The School Bus............... Non-Fiction

                                                                      The School-bus Run

It was nineteen fifty-two in the Australian bush.

I was tired and I was hungry. Along with a group of others, about twelve or fifteen at most, I waited at the big gate of the schoolyard for the bus to pull up. Crows perched in the gum trees overhead talking together like old men on a park bench after a lifetime of work.

As the ponderous vehicle that served as a school bus ground its way up the last rise and settled itself off the road in front of the school gate, kids jostled their way in through the little metal side gate for the best seats. An uncle of mine, known amongst the children as Uncle Dickie, drove the bus, and he and my father and grandfather had created this latest school bus, a small truck that Dickie had purchased for the purpose. They’d made a large, brown canvas canopy to cover the back and placed leather covered seats along the sides and front end of the truck’s tray.

Dad made the little gate out of an old bed end by cutting it up with a hacksaw and soldering on the latch. He must’ve made the steps too. The bus route was thirty miles long in a rough circle starting and finishing at the school. Dickie and his wife also owned the grocery store in the town a couple of hundred metres from the school.

I was in the lower grades, about grade two or three, when Dickie got the bus, and I was shy and in awe of the older kids. There was one kid, very freckled with bright red hair, about eight years older than me. I was fascinated by his unusual carrot top, and one day when he was squatting on the ground, I put my hand out and touched his hair. I remember him looking at me as if I was an alien, and I quickly dropped my hand. He was old enough to leave the next year.

The back of the bus had been left open, with just a couple of rails across to stop kids from falling out. As we pulled away from the gate to start the journey home, the crows flew from tree to tree following along behind. Everyone opened up their bags first thing to find leftover lunch. Apparently I wasn’t the only one that was hungry, but hunger wasn’t enough to tackle some of the sandwiches that had been drying out in our little hard school cases in the heat. Without preservatives, bread improvers or any other additives, the locally made bread became stale within a day. We had a baker in the town who baked three times a week, Monday Wednesday and Friday. In a town of around twenty people, we were lucky to have a baker.

Anyway, the crows didn’t seem to mind what the fillings were,or how stale the bread was. Any sandwiches, pieces of cold sausage, or stale biscuits found beyond redemption, were thrown over the back rails of the bus onto the hard dirt road, where the big black scavengers soon swooped down to have them. When the bus had travelled a few miles and the scraps dwindled, the crows were gradually left behind.

Just out of town the bus crossed a small bridge over Sandy Creek. That was the creek I always blamed for bringing the swarms of sand flies to our school! A short distance past the bridge was Carter’s farm, and two of the Carter children alighted there. Molly Carter was fond of the cereal breakfast biscuits that I took to school and she offered to swap. Actually she didn’t have anything to swap, but since I hated the Vita-Brits that Mum split down the middle and buttered, I gave them to her anyway.

Further along the narrow boring road, Billy Henderson urged everybody to sing. We all joined in singing, Good Night Irene. Everybody knew the words or soon learnt them, because Good Night Irene was a favourite for the bus kids to help pass the time. The trouble was Billy Henderson added his own unique flavour – “sometimes I live in the bloody country… Sometimes I live in the bloody town.” I was appalled and indignant, but too little to say anything. When the bus finally got me home to Mum, I wasted no time in reporting Billy Henderson’s disgraceful behaviour. Mum sympathised but didn’t offer any solution to the problem. I think she said, ‘Ignore him’

 After that it was about 10 miles before we came to the Muller’s farm. They lived up along a side road and the soil in this area was rather black and in wet weather very slippery. If it was raining hard the bus slid around from side to side in the black soil. In this circumstance the older boys whooped with joy every time the bus went for a slide, while I sat there petrified, gripping the edge of the seat and digging in my toes. Carl Muller was particularly vocal when the bus got bogged. Uncle Dickie would order everybody off the bus.

“You big boys will have to push,” and with a wave of his arm he gave permission to three or four of the boys to put their shoulders in behind the bus and push to help get it out of the bog.

Having negotiated Muller’s Road, the bus proceeded on its way to the next stop, a share farm, where the three Franklin children got off, Nancy and her brother Brian, and their little sister, Katy.

The numbers on the bus were now dwindling, and after the river children got off there were only about four or five of us left. At the No-Go River three kids got off whose parents picked them up in a  car before crossing the bridge back over the river. The river marked the approximate halfway mark of the bus run, and the last five of us now had the rest of the route on our own.

Our little group from the far end now burst into a rendition of McNamara’s band, followed by A Lovely Bunch of Coconuts, and Daisy, Daisy Give Me Your Answer Do. Tired of singing it was not unusual to have arguments or discussions about school, or what some kid said or didn’t say.

By the time I got home I was almost too tired to walk up the hill, but a ravenous appetite spurred me on. One afternoon in the middle of summer I was halfway up the driveway to the house when a bee stung me on the bridge of my nose. I found speed I didn’t know I had that day, and a voice too for that matter. Of course Mum fixed it with the blue bag, and tea and sympathy worked wonders.

The hardest time on the bus was winter time when the bus was on the early route for me. That meant that I was one of the first to be collected and had to be down at the gate waiting by 7 AM. In the Burnett region where I lived the climate was one of extremes. Frosts were not uncommon in winter, and I found getting out of bed extremely difficult.

One morning when we arrived at Billy Henderson’s farm, he wasn’t ready for school so the bus waited at the gate for him. Uncle Dickie started the bus when he saw Billy leave the house. Billy threw his schoolbag over the back rails, but he didn’t jump over himself. He stood there waiting for the bus to move off. I was nervous, because he’d done this before, and I was scared that he’d get run over. As the bus started slowly moving forward, Billy ran behind for about 20 yards before he swung himself up over the rails, to the grins and claps of his mates. Inwardly I heaved a sigh of relief. Billy Henderson was naughty – I wouldn’t do a thing like that!

If the bus arrived late to school because of being bogged or having a flat tyre or whatever, we marched into school like conquering heroes, confident that we were legitimately late, and couldn’t get into trouble. But the teacher would be impatient to get us all seated, having got behind with the lessons because of the delay.

“Hurry up you lot. Sit down and get your books out.” The teacher was snappy now and in none too good a humour. Our day might have started brilliantly, but he obviously didn’t think much of the way things had got going. Another boring day in paradise!

This is Me---(non-fiction)

Everybody’s life is unique in their own mind; mine is no less so, but perhaps after all, it is a little different to yours. I have considered lately that it may be different enough to write about.

Once I was a twenty something, thirty something, forty something, and fifty something housewife, doing all the ordinary household chores and going to work. I knew that this time could not last and was always aware of the encroaching disability that would one day be the dictator in charge of my routine.

I was forewarned because in nineteen seventy-five, after a second episode of optic neuritis, which left me with almost total blindness of the left eye, I was diagnosed with MS.

Yet I consider myself lucky – lucky that I have had a full career, and lucky that I have been able to have my family and along with my husband, have been able to raise two children to adulthood. We both consider ourselves lucky that we have five grandchildren to enjoy. I am lucky that the disease I have is not a more severe form – that it does not cause me a great deal of pain. I am lucky that I live in a Western country, where services are available, and modern conveniences make life a little easier.

My typical day begins at 7 AM when the news on the radio wakes us both up. At 7:10 the news is over and Pete rises to begin his day. He puts on a load of washing, cleans my false teeth, attends to his own ablutions, and about seven thirty brings the wheeled shower chair out beside the bed to help me out. My legs are dead to all intents and purposes, and he swings them over the side before lifting me to stand. I can take the weight on my legs now for about six seconds only, enough time for him to pivot me on to the chair. By this time the helper from the care service will usually have arrived and she will shower me. If for some reason she can’t come, he will shower me.

Two years ago we had our bathroom altered, so it is set up especially for me, and everything is easily accessible. Pete assists the carer with dressing me on the bed which is achieved only by rolling me backwards and forwards, and lots of yanking and grunting. I’ve told them all that there is a grunt box and when anyone grunts they are required to put a fine in the grunt box! How dare they grunt when pulling my pants up!

Hebe is my small electric wheelchair which I use in the house, and fully dressed, Pete lifts me again and sits me in the wheelchair. At last I can move under my own steam, and after getting my hair brushed by the carer, I’m off to the kitchen. If it’s sunny, I’m down the back ramp and outside to do my arm exercises on the rope and pulley that Pete rigged up on the patio. I squeeze in some deep breathing before tackling breakfast.

Occasionally we sit outside on the patio for breakfast, but lately the mosquitoes and midges have bred up in the damp conditions and make outside dining unpleasant. For that reason I’ve wimped out of late and eat inside in our breakfast nook where I have an electric lift chair. Pete lifts me yet again into the chair where I can put my feet up and attempt Words with Friends on the iPad. The trouble is I can never get them finished before Pete arrives with breakfast. Isn’t life tough!?

He’s made poached eggs on toast for us and I drink ginger tea. He makes that by dropping a few thin slices of green ginger into my sipper cup and pouring over boiling water. I use the same cups that the baby’s use when they first start on a trainer cup. I mostly manage to feed myself but a meal without paper towels on my lap and chest is not wise. Just outside the window hang the birdfeeders where I can watch the beautiful lorikeets, rosellas, and crested pigeons, feeding on sunflower seeds that Pete puts in there.

The rest of my day is taken up writing and reviewing for Fan Story and answering emails. Writing has given me the inspiration to think.

One day a week I attend a respite centre to give Pete a break from the intense physical challenge of caring for me. Our bus collects me at 8:30 AM and returns me to my door by 3 PM. (Or thereabouts.) I mostly play five hundred there, or other card games. Sometimes I play bingo, scrabble, or shuffleboard. But always with assistance. I have a close friend there who also has MS and is also in a wheelchair. At lunchtime we sit together at the far end of the dining room where we can be fed relatively unobtrusively.

I’m also lucky that I have one forefinger that still works, because it helps tremendously when dictating with the microphone. It saves time to make a small correction manually if I can rather than argue with the program. Of course it has a sense of humour and often puts in the wrong word deliberately. No, honest.

On Wednesdays we spoil ourselves with a day out, possibly at a shopping centre where we buy lunch. Once in a while we might go to a movie at a large complex. For these outings, Hebe folds up small enough to be put into the back of the car. I have another wheelchair with larger wheels especially for going outside on the grass. It allows me to get closer to the garden and sometimes we go for a walk around the block, or take the grandchildren to the park. We mind two of them after school two days a week. They love the park equipment, especially the ‘velocitron.’

The biggest blessing of all that I have is my devoted husband, who would lay down his life for me, and gets very frustrated if he thinks people haven’t done the right thing by me. That man is a worry!  I love him so. 

Everybody’s life is unique in their own mind; mine is no less so, but perhaps after all, it is a little different to yours. I have considered lately that it may be different enough to write about.

Once I was a twenty something, thirty something, forty something, and fifty something housewife, doing all the ordinary household chores and going to work. I knew that this time could not last and was always aware of the encroaching disability that would one day be the dictator in charge of my routine.

I was forewarned because in nineteen seventy-five, after a second episode of optic neuritis, which left me with almost total blindness of the left eye, I was diagnosed with MS.

Yet I consider myself lucky – lucky that I have had a full career, and lucky that I have been able to have my family and along with my husband, have been able to raise two children to adulthood. We both consider ourselves lucky that we have five grandchildren to enjoy. I am lucky that the disease I have is not a more severe form – that it does not cause me a great deal of pain. I am lucky that I live in a Western country, where services are available, and modern conveniences make life a little easier.

My typical day begins at 7 AM when the news on the radio wakes us both up. At 7:10 the news is over and Pete rises to begin his day. He puts on a load of washing, cleans my false teeth, attends to his own ablutions, and about seven thirty brings the wheeled shower chair out beside the bed to help me out. My legs are dead to all intents and purposes, and he swings them over the side before lifting me to stand. I can take the weight on my legs now for about six seconds only, enough time for him to pivot me on to the chair. By this time the helper from the care service will usually have arrived and she will shower me. If for some reason she can’t come, he will shower me.

Two years ago we had our bathroom altered, so it is set up especially for me, and everything is easily accessible. Pete assists the carer with dressing me on the bed which is achieved only by rolling me backwards and forwards, and lots of yanking and grunting. I’ve told them all that there is a grunt box and when anyone grunts they are required to put a fine in the grunt box! How dare they grunt when pulling my pants up!

Hebe is my small electric wheelchair which I use in the house, and fully dressed, Pete lifts me again and sits me in the wheelchair. At last I can move under my own steam, and after getting my hair brushed by the carer, I’m off to the kitchen. If it’s sunny, I’m down the back ramp and outside to do my arm exercises on the rope and pulley that Pete rigged up on the patio. I squeeze in some deep breathing before tackling breakfast.

Occasionally we sit outside on the patio for breakfast, but lately the mosquitoes and midges have bred up in the damp conditions and make outside dining unpleasant. For that reason I’ve wimped out of late and eat inside in our breakfast nook where I have an electric lift chair. Pete lifts me yet again into the chair where I can put my feet up and attempt Words with Friends on the iPad. The trouble is I can never get them finished before Pete arrives with breakfast. Isn’t life tough!?

He’s made poached eggs on toast for us and I drink ginger tea. He makes that by dropping a few thin slices of green ginger into my sipper cup and pouring over boiling water. I use the same cups that the baby’s use when they first start on a trainer cup. I mostly manage to feed myself but a meal without paper towels on my lap and chest is not wise. Just outside the window hang the birdfeeders where I can watch the beautiful lorikeets, rosellas, and crested pigeons, feeding on sunflower seeds that Pete puts in there.

The rest of my day is taken up writing and reviewing for Fan Story and answering emails. Writing has given me the inspiration to think.

One day a week I attend a respite centre to give Pete a break from the intense physical challenge of caring for me. Our bus collects me at 8:30 AM and returns me to my door by 3 PM. (Or thereabouts.) I mostly play five hundred there, or other card games. Sometimes I play bingo, scrabble, or shuffleboard. But always with assistance. I have a close friend there who also has MS and is also in a wheelchair. At lunchtime we sit together at the far end of the dining room where we can be fed relatively unobtrusively.

I’m also lucky that I have one forefinger that still works, because it helps tremendously when dictating with the microphone. It saves time to make a small correction manually if I can rather than argue with the program. Of course it has a sense of humour and often puts in the wrong word deliberately. No, honest.

On Wednesdays we spoil ourselves with a day out, possibly at a shopping centre where we buy lunch. Once in a while we might go to a movie at a large complex. For these outings, Hebe folds up small enough to be put into the back of the car. I have another wheelchair with larger wheels especially for going outside on the grass. It allows me to get closer to the garden and sometimes we go for a walk around the block, or take the grandchildren to the park. We mind two of them after school two days a week. They love the park equipment, especially the ‘velocitron.’

The biggest blessing of all that I have is my devoted husband, who would lay down his life for me, and gets very frustrated if he thinks people haven’t done the right thing by me. That man is a worry!  I love him so.

The Puppet Show----(a proposal)

THE PUPPET SHOW 

I attend a respite centre one day a week for the purpose of giving my husband a break from the intense work of caring for me. The people who attend are elderly, (I’m one of the younger elderly,) and often frail or disabled. Most of them still like to be as active as they possibly can, and quite a few are involved in craft classes.Concerts are held every few weeks. Recently I had an idea for keeping the craft class busy and the rest of us amused.

I would need to run it by the diversional therapist and she would need to assist in the running of the project.

My idea was to have as many residents as possible bring in discarded gloves and old clean socks to make puppets.

The writing group could be responsible for writing the script; and the Men’s Shed could be responsible for making the stage and props. I have written a tentative script which includes active audience participation.

In an effort to include as many people as possible in the action, I anticipate there will be audience participation, clapping cheering catcalls, boos, et cetera.

ACTION

To prevent the puppeteers, (well-chosen residents,) from having eye contact with the audience, a short curtain is in place behind the stage where the puppeteers are sitting. The curtain should be short enough that the puppeteers can access the stage with their hand puppets.

When the puppet stage opens the curtain, we see on one side a shop counter with the shopkeeper, Mr Thrifty, a potbellied man wearing a white apron with a pencil behind his ear, standing behind the counter dusting with a duster.

Suddenly onto the stage arrives Mr Thrifty’s first customers, the Crimper family. There is Mrs Crimper, a short jolly woman who giggles incessantly – Mr Crimper, a very straight tall man in a black suit--and their three children, two boys, Timmy, twelve, and Jimmy six, who is leading a little dog on a lead. Their daughter, Pinky Crimper, ten, sighs frequently in a deprecating manner, because of the fuss and nonsense going on between the brothers.

During the play, Mr Thrifty tries to expel the dog from the shop, much to the distress of little Jimmy who cries long and loud. When Mr Thrifty offers him a lolly, Mr Crimper remonstrates loudly about the children not being allowed to eat sweets.

Finally the dog is expelled, and Mrs Crimper gives her order for groceries. She has a long list and rattles it off rapidly, causing Mr Thrifty to rush about the shop collecting all the tins and boxes for her. By the time the family leaves the shop, Mr Thrifty is exhausted.

The crimper family leave the shop with Mr Thrifty struggling under the weight of the huge box of groceries. Under his arm he manages a bag of potatoes. No one offers help.

When he returns, he collapses across the counter with his head in his hands.

Suddenly, in through the back door Mrs Thrifty pokes her head, just in time to see Mr Thrifty put his head down.

“Good Heavens, Mr Thrifty!” she screeches, “We are never going to overcome those losses if you just loaf about the place!"

THE END

Speaking Her Mind------Poetry (the possible words of a totally disabled person)

Speaking Her Mind

I think they’re coming soon

With that lift thing called a sling

There’ll be some idle chitchat ‘fore

That nurse decides to sing.

‘Now how are you today my dear?

You’re looking kind of swish.’

I feel just like a sack of spit

Stop talking, fill that dish.

‘Ready? Yes! I think we are!

The water’s nice and warm,

Down down, down down, we go…

No no – that’s hot – that’s burning hot

my cold skin’s now received a shock!

For corpuscles are creeping slow, 

I gaze on skin that’s lost its glow.    

Flacidly here abed I lie,

with heart still beating – open aye.

I guess I’m feeling dying breath

It’s cold wind whispering at my throat,

My voice has gone –what did I wrong

That I must sing this silent song?

I’m trapped inside this body

with an active brain restrained;

The words I’d like to shout out loud

refuse to be proclaimed.

No limbs that work, no sign of life,

choice is denied along with strife.

Can’t undo what is in the past,

it’s too late now, the die is cast


This poetry was inspired by the many disabled people in the shopping centre. I often wonder what totally disabled people, who can't even speak, are thinking. I'm thankful I still have my voice.

The Night of the Storm – – – a tragic true story

The Night of the Storm

In the crowd one girl stood out. She wore a bright yellow sun dress, plain 60's style, round neck and sleeveless – just a bright splash of yellow. I was surprised to see such a bright colour in a funeral crowd in a churchyard. I felt edgy, unsure of myself, sad, shocked and uncertain. Doris clung to my arm on one side and Wendy’s arm on the other side. I was surprised that she stuck so closely to us – wouldn’t she want to be with her family members?

But they were in disarray. Dan was in the pub, too bereft from alcohol and grief to cope with his family in their devastation. Doris had never got on with her older sister and apparently the rift was too great to be overcome, even at a time like this. The mother was in a hotel room in the town under deep sedation cared for by the local Dr – and Barney – where was Barney? He’d just lost his brothers. Why wasn’t Doris clinging to Barney?

Three days before, we’d all been on duty. I was the youngest of ten nurses, the newest recruit of the little band of staff that manned the tiny district Hospital. There were also three of four registered nurses and the matron, a very strict supervisor who ran a tight ship. Doris was one of my senior nurses and a good friend. Their farm was not as far out of the town as ours. Doris, Wendy and I became close friends.

***

On that morning the alarm had gone off at 5:30 AM and Wendy and I had met in the big kitchen with the others to start the day shift. The news was just spreading amongst the staff – there’d been a terrible accident the night before. Three of Doris’s brothers were dead.

Over the following days, the story details gradually fitted into place like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Hushed whispers passed the news around, a word here and a word there. No one laughed out loud, no one shouted. A heavy blanket of grief subdued all activity. The whole town had slowed, as friends contacted friends, neighbours checked on neighbours, making arrangements, discussing times, discussing transport et cetera.

My parents arrived at the nurses’ home with my brother, and we all clung to each other, wordless and disbelieving. My older brother played football with – had played football with Kelvin, the eldest of the brothers.

It happened in the evening when the family was just sitting down to dinner, the family minus Dan who was on his usual stool in the pub. An electrical storm was raging. Lightning flashed, thunder rumbled and at the Elliott's farm, wind was rattling the shed roofing iron.

Kelvin, who loved the farm, decided to go check on the new tractor in the shed. When he didn’t return, his high-school-age younger brother, Dudley, was sent to ‘help Kelvin with the tractor.’ They were taking so long to return that their mother sent her youngest son, Nathan, to hurry them along before dinner got cold. Nathan too, did not return.

Some months before, the mother had had an argument with an electricity authority about erecting a huge pole too close to her front gate. The pole went ahead.

Alone in the house with the meals growing colder, the anxious mother, accompanied by the family dog, braved the storm to investigate.

Approaching the gate, she spied through the rain, the three boys lying on the ground. Her first instinct was to run to their aid, but the dog got in ahead of her and ran to sniff the bodies, only to be electrocuted and killed in front of her. She drew back in horror and ran to the house to call the ambulance.

***

In the first pew at the front of the church, Doris stood strong and straight, clutching hard to Wendy and me.  With her head held high, and in a clear voice, she sang Abide with Me.

My eyes strayed to the three coffins. I could not sing.

THE END


Author's Note: The boys were electrocuted because sheets of iron were blown off the shed roof in the storm, severing the electrical wires which came down and electrified the wet grass.

Poseidon's Pictures.

These are the pictures I promised yesterday of the oven.The garden has grown up around it and with all the rain we've had during the summer, a little loss is gathering.

The fire is burning and food is cooking in the outdoor oven.

our daughter in charge of lighting the fire and maintaining it.

Poseidon – temporarily secondment to supervising the oven. 

The oven today – gathering a little moss.

Poseidon's Oven ---Part 4

This is the last part of the story of Poseidon’s oven. It is not enough to teach someone to build an outside oven; I just wanted to give an overview of a large project very dear to Pete’s heart. It would have been easier if I could have included many more photos, as the project was interesting. But I hope in some measure my readers have gained some unusual knowledge. The oven is a favourite part of our backyard now, and we’ve had some delicious meals, including a Christmas ham with all the trimmings, and several cakes.

The science of managing an outdoor oven includes learning about the fires. Where to place them inside the oven – at the sides – at the back – at the front?? Since our daughter was a dedicated Girl Guiide in her childhod, she considers herself an expert fire builder, and often arrives two to three hours early before one of our family parties especially for the purpose of lighting the fire. In the end she and Pete found that positioning the fire at the back was the best position for cooking. And a couple of hours needs to be set aside to get the heat of the oven up before the cooking starts.

It is a fascinating, ongoing journey, and we hope to have many more cooking adventures in the future.

Poseidon’s Oven Part 4

After the inside dome of the oven was finished, Pete and I took a trip to the brickyard where we were confronted by a confusing array of interesting colours and patterns. Who knew bricks could be so exciting!?

Having made our choice, Pete placed the order. We had two days before the bricks were delivered so we returned home for Pete to finish the cladding over the top of the dome. To allow the firebricks in the dome to expand and contract as needed by the fluctuating heat, he placed tinfoil sheeting over the dome. Steel reinforcing bars added strength when he filled the space over the top with a mixture of concrete and vermiculite. I could see the oven was going to be well insulated.

Pete and I had chosen pale cream bricks to build the outside walls, with a few red ones for contrasting stripes, but just at this time a good friend, needing somewhere to dispose of a small number of leftover bricks, insisted we take them for our project. They were the colour of terracotta, and we decided they would make an appropriate base. You can probably see the bottom three rows of donated bricks in the picture.

Despite the amount of work involved in building the oven, Pete found time to take many pictures of his progress. Little treasures, including two tiny metal cars, a miniature plastic dog and a glass marble, were found on the site too, and he found it extremely difficult to part with them! 

"These belonged to some little child – how can we throw them away?" he said.

The bricks were to form an outside skin over the whole oven. Pete is a perfectionist, and he spent endless time measuring and marking the track on the slab for the first row of bricks. If they were wrong – all the bricks would be wrong.

Each day his last job was to lay the corner bricks for the next day. Allowing them overnight to dry, meant that he could attach a string line to them the next morning and then lay the rest of the line. He continued in this way as the oven skin took shape. Each day he found the time to lay about two rows of bricks which meant that the skin took just a few weeks.

In all, before he was finished he had built six brick arches, using five different templates. On the slab base at the back of the oven there is an arch over a fire-wood storage area, and at the front there is a lower arch as well as the two entrance archways in front of the dome.

At first when the cement dome was built, I thought it looked like a small mosque, but as the brickwork grew and took shape, I thought it resembled a marvellous cathedral!

I decided that we had to have a mask to decorate our oven, and Pete agreed. My research into Greek Gods rewarded me with the story of Hestia, a virgin goddess of the hearth, and of architecture, and the right ordering of domesticity, the family and the State. She sounded quite appropriate to watch over our oven. Now, where to get a mask of a Greek Goddess??

Hanging on our side fence were two masks I moulded years before during a hand building pottery class. There was the handsome, bearded Poseidon, keeping company with the poor unfortunate, (I made her mouth too big,) Nefertiti.

Not only a mask was considered, but I decided Pete should insert a rooster weather vane on top of the chimney.

“How am I to do that??”

“Aah – you’ll think of something.”

Unfortunately, by the time the oven was finished, we still hadn’t found our Hestia. The rooster weatherv-vanes we found on the Internet didn’t look as if they would last five minutes out in the weather, let alone five years, and the ones that did were very expensive. We haven’t abandoned the idea – it just hasn’t come to fruition yet.

As time went on, Poseidon, the only decent mask on the fence, was looking more and more like a possible candidate for the job.

The oven had been a big project. Pete and I were both mentally exhausted, and Pete was physically exhausted as well. 

When the outside walls were completed, I heard Pete cutting timber, and found he was building a structure to hold up the roof. He’d bought flat glazed roof tiles, and sections of ridge capping from the Brickyard. When it was finished, the roof was a lovely burnished brown.

Now the time came for the last little job – the chimney. Rado’s chimney had a European influence, with triangular pieces of cut brick around the top, and half circles of terracotta drain pipe across the top. Pete was doubtful about cutting so many pieces of brick, and I suggested he use his own design. The chimney he built looked great.

Our Greek Goddess, Hestia, still hadn’t materialised, and Poseidon was looking more and more attractive. We took him down and cleaned the cobwebs from his beard.

I'm sure he's started smiling since his elevation to supervisor of the oven.

THE END

(tomorrow I'll post a photo of the oven – just haven't got time today)