Deeds of Yore

If you have a special place in your heart for simplistic, zero character development plots involving wizards, talking swords and kidnapped princesses, 8 bit graphics, command lines, cryptic text parsers, Midi music and 5 1/4 floppy disks you'll get a kick out of the web series Deeds of Yore.

The year is 1987. After an all night gaming binge on his Commodore 64 David Grigsby wakes up to find that he's lost his girlfriend, his job and his car. To drown his sorrows David heads over to the electronics store where he picks up a cheap adventure game called, "Deeds of Yore." That night, as the game is loading, a mishap with some tequila causes his Commodore 64 to malfunction sucking him into the Land of Yore. Here's where the story picks up:   

Note: I made Jean endure watching most of the 13 episodes and she admitted that she found them funny.

The 24 Hour Hike(II)

Camping without a tent not so much fun

Back at the clearing we flipped on our phones. No bars. Not even enough reception to get a text message through. It was probably a good thing. I’m not sure what I would have told whomever we managed to get a hold of. I imagined my end of the conversation going something like this.

“Hey, how's it going? Well, I'm calling because um.. Jean and I lost in the Blue Mountains."

"Really, we are. It's crazy isn't it? But don't worry. Neither us is hurt or anything. I think we'll be okay."

"Yeah, I know, it seems like people get lost in the Blue Mountains all the time. We've become statistic."

"Yeah, I'll tell Jean in a second. I'm sure she'll think that's ironic too. Anyway, we'll be spending the night out here I guess. We should be fine but if you don’t hear from us by midday tomorrow, call the police I guess, alright? Yeah, thanks. Bye. Yep, you too. Bye.”

Turning off the mobiles Jean and I took stock of our supplies. Two apples, some trail mix, a liter of water…

Clothing wise we were in fairly good shape. Throughout the warm, humid day Jean had bemoaned having packed a fleece and wooly hat. She gladly put them on now. We both had rain jackets that would serve well to hold in body heat. The only real downside was that I was wearing shorts. At least my legs are on the furry side.

Jean and I picked a spot in the middle of the clearing to settle in and began removing stray twigs and pushing leaves together to for some cushioning. That activity brought back the memory of another night I had spent in the open in the mountains. I warned Jean that I was about to launch into a Georgia story. She conceded and allowed me to continue.

In the early autumn of my first year in the village of Mukhaestate I had shown an interest in eating trout and to a lesser extent fishing for them. My host father, Olegi, had picked up on the idea and began talking about a fishing trip into the lower Caucasus Mountains. All during the year and into the next he continued to talk about it. I would ask him when we were going and he would tell me that the time was not quite right but it would be soon. He would explain that there was either not enough water in the river or too much or the fish weren’t ready.

Summer came and went and I had written off the trip until one day in early October, Olegi said the time was finally right and we’d be leaving the next day. Never mind that school was supposedly starting in a few days. He would talk to the school director.

Nika, Tamazi and Olegi

The next day, Olegi, his friends Tamazi and Nika and I loaded up in Nika’s beat up sedan. The car’s tires were bald and I guessed that the gas tank had rusted out because a hose had been rigged up running from engine compartment to a Fanta bottle of petrol in the trunk.

Several bumpy hours over unsealed roads brought us to a large wooden house perched on a mountainside. We spent a couple of nights there and then one morning Olegi woke me up early and told me I should get ready. I asked him what the plan was and didn’t understand his explanation but I was able to gather that I needed a fleece, long trousers and perhaps a bottle of water.

Tamazi and Olegi fishing and hiking up the river

After breakfast, Olegi, Tamazi and I headed out. Tamazi wore a satchel slung across his chest and carried a bamboo fishing rod. I wore my backpack stuffed with water, a loaf of  bread, some cucumbers and tomatoes and Olegi just carried an axe. We walked a short distance down the road from the house and then turned off on a path to the river. Then we followed the river upstream fishing along the way. Rather, Tamazi did the fishing. I had had my fishing privileges revoked a day before after losing several lines in the trees.

By evening, Tamazi’s satchel was full of trout and we were far upstream. My companions didn’t seem to be terribly preoccupied with getting back to shelter. We stopped at a wide rocky section beside the river. Tamazi began cleaning the captured fish beside the water. Olegi told me to go find some wood and he began chopping up the larger pieces I brought back.

Returning with a third armful of fallen limbs I found Tamazi finished with the fish and now stripping a large bush bare of leaves. He pushed the fallen leaves into a pile and told me that it was my bed.

Olegi built a fire and as darkness fell he and Tamazi had stoked it into a small conflagration. We dined on the stale bread, tomatoes and cucumbers. After dinner conversation trailed off and I began to doze. It was a cold night and I woke frequently either to relieve some crick or to rotate a numb portion of my body toward the warmth of the fire.

In the Blue Mountains, Jean and I unfortunately didn’t have any matches or a lighter and I’m not mountain man enough to start a fire without those aids. However, It was going to be much warmer then it had been that night in Georgia. Recalling the forecast, over night the temperature was predicted to dip into the neighborhood of 14° C (~55° F). I figured it would be uncomfortable but bearable.

I finished my in the mountains with Olegi and Tamazi narrative, relating how we’d made the hike out the next morning and even how the director had even held off starting school until I got back. I thanked Jean for allowing me interject a Georgia story. She told me that it did make her feel better about our current situation but I have my doubts because Jean is very nice, even in extreme situations.

We soon gave up on the leaves idea and huddled together in our meager pile. The faint sound of a siren caused us to wonder if one of our SOS text messages had gone through. A helicopter buzzed overhead and we toyed with the idea of running out to the creek and trying to signal it. The sounds soon faded and the night was quiet again. Jean suggested that we try to get in some sleep in while it was still relatively warm so she and I curled up together and quickly fell asleep.

There goes my leg modeling career

I woke an hour later with a shooting pain in my hip from laying on the hard ground. Rolling to my other side woke up Jean who also rolled over. This pattern would continue throughout the night with increasing frequency as her hips became less and less happy. Towards midnight my legs began to grow cold. At Jean suggestion’s I balanced my backpack over them, which helped but added complexity to our rotation routine and irritated the numerous cuts and abrasions on my shins.

Creeping into the early hours of my morning my lower body became so numb with the chill that I wasn’t able to drift off to sleep anymore. I spent a while rubbing my legs and wiggling my toes to get the blood flowing. Then Jean and I got up and did a few minutes of jumping jacks. The exercise worked wonders and inspired the telling of another, shorter Georgia story which I’ll save the readers.

We were able to slip off to sleep for a while longer before the basin began to lighten. Taking in our environs in the predawn gloom we were struck by the seeming impassibility of the path we had come. No wonder my legs were so banged up. Jean and I walked down to the sandy beach and tried fording the creek but it soon became too deep to continue without more submersion then we cared for on a cool morning.

We moved downstream weaving our way though the undergrowth. After much searching and still finding no discernible paths or marking we crossed over the creek and doubled back up the waterway on the opposite side.

The elusive trail marker

Jean and I came to a stream feeding into the larger one that we were following. We crossed the small tributary via a fallen log that looked like it could have been purposefully placed. Continuing along the creek we came to a channel heading steeply up the basin wall cutting through the thick vegetation. I scouted ahead scampering up the channel to where it intersected with a trail. From the intersection I followed the trail down as it descended through several switchbacks to the creek bed. There, high up on the trunk of a tree beside the trail was a pink marker. I shouted to Jean who was waiting just a short distance away at the base of the channel.

She hurried over and we followed the trail up as it undulated over the hillside. The path soon came to an intersection listed in our trail notes. After forty-five minutes of twists and turns we emerged into a library car park. At 9:00 Sunday morning we tromped into the Blaxland train station just shy of 24 hours since we left on our little excursion.

Escaped from the Blue Mountains

The 24 hour hike

Sydney weather forecasting is very much an arcane art. Where in Texas, hot and sunny is often a good bet and the meteorologists can prognosticate with a fair amount of accuracy the extended Sydney climate projections often delve into pure fantasy. Even a day out, the predictions are suspect. Many times I’ve seen the little weekend weather icon on my desktop that so stolidly declares sun all week long suddenly shift to partly cloudy to overcast to thunderstorms over the course of a few hours on a Friday afternoon just before the rain begins to fall.

The weekend before our Mungo excursion most weather sources were calling for sun. It had been a mixed week and we weren’t overly confident. Not keen to waste a sunny Saturday though we loaded our day packs Friday night. At dawn on Saturday I padded out into the living room to take a look. The blanket of clouds that had been with us the day before had vanished over night and it was all clear sky as far as I could see. I woke up Jean and then made a picnic lunch. After breakfast, we hoofed it up the hill to the train station and bought a couple of return tickets to Springwood station in the Blue Mountains.

*          *           *

Soon after arriving in Sydney Jean discovered the Wild Walks website. The site contains an exhaustive lists of walks and hikes in the Sydney area that range from half hour strolls to multiple day, 40+ kilometer treks complete with downloadable maps and trail notes for each hike. Back in January I was looking for hikes in the Blue Mountains and found a track that went from Springwood Station to Blaxland Station. The trail covered 13.6 kilometers and took an estimated 6 hours to complete. It looked perfect for a full day out.

Jean and I took the train to Central where we transferred on to the Blue Mountains line. After chugging west for over an hour we passed Blaxland station. Three stops later we arrived in Springwood. It was half past ten and the town was busy with activity. Booths offering artisan crafts and sumptuous victuals lined the main street of town. A guitarist performed on a little platform set up in front of a church and a number of people were out this morning. Families, couples and roving bands of teenagers meandered along the street taking advantage of the cool, crisp morning.

Jean and I made our way through the crowds, turned off the main street and soon found the trail head. The trail wound down into a small valley. Descending into the well-shaded basin the air became cool and thick with moisture. The trail leveled off as it passed through a clearing occupied by a rotting, wooden picnic table and then continued steeply down. The leaves and fronds of the plants lining the track glistened with dew and my shirtsleeves were soon damp.

Before long, the trail met a small creek and began following its meandering path. Our trail notes listed several possible variations early on. Not noticing the “Optional side trip” text over a set of directions I mistakenly led us a short distance off the main trail and up a hill to a sunlit grassy picnic area. We ventured back into the shady basin and soon after came to another side trail that went up to a look out. It was a short, steep climb to a largely obscured vantage point that left us less than impressed.

Not happy about leeches

Returning to the main trail Jean noticed that the back of my ankle was bleeding. Thinking I had rubbed a blister, I asked her if she could get a bandage from her pack and then I inspected my ankle. Crouching down I saw a black, writhing, worm-like creature clinging to the back of my shoe. I brushed the leech off and found several other leeches climbing up my shoe in inchworm fashion. I dispersed them as well and told Jean she’d best make a check. She also discovered a couple on her boots. As Jean had worn trousers she was able to tuck her trouser legs into her socks. Not the most glamorous look but an effective ward against thirsty interlopers.

Reasonably confident that we were leech free, Jean and I continued following the trail along the creek. A woman with a large purse slung over her shoulder and walking very quickly, soon overtook us. As she disappeared around a bend I commented to Jean that the white loafers she was wearing didn’t seem quite suited for the muddy, leech-infested track.

Slogging along through the muck, Jean and I also talked about how unenthused we both were with this hike thus far. We stopped a couple of times to check our footwear for parasitic hitchhikers. During one break I heard someone on the trail ahead of us. The woman with the purse reappeared moving at the same rapid pace. We stepped aside, said “hello” again and watched her disappear back in direction she had come from originally.

Several kilometers later the creek had widened to a few meters in span and the canopy had opened up allowing in some sun. I spied a clear area in the crook of the stream that looked like a good place to take a lunch break. Checking my watch to confirm my stomach was correct in its lunchtime estimation, I recoiled upon seeing the tail of a long, black leach flailing out from beneath the watchband. I frantically swiped at it sending the writhing creature sailing into the water. Blood instantly began to well up from a small puncture wound in my wrist.

We stopped for some bandaging and lunch. At half past twelve we moved on again. The stream continued to grow in girth. We heard the roar of a waterfall but couldn’t find a good vantage point. Checking the track notes I found the description for a waterfall. The notes read:

 “Magdala Falls is a disappointing set of falls. The view from the steep hillside doesn’t show any of the falls, but instead lets your hear the water cascade in the pools below.”

At least we were on the right track. By two o’clock Jean and I had covered about 6 ½ kilometers (not including our two side trips) or about half our total hike. From a junction, our path sloped precipitously downward petering out on a rocky bank. The creek had now swollen into a wide, quickly moving flow. We spent several minutes investigating crossings and eventually maneuvered over via some slippery boulders. Crashing around in the thick scrub on the other side I soon found a cairn (rock stack).

A cairn

Several cairns later we were on a well established trail. The track led up to the base of the hill and ascended in a long series of switchbacks. The black mud of the flood plain turned to sandy loam and the air became warm and dry. My shirt was soon soaked through with sweat.

On the uphill climb we passed a group of teenagers loping down the trail. Nearing the top I stopped off under a rocky outcropping to wait for Jean. Studying the trail notes I noticed that the estimated travel time from the junction on the other side of the creek to the lookout somewhere above was 35 minutes. Checking my watch, I saw that it had been about an hour since we’d left the junction. And here I thought Jean and I were reasonably fit and seasoned hikers. Fortunately, we still had four hours of daylight to cover some six kilometers.

Jean caught up and after several more switchbacks we made it up to the first lookout. Walking along the ridge we came across a couple of other sweeping vantage points. After a water break on a rocky outcrop overlooking the valley we decided it was time to make tracks for the exit.

We continued following the ridge line. The leaf-strewn trail was flat but crowded with thick brush. I held my walking stick up in front of me to knock away the occasional spider web spanning the trail. Lulled into complacency of following straight, flat unremarkable trail a movement in the leaves in front of my toe caught me off guard. I made an undignified yelp and jumped awkwardly backward as a snake slithered off the path and into the undergrowth.

After a while the path widened relieving me of plowing through cobwebs. A black flash of movement in my peripheral vision drew my eyes up in time to see an elusive and elaborately plumed lyrebird jetting across the trail. I clumsily grabbed for my camera and failed utterly to get a picture or the rare bird.

The trail joined a fire management trail, which made me suspicious. It was suspicious as the fire trail wasn’t on our map nor was it mentioned in the trail notes. The latter of which was often quite verbose in its description and surely would commented on an encounter with a wide gravel fire trail. I had a sinking feeling that I had made a wrong turn. The feeling was reinforced after rereading the notes a couple of time and in particular after studying the part about the intersection at the small cairn (highlighted below). I had misinterpreted the phrase “this walk heads south east” as “this walk continues south east” and hadn’t checked my compass to confirm the direction

Int. Bunyan Lookout Trk and Lost Worlds Trk to Int. Bunyan Lookout Trk and St Helena Trk 0.6km 10 mins

(From 7.91 km) From the intersection, the walk heads in a southerly direction away from the red stump, keeping it behind on the right of the track. The walk winds through the bush, crossing a few sandy areas that lead to a small cairn marking the intersection, on the left of the track.

Int. Bunyan Lookout Trk and St Helena Trk to St Helena Ridge Lookout 2.8km 45 mins

(From 8.49 km) From the intersection, this walk heads south east along track soon leading downhill. The walk meanders through the heath for quite some time. The walk nears a cliff line on the left, which it continues near for a short time before opening out onto a rocky outcrop with a view across to houses on the opposite hill (just before the steep downhill section).

This was the nicer trail

I remembered a path leading off from the main trail but it looked to be overgrown and I didn’t think much of it until reaching this fire trail. We had been at that turn off some 45 minutes ago. Jean and I turned around and moving into high gear, reached the intersection in just over half an hour. Sure enough, nestled in the grass at the edge of the trail was a flat, plate-sized rock, on top of which were five golf-ball sized rocks. The small cairn.

The soft glow of late afternoon now bathed the forest as Jean and I took off down the narrow trail with a growing sense of urgency. The brush was thick, much thicker then the trail we had turned off from. Brambles grabbed at my arms and legs as I pushed through ahead of Jean trying to clear something of a path. More than once I longed for the machete I’d used while working in South Texas. The trail was fraught with myriad spider webs as well. My arms and face were soon sticky with their gauzy remnants. The abundance of webs suggested that no one had been this way for at least several hours and more likely a couple of days.

The trail ran up to the ridge’s rocky spine and disappeared. We were happy to have some respite from the dense growth but grew disconcerted about the absence of a trail. Continuing along the spine we soon found where the trail picked up ducking back into the scrub. Nearly an hour after the small cairn the trail began to grow indistinct as it approached a cliff. The valley came into view through the thick trees and we heard the rushing creek again. Reading from the trail notes, the next leg of the hike was to follow a very faint, steep track down to the creek. Considering the swiftly fading daylight, instructions to find a faint track was not the most encouraging direction. Searching the area Jean and I found several steep, indistinct trails but I couldn’t really determine whether they were man made or the results of erosion. I looked at the notes again:

“…follows a very faint track initially very steeply down off the rock platform following the ridge. After about 100 meter the faint track bends right at another rocky outcrop. Here the walk leads off the side of the ridge to then wind down through the rocky outcrops and continue down through the scrub for about 180 meters until just before Glenbrook Creek where this walk comes to an un-signposted intersection.”

A faint track, some rocky outcrops and an un-signposted intersection are pretty poor landmarks. We decided on a trail that appeared to be leaving from the rock platform. Footing on the leaves and loose soil was tenuous and we slid part of the way to an exposed rock face. With the ridge and trees blocking out light from the setting sun I wasn’t able to determine where track continued. I also had severe doubts as to whether it was a trail at all. The climb back up to the platform would be tricky and I didn’t fancy coming down in the dark. Our path eventually led over the creek so rather then hunting for the trail I planned to make for the creek and follow it to find the crossing.

Jean and I began a sliding scramble down the hill. Descending a ravine, my foot dislodged a football-sized rock that proceeded to tumble down the hill and crash into a tree fifty meters below. I suggested to Jean that she allow me to get clear before coming down further. We continued the descent in alternating stages finally reaching the creek basin.

The basin was choked with undergrowth. Ducking under limbs and pushing through thick foliage we made it to the creek. The top of the valley wall on the opposite side glowed with the sheen of the setting sun. We scanned the opposite shoreline looking for the pink flagging that marked the crossing point. The creek was ten meters wide and fast moving and I saw neither markers nor a way to get across. We’ve moved downstream. The basin floor was uneven, piled with a jumble of mossy rocks and thick with plants and vines.

Our progress slow and soon the way was blocked by a wall of impenetrable flora. Jean and I weaved back towards the edge of the basin and followed the hillside before cutting back towards the creek. The sky was rapidly darkening as the sun retreated and a gloomy twilight settled on the forest. I recovered my flashlight from my rucksack and flipped it on. After some more maneuvering over logs and boulders and pushing through the brush we broke into a clearing that led to the water’s edge. The creek side was relatively clear and we followed it easily for a few minutes to an open sandy area. The stream, now placid, split around a sandy delta covered with thick vegetation. We considered wading through to the other side. The water was murky and in the fading light it was difficult to determine its depth. Further, there were no discernible tracks or markings on the other side. We followed the creek down stream.

The way soon became difficult again. We forged ahead, crashing through the underbrush shimmying over fallen logs and crawling across the rough terrain. It was soon fully dark. A full moon rose in the northern sky. My shirt was soaked with sweat and my legs stung with scrapes and lacerations from the caresses of countless vines. An exit wasn’t look forthcoming. I turned around and told Jean the thought that had gnawing away at me for a while now.

“I think we’re going to have to spend the night out here.” 

The same thought had been on Jean’s mind. She agreed that we weren’t going to get much accomplished stumbling around in the dark besides perhaps twisting an ankle. We turned around and began back tracking. The clearing we had passed through earlier struck me as a good place to wait out the morning. With one flashlight the going was slow but eventually we made it back to the sandy beach unscathed. From there it was a short walk to the clearing.

The risen moon shown brightly through the tree branches filling the clearing with a soft white glow. It was a large, flat area of sandy soil covered with a thin carpet of fallen leaves. Mostly clear of roots and rocks and with good access to water it would have been a perfect campsite. Now, if only we had a tent.

Houseswares +1

The Saturday before last, between a lackluster winter clothing shopping foray and a grocery store stock up extravaganza, we swung through the Paddington market. The Paddington market is a weekly affair featuring a wide variety of artisans and their Australian made wares, diverse and delectable treats and musical performances that are sometimes a bit esoteric. Meandering through the stalls we found some really beautiful and clever work. I particularly liked these photographs encased in thick laminate. The clear casing, a little over an inch thick, caused a variety of lighting effects dependent on the angle of the light source. When holding up a photo of a sunset scene up to the actual sun the red and orange hues in the picture seemed to glow.

In the end, we restrained ourselves to only purchasing the wind chimes pictured above along with a couple more similar pieces for gifts. The glass maker was a genial and talkative fellow. As as he carefully wrapped up the wind chimes we had quite a conversation, spanning from his children to his grandchildren to his background as an electrical engineer to the conflict in Afghanistan and our consensus that if more political leaders were students of twentieth century history and/or ever played Risk they would know that you never, ever get involved in a land war in Asia. Actually, I was just thinking the Risk part because I've learned after enduring many blank stares that throwing in obscure references to board games the conversations is only effective with a very small demographic.

Back at our flat I promptly (after seeing the ice cream safely to the freezer) hung the wind chimes up in the window. Though we don't get much wind I am quite happy with the way the glass plays with the ample light we do get. And in case you're keeping count, which you're definitely not, that purchase brings our total home decoration count to three paintings, two maps, one fake flower and the wind chimes. I wouldn't say we're nesting just yet.

ANZAC Day

They went with songs to the battle, they were young.

Straight of limb, true of eyes, steady and aglow.

They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,

They fell with their faces to the foe.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:

Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

At the going down of the sun and in the morning,

We will remember them.

Lest we forget.

                                            - Laurence Binyon

Early on the morning of the 25th of April, 1915 Allied forces landed on the Gallipoli peninsula in the Ottoman Empire (modern day Turkey) in a campaign to seize Constantinople (Istanbul) and open a supply route to Russia. The allied forces consisted of British, French, Australian and New Zealand troops. The latter two countries had only recently become self governed nations and it was the first significant combat for the combined Australia and New Zealand Army Corps (ANZAC).

Cenotaph Memorial at Martin Place

The Allied forces met fierce resistance from the embedded Turkish forces. The bloody Gallipoli Campaign dragged on over eight months amassing some 400,000 casualties (28,150 from Australia, 7473 from New Zealand). On January 9, 1916 the last of the Allied troops evacuated. In that same year the 25 April was officially name ANZAC day and was marked by a variety of services and ceremonies.

Early on the morning of the 25th of April 2012 my watch alarm sounded. Jean and I had missed the ANZAC day dawn service last year and we were determined to make it this time. The first web search for the service start time came back with 4:15 am. I was convinced that couldn't be correct but continued searching confirmed it.

Jean and I dressed and headed out into the cool morning. We walked up the hill through the King's Cross entertainment district which was still hopping or stumbling rather with the clubbers in short evening dresses and open collar shirts mixed with the derelicts in hoodies and stained trousers.

The service was to take place at the Cenotaph in Martin Place in the Central Business District (CBD). It was one train stop away or a twenty minute walk. We opted for the walk. The clubbers dissipated as we descended into the city and crossed into Hyde Park. Soon, we met with other groups converging on the memorial. 

Around this time of morning on the 25th of April 1927, a group of five members of the Australian Legion of Ex-Service Clubs on their way home after an ANZAC eve function came across an elderly woman laying a bouquet of flowers at the recently constructed Cenotaph war memorial. One of them approached the woman and asked if they could join her in tribute. They bowed there heads in silent prayer.

"At a subsequent meeting of the Legion, it was decided that a Wreath Laying Ceremony would take place at the Sydney Cenotaph at 0430 hours every ANZAC Day. This was the time that the first troops landed at Anzac cove in 1915."

The next year, 150 people were present at the service followed by 250 people in 1929. The numbers continued to grow with 10,000 attendees in 1935 and in 1939 with World War II looming on the horizon, 20,000 were assembled for the memorial.

Jean and I joined the the thousands of people already assembled at Martin Place. The Cenotaph was still a block away but fortunately a large screen and speaker system had been set up so we could see and hear what was going on. The ceremony was a solemn and moving experience with prayers, benedictions and the singing of hymns. In the age of camera phones I was really impressed by the restraint of the crowd. After the service concluded we hung around for a while, listened to the bag pipers, and got a closer look at the Cenotaph.

Pipers!

Researching ANZAC day I came across the words Kemal Ataturk, commander of Ottoman forces during the Gallipoli campaign and later president of Turkey, delivered to the first Australians, New Zealanders and British to visit the Gallipoli battleground in 1934.

"Those heroes that shed their blood
And lost their lives.
You are now lying in the soil of a friendly country.
Therefore rest in peace.
There is no difference between the Johnnies
And the Mehmets to us where they lie side by side
Here in this country of ours.
You, the mothers,
Who sent their sons from far away countries
Wipe away your tears,
Your sons are now lying in our bosom
And are in peace
After having lost their lives on this land they have
Become our sons as well."

Some shots from the parade later in the day

 

You send a boy off to get a computer science degree and he comes back with this...

I've been teaching myself the Java programming language on and off for about a year now. Here's a screen shot of my latest accomplishment. It's essentially a dumbed down version of paintbrush. At least I've finally made it to graphics.

Speaking of Road Trips...

 Jean and I went down to Canberra back in February with our friend Lynn. Here's the belated write up:

Jean and Aaron in Sydney: Road Trip: Canberra