Below: Google Images   This winner gave IT ALL
To think that GOD loves me
Autobiography   Dieter R. Fischer   Book 8
THE WINNER GAVE IT ALL Index ISBN 0 9577 426 8 1 Book 8 / Ch 11 Written/Published 17.2 - 24.2.10
(No, God has not forgotten - Ch.7-6.03)
11. Oneone Rd - Lotsa colour
Have you ever read a notice, which announced you own death? Probably not, unless your name is a very common one.
My name is reasonably common, but not in Australia. I came across the following death notice, while checking the Google ranking of www.driving-school and dieterfischer.com.
Somebody with the same Christian name and surname had passed away:
(I only printed two names of all the relatives listed. Dot's added).
The date of the funeral had me bugged. I immediately translated Feb 5th, 11 AM into I I 5 I I.
(I just realized the date, when I had surfed this death notice. It was on Feb 15th or I I I 5.
A little research in the Gold Coast White Pages Telephone Directory revealed that the only Dieter Fischer lives (or had lived) at No. 10 Ac ... St.
I only casually took note of the address of the funeral parlour. I didn't store it on purpose in my memory bank. However, the very next morning, listening to the BBC, London I overheard a brief interview. A male voice reported from the Pacific island of Tonga. A bad storm had struck the region. It had hit Tonga and caused much damage. (At the time there were no injuries or death reported).
Checking again online, the address of the funeral place was 18 Tonga Place. (We'll touch on this funeral again later in the chapter).
But there was more. In the same BBC News bulletin (or it may have been a little later on the TV News) a train had crashed in Belgium, killing - 18 people. It must be the way my computer brain is wired (= weird) which makes these connections?
After publishing the previous chapter on 10/2, where I had highlighted the digits 2x10, a further 2 10 connection came in a strange fashion. I had found this item, in Christchurch on 10/1/10, at the same location, where I had spotted the Mitre 10 (10 / 10) ad in Opawa Road:
(Back to legal matters in Adelaide)
At the time of writing this chapter the trial into the conduct of Eugene McGee and his brother Craig is being held in Adelaide. They are charged with conspiring to avoid police following the hit-and-run death of cyclist Ian Humphrey. Very little has been printed in the newspaper (or online) concerning the case. A TV reporter last year announced that it was shaping up to become trial of the decade.
Other information, which the authorities owe the public of South Australia, is the full truth of the multi-million Dollar Kapunda Road Royal Commission. Commissioner Greg James, at the time of handing down his report, also released a 14-page, short version of his findings. One politician claimed during a TV interview: "...it contains dynamite."
The people of South Australia have a right to know, what is in Commissioner James' report. They paid for it. It's a fair question to ask:
One morning I was driving my Suzuki into Adelaide to watch the McGee case. En route, driving south on Main North Road just after Gepps Cross, in my rear view mirror I spotted a vehicle. It was a gold-coloured, late model Commodore. My brain immediately produced a picture of the same model and colour. I had seen it online, while doing research the night before.
It happened on the same morning, when I had uploaded chapter 10 (it was technically on 11/2). Adelaide woke up to the bombshell news (pardon the pun) of a gold-coloured Commodore exploding, killing two men in the Adelaide suburb of Enfield.
Investigations found that the crime was gang (motorcycle) related. Police suspected the bomb detonated accidentally and was allegedly meant for a rival-gang member, who lived nearby.
Two facts made my antenna go up as I drove into the courts that morning. One, the vehicle in my rear-view mirror was the same make, model and colour as the bombed vehicle. Two, the location when I first spotted the Commodore behind me. It was at the nearest point to the bomb blast, a few hundred metres east of my journey.
As I continued south the Commodore overtook me. I noted its registration plate ...318. I counted at least 4 antennae, protruding from the vehicle. I was convinced it was an unmarked police vehicle.
But there was more. The Commodore changed into my lane and stopped right ahead of me at the Regency Road traffic lights. I noticed the badge on the rear. The vehicle was a Commodore - Omega.
That's funny, my outside the box brain made a connection at once: Just a few streets ahead, off to the right, was Alpha Road. I turned into Alpha Road, which ...
... I normally would not have travelled on.
That Friday morning 12/2 I parked my Suzuki at Christ Church, North Adelaide, and cycled the rest of the way into Victoria Square. To reach the entrance to the courthouse I usually pass the main entrance to the Hilton (take note) International. That morning, as I walked my bicycle along the footpath, I noted a person, who was handling a suitcase. I glanced to read the black T-shirt the person was wearing: Royale .... (More T-shirt-slogans a little later).
The Sunday following I happened to visit Mrs. Herzberg, the lady in the nursing home. Since I was not far from the scene of the Enfield bomb blast I cycled home via Truscott Ave. As soon as news reports had mentioned Truscott Ave I knew which corner it was, close to Newton Tce and Gove Street.
Holden Commodore, destroyed in bomb blast on 11/2/10 Truscott Rd, Enfield
That Sunday afternoon, three after the blast, all that was left were yellow markings on the pavement, which marked the location of, possibly, body parts. (More yellow at the end of the chapter).
I didn't carry a camera. Thankfully, the internet is a great source for pictures, one of which is shown above. Diagonally across from Truscott Street is the street sign for Gove Street. On that sign, in addition to the name, it gave house numbers, the direction of addresses: 1, 3, 5, as well as 2 - 18 underneath.
1 3 5 could resemble Jan 30 50.
218 only takes another 10 to arrive at 228. The blast had occurred five hours, since I uploaded Chapter 10...
So what does it all mean?
Did I received my answer a few streets away? As I cycled away from the Enfield bomb scene I distinctly recall seeing two young people, parked in an open-top, red sportscar. They were discussing, almost arguing, rather loudly. As I rode past my mind took in two things - the registration plate ... 010 and the make of the sportscar - Triumph! Loved it.
After having experienced all that, I again passed the front entrance to the Hilton Hotel on Tuesday, 16th Feb. This time, without meaning to, I noticed a different T-shirt. (I am not eagerly searching street scenes, spying for writing on pedestrians' T-shirts. I simply noticed it and am here writing about it). A middle-aged man, smoking a cigarette, was wearing a T-shirt with the word ...Bombers ... on it. (There is a Melbourne football team, called The Bombers). I smiled not just because of bombers, but for another reason, the name Hilton.
That very morning, before cycling into Adelaide's Victoria Square, I had watched the German DW TV News. My outside the box brain saw the name of the female reporter. It was Hilt. (Hi to you too!)
Watching the remainder of the Journal from Berlin two events came to mind - Karneval and Valentine's Day. Karneval is a big occasion in Southern Germany and around the Cologne/Frankfurt region.
While I associate Karneval with silliness, Valentine's key word is LOVE. I saw LOVE in both and emailed DW-TV's feedback page, dated Feb. 16th 10
But there was more, the day after the above Love-Hilton email. Again, where else, as I walked my bicycle past the front entrance of the Hilton Hotel, en route to the courthouse, I saw a T-shirt a young man was wearing: It read: LIFESTYLE LOVESTYLE.
I'd love for truth to Triumph, preferably without any more red liquid wasted.
A school bus, pictured on the front page of our Sunday Mail Newspaper on 14/2/10 came with this headline: SCHOOL BUS BATTLE.
Somebody had filed a complaint, claiming age discrimination, because they were refused transport on a school bus. This 'life and death' issue dominated talk-back shows for some time afterwards.
- - - - - - -
(Back to New Zealand - Jan. 12th 2010)
I love Paris, Berlin and Cromwell. But a little gem called Queenstown in New Zealand's Otago Province, would beat them all in a beauty contest.
Reader's know that my writing is not an ordinary travel-dairy. There are travel-writers who do a much better job, reporting on exotic tourist destinations. Whilst I take an interest in the places we visit, I get excited observing co-incidentals. What happened moments ago, as I took a meal break, is a classic example.
While I ate my meal, on the 6.30 PM SBS TV News (18/2/10) I watched a segment about the assassination of a Hamas leader in a Dubai Hotel on January 20th. The TV-journalist, who was reporting for the BBC London, was Jeremy Bowen. Until then I had never heard that name before. So where is the twist?
After my wife, my mother-in-law and I arrived in Queenstown on Jan. 12th, we parked our hired Mazda Demio right in the heart of the pretty town, to move into our apartment. As I exited the car I noticed a familiar face: Where do I know this person from?
The round-faced gentleman, who looked much younger than I, was walking slowly along the pavement, holding the hand of a very young child. We made brief eye contact. I casually called out: "Aren't you from Adelaide, Australia?"
His one-word reply: "Sydney". I apologized, explaining that I thought we knew each other from Adelaide, and moved on.
Even Isobel said, she thought his face looked familiar. We chewed it over for a some time, both wanting to know the ID of this person. A day or so later it came to me: It looked very much like Mr. Bowen, a high-profile politician, a Minister in the Labor Government.
In a further twist, that's why I am writing about it, a day later I was driving out of the town centre of Queenstown, looking for the Salvos Store. As visitors do, I took the wrong turn. I realized I had turned up Bowen Street; same spelling as the person we were thinking about (and the BBC journalist a moment ago).
A short distance up that wrong street, I found myself in Kiely* La, where I had to use a driveway to turn my Mazda around. As I did, I report it as it was, I noticed that I was using driveway of house No. 5 to turn around. A Ford Meteor was parked in it, registration plate ... 1963.
We stayed in a very comfortable apartment in Beach Street. The position could not have been better, right amongst restaurants and shops, opposite the port, where it all was happening. It was a short stroll along the lake front to the Botanic Gardens.
Doing just that, early one morning, I felt I was walking on the Lago Maggiore in Northern Italy. The promenade right on the lake, tourist boats in the quaint harbour, towering mountain peaks in the distance, some still covered in patches of snow.
In the Rose Garden of the pretty oasis, across the bay from central Queenstown, I learned a little history. A statue is erected in remembrance of five brave British explorers. The pioneer adventurers had started their expedition from Lyttleton Harbour (Christchurch) to become the first to reach the South Pole. Their names were: Bowers, Oates, Wilson, Evans and Ncott, sorry Scott.
Unfortunately, en route, after struggling through storms and freezing temperatures, they learned that the Norwegian party, led by Roald Amundsen had reached the South Pole on December 14th, 1911.The Norwegians had beaten them by 34 days.
Regardless, the five explorers pushed on, enduring unimaginable hardship. They reached the pole on January 17th, 1912. On the return trip, Scott and his four companions all died of starvation and extreme cold. Scott's last message is engraved on the memorial in Queenstown's Botanic Gardens: "We bow to the will of Providence."
I walked slowly among the rose bushes, smelling them as I went. Continuing along the wide path of the well kept park, I noted near a trash bin a child-size thong, also called flip-flops or (in New Zealand) jandals. A name was written on it, in large black letters - Hunter. Just in case Hunter or his parents parents were searching for his missing jandal (nice name jandal), I placed it on the bin, name up.
That day, when all this took place, the world was still in shock, being confronted with images and news reports from one of the world biggest ever natural disasters. A tragedy of immense proportions was unfolding in one of the poorest countries on earth, Haiti. Why do I comment on this right here?
How ironic, during one of my most beautiful, relaxing morning walks I found myself confronted with firstly, one of the saddest adventure stories, the death of those arctic explorers.
Next, walking on through the Botanic Gardens the tragedy at Port-au-Prince suddenly met my eyes: In huge lettering (each the size of a motor car) I saw the word PRINCE, around the tennis courts in the middle of lovely park. (The shade-cloth around the courts was made by a company named Prince).
A real holiday is one where you find time to do things you don't find time for at home. Flicking through the newspaper, the sundeck was vacant for a change, I indulged in a crossword puzzle. It was of a different kind, one I had never done before. Each square on the grid has a number. Each number represents a letter. To solve the puzzle, two letters are given, the rest is for you to solve.
The puzzle had been published in the SundayStar Times (on Jan. 10, 10). Instead of throwing away the whole paper I kept the page with the puzzles. Now I'm glad I did, because what I found, as I solved the crossword puzzle, teased me. My numbers, my story in a NZ crossword puzzle!
How ironic - the word EAR* are letters 11 14 4 !
(* For the interesting EAR story, see Book 5, Chapter 12)
I saw another (spiritual) lesson in the puzzle: There is only one (letter 13) - U.
(I just saw that U is right next to R (letter No. 4).
[R x F] minus [S x U] = 5.
- - - - - - -
But there was more, another riddle, a quiz, where I again found an interesting answer:
I see 4 4 1 Way
- - - - - - -
We had contemplated a trip to the world famous Milford Sound. From Queenstown this would have meant a 600 km return-trip. Besides the long distance, where would we find time to take a boat ride, a must when visiting the world famous fjord. Milford would have to wait until next time.
A short drive from Queenstown we discovered another little gem, Arrowtown. Had I had a bicycle, no question, I would have enjoyed the lovely, 20 kilometre road to Arrowtown on two wheels, early one crispy morning.
Had I done so I would have missed a most interesting event, one that was possibly rare in this small town - the funeral of a young man.
At the Arrowtown Hall people were exiting onto the street, which had been closed to traffic. At first I assumed a wedding had just taken place, and the bride and groom would appear any moment. By the faces of the people, who exited onto the street, I soon realized we had stumbled onto a funeral.
Friends, I am astounded what I read in my diary, preparing for this writing. As if my experiences were all intertwined, divinely appointed. I write it as I saw it.
The funeral was for a young man, who had drowned on the Gold Coast on January 8. His name was Richard James Doyle.
Googling the event, I stumbled across a USA website, OregonLive.com, and read that only 9 days prior to the day of this writing, a young man was sentenced for killing his young passenger. He had crashed a borrowed Mercedes Benz. His name was also Richard James Doyle.
Hey, I just saw ... Arrowtown ... !
(Back to New Zealand)
In Arrowtown I noticed the hearse's registration plate was ... 361. As it drove away, how could I not see it, a trumpet had been placed on top of the coffin. Richard must have been a trumpeter.
Strolling through Arrowtown I made a point of having a quick glance inside the town hall, where refreshments were still being served. On the screen were photos of the unfortunate young man, who was believed drowned, after having suffered an epileptic seizure. In very large lettering, I had read Richard James Doyle 1990 - 2010, otherwise I would not have known, who the dead person was.
My diary on that Thursday in Arrowtown, note the date 14.1.10, states that I arrived back at the apartment and proceeded to do the above puzzle, discovering 11144.
I had made the keyword EAR. The actual keyword was SURF (Read on).
As if a circle was closing, I found a link from the Arrowtown funeral to that of the one, Dieter Fischer, at the beginning of this chapter. The address of the Fischer funeral was Oxenford.
The body of Richard James Doyle had been found right there, a few kilometers away in the waters off South Stradbroke Island. He had disappeared, according to media reports, from "popular Northcliffe Beach."
A few kilometres away, cycling through Clearview on my way home from the courts, on the ground I spotted an empty Sunkist can. I had not picked up one of those in years. The location - aha - was right opposite a station wagon, whose owner had just parked it in his driveway. The vehicle's sign-writing, in large lettering, SUNDAY MAIL, reminded me of a recent contact with this newspaper (plus, of course, the MAN School bus headline and photo, earlier in this chapter).
Perhaps, I have lost my trust in newspapers? I did not email my questions to the newspaper. Instead I chose as recipient the ABC TV's Stateline. (No response at the time of writing - 24/2/10).
There must be people, who think I am the devil, stirring up controversial matters by asking pertinent questions.
Closer to home, still pushing those pedals in Adelaide's summer heat, another empty drink container. It was one I had never picked up, or even seen before, an energy drink - Roaring Lion!
Roaring ion aluminium can
(Back to New Zealand)
How well timed is this part of my journey! On the morning of Friday January 15th I rose especially early to take a last walk around beautiful Lake Wakatipu. It was the day our small group of three was to depart for Greymouth.
I took the walking track, skirting the Botanic Gardens and following the shoreline towards Frankston. Interrupting my morning walk, to combine physical and spiritual exercises, I followed the sign to Saint Joseph's Catholic Church in Melbourne Street.
I say it was well timed for two reason: Firstly, just as I walked up the steps of the beautiful grey and white brick structure*, a gentleman unlocked the front door.
- - - - - - -
(Back to New Zealand)
We departed from Queenstown with a touch of sadness. One day, we promised ourselves, we'd return and enjoy it some more. The scenery as we were motoring through Otago, toward New Zealand's West Coast, became more and more spectacular.
It was a pity to be passing so many scenic wonders, and not breath them in. The mirror-like surface of Lake Hawea sprawled to our right, mountains towering on all sides; moments later, another unspoiled body of water, Lake Wanaka, on our left.
At the township of Wanaka a bike race was being held. We had to make a slight detour. The place is very popular for winter sports. (On the radio a person was saying that Wanaka had had snowfalls, a rarity during January).
Beside one of the many rivers we had to cross, mostly over one-lane bridges, we took our morning comfort stop. What a great idea, a simple sign: 'Five minute forest walk'. Even Isobel and grandma experienced the tranquil beauty of this forest. A perfect blend: Two minutes on the toilet, five minutes in the forest.
The world-heritage listed Fox Glacier can be reached by motor car with only a slight detour from the main highway. There is a car park near its base. It's a reasonably short walk to the ice, but not for the elderly. To walk on the spectacular 13 kilometre long body of ice would have taken too much time. Another promise for a future visit.
Unlike Fox Glacier, the other major landmark on the West Coast, Franz Josef Glacier, would have meant a considerable detour. We restricted ourselves to a brief stop and a quick photo, typical for on-the-run tourists:
Franz-Josef Glacier, West Coast New Zealand
The beautiful scene on the left was photographed by Isobel. She had requested we stop, so she could snap the picture. The scenery resembled that of the district she grew up in, in northern New South Wales, except the distant mountains are not quite as high.
At the time, travelling rather briskly on Highway 6 I didn't really want to stop again: "Not another photo ...!"
But then, I felt bad not to be pleasing Isobel. After another kilometre of debate, I gave in: "OK at the next safe spot I turn around so you can take your photo!"
As I did the U-Turn I read the name of the road, where I was turning the car around - Oneone Road. I loved the name, plus the fact the date was 15.01 - 1L1.
We filled the Mazda up with petrol at Hokitika, a pretty little town, founded after a gold rush in 1864. It was a lovely summer evening, a prefect time to walk around town. We would have dined out, but the three of us couldn't agree on a place. We decided to continue to Greymouth, where I fetched a meal of Chinese take-away, which we enjoyed in our motel room. It was delicious.
As so often, on this journey and other times, car registration plates were a constant source of eye-brain exercises. The eyes >>> they see ... the brain's >>> n-bit hears.
As we were entering the car to drive to Greymouth a motor vehicle passed us, registration plate ... 099. At the same time, I noted the vehicle, which had parked ahead of us. It also carried registration plate ... 099. On arriving at our Greymouth motel, I loved the van parked there - 4STAR.
Our accommodation at Greymouth was south of town, but right near the beach. After dinner Isobel and I took a relaxing stroll along the beach. There was much driftwood and many smooth stones all over the beach. We had seen many driveways paved with such stones. I wondered, if so much driftwood remains on the beach in winter?
It had been a long time since my lovely wife and I had been watching the sunset, admiring a colourful sky, which changes colour by the minute. Isobel and her mother would be flying west, literally into that sunset, the next evening.
We had yet to break the news to her mother that I'd be staying back, until the end of the month. Isobel knew her mother wouldn't approve. But I wasn't going to change my plans because of my mother-in-awe!
The next morning at Greymouth I experienced one of those episodes, a walk if you like, where I wondered - had I come to the right place, four thousand kilometres from home?
It started, how ironic at Greymouth, with the colours black and white.
Lotsa colour - Lover of truth saw colour [s]:
First black and white, followed by yellow.
It was our final day together in New Zealand. The ladies slept in. An early morning walk was a must. I crossed the main road and took the first street on my left and continued underneath the railway bridge. The huge beams, holding the crude structure together, looked like they'd been there for 100 years.
The street names were Keith Street, Clough Street, but they weren't clues. A fit young, lady came jogging the opposite way. She even gave me a smile, as our eyes met briefly in passing. It made my feel like ... (turn and start jogging after her, just kidding).
A few minutes later, after again crossing the lady jogger's path, *I noted the colours she was wearing - black pants, white top. Not only in Greymouth, black and white makes grey.
I saw the black and white girl again from a distance, as I turned back toward my old girls. It led me back through the established part of this suburb, where everybody was still asleep. On the ground I spotted a yellow ribbon, an elastic hair band, which females wear to hold their hair together. Why I stopped, looked at it and picked it up, I do not know.
What does this mean, my spirit questioned my brain, which alerted my eyes, which moved across the road to see ... a for sale sign. I moved across to take a closer look at the (house for sale) sign. The phone number of the real estate agent ended in 0500.
Was this a test, were these clues?
If I were to remove one 0 (the round yellow ribbon), I could create 500; D in Roman numerals. For this reason I placed the yellow ribbon underneath the 0500.
Silly, I know, and I would possibly have forgotten all about it, had I not spotted more yellow moments after leaving our motel. As we were driving out of Greymouth toward Christchurch, a lady was walking on the side of the road. She looked rather conspicuous, wearing a yellow cardigan.
A nanosecond later a BMW motor car entered from a steep side road on our left, registration plate ... 586. Readers, who know how my oats-fuelled brain works, expect me to see 486. I did and wrote it all into the diary.
Later in the day, motoring near Arthurs Pass in our hire-car, it suddenly came: The yellow ribbon, the yellow cardigan, the lady in black and white - these were the colours of the Real Estate Agent, whose phone number ended in ... 0500.
One last thought, all born from one yellow ribbon: Remove 0 from 500 (D) results in 50 (L).
Roman numerals LD - holding us hostage?
Not quite, but let's use these Roman numerals to take us back to Rom, back to Saint-to-be, Mary. A fact came to me during prayer on the morning, after the date for Mary McKillop's canonization was announced for October 17: Turn the calendar back 8 months and 10 days from that date and we arrive at Feb 7th...
Book 8, Chapter 10, the previous chapter, holds a photo of a war memorial in a tiny village in the Adelaide Hills. A few days ago, we took visitors for a drive through Houghton. Travelling toward Inglewood a flash of information entered my brain. I spotted in large letters a property's address on the fence, or gate: LOT 1.
Right underneath, in the same oversize lettering, 4US.
Lover Of Truth won for US. Someone understood the message!
God loves yellow ribbons. HE has trillions at HIS disposal. How many has HE tied to your tree? How long has HE been waiting for you to get off that bus and come home? HE is ready for you.
What's the meaning of yellow ribbons?
God chose red to cleanse us from black to be HIS bride - in pure white.