Tag Archives: JKLeahy stories

JK. Leahy Short Stories, Nature and Environment, Snakes and reptiles, wildlife, writing, Writing Stories

The Waiting

September 28, 2022 tribalmysticstories, lazylittlefrog.com 4 Comments

J.K.Leahy Short Story

It was a regular non-event weekday until I opened my email. An email with an attachment was about to change my life. It was what I had waited for, for weeks, and yet, I could not believe it. I sat in the faded red leather chair. I had long promised myself to replace this chair when I had some money, but now, the paint had started falling off the skin to give the chair a vintage look. I had decided the aged look suited me.

When I opened the attachment, and began completing the very important document before me, something moved in the ceiling above me. It was broad daylight and the usual sounds from the ceiling would be of possums farting and snoring. Even possums kept baby-making to night time and in the nearby bushland. This loud disturbing pounding ended in sliding, scratching and then loud tumbling that got me off the red leather chair in a fright. Clearly, something big was up there. Or were there two big things? Whatever it was, its weight vibrated the ceiling. I dashed from my red chair into the open lounge. It was a “WTF?!” moment. My heart pounded to that beat in the ceiling. My house is old. She can only bear certain strains on her bones and frames.

The thing or things were now rolling and hitting the ceiling frame and came towards me. The ceiling looked like it would fall on me. I stepped backwards and looked for my phone to ring the snake catcher. By now I had assumptions going on in my head. Was it a spring mating session gone wrong? And were they possums or snakes? Or both? It was about 3pm. The sounds were not in the rhythm of life here in Bellbowrie.

As the “thing” moved again, it now became obvious it was a large snake. The sliding sound was like a tarpaulin dragged on the ground. Then, the screeching sounds of sharp nails tugging on the ceiling, timber and the iron roof.

I rang the snake catcher. No answer. I gave my assumptions in a voice message. “Snake and snake, possum and possum or snake and possum” doing something rigorous enough to break the ceiling. Later as I hung up and listened attentively, I drew the conclusion that it was a large snake attacking a possum. The possums slept in this part of the house during the day. The animal must have had a rude awakening. I felt sad and ill. I was wondered what I could do if the damned thing broke the ceiling. Catch it in a garbage bag? No!

Snakes live here in the bushland surrounds. Many. In spring, they are out hunting. We get both poisonous and non-poisonous snakes. In the past two weeks, I spotted an Eastern Brown and the Australian carpet snake or carpet python. The birds alerted me on both snakes’ locations. It was like an alarm gone off each time and nearer they got to the house. Ten days ago, I saw the 2-metre-long carpet snake outside the kitchen. For a week, it had wandered away from the house in the garden and the birds kept a close watch. On that day, it was outside the kitchen, I called Mark, our friend and local snake catcher to relocate the reptile, but he was on the coast. A few hours later, the snake was on the go. Mark describes this as “motor rolling”. When this happens, the snake moves quickly and disappears. The eastern brown was sun-bathing in a succulent garden and the birds went crazy. I sat there in the mornings to have my coffee. It disappeared when I approached. It was far from the house, so I figured it was somewhere between us and the neighbours. I informed the snake catcher and family.

When the carpet snake disappeared from behind the kitchen, it began a guessing game of where the reptile would show up next. Carpets love to hang around in the house or nearby for the rats and possums. The snake makes its appearance only rarely and quietly for water, birds or the possums. Sometimes they like to sleep in the sun where the pot plants are or in a chair. Once a female carpet curled its tail on our front door knob and it’s body spanned up two metres to the window. I had opened the door to go swimming and met her fat body while trying to push the door open. It was very hot and the snake had come for some water. Later I learnt it was very pregnant. Often a snake hung like a branch to confuse the birds; its neck hooked and head turned up and ready to strike. I’m sure you have read some of my snake stories here. I don’t harm snakes. They are part of our eco system. It is also illegal to kill them here. The relocation from this place is only because, I protect the birds and sometimes the poisonous snakes become too difficult to see when you move about. I do believe many relocated species have come back.

The Australian carpet snake.

Collection and relocation of a sunbather.

Here is Mark doing a quick “collection” of one of the carpet snakes. Mark can be contacted on reptileremoval.com.au

The ceiling noise kept going and drew me back. I shut all the room doors. The afternoon’s excitement got to the stage where the ceiling joint gaped slightly and dirt and dried paint fell out. By now, Mark had called back and he was very sorry he could not help because I told him, the snake was not out where he could see and pick it up. He said to keep a watch and call later in the evening if the snake was out. Mark had caught and relocated one while it constricted a large male possum one night. The snake lashed out and trapped the possum with its body above my children and I, while we were having dinner. The attack shocked us at dinner table. I had argued with my son Nathan as to what was happening in the ceiling until the possum’s cries horrified us. We called Mark. By the time Mark took it out from the ceiling, the possum had died. This one was further into the ceiling. I could not see it from the outside and it was dangerous to intercept a feeding time.

While I kept watch with the broom in my hand, thinking I should finish my document on the computer, I remembered the arrival noise in the ceiling nights before. I realised today’s craziness was the ending of the snake stake out. Even though the snake had fallen onto the roof days before, it did not attack the possums right away. The possums did come on the roof the same way, using the jacaranda trees and when sensing the snake, they ran across the roof like elephants and jumped off onto the trees. It was a movie of sounds.

So, a few nights ago, about midnight, a rustle of jacaranda leaves, a large branch bending, a huge thud was followed by a continuous sliding over my bedroom. The ‘motor rolling’ confirmed the reptile had now made its way into our ceiling, a regular hunting ground and home to a family of possums. The reptiles catch the possums easier this way – trapped in the ceiling. And the possum numbers sadly have dropped since we moved here ten years ago. I tried to chase the snake again.

With the house broom, I started pounded the ceiling and yelled in my loudest Papua New Guinean woman voice. It was a voice I learnt as a child that was only used when you needed to save yourself. (It was a scary voice. My mother also used this voice as a last call, when she was very angry). I yelled and scraped the ceiling with the back of the broom head. The broom sound mimicked the motor rolling sounds. Suddenly in all the mixed and confusing noises, I heard an eerie sound. It was nothing like the thumping sounds. It sounded familiar and as I repeated the scraping, the sound responded. I could not believe it. The snake was hissing loudly. I was astounded. I used the broom again and the snake got loud, and aggressive. I yelled at the snake to leave the house. But the noise continued. Mark suddenly called. Mark could tell by my voice; I was in distress. I said to him, I would leave for a while and he thought it was a great idea. He said by nightfall, the reptile will disappear. After I hung up, I left the house.

It was quiet when I returned two hours later. It was getting dark. I switched the lights on in all the rooms, thinking the heat could warm the ceiling and alert my ‘hissing encounter’ that I was back. I had also hoped this heat would force it to motor roller away. I picked up the broom and scraped the ceiling once more and was greeted with a soft hissing. It was possible the reptile was guarding its fresh kill. I heard the gentle movements. The waiting.

“Yu win pinis!” I spoke firmly to the ceiling. In Tok Pisin, it meant, you have won already. I put the broom away and continued with my business. I had no time to wait. I completed my document and clicked “send”. I carried on as if it was a regular non-event evening. After I took my shower, I slept with my eyes wide open, hoping to hear the motor rolling – going away from me.

The next day, I woke at 7am and made a cup of tea. The birds were singing. The ceiling was intact. It was calm in the house. Where the previous day’s debris had escaped from the ceiling gap and piled on the timber floor, I reached up with the broom and scraped the ceiling. Nothing happened. I did another scrape with the broom head and there was not a single sound, nor hissing.

If you enjoyed this story, you can search for other snake stories on this blog. Feel free to comment, like and share the post. Thank you.

Writing Stories

Two Songs for One Opening

October 21, 2021 tribalmysticstories, lazylittlefrog.com 6 Comments

J.K.Leahy memoir stories ©

“I have a song”, I told my mother over the phone. The regular 30 minute costly international call between PNG and Australia started with muffled voices. And then, depending on who had used her phone, my mother came on when the phone was passed back to her. Sometimes Mother had to find a good spot to get the best reception. And sometimes her voice changed and I knew other ears were listening. Not all will be discussed, some things will come in the future conversation.

“Hello Ma. Are you there?”

Someone is talking in the background and she is telling them to be quiet. I smiled at myself as the picture of her room flashed in my head with the village dogs barking in the background.

“Hello!”

Family discussions and on-going feuds took up the 30 minutes so quickly. As creators of art and music, my mother and I had agreed on many occasions that we would rather sing and ‘stori’ then exchange on family heartaches. Telling stories about happy occasions and things we enjoyed often took up between ten to five minutes of the entire call.

“What song?” my mother responded.

“A song for the church opening”, I replied in Bukawac.

My mother is the village composer and musician. Not me. I am a dancer, creator of crafts and beautiful things and a fisherman.I cal also catch eels but not my mother. And Mother is not a dancer so Tinang, my grandmother and my aunts taught me. My mother did not teach me to compose nor play instruments, but we still sang together. If I wanted music – she played Skeeta Davies and Jim Reeves and Elvis. She also played her flute.

“Which opening – our village one?”

We sang every day in the evenings with my grandmother when she was alive. There was a ten-pact short biblical songs we sang at dusk. They were my favourite. If we sang at home in the village, all my aunts joined in. My mother returned to the phone after telling someone to close her door.

“Do you want to hear my song?” I said.

“Yamandu? (Really?)” she said.

“Yamandu!” I repeated. That means “true”. I wanted so badly for her to focus and listen my song.

In Wagang Village, all families were asked to contribute to the new village church opening. This was last Christmas. Monetary contribution was at the forefront of this event. In the past when I was growing up, each family whether they were crafts people, hunters or fisherman would be invited to contribute what they had, made and grew. Not anymore. Money was first.

“I may not have enough to give to the church so I wanted to gift a song,” I said. That sentence went to a silent respond. I wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. I suspected it wasn’t what she anticipated. Perhaps there was more to the silence that I wasn’t aware of.

I let the silent pass. In the background I heard my sister scolding my nephew. I didn’t want to ask my mother why my sister was doing that.

I had composed this song one afternoon at my studio. It just happened. And tonight was the first my mother heard of it. She probably expected me to just send some money. She waited for me to explain.

“I will sing it for you Ma,” I said in Bukawac. “I had composed this song for the opening and you and your sisters can sing it on our behalf”.

“Okay” she said.

The church project was instigated by the provincial government in Morobe Province, Papua New Guinea. The villagers had been waiting for a church for over three decades. The first church was built by the people themselves – each family contributed the materials showing their craftsmanship through handwoven walls, brackets of pulled and dried rattan, carved seats, and hand sewn sago palm leaves. It was a church none of us growing up with it would ever forget because of its aesthetic beauty and the fabric of a cohesive and supporting community sewn together. In time the church building deteriorated. The maintenance did not happen. The relationships in leadership, the respect between the elders and the younger generation became difficult to maintain and the cohesiveness slowly came apart. Termites slowly and quietly menaced their way into what was left of the handcrafted building. It was sad.

“Ma! Are you there?” I asked her.

“Mnem!” (Sing!) she said. I gathered my thoughts. I was only singing to my mother, but it suddenly felt like I was about to face a grand stand with thousands of people.

My mother is known in our family and the community for her music. She was the composer of original songs and songs she translated from different languages into ours – Bukawac and Yabem. Her music contributes to the Lutheran church for openings, ‘sam katong’, large church gatherings of multiple congregations, and many village events. She was a trained muscian. Germans during the colonial era taught her flute, guitar, harmonica and singing at Bula Girls School, not only did she get trained by Germans to nurse, but also to sing and play numerous instruments. The flute was and still is her favourite.

“It’s called “Conversation with God,” I gave her the title. “It’s between God and I,” I said.

“Mnem!,” mnem ma au wangu”, she said. “Sing! Sing it so I can hear it”, she said and although she softly spoke, I detected the excitement in her voice.

“Ae ngoc geng masi, ae ngoc ming masi, ae gameng gebe yagung yawing aom.” (I have nothing, no words, but I came to sit with you).

I sang the first verse and chorus and then stopped and there wasn’t a single sound from the phone. I wrote the song in Yabem. This was the ‘church language’ like many church hymns – they were in Yabem. I learnt this language by listening to my mother, her parents and two brothers speak it to each other. My grandfather was a teacher and most of his teachings were in Yabem. My late Uncle Kwaslim mostly communicated in Yabem – it was his favourite language.

“Mama! Mama!” I called into the phone.

“I’m here”, she said.

“Did you like the song?”

She was very quiet. Then she said, “It’s beautiful! I don’t know what else to say”.

Three months later my mother tells me that she also composed a song for the opening and she sings it over the phone to me. It was very beautiful – but that is another story.

*****************************

(If you like my stories, please share them). I thank you all for being here. If you’re new to my blog – welcome! For all my friends who have been with me for a while, I appreciate you and I want to sincerely thank you for your patience. I have been away for a long while and working on other projects. I will share the news here soon.

Women, writing, Writing Stories

The Big One – JKLeahy Memoir Stories

March 9, 2018 tribalmysticstories, lazylittlefrog.com 10 Comments

The Big One – J.K. Leahy

(A special tribute to some of the powerful women that influenced my life).

My line stretched beyond the width of the fat river. The water was slightly brown-greenish – you could see fish swimming under the surface. There were plenty. Debris from two other smaller river mouths came towards us and unfolded to the current that spread across the wider larger Socwa river. The 250gm nylon fish line pressed an unseen line on the glassy surface. We were in the swamps of Wagang Village, Lae, Papua New Guinea. I felt good my hook and bait was close to the other side. Maybe it will catch the big one.

It wasn’t a race between Ma Yang and I. It was a process of an apprentice with her teacher. And the apprentice in her final learning stages before graduation. The river had risen and covered the mangrove and pandanus roots and low-lying branches are now touching it. A mix aroma of wild tree flowers hung in the air, but the sweet pandanus penetrated the balance. With the deep current, yellow and peach awaho flowers flowed in a line that meandered through the low-lying branches like ballerinas in their fluff skirts. The flower centres popped out like mini umbrellas in deep maroon and gold flecks.

At eight, I was in primary school. But in my fishing years, I was ready to enter university, so we were there to start that course. This location is not for kids as my aunt would say.

“Only for those who are special” she said with a wink.

I knew my aunt had many secret fishing places. But if my mother knew Ma Yang had brought me here, my aunt would have been in trouble. Mother was mostly away and she would never take me to such places; she said “gaming sac” – meaning bad place, and they were full sorcery and other spirits lurking in the shadows.

My lead fishing teacher was beside me, and together we carried our old rice bags, roughly cut at one end and filled with bait (shrimps). The bait were all alive. We had a bush string each for our catch tied to the bag and dangled in the water. My teacher carried a knife. Sometimes we carried a roast banana or kaukau. Dry biscuits were okay, but they made too much noise when we snapped them with our teeth.

“We can pack them, but eat them on the beach after”, she said earlier this morning.

Ma Yang and I had planned this fishing trip for days. Yang yang means yellow in my mother-tongue, Bukawac. (Aunty Yellow was nicknamed “yellow” because of her skin colour).

Today the river swelled. Lup suc means the river had fattened with partially salt, debris and waste from rotting leaves, swamp and other fish life that would provide feed for the ‘kol pis’ in pidgin which means ‘cold fish’ – these are several breeds of swamp river fish.

I suddenly felt a tug and reeled in a cold fish. It was scaly like a python with brown green and bluish undertones. My aunt looked at me to say, ‘well done!”, but it’s all in the eye-talk.

The mosquitoes were biting, but the adrenaline from the fish bites created some tolerance to the annoying buzzing and bites. Sometimes without feeling the sting, when I took my eyes off the line, I saw mozzie bellies getting bloody and tight, then the mozzies would fall off and fly away. To constantly smack the mosquitoes meant an intrusion to the balance of the stillness, and the fish would move away.

“Mamang eng – be silence as Ma Yang often warned when we entered a sacred place. Every great fisherman knows that”. With the mosquitoes, she said if we put up with pain and irritation, we would truly master the art of fishing for cold fish.

I put some water on my brow to keep me cool. It was lovely under the trees but still hot. My next shrimp bait was peeled and neatly tucked over my earlobe like a cigarette – Ma Yang did the same.

The youngest of the sisters, Aunty Giuc.

We had travelled to this spot along the beach away from the village and deep into the swamp. Aunty Yangyang always picked a new spot for fishing, because she knew. I know she learnt it from her mother and my grandmother. My aunty’s mother was my grandmother’s sister. I was always excited at the anticipation of what mystery and beauty we would discover next and the fish we would catch there. My teacher never told me where we were headed next until we got there. That was part of the lessons – I had to pay attention to the land marks and work out how to get there on my own in the future. We used only shrimp baits for cold fish. We caught the shrimps the day before in a separate stream not far from our small village.

Travelling waist-deep through the wetlands and thorn bush, sharp objects, shell fish and branches and often stepping on kalum (thorn snail). This small snail is dangerous. Its tiny spikes broke off into your foot when you stepped on it. This often got infested, and can immobilise you weeks, if not dealt with early. It is funny because the word kalum also refers to ‘havoc’ in our language. The more difficult the journey, the more fish we caught, at least that’s how I saw it.

As my line raced across the flat surface, I pulled. Before I pulled out the fish from the river, there is a dance. The kol pis likes to jerk the line a couple of times and then let go. After a few jerks, it pulls hard and that’s when you know, you have got it. Aunty Yangyang taught me to not hesitate but also, not pull too soon. If you do, you lose the fish.

After years of fishing with Ma Yang, I learnt that some of the kol pis like eboob and ewayum took the lines like the ocean travelleys and made a dash for it.

I took my fish off my hook and I put the bush rope through the gills and dropped it into the water. It was now swimming again with the others I had caught.

Ma Yang was very quiet, but she had her eye firmly on the dark corners opposite us. We had fished for most of the afternoon and had been there for almost six hours already, but she was set on catching the big one. The big one is called “ee oc”. Both our catch lines were about a metre long. This would feed several households.

The big cold fish usually came at the end, like the grand finally and often this fish would come before or after you catch an eel. They co-existed in nooks of tree roots in swamp holes – both this fish and the eel. When my aunts and grandma and I catch these with our hands, you stick both hands into the holes and gently move along the belly of the eel to find the other. In my learning days, my grandma would find them and guide my hands to feel through the thick swamp. It was exhilarating, but all done in complete silence.

The sun was setting, and it got cooler. I had questions, but I was taught not to ask questions on the job. Anything I needed to know would be asked while we were walking home or by the fire at meal time. No-one spoke when we were ‘in the zone” and the fish were biting.

It was almost time to go home, but I was not tired. As the sun threw its last rays of a golden pink powder over the open space and green scaly pandanus – its reflection came closer to us under the awaho tree. She touched the water and I looked at her. Ma Yang’s fish line raced across the water and cut in a straight line as if a knife was being inserted into a cake. My teacher flexed her large, dried palm fish rod. It bent completely to the weight of what glided in large curbing circles in front of us.

She glanced at me. The finally dance began. I knew, the big one was here, but I must keep still.

…………………………..

Ma Yang died a few years ago after a long illness – there is an earlier post about her. I miss her.

Writing Stories

Winter Food for Birds

July 26, 2017 tribalmysticstories, lazylittlefrog.com 4 Comments

About three years ago, I bought this small plant about eight inches tall from an eighty year old man in Moggill markets, Queensland. This market has now moved away from the vicinity of Bellowrie to a nearby suburb.

This plant did not have any flowers, but the old man told me, it will have these bell-looking flowers that the birds love. He called it a bush. My cousin Marina, a horticulturist, gave me a yellow species of the same plant. She told me the plant would be huge and I need a large space at least three cubic metres for it. When I showed her the old man’s plant, she said the two were exactly the same, the yellow-flowered one she gave me and this orange one. The orange one took almost a year to grow up to a metre or so and flowered.

My yellow plant is still about a metre tall and because I placed in a spacious spot, it has not grown into other plants. This orange bush is now branching into the chook coop and the passion a pepper tree, because I planted it before I got the horticulturist’s advice.

The orange plant needs pruning several times a year, and the plant, which I can never remember the name, (I’m sorry) provides an abundance of bird food. Daily, many little birds come to enjoy its petals, and I’m grateful to the old gardener who sold me the plant. I also love its colours.

Nature and Environment, Photography, Writing Stories

Foggy Bellbowrie – Photo Story

July 18, 2017 tribalmysticstories, lazylittlefrog.com 6 Comments

This morning I woke to check the ailing rooster and saw the fog through my windows. It was early. I went to get my camera and left the house. The fog had stayed, even though the sun light was peeking through the gum trees in Bellbowrie.

Here are some pictures of my neighbourhood. Some of you may know it is the middle of winter in Brisbane. This exact week, 13 years ago, my two sons and I migrated to Australia (Brisbane). I try not to think of how miserable and cold it was for us, because many great things have happened since then. Life is a transformation of wonders, only if we allow ourselves to enjoy them.