Cemetery Treat

I have been living in Albany for ten years now – closer to eleven – and how time flies. I remember when I moved I explored a lot of haunts remembered from childhood holidays and found some new ones. Always I saved the old cemetery as a treat. Yes, a treat for a time I was bored, or a bit down and needed something special to do. Now you are confused? I really enjoy visiting cemeteries, as a historian I find the family relationships, disasters, love affairs and fashion, spread out for all to see fascinating, encouraging and sometimes a little sad.

Some headstones resound with grief and a sense of a family that can not go on, and yet neighbouring plots will reveal that those same relatives lived to ripe old ages and gave joy to others, somewhere they found strength. The graves of children bring a lump to my throat, and yet these ancient headstones also serve to make me very grateful for the time I live in, where so many more children grow to fulfil their potential.

Today I needed some photos for an altered book and so I ventured into town for a blissful afternoon, feeling a little sad that I was ‘using up’ this treat.

I was caught in a dilemma – as often is the case when I visit cemeteries: Indulge my slight obsessive compulsive tendencies and visit every grave in order from beginning to end, reading every headstone; flit from section to section following the trail of family relationships or follow my camera and capture the afternoon shadows and shapes. I ended up doing a little of all, and resolved both to visit without a camera and in a morning so I can shoot with my back to the light.

Archer seemed particularly interested in this tiny grave for sisters Emily and Violet. I was heartbroken to see the work of vandals, not for the sake of the dead, I know their souls have long departed, but for the history, for those who left these markers. How beautiful was the plot of identical plain crosses home to the bodies of departed nuns, how poignant the messages of love left ... These cemeteries of of old seem to resound with hope for future meetings and a belief in the life after death, and yes, art.

Winter Freedom

I was saying to Sandy, this week, that I felt like I was being towed along this term ... dragged unwillingly behind some large earth moving vehicle perhaps. It was a clear sunny afternoon when school ended for the winter holidays, a quick glass of water and Archer and I headed out. I left my hair down and did not change out of my skirt the port was calling. This was Archers first visit to the port and he loved it, as Maggie did. Our port is a blend of grain and woodchip export, pleasure catermans, fishing, beaches and rocks. This is the port that all Australian and New Zealand servicemen left from to fight in World War I. It is right in town, close and beautiful.

This pigeon posed prettily above one of the whale watching businesses, he seemed to share my joy. Oblivious to the poop and rust around him he gloried in the sunshine.

These two had quite a chat as they posed for us, and yes, they both have two legs - clever girl is practicing her ballet.

This little fellow was watching a couple of fishermen hoping for an easy catch.

Look at this seabird glorying in the last warm rays of the day. Is he simply drying out or offering a prayer of thanks for the warmth? Perhaps a little of both and pinch of posing thrown in.

Too, too cute as he runs through the water. Archer found so many things to sniff, played with two other dogs, climbed on the rocks and braved the jetty with the water lapping gently below the boards.