Shapes - Remembering Jean McEwan

This past week, my family said a tearful farewell to a woman who had a profound influence on our lives. Jean McEwan, my grandmother, passed away after a short illness, aged 95 years. Her funeral was less a solemn service and more a celebration of her life - a life that was full and lived well. The following is a piece my cousin and I put together over a couple of phone calls, plenty of tears and a little bit of laughter. We read this together at Nana's service.

Shapes.

by Dean Mayes and Keryn McEwan.

Square.

The squat little heater that sits on the hearth in the North Road living room. Its kerosene globe glows red, warming our bodies as the rain patters the tin roof. We watch the black and white TV; munching her homemade pasties as big as house bricks, or perhaps it was a bowl of her famous pea and ham soup. We play along with the quiz show and we marvel at her sharp mind, her worldly knowledge, as she deftly answers question after question in between the click-clack of her knitting needles - with a wink and a smile.

Cylinder.

The tall glass bottles she collects; Alpine soft drink all the colours of the rainbow. She serves them with ice blocks on warm summer days with her legendary Anzac biscuits and we sit under the liquid amber, playing with Matchbox cars at the base of the trunk, contemplating – but never conquering – a climb of that mighty tree. Her eyes were everywhere, our safety never in question when she was nearby. The empty soft drink bottles we carry to the corner shop, exchanging them for coins to then buy bags of lollies. We return to her in our sugar rush and she greets us by her rose bushes with her wink and her smile.

Triangle.

The chintzy silver Christmas tree, the only one I ever knew existed. Adorned with bright, colourful baubles that reflect the love of family gathered in the living room to exchange gifts, warm hugs and festive laughter. She sweeps into the room with platters of treats, inviting us to eat; her bell voice urging, “Come on, come on, there’s more to come.” The tiny kitchen has been prepared, a banquet of her finest cooking. Christmas ham, vegetables, her handmade Christmas puddings and cakes. She stands at the head of the table, ready to receive her diners, always with her wink and her smile.

Teardrop.

Her beloved fuschias; her pride and joy. Little fingers always found their way to those fat, pink teardrops to squeeze and delight in the pop of the buds – not appreciating it was too early for them to bloom. There’s not much that makes her wild, but a popped fuschia always does. The fallen leaves of the liquid amber to, so easy to kick through, spread far and wide across the hillside lawn. She chases us with the handle of the rake as she scurries to banish the leaves into neat piles. Or our feats of daring involving that clothesline. The run-up was perfect. Our leaps superhuman. Our giggles merciless. No wink or smile from her then.

Circle.

She was at the centre of all of us. Mum, Nana, Little Aunty Jean. As we branched out, embraced our callings and created circles of our own, she gave a little bit of herself to ours, ensuring that she would live on in many lifetimes. We are the chef, the hairdresser, the nurse, the businesswoman, the professionals, the servicemen and women. She has seen us achieve and has reveled in our success – always with that wink and that smile.

A friend of mine recently wrote, “I don’t believe in life after death or even in a moment that stays on beyond itself...What I do believe in is momentum – that one thought leads to another; that people leave shapes in other people, and those shapes carry forward.”

Nana has left shapes in all of us.

DFA.

Robin Too.

The past 24 hours - give or take - have seen an outpouring of grief at the sudden death of actor and comedian Robin Williams. Celebrated, much loved, kinetic, hilarious, legendary - all are terms that have been associated with countless tributes that have poured in from around the world. He was an actor of a generation, a pop culture icon (?), a figure of inspiration. 

These are all fair assessments of a man who has entertained for nearly 40 years or more. His accolades are deserved - his legacy cemented. But there has emerged, for me at least, another picture of Robin Williams that, while not detracting from my view of him overall, serves to humanize him to a level that is worth exploring.

Last night, I downloaded a podcast from comedian Marc Maron. It was an interview that Maron recorded with Williams back in 2010, book ended with some up to the minute thoughts from Maron about the actor's death. In the roughly hour long interview, Maron and Williams discussed the latter's early career, his comedic beginnings, his successes on stage and on screen and the material rewards that stemmed from that. 

They also canvassed the excesses of Hollywood in the 1980's, the vices that flowed to people like Williams as a result of success - the cocaine addiction and alcoholism and the mental illness. A fact that I certainly wasn't aware of before now was Williams was present the night John Belushi died. It was an enlightening and, admittedly, a sometimes disturbing insight into the perilous nature of success and excess that is not often talked about - though Williams has, in more recent interviews, been willing to discuss these in more detail. He didn't shy away from talking about the destructive nature of it all and how it shaped him.

The other alternate view of Williams came to me this morning via the comedy talk show Keith & The Girl. In it, host Keith Malley was quite forthcoming in criticizing the overwhelming expressions of grief on social media which he believed had gone way over the top in terms of a collective outpouring of emotion. He also broached - actually, he launched head on into - the subject of charges against Robin Williams that he was a joke thief. This, too was something that I was aware of in the past, though I wasn't prepared to give much credence to it. You always wish to see those you admire in the best possible light. 

Without pointing towards specific charges or allegations - you can Google this for yourself - the internet does throw up a number of articles that tackle Williams' apparent joke thievery which cast the actor in a different light. 

Malley's passionate argument around the faux grief and emotion poured into social media extended into his anger at certain comedians, whom he knows personally, who have pointedly criticized Williams in the past for joke thievery - yet they were in their on Twitter, on Facebook or wherever they could find a soap box, mourning, lamenting and telling the world how much of an inspiration Robin Williams was to them. 

There is enough anecdotal evidence to suggest that Williams did in fact engage in a level of joke thievery. It's disappointing and saddening. But, in any posthumous examination of a person, particularly a figure as revered as Robin Williams, I think it's a necessary component of that examination. 

I'll continue to watch his movies and admire him as a performance artist of incredible energy and talent. But, I will add these alternative view points to my own impression of the man that Robin Williams was...

Because, at the end of his day, Robin Williams was human...

DFA.

New Release by Dean Mayes - Feast.

I'm pleased to officially release, in digital format, a new short fiction piece called "Feast" that I showcased in part on the blog here a couple of weeks ago. 

At the end of your life, will you just fade away to nothing or will you burn the candle just one more time? 

Australian author Dean Mayes (Gifts of the Peramangk, The Hambledown Dream, The Regenesis Cluster) poses a thought provoking essay "Feast" that will leave you emotionally moved and your mind crackling with possibilities.

To purchase, simply select your desired format from the drop down menu in the left hand side bar and finalize your payment via Paypal. You will then receive your copy of Feast via email.

DFA.

Feast

The recliner chair sits in the middle of a sparse living room, its moth eaten fabric dirty with age and neglect. A small, wooden block sticks out from one corner of the chair, having been employed to prop up one of its broken legs. From behind, one could be forgiven for thinking that this chair is the sole occupant of the room - a forlorn relic, long overdue for the rubbish dump, yet it remains in use. The living room is dark, colourless - the drab grey of a tenement flat. Long shadows, cast by fading light through Venetian blinds project like gnarled fingers into the crevices of the musty room. The air is stale, filled with strange odours. A layer of dust coats everything.

An ageing television set sits on a rickety cabinet before the chair, casting garish light that clashes with the shadows across the water stained walls of the flat. The television's volume is muted. The only sound at all comes from a small mantle clock that sits on a thin shelf above a gas fired heater. Its steady tick-tock, announces the passing of time with surety.

In the recliner, a man of an indeterminate age is slouched over and fast asleep. Hiss glasses, reflecting the imagery from the television screen, sit at a precarious angle on the edge of his nose. His silvery hair, matted with grease is combed severely to one side. Flakes of dandruff are sprinkled across the shoulders of his tartan dressing gown. A small globule of saliva clings by a glistening filament from the edge of his mouth. It threatens to fall and soak into the collar of his pyjamas. A newspaper, held in his slackened grip lies across his chest. Several pages have fallen and lie at his feet.

Canstock Photos.

The hands of the mantle clock tick over to the hour and its mechanism whirs to life. The clock chimes six times into the darkness of the room, loud enough to wake the man from his slumber. He flinches in the chair. Arms flail and he tosses the newspaper into the air; its pages taking flight all around him, before floating gracefully downward and settling on the floor and on the man's face. Disoriented, he swats angrily at the newsprint, bucking in the recliner until he frees himself of his paper enemy, then he slumps back, weary from his exertions. He looks around the living room, fumbling for his glasses with arthritic hands.

He tries to remember what he was doing before he'd drifted off to sleep. Very little, evidently. He'd woken early but hadn't bothered changing out of his pyjamas. Nor had he yesterday...or the day before. Lifting an arm, he catches the musky scent of his body odour and screws up his face at the smell.realises he has barely moved from his chair since this morning. The only exception was the short journey he'd made from the chair to the kitchen several hours ago to retrieve a frozen dinner from the refrigerator, which he had set on the bench to thaw. He'd returned to the chair, sat down with his newspaper and turned on the ancient television set. It is the exact same routine that he has observed every day...for what feels like years.

There is little incentive to do anything else. He is years into a retirement that he has never, really come to grips with. He knows no-one any more. His friends are long gone. His family are living too far away and are too disinterested in him to care. 

He is a forgotten soul, lost in the multitude of square windows of the tenement...

DFA.

To read the full version of "Feast", contact Dean today to receive the ebook by email. 

Photo Credit: Damon Hart-Davis

"Feast" is Copyright © 2013, Hambledown Road Imprints & Dean Mayes.

Life Lessons from the Toilet Exhaust Fan.

Over the weekend, my children experienced the reality of death and dying. There was an awful sound coming from the toilet fan this afternoon. Upon popping the cover, a poor little mouse was hanging, trapped between the blades. My daughter Lucy gasped upon seeing it. But I gasped when I gently tried to extricate it from the fan and it squeaked in desperation, clawing at me to free it. 

It was still alive.

With great care, I was able to get the little critter down and, with Lucy's help we made a little bed for it in a margarine container. The mouse was severely shocked and undoubtedly injured but, as the old saying goes, where there's life, there's hope. Lucy sat with the mouse, cradling the margarine container, weeping softly and asking me if she was going to be alright. I told her I didn't know but if you stay her and let her know you're there, that would be very good. That might help.

After a couple of hours, the dear little mouse, quietly slipped away on her little bed of Kleenex. Lucy said a little prayer and we gently put the lid on the margarine container. We buried it in the garden. 

Life comes and it goes. How each life affects us, makes all the difference.

DFA.

The Stir Of Echoes.

My grandfather owned a Gladstone bag - a robust, leather hand held case with stainless steel locks and rings for a shoulder strap. In the 21 years I knew him, this Gladstone bag was a recognizable fixture - a mark of the man if you will - which he took to work with him every night of his 40+ year career with the State Electricity Commission in Victoria, Australia. 

Whenever I went to visit Nana and Pa, this Gladstone bag would always be in the same place - by the fridge in the kitchen of their Langford Street home - ready and waiting. And on the nights he was on duty, it would be duly packed - a meal placed inside for him by my Nana along with his toiletries, tooth brush and paste, a stainless steel comb, his wallet and keys. Off he would go to work as a night watchman.

For years, I thought this Gladstone bag had been lost in the moves my grandparents made after Pa retired from the Commission in 1983. 

Their first move was from the Langford Street home to a newly built unit in Saxsons Drive in the mid 80's. As often happens, there is a tendency to down scale to save space or because things are no longer needed. 

My Nana further down scaled after my Pa died in  1993 as she sought to de-clutter. She did so again just a couple of years ago when Nana decided her health and well being would be best served by moving into a independent living unit. The Saxsons Drive unit was sold. 

It wasn't until my Nana asked me, very recently, if I would like to have it that I realized the Gladstone bag remained very much in her treasured possessions and, of course, I was honoured to accept her offer. 

For me, the Gladstone bag was such a tangible reminder of who my grandfather was and I reassured Nana that I would treasure it as much as she had for all those years after Pa died. 

Dad delivered to me during a visit home in October 2012 and, right away, I felt the impact of now being a custodian of Pa's Gladstone bag. It was then, and is now, a little worse for wear. The interior has a lining which has torn a little from the seams and the leather needs attention. But as is the case with all things that were made back in the day, it remains sturdy and functional. 

When I got it, inside I found an old stainless steel comb - the same one that Pa always took to work with him. It still has the faint whiff of bryll cream though I am sure that my mind is conjuring up much of that scent. There were some old keys that I assume fit locks in the old Langford Street home. There was an old school bottle opener which I have proudly attached to my keyring and now use proudly with my own beers and, perhaps most significantly, the last wallet Pa ever owned remained inside the bag.

The leather wallet is a veritable time capsule containing ephemera that corresponds with a period in the early 90's when Pa was told he had cancer. There's a card from the Latrobe Valley Hospital showing his blood type, dated 1991. This corresponds to the initial medical work up Pa went through in preparation for the rigorous treatment he would undergo later in an effort to stave off the cancer. There's a scrap of paper with the name and contact details of the Veteran Affairs Liaison at the Peter McCallum Cancer Centre in Melbourne written in Pa's own hand writing. This piece in particular is significant as I hardly saw much of Pa's handwriting. 

Whenever Nana and Pa went away on their yearly grey ghost migration, the post cards I got from them were always written in Nana's handwriting. I think there is one post card (which I still have) that's written in Pa's handwriting. That is why things like this are so precious - both as a tangible sample of Pa's own hand but also his state of mind at the time this was written.  

And there's his Returned Servicemen's League Membership Card - which, ironically, was valid until the end of '93 - 10 months after he died. 

Curiously, there's also a receipt for accommodation for 2 adults at the Cardwell Marine Hotel, dated July 1973 - 2 months before I was born. How that survived in Pa's possession for so long is not surprising because Pa was always keeping receipts like that.

But among all these things that have survived the two decades since his passing, one piece of paper carries something more precious to me than any jewel. 

By the middle of 1992, the writing was on the wall for my Pa. The cancer - having metastasised into his right shoulder when it was first discovered - made the inexorable march through his body. We all knew how the situation was going to play itself out but I don't think I ever understood what was going on in Pa's mind. Deep inside a pocket of the wallet, separate from all the other bits and pieces, cards and reminders was this scrap of paper. 

Written in Pa's own handwriting, it is a passage which I can't determine is original or borrowed. Regardless, its impact is powerful. I can only guess that it was written some time in 1992, at what was undoubtedly a dark hour in the life of my Pa. Faced with the brutal reality of his own mortality, knowing that his remaining time on this earth was short, his focus remained on that which was most important to him. His wife of 48 years...

...and possibly the Butcher.

Having met during the worst days of WW2, George and Dorothy Mayes experienced the full spectrum of the human experience. They raised three good children of whom they lost one far too early. They built a home and a life in a proud working class town and revelled in the lives of their children's children. They travelled together, looked after each other, laughed, cried and and encouraged each other. And in the end, there was this...a small devotional script, a message of feeling from the inner most thoughts of my grandfather's mind. 

These are the stir of echoes that continue in me...

DFA.

I Am Here Alone.

A couple of weeks have passed by since you left. Those weeks have felt like years and I feel as though I am in a no man's land.


I have made several abortive attempts at continuing on with my writing journey, but they are slow. They feel fruitless. Sometimes I sit in front of the screen for what feels like hours and nothing comes forth. The cursor blinks patiently as though waiting for my cue, ready and eager to skip across the pixels with a word trail fanning out behind it. But nothing happens. What am I doing?


It's not the same, now you are gone. I've no one to bounce ideas off of. No one to help me edit, no one to listen to me agonize over my sentences, my lines of dialogue, my random ideas. The story is there. It is mapped out. We mapped it out together - you and I. Over luke warm coffee at 2 in the morning when I couldn't sleep and I would pace outside on the patio with you, a pencil in hand, my journal on the outdoor table opened to receive those new ideas like radio signals from a distant star. Anyone else would have thought I was crazy, but not you. You never once.admonished me for my randomosity.


Now you are gone, I feel as though the ideas are locked behind an iron door. I stand alone on the patio now, at 2 in the morning and all I have is the moon and the stars to accompany me. I often wonder if one of those stars is you. Is it you?


I can't write you the way I did before. Before, you were beside me. I could reach down and pat your side, feel your fur and look into your eyes and know your character. I had such a vivid notion of you before and you lived on the page with such...life.


Now you live only in my memories. You reside in that place, so eloquently described by Thomas Harris as my 'memory palace' and those memories are much harder to make tangible. I feel as though they are fading - that you are fading - and soon I will lose my sense of you and how you were before.


I have not known this depth of sadness. Yes, I have lost loved ones, family members, friends. But never a companion such as you. You and I knew each other like nobody else did. It was unexplainable. It was just...there. You knew my emotions before I even knew them myself. You knew my routine, my quirks, my humaness. You tolerated my failings and you sought always to bring out the best in me.


You were my brother Simon, I loved you.


I miss the hell out of you.


DFA.

Simon - A Life

How does one go on without a companion who gifted so much love, wisdom and life as Simon gave me? I shall remember and I shall never forget.

On September 23rd 2011, I said goodbye for the last time.

Rest my brother. Thank you.

The Fourteenth Year.

I can still vividly remember the first day I met him.

My wife and I - then young lovers - were spending one of those particularly romantic days together, when we were first courting. We had just moved in together and were out and about shopping for things to make our home "ours". It was an extremely carefree and gushy time so bare with me here. We saw everything through rose colored glasses. We couldn't stop kissing or smooching and I don't think we spent many moments not holding hands. It was young love writ large.

I don't think we had actually discussed the idea of "expanding" our little household, although it had come up casually in conversation in one form or another at different times. So full of limerance as we were, when the opportunity presented itself, it was an opportunity that was too cute to pass up.

We were in the shopping mall, armed with homeware purchases and grocery items, strolling towards the exit, when we heard him. It was unmistakable - a loud, high pitched "yap, yap, yapping" My then serioso looked at me with those eyes that said "Awwwww!"

The pet store was just ahead of us, a small store front that was a kind of 'blink-you'll-miss-it' affair. That was where the yapping was coming from. At the time, I was the more reluctant of the two of us. I mean, we had just moved in together and were still finding our feet with one another. But I couldn't resist her eyes. They were one of her most attractive features.

I was lead towards the the pet store and inside, it was a cramped space, occupied mostly by bird cages and fish tanks. I remember looking around for the cat and dog cages, thinking 'are we in the right place?' But the yapping started up once more and I knew, we couldn't be any place else.

So we find our way to the very back of the store and found the source of the noise.

There on a wall occupied by cages of cats and dogs and other mammals, at eye level, was one particular puppy. It could only have been him.

He was six weeks old. He was born in June. A small bundle of black and white fur, with mottled socks on his front legs and overtly tall, pointed ears. His eyes were huge, almost too big for his face. And, as we approached the glass he instantly stopped his ultimate fighting contest with the ball of newspaper, sat down on his hind legs, wagged his tail furiously and looked straight at us. He yapped twice then got up, turned his rear end to the glass and promptly shat on it, a liquid stream of poo that made me flinch reflexively. My rose colored glasses cracked a little.

I noticed then that his enclosure was kinda filthy with poo and under normal circumstances I probably would have baulked right away. But this observation was almost completely usurped by the fact that the puppy occupying the enclosure was so damned cute. Even though we hadn't even made a decision yet, I knew we weren't going to be leaving the store without him.

He was six weeks old. He was a cross breed, a mixture of Border Collie and that quintessentially Australian cattle dog - the Blue Heeler. We were told he had been born in a litter of pups from the Southern Vailes of South Australia, down among the wine barrels of the McLaren Vale Wine Region.

My then serioso was sold on him the moment she laid eyes on him. I, although a little concerned about the amount of shit he had produced in those first few minutes, was reassured after the pet shop owner told me that he had just finished a course of routine antibiotics which was the cause of his "squirts".

Cut forward to us driving home from the mall. We'd purchased a bottle of Bleasedale Caberbet Sauvignon to celebrate...it seemed appropriate.

...On my serioso's lap, was a large cardboard box. The pup lay sleeping inside, evidently worn out after the whole ultimate fighting thing and the subsequent liberation from the two feet by four feet enclosure. Though we had no idea of the concept, we felt complete. Niether of us could take our eyes off the box. We were hoping he would wake up so we could interact with him.

"What shall we name him?" my serioso asked.

We ran through a bunch of names, from the usual, dumb pet names to the more sensible ones. None of them seemed to 'fit' however. This little pup seemed to possess something special - something different. He wasn't an average pooch at all. As we mulled it over, the pup awoke to the sound of our voices and popped his head out of the top of the box, yawning generously.

My serioso gave him a loving soft nose rub.

"What do you think of Sam?" I suggested, thinking that he looked noble enough to be a Sam.

"Hmmm" my serioso mused, a note of hesitation running through her voice.

"Okay..." I continued. "How about...Simon?"

We both looked at our new puppy. There was a moment of quiet between us, then my serioso nodded.

"Simon...that's it. Simon"

It fit.

Simon from then on, has become an inextricable part of my life. I regard him as, quite possibly, my best friend. We have grown up together, an unshakeable bond has grown between us.

Simon has been there during the best parts of my life - when my serioso and I were married. I actually wanted him to wear a golden bow tie and be a part of the wedding but I was talked out of it - probably for the best. The morning walks my wife and I used to go on religiously when we lived in Adelaide Hills - Simon was there. I'm sure he woulda put his own leash on if he could. I mean, he would actually bring it to us so we could put it on him. Whenevee the very word 'Walk' was uttered he would bolt straight for the leash, hanging on a hook outside. And he wouldn't so much walk along with us as he would attempt to pull our arms out of our sockets. Thank god we could let him off occasionally. Simon was particularly spoilt - by myself. He always got one of the sofas to himself and especially loved our movie nights, especially when we got our first home theater. He is an avowed Star Wars fan - like his 'daddy' - although I think he secretly leans a little more towards the works of Tarrantino, especially recently. Simon loves popcorn - MAJORLY - and we would usually end up surrendering at least half of a bowl of hot buttered heaven to him alone. He loved the drives and the day trips we used to go on and he always had his favored position in the back seat. No one would dare get in the way of his spot on the back seat. When my wife and I moved to the city, to our new house, he didn't once fret or struggle with adjusting to the new environment. He is and always has been adaptable.

A number of times, Simon has flirted with disaster. Chewing the cords of my Playstation controllers aside, Simon once brought down some loose house bricks on one of his front paws in an attempt to get through the side gate and he did a pretty decent job of breaking it. For weeks after, he sported a bright blue plaster which he wore, reluctantly. He hobbled around like a senior citizen and made it known that blue is definitely not his color. But the paw healed and he didn't suffer any long term after effects as a result of his injury. We once brought him home from the kennel we used to favor after an overseas holiday to find a really nasty hole in his equivalent of his groin. The wound must have been sustained from him being impaled by something sharp and it became badly infected. Subsequently, Simon became very ill and it was touch and go for some time. Again, he pulled through as if nothing had happened. We never took him back to that kennel.

Simon has also been there during the worst parts of my life - my darkest hours. When my marriage broke down and I was, literally, totally alone in this city that is far from the place where I grew up, Simon was my confidant, my one unwavering support, my only friend. He was with me when I had to move all of my furniture out of the house and into a shed that would become my home for 6 months while I built a new house. There were many of those trips at really odd hours to move my life out and Simon subtly moved from the back seat upto the front passenger seat to keep me company. For a time, my wife and I had joint custody of Simon and we made an honest attempt at sharing him. But it was doing us no good. In the ensuing train wreck that inevitably happens with a marriage breakdown, I feared I would lose Simon. And I was prepared to give him up too if it meant that he would be settled and happy. Fortunately (and I was to be forever grateful for this) my wife decided to surrender him to me.

For a time it was just Simon and me. And we were comfortable - if a little homeless. I battled depression - severe depression - and Simon was there to help me pick up the pieces. Much to my shame he did a lot of picking up after me but never once did he turn away. Eventually, I met someone new and with Emily came new love and new possibilities. The house was built - back in the Adelaide Hills that we both loved so much. Simon was kitted out with a brand new kennel and our new life began. There were new places to explore, new roads to walk and new air to breathe. 

With the passing of years, I sometimes wondered how long would Simon be around for. I mean, I know dogs have a different lifespan to humans and inevitably, I knew time would catch up to Simon. But I was amazed - constantly - watching him as he passed through his tenth and eleventh and twelfth years of life effortlessly. He witnessed the birth of our first child and took to Xavier without difficulty at all. In fact, he seemed tailor made for children. When Lucy was born, Simon seemed to be just as excited when we brought her home as Xavy was. He has watched them both grow and they have have grown to love him as a part of the family. Simon has slowed down somewhat. Arthritis has collected in his hips and it's made things a little more challenging for him to do, but it hasn't prevented him from enjoying an active life and playing with the children in the garden.

Simon has given so much joy but perhaps the most rewarding thing Simon has given me was the basis for an in-story characterization of him in my novel "The Hambledown Dream". During the months I spent writing the novel, Simon was with me a lot of time, sitting on the floor of my little den, snoring away as I wrote on rainy afternoons or out on the patio with a glass of wine and the bird song to keep us company when the sun was shining. It was somewhat inevitable that I would feature him in the story. I didn't count on his role being such a popular one. People who have read the novel have told me how much they loved Simon's appearence in it and how they loved his contribution to the emotional finale. He really is that wonderful character. He has such personality and a wisdom that he conveys through his eyes and his big smile.

Last week, we received some fairly shattering news.

For the past couple of months, Simon has been visibly struggling with walking and, initially, we thought it was an exacerbation of his arthritis. It's been really distressing for him - given that he has been such an active dog - and it's been distressing for us, not really.knowing what to do to make it better for him. Things however, took an alarming turn a couple of weeks ago when, as if from no-where, a large lump developed on his hind leg which seemed to irritate the hell out of him. Alarms bells went off and we promptly took him to the vet for an examination.

Simon has been diagnosed with cancer.

Without going into the specifics of the type of cancer that he has - it's a particularly nasty one - we've been told that the prognosis is poor and that his remaining time here with us is uncertain. Painful as the decision was, we've decided that treatment is not an option. There are too many risks for an older dog like Simon and the outcome would most likely be the same. For now, we've opted to treat him conservatively - to clear up the infection in his leg, manage the tumor, treat his arthritis with steroids and make him as comfortable as possible.

Our little family has been rocked to it's core. Xavier has some basic idea of the significance of the diagnosis, while Lucy is far too young to comprehend it. Both Emily and I are struggling to comprehend it ourselves. Suffice to say we are devastated.

For now, the steroids have actually helped Simon a lot and he has regained some of that characteristic spark that so endears him to everyone. He seems more comfortable and moves much more easily. Just today, he was playing soccer with Xavy and I in the garden and he was mixing it up quite skilfully - if a little gingerly. He hasn't lost his appetite and still eats like a horse - the steroids no doubt have helped that. So long as he has that kind of quality of life, then I am happy. 

He will celebrate his fourteenth year of life on June the 26th this year. I don't know yet, if he will make it to that date. After much discussion, anguish, soul searching and tears I've decided that once his quality of life deteriorates significantly, then I will make that one final journey to the vet with him.

Simon has made an indelible mark on my life for a full third of my life. I can't imagine how my life would have been without him in it. I can't imagine how life will be once he is gone.

Simon is my friend.

DFA.

Dreams Of A Love Indestructible (Part Eighteen).

It was somewhere close to 7:30pm as Lionel was closing up the shop for the day when he looked across the street at Soneya's cottage, noticing a light still on in the front window.

He knew instinctively that she must still be there.

“What is it dear?” Ruth inquired, noticing her husband as he lingered by the door.

“Oh...nothing,” Lionel replied sagely. “It looks as though Soneya is putting in another long day”

“That girl is working harder and harder Lionel,” Ruth remarked worriedly, shaking her head as she finished counting out the days take from the register. “It's not healthy for her”

“I know, I know," Lionel agreed wearily. She works much too hard. But it's not our place to tell her what she should and shouldn't be doing”

He rolled his eyes out of view of Ruth. They had had this discussion many times before.

Ruth checked the counter behind her. The two large black soup pots there were still switched on. She hadn't yet emptied them.

“Do you...think you should take a meal across to her Lionel? She would have skipped dinner again. It's not right for someone so busy as her”

Lionel baulked at her suggestion sensing where Ruth's mind was heading.

“Look, I don't think we should go meddling Ruth. She's a very private person – and independent. Soneya doesn't take kindly to any sort of interference”

Ruth had already fetched out a sealable container and was ladling piping hot pumpkin soup into it. She then took a herb bread roll from a nearby basket and warmed it slightly in the microwave.

“Ruth” Lionel intoned malevolently but she brushed him aside.

“Lionel, I'll not have that poor child wasting away in that office all alone at this time of night without at least something nutritious in her belly. She may not be our child but I consider her like our own. I feel an obligation to look out for her”

Ruth gathered up the items – the soup and bread, a coffee, some items of fruit – into a basket and came out from behind the counter.

“Take this over to her darling” she pleaded. “At least encourage her to have something”

Lionel frowned at his wife and shook his head. But he took the basket from her anyway and inspected it's contents.

“Well...I suppose it can't hurt to at least offer," he conceded before levelling his eyes at Ruth. "Just don't you watch me from the window. Soneya has got a sense like a blood hound for nosy neighbours”

Lionel turned on his heel and stepped out of the shop, walking the short distance down the street towards the practice.

Soneya was sitting at her desk before an open laptop – a mountain of paperwork, manilla folders and old invoice slips stacked messily on either side of the machine – when she heard a knock at the door.

“Hello?” Lionel called out.

Soneya smiled at the sound of the familiar voice and glanced up from her screen.

“In here Lionel”

Simon looked up from his basket momentarily then flopped back down, closing his eyes and growling pathetically in the pit of his throat.

Lionel appeared in the doorway holding the basket in both hands and Soneya tilted her head to one side.

“Awww...what have you done?”

Lionel blushed and smiled.

“We, ahh...saw a light on from the shop as we were closing up. Ruth thought you might like something to eat”

Soneya's eyes narrowed with a cheeky grin out of one side of her mouth.

“She knew didn't she – that I would have skipped dinner?”

Lionel nodded as he set the basket down on the chair and and began depositing the items from the basket onto the desk. The smell of the rich homemade soup hit Soneya's nostrils and instantly her stomach grumbled.

“Well...she must be pscyhic. I'm starving” Soneya remarked as she fished her purse out from her desk drawer and began to take some notes out for Lionel.

“Oh no,” Lionel said holding up his hand to stop her. “This one is on us. Consider it...our treat”

Soneya hesitated, eyeing him curiously before closing the purse again and setting it down.

“You didn't have to do this”

“I know” Lionel said. “That's why we did. We can't have you fading away on us. This town needs a lawyer too badly”

Lionel nodded at the chaos on her desk.

“That looks to be quite a...challenge?”

Soneya threw her hands up in mock exasperation then she made some room on the desk so that she could set her meal down.

“I'm trying to organize all of Harry's old clients who've indicated they wanted to come back to me. I want to stream line everything into an electronic system but I can only do it at night though - after hours”

“Have you thought about getting a secretary to help you with all of this? It seems an awful lot to try and negotiate on your own”

Soneya nodded through a mouthful of the soup.

“I wish I could Lionel but I don't have quite enough spare cash right now to afford a secretary. Most of the money went into getting this old building up to scratch again”

Lionel looked around at the work Soneya had done to renovate her grandfather's practice from a dilapidated old house that masqueraded as a legal practice into a smart and modern office. He nodded admiringly.

“Well...there are people around the town who would gladly help you. You only need ask”

“Oh I'm sure” Soneya agreed wryly. “But this is something I need to do on my own. Besides – there is enough fodder in this disaster zone here to keep the Stafford gossip mill running for the next two years”

Lionel chuckled as he made room for himself on the chair and sat down.

“I...met that fellow from Melbourne the other day,” he said, venturing a change in subject. “He seemed like a decent man”
Soneya nodded non-commitally.

“He was...”

"He mentioned he was the Director of that Festival” Lionel continued, feeling incredibly awkward.

“Mmm-hmm,” Soneya responded from behind the bowl of soup, eyeing him knowingly. She had already twigged as to where this was heading.

Lionel steepled his fingers together in his lap and looked down at them as an uneasy quiet settled between them.

"Did he...enjoy the Bistro?"

Soneya placed the soup bowl down on the desk with an expression of mock exasperation and smiled.

"You don't do prying very well Lionel"

His shoulders relaxed and he looked at her apologetically.

"Evidently not. I'm sorry"

"He came to ask me to present an award at the Festival...in memory of Denny...but I told him I couldn't go"

"Why ever not?" Lionel almost gasped.

Soneya hesitated, suddenly feeling as though she had to search for a reason.

"Because...I have too much to do here," her response came out much too harshly and she blinked and immediately felt ashamed. She continued more calmly. "I couldn't possibly leave the practice for a whole week when I've got this to contend with"

She gestured expressively at her desk for effect.

Lionel considered her occupational predicament and tilted one brow in acknowledgement.

"Well...I can appreciate the work you must have to do in order to make all of this...work. But Soneya...you haven't had any time off in over a year. Surely the practice could survive without you for a week".

Soneya shook her head and rubbed her brow.

"I just...can't Lionel. It's just too much"

Lionel wasn't at all convinced by Soneya's reasoning and though his conscience told that he should relent, something else overtook his rationality at that moment.

"What about Denny?" he ventured cautiously. "This seems like an wonderful opportunity...to do something...you know, special. To celebrate his life"

Soneya stiffened imperceptibly then. She lowered her head just slightly and her eyes narrowed.

"Lionel...you're going too far" she warned him. Even though she wasn't entirely serious, Soneya let her tone remain stony.

Lionel took the hint. He stood up awkwardly out of the chair and looked at Soneya sympathetically.

"You're right. It's none of my business at all. I'm...I'm sorry I even mentioned it"

Soneya remained seated and didn't say anything. Her eyes darted between him and the floor and though she held onto the soup bowl she'd stopped eating from it. She could feel herself shaking with the familiar sensation of desolate grief that she fought against so often.

Lionel stood there, his features etched with concern but his inner voice told him 'no more' and this time he listened.

"I shall...go. I'll see you in tomorrow...okay?"

Soneya nodded swiftly and closed her eyes.

Lionel quiety closed the front gate and glanced once more at the front window of the cottage. He felt awful for having been so interfering but also for having so clearly upset Soneya. Ruth was right - she was like a daughter to them both.

Lionel stepped off the curb and crossed the street towards the shop.

"Why does everybody think they have a right to interfere?"

Lionel spun around abruptly to find Soneya standing there outside the cottage gate. Her face seemed devoid of emotion and it chilled him.

"No one is trying to interfere Soneya," Lionel said evenly.

"Oh that's rubbish Lionel and you know it" Soneya shot back angrily, her voice shaking. "This entire bloody town wants to wrap me in cotton wool. They think I'm going to break apart"

Lionel shook his head sympathetically.

"That's simply not true," he said. "Everyone here just wants you to be happy Soneya. And...some of us who care about you very much can see that you're not"

Lionel stepped forward, his arms outstretched in exasperation. Soneya baulked, her cheeks flushed red with anger. She crossed her arms defiantly across her body to protect herself.

"What is that you're protecting yourself from Soneya? Why it is that you feel you need to cocoon yourself here - working 16 hour days, holing yourself up in that house, not mixing with anybody?"

"I don't have to justify myself to you!" Soneya spat viciously. "What I do here is my own business! I don't have to mix with anybody!"

"No...no you don't...," Lionel paused as he considered his words carefully. "...but if you keep limiting yourself from living in this world Soneya, you're going to miss out on the possibilities of experiencing it. Denny wouldn't have wanted that for you. You have your whole life still ahead of you. Why hold yourself back?"

"Bec...because I have responsibilities!," stammered. "My practice is too important to just step away from whenever I feel like it!"

"That's not it" Lionel challenged her, shaking his head slowly.

Soneya blinked at him incredulously, wiping furiously at her eyes.

"Because here is where I feel safe Lionel!" she shouted angrily. "Because...here I feel as though he never left - that he's still with me!!"

Her eyes glazed over then with tears that streamed freely down over her face. Suddenly her features contorted into a mask of raw anguish and she began rocking from side to side, gazing off into the distance.

"Why did he have to leave me Lionel!?" she cried. "Why!?"

Lionel immediately went to her and enveloped Soneya in his arms as she went completely to pieces. Burying her head into his chest she wailed, as all the pent up grief that she had held back for months and months finally collapsed forth like a tidal wave.

"Why!?"

Lionel closed his eyes and held her close to him, recognizing what was happening; his heart was breaking for her.

"He couldn't hold on any longer, dear child," he whispered into her hair. "You know that. It was his time. He knew that. Denny wouldn't want you to hide away forever"

Soneya sobbed and sobbed. So hard that she could no longer hold herself up but Lionel held her close, supporting her, allowing her to collapse, to let her emotions carry her. All those long months of holding herself together, of concentrating on all the things she had to do in her life just to keep going, of denying the grief that had been trapped deep down inside her for so long - all of it tumbled forth like a tidal wave and it overwhelmed her. The 'wall' had finally collapsed and she was exposed by her emotions.

"I don't want to go on without him Lionel! He was my best friend, my...best friend. I loved him so much"

Ruth appeared in the doorway then, her own features were swollen with emotion and she was struggling to conceal her own sobs. Evidently she had overheard the exchange from inside the store.

Lionel looked over at her and nodded, mouthing 'It's alright'.

Ruth stepped down onto the street and came over, gingerly putting a hand upon Soneya's shoulder. She dropped down onto her haunches and surrounded Soneya's small frame with her arms and held her.

"I'm going to make up the spare bed" Ruth decided then and there. "Soneya - you can stay with us tonight my dear. I'll not let you go home to that empty house like this"

Soneya was too numb to protest. Lionel gathered her up in his arms and carried her into the shop and through into their house where he gently deposited her onto the sofa in their sitting room. Ruth followed behind him, having retrieved Simon from the practice and his blanket from the basket. She folded it into a mat of sorts and set it down at the foot of the sofa where upon Simon sat down and looked up at Soneya worriedly, whimpering softly.

Ruth then brought a quilt in from their room and lay it over Soneya as Lionel sat there on the sofa cradling her.

"Here will be good enough" he whispered to Ruth as she pulled up a chair and sat down beside her husband. She nodded in understanding. Together they remained there with Soneya until she cried herself to sleep.

* * *

By the time the international leg of his journey was underway and the flight was far above the Pacific Ocean, Andy had settled in to the rhythm of the aircraft. Though they had been delayed for an extra hour in Los Angeles it hadn't seemed very long at all and time had passed by quickly. It was now mid afternoon and the passengers were beginning to settle in for the roughly 16 hour journey to Melbourne. Some were watching in flight entertainment, many were napping. Andy had taken out the literature for the Festival from his shoulder bag and sat back quietly reviewing it.

The program for the concert series was to be laid out over a week of competition. Over the first five days the one hundred delegates that had been selected from conservatoriums all across the world would compete in a series of heats where two delegates would be selected from a field of twenty each day. They would progress to a semi final round on the Saturday where ten delegates would compete for five positions in the final on Sunday. The prize was considerable - a ten thousand dollar cheque and an invitation to record on a prestigious classical label in Australia for a release that would be distributed world wide.

Andy's heat had been set down for the Tuesday afternoon just after lunch. It was as good a position as any he reasoned. He wouldn't have to wait too long to perform and he would be relatively fresh. It was give him an opportunity to view the mornings contestants and get a feel for how good the competition field would be. He had two pieces in mind for his performance - the second movement of a famed sonata "Grand Solo Op. 14" by Fernando Sor and the piece Andy had performed that very first time in the Pub a mere few months ago - “The Sounds of Rain (Part 3)" by contemporary English composer William Lovelady. It was a more obscure but no less enchanting piece.

Sor's second movement had an orchestral flare that lent itself well to a concert performance and it required considerable attention to technique in order for it to be carried convincingly. Of all the great guitar composers, Andy felt a particular affinity with Fernando Sor because his works suited the solo style well - which Andy felt most at home with.

Andy was, however, leaning towards the Lovelady piece which wasn't as long but it was a complex arrangement with rich atmospherics and a unique visual soul. And it was one of those pieces in which the title really did say it all - it's description evoked vivid scenes of the rain. Andy remembered when he had played "The Sounds of Rain" as a child – the first piece that he had mastered with the guitar. In fact he wasn't sure now if it was himself or Denny who had happened upon it. But his knowledge of the piece was intimate. Though he knew he was taking a risk bringing a less well known piece with him into the competition Andy believed firmly that "Sounds of Rain" would best showcase his own skill and technique and challenge him. For it was when Andy was challenged that he tended to produce his best playing.

He did not want to think too much about the final - he felt if he did he would jinx himself. However he had a piece in mind for the final round - a concerto that would require an orchestral accompaniment. It was the second movment in the famed Concierto de Aranjuez by Joaquin Rodrigo – an incredibly tender and emotive piece that had taken on a life of it's own in popular culture. Though Andy was wary of just how prominent the “Adagio” was he felt that he had what it took to make the piece his own for this particular gathering.

He had recordings of all pieces on his iPhone and he listened to them over and over again noting the unique form and texture of the pieces, their tones and harmonies. He mentally practiced the fingerings making mental notes of where he would need to apply his most intense concentration. He emptied his mind of almost everything else.

Almost everything...

Soneya was never far from his vision and it took very little for her face to center itself in his mind's eye. Once the Festival was finished he would find his way north to Stafford to her. He would explain himself to her somehow – convince her of the truth of who he was. How he was going to do that he had no idea but somehow he knew a way would present itself.

Andy closed his eyes and drifted in his mind from his environment; from the quiet cabin of the jet. And in that moment he was suddenly overwhelmed by a intense feeling of sadness, of loss. It was as though he could feel the distress of another somewhere close by who was grieving. And when he closed his eyes again he could see her in his mind...he could see her tears and her pain and it took his breath away. The intensity of the feeling caused his eyes to snap open and he was back inside the cabin. He sat there stunned and sweating, unsure of what had just happened. Taking a napkin from the seat pocket in front of him Andy wiped the sweat from his brow and blinked away the lingering tendrils of grief.

It was her...He had felt her.

* * *

In the dead of night, Soneya awoke with a start as a similar sensation passed through her - the sensation of a presence somewhere close by; a familiar presence that touched her and felt her grief. She blinked in the darkness, looking around her and seeing only Simon lying curled up at her feet on the end of the sofa. Her heart thumped and she lay back staring up at the ceiling.

She had felt someone...she had felt him...

Copyright © 2009, Dean Mayes.