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The CyberSenior Review Volume 1 Number 1
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REVIEW
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VOL.1 NO.1 MARCH 1994
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The CyberSenior Review is a project of the Internet Elders
List, a world-wide Mailing List of seniors. The Review is
written, edited and published by members of the Elders.
The contents are copyrighted 1994 by the Elders List and
by the authors. All rights reserved by the authors.
Copying is permitted with attribution.
The current editorial board of The CyberSenior Review is:
Elaine Dabbs edabbs@ucc.su.oz.au
Pat Davidson xuegxaa@csv.warwicxk.ac.uk
James Hursey jwhursey@cd.columbus.oh.us
=========================================================================
CONTENTS, Volume 1, Number 1
EDITORIAL
TENERIFE--THE ISLAND OF SUN, by Pat Davidson
Pat and family take a respite from England's winter
rain and cold to holiday in the sunny Canary Islands
THE SAD BUT TRUE STORY OF TIM CHICK,
THE CHICK WHO WANTED TO SEE THE WORLD, by Jim Hursey
Jim recalls a true story of when his children
were small, including an uplifting moral.
AUSTRALIAN GOLD FIELDS, by Elaine Dabbs
An ancient Aussie reminisces of the early days Down Under.
=========================================================================
Our Elders group takes another step forward with the this
publication of our first "Cybersenior Review". Belonging to
the Elders List engenders a feeling of a worldwide
community, giving us the possibility of connecting with
people by regular links. We acquire new and interesting
friends, become passionate about our new activity, further
our education and find that borders in even the most remote
corners of the globe have disappeared.
Our Review takes us on a different path from our day to day
topics. It will inform and educate about subjects such as
travel, history, nature in its many forms, humour,
reminiscences etc. Those elders interested in contributing,
please let me know, together with your suggested topic and
approximate length of your article. We would like everyone
to participate.
--Pat Davidson
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TENERIFE-THE ISLAND OF SUN.
By Pat Davidson
Winter in Britain had been a long-drawn-out affair of rain
and more rain, good for the water reservoirs and for
conversations in shops, but it did nothing for our
wellbeing, as we stared out at our waterlogged garden.
"Think I'll make plans for our holiday in Tenerife, "my
husband suggested and in no time at all, or so it seemed, we
were leaving the bitter cold of Britain for the sunshine of
Tenerife.
The Canary Isles, of which Tenerife is one of the main
islands, lie just off the west coast of Africa, so the
climate is temperate for most of the year, making it a
winter paradise for all Europeans starved of the winter sun.
As soon as we'd discarded our winter clothes, now
unnecessary in the warmth of the sun, we were stretching out
on sunbeds beside the pool of the appartment complex. It was
hard to imagine that we were only four hours away from the
cold of Britain. As this was our first visit to the island,
we had decided to explore as much as we could, booking a car
before we'd left home. It was waiting for us at Reina Sofia
airport, in the south of the island, not far from where we
were staying on the Costa del Silencio.
The Silent Coast it was not, for regularly overhead huge
airliners laden with sunseekers flew towards the airport.
However, we did not find them too intrusive, for we were out
sight-seeing most of the time. The duel highway from the
airport and beyond, towards the holiday resorts of Los
Christianos and Playa de Las Americas had been built through
areas of sparse scrubland and volcanic rocks, where banana
groves stretched broad leaves above the walls of concrete
blocks or of fine matting protecting them from the wind,
which seems to blow for most of the time. Upturned branches
of green bananas clustered along the branches of the plants,
occasionally protected by plastic bags. Elsewhere, only tall
cacti, their spiked leaves covered with a fine layer of
dust, grew on the arid land. Yet the landscape was
spectacular, with the background of mountains to the north,
Mount Teide still streaked with snow, and the ground
gradually sloping down to the sea and the fishing villages
dotted along the coast.
Leaving Los Christianos and Playa do Las Americas behind, we
climbed further and further into the mountains along the
western side of the island. Water pipes lay on top of the
hard volcanic rock; no need to bury them on an island free
from frost. We stopped for coffee in Tamaimo, admiring the
panoramic view along the coast, exchanging "Buenas dias"
with an old man who passed by, stooped under a bundle of
herbs he'd been gathering in the mountains. Then we were
climbing again, along a road which seemed to comprise of
hairpin bends where cars squeezed past one another, and I
clung onto the side pocket of the door, averting my head so
that I did not see the drop down to the villages below.
Occasionally,I noticed small shrines adorned with flowers,
at the side of the road, bearing witness that others had
felt as scared as I. Rocks which had tumbled from the
mountain lay at the side, an additional hazard. The road
downwards to Icod de los Vinos was a welcome relief; even
the bends seemed less sharp, and the land more fertile, with
small terraces of cultivated land lining the mountainsides.
The lower we descended, the more lush was the vegetation, in
contrast to the bleak landscape on the other side of the
mountains. Huge clumps of golden broom grew interspersed
with shrubs which looked like our tree heather at home.
Clouds scudded across the intense blue sky and far below,
their shadows darkened the brilliant blue of the ocean.
Geraniums grew at the feet of tall hedges of poinsettias,
and curtains of purple bougainvillea draped the walls of
white-painted houses perched on the mountainside, while
nasturtiums rioted everywhere. A dull February in Britain
seemed a lifetime away. We took the road towards Garachico,
and stopped for some time watching people fish from the edge
of the square quay. Brightly painted boats were beached
there, ready for the next day's catch. Atlantic breakers
sent spray high into the air as they crashed against the
rocky island lying just off the coast, and a young lad
fishing amid the huge volcanic rocks trod a fine dance in
avoiding the waves which rushed in through the clefts in the
rocks.
Then we were off again, climbing along the road which
clung to the side of the cliffs, through tunnels with
circular windows on the seaward side to allow in some light,
until we had reached the end of the road at the lighthouse
of Punta de Teno. Beyond us stretched unsurmountable cliffs,
their basalt faces frowning as the waves of the Atlantic
lashed at them. As we walked along the narrow causeway
separating the lighthouse from the mainland, the cinderlike
ground crunched beneath our feet. There was no way forward;
we would have to return along the narrow road which edged
the cliffs far above the ocean and through the dim tunnels.
By this time I had become quite blase, and willingly agreed
to shorten our journey by taking the mountain road. A bus
was already lumbering up the steep incline in front of us,
and like chickens in the wake of the mother hen, several
other cars and ourselves followed it. If the bus could go up
the mountain road, so could we. Once committed to the road,
there was no way back, so I decided that if these were to
be my last moments alive, I might as well enjoy the
spectacular view of the coastline, rather than worry about
the long drop down the mountainside to the rocks below. Our
trip along the eastern side of the island past the airport
north towards Santa Cruz, and then on to Puerto de la Cruz,
was quite different. Here we could travel all the way by
motorway.
The area round the docks at Santa Cruz, the capital and
commercial centre of Tenerife, was thronging with traffic.
The city, in contrast, with its tall buildings, a mixture of
modern and Spanish colonial architecture, provided shelter
from the sun in its narrow canyon-like streets, while the
avenues of palms in the parkd and the water fountains
offered oases of peace for the office workers on their
lunchtime break. We cashed some travellers' cheques at a
bank which appeared to have been some hidalgo's residence in
the past; a small garden of plants grew in tubs in the
centre courtyard, which lay open to the sky, surrounded on
four sides by bank counters underneath polished wooden
Canarian balconies.
In Puerto de la Cruz, magnificent hotels and cafes edged the
promenade. There was no beach; instead artificial lagoons
fringed by tall palms provided shade for the bathers. At the
side of the promenade, artists offered to paint our
portraits. Tired with the heat, we settled ourselves at a
table underneath the pink awning of the Cafe de Paris. As we
waited for our drinks and listened to the different
languages around us, we could easily imagine ourselves back
on the Riviera. Los Christianos and Playa de las Americas,
built comparatively recently on the southern coast of the
island, also cater for tourists. Restaurants and cafes
flourish everywhere, to suit all tastes and appetites. We
strolled along the promenade, past beaches of black volcanic
sand crowded with people stretched out on sunbeds trying to
secure a tan to take back to Europe.
On our last evening, we visited a fish restaurant for
supper, choosing our meal from that morning's catch. As we
pointed to the fish, a woman scooped them up in a plate and
handed them to the chef to cook. I've never tasted fish as
delicious as those, and vowed to go back next year. Yes,
we're certainly going back, but for a longer stay-there's so
much we've still to see, and besides, there's the added
bonus of the sun in February!
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
THE SAD BUT TRUE STORY OF TIM CHICK,
THE CHICK WHO WANTED TO SEE THE WORLD
by Jim Hursey
Looking back on it, those years on the farm raising my three
girls were undoubtedly the best years of my life. The girls
are long since grown up, of course, and pursuing their
careers, the farm long-since sold. Now, strange as it seems
to me sometimes, I live in a high-rise condo in the middle
of the city.
Not that I mind. At this time in my life living in a condo
where all one has to do to get something fixed is pick up
the phone, suits me fine. But those years on our poor
little hill farm, even though I worked all day at my job in
town and all my spare time around the farm, are what I
remember most fondly. Of course we always had lots of animals
around: cattle, horses, chickens, geese, ducks and always
various dogs, cats and occasional strays of indeterminant
species.
And each has a story: "The Ducks That Were Afraid of Water",
"The Dog That Met His Match," "The Goose That Ate the
Tabasco," "The Filly from Nowhere" and "The Chick that
Wanted to See the World." This latter story is the one I want
to tell now. Tim was our first rooster. When the girls
(twins and a younger girl) were probably around five and
four, we bought a batch of baby chicks to raise. We were
basically city folks who had been on the farm only a year or
so and we thought it was time to try to raise some chickens
for our own eggs. We had a beat-up old chicken house, but it
was much too cold, even with a heat lamp, for newly hatched
chicks, so we put them in a galvanized tub in the corner of
the kitchen, and, with a heat lamp on them, they thrived,
and the children loved them. One chick particularly seemed to
be more adventurous then the others and he (they had not
been sexed and we didn't find out until later that he was a
he) got to the point where he could hop up onto the edge of
the tub. "He just wants to see the world, just like Tim",
the children would say.
Tim was a chick in a book we had been reading to them. In
the book Tim went out to see the world and had various
adventures, so naturally our little adventurous chick,
whether girl or boy, got named "Tim Chick". Eventually the
chicks grew into bigger chicks and we moved them to the
chicken house, still keeping them enclosed under a heat
lamp, and they continued to grow. The girls just loved to
feed them and watch them as they learned to scratch and
peck. Soon the weather was warmer and the chicks were little
pullets and roosters and we could tell that Tim was a he.
Still adventurous, we would have to chase him back into the
enclosure he was constantly escaping from. Like Tim in the
book, he wanted to see the world.Now understand we almost
always had dogs around, but occasionally there would be a
gap between dogs.
Dogs stray, or get killed or simply disappear when you are
on a remote farm as ours was. Most difficult of all,
sometimes they get into neighbors' live stock and must be
destroyed. This had just happened to old "Beau," a mixed
hound who started running with some wild dogs and killed
some neighbors' pigs. It is impossible and pointless to keep
a dog tied up on a farm so we made the difficult decision to
have him put away. While I was at work, the children's
mother, with them along of course, took him to the vet.
Halfway there, she just couldn't take it and decided to turn
around and go back home, but one of the kids popped up and
said "But Mommy, he killed pigs", and so she went on with
the terrible chore. The children understood better than we
did. Anyway, we had yet to get another dog and the young
chickens were without protection.
Unless you have a very secure chicken house, a dog is
essential to keep raccoons, foxes and other predators away
from chickens.One day we found one less chicken in the flock
and periodically others would disappear. We did what we
could, but it wasn't enough and eventually they were all
gone except Tim whom we found lying on the floor of the coop
one morning, a huge chunk bitten from his side, but still
alive.Taking him to the house, and not knowing any better,
we sprayed the wound with first air spray kept handy for the
childrens' many cuts and scratches, and, surprisingly, he
recovered. So we nursed him back to health and allowed him
to roost on the back porch. And while eventually we got
other dogs and raised other flocks of chickens, poor old
Tim, for as long as we had him, and he lived to a ripe
chicken old age, never went back to the chicken house. He
would never even venture more than a few steps from the back
porch. He no longer wanted to see the world.
MORAL:
Sometimes even the bravest adventurer may turn chicken and
prefer to see the world from the security of the back porch.
Especially when the fox is in the henhouse.
=================================================================
AUSTRALIAN GOLD FIELDS
By Elaine Dabbs
My name is Martin Power. I'm in my 94th year and everyone
will tell you not to miss talking to me if you want to know
about our town and the gold days.
On Sundays, you can see me walking by the side of the road,
as erect as any man of forty they tell me, and in winter
wearing an overcoat against the cold of the morning. Since
the age of three I have only missed five masses at the
church, and those through sickness. This morning I arose at
five o'clock in order to feed the poultry and to cut gass
for the sheep. Used a scythe to cut the grass of course.
What else!
Our mining town of Clunes (Scots Gaelic meaning 'a pleasant
place') in Victoria might still be part of the 19th century
if it was not for a few cars parked in the main street. In
my shed at the back of the garden is a collection of the
weird and wonderful instruments for gold prospecting and
fossicking, which I still do every weekend. Let's sit at the
long table in the kitchen when I've rekindled the wood
stove, and I'll tell you about my boyhood days in Clunes.
After I left the Catholic School, my twin brother and I went
to a school teacher by the name of John Francis McCarthy, a
big Irishman - he never had a schoolhouse of his own, he was
always renting a place. The last place he went to was only
a four-roomed house and the front room was 12 by 12 with a
chimney coming out in one end of it: that was the
schoolroom.. He used to have night school as well and his
fee was two shillings a week for general education. If you
wanted to take anything else, that was sixpence a week
extra. He could teach Latin, French and Greek, and he was
very particular about your English.
Just because our father was a miner, my twin brother and I
wanted to be miners too. The first start off to that was to
go down to the creek and seek gold. There were others at
it, and you learnt how to do it by watching them. But I
tell you if you got a book on the subject you'd be in the
wilderness; you'd know nothing. Anyhow I got enough
knowledge then to gather the gold.
My brother and I carried on looking for gold all our lives;
of course we wouldn't stick to the creek all the time. When
winter came we had to get out and go digging shallow holes
to get a bit of gold that way. Sometimes you struck a
track, other times it was for nothing. As we grew up we took
to harvesting or carting, a bit of spud-digging,
road-making, stone-breaking, or quarrying stone, and believe
me, that was well-earned money. You had to quarry those big
boulders out first, drill holes into them with a hammer and
tap, then blast them with gelignite. Then you had to get the
big "spoiler", the 18 pound hammer, and split them into
smaller pieces that couldn't be any bigger than 4 inches.
For all that work, all we got was 1/3d a yard and find your
own gelignite, or 1/6d and they'd provide it; and you had to
slave to get six bob a day at it too. There was no
half-holiday, no paid holidays, and no sick pay. If you
were sick and you didn't send a note, there was a man there
just waiting for your job.
See this framed photo of the Clunes Combined Churches Choir?
I can reel off the names of the entire group with an
anecdote or two about some of them. I like to beat time on
the table with an upturned spoon as I sing the song which,
as part of a selection, won first prize at Ballarat years
earlier. Of course I remember those lyrics and melodies,
what's so remarkable about that?
Although there was plenty of mining going on at the turn of
the century, work was hard to come by. People then were
prepared to work at anything rather than accept handouts.
You couldn't get a constant job. You had to battle for a
shift in the mines, and you might be lucky and take the
place of someone who was sick.
I used to do carting for old prospectors like Pegleg White
and his mate. Pegleg was a funny old bloke. He had his leg
shot off in the war. In the early days the men would come
up and if they brought women, they'd bring goats in to give
milk for the children. When they all left after the old mine
pegged out, the goats multiplied because they'd go through
thousands of acres of mulga where there was always good
pickings for them, and they were always in good condition.
Pegleg knew the whereabouts of all the goats and if he
wanted meat he'd just go out and shoot one. He reckoned
that was the best mutton in the world; and I can tell you
there's been many a goat sold in these back country towns as
mutton.
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