Let the Frozen princess go!

We are enduring a bout of Frozenmania. On the weekends, Alannah is allowed to choose a film to watch in the early evening, usually taking over two nights. For the month of May - is it only that long! - the flavour has been "Frozen". A modern take on Hans Christian Anderson's "Snow Queen, "Frozen" does not have a hero and a villain, but two people who are the Yin and the Yan of the same character. And Alannah - and her mother - adore it. They burst into song whilst wafting down the stairs. Make jokes about headless bodies whilst shovelling porridge drowned in honey. Which is why the visit to the library today filled with with so much hope. The two of them had spent an hour on the sofa in the morning sun, reading Enid Blyton's "The Magic Faraway Tree", and this put Kirsten's brain to work.

Last week they borrowed "The Princess and the Peas". Alannah does not need encouragement to aspire to princesshood. She was astounded that, come the end of this book, Lily-Rose May decided to revoke her membership of that particular order. Alannah's aspirations lay in tatters. "But, WHY would she decide that?" she wailed EACH AND EVERY TIME!

Alannah goes to ballet each Saturday morning, and is forever pirouetting down the garden path, or at barre practising tippee-toe stuff. On Sunday she performs in a concert. Her favourite colour is pink, but she will allow rainbow colours - in an acceeptable shade of the original, mind you. No room on that palette for olive, grey, or poo-brown. Today, however, at the library, they went to investigate chapter books for young readers. Kirsten is forever asking me to remember details of her childhood. This morning I was hit with "What were Alastair's favourite books when he was six?" (Alastair being her brother.) Blimey! His all-time favourite was "Goodnight Mister Tom" but he was older than 6. So I listed a few when he was aged between 6 and 12. Quite an age range, I agree. A list like: Goodnight Mister Tom The Smiler trilogy The Phantom Tollbooth Charlotte's Web Charlie and the Chocolate Factory The Giraffe, the Pelly & Me The BFG The Borrowers There's an Indian in the Cupboard They came home with bundles of Roald Dahl. They drove into the garage, then joined Juliet, myself and Sellie on the verge in the sun, and began to read "The Magic Finger". This evening Kirsten started "The BFG" and Darren started to read Alannah "George's Marvellous Medicine".

According to "The Princess and the Peas", you should be diagnosed withe disease of Princesshood if you are: quite pretty; polite; and, allergic to peas. Add to that: adore pink, squeal at spiders, choose your own clothes from under two, and wear ONLY dresses. Luckily, Alannah gardened with me this afternoon, and took great delight in all the massive, juicy wormie-woms that my pitchfork kept on turning over. I'll cure her yet!

And, yes, there is another little girl growing up under our roof. But she is only 8 months, and I feel sure no-one qualifies to be a princess un til at least 18 months.

Finding a purpose

This week was sliced through with public holidays, and the enticement of an extra-long-weekend, so my Wednesday or Thursday visit to Barry, became a Friday visit. I know it off by rote: leave the house at 6:30am for the 267 bus that departs the Castlecrag shops at 6:51am, arriving at Chatswood railway station at 7:07am. After a 6 minute wait I catch a train via Macquarie University to Hornsby to connect with the 7:56 to Gosford. This misses the 38 bus to Wyoming forcing me into a taxi where I use my 50% disabled voucher and pay $7 out to the Henry Kendall Aged-care facility, arrived a minute or so before 9am. Thhis gives me well-nigh 3 hours with Barry before I walk down to the Maiden's Brush Road shops and catch the 12:36 number 38 bus back to Gosford Station where I unwind the entire journey.

Yesterday was an excellent example of a visit to someone in aged-care. We spent until 10am chatting, weeding, and digging in his 'garden'. He needs to be prompted with everything, and is not able to have a self-propelling thought. There is a lot of cut-through required to get him to do things without being disrespectful and condescending. As we walked through his four-[erson room, it was obvious that two room-mates had departed since Thursday of last week. As the morning progressed, another man was being bedded down into the vacancy. I expect another passing in the next couple of weeks. He was most adamant he did NOT want his hair trimmed, so we took my trolley and toddled off to the activities room.

I had prepared a canvas with a stylised wing of a butterfly for him to pain in bright, clear colours. They have canvases like this all along the corridors, and I feel certain Barry's brain and eye responds well to them. He can 'see' them. If this simple wing works and he manages to complete the task over 3 weeks, I will prepare more for him. The activity ladies helped us set up a table with newspaper, and water for our brushes. He worked, engrossed, for about 30 minutes. Next week, we have been offered the pots of paint from Hospital Art, which I appreciate. At Barry's behest, we sat down and talked through today's copy of the Daily Telegraph. The only word that I found that he could read was 'and'. So we read the pictures instead. They were about ANZAC Day and the death of Jon Mannam and whether peptides were involved. Then Barry showed me how he does his exercises, and down one end of the room, we lunged and stretched together. After a leisurely meander down the 'east wing' we returned to the activity room where a game of Bingo had been set up for 7 women, Robbie and Baz, if we could cajole him into it.

Cathy did well to get him involved, as he was mightily hesitant, not wanting to interrupt the 'chat' of the female participants, not that they chat much, it was just his rationalisation to stay on the side-lines. However, Cathy gave him 10 cards, at least one from each suit, and a swag of milk-bottle caps. Then came the hard yards. He had to 'read' the numbers AND the suits, both of which proved elusive when there were 10 cards still in play. He could manage the reading when he was down to only 5 cards. But, with massive dollops of encouragement, he stayed the course. For the last 15 minutes we wandered the courtyards literally 'smelling the roses'. We chatted about how everything we did during the morning would go towards helping his brain to remain active. He wants the blood clot to 'dissolve'. I am more realistic than that than that. But I want him to know there are things that he can wander down and 'do'.

The importance of 'pre-'

Kindy and preschool are all about 'pre' stuff: pre-reading, pre-number, pre-writing. In fact, pre-paration. Getting a child ready for learning, involves them learning HOW to learn. It is a cliche nowadays, to say that learning is not about the absorption of facts, but learning how to find facts, learning what facts are important, and learning where to find them. To me, though, that doesn't cut the mustard. Learning has always been about technique, and attitude, and howto. Rarely has it been about the accumulation of facts. That is an autistic response. I'll jump into the deep end: a law degree teaches one how to think critically and laterally; working in a law firm will help one to seek out facts.

In reading, the 'pre' stuff is getting toddlers to appreciate that the marks on a page are what an adult is saying, that we are 'reading' those marks close to the picture. That these marks always 'read' the same. That we are not quixotic. We don't make things up each time. That the marks go from left to right. Sure, we can describe the picture, chat about it, but that will vary each and every time. And although that has its attractions, humans crave certainty. They crave the familiar. Tthe marks tell more about the pictures in a consistent, replicable way. This can be broadened into the environment. There are marks everywhere that can be read. Like on the side of a bus, or the side of a truck, on the roof of a taxi. Or a sign on the road that says STOP, at which few cars actually stop.

Something similar goes with writing. There is a link between writing and reading. As well as reading the marks. We can write marks, and then read them and they are consistently the same. Toddlers enjoy realising the link between speaking, reading, and writing. They adore language and the control that so obviously comes from a proficiency in it.


Up here where I am keying this, Alannah sits where I am now, and I stand beside her. She can have as many pieces of paper as she wants - each piece is a quarter of A4 - and she does ask for more when she has finished.

Up until today, I have offered her a black texta, and four coloured textas. Today she would only use black, possibly because I only write with black. I make marks with the coloured textas but do not (and cannot) read those coloured marks to her. She is a most observant child - she does a heap of silent, wide-eyed watching.

Usually, I ask if she would like me to write her name. That is how it starts. But today, she said she was writing Alannah. So underneath, after she had finished, I wrote Alannah. Then she said 'Jane' just like that, and wrote it. I had not heard her say Jane before. I wrote Jane on the bottom of the sheet after Alannah. Then I asked her if she wanted me to write 'Lynn', and she gave a shy grin, and nodded. I wrote Lynn, then she wrote Lynn. Pretty much over the top of Alannah. Then, I pointed to both our writings, and said that we had written her name. And I poked her in the chest, repeating her name. All this writing can be seen in the first image.

The others followed suit, in order, Mummy, Daddy, Grandad, Ma. She knows that Ma is very short. And I think the 'stabs' (or dots) are her way of writing something short. She was very noisy when writing Ma. Nearly shouting. Yet Mummy, Daddy, and Grandad all look different from either Alannah or Ma. They are all long, with lots of ups and downs. She has seen these words lots of times. But never before have I seen her consciously set out to write them.

Today, Alannah's writing came before mine. she was writing, whereas prior to today she had been colouring in my writing. Today she was communicating, whereas prior to today she had still been listening to something. Today, she was joining in a conversation.


I *think* this understanding of writing could be going hand in hand with my asking if she would like me to read the 'words' in the book 'Rudie Nudie' which are words that appear to float across the top of the page. I read them slowly, and with great theatricality. Alannah will then use her finger to float across where the words are, and will sing-song read. I also read the pictures to her. I don't make up the story in my own words, but I point to a smile on the face of a character that might indicate happiness and pleasure. Stuff like that.

I was telling this to Alannah's Mummy that evening. And it transpires that on Tuesday, when they had been at Camp Cove, before the rain began, another push-forward had manifested itself. To quote Kirsten:

Yesterday at the beach I asked her what she wanted me to write and she said Alannah. I wrote Alannah. What next? Mummy. I wrote Mummy. Ma. I wrote Ma. What about Grandad? Nod. Daddy. Etc. I wrote them lots of times because the waves kept washing the words away.

'Rudie Nudie', written and illustrated by Emma Quay, ABC Books, 2011

The Reading Nook

When Kirsten was young she was read to a lot, although I don't remember reading to her before she was about one. This was the time of the Little Golden Book called 'Baby's First Birthday' and the book of nursery rhymes that she in turn reads to Alannah. The LGB proudly proclaims on its cover that it cost 39c. It was back in 1980.

In addition to reading, I would play card games with her, mainly using a pack of 'UNO'. We would sort them into colours. We would sort them into numbers. We would sort them into 'specials'. Then we would play 'Snap'. There were other packs of cards, like the one that took Grandma to market and we had to memorise the things she bought. These were played on a small set of table and chairs, after the lunch had be squared away.

Later, when Alastair was incorporated into the routine, the reading and the games went to after dinner. They could each choose a game and the four of us would play on the living-room floor. It might be Snakes & Ladders or Fiddle-Sticks or Who or eventually Monopoly and Scrabble. After the game, they were allowed two books each and they would sit on the sofa with the choices alternating. Parents alternated night about: reading, or washing up.

Eventually, the games became replaced by homework (at the tender ages of 5 or 6, yes) and the reading altered but continued until they completed primary school (aged 12). Each parent would alternate about children, but with continuity of book. This is where Kirsten became addicted to 'The Pastures of the Blue Crane' and Alastair to 'Goodnight Mister Tom'. From memory these were read whilst lying down on their beds. Then they could have private reading time. Then, lights out!

The books involved in this session between Kirsten and Alannah were: the LGB called 'The Fire Engine Book'; 'Go, dog. Go!' again; and, a board version of the nursery rhyme 'The Owl and the Pussycat' which must be sung. I forgot to tell you that Miss Molly got to listen, too.

Go, Dog. Go!

Reading is a performance art

Out of the gate and off for a walk went Hairy Maclary from Donaldson's Dairy. With Schnitzel von Krumm with a very low tum, Bitzer Maloney all skinny and bony, Muffin McLay like a bundle of hay, Bottomly Potts covered in spots, Hercules Morse as big as a horse and Hairy Maclary from Donaldson's Dairy. When suddenly out of the shadows they saw Scarface Claw the toughest Tom in town. "EEEEEOWWWFFTZ!" said Scarface Claw.

'Hairy Maclary' (1983) written and illustrated by Lynley Dodds (NZ). This is a great book which, as you can see, Alannah anticipates with glee. Julie took the upper photo last week. Kirsten took the lower three today.

Guess to whom this is read ...

And, of course, I acknowledge the copyright owners of this work, Emma Dodd and Albin Michel Jeunesse without whom we would not have this immense pleasure.

I found this book in a store on Le Rue Saint-Jacques in Paris.

The book is a joy to touch as well as to read.

Le monde est vaste

et je suis si petit.

Tout va vite

et je suis si petit.

L'ocean est profound

et je suis si petit.

Les montagnes sont hautes

et je suis si petit.

La vent est violent et je suis si petit.

L'hiver est long et je suis si petit.

Le ciel est infini

et je suis si petit.

Les etoiles sont lointaines

et je suis si petit.

Tout est immense, et rapide et profound

et sombre et long et haut

et je suis si petit.

Mais toi, tu es fort et tu es doux ... Quand je suis tout contre toi, il ne peut rien m'arriver.

Je suis petit, mas je sais que pour toi ce qui compte le plus au monde

... c'est moi!

Gathering figments

Way leads on to way, so they say. Although the memory of where they diverged - back there in the woods - remains, that's where it stays: in memory.

Trying to change habits - ingrained, plodding, comfortablenesses - is no easy task: determination, attention and discomfort loom large. The thought occupied my mind - mind, not brain, although the difference puzzles me - that I want to read more. Wrong. I want to feel comfortable to give myself permission to read more. Sustained reading: reading where the head floats off creating images from words on the page. Delicious, entrancing images that the eye has never seen: figments of an imagination.

Herewith, the nest. And here the main attraction, and there, and over there, too. My cherished copy of Gatsby inscribed in 1970 in a scrawling, yet still recognisable, hand with "Discuss the relation of the description of Daisy to the structure of the novel". Oh God, I really thought that mattered. Then.

And what is this: a guide roughly yanked from Saturday's paper? And tickets! Already they have sent the tickets ... 2009 Sydney Writers' Festival.


After slaving most of Sunday over a hot programme sprawled off the couch, with pink highlighter triumphantly signifying "definite" and red texta flashing "physical impossibility", the die is cast.

Thursday 21st May
From hot copy to hard cover
Norman Doidge on neuroplasticity
Clark & Whitlam: controversial biography
Fact & Fiction: Navigating the Borderlands
On Grief
Musings on Mr Darwin's Shooter with Roger McDonald

Friday 22nd May
The Future of Journalism
The Brain that Changes Itself: Judge for yourself
1788
Biography & Intimacy
Investigative Journalism

Saturday 23rd May
Richard Flanagan in Conversation
The Rise & Fall of Government
The Stuff of the Past
Journalism's big narrative dig
On doubt, luck and humbug
Remembering David Foster Wallace

Sunday 24th May
Kate Grenville in conversation

Woe is me: I shall be just too busy to go to work those days. Will just have to consider it a dress-rehearsal for the big R.

And what will at least one of you fixate upon? Just possibly the final event on the Saturday. My interest has been piqued. My intellect twanged. I admit that I ploughed doggedly through the entire 14 pages of the NYer article, copped it sweet when my DD condescendingly suggested that he probably wasn't my style, but the final rub - aye, there is invariably one of those - was when she dropped that Juggs (known affectionately to his mother as Shaun) cried soft, warm tears of disbelief on the passing of DFW.

So ... I embark upon a journey of discovery.