Today’s world, our world, is more connected than ever before. I really don’t need to list the ways we are, but basically written words still survive (should survive) among the many electronic devices and ways to contact family, friends, associates, writers, businesses, deliveries, entertainment, leisure time, sport, gaming, education, medical, self-help, the list is endless and it’s sink or swim.
Here is my Weekly Whinge and Whine about the World:
I like the internet, but it’s not like picking up a newspaper or opening a letter. With new online contacts and sites popping up every day, readers need to be discerning and check validity. Every website clicked will track you, send you emails, log your details for future reference, etc. Personally I dislike this insidious spreading of my personal details but often there is no way around it to make a website entry function correctly. Then I have to unsubscribe.
Not all connections work, e.g. mobile phone confirmation where you are required to tap the square Y or N and hope for the best. No personal contact, no confirmation personal or otherwise, in fact according to my work ethic no human has had a hand in my recent online booking even when it will involve many of my hard-earned dollars. Impersonal website contact and auto-generated emails make me nervous. Especially when there is no human follow up to my enquiries.
Is this accepted business practice now? Total reliance on electronics? How secure is the safety for my personal data? And that coup de grâce (death blow) of total silence bothers me. That ‘no response’ attitude is weak in this internet connected world. Should I try again, follow it up again, give this supposedly reputable company my money? If not, that means here I go again, wasting time searching, searching, for a company with good human office staff (e.g. brain cells) and a credible work ethic. Ditch the Y and N. It’s impolite.
An author researches background facts and yet most students cringe at the word ‘research’ because it means hours of time drained by facts, figures and fundamentals which are as dry as woodchips. Now I am ‘older’ and ‘more mature’ I realise that apart from travel this is the best and perhaps only honest way to get to know our big wide world. My father was an advocate, as was most of my family, for that immortal volume The Dictionary.
Everything was in The Dictionary, well, almost everything you wanted to know was contained in The Dictionary. Of course, newspapers were also a source of information but often lacking in credibility and more on the side of sensationalism than facts. Television was, and still is, a different source of knowledge. Here today I will not venture down the rabbit hole of the World Wide Web, computers, electronic devices and mobile phones, but I will go ‘so last century’.
My family owns big beautiful well-used old dictionaries with faded gilt covers woefully out-of-date, plus a Readers Digest three-dictionary set named in gold lettering ‘Great Encyclopaedic Dictionary A-Z’ and various smaller versions of Australia’s unique Macquarie School Dictionary. No batteries no recharge.
I still like reading what is call ‘non-fiction’ and there is always a dictionary or two on the bookshop shelves, not forgetting our local library, often translated into foreign languages, but naturally the go-to source is now the internet and Google and the ubiquitous AI. Speed or laziness?
Cars, indeed most forms of vehicular transport, will soon drive itself/themselves so likewise there will be no need to carry a drivers licence when you are microchipped.
Yes, I do believe human body microchips will be the next big thing. Officially named BEAM (no relation to ‘beam me up Scotty’) an acronym for Body Electronic Access Management, it will become a burgeoning industry supplying, among other things, microchip eye enhancement. This deal would include a swipe-or-tap bonus pack of wrist (LW) or (RW) microchips for personal data and an optional wrist cover (plastic or tattoo) designed on the style of an old-fashioned watch and intended to protect from bumps. Unfortunately wrist tug-and-swipe and/or kidnapping could become prevalent in some unhealthy countries.
The universal word for wealthy citizens will become Imp short for ‘implant’ and the mega-rich will be the first to go tap-tapping their wrist-chip at the Screen Of Life every morning, indeed throughout their day. For the average citizen (Chippers) there will be an official standard ID microchip in wrist or thumb for daily purchases and regular street screen interactions but these users will have a set daily limit on their chip. Employers will offer a workplace microchip for access, email and payday.
Most living things will be microchipped including The Trees since they are still in decline. Basically every living human in the outrageously wealthy countries of our world will have a microchip. Quite rapidly we will forget how to interact with each other live (as in for-real) and have no need to write or remember anything. Perhaps we can’t or won’t need to do anything, just exist in an artificial Earth version similar to Sir Thomas More’s Utopia. You’ve read my blogosphere version here first, what you predict may be entirely different! Get writing!
From my window I look at the real world outside, previously a balmy sunshiny subtropical day sinking gracefully into late afternoon and now a soft evening.🌞🌴🌜
Truly, I don’t know about you, but I am a wreck at Christmas time. Trigger warnings are advised. Not because of the festive fuss, the food, the fun, the family gatherings. My gloom stems from the loss of a loved one who never got to grow old like me. It was the last day of school, Christmas was felt everywhere, in homes, the shops, the mall music, the tinsel bling covering up the true reason for the season. It was the last day of High school, Christmas holidays had arrived and my teenage brother was wheeling his bicycle across the designated school crossing, a woodwork parcel on the handlebars. A large van came through the crossing and ran my brother down, he died in the ambulance on the way to hospital. The policeman who came to the door to tell my mother was less than compassionate. Someone had to tell my father at work. I just stood in the doorway frozen in time. Chillingly my mother whispered to the room, “I heard the ambulance.” Later, a neighbour dropped off my brother’s mangled bicycle, a thoughtless and grim reminder. My brother’s best friend was also crossing the road, however I am doomed to never know what happened to him. I believed he was okay but what he witnessed would have shattered him emotionally. There would also have been cars and high school students leaving the school grounds. No doubt equally traumatised, but I will never know if counselling was offered since classroom assembly would not have taken place until the new school year.
The funeral was attended by crowds of people, families and friends. At the Church service and the Cremation Chapel banks of beautiful flowers and condolence cards were displayed. On the coffin rested a small bunch of freesia flowers, my mother’s favourite. Leaving, my mother, father and I walked in a daze passed them all and got into a black car to be taken home. I don’t remember much else, I cannot recall family faces, friends, but more cards and flowers came into our home. People left food on the doorstep, at dusk a neighbour watered our newly turfed front lawn and slipped away as silently as she had come. My father was stoic, I know my mother cried for a very long time that night, and perhaps forever. I can honestly say now as a mature adult that I was probably in denial, trying to say that I was alright, that I was okay when I was not. I did not accept or know words of comfort to offer anyone, least of all my grieving parents. How could I be okay when my family and closest cousins were also devastated? After a long awhile the pain and heartache of loss, which almost doubled me over, slowly began to subside leaving a void. My parents did not want to talk about it. Did not want to press charges against the van driver. He was interviewed by police and they found his licence expired. On inspecting his vehicle it was found to have faulty gears and a faulty breaking system. In other words he knew he could not stop the vehicle in time. As an adult now many years later, I never forget the shock, the hurt, the need for retribution for the sudden gaping loss, the hole which that illegal van driver so swiftly and brutally left in my life; yet knowing under such circumstances that no amount of legal action would return a loved one.
In small ways it still does affect my life; as I type this I feel the pain, the sudden sense of loss because absolutely nothing could replace my brother. He was cremated and later, on a bright sunny weekend, my parents and I visited the cemetery and his plaque in the columbarium wall. For me it was all quite surreal, somehow misty like a movie. The strongest memory I have from that day is my mother, usually an undemonstrative woman, falling into the car, lying on the back seat sobbing deeply, tears cascading down her cheeks onto the vinyl seat. I patted her, a gesture of comfort, but knew nothing I could do would help. The rest is a blur although eventually we moved away, a new State, a new city, but in hindsight it was perhaps not the best thing to do. Leaving family and friends behind, starting afresh like nothing had ever happened. Slowly we adapted and the climate did help ease my asthma. My Dad found a good job, Mum worked for a time but preferred to stay home. I grew up, made wonderful new friends who were lead to believe I was an only child (still didn’t talk about it) and had some creative and marvellous yet not highly paid jobs. Marriage followed the universal pattern set by my age group. I guess I am pretty average and everybody has one personal story that changed their outlook on life.
However, deep down I think I regret that we left everything behind because my parents support system, their immediate close family had gone. Yes, the relatives, the cousins, flew in during the holidays but it wasn’t the same. Likewise, when we drove interstate to visit them, it was stilted and formal and often uncomfortable although occasionally we had a good laugh about something silly. Nobody ever raised the subject of my lost teenage brother, the kind one, the one who never got to grow into maturity. This is from my perspective, I will never know what my parent thought or discussed in private. I will never know the full trauma it may have caused my relatives and friends and I will never be free from the awful day before Christmas when that policeman knocked on our door. In short, dear reader, although I try to hide it, I am a snivelling scrooge at Christmas time. Bah humbug ‘Carols By Candlelight’ and I crumble. Jingle bells music and I mourn the loss of a brother who never got to come home for the school holidays. My thoughts also fly to those who have lost loved ones at this time of year. Maybe that’s part of what Christmas is all about. Love, loss, understanding and acceptance.
My thoughts have become passionate words on my blog and also on Goodreads. No frills with this post. The book ‘Prisoner of the State’ was loaned to me and I am grateful for the chance to read it. Written by Australian Lily Arthur, every chapter is shattering and true.
HERE are my own personal thoughts, observations and book review comments on a serious, shocking and quite tragic topic.
FORCED adoption, such a brutal and inhuman thing to do to young mothers. I only had to read the first chapters of this biography to be enraged. Such lies and deceit, such an underhanded and basically illegal activity in the name of social propriety and Church teachings. What were the parents of these girls thinking? Perhaps their 1960s puritanical fear of being socially marked was worse than what happened to their vulnerable young daughters.
SURELY not all hospital staff involved were corrupt and morally wrong? Why didn’t someone speak out? Do they regret not alerting the proper authorities? Everyone turned away, didn’t want to get involved, ‘Not my problem; I can’t change the system; what will the neighbours think?’ Three wrong responses! For badly treated and bereft young women their situation became much worse once their babies were taken from them. Mentally and physically they were broken, drugged, lied to and later doomed to wonder at the cruelty of the Australian city they called home.
IT doesn’t matter your status, all that matters is that you are a mother and your baby is the most precious being on the planet and no person or organisation has any right to lie and take such a living breathing joyous gift away from you. In this 1960s case, steps were taken many years later and a mother, Lily Arthur, sprung into action to find out the truth of what happened to her stolen son all those years ago. Not only for her own piece of mind but for hundreds of other young unmarried mothers who were coerced, deceived and told their baby had died.
AS a mother myself I feel sadness for the other women, the adopters who thought those young mothers willingly gave away their supposedly unwanted babies.
WHO needs a document to say they can birth their baby? Who needs a document to say they can keep their baby? In the past a document, a law, a church or organisation of any kind should not have had the power to decree outcomes which sever a healthy fundamental mother/baby bond. Would a mother give up her new born child if she was given clear options? Back then new mothers should have been given clear, concise information, counselling, legal assistance, childcare support and every accessible help for their future. Instead they got human rights abuse and social stigma. Indeed treated like a criminal when in fact a victim of crime.
CAN a male feel and experience the fundamental changes wrought by pregnancy and childbirth? No. The male attitude Lily Arthur has faced while researching, and in courts of law, has been pompous and disparaging. Quote ‘I felt as if I had been victimised all over again.’ Similar treatment by nurses and those convent nuns mentioned in the book, ruled by priests and made barren by repetition, religious teachings and ancient doctrine. If you or anyone you know is going through pregnancy and facing adoption, forced or otherwise, this is the book you should read for both sides of the story.
LILY Arthur had a long road to travel. She kept going. She is still going and has reached milestones in law courts and certainly shines a strong light on the appalling secrets of white and indigenous baby birth exploitation in Australia. No doubt this appropriation happens around the world but it’s not a case of buying a puppy. Later, of course, disclosing a birth mother is a minefield of emotions for both parties. It worked for my cousin, she found her other family and happiness. Many do not, but in both cases I believe the truth should always be told.
A wonderful children’s author I have known for some time, Cate Whittle, posted on her Substack page about success and failure and trying again. A cooking failure was turned around and she will experiment further to refine her recipe. Read here: https://catewhittle.substack.com/p/having-your-cake
My reply to Cate was prompted by a happy memory and perhaps an old lesson people could use more often. ‘If at first you don’t succeed, try, try, again.‘ Here is what I wrote on Cate’s July Substack page:
“Lovely, just what I needed to read with my cuppa! Your warming newsletter brought back some lovely memories of my daughter’s first foray into cooking. Initially, her first attempts were not that good and one particular dish was a disaster. I said ‘Oh well, let’s try it again and see what happens‘ and fortunately it worked. She is now an excellent cook and will try most recipes including exotic international dishes which are beyond me. We keep a photo file of my daughter’s greatest triumphs. Recently she told me that ‘Let’s try it again‘ day was a pivotal moment for her cooking skills.
Looking forward to another version of your tea cake, Cate!” Follow Cate’s literary life ‘A Cuppa With Cate’ Substackhttps://catewhittle.substack.com/
How time flies, my first blog post was 2017 and ideas for blogging still somersault around in my head. On this calm Sunday in May 2025 it is Mother’s Day in Australia.
I am a mother and thoughts of my own dear mother and that of my aunts and women I know flash through my mind. I recall their varied roles in my life, and women who shape the lives of others in millions of families and societies around the world. It is possible to write about the wealth, poverty, injustices and generally low standing of women in most countries including Australia, but what is their true status? What is their role in the history of the universe?
In my opinion, one of the most powerful roles for women, in the world as we know it, is the eternal internal creation. While not ignoring the biodiversity of Mother Nature, without human females, women who give birth, there would be no world. There would be no evolution, there would be nothing ahead. Of course men play a role but generally stand back when events are underway.
Perhaps this creates jealousy? Why bigoted, misogynistic, cruel, political, rule-making men of our current world order put women and mothers at risk by keeping them out of sight, in second place, give them menial tasks, overlook females for promotion, make derogatory comments, portray them on television, in movies and books as the trivial second character, the support, the one answering phones, at home doing the laundry, tidying up or cooking dinner. You can add more diverse roles to the list but usually not a complete reversal although caring sharing life partners do exist.
In 1971 a childless Germaine Greer is quoted as saying: “Bringing up children is not a real occupation, because children come up just the same, brought up or not.” A rather shallow look at the future, I think.
With or without conception, the women of Mother Earth are versatile people. Today there are strong female roles and powerful women in all walks of life who do rise above. When they do, it’s a novelty in the press, on social media, and invariably a TV chat show host asks “How do you cope with a family and work?” A man’s world not an equal world yet.
Today I shout out Thanks Mum, Happy Mothers Day because without mothers there would be no living breathing humans in the world today. Including you and me.
💓 Gretchen Bernet-Ward 2025
NOTE: My opinion piece acknowledges birth mothers, first mothers, adoption, surrogacy, LGBTQIA, IVF, child reunification. Parenting is precious. 🌼
Sherwood Arboretum Brisbane volunteer workers preserving the future. Photograph courtesy of Sherwood Arboretum Committee 2024. Get active in 2025!
Exercise followed by quiet contemplation does wonders for your brain and your inner self.
Charles Allston Collins masterpiece titled ‘Convent Thoughts’ circa 1851 held by Ashmolean Museum, Oxford. Charles Allston Collins (1828-1873) was a British painter, writer and illustrator associated with the Pre-Raphaelite era.
Our tree orchid is thought to be an Orchid Dendrobium native of the Asia-Pacific region. Maybe even a Cymbidium Orchid. I have checked various sources (eBay included) and almost went cross-eyed with the stunning varieties but cannot find an exact match. Do orchids change regularly like fashion? Perhaps my WordPress friend (Literary Lad and horticulturist) Graham Wright has the answer. GBW.
Our tree orchid flowers every September, springtime in Brisbane, and coincides with my birthday every year. It features in many, many happy family photographs and it is the most hardy exotic flowering plant I have ever known. It wraps its delicate tendrils around an old Illawarra Flame Tree and they seem to enjoy each others company. Through drought, flooding rains and intense summer heat, it happily covers its stalks in pink flowers, needing no special care, and survives even when the possums take a nibble or two. There are suspicions that the blooms were ‘stolen’ one year when in full flower. It could have been ravenous possums, or a neighbour making a bouquet for a wedding, or perhaps a floral display at the local aged care centre. At least I like to think they were used for something lovely and not financial gain. I myself have never picked them and I doubt I ever will.
“Hands up all the blog writers who wrote about their experiences of living through Covid-19 and its aftermath. Okay, I will join your ranks and become one of those adding something to world history with a personal experience; of course the names have been changed to protect the innocent.”
During the time of the worldwide Covid-19 pandemic, Angela and her daughter Jenny decided they would go for a walk every evening. Just a short one around a block or two, maybe across the park to upset the plovers in the damp grass, then home again. A walk was especially invigorating during the colder months of August in Brisbane. It got them out of the house, away from the air-con heating, into the refreshing chill of the cool night air. They donned jackets and beanies and shoved gloves in their pockets just in case of light rain. The suburban streets were deserted yet the night was infused with noise, the dull murmur of a distant highway, the sound of birds settling in to roost, a possum scuttling across a rooftop, the whoosh-whoop of fruit bat wings as they scoped out a mulberry tree or date palm and then crash-landed into the foliage. Owls were heard but never seen, unlike car drivers who appeared to have lost all concept of care and responsibility, arbitrarily speeding through red traffic lights because the streets were empty. However, while joggers, scooters, dog owners and their canines were tucked up in front of their preferred screens, a full moon would rise and cats would prowl under its glow. It was not unusual for a feline to stroll across the street to check out the two interlopers, then perhaps allowing Angela the occasional stroke of neck fur or chin scratch. These nightly walks offered the duo some unusual sights, the least of which was the activity of a darkened 4WD vehicle continually cruising up and down various back streets. Were they lost, were they scoping out burglary opportunities, or is that impugning a parent teaching their teenager to drive?
Many homes had their living room curtains open so it was easy to see their televisions, replaying the gloomy news over and over again as the fatality statistics grew more and more alarming each night. Often cooking smells hung in the air or the tang of eucalypt competing with the pall of grey smoke left over from backyard firepits, an ill-advised council initiative. Angela was glad her face mask filtered the worst of it. One night they took a different route and Jenny was chastised for impulsively, recklessly walking down the middle of a major suburban road just because she could. Not a delivery van, ambulance or person in sight, only rows and rows of parked cars and houses with twinkling fairy lights strung around trees and across balconies and down driveways. They saw unloved little street libraries, a ghost bus lit up but without passengers, and even a large picture frame hanging high up a jacaranda tree. There was a trend among real estate agents to put either cheery red bows or teddy bears on their For Sale signs. Unfortunately the follow-up maintenance was non-existent so, after rain, ribbons of blood-red dye ran down the advertisements and the poor teddy bears were soaked, left to dangle in macabre poses of decomposition. Indirectly a gloomy statement of that period in history. It always felt nice to return home.
Thoughts Become Words 