Storm in a Teacup: memoirs of a tea lady. Chapter 2.

 Chapter 2.

My mother taught me how to be a tea lady.  With admirable patience she trained me in every aspect. From boiling water to reading tea leaves.  I have such fond memories of sitting alone with my mother at our kitchen table, late into the night, dunking biscuits into teacups brimming with hot milky tea, radiant warmth coming from the old Metters stove, the soothing sound of the radio in the background. In hushed tones mother would tell me about her life.  She told me with great understatement, how she represented not only our home town of Wattlebird, but also Western Australia in the State finals which she then went on to win, thus becoming — Australian tea lady of the year.

          And as I sat and sipped my tea, mother would feed me one, or more, of her secrets.  ‘Warm the pot, always warm the pot, child.’

          Mother also had firm ideas on marriage. “Marry the dullest man you can possibly find, child.That way no woman will ever take him away from you.”

 I’ve since had much time to reflect on this pearl of wisdom. You see, my father, as I was later to find out, had many years before when I was still a babe in arms, run away with a Cabaret singer, never to be seen again. I suspect my father was a bit of a livewire and a ladies’ man that could charm the birds out of the trees. But he broke my mother’s heart.

          And so not wanting my own heart, broken, I vowed to my mother that I’d marry the dullest man I could possibly find.

Storm in a Teacup: memoirs of a tea lady

Chapter 1.

I was born with a sugar spoon in my mouth and a tea cosy on my head.  So it seemed inevitable that my mother, a tea lady herself, should teach me how to be a tea lady from early childhood.  I have fond memories of standing next to my mother by the old Metters wood stove in our weatherboard and iron cottage in the country town of Wattlebird where we lived.  Winter and summer, my mother chopped wood for that insatiable stove.  I can see her now by the mountainous wood-heap, poised with an axe lifted high above her head. Which she’d then swing down hard with all her might to chop a huge log of wood, and as she did, she’d cry out me, “child, always remember the operative word in tea lady, is lady.”

          So whether I’m chopping wood, cleaning out the gutters or serving cups of tea at a rock concert, my mother’s words come back to me.  

Dear Twits

Dear Twits
My mother and father couldn’t speak a word of English when they migrated from Holland to Australia in 1951. It was enormous fun to hear them learn to speak English. There is something very attractive about people speaking in incorrect English. Like when Mum, bless her, got it into her head, somehow, that the word — Twit— was a term of endearment. Suddenly visitors were being greeted with, “Hello Twit.” “Is that you Twit?” Fare-welled with, “Bye-bye Twit.” Comforted with,” there-there Twit.”
I’ve come to love the word — Twit.

The Lazy Devil

It’s tough when your twenty-five year old son is hell-bent on becoming a writer.  You do wonder where you went wrong as a parent. Persecute yourself for having failed as a mother. Nights are spent wondering how your once, sweet little boy went from reading Possum Magic by Mem Fox to  —We Have Always Lived in the Castle by Shirley Jackson. 

Our son wants to write Horror. Claims given his childhood that this is the obvious choice.  I threaten to make his life more horrific. He laughs at me, threatening to base the evil character in his short story — The Lazy Devil — on me.

I respond with a swift, “You can go base that one on your father.”

We both laugh.  Maybe having a son as a writer will be okay. 

Three Wise Women

Wanting to get into the Christmastime spirit, the tea lady has taken to wearing a turban fashioned from tea towels.  The writer and C.E.O. of self-publishing Inc have done likewise, except the writer is wearing a tea cosy and the C.E.O. a beanie made from woven tea bags.  These three wise women from the west are seeking a star that will lead them to the Messiah — they have gifts for her — a newly sharpened pencil with which to write. An exercise book to write in.  And a bottomless box containing — time.

"Stable Relationships are for Horses."

I love sayings, like this one — “Calm waters never did a skillful sailor make.”

Or — “There is no way to be a writer and be comfortable.”   Eva Sallis.

There’s reassurance in them there sayings.

Although I did once tell a friend that "Stable Relationships are for Horses"  and who then went on to marry a jockey, only to divorce him six months later. Can't win 'em all.

 

Anyway, if  you have a favourite saying?  Hand it over!