I Never Promised You a Rose Garden: A Memoir of a Naïve Sea Change

By Jennifer Cooper

Since arriving home from working overseas, Jennifer Cooper and her husband, Ted, had been searching for an exciting, fulfilling initiation into what they believed to be their destiny. Discontented with city life, the couple eventually purchased a neglected old cabin on the coast without any idea that the fork in the path of their life would soon deviate from the predictable route and lead them into unknown territory.
In a candid retelling, Jennifer reveals how fate guided them to seek refuge in a real estate agent’s office on a cold, windy day, ultimately changing the course of their lives forever. After disclosing how they spontaneously purchased a rundown, two-hundred-acre dairy farm with a spectacular view, Jennifer details how their poorly researched and impulsive “Sea Change” led them down an uncertain path filled with years of accidents, incidents, and downright disasters that would not only revealed their determination to overcome seemingly insurmountable obstacles, but also to live their lives with gratitude and purpose.
I Never Promised You a Rose Garden is the true story of a couple’s foray from seasoned city slickers to naïve farmers who eventually proved that positivity always leads us in the right direction, no matter how hard life becomes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press AU
• Release date: Oct 9, 2019
• ISBN: 9781504319638

Jennifer Cooper

Jennifer Cooper has lived and worked in many cities and countries where she adapted to a multitude of occupations through necessity. Her experiences and techniques for overcoming difficult and sometimes unhappy work situations enabled her to survive what became the most turbulent years of her life. Today, Jennifer lives in Victoria Australia, where she cherishes her roles as wife, mother, and grandmother.

Book preview

Chapter 1

A long with the sunshine there’s got to be a little rain sometimes… .. When Joe South wrote those touching words for Lynne Anderson to record, he obviously had a crystal ball tuned into my future and was witnessing not only the rain that was to come but a continuous climate of thunderstorms and gales.

I was an innocent sixteen year old, on the second date with Ted, the boy who would later become my husband, when he lovingly presented me with a record of that song. It was a popular hit on the charts. Not for one minute would I have believed the profound words of a song would one day mirror my life. I was simply overjoyed to receive a gift, so the significance of those ominous words was totally lost on my youthful naivety.

I had just finished school and was studying at a fashion design college when I began dating Ted, who was a year older and at that stage a very quiet, respectful person. He met me at the bus stop where he shyly handed me a little brown bag containing that record. My emotions really were being dictated by my heart that afternoon, because not only did he give me a gift but he looked so amazing I felt proud to be seen with him. He was dressed in tight purple bell bottom trousers. His straight, dark, shoulder-length hair hung limply around the oversized collar of his paisley shirt, which was matched perfectly with an emerald-green cravat. A perfect match for my black,-orange,-yellow-and-red striped-very, very mini dress. Fashion straight out of the latest overseas magazine! What a trendy couple we must have looked. The journey to the movies was spent in the back seat of the bus sitting and discreetly holding hands in nervous silence. After all, this was 1970.

To say our life together was anything but a rose garden is a massive understatement; the trials and tribulations of the first thirty years of our marriage would be more than enough material for a book. However, this particular story begins just prior to my fiftieth birthday.

We had been living and working overseas for a year, helping a recently widowed friend revive her husband’s failing business and returned home feeling a little unsettled but not quite sure what to do about it. The tenants renting our home had vacated prior to our arrival. Our belongings were collected from storage, unpacked, and set up in their previous positions as though nothing had changed, but something was not right. There was a void, an intangible emptiness to our surrounds.

Ted had immediately and successfully resurrected his business in commercial security installation, and I had managed to find a new job in the fashion industry within a couple of weeks of returning so life resumed as though we had never been away. However, both of us were discontent at the prospect of continuing the mundane life we had left over a year earlier. Something was missing. Something had definitely changed - and not for the better.

Our two daughters were living and working overseas, so we were not only coping with the dreaded empty nest syndrome but also the heartache of irregular contact with them due to the expensive cost of international phone calls. All of this combined with the dreaded looming half-century milestone only intensified the profound restlessness we were unable to suppress. The thought of becoming a gypsy and wandering the country in a caravan was tempting but totally impractical, not to mention unaffordable. My idea of a caravan amounted to the latest luxury Winnebago equipped with all the comforts of home, so that idea was scrapped soon after it was raised.

It was during this transition period of uncertainty that our lives were changed forever.

On a beautiful September day, Ted was working from home and I was on a rostered day off. The sun was shining, and it was too good to be inside. I decided to wander down to our local shopping centre to buy a few groceries for dinner rather than drive but, as was always the case, impulse buying resulted in too many bags to carry home. It was only a five minute drive so I rang Ted to pick me up.

On arriving home, I walked up the eight steps towards the front door, complaining over my shoulder to Ted, who was still unloading the boot of the car, that he shouldn’t have left the security screen door open. Ignoring his denial, I carefully stepped over the twisted frame lying on the landing and entered the house through the open doorway. By this stage, I should have expected my senses to start sounding alarm bells, but it wasn’t until I was standing in the hall, staring at the front door embedded in the wall, that the realisation of what had happened suddenly penetrated my brain cells. My initial instinct was to look to my right to ensure the lounge was intact, and I exhaled with relief when I saw it was unchanged. Not thinking to wait for Ted, who was by that stage carrying the bags of groceries up the stairs, I decided to inspect the rest of the house. I had assumed nothing would be amiss, given the new TV was still in its place. Where is logic when it’s needed?

As I rounded the corner of the hallway towards our bedroom, I was suddenly confronted by a huge shape lunging at me from behind the partially closed door. I screamed, firstly in fright and then in excruciating agony as he attacked, hitting me in the middle of the chest with a closed fist, then to the side of my face with his other hand. I collapsed to the floor from the brutal force of the punches, a guttural scream all I could manage as my face met the floor.

The searing pain followed by prickly heat from the stinging carpet burn on my chin bought a sudden stream of tears to my eyes, blurring the action that had begun. All of this happened in what felt like a lifetime, but in reality, it was only seconds.

Lying on the floor, those few seconds were long enough for my mind to assess the bizarre visions I was witnessing without actually understanding the gravity of what was occurring. Images such as the silhouette of Ted standing in the doorway with shopping bags in each hand, his bulky frame blocking out the sunlight, surrounding him in an eerie, angelic aura. Or the stranger making his move towards the doorway, standing on my foot in the process and twisting my ankle without me feeling any pain (at that stage!), followed by the nauseating body stench he omitted. All these perceptions mingled around my mind as my body curled into the fetal position for protection.

Foolishly the intruder headed towards the door, obviously anticipating freedom, but if he thought Ted would move after seeing me in that situation, he was so wrong! I lay on the floor, watching Ted’s years of physical training in boxing and rugby being revived with a vengeance. I only snapped back to reality when I heard him shouting at me to call the police. I finally grasped the severity of the situation as I witnessed Ted throw such a powerful punch that the offender’s head broke into the plastered wall, creating a massive hole that was increasing with every frenzied blow. Blood from his broken nose sprayed across the walls, over Ted, and onto the carpet. The painting, which usually hung in that spot, had already been destroyed, and the shattered glass was being ground into the carpet. Time to call the police. I was in a surreal world.

In hindsight, it was obvious I was in a state of shock. This was the only plausible excuse or explanation for my thoughts and actions. Before heading to the kitchen to phone for help I gathered up the contents of my handbag, which had scattered along the hall as I fell, placed the straps of the bag over my shoulder, and only then walked the few steps to the phone. Not the smartest action, given what was happening.

My quivering fingers and shaking hands made dialling 000 quite a challenge, but after a few attempts, I was finally connected to an officer. The terrifying noises coming from the two men frightened me, restricting my ability to speak and limiting any coherent answers from being conveyed to the operator. I stammered and stuttered replies as I was asked the obvious questions, such as; my address, which at that stage I couldn’t remember, the number of intruders, and any weapons being used. And finally, I shook with anger when I was told to calm down. My home was in the process of being destroyed, my husband had completely lost control, blood was gushing from both their wrestling frames, and I was being asked to calm down!

The phone call ended with a promise that the police were on their way. I ran back to the ongoing fight in time to see them crash through the wooden railings of the balcony, both still interlocked in fight, and fall straight down into my rose garden before rolling onto the concrete driveway.

The offender’s initial fighting response had vanished but Ted’s had not. He was in a trance, not aware that his stranglehold had subdued his opponent and was in the process of suffocating the life out of him. The sirens of the first police car arriving bought him back to the moment and although he loosened his grip slightly, he stayed where he was until one of the officers was standing above him, ready to take control.

The second police car arrived, followed by a divisional van and an unmarked police car. The lights and sirens of all four vehicles alerted the neighbourhood to the disturbance and naturally brought out a crowd of spectators. I watched this bizarre scene developing almost as if I was having an out-of-body experience, not believing it related to me in any way. The events of the previous few minutes felt dreamlike. But as the police rushed towards us pulling on their plastic gloves, I looked down at Ted struggling to stand up. I saw the blood, heard the seriousness of the intermingling voices and instantly returned to the nightmare reality of the moment.

The severely bleeding injuries were mainly head wounds, covering both men in enormous amounts of blood which made the physical injuries appear worse than they actually were. The offender had definitely suffered more than Ted. He appeared genuinely relieved when the police arrived, staggering very quickly to the safety of the law as they were separated. Eventually an exhausted Ted stood up, wiping the blood from one of the gashes on his face with his sleeve, until he was told to stop with such authority and urgency he complied mid-wipe. A few of the officers gathered around us, one offering a large paper towel for Ted to ‘dab not smear’ the blood which was dripping into his eyes and running down his face.

Meanwhile the offender was sitting on our front lawn being searched. My concentration was focused on Ted’s broken glasses lying on the concrete, his ripped, button-less shirt and the amount of blood covering him, which was still slowly dripping from the gashes on his head. If only those issues could have remained all I had to deal with! A female officer gently took my hand as she steered me back towards Ted and to where her two colleagues where quietly and seriously waiting to talk to us.

The words that followed left us stunned beyond anything we had ever imagined. The offender was known to police; … . he was a confirmed Aids carrier!

We stood in stunned silence, struggling to absorb this overwhelming information and initially unable to grasp the severity of what we were facing. A commanding voice abruptly penetrated my chaotic thoughts. I was instructed to get Ted a warm facecloth, one which I was prepared to throw away after it had been used. Only then did the gravity of the event filter into my overcrowded and confused mind. Ted simply stood staring blankly at the officer.

Meanwhile the police were very quickly and efficiently dealing with the situation. With four officers surrounding the intruder he was ordered to produce whatever he was carrying. His pockets contained all of my jewellery and a small amount of cash, which was wrapped in one of my silk scarves. He also produced a ‘porno’ magazine. Obviously that had been slipped that into the back of his jeans before the altercation began and he had to struggle to retrieve it from the leg of his pants.

Once I had confirmed ownership of all items, except the magazine, which he had no intention of relinquishing anyway, he was instructed to lay handcuffed on the ground while the arrest process was completed. All the time he watched Ted with outright fear.

It felt like an eternity before the offender was safely locked in the back of the divisional van and they had left. During this time we were being questioned and gently counselled by two officers. A male and a female officer took us inside to take statements and advised us of a process we should follow, including an immediate visit to our Doctor for all the necessary tests. A couple of other police personnel remained to photograph the scene and take fingerprints before the clean-up process could begin.

During these conversations it was revealed the intruder was in fact a serious criminal and a drug addict, out on bail for assault with a deadly weapon, that weapon being a knife which he usually carried with him. As the officer pointed out, it was fortunate he was unarmed that day, because had he been carrying that knife the punch to my chest would have resulted in a very different outcome. My head was spinning, my stomach churning and the sweating started. There was no logic to what I was hearing, after all, we were normal people. These things didn’t happen to ‘normal’ people!

Eventually the police left, Ted changed his blood soaked clothes and we were ready to head to the Doctor for the first of his many visits and blood tests.

Without a front door or security screen to close, a neighbour volunteered to watch the house to ensure there were no other uninvited guests until we returned, not that either of us were worried about another intruder. Our Doctor took blood from Ted and tried to explain what the following three months would entail but the emotions we were feeling and the turmoil of our thoughts made his words a meaningless swirl of sounds aimed in our direction. As we held hands listening to the various scenarios he was outlining Ted began to sweat and I started shivering, a sure sign of the beginning of shock. We were given a prescription for sedatives to calm us and told the rest could wait until another appointment the following day.

As we arrived home the first thing I noticed was the remains of what had been my beautiful rose garden. It was now strewn with decapitated heads and broken stems of freshly budding standard roses. It was a painful reminder of where Ted and the intruder had first fallen from the balcony. Until then my emotions had been powerfully contained. That vision of destruction was the catalyst for my tears to begin, tears for my destroyed roses, tears for my damaged home and far more heartbreaking, tears for the possibility of what could happen to Ted. That sight and the shock of walking back into my home and seeing it in the state it was, bought what had happened into sharp focus. Suddenly the need to remove any visual signs of the chaos was urgent.

We began cleaning like possessed demons, determined to eradicate as much of the event as possible, until we were too exhausted to continue. Finally we propped up the front door using the dining table, chairs and the bedside table from the spare room. If anyone was going to attempt to enter, the crashing of the tower of furniture would surely be a deterrent. Not that we cared about another intruder, it was simply a token action to shut out the world. We finally climbed into bed but instead of sleeping we both lay very still, immersed in our own tormented thoughts, a pattern that repeated itself for many more sleepless nights.

The insurance company arranged for builders, glaziers, painters and electricians to repair the damage but it was never again our Home, just a house to return to at the end of each day. We became reclusive, unsure of the protocols we were supposed to follow, staying away from others due to the unspoken stigma of the situation. This was the year 2000 when ‘aids’ was not something of which we had any understanding. It was a word that instilled fear into most people.

We had always led a very social life, having regular dinners with groups of friends, attending sporting clubs and community volunteering, all of which became dreaded events. Excuse after excuse was offered to avoid participating in whatever was being organized, until eventually the invitations ceased.

Life continued slowly and solemnly as we waited for the three month anniversary of the day of the intrusion, the day the tests would reveal the outcome, coincidently also Ted’s birthday. We spent the day alone, just the two of us and the television, a very peculiar way for us to celebrate a birthday. Not knowing what the future held meant every minute together was crucial and regardless of the simplicity of the moment, it was still precious. Ted was terrified of finding out his fate so decided his birth day was not the most appropriate day to visit the doctor, nor the next, or the next. The inevitable appointment was continually delayed. I had never seen him afraid of anything but this was such a sad situation that I decided not to nag him.

It took a further two weeks of stalling before he had the courage to face the Doctor. When the negative results were announced we left the surgery feeling as though we should be celebrating, but the relief we felt was an anticlimax, overpowered by emotional exhaustion. On the way home we picked up a Chinese takeaway, a bottle of wine and sat in front of TV endeavoring to return to some sort of normality.

The offender had been happy to plead guilty to ensure there was no trial, therefore averting the need to ever face Ted again. We were spared the courtroom ordeal of re-living the events in front of strangers and relieved when the police reported he had been given a four year sentence but for us it was a hollow judgment and definitely no victory.

Chapter 2

O ur life had changed in an irreparable way. We had become discontent with the world in general, craving peace and tranquility, happiest when we could retreat into our own little world together. Most weekends we would head to some peaceful camping area by the sea, pitch the tent and relax. This discontent and a search for simplicity inspired us to purchase a little three room ‘Shack’ on the coast, two hour’s drive from our home in the city yet far enough away from everyday reality to recharge our batteries at weekends.

It was an old neglected cabin which once cleared, cleaned and furnished with the necessities for our weekends, was a perfect retreat. We were free to fish, walk, eat and sleep as the mood took us, not as the clock dictated. On Friday evenings we would finish work, throw the essentials such as food and wine into the car and head off, fighting our way through the horrendous peak hour traffic on the freeway, into the tranquility of the countryside, eventually arriving at our haven on the coast. Once we had left the rat race and reached the country roads we felt totally relaxed, comforted by random lights from the occasional farmhouse we passed. These acted as our personal mini beacons directing us in the darkness of the night. It was an intense, peaceful transition which set the tone for the following two days.

We would arrive at what we called our ‘little patch of paradise‘, fire up the generator, light the outdoor fire, if it wasn’t raining, pour a glass of wine, and sitting under the stars, appreciate how wonderful our life was at that moment. Time always went very quickly, as it usually does in pleasant situations. Each Sunday evening as we drove home to the city we would envy the people living in the distant farmhouses with the soft, twinkling lights and feel a very real sense of disappointment, already missing the temporary lifestyle we were leaving and the discomfort of having to endure the week ahead before we returned.

Then it happened. The fork in the path of our life deviated from the predictable route, leading us into unknown territory.

On a cold, wet Sunday morning, when the wind was too strong to walk on the beach without being lashed by sand and fishing was definitely out of the question, we decided to take a drive to buy an ice-cream. On each trip to the shack we always passed what looked to be a wonderful old fashioned milkshake and ice-cream shop in a nearby town, often commenting that we must try it some time. To this day I still cannot comprehend our craving for ice cream, considering we needed the heating on in the car to stay warm during the drive!

Arriving in the town after a thirty minute drive, we discovered the shop had closed down for winter. To see what was available for future excursions, we took the opportunity to quickly check out this virtually deserted village of twenty-five closed shops, before heading back to the warming comfort of our shack.

A new Real Estate agency had just opened their doors for business that weekend, so the windows were adorned with photos of properties, celebratory banners, balloons and welcome signs in an attempt to attract customers. However it was the sight of a warm, cosy office that actually lured us inside to take refuge from the wind and icy rain, not to mention the aroma of coffee brewing. Once we were thawed and chatting to the owners, our curiosity of the local house and land prices was aroused and it wasn’t long before we were going through the properties for sale listings - - - with interest!

And so began our new life!

Chapter 3

T  he following weekend the Real Estate agents followed up on our curiosity, using their skilled ‘magical’ spin to entice us to view a property unlike anything we envisaged. They were aware of our discontent with city life, so very little coercion was required to whet our appetites for country living. We were prime targets for slick sellers.

Emphasizing the golden rule of ‘property comparison’ before settling in an area, we were naturally shown several uninteresting, inappropriate properties. During these viewings they knowingly aroused our curiosity with constant mention of a particular listing, highlighting the value of the land and the beautiful views. It was newly listed so would be snapped up very quickly. Also it was on an ‘exclusive’ dirt track, which was referred to by the agents as Location, Location, Location. No doubt they were already spending their commission! After viewing some terribly run down properties with very little appeal, we agreed to take a look at the farm they were speaking of.

Hindsight is a wonderful excuse for a multitude of errors, but two mid-life suckers looking for the elusive ‘Shambhala’, were easy prey for the expertise of Real Estate agents.

As we arrived at the property the owner’s son met us and we were escorted around the entire farm, beginning of course at one of the most scenic viewpoints. The rest was an easy sell! Within a week we had signed on the dotted line. It didn’t matter that we had just agreed to buy a run down, two hundred acre dairy farm, nor did it matter that we had no idea how we were going to raise the money we had just committed ourselves to pay. Ultimately what did matter was that the view from this farm was absolutely spectacular.

It was situated high on top of undulating hills, which gradually dropped towards sea level before flowing into a plateau of coastal farmland. One boundary of the farm, which fanned outwards in the shape of a ‘V’, was defined by a forest of pine trees. The other side of the ‘V’ had long ago been planted with a single line of pines, now old and serving as enormous wind