THE CCCC b SSSS . C b S C y y bbbb eee r rr SSSS eee nnnn i ooo r rr C y y b b eee rr S eee n n i o o rr C y y b b e r S e n n i o o r CCCC yyyy bbbb eee r SSSS eee n n i ooo r y yy REVIEW =============================================== VOL.1 NO.1 MARCH 1994 =============================================== 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 =========================================================== 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. ============================================================ end cybersenior.1.1