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Elly's post, Inspirational Young Man inspired me to write about the Choir of Hard Knocks. I watched the first of a series of five shows on Australian ABC television last night and it was wonderful. Tenor, singing teacher, and choirmaster, Jonathon Welch read an article in an old issue of Reader's Digest about a choir for homeless people in Montreal and returning to his hometown of Melbourne and wanting to do something to help disadvantaged people, decided to try it here.

Some women, when they were growing up, said that they would do things differently when they had children. Other women liked the way their mother did things and determined to bring their children up the same way. I don't know that I consciously thought about it, but I think my way was somewhere between the two; some things I do the same way, others the complete opposite. Whenever I caught myself doing something that didn't feel quite right, I could always blame it on my mother; I did that particular thing that way because she had, or because she hadn't.

Elly challenged us to scan and submit old photos. I don't have any as interesting as the one she posted; our family didn't own a camera and so the oldest one I have is a studio portrait of my great-grandparents, on my mother's side of the family. This was taken in Yorkshire, in the early 1900s. It's a very old photo, so not very clear, and they look severe, but they were fun-loving people. I think they look so 'posed' because they had to freeze for long minutes so the photo wouldn't blur.

Blood and genetic disorders

One of my nieces gave birth to her first baby almost 18 months ago. For the first few months all was well but then she noticed some strange spots developing on his skin. He did not seem to be thriving as he should so he was sent for tests and was diagnosed with neurofibromatosis. This is a common genetic disorder that affects 1 in 3,000 births in its most common form. NF comes from a single gene. Basically, the disease can affect skin, bone, nerves and tissue. It can also affect learning skills and intelligence. The severity of the disorder is not usually manifested until adolescence.

I've been attempting to write my autobiography for a number of years now. Each time, I manage to get so far and then have to stop. I know that it can be therapeutic and cathartic, but it can also be very painful. I had a very traumatic childhood and have spent most of my adult years trying to forget that time; dredging it all up brings to light issues that I don't really want to deal with.

I've never really enjoyed cooking, probably because as the eldest of 12, I had to do it regularly when I was growing up. When I had my own children, I only ever cooked the evening meal; breakfast was something everyone got for themselves (and never cooked) and lunch was usually a sandwich and some fruit. The smells of baking never wafted from my home. Cakes and fancy stuff never interested my taste buds anyway.

In a post a awhile back, I spoke about my plans for autumn pruning. I'm back to tell you the results so far. As usual, I sustained a couple of injuries. I've been bitten, have a nail that looks as if it might be infected, pulled some muscles and even staked my foot on a sharp piece of wood. All that after one garden bed. I have another 10 to go. Thankfully they will have to wait because summer seems to have returned; daytime temperatures are back into the 30s, and at night it doesn't drop below 16 or so.

I gave a son up for adoption in the 60s. It's a long story but we found each other again in 1991. A few years later he married a lovely lady, who was also adopted. Because my son has two lovely parents (a parent being one who raises a child) I have always felt that I cannot claim him as 'my son'. On his side, he cannot view me as 'mother'; when he introduces me to anyone, he indicates that I am a 'friend of the family', although close friends are told the full story.

This is for Hatsrus, who is looking for a particular recipe using breadcrumbs with flour to make a pudding that she remembers her mother making. This is one that I found amongst all my late mother's papers; I was born when the war ended, but I remember her saying that this was a recipe from wartime rationing. I think that it is a Christmas Pudding but she made it during our cold Sydney winters, which of course is from June to August. We were very poor so I suppose that rationing, for her, had nothing to do with war and everything to do with the economical difficulties associated with feeding 12 hungry children!

This post is in response to a challenge from Elly. A friend and I spent 4 weeks seeing America via Amtrak in 2001. We saw some wonderful sights, and met some lovely people, but the thing we saw the most of was the inside of railway stations and bus terminals. Arrival times were usually in the early hours of the morning, with long hours to wait for a connection. At first we were reluctant to nod off; we often saw railway police moving homeless people on, and we were worried about our bags. In Philadelphia (a magnificent railways station) we noticed that they left these people alone, so we joined them. This is us, catching up on a few zzzs.