Columns from The Weekend West

Ros Thomas 21/11/2015 Ros Thomas 21/11/2015

Passing Time

I arrived at the bus stop, breathless, having jogged across the park and up the grassy embankment to the highway. An elderly gent on the bench seat acknowledged me with a nod. His Labrador, sprawled at his feet, raised one eyebrow in greeting and thumped its tail lazily on the concrete.

“Excuse me,” I asked the owner. “Have I missed the 99?”

“Nothing green’s gone past since we’ve been here.”

Relieved, I sat down and remarked on his dog: “How old is he?”

“Bess? She’s nine.” He reached down to stroke a floppy ear. My bus-stop companion bore a remarkable likeness to Ernest Hemingway: a still handsome face framed by an impressive white beard, trimmed to follow a strong jawline. A navy fisherman’s cap, complete with rope braid, angled across his brow. I noticed the sharp crease in his cotton trousers and his polished brown lace-ups, one of which was wedged under Bess’ barrel chest. Only his walking stick hinted at infirmity. It was topped with a brass duck’s head, the bill worn smooth from constant handling. As we waited, he absentmindedly tapped the footpath with his stick.

Ros Thomas 08/08/2015 Ros Thomas 08/08/2015

Life Cycle

A communal laundry in a caravan park is an odd place to befriend a stranger. He was parked at one end of a plastic pew, patiently waiting for his washing to finish. I was feeding dollar coins into the wall-mounted soap dispenser, impatiently waiting to be rewarded. I snuck a glance at my laundry companion, wondering if I should ask him why the soap was on strike.

He was reading the sports pages, his newspaper propped on the barrel of his belly. A thick neck sat on a stocky body. I guessed he was pushing 70. Tattoos rode up and down his forearms. The lower half of his face was obscured by a Grizzly Adams beard, the top half with an army-green beanie. He would’ve looked fearsome if not for his ugg-boots, one of which was graffitied with a red love heart and the word ‘Pa’ by a child’s Texta.
“Any idea how this thing works?” I said, throwing him a helpless smile.

Ros Thomas 21/02/2015 Ros Thomas 21/02/2015

In the Wings

The bird-man entered our lives last Wednesday. He was parked at a small table outside our local growers market. A faded Bintang t-shirt strained against his belly. His right arm, bent at the elbow like a chicken wing, was hooked across the back of his chair. I noticed the stump of his ring finger, missing two knuckles. A long wispy white beard fanned out from his chin and tapered halfway down his chest. His nose was misshapen with a patchwork of scars where I presumed he’d had sun damage carved from the bone. Propped against the wall beside him sat a bag half-filled with empty soft drink cans.

But it was the bird attached to his shoulder that captured our interest. Its parrot-shaped head was electric-yellow, its nape and chest a fiery orange. Tucked against its small body, two long wings were splashed with turquoise. Ruffling its feathers, the bird cocked its head to inspect us and I saw a flash of bright blue tips in its tail.

Ros Thomas 05/07/2014 Ros Thomas 05/07/2014

Stranger Danger

I hadn’t found myself a target of public aggression since pub crawl days. I certainly wasn’t expecting a verbal stoush in the childrenswear department of Target. A week later, I’m still feeling rattled. (Why do I take things to heart?)

It was mid-afternoon and the shop floor was quiet. I was rifling through the flannelette pyjamas, searching for pink or purple ones for my 4-year-old. (She’ll only wear a two-tone palette).

Somewhere nearby, a toddler was coughing uncontrollably – a raspy bark that set my teeth on edge. In between hacks, I could hear his attempts to suck in a lungful of air, only to choke on another volley of coughs.

Ros Thomas 18/05/2013 Ros Thomas 18/05/2013

Hello Stranger

Moving neighbourhoods is a test of my social skills. I knew the shift would be a wrench: How could we replace our favourite family across the road? Three brothers under nine who shimmy like monkeys up their wrought iron fence and hang on the crossbars yelling: “Hello! Hello! Can you come and play?”

Our three would send back an equally ear-splitting chorus of greetings (whilst taking turns to ride the gate off its hinges). We two mothers would leave surprises at each other’s doors – a bunch of parsley, or my latest attempt at low-fat brownies. (why bother, we decided). On chaotic mornings, I could signal a mayday from the porch and she would walk my boys to school.