ordinary bloke". Peter Brock, the racing legend, is however being accorded a state funeral in Victoria.

Two years ago, in September I lost my own living legend. My Grandmother - Iris Helen Usher nee Wilbraham (1913 - 2004). She lived on a farm two hours north of Brisbane and to get there we would actually need to pass the Irwin family's Australia Zoo in Beerwah, near the Landsborough turnoff. My Grandmother had just the sort of mind that made me often think she was far more equipped to handle the modern world than I am. She had a quick mind and was a fast driver. I used to tell her that to my friends I refered to her as my Speedy Gonzales Grandma. The cheeky lady was tickled pink by this. On our errand cum shopping trips to Imbil or Gympie, she explained to me numerous times how to navigate safely on gravel roads in the face of the occasional oncoming car - press your brakes to slow the car down, and only then move the vehicle off to the road shoulder. This was to avoid the car skidding.

Grandma Usher learnt to drive in 1952 when she had to begin taking my Uncle Graeme (born 1939) to the train station in Brooloo on Monday mornings for him to catch the train to Gympie for school. She would again make the trip on Friday afternoons to pick him up for the weekend. My Grandfather, Leonard William Usher (1911 - 1975) worked in a saw mill in the day. In the mornings and after work he would milk his dairy cattle that grazed on his 640 acre property. On weekends he would also tend to the beef cattle he was rearing over the ridge on some forestry land he had leased. It was thus left to my Grandmother to do the ferrying to and from the train station. She also did this for my Mum Helen (born 1941) and her younger brother Darrel (born 1945) when they came of age. She enjoyed driving and actually drove until about the age of 87. Her last car was a spiffy red Mazda Astina.

My Grandmother had her share of difficulties but always managed a certain twinkle in her step. Her eldest Graeme, became a victim to polio in the last polio outbreak that began in the summer of 1950. He was attending a small school in Brooloo and of the 30 odd students there, 6 contracted the virus which also resulted in 1 death. Graeme who was 11 at the time, spent a year in hospital, from 18th Feb 1951 to 17th Feb 1952. He was sent to a hospital in Brisbane to be put onto an Iron Lung and the polio caused paralysis in his left leg. Brisbane was about a 2 hour drive from the farm. My Grandmother could only visit him once a month. The mail man would throw the newspaper - The Courier Mail - at the gate of the property every morning on his way through. Once a month she would arrange for him to pick her up on the way and drop her off in Landsborough where she would take the train down to Brisbane. In the evening she would take the train to Eumundi where my Grandfather would then pick her up. I remember many times when I myself took the train to Eumundi and she would be there to pick me up.

My Grandfather died in 1975. He had a weak heart although officially the cause of death was pneumonia. I only met him on my first trip to Australia when I was 4. I do remember him, . . . perhaps more the aura of him. When my Grandmother and Grandfather went off on their first date, they both were on horseback! I remember feeling a great mix of thrill and fear while us kids looked out the window when he and some other guy had a horse on the ground with its face covered in cloth. The were doing something to the hoof or shoe of this horse which looked huge lying down. I remember the air was tense so whatever was happening must have been dangerous. My Grandmother inherited the farm and in doing so she became the owner of the only privately owned mountain in South East Queensland. The bluff on that mountain was named Duwirri, an aboriginal term. It was from this bluff that her ashes were released into the wind after she died.

I vividly remember one evening at dusk while I was near the tank of molasses by the gate seeing her scurrying out of the barn to the farmhouse just before twilight having a jug in her hand. The jug was full of fresh milk scooped from a large storage tank of freshly milked milk. I remember the taste of Sarspirilla, a soft drink that for some reason is associated with my memory of her. Bacon never tasted as good as when she cooked us bacon and eggs. The smell of frying bacon awoke us from our beds on the verandah on the far side of the house. Under the house was sandy and dusty and sometimes we played there looking for eggs the chickens had layed. She had strawberries in her garden and she made her own jam. She also made shortbread and fruitcake. Before she was married, being the oldest, she would sew the clothes for the rest of her family. She sewed her own wedding dress, as did my mother in her wedding to my father in 1965. Incidently, my mother, who is also a great seamstress, also sewed my elder sisters wedding dress.

At the farm, I remember us kids sitting in the scoop of the tractor - driven by my Uncle Darrel - heading into the paddocks in search of a tree to cut down that would suit as a Christmas tree. There was a creek at the bottom of the hill upon which her farmhouse was and in that creek lived a rare platypus - the famous egg laying mammal. Us kids never saw it but heard it splashing into the water when hearing us come near. Being a creek of stones, the water was always very cold. Sometimes when there was a suitable vine we could swing and splash into the water - carefully though - depending on the height of the water which could be shallow if there had not been much rain. I also remember following my father out one evening when it had been wet, looking for yabbies. He would find holes, put a baited string in and later pull the string out and if we were lucky there was a claw grabbing onto the bait. Those yabbies were quickly put into a bucket and later cooked!

My Grandmother was an accomplished pianist. Nearly every time I would visit I would get her to play the "Robins Return" which has since become a favorite of mine. She later gave me a copy of the sheet music to the song as well as a Thompson grade 1 piano book! She loved sport too and always had the radio on in the afternoons, listening to the cricket; and she always knew what was happening on the world tennis circuit. Her letters would always let us know the latest on these fronts as well as the latest rainfall measurements and a good opinionated dose of politics. One letter told of a decision of the authorities to name the bridge at one end of her property "Iris Bridge" after her. She however said she prefered it called "Usher Bridge" which it is now called. She would call me and her other grandchildren on our birthdays and I still treasure her last call to me in May 2004. She was by then in a nursing home in the dainty town of Maleny. Her voice sounded quiet and frail and she would breathe her last just 4 months later.

I can still hear her words :

"Good, better, best - never let it rest
Till your good is better and your better best . . . . . ."


. . In Memoriam . .

IRIS HELEN USHER

Duwirri - my Grandmothers mountain. It was from there that her ashes were released to the wind.

Usher Bridge naming ceremony. Far right Rob Borbidge, the then Premier of Queensland.
From left, my cousin Donna, Uncle Darrel, Uncle Graeme, my Grandmother, Grame's wife Dr. Weisia Willabinsky, Darrel's wife Aunty Maureen.

At the front of the farm house.

With one of her horses. In the back the tank of molasses can be seen - a thick brown liquid made from raw sugar - a treat for the horses. To the right of the tank is the gate where the mailman threw the daily Courier Mail each morning on his way through. Later in her life when my Grandmother grew weak, she would hop in her red Astina parked under the house and drive up to the gate to get the paper.

Playing my favorite "Robins Return" with May Fook listening on. She later gave me a copy of the sheet music to this song. The piano was a gift to my mother whan she was young and it now has a treasured place in my brother's home in Melbourne.

Toni & Leon taking it all in from the motel in Maleny. In the far distance . . . the Pacific Ocean.

The Erowal Retirement Home in the quaint town of Maleny where my Grandmother spent the last 2 years of her life. The home is run by the Uniting Church of Australia.

4 generations. In the rear is my Great Aunt Dorothy my Grandmothers youngest sister. We chanced upon her as she was up from Towoomba for the day.

The last time I saw my Grandmother. She would pass away in her sleep 2 months later on the 2nd of September.

Picking oranges in the grounds of the retirement home.

Leon in an Australian Army truck. The Salvation Army were there that day to give the residents of the home an orchestral performance. Lucky fella!