I've described my father's side of the family. Loving and generous, toad in the hole baking artistic types. The sort of people kids are drawn to and adults aspire to be like. My father is that too. A gentleman with patience and generosity. I'd be a good man if I was only half his character. His mum and dad were Grandma and Grandpa. We called mum's mother Nanna.
The trips to Sydney always involved a drop in to Grandma and Grandpa's. Very rarely, Nanna would be on the agenda. I actually can never remember staying at the house ever. I know we must have once because I have memories of Nanna standing at the sink scraping the charcoal off the now rock hard toast and handing it to me saying "I'll be fine with a little jam". It wasn't. Other than that, my main recollections of Nanna's house was being outside or sitting on the floor at my parents feet without speaking, at all!! I hated going there, really really hated it. Nanna was a cranky woman too. There was not one toy in the house for when the grand kids stayed. There was however, an air force ash tray. It was a metal model plane with movable propellers and the ash tray around the base of the stand it was on. I wanted to just turn the propeller just once and as my tiny finger extended to just touch it with the tip and make the propeller turn and if I'm really quiet I can do it without anyone noticing and the plane is so shiny and metal and looks so cool and... "DON'T TOUCH IT!!!" would screech my Nanna. My finger pulled back to me so quickly i think I hit myself in the face on more than one occasion. She scared me. The planes belonged to her husband, my Pa who died from motor neurone when I was 3 months old yada yada yada, I only wanted to touch the FUCKING PROPELLER you insane old woman. I didn't think that then, I just thought of it now. The carpet was hard, scratchy and thin, there was never biscuits or sweets. Nanna was just not equipped to handle kids. My mum always felt free to tell us out of her earshot she was a bitch.
Time shift forward 40 years. My mum would call to ask when the kids school holidays were on. Aww I hear you say, she wasn't like her mum, what a good Mamma (that's what she was called). Genetics leapfrogged her maybe. No, they didn't. The only reason to know when they were off school was to avoid visiting at that time at all cost. When she'd arrive and the boys sensed her inability to relate to them, they would look at us with pleading eyes and with our best grown up slightly furrowed brow, indicate they were to be polite and respectful. My little one asked once if he had to kiss her because "the hairs on her lip hurt my face". I agreed, they hurt my face too.
Genetics are ever so obvious when you look around. I pray to god that they missed me, that when my boys have kids I will be making Kookaburra noises to them and drawing with them and having them refer to me as Grandpa in their blogs in 40 years time. And I'm going to buy an aircraft metal plane ashtray with movable propellers and when they visit, make them touch the propellers and if they don't they'll be in trouble.
Thursday, 13 December 2012
Thursday, 6 December 2012
Being Uncool
I came to the conclusion many years ago that I was somewhat uncool by the standards of most. That's OK though because it has meant others have benefited. There are a dozen or so people about 5 to 8 years younger than me that may remember having the time of their life at my expense.
When about 14 years old, I was at the Lilac Time Festival with a group of friends. The Lilac Time was the spring fair in the country town of Goulburn where I grew up. They would close off a street, roll in the amusement rides and vendors carts and behold, 1000 kids on a sugar rush with tomato sauce on their shirt fronts. Back in those days, to cart your kids off to an amusement park unaccompanied was pretty much the norm. We had limited funds of course and so was quite picky in what we rode. The spinning swings was a favourite because there was always the chance a chain would break. The ultimate was the Hurricane. A massive set of 4 arms that swung the pods we were sitting in up and around and down and back up again and the hiss of escaping air and whine of the hydraulic motors added to the thrill. This was for sure, a great time to be 14 and free.
There was of course rides for the younger ones, small paddle boat things and slow arse merry-go-rounds. There was also this extremely lame circle of flower pods that kids sat in as it rotated like the arms of a clock about 5 meters in the air. It was placed at the end of the main alley of the fair and looked up towards the Hurricane at the other end.
We were standing just near the lame flower clock ride getting our bearings for the trek up the way to THE HURRICANE (I get excited just writing about it now still) when I felt a hand on my arm. "Could you please just ride this so the balance is right for the other kids?" The ride attendant woman looking up at me with a pleading face. With what can only be described as the biggest mind snap in the universe, I said yes. There were about 5 or 6 arms to this thing and 3 on one side were full with beaming little kids about 6 to 8. There remained the other side kids free. The woman sat me in the middle empty pod. When I say sat, I mean folded me into. At 14 I was about 6 foot tall already. This thing was not meant for someone of my dimension so with my knees firmly against my ears, it started to spin, slowly. I was framed by empty pods either side and my friends standing with their mouths agape at the horror befalling me, laughed so hard I think one of them actually let a little wee out. The clock arms rotated around and I thought this would end soon but no, it kept going. I noticed people up the alley way turn to notice the fuckwit in the kids ride. I wanted to scream at them I was doing them a favour and only there to balance the ride. My screams were all internal though. The few thousand people that stood and pointed at me that day (it seemed like that to me) all were of the opinion I had paid for and was receiving my ride of choice. If I told you I am impossible to embarrass today, you can believe me, as I think its because every ounce of my life's embarrassment was compressed in to that one moment. Sure the other kids had a great 'balanced' ride but I have never received a letter thanks from them, ever. So if you are one of those kids and you want to make an uncool person feel a little cool, let me know.
When about 14 years old, I was at the Lilac Time Festival with a group of friends. The Lilac Time was the spring fair in the country town of Goulburn where I grew up. They would close off a street, roll in the amusement rides and vendors carts and behold, 1000 kids on a sugar rush with tomato sauce on their shirt fronts. Back in those days, to cart your kids off to an amusement park unaccompanied was pretty much the norm. We had limited funds of course and so was quite picky in what we rode. The spinning swings was a favourite because there was always the chance a chain would break. The ultimate was the Hurricane. A massive set of 4 arms that swung the pods we were sitting in up and around and down and back up again and the hiss of escaping air and whine of the hydraulic motors added to the thrill. This was for sure, a great time to be 14 and free.
There was of course rides for the younger ones, small paddle boat things and slow arse merry-go-rounds. There was also this extremely lame circle of flower pods that kids sat in as it rotated like the arms of a clock about 5 meters in the air. It was placed at the end of the main alley of the fair and looked up towards the Hurricane at the other end.
We were standing just near the lame flower clock ride getting our bearings for the trek up the way to THE HURRICANE (I get excited just writing about it now still) when I felt a hand on my arm. "Could you please just ride this so the balance is right for the other kids?" The ride attendant woman looking up at me with a pleading face. With what can only be described as the biggest mind snap in the universe, I said yes. There were about 5 or 6 arms to this thing and 3 on one side were full with beaming little kids about 6 to 8. There remained the other side kids free. The woman sat me in the middle empty pod. When I say sat, I mean folded me into. At 14 I was about 6 foot tall already. This thing was not meant for someone of my dimension so with my knees firmly against my ears, it started to spin, slowly. I was framed by empty pods either side and my friends standing with their mouths agape at the horror befalling me, laughed so hard I think one of them actually let a little wee out. The clock arms rotated around and I thought this would end soon but no, it kept going. I noticed people up the alley way turn to notice the fuckwit in the kids ride. I wanted to scream at them I was doing them a favour and only there to balance the ride. My screams were all internal though. The few thousand people that stood and pointed at me that day (it seemed like that to me) all were of the opinion I had paid for and was receiving my ride of choice. If I told you I am impossible to embarrass today, you can believe me, as I think its because every ounce of my life's embarrassment was compressed in to that one moment. Sure the other kids had a great 'balanced' ride but I have never received a letter thanks from them, ever. So if you are one of those kids and you want to make an uncool person feel a little cool, let me know.
Sunday, 2 December 2012
Food Fight
If you follow my tweets you may have noticed in the past I had mentioned a food fight. It was a planned and orchestrated event, formal invitations, suggestions thrown around and the best plan arrived at. The very capable Andrew Cripps camera guy was engaged and although no formal run sheet produced, was planned to a tee!
I haven't got any particular memory of why I wanted a food fight but I did. It came up in conversation a few months back and with a flurry of emails, was decided upon. We even scoped out the site a few weeks prior and decided upon the perfect site, water was nearby for washing but it was also clear enough to avoid the risk of any unintentional victims.
Because I am a responsible adult, it was decided a healthy picnic lunch would be had beforehand and the desert flinging start directly afterwards. Oh and it was also keep a secret from the kids. I wanted to see their faces. I have no idea how many people get to have a food fight, but was sure our kids deserved to be in that minority.
The morning of the day arrived and a quick trip down to the water front where we were to let fly, saw the gusts from the south causing a little havoc. It was touch and go sort of. A phone call here, a look into the sky there but in the end, if we didn't do it now, we never would. I had literally kilograms of desert prepared. From trifle to caramel tarts, jellies and chocolate deserts. And there was 10 other adults all with a similar cache of weapons. It was decided to throw caution to the wind (or cake in this instance) and forge ahead regardless. Boy, were we glad we did. The sun shone, the wind dropped and it was a simply glorious day. The kids were none the wiser and because we have teenage boys that just wanted to eat then run off for a skateboard, we set out the deserts and well watch the clip to see what happened next. All I can say is all our kids are chicken.
I haven't got any particular memory of why I wanted a food fight but I did. It came up in conversation a few months back and with a flurry of emails, was decided upon. We even scoped out the site a few weeks prior and decided upon the perfect site, water was nearby for washing but it was also clear enough to avoid the risk of any unintentional victims.
The morning of the day arrived and a quick trip down to the water front where we were to let fly, saw the gusts from the south causing a little havoc. It was touch and go sort of. A phone call here, a look into the sky there but in the end, if we didn't do it now, we never would. I had literally kilograms of desert prepared. From trifle to caramel tarts, jellies and chocolate deserts. And there was 10 other adults all with a similar cache of weapons. It was decided to throw caution to the wind (or cake in this instance) and forge ahead regardless. Boy, were we glad we did. The sun shone, the wind dropped and it was a simply glorious day. The kids were none the wiser and because we have teenage boys that just wanted to eat then run off for a skateboard, we set out the deserts and well watch the clip to see what happened next. All I can say is all our kids are chicken.Monday, 26 November 2012
Best Friend
I have a best friend. cliched I know but he is. For those of you saying "oh your wife is your best friend", that's crap. My wife is my wife for a very good reason, we have a husband and wife relationship, not a best friend one.
You will recall as a youngster, I moved from Sydney to Goulburn. In preparation for the move, mum and dad sussed out a camping spot within reach of our upcoming address. It was a small coastal town of Broulee in NSW. We had a big tent and folding chairs and all the camping guff and set up. There was a tent next to ours with a family from Canberra. They had 2 boys at the time and Steve the younger one, and I struck up a friendship that summer. I was 6 he was 7.
We henceforth moved to Goulburn and returned to the same camping ground the following year. In the tent next to us was a family from Canberra. yep. same one. We played again for the summer break and our parents got on well too. Red wine being the common denominator I think upon reflection. We did our WA trip and the caravan came to its final resting place at the same camp ground. They got an onsite van too. For the next 10 or 11 years, we spent every holiday, long weekend and some other weekends playing somewhere between those 2 vans or in the sand dunes across the road. Steve and I were inseparable whilst on holidays but once we returned to our home lives, really didn't have much contact until the next time we were in Broulee. It never phased us at all. We picked up where we left off as if time was irrelevant. I got drunk with him the first time on a NYE beside a bonfire on the beach. We would often find 2 girls to pair up with and hard as it is to say, he always got the prettier one. On one night I recall we were too 'young' for the main bonfire with the older teenagers so had our own up above in the dunes. When we were leaving, the urge to piss on the fire was of course irresistible. The column of pee steam rose silently from the ashes of our doused fire, was caught by the prevailing night breeze and as the moonlight over the ocean highlighted the older teens cuddling next to their fire, our cloud descended upon them as if laser guided. I recall the screaming and retching even today.
As the years passed, we finished school, started work, attended university and married and had kids, we were always just there. There may have been periods where we didn't speak for 6 or 9 months but if ever one of us felt under threat, in need or just have a chat, we were always there for each other. We were best men at each others weddings, I had a few calls over the years to rescue him from some situation or another and he has always been there to listen to me. Whether it be girl trouble, parent, work, uni, or whatever, he is my constant. There is nothing I can't tell him nor him me. There is no one on the planet that knows more about me than he. Its often difficult for others, specially men, to understand our bond. We openly hug and have such affection it brings tears to my eyes even as I write this. Adulthood takes its toll on friendships though, competing priorities, families and work all conspire to keep us apart most of the time. It's no lie that as I typed this, he emailed me to catch up for lunch. A massive coincidence that as I felt the need to write for him, he emailed me. I am not surprised though, that is just how we are. I haven't seen him for months and we work only 500 mtrs from each other. Others would look at us and question my definition of a best friend but its what's in the heart that counts. I love that man more than I could ever describe and I know he feels the same way. I do crave more of his time I admit that but he is now a busy and important partner in an accounting firm he's the biggest bigwig I know now!
We had lunch today. It was nice. We both know more than we did yesterday and as we shook hands and said our goodbyes, I hugged him then held him by the shoulders, looked into his eyes and said "I love you man". He said the same. He was capable of accepting that from me. That's what a best friend does.
You will recall as a youngster, I moved from Sydney to Goulburn. In preparation for the move, mum and dad sussed out a camping spot within reach of our upcoming address. It was a small coastal town of Broulee in NSW. We had a big tent and folding chairs and all the camping guff and set up. There was a tent next to ours with a family from Canberra. They had 2 boys at the time and Steve the younger one, and I struck up a friendship that summer. I was 6 he was 7.
We henceforth moved to Goulburn and returned to the same camping ground the following year. In the tent next to us was a family from Canberra. yep. same one. We played again for the summer break and our parents got on well too. Red wine being the common denominator I think upon reflection. We did our WA trip and the caravan came to its final resting place at the same camp ground. They got an onsite van too. For the next 10 or 11 years, we spent every holiday, long weekend and some other weekends playing somewhere between those 2 vans or in the sand dunes across the road. Steve and I were inseparable whilst on holidays but once we returned to our home lives, really didn't have much contact until the next time we were in Broulee. It never phased us at all. We picked up where we left off as if time was irrelevant. I got drunk with him the first time on a NYE beside a bonfire on the beach. We would often find 2 girls to pair up with and hard as it is to say, he always got the prettier one. On one night I recall we were too 'young' for the main bonfire with the older teenagers so had our own up above in the dunes. When we were leaving, the urge to piss on the fire was of course irresistible. The column of pee steam rose silently from the ashes of our doused fire, was caught by the prevailing night breeze and as the moonlight over the ocean highlighted the older teens cuddling next to their fire, our cloud descended upon them as if laser guided. I recall the screaming and retching even today.
As the years passed, we finished school, started work, attended university and married and had kids, we were always just there. There may have been periods where we didn't speak for 6 or 9 months but if ever one of us felt under threat, in need or just have a chat, we were always there for each other. We were best men at each others weddings, I had a few calls over the years to rescue him from some situation or another and he has always been there to listen to me. Whether it be girl trouble, parent, work, uni, or whatever, he is my constant. There is nothing I can't tell him nor him me. There is no one on the planet that knows more about me than he. Its often difficult for others, specially men, to understand our bond. We openly hug and have such affection it brings tears to my eyes even as I write this. Adulthood takes its toll on friendships though, competing priorities, families and work all conspire to keep us apart most of the time. It's no lie that as I typed this, he emailed me to catch up for lunch. A massive coincidence that as I felt the need to write for him, he emailed me. I am not surprised though, that is just how we are. I haven't seen him for months and we work only 500 mtrs from each other. Others would look at us and question my definition of a best friend but its what's in the heart that counts. I love that man more than I could ever describe and I know he feels the same way. I do crave more of his time I admit that but he is now a busy and important partner in an accounting firm he's the biggest bigwig I know now!
We had lunch today. It was nice. We both know more than we did yesterday and as we shook hands and said our goodbyes, I hugged him then held him by the shoulders, looked into his eyes and said "I love you man". He said the same. He was capable of accepting that from me. That's what a best friend does.
Thursday, 22 November 2012
Family Conference
Mum and Dad called a family conference. I was about 9 or 10. We had a decision to make. Dad was a surveyor and had the opportunity of going to Sweden for 2 weeks for a conference or they offered an alternative. We could spend the same amount of money and buy a caravan and travel across Australia for a few months. Well as kids growing up in Goulburn, never having had been on a plane or ventured overseas, heard a foreign language or contemplated another culture voted unanimously for the Sweden trip. We were so excited at the prospect of a few weeks in a snow laden country, the Muppets chef being of course our main frame of reference. We would chant "Sweden, Sweden, Sweden".
Mum and Dad bought a brand new 16ft Millard caravan to be towed by dads trusted V8 Leyland P76. As there were 6 of us, the standard 16ft caravan had only beds for 5, so a special fold down bunk was made above the dining table. We all piled in and began what would be a fantastic journey of thousands of km from the east coast to the west in a straight line then the return trip in a much more wiggly line following every coast road we could find. Anyone unfamiliar with how big Australia really is needs to do that trip. I was always into maps and dad would show me on a map exactly how far we had driven that day and how far it was to go. Always so depressing at the same time invigorating. This country is BIG! We did all the tourist stuff, caught up with long lost family from Perth (an excuse for free accommodation upon reflection) and generally had a close family time for close to 3 months. I wish I had the forethought and finances to provide such a trip to my boys. What we saw and did and said and felt was all exceptional. I value those memories of our time as a family very highly.
Driving across the Nullabor Plain (the longest straight bit of road in Australia with one section 90 km without a deviation) was excruciatingly boring but also interesting. We left Ceduna on the eastern side and had 1200km to drive without seeing another town of any description. Road Houses and the odd shed was it. We broke the trip in half by camping off the side of the road and sleeping in the van still hooked up to the car. I remember Dad getting the rifle he'd borrowed from Uncle Bob and putting it under his bed. We were in a very remote place indeed. He had told me you had to care care to park pointing in the direction you were to travel as there were stories of people waking up and heading back to where they had come from because of being so disorientated by the lack of anything other than dirt and salt bush. We stopped at lots of places on the way.
The Great Australian Bite is just that. the bite taken off the southern coast. It's cliffs. Towering rock cliffs for hundreds of kilometres. We stopped in the car park and walked up the track towards the cliffs at one point. It was early morning and the thick morning mist with a blue hue beckoned me towards the edge. It was mesmerising seeing the faint white of the breakers below but I felt like I could walk out on this stuff. Mum grabbed me just before I tried. I think that's the first time I ever was conscious of entering an altered state.
The final day of the Nullabor (it means treeless plain btw) was rain rain and more rain. Who ever knew it pisses down in the desert! We spent our time in Western Australia travelling right round the coast from Perth and Albany, climbed the biggest tree in the Southern Hemisphere and weeks later was on the return trip across the Nullabor. I was bummed because I hadn't had good chance to see a dry desert. That would be remedied on the trip home I was assured by dad. One thing happens when you put rain on the Nullabor Plain. It happens very rarely but when it does rain, it explodes with wild flowers. The way back was just like driving through the wizard of Oz fields, acres and acres of flowers either side of the road for hundreds of kilometres. I must say, it was better than the dirt I was expecting.
We got home after such a mammoth trip and immediately the caravan went to its permanent on-site location at Broulee on the south coast of NSW but that's another story.
I'm going to call my dad and thank him for using his power of veto in the family conference. I could never understand the chef in any case.
Mum and Dad bought a brand new 16ft Millard caravan to be towed by dads trusted V8 Leyland P76. As there were 6 of us, the standard 16ft caravan had only beds for 5, so a special fold down bunk was made above the dining table. We all piled in and began what would be a fantastic journey of thousands of km from the east coast to the west in a straight line then the return trip in a much more wiggly line following every coast road we could find. Anyone unfamiliar with how big Australia really is needs to do that trip. I was always into maps and dad would show me on a map exactly how far we had driven that day and how far it was to go. Always so depressing at the same time invigorating. This country is BIG! We did all the tourist stuff, caught up with long lost family from Perth (an excuse for free accommodation upon reflection) and generally had a close family time for close to 3 months. I wish I had the forethought and finances to provide such a trip to my boys. What we saw and did and said and felt was all exceptional. I value those memories of our time as a family very highly.
Driving across the Nullabor Plain (the longest straight bit of road in Australia with one section 90 km without a deviation) was excruciatingly boring but also interesting. We left Ceduna on the eastern side and had 1200km to drive without seeing another town of any description. Road Houses and the odd shed was it. We broke the trip in half by camping off the side of the road and sleeping in the van still hooked up to the car. I remember Dad getting the rifle he'd borrowed from Uncle Bob and putting it under his bed. We were in a very remote place indeed. He had told me you had to care care to park pointing in the direction you were to travel as there were stories of people waking up and heading back to where they had come from because of being so disorientated by the lack of anything other than dirt and salt bush. We stopped at lots of places on the way.
The Great Australian Bite is just that. the bite taken off the southern coast. It's cliffs. Towering rock cliffs for hundreds of kilometres. We stopped in the car park and walked up the track towards the cliffs at one point. It was early morning and the thick morning mist with a blue hue beckoned me towards the edge. It was mesmerising seeing the faint white of the breakers below but I felt like I could walk out on this stuff. Mum grabbed me just before I tried. I think that's the first time I ever was conscious of entering an altered state.
The final day of the Nullabor (it means treeless plain btw) was rain rain and more rain. Who ever knew it pisses down in the desert! We spent our time in Western Australia travelling right round the coast from Perth and Albany, climbed the biggest tree in the Southern Hemisphere and weeks later was on the return trip across the Nullabor. I was bummed because I hadn't had good chance to see a dry desert. That would be remedied on the trip home I was assured by dad. One thing happens when you put rain on the Nullabor Plain. It happens very rarely but when it does rain, it explodes with wild flowers. The way back was just like driving through the wizard of Oz fields, acres and acres of flowers either side of the road for hundreds of kilometres. I must say, it was better than the dirt I was expecting.
We got home after such a mammoth trip and immediately the caravan went to its permanent on-site location at Broulee on the south coast of NSW but that's another story.
I'm going to call my dad and thank him for using his power of veto in the family conference. I could never understand the chef in any case.
Wednesday, 21 November 2012
Fearless
I think I am pretty fearless in general. I'm not fond of heights but I don't shy away from them. Dogs are only ever an extended, palm up, hand out away and I tend to to drive a little faster than I should (only whilst alone) but then there are spiders.
Spiders have been shown to be my Achilles heal on more than one occasion. I find them interesting in a purely cool bugs kind of way and take great interest in them in their natural environment but have an accompanying respect for the distance between them and myself. We have here in Australia a spider known as the Huntsman. I'm not sure what its proper name is but they are the most common big spider you'd find in any house. The photo I found here is indicative of their usual size as well.
Anyways, one night I was fresh from the shower and walking up the hall way to the bedroom when on the lower glass panel of the front door (it was a french door sort of set up) I spied a spider resting peacefully on the glass outside waiting his next meal. Its not often you get to see a spider up close like that in a controlled environment. It was before I had laser surgery so without my glasses on, to really see him close, I had to get down on my hands and knees and bring my face right close to the glass. This was so I could study him from the underside through the glass. He was a biggun too. I could see so clearly the hairs on his abdomen and legs, his fangs and black dead eyes. I really was interested. Did I happen to mention I was naked too? well with my face about one inch from the glass of the front door, squinting to see this creature up close, when it moved. Ever so slightly it moved. It was about now that I realised it was in fact it was my breath causing it to move! How could that be when it was outside? My retreat met all the criteria for an emergency dismount; awkward, legs akimbo, accompanied by a short high pitched scream and falling flat on my arse on the cold slate tiles. Jane laughed that night. I learnt a lesson though, make sure the spider is on the outside, not just looks like it.
A mate of his decided to take a rest on the bonnet of our car one day. We were on our way out and when Jane suggested I flick it off the car, I said "no, the wind will look after it". We started driving and sure as eggs, the wind rushing past the car swept the spider up the windscreen and over the roof. Job done!
We continued down the road and decided to get KFC for lunch on the way. We pulled through the drive thru and ordered the food and progressed to the window to await the delivery of sustenance. The girl first took my money and then enquired as to whether I was aware that there was a big spider on the roof of the car. Well the window was down and yes we did know now but its ok, just give us our lunch and we'll be off. As they were bundling the 11 secret herbs and spices into the bag, I was keeping a close eye on the upper edge of the open window. I wished they'd hurry with that food. I didn't want to risk having the spider find his way into the car on my side now did I. I sat back a bit in my car seat and turned to face the window front on so no chance of a slip by. I was being aware!! On the top of my game concentration wise, focussed and calm when something fell on my shoulder. Something spindly and yucky crawled up my bare neck and I screamed. I flung myself about in the car seat to brush this silent killer from my flesh when Jane started laughing, well it started as a laugh and ended in tears as she could not but help laughing more. Just a slight touch of wiggling fingers seemed so innocent to her. To add insult, the KFC staff looking through their window into the car with the flailing man, were also all laughing uncontrollably. Note to self. Try to be more fearless of fingers.
Spiders have been shown to be my Achilles heal on more than one occasion. I find them interesting in a purely cool bugs kind of way and take great interest in them in their natural environment but have an accompanying respect for the distance between them and myself. We have here in Australia a spider known as the Huntsman. I'm not sure what its proper name is but they are the most common big spider you'd find in any house. The photo I found here is indicative of their usual size as well.
Anyways, one night I was fresh from the shower and walking up the hall way to the bedroom when on the lower glass panel of the front door (it was a french door sort of set up) I spied a spider resting peacefully on the glass outside waiting his next meal. Its not often you get to see a spider up close like that in a controlled environment. It was before I had laser surgery so without my glasses on, to really see him close, I had to get down on my hands and knees and bring my face right close to the glass. This was so I could study him from the underside through the glass. He was a biggun too. I could see so clearly the hairs on his abdomen and legs, his fangs and black dead eyes. I really was interested. Did I happen to mention I was naked too? well with my face about one inch from the glass of the front door, squinting to see this creature up close, when it moved. Ever so slightly it moved. It was about now that I realised it was in fact it was my breath causing it to move! How could that be when it was outside? My retreat met all the criteria for an emergency dismount; awkward, legs akimbo, accompanied by a short high pitched scream and falling flat on my arse on the cold slate tiles. Jane laughed that night. I learnt a lesson though, make sure the spider is on the outside, not just looks like it.
A mate of his decided to take a rest on the bonnet of our car one day. We were on our way out and when Jane suggested I flick it off the car, I said "no, the wind will look after it". We started driving and sure as eggs, the wind rushing past the car swept the spider up the windscreen and over the roof. Job done!
We continued down the road and decided to get KFC for lunch on the way. We pulled through the drive thru and ordered the food and progressed to the window to await the delivery of sustenance. The girl first took my money and then enquired as to whether I was aware that there was a big spider on the roof of the car. Well the window was down and yes we did know now but its ok, just give us our lunch and we'll be off. As they were bundling the 11 secret herbs and spices into the bag, I was keeping a close eye on the upper edge of the open window. I wished they'd hurry with that food. I didn't want to risk having the spider find his way into the car on my side now did I. I sat back a bit in my car seat and turned to face the window front on so no chance of a slip by. I was being aware!! On the top of my game concentration wise, focussed and calm when something fell on my shoulder. Something spindly and yucky crawled up my bare neck and I screamed. I flung myself about in the car seat to brush this silent killer from my flesh when Jane started laughing, well it started as a laugh and ended in tears as she could not but help laughing more. Just a slight touch of wiggling fingers seemed so innocent to her. To add insult, the KFC staff looking through their window into the car with the flailing man, were also all laughing uncontrollably. Note to self. Try to be more fearless of fingers.
Tuesday, 13 November 2012
What's good for you
I am positive some of this will turn your stomach and other bits make you salivate but I think its time to steer clear of life endangerment and focus on what I like. Food wise I mean.
My earliest recollections of really really loving food was at my grandmother's house in Seaforth on Sydney's north shore. My dad's mum and dad can only be described as the best grandparents in the world. He was an artist and she a white haired champion of the kitchen. Whilst on visits there, we would be in the back room (Grandpa's studio) and draw and paint to our hearts content. We would use old topographical maps to play Mr Squiggle with him. He'd deftly join some random lines and then turn the page around to show a galloping horse. He was a happy and engaging old man that did the best kookaburra impression ever. Whilst we were drawing, the smells from grandma's kitchen would waft through and if there was that one smell I knew, it was toad in the hole. Big Fat Juicy sausages cooked in batter in the oven. It sounds simple enough but I could never get enough of it. Grandma was able to have the batter crisp and golden on the top whilst underneath the fluffy dough cradled the sausages and was just so divine. It was Oliver all over with me holding up a licked clean plate begging for 'more please'. As a grown up, I would tell my wife about this dish and then one day decided to try it myself. I didn't have Grandma's recipe but that's what google is for. Lets agree that's not what google is for. The fat exuding from the sausages during the cooking squelched its way to the top of the batter mixture and then as the batter cooked and tiny air pockets of fluff began to grown, the oil diffused into these pockets. It was inebible. I would go back and spell that word correctly but it was that bad It needs a new word to describe it. I have never revisited that but should one day.
My love of food continued throughout my life and I have been fortunate enough to eat in some of the finest restaurants Sydney had to offer. I leave out Brisbane in this class because they just don't get it yet. I have tried most of them here but they fall short almost every time. Lure at Milton is the exception actually. Sydney's Level 41, Banc and Edna's table all provided such astonishingly good meals, I found it hard to believe they used the same ingredients as me.
I have had god knows what in Korea (they promised it wasn't dog) and had the best Peking Duck EVER EVER EVER next to Tiananmen Square in Beijing. If there is a flavour to savour, I am the first in line.
I cook now and love it. I am not a desert cook at all but can quite easily do a savoury and it be nice to eat. I do insist on music whilst I cook though. Music is what makes the world make sense to me. As you know by now, my control freak nature dictates I do the vast majority of grocery shopping so that I can picture the weeks meals in my head as I browse the shelves seeking inspiration. I like to cook and freeze multiple meals when I get a chance, as our busy week nights gives very limited opportunity to cook. If anyone wants to suggest a dish, feel free.
Given I love what could be described as exotic tastes, cardamon, asparagus, duck are all favourites, my 'go to' meal, the one that I have to make everything all right, the meal that screams 'eat me' before I've finished it (and the meal that makes most people cringe) is fresh crusty bread, a scrapping of peanut butter, sliced banana and then topped off with the one ingredient that is in my chromosomes. This particular substance has been in my pantry from the day I left home and suspect will be there when I die. It is quite simply the nectar of the gods. Sweetened Condensed Milk. Oh.....My....God... Whatever was the name of the woman that first made this? It has to be a woman because it is so luxurious and velvety smooth, no man could ever think of such a thing. The only other person that I know of that shares this love is the man child. And yes, I have to hide the opened cans from him behind the lettuce in the fridge. It's for his own good you see.
My earliest recollections of really really loving food was at my grandmother's house in Seaforth on Sydney's north shore. My dad's mum and dad can only be described as the best grandparents in the world. He was an artist and she a white haired champion of the kitchen. Whilst on visits there, we would be in the back room (Grandpa's studio) and draw and paint to our hearts content. We would use old topographical maps to play Mr Squiggle with him. He'd deftly join some random lines and then turn the page around to show a galloping horse. He was a happy and engaging old man that did the best kookaburra impression ever. Whilst we were drawing, the smells from grandma's kitchen would waft through and if there was that one smell I knew, it was toad in the hole. Big Fat Juicy sausages cooked in batter in the oven. It sounds simple enough but I could never get enough of it. Grandma was able to have the batter crisp and golden on the top whilst underneath the fluffy dough cradled the sausages and was just so divine. It was Oliver all over with me holding up a licked clean plate begging for 'more please'. As a grown up, I would tell my wife about this dish and then one day decided to try it myself. I didn't have Grandma's recipe but that's what google is for. Lets agree that's not what google is for. The fat exuding from the sausages during the cooking squelched its way to the top of the batter mixture and then as the batter cooked and tiny air pockets of fluff began to grown, the oil diffused into these pockets. It was inebible. I would go back and spell that word correctly but it was that bad It needs a new word to describe it. I have never revisited that but should one day.
My love of food continued throughout my life and I have been fortunate enough to eat in some of the finest restaurants Sydney had to offer. I leave out Brisbane in this class because they just don't get it yet. I have tried most of them here but they fall short almost every time. Lure at Milton is the exception actually. Sydney's Level 41, Banc and Edna's table all provided such astonishingly good meals, I found it hard to believe they used the same ingredients as me.
I have had god knows what in Korea (they promised it wasn't dog) and had the best Peking Duck EVER EVER EVER next to Tiananmen Square in Beijing. If there is a flavour to savour, I am the first in line.
I cook now and love it. I am not a desert cook at all but can quite easily do a savoury and it be nice to eat. I do insist on music whilst I cook though. Music is what makes the world make sense to me. As you know by now, my control freak nature dictates I do the vast majority of grocery shopping so that I can picture the weeks meals in my head as I browse the shelves seeking inspiration. I like to cook and freeze multiple meals when I get a chance, as our busy week nights gives very limited opportunity to cook. If anyone wants to suggest a dish, feel free.
Given I love what could be described as exotic tastes, cardamon, asparagus, duck are all favourites, my 'go to' meal, the one that I have to make everything all right, the meal that screams 'eat me' before I've finished it (and the meal that makes most people cringe) is fresh crusty bread, a scrapping of peanut butter, sliced banana and then topped off with the one ingredient that is in my chromosomes. This particular substance has been in my pantry from the day I left home and suspect will be there when I die. It is quite simply the nectar of the gods. Sweetened Condensed Milk. Oh.....My....God... Whatever was the name of the woman that first made this? It has to be a woman because it is so luxurious and velvety smooth, no man could ever think of such a thing. The only other person that I know of that shares this love is the man child. And yes, I have to hide the opened cans from him behind the lettuce in the fridge. It's for his own good you see.
Thursday, 8 November 2012
Bull in a China Shop
I have a brother. He is 2 years my senior and lives in England. He's the one that got the surprise in the post (if you don't know about this, you'd best read my older post "2 Dimensional").
We went through our entire childhood not really paying attention to each other. We had sporadic periods of brotherhood whereby we'd play billy carts with a converted pram chassis and ruin the wheels within minutes. He was older and bigger so invariably he got to push and I got to ride. But those memories are few and far between. I'm sad about that. It's been my long held view that we need to give our kids good memories. You can't just rely on them arriving as if by magic, as parents we need to produce suitable conditions in which those memories will flourish. Sometimes they do just arrive though. When I was young and before those pesky seat belt rules came in, On late night trips home from a function or something, I'd lie across the back seat of my dad's Austin 1800 with my head on my big sister Bronwyn's lap and my feet on Bernard's. If I decided to get on the rear parcel shelf (why is it called that - no one ever keeps parcels there), it was invariably Bernard's head that would be kicked in the process. I am positive mum and dad didn't purposefully drive home late just so I could do that.
My boys get lots of chances to form those memories. Living where we do and having the friends that we have, driving down a beach watching migrating whales breach behind the breakers or jet skiing thru the surf, camping on the beach, four wheel driving through the rain forests on Fraser Island or going over to Moreton Island for a weekend with friends to their beach house. These are all good boy things to do. Boy things that resonate within them. I know I sound sexists and yes there are girls that would love to do it too but I'm talking about my boys and our time with them. I am a dad to boys, fate thought better of giving me a girl and I'm not one to second guess fate.
I found out over the weekend that my youngest boy Griff had had a 'confrontation' with some other bigger boys at the train station but that Lewis stepped in and protected him and warned off the aggressors. Griff literally stood close behind him and held on to his shirt for security. As a dad, this is a very, very important thing to know. Making boys into men is not hard but fraught with confusion as today's lines of what is male and what is not is blurred by social pressures, political correctness and constantly being bombarded by the ever changing media idea of what today's and tomorrow's men should be. I want my boys to be men. Brave and willing to protect others, soulful and tempered, able to love and express that love to the world and to each other their entire lives. I don't want them to bulls in a China shop but I want them to be sure in themselves and know their own mind. This instance of brotherly defence is a sign we are doing it right I think. The thing that makes it so impressive to me is that they didn't race home to tell me or make a big deal of it. It was just business as usual for them. It was innate. I actually found out about it sitting at a dinner party weeks later. The sting of that is tempered by the fact I take solace from the realisation it's unimportant to them, its because they are brothers, there is no other option but to be that way.
My brother and I had a similar set to on the school bus on the way home one day. I think I would have been in yr 8 and he in yr 10. Bernard had always been the sensitive son and I was the bull in a china shop. He looked after his toys and I destroyed mine, then had a crack at his too. On this day on the bus as we were approaching our stop and walking down the centre aisle, some bullies started in on Bernard, pulling his shirt, calling him poofter and generally being cruel. I was in front of Bernard in the aisle so turned to see what the fracas was behind me. He was angry at them but simply trying to get past, not being aggressive but just wanting to be away from them. Being me, I had a different approach. I walked back up the bus and punched the bully in the face and told him to "leave my brother the fuck alone!". We got off the bus and I felt very accomplished indeed and was waiting for his praise for coming to his rescue. I at that time had such love for my brother, it had just welled inside me and I had reacted. No normal boy punches a kid 2 years older square in the face in front of all his bully mates as well. I expect you are all going 'awww' and 'how nice' etc now . Are you thinking I had got it wrong the way I thought we weren't close? Now think of it this way. I was 2 years below Bernard and his bully peers. I could not have made school life harder for him that day even if I had put up posters with him wearing grandmas undies picking his nose and eating it! I had now managed to add to their existing aggression toward Bernard with the added insult of being beaten by a yr 8 kid in front of the entire bus.
Bernard was fuming and chased me home with a view to beating me to a pulp. I just didn't appreciate the situation from his point of view. As I became a man I realise being a man is not so black and white. Understanding the needs of others is key to being a good man and I'm sure I fail at that on a daily basis. I'm better than I was as 13, but I'm still a bull in a China shop. The important thing is that I try to teach my boys not to be.
We went through our entire childhood not really paying attention to each other. We had sporadic periods of brotherhood whereby we'd play billy carts with a converted pram chassis and ruin the wheels within minutes. He was older and bigger so invariably he got to push and I got to ride. But those memories are few and far between. I'm sad about that. It's been my long held view that we need to give our kids good memories. You can't just rely on them arriving as if by magic, as parents we need to produce suitable conditions in which those memories will flourish. Sometimes they do just arrive though. When I was young and before those pesky seat belt rules came in, On late night trips home from a function or something, I'd lie across the back seat of my dad's Austin 1800 with my head on my big sister Bronwyn's lap and my feet on Bernard's. If I decided to get on the rear parcel shelf (why is it called that - no one ever keeps parcels there), it was invariably Bernard's head that would be kicked in the process. I am positive mum and dad didn't purposefully drive home late just so I could do that.
My boys get lots of chances to form those memories. Living where we do and having the friends that we have, driving down a beach watching migrating whales breach behind the breakers or jet skiing thru the surf, camping on the beach, four wheel driving through the rain forests on Fraser Island or going over to Moreton Island for a weekend with friends to their beach house. These are all good boy things to do. Boy things that resonate within them. I know I sound sexists and yes there are girls that would love to do it too but I'm talking about my boys and our time with them. I am a dad to boys, fate thought better of giving me a girl and I'm not one to second guess fate.
I found out over the weekend that my youngest boy Griff had had a 'confrontation' with some other bigger boys at the train station but that Lewis stepped in and protected him and warned off the aggressors. Griff literally stood close behind him and held on to his shirt for security. As a dad, this is a very, very important thing to know. Making boys into men is not hard but fraught with confusion as today's lines of what is male and what is not is blurred by social pressures, political correctness and constantly being bombarded by the ever changing media idea of what today's and tomorrow's men should be. I want my boys to be men. Brave and willing to protect others, soulful and tempered, able to love and express that love to the world and to each other their entire lives. I don't want them to bulls in a China shop but I want them to be sure in themselves and know their own mind. This instance of brotherly defence is a sign we are doing it right I think. The thing that makes it so impressive to me is that they didn't race home to tell me or make a big deal of it. It was just business as usual for them. It was innate. I actually found out about it sitting at a dinner party weeks later. The sting of that is tempered by the fact I take solace from the realisation it's unimportant to them, its because they are brothers, there is no other option but to be that way.
My brother and I had a similar set to on the school bus on the way home one day. I think I would have been in yr 8 and he in yr 10. Bernard had always been the sensitive son and I was the bull in a china shop. He looked after his toys and I destroyed mine, then had a crack at his too. On this day on the bus as we were approaching our stop and walking down the centre aisle, some bullies started in on Bernard, pulling his shirt, calling him poofter and generally being cruel. I was in front of Bernard in the aisle so turned to see what the fracas was behind me. He was angry at them but simply trying to get past, not being aggressive but just wanting to be away from them. Being me, I had a different approach. I walked back up the bus and punched the bully in the face and told him to "leave my brother the fuck alone!". We got off the bus and I felt very accomplished indeed and was waiting for his praise for coming to his rescue. I at that time had such love for my brother, it had just welled inside me and I had reacted. No normal boy punches a kid 2 years older square in the face in front of all his bully mates as well. I expect you are all going 'awww' and 'how nice' etc now . Are you thinking I had got it wrong the way I thought we weren't close? Now think of it this way. I was 2 years below Bernard and his bully peers. I could not have made school life harder for him that day even if I had put up posters with him wearing grandmas undies picking his nose and eating it! I had now managed to add to their existing aggression toward Bernard with the added insult of being beaten by a yr 8 kid in front of the entire bus.
Bernard was fuming and chased me home with a view to beating me to a pulp. I just didn't appreciate the situation from his point of view. As I became a man I realise being a man is not so black and white. Understanding the needs of others is key to being a good man and I'm sure I fail at that on a daily basis. I'm better than I was as 13, but I'm still a bull in a China shop. The important thing is that I try to teach my boys not to be.
Monday, 5 November 2012
It's important to know the facts
If I was to write about the mundane and tedious day to day stuff I doubt you'd be interested so here is another example of an accident I was in. I know is seems like I have a death wish but honestly, I'm more lucky than suicidal.
We have in previous episodes covered off that I did a traineeship with BHP as a metallurgist. It involved moving from department to department over 4 years, doing about a year in each. One of my years was spent at the steel making plant (the BOS) as an 'Observer'. The BOS is a massive open topped pot that holds the iron and a large lance drops down and blows oxygen into it at about twice the speed of sound to burn the carbon out of it and make steel. I bet you needed to know that little snippet. Anyways, when I say massive I mean massive. From the floor where this thing sits up to the top is about 4 stories. Arranged at the top along with the massive gas and dust extraction hood is a sub lance set up. This is a long lance that protrudes down from above into the pit of molten steel below to take samples. Are you still with me? This means that the sub lance is about 3 stories high and is big and heavy and very much a hairy man type piece of machinery.
Before I go on, let me describe briefly the rest of the set up. A control room with massive windows is on the floor level looking out at this massive pot of boiling metal with it splashing and slopping about. Its an impressive sight let me tell you. Overhead cranes with skips with thousands of tons of molten iron on pots, skips with scrap metal, riggers, labourers and foreman all running around making steel. Its a fucking dangerous place too just quietly. The General Foreman is the boss of the shift. He is responsible for the lives of all, probably a billion dollars worth of plant and equipment not to mention the quality of the steel coming out the other side. Its a serious role. In the control room the GF will sit and monitor the activities of lots of areas via a closed circuit video system. Cameras pointing at a few key areas showing a grainy not so clear black and white image often whited out by the superheated metal flaring and the camera's exposure being a little too slow to react. One of these cameras is aimed at the platform perched above the BOS where the sub lance is lowered down into the molten steel.
As the 'Observer', is was my job to run about all the different areas and trouble shoot whatever the grown ups wanted. It was an often an exhausting job but also had its highlights. one of the tasks was to attend the sub lance and determine what was wrong if samples were not being produced correctly. It was super time critical. You have up to 280 tons of molten steel sitting waiting to get the results of an analysis so that it can be moved on to the next process but that can't happen until that sub lance takes a good sample. The sub lance this particular shift way giving us grief so I was dispatched up the several flights of stairs to investigate. The platform had a hole through which the sub lance penetrated below to the steel. There was of course heaps of steel and machinery and other shit around too but this one machine was what I was focused on. As they withdrew the lance then sent it back down again, I noticed it was bending the testing cylinder so as the studious and very careful person I was, I steadied myself with one hand to peer down the hole and see what this obstruction was when the sub lance descended next time. I know you have images of me falling or something but I just told you I was holding onto something. That something was the sub lance guide. A bit of the machine that sits about 6 feet above the platform and when the sub lance drops, it drops first to help guide the thing. I recall thinking as I my gloved hand was clamped and I was wrenched to the ground, " oh this is not good" but then looking up to see the 10 or so tons of equipment above the lance that follows its path down is when I really thought I was cactus. You know in the movies like Conair when the planes stops just before squashing Nicholas Cage or Vertical Limit where the rotor blades skims the chest of the star pinned against the cliff face? well it was exactly like that. The descending gear stopped mere centimetres from my face. I was again, proved to be the lucky one. I cant say the same for the GF though.
Looking at what I was doing on the monitors from the control room, Tony the GF saw me get caught, saw me get taken to ground and then saw me totally obscured by the lance head as it fell. I was dead as far as he knew. It was action stations and get to the corpse as quickly as possible, we might be able to get to him before he gets cooked.
Like I said, it was a 4 story stair journey up to where I was.
I had wrenched my hand from my captor, brushed myself off and was on my way back down to the control room to relate my near miss. My glove was torn and I had grease on my hand. I really did want to wash it off.
I saw Tony get to the top of the stairs and when he saw me walking towards him, his face intially showed relief but then changed to one of torture. He faltered and staggered to the side and slumped against the steel column. Coming up the stairs behind him a few other guys sort of caught him and he did not look well at all. Luckily an ambulance had been called (for me), but as I wasn't using it, was happy for Tony to make full use. Tony was a large man, not really suited to rapid stair ascents and proceeded to have a heart attack in the ambulance on the way to hospital. He survived that attack but as I understand it, did succumb to his weight some years later.
About 25 years later as a commercial manager now sitting in an office in Brisbane, I had cause to see some suppliers and was discussing our relevant experience and what not and I mentioned my metalurgical background with BHP. They too had their own stories to tell and we got onto some of the more famous tales that emanated from the steelworks.
"I heard of this guy that got taken out by the sub lance once" one of them said. "it took off his arm at the shoulder and he had a heart attack!!"
"no" I said. "That's incorrect" holding up my two intact arms.
It's important to know the facts I feel.
We have in previous episodes covered off that I did a traineeship with BHP as a metallurgist. It involved moving from department to department over 4 years, doing about a year in each. One of my years was spent at the steel making plant (the BOS) as an 'Observer'. The BOS is a massive open topped pot that holds the iron and a large lance drops down and blows oxygen into it at about twice the speed of sound to burn the carbon out of it and make steel. I bet you needed to know that little snippet. Anyways, when I say massive I mean massive. From the floor where this thing sits up to the top is about 4 stories. Arranged at the top along with the massive gas and dust extraction hood is a sub lance set up. This is a long lance that protrudes down from above into the pit of molten steel below to take samples. Are you still with me? This means that the sub lance is about 3 stories high and is big and heavy and very much a hairy man type piece of machinery.
Before I go on, let me describe briefly the rest of the set up. A control room with massive windows is on the floor level looking out at this massive pot of boiling metal with it splashing and slopping about. Its an impressive sight let me tell you. Overhead cranes with skips with thousands of tons of molten iron on pots, skips with scrap metal, riggers, labourers and foreman all running around making steel. Its a fucking dangerous place too just quietly. The General Foreman is the boss of the shift. He is responsible for the lives of all, probably a billion dollars worth of plant and equipment not to mention the quality of the steel coming out the other side. Its a serious role. In the control room the GF will sit and monitor the activities of lots of areas via a closed circuit video system. Cameras pointing at a few key areas showing a grainy not so clear black and white image often whited out by the superheated metal flaring and the camera's exposure being a little too slow to react. One of these cameras is aimed at the platform perched above the BOS where the sub lance is lowered down into the molten steel.
As the 'Observer', is was my job to run about all the different areas and trouble shoot whatever the grown ups wanted. It was an often an exhausting job but also had its highlights. one of the tasks was to attend the sub lance and determine what was wrong if samples were not being produced correctly. It was super time critical. You have up to 280 tons of molten steel sitting waiting to get the results of an analysis so that it can be moved on to the next process but that can't happen until that sub lance takes a good sample. The sub lance this particular shift way giving us grief so I was dispatched up the several flights of stairs to investigate. The platform had a hole through which the sub lance penetrated below to the steel. There was of course heaps of steel and machinery and other shit around too but this one machine was what I was focused on. As they withdrew the lance then sent it back down again, I noticed it was bending the testing cylinder so as the studious and very careful person I was, I steadied myself with one hand to peer down the hole and see what this obstruction was when the sub lance descended next time. I know you have images of me falling or something but I just told you I was holding onto something. That something was the sub lance guide. A bit of the machine that sits about 6 feet above the platform and when the sub lance drops, it drops first to help guide the thing. I recall thinking as I my gloved hand was clamped and I was wrenched to the ground, " oh this is not good" but then looking up to see the 10 or so tons of equipment above the lance that follows its path down is when I really thought I was cactus. You know in the movies like Conair when the planes stops just before squashing Nicholas Cage or Vertical Limit where the rotor blades skims the chest of the star pinned against the cliff face? well it was exactly like that. The descending gear stopped mere centimetres from my face. I was again, proved to be the lucky one. I cant say the same for the GF though.
Looking at what I was doing on the monitors from the control room, Tony the GF saw me get caught, saw me get taken to ground and then saw me totally obscured by the lance head as it fell. I was dead as far as he knew. It was action stations and get to the corpse as quickly as possible, we might be able to get to him before he gets cooked.
Like I said, it was a 4 story stair journey up to where I was.
I had wrenched my hand from my captor, brushed myself off and was on my way back down to the control room to relate my near miss. My glove was torn and I had grease on my hand. I really did want to wash it off.
I saw Tony get to the top of the stairs and when he saw me walking towards him, his face intially showed relief but then changed to one of torture. He faltered and staggered to the side and slumped against the steel column. Coming up the stairs behind him a few other guys sort of caught him and he did not look well at all. Luckily an ambulance had been called (for me), but as I wasn't using it, was happy for Tony to make full use. Tony was a large man, not really suited to rapid stair ascents and proceeded to have a heart attack in the ambulance on the way to hospital. He survived that attack but as I understand it, did succumb to his weight some years later.
About 25 years later as a commercial manager now sitting in an office in Brisbane, I had cause to see some suppliers and was discussing our relevant experience and what not and I mentioned my metalurgical background with BHP. They too had their own stories to tell and we got onto some of the more famous tales that emanated from the steelworks.
"I heard of this guy that got taken out by the sub lance once" one of them said. "it took off his arm at the shoulder and he had a heart attack!!"
"no" I said. "That's incorrect" holding up my two intact arms.
It's important to know the facts I feel.
Tuesday, 30 October 2012
Interest
My dad owes me $6675.37. This is $300 at a compounding interest of 9% over 36 years calculated annually. I am not holding my breath but just so you know its a valid claim, I'll continue.
When we moved from Sydney to Goulburn back when I was about 6, my dad's employer (the Dept Main Roads) provided a nice house that we fitted in as long as my bro and I shared. After a few years Mum and Dad to decide to buy the house off the government and extend it to make a little more room for us. It was a C shaped house with the double garage being one leg of the C and the bedrooms the other and the living areas in the spine of the C. I think that explains it well enough. Well the plans called for the existing double car garage to be converted into bedrooms and a family room and a new garage extended out the front of that. Simple enough.
At the start of the project Dad said "right kids, you have obligations to help with this job for which you will be suitably compensated but I need to know, do you want to be paid bit by bit as you do each task assigned or do you want me to just hold it all up until the end and pay you in one lump sum?"
I'm a lump sum kind of person and knew I'd blow the dribble of cash on junk so I opted for option 2. The lump sum of $300 for the duration of the build was agreed upon. As a 10 year old in 1976, that was an absolute fortune. We would cart materials, clean bricks (worst job in the world) and do general builder's labouring whenever we could. The word child labour may have been mentioned at one point but we are an equal opportunity employer and put it out of mind just as quickly.
Dad was a Surveyor and so had to travel for work every now and then. It was always exciting if he did because dad was one of those dads that could not return to the castle empty handed. My absolute favourite was his trips to a town called Gundagai south of Goulburn on the Hume Highway. The baker there made high top loaves that were so tall they barely were able to sit on the bench without toppling over. And the crust was of such a chewy, crispy and tasty variety I sit here 36 years late and still salivate at the thought if it. The landcruiser survey wagon would often return to us filled to the brim with cases of fresh peaches or cherries from the orchards around Young. So you see, when dad went away, it was in our interest to make him happy to do so because we got a payoff too.
This one day, dad was readying for his departure and I asked "what can I do on the build whilst you are gone", the ever helpful son, eager to progress the project and end up standing there with cash, a peach and fresh bread all at once. Nothing could be better (unless of course there was a tin of sweetened condensed milk nearby)
"well, you see that brick work there, it needs to come down and the bricks cleaned and stacked for reuse"
Dad was pointing at the column of bricks between where the two garage doors once were. About 3 bricks wide and one 2 rows deep.
Dad was waved off and when the time after school allowed, I set about tackling this new monolith. Even as a 10 year old, I was a pretty big kid I think. The ability to swing a hefty sledge hammer was within my skill set lets say. I was also an accomplished woodsman, knowing how to fell a rotting tree for fire wood. How different could this be? When you smash a few bricks to get them loosened up at the base so the rest can more easily be knocked from the mortar, its very much a 'lose yourself' task. I lost myself in the said task and was determined to make short work of this job.
I remember lots of dust as the bricks gave way to the hammer. And then a bad sound. I knew it was a bad sound because it was immediately followed by my mum screaming. How are kids to know the term "Load Bearing Structure" I say.
As the column was dislodged and toppled to the ground, the trusses supporting the roof and resting upon that column tended to submit to my old nemesis, gravity.
Now I know you probably have visions of the entire roof collapsing on me. It didn't. It was strangely held up by it impacting in against itself so only dropped about 3 feet and stayed there. Precariously hanging there. Particles of dust and splinters of timber trickling from the valley formed. Of course my mum went off her nut swearing and asking me "what the hell I was doing?".
"what I was asked to do" was of course my reply.
Dad had to make a quick return home to assess the situation and upon seeing it, could only say "I never thought you could do it". It was he himself that had failed to put acrowprops under it because he just plain thought I didn't have a hope in hell of doing it. He had failed to recognise my interest in completing the task. That interest in things has served me well over the years though I have yet to be paid for its use in that instance. You owe me $300 plus interest dad!
When we moved from Sydney to Goulburn back when I was about 6, my dad's employer (the Dept Main Roads) provided a nice house that we fitted in as long as my bro and I shared. After a few years Mum and Dad to decide to buy the house off the government and extend it to make a little more room for us. It was a C shaped house with the double garage being one leg of the C and the bedrooms the other and the living areas in the spine of the C. I think that explains it well enough. Well the plans called for the existing double car garage to be converted into bedrooms and a family room and a new garage extended out the front of that. Simple enough.
At the start of the project Dad said "right kids, you have obligations to help with this job for which you will be suitably compensated but I need to know, do you want to be paid bit by bit as you do each task assigned or do you want me to just hold it all up until the end and pay you in one lump sum?"
I'm a lump sum kind of person and knew I'd blow the dribble of cash on junk so I opted for option 2. The lump sum of $300 for the duration of the build was agreed upon. As a 10 year old in 1976, that was an absolute fortune. We would cart materials, clean bricks (worst job in the world) and do general builder's labouring whenever we could. The word child labour may have been mentioned at one point but we are an equal opportunity employer and put it out of mind just as quickly.
Dad was a Surveyor and so had to travel for work every now and then. It was always exciting if he did because dad was one of those dads that could not return to the castle empty handed. My absolute favourite was his trips to a town called Gundagai south of Goulburn on the Hume Highway. The baker there made high top loaves that were so tall they barely were able to sit on the bench without toppling over. And the crust was of such a chewy, crispy and tasty variety I sit here 36 years late and still salivate at the thought if it. The landcruiser survey wagon would often return to us filled to the brim with cases of fresh peaches or cherries from the orchards around Young. So you see, when dad went away, it was in our interest to make him happy to do so because we got a payoff too.
This one day, dad was readying for his departure and I asked "what can I do on the build whilst you are gone", the ever helpful son, eager to progress the project and end up standing there with cash, a peach and fresh bread all at once. Nothing could be better (unless of course there was a tin of sweetened condensed milk nearby)
"well, you see that brick work there, it needs to come down and the bricks cleaned and stacked for reuse"
Dad was pointing at the column of bricks between where the two garage doors once were. About 3 bricks wide and one 2 rows deep.
Dad was waved off and when the time after school allowed, I set about tackling this new monolith. Even as a 10 year old, I was a pretty big kid I think. The ability to swing a hefty sledge hammer was within my skill set lets say. I was also an accomplished woodsman, knowing how to fell a rotting tree for fire wood. How different could this be? When you smash a few bricks to get them loosened up at the base so the rest can more easily be knocked from the mortar, its very much a 'lose yourself' task. I lost myself in the said task and was determined to make short work of this job.
I remember lots of dust as the bricks gave way to the hammer. And then a bad sound. I knew it was a bad sound because it was immediately followed by my mum screaming. How are kids to know the term "Load Bearing Structure" I say.
As the column was dislodged and toppled to the ground, the trusses supporting the roof and resting upon that column tended to submit to my old nemesis, gravity.
Now I know you probably have visions of the entire roof collapsing on me. It didn't. It was strangely held up by it impacting in against itself so only dropped about 3 feet and stayed there. Precariously hanging there. Particles of dust and splinters of timber trickling from the valley formed. Of course my mum went off her nut swearing and asking me "what the hell I was doing?".
"what I was asked to do" was of course my reply.
Dad had to make a quick return home to assess the situation and upon seeing it, could only say "I never thought you could do it". It was he himself that had failed to put acrowprops under it because he just plain thought I didn't have a hope in hell of doing it. He had failed to recognise my interest in completing the task. That interest in things has served me well over the years though I have yet to be paid for its use in that instance. You owe me $300 plus interest dad!
Monday, 29 October 2012
cranky
Am I a cranky fuck?
Years and years ago whilst employed by BHP, I did a 5 day full time management assessment exercise whereby me and 4 others were put through the wringer for 5 solid days with all manner of examinations, role play, multiple choice and interviews with psychologists and flash cards and then at the end, a report produced to tell BHP what sort of future management they had available to them. I did really well. That one report became the main focus of my CV for as long as I could justify it as being still relevant. I do recall my highest individual score was for "self objectivity". The ability to know and identify those areas where I would excel and those areas I would not. Basically, have I got any idea what I am on about and I did.
I suspect that power has left me though.
I'm not going to relate any massively funny or insightful tale that illustrates this but only to some minor pointers. My boys said to me, after I politely informed a uniformed parking official at the airport that I would not be moving on, "Dad, you can be really scary to people sometimes". I had not done anything to warrant that but both boys were in agreement and went on to explain a few other instances whereby I did a similar thing. I don't want to be like that. I don't want to be the cranky old man that snarls whilst in his head he is simply stating a fact.
I admit I have triggers but they are not a surprise to anyone. The word "whatever!" should be banned from the english language. One word that dismisses someone as so out of hand and at the same time slide a literary knife through their ribs is in my mind the height of rudeness. I simply won't say it but I know my thoughts on this are over the top as no one else seems to share this. My family know though and they have been known to use the information to their advantage on the odd occasion when they want to unsettle Dad.
My other trigger is just plain being ignored. If I have said, asked, informed, cited, enquired, vented or expressed an interest in someone, when that person doesn't acknowledge me, I may have an inclination to get cranky. Is it me being the proverbial control freak? probably. Does that knowledge help me temper my crankiness? not really. When you use the word cranky, it has a longevity or continuity to it. Its not an isolated word I don't think. You are either cranky or not. Not sometimes cranky. So when I admit to being sometimes cranky, am I kidding myself that I'm not like that always? I don't think so, I laugh a lot, make far too many inappropriate jokes and my usual defence to anyone is with humour. But where does this cranky thing come from? Is being a 46 year old white western male that much a hard deal that I can't just let some things slide? I should do and I will be trying to from now on. This blog is supposed to be my self determined therapy so if I get cranky with you, feel free to call me on it but just don't be the airport parking guy, I'm allowed to have one victim aren't I?
Years and years ago whilst employed by BHP, I did a 5 day full time management assessment exercise whereby me and 4 others were put through the wringer for 5 solid days with all manner of examinations, role play, multiple choice and interviews with psychologists and flash cards and then at the end, a report produced to tell BHP what sort of future management they had available to them. I did really well. That one report became the main focus of my CV for as long as I could justify it as being still relevant. I do recall my highest individual score was for "self objectivity". The ability to know and identify those areas where I would excel and those areas I would not. Basically, have I got any idea what I am on about and I did.
I suspect that power has left me though.
I'm not going to relate any massively funny or insightful tale that illustrates this but only to some minor pointers. My boys said to me, after I politely informed a uniformed parking official at the airport that I would not be moving on, "Dad, you can be really scary to people sometimes". I had not done anything to warrant that but both boys were in agreement and went on to explain a few other instances whereby I did a similar thing. I don't want to be like that. I don't want to be the cranky old man that snarls whilst in his head he is simply stating a fact.
I admit I have triggers but they are not a surprise to anyone. The word "whatever!" should be banned from the english language. One word that dismisses someone as so out of hand and at the same time slide a literary knife through their ribs is in my mind the height of rudeness. I simply won't say it but I know my thoughts on this are over the top as no one else seems to share this. My family know though and they have been known to use the information to their advantage on the odd occasion when they want to unsettle Dad.
My other trigger is just plain being ignored. If I have said, asked, informed, cited, enquired, vented or expressed an interest in someone, when that person doesn't acknowledge me, I may have an inclination to get cranky. Is it me being the proverbial control freak? probably. Does that knowledge help me temper my crankiness? not really. When you use the word cranky, it has a longevity or continuity to it. Its not an isolated word I don't think. You are either cranky or not. Not sometimes cranky. So when I admit to being sometimes cranky, am I kidding myself that I'm not like that always? I don't think so, I laugh a lot, make far too many inappropriate jokes and my usual defence to anyone is with humour. But where does this cranky thing come from? Is being a 46 year old white western male that much a hard deal that I can't just let some things slide? I should do and I will be trying to from now on. This blog is supposed to be my self determined therapy so if I get cranky with you, feel free to call me on it but just don't be the airport parking guy, I'm allowed to have one victim aren't I?
Wednesday, 24 October 2012
Car Trouble Part 2
I have touched upon my tenuous relationship with my now memoryless mother and this is a little slice of how that manifested itself through time. I had just had a full knee reconstruction and was encumbered with a lovely metal brace and was on crutches and had to attend physio therapy two or three times in Crows Nest. For those unfamiliar with Australia, I was living with my parents in Corrimal and Crows Nest is about 100km or 60 miles north on the other side of Sydney from where I was. To get to my physio, I had 2 options. Get myself there or get myself there. So I decided to get myself there. My knee saga had been immense. After the accident,first one hospital and an unsuccessful operation, then to another in Deewhy and upon my release spent a few days on my cousins lounge floor because Ma and Pa had had a holiday booked for ages and I couldn't look after myself. Well that went well because then I got a staf infection and had to back into hospital for another few weeks. I was not a well cookie.
Anyways, after all that I still had to go to this ludicrously far physiotherapist because the you beaut surgeon that fixed me told me to. It was only to be for the first week or so and then I could go to a local one. As a grown up that had determined himself capable of skiing at 100 km per hour, I felt it my decision as to how I was going to get to Crows Nest. Public Transport would have involved a cab to the train, a train to central station, another train to North Sydney Station then a walk of about 1500 mtr up the hill. This whilst all on crutches and my knee held together with a fleshy shoe lace and about 50 metal staples up the front of it. The alternative was that I drive and park in their carpark and hobble inside. That sounded the far better option to me and so it was that I declared to my parents that's what would be happening. I was 20 or thereabouts and quite able to be adult about this.
Now if only I could find my car keys.
"I have them and you aren't getting them"
"But Dad, I need to go to Physio tomorrow"
" I know"
"How am I supposed to get there then?"
"Train it"
My father had failed to comprehend the prospect of propelling my crutch ridden self up that North Sydney hill. We argued of course. He had some wild ideas about me not being able to drive my manual V8 car with a braced straight left leg. He mentioned some stuff about the pain killers I was on also hampering my ability. I think it was oxycontin but I was fine. I didn't feel anything when I was on them.
"the clutch goes in and out, I can do that" I pleaded my case but he and mum were resolute.
The next morning I got myself up and exited the house through the garage and into the cab to start the several hour long public transport journey that measly 100km.
It was one of the toughest things I've done to be honest. But I made it. Swearing at my parents the entire way.
I have a calm disposition most of the time but sometimes if I get really mad, I tend to lets say, "over react".
When I got home, my dad met me at the front door.
"You're mother had some car trouble today"
" oh is that right?"
"Yes"
"that's really too bad isn't it" as I took the mature and empathetic high ground.
My mum had got in her trusty Subaru that morning and it had failed to start. Dad was at work so she called the NRMA (break down service) who dutifully attended and started their fault finding procedures. Fuel, check, Battery check, starter motor check, spark uncheck. He must not have been too bright because it took him nearly 30 minutes to discover the rotor button was missing from the distributor cap.
"do you know why the Subaru had no Rotor button Justin?"
I took it from my shorts pocket and handed it to him.
I think they gave me to the end of the week to move out. I did. But only after I got my car keys back.
Anyways, after all that I still had to go to this ludicrously far physiotherapist because the you beaut surgeon that fixed me told me to. It was only to be for the first week or so and then I could go to a local one. As a grown up that had determined himself capable of skiing at 100 km per hour, I felt it my decision as to how I was going to get to Crows Nest. Public Transport would have involved a cab to the train, a train to central station, another train to North Sydney Station then a walk of about 1500 mtr up the hill. This whilst all on crutches and my knee held together with a fleshy shoe lace and about 50 metal staples up the front of it. The alternative was that I drive and park in their carpark and hobble inside. That sounded the far better option to me and so it was that I declared to my parents that's what would be happening. I was 20 or thereabouts and quite able to be adult about this.
Now if only I could find my car keys.
"I have them and you aren't getting them"
"But Dad, I need to go to Physio tomorrow"
" I know"
"How am I supposed to get there then?"
"Train it"
My father had failed to comprehend the prospect of propelling my crutch ridden self up that North Sydney hill. We argued of course. He had some wild ideas about me not being able to drive my manual V8 car with a braced straight left leg. He mentioned some stuff about the pain killers I was on also hampering my ability. I think it was oxycontin but I was fine. I didn't feel anything when I was on them.
"the clutch goes in and out, I can do that" I pleaded my case but he and mum were resolute.
The next morning I got myself up and exited the house through the garage and into the cab to start the several hour long public transport journey that measly 100km.
It was one of the toughest things I've done to be honest. But I made it. Swearing at my parents the entire way.
I have a calm disposition most of the time but sometimes if I get really mad, I tend to lets say, "over react".
When I got home, my dad met me at the front door.
"You're mother had some car trouble today"
" oh is that right?"
"Yes"
"that's really too bad isn't it" as I took the mature and empathetic high ground.
My mum had got in her trusty Subaru that morning and it had failed to start. Dad was at work so she called the NRMA (break down service) who dutifully attended and started their fault finding procedures. Fuel, check, Battery check, starter motor check, spark uncheck. He must not have been too bright because it took him nearly 30 minutes to discover the rotor button was missing from the distributor cap.
"do you know why the Subaru had no Rotor button Justin?"
I took it from my shorts pocket and handed it to him.
I think they gave me to the end of the week to move out. I did. But only after I got my car keys back.
Tuesday, 23 October 2012
Car Trouble Part 1
I've not been backward in saying how much bits of me hurt and been vague about the source of that pain so I thought today I'd be just plain self indulgent and tell you how close to death I have been. Not through drugs or booze, not where if I'd been there sort of thing, but literally 3' 6". That's about the distance from my knee to my head.
I started out life as a Metallurgist with BHP (I'll give you a minute to google what that is). I began on Dec 10th 1984, 14 days after my final school exam. I along with a cohort of similarly misguided individuals, studied and worked in the BHP Port Kembla Slab and Plate Product Division. 'The steelworks' as we all knew it. Patrick McMahon and Mark Lowe are friends of mine. We met on course and although never worked in the same departments, spent social and college time together.
One day at college in the winter of 1986, it was suggested by one of us that we take a 'sickie' on the Friday and venture up to Perisher Valley ski fields for a weekend. A 'sickie' is where we call in and use a sick day. Pretty self explanatory I know. Perisher was a 3 or 4 hour drive so it decided because I had a nice quick V8 Rover SDI hatchback at the time, we would take my car.
The trip up was not memorable because I don't remember it.
My most vivid recollection after all these years is standing at the top of what can only be described as a cliff with Pat and Mark. What they had in skill, I had in stupidity. It was a great mix. We had been skiing for not very long as I can recall but found ourselves all standing at the top of an incline looking down over a practically perfect white valley that narrowed to a run down through century old eucalyptus trees. The collar of trees either side framing this most picturesque scene perfectly.
"Straight Down - No turns"
Mark said it. Pat was nodding and chewing his lips in semi agreement. I'm not one to wait for others so with a simple turn of my skis, began the decent. I tipped over the edge and felt the speed quickly grab hold. If you've never skied, I'd ask you to take an ice cube and sit it on your kitchen bench. Propel the cube with a flick of your finger. That is skiing except the finger is gravity and the kitchen bench is planed super smooth. I looked fabulous I must say. We were all flush and had the latest winter garb, good gear and were shit hot on the slopes. As I bent my knees and formed a tuck to get the most speed I could, It dawned upon me that I was probably exceeding my abilities. Well, not probably but was. Its cool though, you learn from these experiences. You may remember I used the word 'practically perfect' to describe the condition of the snow field. That could be defined as imperfect then I suppose. Well it was.
A single skier had previously traversed the slope. When I hit those tracks at the perpendicular, it was enough to unsettle my supersonic tuck and this is where it got really interesting. I lost it. If you've ever heard the term arms and legs akimbo! that was me. But you don't get hurt falling in snow luckily, you tumble and roll as your pride gets chipped away only to come to a gentle rest. That is if there isn't a big fucking tree in the way that is. I had for some reason veered in my dismount and hit the tree sideways knees first and wrapped around it, essentially ring barking it. I'm not sure of I was ever unconscious but I don't remember anything until Pat and Mark arrived. Looking down at me with really scared faces.
"we thought you were dead man"
I wasn't. I was on my back, my legs out in front resting in soft snow at the base of the tree. I hurt but was OK. phew that was close. I had pain in my knee but wanted to stand up. I moved my torso in a twisting action to turn to get up but my left leg from my knee down didn't move. My thigh was twisting over but not the lower leg. I remember looking and that and thought to myself, how can that be possible? I'm pretty sure that's when the pain hit and lets just say it was substantial.
One of the guys went searching for search and rescue whilst one stayed. Its a bit foggy because it hurt like fuck now. Eventually, 2 tanned, sun-glass wearing professional snow field rescue workers arrived with the 'blood bucket'. Its the sled with handles projecting forward and back that they ski down the hill with the patient strapped in. They used a back board and got me onto the bucket. That downhill run was freaky too lets say.
At the base of the valley we were in, was a Toyota Hiux 4x4 ute. The lifted me still in the bucket and loaded me onto the tray and Mark was also designated to tray travel as they both got in the cabin. Those movies where the rescuer sits beside the victim and tells them its all gonna me OK are bullshit. It was too freaking cold so they were in the cab. The trip back to the medical centre was only a few kilometers. I'd soon be in the warmth and get some pain relief. The Hilux lurched forward and started its climb up the steep rocky sloped vehicle track and it was about then as the blood bucket started sliding backwards off the back with me still strapped in that it was noted they hadn't actually attached restraints. Mark tried to grab me as I slid backwards and arrested my motion somewhat but he couldn't hold me alone. I reached back and grabbed the headboard rail but it wanted to go and gravity was hungry for me again. We were yelling out to the driver but they were oblivious. I shit ye not, we held on for what seemed an eternity until the ute finally crested the hill and started down towards the town.
I was unloaded into the Perisher Valley Private Medical Centre. I'm not sure anyone ever noticed the irony in the word 'Perisher' for a dangerous and hostile place let alone their medical facility.
"Good morning sir, you are in the hospital now and safe"
"oh thank goodness for that, its been terrifying for me"
"Do you have any means with which to pay for the services should we agree to treat you?"
"oh, OK, you mean yes I can afford it, I can"
"May I please have your credit card sir?"
I had someone poke me and make sure I wasn't going to die and as they undressed me I was amazed at how much tree bark was inside every layer of clothing. Seriously, as each layer came off so did handfuls of garden mulch. I was given drugs and moved to the waiting room with advice to seek medical attention back in Wollongong where I lived. The word waiting turned out to be a very accurate term. Both Pat and Mark had decided that I would be ages, we had only been on the slopes for an hour or so when the tree so rudely interrupted us. They were no where to be seen and as it became evident, had returned to the ski lifts to make full use of their lift tickets.
Eventually, they returned, surprised to see me lying there.
"How long you been waiting?"
"Get the car, here are my car keys"
I recall them then arguing for some time as to who would drive back seeing as they both had an exhausting day on the slopes. I think it was about 5 or 6 pm by this stage. I didn't care who drove my car but someone had to. They loaded me into the back seat and it was decided they'd share the drive back (brain surgeons yes they were) and I distinctly recall telling them both the following;
"check the water, it has a slight leak in the radiator"
with that, I took more drugs and fell into a drug induced coma for the return trip. That car was supersonic too. We were home pretty quickly and they dropped me and the car off at home and I was helped inside. Dad ending up taking me to hospital where after some scans they discovered I had snapped ever ligament that joined my upper and lower legs. The ones outside the knee and inside the knee were all frazzled beyond repair. It was fucked essentially but I knew it by then. One Ortho surgeon opened me up but then closed it just as quickly saying its the worst he's seen and can't fix it. Specialist Ortho Surgeon 2 in Sydney ended up stripping the sinew off the back of my calf muscle and drilling some holes in my bones and doing a cub scout trick knot with the sinew and stapled it to me thigh bone to hold it all together. I could walk about 3 months later I think. After calling in sick for just one day, I ended up being off work for 6 months with my leg in a big metal brace for 2 months. Its still stuffed really.
What about the radiator I hear you say.
They didn't check the water at all. They cooked the motor. Eventually when I got to the car parked out the front for the weeks afterwards, it ran really badly and the points were a swirl of purple cooked metal. It would have to go as well but not til I could get to physio and get that sorted. This is where Car Trouble Part 2 starts in a following post.
With the damage the impact did to my knee, I know if it had been my head, Id'd have been dead in that snow drift. I was lucky that day, my beloved car not so.
I started out life as a Metallurgist with BHP (I'll give you a minute to google what that is). I began on Dec 10th 1984, 14 days after my final school exam. I along with a cohort of similarly misguided individuals, studied and worked in the BHP Port Kembla Slab and Plate Product Division. 'The steelworks' as we all knew it. Patrick McMahon and Mark Lowe are friends of mine. We met on course and although never worked in the same departments, spent social and college time together.
One day at college in the winter of 1986, it was suggested by one of us that we take a 'sickie' on the Friday and venture up to Perisher Valley ski fields for a weekend. A 'sickie' is where we call in and use a sick day. Pretty self explanatory I know. Perisher was a 3 or 4 hour drive so it decided because I had a nice quick V8 Rover SDI hatchback at the time, we would take my car.
The trip up was not memorable because I don't remember it.
My most vivid recollection after all these years is standing at the top of what can only be described as a cliff with Pat and Mark. What they had in skill, I had in stupidity. It was a great mix. We had been skiing for not very long as I can recall but found ourselves all standing at the top of an incline looking down over a practically perfect white valley that narrowed to a run down through century old eucalyptus trees. The collar of trees either side framing this most picturesque scene perfectly.
"Straight Down - No turns"
Mark said it. Pat was nodding and chewing his lips in semi agreement. I'm not one to wait for others so with a simple turn of my skis, began the decent. I tipped over the edge and felt the speed quickly grab hold. If you've never skied, I'd ask you to take an ice cube and sit it on your kitchen bench. Propel the cube with a flick of your finger. That is skiing except the finger is gravity and the kitchen bench is planed super smooth. I looked fabulous I must say. We were all flush and had the latest winter garb, good gear and were shit hot on the slopes. As I bent my knees and formed a tuck to get the most speed I could, It dawned upon me that I was probably exceeding my abilities. Well, not probably but was. Its cool though, you learn from these experiences. You may remember I used the word 'practically perfect' to describe the condition of the snow field. That could be defined as imperfect then I suppose. Well it was.
A single skier had previously traversed the slope. When I hit those tracks at the perpendicular, it was enough to unsettle my supersonic tuck and this is where it got really interesting. I lost it. If you've ever heard the term arms and legs akimbo! that was me. But you don't get hurt falling in snow luckily, you tumble and roll as your pride gets chipped away only to come to a gentle rest. That is if there isn't a big fucking tree in the way that is. I had for some reason veered in my dismount and hit the tree sideways knees first and wrapped around it, essentially ring barking it. I'm not sure of I was ever unconscious but I don't remember anything until Pat and Mark arrived. Looking down at me with really scared faces.
"we thought you were dead man"
I wasn't. I was on my back, my legs out in front resting in soft snow at the base of the tree. I hurt but was OK. phew that was close. I had pain in my knee but wanted to stand up. I moved my torso in a twisting action to turn to get up but my left leg from my knee down didn't move. My thigh was twisting over but not the lower leg. I remember looking and that and thought to myself, how can that be possible? I'm pretty sure that's when the pain hit and lets just say it was substantial.
One of the guys went searching for search and rescue whilst one stayed. Its a bit foggy because it hurt like fuck now. Eventually, 2 tanned, sun-glass wearing professional snow field rescue workers arrived with the 'blood bucket'. Its the sled with handles projecting forward and back that they ski down the hill with the patient strapped in. They used a back board and got me onto the bucket. That downhill run was freaky too lets say.
At the base of the valley we were in, was a Toyota Hiux 4x4 ute. The lifted me still in the bucket and loaded me onto the tray and Mark was also designated to tray travel as they both got in the cabin. Those movies where the rescuer sits beside the victim and tells them its all gonna me OK are bullshit. It was too freaking cold so they were in the cab. The trip back to the medical centre was only a few kilometers. I'd soon be in the warmth and get some pain relief. The Hilux lurched forward and started its climb up the steep rocky sloped vehicle track and it was about then as the blood bucket started sliding backwards off the back with me still strapped in that it was noted they hadn't actually attached restraints. Mark tried to grab me as I slid backwards and arrested my motion somewhat but he couldn't hold me alone. I reached back and grabbed the headboard rail but it wanted to go and gravity was hungry for me again. We were yelling out to the driver but they were oblivious. I shit ye not, we held on for what seemed an eternity until the ute finally crested the hill and started down towards the town.
I was unloaded into the Perisher Valley Private Medical Centre. I'm not sure anyone ever noticed the irony in the word 'Perisher' for a dangerous and hostile place let alone their medical facility.
"Good morning sir, you are in the hospital now and safe"
"oh thank goodness for that, its been terrifying for me"
"Do you have any means with which to pay for the services should we agree to treat you?"
"oh, OK, you mean yes I can afford it, I can"
"May I please have your credit card sir?"
I had someone poke me and make sure I wasn't going to die and as they undressed me I was amazed at how much tree bark was inside every layer of clothing. Seriously, as each layer came off so did handfuls of garden mulch. I was given drugs and moved to the waiting room with advice to seek medical attention back in Wollongong where I lived. The word waiting turned out to be a very accurate term. Both Pat and Mark had decided that I would be ages, we had only been on the slopes for an hour or so when the tree so rudely interrupted us. They were no where to be seen and as it became evident, had returned to the ski lifts to make full use of their lift tickets.
Eventually, they returned, surprised to see me lying there.
"How long you been waiting?"
"Get the car, here are my car keys"
I recall them then arguing for some time as to who would drive back seeing as they both had an exhausting day on the slopes. I think it was about 5 or 6 pm by this stage. I didn't care who drove my car but someone had to. They loaded me into the back seat and it was decided they'd share the drive back (brain surgeons yes they were) and I distinctly recall telling them both the following;
"check the water, it has a slight leak in the radiator"
with that, I took more drugs and fell into a drug induced coma for the return trip. That car was supersonic too. We were home pretty quickly and they dropped me and the car off at home and I was helped inside. Dad ending up taking me to hospital where after some scans they discovered I had snapped ever ligament that joined my upper and lower legs. The ones outside the knee and inside the knee were all frazzled beyond repair. It was fucked essentially but I knew it by then. One Ortho surgeon opened me up but then closed it just as quickly saying its the worst he's seen and can't fix it. Specialist Ortho Surgeon 2 in Sydney ended up stripping the sinew off the back of my calf muscle and drilling some holes in my bones and doing a cub scout trick knot with the sinew and stapled it to me thigh bone to hold it all together. I could walk about 3 months later I think. After calling in sick for just one day, I ended up being off work for 6 months with my leg in a big metal brace for 2 months. Its still stuffed really.
What about the radiator I hear you say.
They didn't check the water at all. They cooked the motor. Eventually when I got to the car parked out the front for the weeks afterwards, it ran really badly and the points were a swirl of purple cooked metal. It would have to go as well but not til I could get to physio and get that sorted. This is where Car Trouble Part 2 starts in a following post.
With the damage the impact did to my knee, I know if it had been my head, Id'd have been dead in that snow drift. I was lucky that day, my beloved car not so.
Sunday, 21 October 2012
Loud
I am a loud person. I'm not afraid to open my mouth and generally put my foot in it. It would be an unusual dinner party that Jane did not have to glare across the table at me at some inappropriate joke or politically incorrect spray. I know it and those that love me know it so no biggie. I am sure if anyone has an issue with it they will either raise it with me or simply not come back. I'm not saying I'm beligerant about it and damn them all, I'll say what I want. I do care but am pretty oblivious to it til its too late. If pulled up, I'll quite happily apologise and move forward to my next faux pax. (I recently learnt how to spell that on twitter!) Its my judgement that's lacking. I have poor judgement. Apparently playing 'corners' in the car when you are the driver is not good. I just thought the kids in the back would benefit from a little extra G force in their attempts to crush each other. I was corrected and shan't do it again (more than likely).
My younger failings at judgement have slowly been unfolded on this blog and when I think back to how many times I nearly killed myself, I am amazed. Usually with cars but once in the snow. That one remains for another day.
I went to Figtree High school and lived a ways a way. The bus came close to the house but to be honest, it was too early so I'd be walking to school most days. The walk for me and hundreds of other kids involved walking down the steep banks of Americas Creek, stepping across some exposed rocks and up the opposite bank. It was risky for wet feet but never dangerous and was the shortest way to the school so no one was going to change their route. The school one day decided enough of the cross country for us pedestrians and upon receiving a donation of a prefabricated section of conveyor belt structure, began construction of a pedestrian bridge across the creek. It was about 30 metres and simply went from bank to bank at ground level. They set footings on either side, then craned the bridge into place. A great innovation for all. We loved it from the minute construction began. We loved it so much, that before it was finished, we decided that it should be tested. In cars.
The bridge was in place but had some of those timber barriers up at each end to indicate one should not venture onto said unfinished bridge. Ken was in his dads Kingswood wagon and I in mum's mazda 323 wagon. It was about 10 or 11 pm I think. We discussed the viability of crossing the bridge for all of 30 seconds I think. Risk assessment check!
We pulled up lined up for the bridge, with the lights off and motors still running, we ran over and each of us grabbed a barricade and moved it out of the way. Back into the cars. I went first, god knows why but we had no fear of anything going wrong. As I drove onto the bridge platform, the wing mirrors within inches of the railing either side, my only concern was to keep it straight. As the bridge was not yet finished, the platform was sheet metal. Thin sheet metal.
Have you ever seen Rolf Harris pick up a sheet of metal and wobble it to make a loud noise? Multiply than by about one and a half ton. It was like Stomp has just started a concert in the dead of night in a quiet suburb. LOUD is an understatement. I was taken back by it and just kept going. Ken followed me onto the bridge before I was off the other side. 2 cars on the foot bridge now! LLOOOUUUDDDEEERRRR!!!!!
Upon exiting the bridge and onto the grassy playing fields on the other side, we stopped close to each other to congratulate ourselves on a job well done. It was then we noticed the lights starting. First there was the odd house internal light, then front lights, doors were opening, people coming out of houses with craing necks and sleepy eyes trying to focus. And the wail of a police siren in the distance!
I was not going to go back across that bridge. Oh no, I was too smart. So I planned to drive across the playing fields, up the bank on the far side, into the school grounds, through the school and weaving my way through the quadrangle seats back onto the internal drive and back out onto Gibson's Road. Fool proof. The school gate that is locked 99% of the time and the very same gate I had omitted to consider in my escape plan, was open that night. I was free and clear. Ken had done a 'do-nut' on the grass and went back the way he came, across the bridge and back out onto Obrien's road. I had driven down the road a little bit in time to see him driving calmly down the road as the full lights and siren police car passed him in the opposite direction. We met up and was very impressed with ourselves indeed. A faultless operation.
Years later, when age and experience had endowed themselves upon me, I went back past that bridge and realised just how flimsy that structure was. It simply wasn't engineered to take the weight of a car and definitely not the weight of 2. I am convinced if we had been moving any slower, the bridge would have folded in half with our parents' two cars snuggly spooning in the resulting V.
My judgement has improved a little since then but did leave me briefly at the snow one year. Remind me to tell you about that one day. But make your reminder loud, I'm a little slow on the uptake.
My younger failings at judgement have slowly been unfolded on this blog and when I think back to how many times I nearly killed myself, I am amazed. Usually with cars but once in the snow. That one remains for another day.
I went to Figtree High school and lived a ways a way. The bus came close to the house but to be honest, it was too early so I'd be walking to school most days. The walk for me and hundreds of other kids involved walking down the steep banks of Americas Creek, stepping across some exposed rocks and up the opposite bank. It was risky for wet feet but never dangerous and was the shortest way to the school so no one was going to change their route. The school one day decided enough of the cross country for us pedestrians and upon receiving a donation of a prefabricated section of conveyor belt structure, began construction of a pedestrian bridge across the creek. It was about 30 metres and simply went from bank to bank at ground level. They set footings on either side, then craned the bridge into place. A great innovation for all. We loved it from the minute construction began. We loved it so much, that before it was finished, we decided that it should be tested. In cars.
The bridge was in place but had some of those timber barriers up at each end to indicate one should not venture onto said unfinished bridge. Ken was in his dads Kingswood wagon and I in mum's mazda 323 wagon. It was about 10 or 11 pm I think. We discussed the viability of crossing the bridge for all of 30 seconds I think. Risk assessment check!
We pulled up lined up for the bridge, with the lights off and motors still running, we ran over and each of us grabbed a barricade and moved it out of the way. Back into the cars. I went first, god knows why but we had no fear of anything going wrong. As I drove onto the bridge platform, the wing mirrors within inches of the railing either side, my only concern was to keep it straight. As the bridge was not yet finished, the platform was sheet metal. Thin sheet metal.
Have you ever seen Rolf Harris pick up a sheet of metal and wobble it to make a loud noise? Multiply than by about one and a half ton. It was like Stomp has just started a concert in the dead of night in a quiet suburb. LOUD is an understatement. I was taken back by it and just kept going. Ken followed me onto the bridge before I was off the other side. 2 cars on the foot bridge now! LLOOOUUUDDDEEERRRR!!!!!
Upon exiting the bridge and onto the grassy playing fields on the other side, we stopped close to each other to congratulate ourselves on a job well done. It was then we noticed the lights starting. First there was the odd house internal light, then front lights, doors were opening, people coming out of houses with craing necks and sleepy eyes trying to focus. And the wail of a police siren in the distance!
I was not going to go back across that bridge. Oh no, I was too smart. So I planned to drive across the playing fields, up the bank on the far side, into the school grounds, through the school and weaving my way through the quadrangle seats back onto the internal drive and back out onto Gibson's Road. Fool proof. The school gate that is locked 99% of the time and the very same gate I had omitted to consider in my escape plan, was open that night. I was free and clear. Ken had done a 'do-nut' on the grass and went back the way he came, across the bridge and back out onto Obrien's road. I had driven down the road a little bit in time to see him driving calmly down the road as the full lights and siren police car passed him in the opposite direction. We met up and was very impressed with ourselves indeed. A faultless operation.
Years later, when age and experience had endowed themselves upon me, I went back past that bridge and realised just how flimsy that structure was. It simply wasn't engineered to take the weight of a car and definitely not the weight of 2. I am convinced if we had been moving any slower, the bridge would have folded in half with our parents' two cars snuggly spooning in the resulting V.
My judgement has improved a little since then but did leave me briefly at the snow one year. Remind me to tell you about that one day. But make your reminder loud, I'm a little slow on the uptake.
Thursday, 11 October 2012
Are you OK?
I was born in Manly Hospital Sydney and spend the first 6 years of my life growing up in the 'upper north shore' suburb of Belrose. When I was about 4 my mum had a malignant melanoma removed from her wrist. It's the fancy work for skin cancer. When I was about 5, mum found a suspect mole on my head behind my left ear. Well, it was diagnosed as the same thing so off to hospital I go, whip it and the surrounding tissue off, whip a bit of skin off my stomach as a skin graft, whip out a few lymph nodes in my neck and off you go. When you are 5 and have a head diameter of 20 cm, a scar the size of a fist was pretty obvious. Luckily for me, it was where I could hide it with a decent mullet. One of my clearest and earliest memories is of that hospital trip. I was terrified and tortured. I still vividly recall being left in a cot type thing in a room, alone for such a long time dressed only in those stupid bum open shirts. I was busting for the toilet. ABSOLUTELY busting. I eventually got the attention of a nurse by yelling at the closed door. "are you OK?" said the nurse after poking his head through the door. "I need to pee!!" He reached under the cot and handed me a crooked plastic bottle with a flat bottom. What do I do with that? I was 5! "use it" he said. I am a boy so target peeing was my special superskill. Well mostly as it turned out. I never thought about being a nurse after that. Well the operation was done and I had a raw stomach from where they took skin and an even rawer head where they sowed it on. So what was I to do but go to school. Of course!! Bradley Merrick was a school bully type kid and with his mate Gordon Shaw, decided the kid with the white turban holding a school bag protectively in front of his stomach was well, a perfect target for taunting. They mustn't have been much good at it though as I don't have any lasting memories. I do however remember the Principal Mrs Bird instructing Bradley and Gordon to act as my body guards in case any bullies try to rough me up whilst I was such a delicate state. They relished the role. I literally walked to school with 2 bouncers parting the madding crowds for my safe passage. Why do I remember their names so clearly too? that was 40 years ago.
Well the scars healed and I moved to Goulburn, a smallish country town in the Southern Tablelands of New South Wales.
I never really thought of the scar because I could never see it without the use of 2 mirrors, even then it was hard to gauge how it really looked to others.
When I was about 12 or 13 and sitting in the hairdressers chair having my locks expertly caressed and lopped (I used to love getting hair cuts) the cute young girl entrusted with my lady killer style was cutting in the area of the scar and noticed something.
"Hey, you've got hair on your scar"
That would be a miracle. Everyone knows you can;t spontaneously grow hair back like that. But I was immediately pleased at the idea of losing the scar.
"It's black"
"and curly"
Can you imagine how a teenage boy, on the cusp of manhood, coming to grips with the hormonal and physical changes ravaging his body, in the hands of a gorgeous and talented hair caresser felt, when he realised that the hair was in fact coming from the grafted skin. I think we both realised at the same time.
"Where did you say they took the skin from?" An awkward silenced consumed me for some time there after.
When I was about 15 or 16 in year 10 at Mulwaree High School, a boy of Lebanese heritage called Matthew Bsat started at the school. Let's just say Matt was not one of the popular kids and I have no idea why. I'm not saying I was but I was higher on the social ladder than him, we both knew that. He was a body builder though, a real muscular guy, even at that age. One day he asked me what the scar was.
What I am about to admit to is a great source of shame for me and I fear you will judge me but I continue on, this is therapy after all.
"It's where they took out a chunk of my brain"
"WOW!!"
"Yea, I had a bad disease and they had to open me up"
"WOWEE!!"
"They said it was an aggressive disease and would affect my behaviour if not removed"
"are you OK but?"
"I'm not sure they got it all, I sometimes have black outs and violent fits and stuff but don't remember anything"
"Oh my god, that must be really tough"
"it is, but its a secret so don't tell anyone, I only trust you with this information Matt"
I gave it a few days to sink in, Matt giving me a knowing nod every time we passed in the corridors. Then upon betting all my mates I could attack Matt without fear of retribution, I did so. Hard in the arm first then another fist to the chest. Hard enough to hurt my own arm doing the punching. Just as he recoiled and his fight or flight mechanism took over (it was a fight, no flight whatsoever by the way) I held my head and 'fitted' . I had to use all my powers of control not to laugh as he stood in shock watching me. When I had finished my 'fit', and after being ruthlessly attacked all Matt could say was "Are you OK?"
Well the scars healed and I moved to Goulburn, a smallish country town in the Southern Tablelands of New South Wales.
I never really thought of the scar because I could never see it without the use of 2 mirrors, even then it was hard to gauge how it really looked to others.
When I was about 12 or 13 and sitting in the hairdressers chair having my locks expertly caressed and lopped (I used to love getting hair cuts) the cute young girl entrusted with my lady killer style was cutting in the area of the scar and noticed something.
"Hey, you've got hair on your scar"
That would be a miracle. Everyone knows you can;t spontaneously grow hair back like that. But I was immediately pleased at the idea of losing the scar.
"It's black"
"and curly"
Can you imagine how a teenage boy, on the cusp of manhood, coming to grips with the hormonal and physical changes ravaging his body, in the hands of a gorgeous and talented hair caresser felt, when he realised that the hair was in fact coming from the grafted skin. I think we both realised at the same time.
"Where did you say they took the skin from?" An awkward silenced consumed me for some time there after.
When I was about 15 or 16 in year 10 at Mulwaree High School, a boy of Lebanese heritage called Matthew Bsat started at the school. Let's just say Matt was not one of the popular kids and I have no idea why. I'm not saying I was but I was higher on the social ladder than him, we both knew that. He was a body builder though, a real muscular guy, even at that age. One day he asked me what the scar was.
What I am about to admit to is a great source of shame for me and I fear you will judge me but I continue on, this is therapy after all.
"It's where they took out a chunk of my brain"
"WOW!!"
"Yea, I had a bad disease and they had to open me up"
"WOWEE!!"
"They said it was an aggressive disease and would affect my behaviour if not removed"
"are you OK but?"
"I'm not sure they got it all, I sometimes have black outs and violent fits and stuff but don't remember anything"
"Oh my god, that must be really tough"
"it is, but its a secret so don't tell anyone, I only trust you with this information Matt"
I gave it a few days to sink in, Matt giving me a knowing nod every time we passed in the corridors. Then upon betting all my mates I could attack Matt without fear of retribution, I did so. Hard in the arm first then another fist to the chest. Hard enough to hurt my own arm doing the punching. Just as he recoiled and his fight or flight mechanism took over (it was a fight, no flight whatsoever by the way) I held my head and 'fitted' . I had to use all my powers of control not to laugh as he stood in shock watching me. When I had finished my 'fit', and after being ruthlessly attacked all Matt could say was "Are you OK?"
Wednesday, 3 October 2012
Fieldhands
My dad was a surveyor. My entire childhood I relished in the tales of what adventures he went on as a young unmarried professional, forging into virgin territory and marking out where the roads were to be built years if not decades later. I remember so many occasions where we would be travelling over a brand new piece of highway somewhere and he'd mention that he first surveyed this bit of land 20 years earlier when all there was was a kangaroo and a few trees. On special occasions like school holidays he allowed me to accompany him into the field to either hold the staff (a big long stick with measurements on it) or just plain hang out with 'the guys'. Dad had a team of offsiders that were called Fieldhands. To a kid, they were all gods and they always looked out for me but looking back now, I realise that maybe they treated me so well because I was the bosses kid. I liked the idea of working outside so much so I chose Surveying with the Lands Dept as my school work experience in year 10. I did 2 weeks of being a Fieldhand myself and got to enjoy what Dad had spent his life doing. It's a cool profession. I have absolutely no idea why I never followed through with it in later life. With how my knees and back give me utter grief now at various times makes me think maybe its for the best that I sit here anchored to a desk. To say exactly what has contributed to me to having such shitty joints I probably need to relate a short story of my childhood.
Robert Thompson (now a doctor on Thursday Island I think) and I were besties. Mates of the highest calibre. He was super smart and liked hockey and I wasn't and didn't. But that never stopped us. His dad Brian was the Deputy Principal. Let me just advise any kids reading this, if you have the chance to be best friends with the deputy principal's kid, do it! Having influence at the top is great. Anyways, back to Robert or "frog" as he was known. Frog and I would ride our bikes home from Wollondilly Demonstration School, down Kinghorne Street as fast as humanly possible. Usually in line and tucked down to reduce wind resistance.
We were 12 year old demons!
One particular day, Frog was being dangerous!! very dangerous!! He was on his bike riding down the nature strip on the opposite side of the road as I rode down the bitumen in the left lane as all good safe cyclists know is the safest place to be. He was jumping the ruts left by cars where driveways should have been. Years of cars back and forth across the ground provided perfect launching ramps as he careered down on the verge of total disaster. Was a car going to back out of a garage and take him out or a lady walk across the path only to be collected by Frog at his near light speed. Jump after jump he got air and landed each one perfectly. I was yelling out to him "GO FROG!!!! GO!!!!!!" I was pedalling hard just to keep up with him, our adrenalin providing extra spurt with the danger that he was inviting into his life.
I remember wondering why I was so high for that split second before I slammed into the road in front of the parked car I had just flown over. Bike helmets were unheard of back then so I'm lucky I didn't actually die I suspect. Whilst so busy giving Frog all the "gee ups" and "yee hars", I had omitted to become familiar with my own surroundings and take the necessary precautions. As a result, I adopted an arcing trajectory as my bike folded up into itself into the rear of the parked car I had just slammed into the back of and I continued on over the top. It hurt like it sounds it hurt. I was on the ground looking up at the sky trying to gather my thoughts. I could hear Frog yelling "are you dead, are you dead?" when a familiar face appeared above me and looked down. It was one of dad's fieldhands. The blond one but name his escapes me now.
"are you OK?"
"I think so"
"here, let me give you a lift home". he extracted the remains of my bike from the arse of the car and loaded it into the back of the work landcruiser wagon. Frog put his in too. I remember Frog and me sitting up front with the fieldhand just looking forward on the trip home. We were all silent, all of us amazed at what had just happened. Then the fieldhand said "That was the fucking funniest thing I've ever seen". I suspect that's still true for him.
Robert Thompson (now a doctor on Thursday Island I think) and I were besties. Mates of the highest calibre. He was super smart and liked hockey and I wasn't and didn't. But that never stopped us. His dad Brian was the Deputy Principal. Let me just advise any kids reading this, if you have the chance to be best friends with the deputy principal's kid, do it! Having influence at the top is great. Anyways, back to Robert or "frog" as he was known. Frog and I would ride our bikes home from Wollondilly Demonstration School, down Kinghorne Street as fast as humanly possible. Usually in line and tucked down to reduce wind resistance.
We were 12 year old demons!
One particular day, Frog was being dangerous!! very dangerous!! He was on his bike riding down the nature strip on the opposite side of the road as I rode down the bitumen in the left lane as all good safe cyclists know is the safest place to be. He was jumping the ruts left by cars where driveways should have been. Years of cars back and forth across the ground provided perfect launching ramps as he careered down on the verge of total disaster. Was a car going to back out of a garage and take him out or a lady walk across the path only to be collected by Frog at his near light speed. Jump after jump he got air and landed each one perfectly. I was yelling out to him "GO FROG!!!! GO!!!!!!" I was pedalling hard just to keep up with him, our adrenalin providing extra spurt with the danger that he was inviting into his life.
I remember wondering why I was so high for that split second before I slammed into the road in front of the parked car I had just flown over. Bike helmets were unheard of back then so I'm lucky I didn't actually die I suspect. Whilst so busy giving Frog all the "gee ups" and "yee hars", I had omitted to become familiar with my own surroundings and take the necessary precautions. As a result, I adopted an arcing trajectory as my bike folded up into itself into the rear of the parked car I had just slammed into the back of and I continued on over the top. It hurt like it sounds it hurt. I was on the ground looking up at the sky trying to gather my thoughts. I could hear Frog yelling "are you dead, are you dead?" when a familiar face appeared above me and looked down. It was one of dad's fieldhands. The blond one but name his escapes me now.
"are you OK?"
"I think so"
"here, let me give you a lift home". he extracted the remains of my bike from the arse of the car and loaded it into the back of the work landcruiser wagon. Frog put his in too. I remember Frog and me sitting up front with the fieldhand just looking forward on the trip home. We were all silent, all of us amazed at what had just happened. Then the fieldhand said "That was the fucking funniest thing I've ever seen". I suspect that's still true for him.
Thursday, 27 September 2012
2 dimensional
I know it seems to soon for another one but I have a current momentum that could die any day now and it would be a shame for you all to miss out on this!
My brother called me. "Hey, mum sent me something". "what?". "I don't know but its in the bin now". "I'll call her and ask for you"
My mum. Currently holed up in a lovely new set of units with fresh paint, new furniture, meals catered for and lots of friends to mingle with. Oh and locked gates. She developed early onset dementia last year and well went down hill pretty quick. She gets to meet new people every day which was a particular love of hers, one that I have inherited I'm afraid. We had what can only be regarded as a tumultuous relationship and to be honest, to have her just lose her memory of me is not such a bad thing. Harsh I know but there was so much of her I didn't like. That's all gone but the good stuff went to so we will wait for the inevitable I suspect. Anyway, mum was a cheap skate. Big time cheap skate. Jane describes her meal management as being a "food Nazi". If there was 6 people and 12 prawns, woe betide the individual that went for a 3rd portion. Part of me understands as we grew up with only one parent working, but I came to realise mum was just lazy and didn't want to work. 4 kids and 2 grown ups on one wage, yes, I suppose she had to budget. I don't accept she had to save on postage decades later though.
My elder brother lives in the UK, he ran away from us (well not specifically me) way way ago. His career flourished and he was mum's pride and joy. I'm sure she'd have rather he be the 'only gay in the village', but his gaiety was her frame of reference in absentia. "oh yes, my eldest boy, he's abroad..and he's gay"
One year, mum decided he didn't have enough Australian stuff so bought a nice large jar of Vegemite. 750 grams of black yeasty goodness. The story would be great if he hated it (as it's a you either love it or hate it condiment) but the fact of the matter is that he was indifferent to it. Upon checking her trusty post office booklet on overseas mail charges, found that the jar and its contents would be far too expensive to send. the weight and size of the package prohibitively expensive it would seem. She had never considered that somewhere on a supermarket shelf, they already had Vegemite in the UK. This was an imperative mission for her now.
Zip lock bags are useful things I find. I've even seen them being made in China but that's another story. They do however give you a false sense of security. Spooning the contents into a ziplock bag, mum had resolved her 3 dimensional problem into what can be regarded as a 2 dimensional solution. Brilliant! why doesn't everyone send wet, sticky pastes across the planet in such a way I hear you say. It had arrived as one would expect after travelling in a few lorries, going through sorting machines and hands, being loaded into a crate and onto a plane then repeat the process at the other end.
It had arrived remarkably at my brothers but was an unintelligible mess. He binned it and rang me. "mum sent me something", "what?", "I don't know but its in the bin now", "I'll call and ask for you"
Do you have any idea what its like to listen to your mother describe the facts as related above and not think you just have to be adopted? But I'm not, I like to talk to lots of different people, I am multi dimensional.
My brother called me. "Hey, mum sent me something". "what?". "I don't know but its in the bin now". "I'll call her and ask for you"
My mum. Currently holed up in a lovely new set of units with fresh paint, new furniture, meals catered for and lots of friends to mingle with. Oh and locked gates. She developed early onset dementia last year and well went down hill pretty quick. She gets to meet new people every day which was a particular love of hers, one that I have inherited I'm afraid. We had what can only be regarded as a tumultuous relationship and to be honest, to have her just lose her memory of me is not such a bad thing. Harsh I know but there was so much of her I didn't like. That's all gone but the good stuff went to so we will wait for the inevitable I suspect. Anyway, mum was a cheap skate. Big time cheap skate. Jane describes her meal management as being a "food Nazi". If there was 6 people and 12 prawns, woe betide the individual that went for a 3rd portion. Part of me understands as we grew up with only one parent working, but I came to realise mum was just lazy and didn't want to work. 4 kids and 2 grown ups on one wage, yes, I suppose she had to budget. I don't accept she had to save on postage decades later though.
My elder brother lives in the UK, he ran away from us (well not specifically me) way way ago. His career flourished and he was mum's pride and joy. I'm sure she'd have rather he be the 'only gay in the village', but his gaiety was her frame of reference in absentia. "oh yes, my eldest boy, he's abroad..and he's gay"
One year, mum decided he didn't have enough Australian stuff so bought a nice large jar of Vegemite. 750 grams of black yeasty goodness. The story would be great if he hated it (as it's a you either love it or hate it condiment) but the fact of the matter is that he was indifferent to it. Upon checking her trusty post office booklet on overseas mail charges, found that the jar and its contents would be far too expensive to send. the weight and size of the package prohibitively expensive it would seem. She had never considered that somewhere on a supermarket shelf, they already had Vegemite in the UK. This was an imperative mission for her now.
Zip lock bags are useful things I find. I've even seen them being made in China but that's another story. They do however give you a false sense of security. Spooning the contents into a ziplock bag, mum had resolved her 3 dimensional problem into what can be regarded as a 2 dimensional solution. Brilliant! why doesn't everyone send wet, sticky pastes across the planet in such a way I hear you say. It had arrived as one would expect after travelling in a few lorries, going through sorting machines and hands, being loaded into a crate and onto a plane then repeat the process at the other end.
It had arrived remarkably at my brothers but was an unintelligible mess. He binned it and rang me. "mum sent me something", "what?", "I don't know but its in the bin now", "I'll call and ask for you"
Do you have any idea what its like to listen to your mother describe the facts as related above and not think you just have to be adopted? But I'm not, I like to talk to lots of different people, I am multi dimensional.
Tuesday, 25 September 2012
The fortress
It was pointed out to me I idolise my boys. I do, as does Jane. As age claims more and more of me, I cannot fathom those parents that don't absolutely pour their hearts and soul into their offspring. I cannot understand how any parent could just up and leave never to look back. In general, my age has allowed me to calm down and consider things a bit more than I used to. But not this. The father of a friend of mine just up and left the family and country when he was about 12 never to return. I can understand calculus from first principles but not this. As disturbing as it is, I can fully understand the dads that lose the plot after falling victim to a family law court order or just simply after a relationship breakdown and suffering the loss of that family fortress that I find so incredibly powerful and treasure above all else. To have a family that sits at the dinner table together and laughs at the worst joke or discusses who had the best day is just about the most rewarding thing there is. As you sit there, the feeling of mile high walls of love to keep out the nasties in life is a nice feeling. The fortress around our family is impermeable. Piercing the walls unimaginable. The boys don't know the fortress is there I don't think. That's our job to make it as seamless as possible. They feel secure but aren't conscious its because of the intense love and respect Jane and I have for each other. In fact, the little one will screw up his face and turn away at the sight of me holding Jane tight in my arms and quite frankly kissing her inappropriately in front of a 10 year old. Now that I think of it, Jane tends to screw up her face at that too but I don't care. Its keeping the fortress strong. My ability to express my love for Jane is limited to a 46 year old office working, numbers driven, man's brain. I have not much imagination (but am working on it). I could copy paste some great stuff off the net now I suspect and MediaWatch would be my only threat of exposure. I won't though. I've spent 30 years with Jane. We met at high school in March of 1983 I kissed her at a party at my place June 13th of that year. Although we had the odd short 'break' (well I broke off our engagement and we didn't see each other for 6 months but that's another blog post) have been together ever since. That's a long time. Sometimes it feels a very long time and other times not so. At no time does it ever feel wrong. Our longevity is a crucial part of the fortress. I'm sure outsiders see it as a big deal but to me, its just the way it is, the way it should be for me. I simply cannot imagine living without her. There are some lovely cliche's like "we finish each other's sentences" (well actually Jane prompts me to finish my sentences is more accurate) but that's how the fortress works. Its built of solid stuff, not flowery and unsubstantial tripe. Its built of time, love, understanding, kids, houses, cars, jobs, food, fights, and the dog. I love my Jane, for being my wife, for being the boys mother, for being employed, for being my lover, for her beauty (her hair will grow long again one day I'm sure) and mostly for loving me and helping me keep the fortress strong. I can do better though, I know that. If ever I think I can't be better at it, I'm must be doing it wrong.
Thursday, 20 September 2012
Ponies
the current debate raging in Australia and recently put (unsuccessfully) before Parliament regarding gay marriages is just such utter bullshit. Its the sort of mindset that is imprinted into someone. You either are homophobic or not. You either can have empathy (not sympathy, that's different) and understand what it means to be gay or not. I find debating with them such a pointless exercise as all it does is highlight their ignorance and misconceptions and fuels further bigotry. I hope with this post, to enlighten maybe one person but honestly, know of the 5 people that read it, you are all more than likely of like mind in the first place. But here goes.
I have read that one argument put forward against marriage is that if there are 2 dads, who will help with the clothes shopping? My response is Ponies.
As a young and virile male teenager tripping around the streets of Goulburn in country NSW in the early 80's, I was the epitome of masculinity. I had hairs growing in most of the normal places and even in some not so normal places (I leave that for another blog) and me and my mates were busy riding bikes, playing footy and starting bush fires (Omg there's another blog - remind me later someone) and essentially having what is a good clean middle class white western European childhood. We didn't do drugs, didn't experiment with alcohol (except NYE and Summer Wine - blog to come) and got good grades in school. I used to get upset if I wasn't in the top 5 of the year for each class. I didn't get upset much except for English but its writing so who cares really! Anyways, what I am trying to say is that how can any parents not be happy with that?
Mum was the one usually to buy our clothes and shoes. She sucked at it quite frankly. Something about budget conscious and style devoid comes to mind. Dad on the other hand, was TOPS! I remember once I needed a fleece. I believe the standard cotton ones were available at Knowlman's for about $10. There was however, in Allen's (the up market shop) a branded hoody with ADIDAS clearly emblazoned across the front, it was tan and cream with draw strings and pockets and a HOOD!!! and it was expensive. I have $23 in my head for some reason but hey, it's 32 years ago so sue me. Dad didn't waver for a second. "Is that what you need?" "YES!!!!!" and so it was. Justin was instantly the coolest dude in the Goulburn universe thanks to my brilliant and loving and great Dad! Mum had a fat attack of course. That's what mums are for. But my mum had special skills in mummery post fat attacks.
I needed shoes too, and she knew it. "here darling, try these on". I was handed a standard shoe box and with some excitement opened it to find a pair of Ponies. For those of you that are unaware of what Ponies are, they are white ladies tennis shoes of questionable aesthetic appeal. The thick sole and white canvas top were instantly burnt into my retina but the thing that troubled me the most was the pink trim. As I sit here at 46 years old, I still shudder at the thought and what I knew lay ahead.
Robert Thompson, Greg Hucker and Steven Sieler were my main cohorts back then. We were playing soccer in the street outside Greg's house the day after the presentation ceremony for the Ponies. It was kind of easy to beat them all that day because its hard to run and laugh uncontrollably at the same time. I took it. I had to take it. I had to be the man. I did however want to kick that ball so far up the street they'd have to chase it for days to recover it. The ball arrived at my feet. I trapped it. It was stationary. I took a few steps back for effect and to provide the most mechanical advantage in the swinging foot about to come to bare on the orb. I was strong, all powerful Justin. He of the massive kicks, he who had perfect timing and alignment. I ran at the ball and swung my leg back in a perfect arc, and then with all my worldly force, swung my foot down to connect with that black and white bladder. The trouble with testosterone I find, is that it provides power but at the expense of accuracy. The toe of my new pink Ponies contacted with the road surface just prior to contacting the ball and as my foot struck the ball and I saw it careering off into the distance, there was something else in my peripheral vision. What was it? had I kicked the ball so very hard it disintegrated upon impact or was it that I'd caught the toe on the road and peeled the sole off the shoe off in one perfect sweep. It was the latter.
There was nothing I could say or do to convince mum it was an accident. Suffice to say I wasn't getting new shoes any time soon. Dad however, found me a pair of Adidas Country that were my Grandpa's. They were 2 sizes too big and they were my dead grandfather but there were Adidas Country!!!
Who says Dad's can't do the shopping.
I have read that one argument put forward against marriage is that if there are 2 dads, who will help with the clothes shopping? My response is Ponies.
As a young and virile male teenager tripping around the streets of Goulburn in country NSW in the early 80's, I was the epitome of masculinity. I had hairs growing in most of the normal places and even in some not so normal places (I leave that for another blog) and me and my mates were busy riding bikes, playing footy and starting bush fires (Omg there's another blog - remind me later someone) and essentially having what is a good clean middle class white western European childhood. We didn't do drugs, didn't experiment with alcohol (except NYE and Summer Wine - blog to come) and got good grades in school. I used to get upset if I wasn't in the top 5 of the year for each class. I didn't get upset much except for English but its writing so who cares really! Anyways, what I am trying to say is that how can any parents not be happy with that?
Mum was the one usually to buy our clothes and shoes. She sucked at it quite frankly. Something about budget conscious and style devoid comes to mind. Dad on the other hand, was TOPS! I remember once I needed a fleece. I believe the standard cotton ones were available at Knowlman's for about $10. There was however, in Allen's (the up market shop) a branded hoody with ADIDAS clearly emblazoned across the front, it was tan and cream with draw strings and pockets and a HOOD!!! and it was expensive. I have $23 in my head for some reason but hey, it's 32 years ago so sue me. Dad didn't waver for a second. "Is that what you need?" "YES!!!!!" and so it was. Justin was instantly the coolest dude in the Goulburn universe thanks to my brilliant and loving and great Dad! Mum had a fat attack of course. That's what mums are for. But my mum had special skills in mummery post fat attacks.
I needed shoes too, and she knew it. "here darling, try these on". I was handed a standard shoe box and with some excitement opened it to find a pair of Ponies. For those of you that are unaware of what Ponies are, they are white ladies tennis shoes of questionable aesthetic appeal. The thick sole and white canvas top were instantly burnt into my retina but the thing that troubled me the most was the pink trim. As I sit here at 46 years old, I still shudder at the thought and what I knew lay ahead.
Robert Thompson, Greg Hucker and Steven Sieler were my main cohorts back then. We were playing soccer in the street outside Greg's house the day after the presentation ceremony for the Ponies. It was kind of easy to beat them all that day because its hard to run and laugh uncontrollably at the same time. I took it. I had to take it. I had to be the man. I did however want to kick that ball so far up the street they'd have to chase it for days to recover it. The ball arrived at my feet. I trapped it. It was stationary. I took a few steps back for effect and to provide the most mechanical advantage in the swinging foot about to come to bare on the orb. I was strong, all powerful Justin. He of the massive kicks, he who had perfect timing and alignment. I ran at the ball and swung my leg back in a perfect arc, and then with all my worldly force, swung my foot down to connect with that black and white bladder. The trouble with testosterone I find, is that it provides power but at the expense of accuracy. The toe of my new pink Ponies contacted with the road surface just prior to contacting the ball and as my foot struck the ball and I saw it careering off into the distance, there was something else in my peripheral vision. What was it? had I kicked the ball so very hard it disintegrated upon impact or was it that I'd caught the toe on the road and peeled the sole off the shoe off in one perfect sweep. It was the latter.
There was nothing I could say or do to convince mum it was an accident. Suffice to say I wasn't getting new shoes any time soon. Dad however, found me a pair of Adidas Country that were my Grandpa's. They were 2 sizes too big and they were my dead grandfather but there were Adidas Country!!!
Who says Dad's can't do the shopping.
Sunday, 16 September 2012
Motivation
I did a management course once that told me everyone has there own motivations, you just have to figure out what it is and provide it. Managment is achieving an outcome through the efforts of others. I considered myself a good manager in my hay day, I used to be important to my employer you know! I paid attention to people and listened, responded with empathy and ask for help in solving their problems. I was Management 101 and it worked well. High praise and more responsibility followed until one day, I looked at where I was. The hours I worked and the heart ache I had to cope with as so many direct reports poured out their financial, family and work troubles. My MD was only a few years older than me so I was as high as I was going to get in that company. What was my motivation for staying? Well I had none. Combine that with still living within 5 km of where my wife and I had attended school, and my universe was pretty limited. I had motivation to move, to expand and grow. I had motivation to find new motivation. Does that make sense? I think so. In any case, my love so so generously agreed to moving north to Brisbane. A bigger city, a hotter climate and something new. When I say 'agreed', I do so with full admission to essentially bullying her into it. I knew I couldn't keep doing what I was doing so had no choice. I once drove straight from work to the hospital because my chest pains were so concerning to me. I didnt tell anyone and it was only when Jane saw the little shaved patches on my chest from the stick on electrodes that I had to confess. So you see, my need to find new motivations affected others too. I wasn't going to steer into an oncoming car but the fanciful thought had crossed my mind in a day dream sort of state. Things had to change.
We packed up and moved north, it was expensive and disruptive, exciting and concerning and totally alien. Jobs are not hard to find so employment has never been a concern for me but leaving our friends behind was tough. If I had not found my new motivation, the impact would have been devastating I think. But fear not! Arrive it did. With my boys growing and flourishing in this new environment, Jane's career exceeding that of my own, my drive to provide was replenished. New friends established, old ones maintained and life goes on. My motivations these days are not so different as they were when we married 23 years ago. I just have to remind myslef of them from time to time. Be a husband and father, provide sustenance and guidance, be a role model and impart values that put the boys in good stead for thier future. You only have to see Lewis cutting off the bit of bread with the olives in it to give Griff the 'olive free' version, that I am succeeeding. His sub-motivation could be to access the PS3 though.
We packed up and moved north, it was expensive and disruptive, exciting and concerning and totally alien. Jobs are not hard to find so employment has never been a concern for me but leaving our friends behind was tough. If I had not found my new motivation, the impact would have been devastating I think. But fear not! Arrive it did. With my boys growing and flourishing in this new environment, Jane's career exceeding that of my own, my drive to provide was replenished. New friends established, old ones maintained and life goes on. My motivations these days are not so different as they were when we married 23 years ago. I just have to remind myslef of them from time to time. Be a husband and father, provide sustenance and guidance, be a role model and impart values that put the boys in good stead for thier future. You only have to see Lewis cutting off the bit of bread with the olives in it to give Griff the 'olive free' version, that I am succeeeding. His sub-motivation could be to access the PS3 though.
Sunday, 9 September 2012
Communication
There are so many things you don't want to hear your sons say and so many things you do. So many things you don't want to hear yourself say but invariably do.
Last night as I was saying goodnight to Lewis, totally unprompted or scripted, he told me he loved me. We were lying next to each other on his bed testing out his new sheets and talking over the days events and there it was. It stuns me every time. I never take it for granted nor take it lightly, I would trade anything for those moments. I should not be surprised though, I told my dad I loved him practically every day and still do. We hug and I hold him tight whenever I see him.
The list of things not to say seems far larger and comes to mind far more easily. Would you believe I have actually uttered these words to my eldest. " You are BANNED from Nutella". Yes, I have been so stressed at his excessive consumption of the delicious chocolaty spread that I spoke the words out loud, and at the time was deadly serious. Upon reflection, probably not the best use of the English language. You really do have to appreciated the expectation I have that an $8 jar of spread will last more than 2 days. I am tempted to employ similar tactics to combat similar consumptions of Milo Cereal or Nurtigrain, the little bagged biscuits reserved for school lunches and of course, Milo itself. Jane has herself said "Milo is no longer allowed in the house", but as I reserve the right to ignore any instructions that impact my own consumption of chocolate powdered drinks, I have on occasion purchased said product but then had to hide it from the kids. That's is a great game for anyone interested. Let's play find the Milo tin. Can I say, they never did until given clues by a mother that shall remain nameless.
I want to hear the boys tell us truths. Whatever it is, the truth. It strikes me though that as I look back at my teenage lies to my dad, at the time I thought I was being clever but upon reflection, know he knew the facts. Dad had a 1973 V8 Leyland P76. It was a monster of a car and I loved the sound of that motor. Being the teenager i was and having the brilliant criminal mind that I do, I once (at around 14 years old) stole away to a locksmith with his keys and had my own car key cut. On occasions when my parents were away, I could then use the car without having to worry about if he took his keys. The plan was brilliant. I did take the car one night and after collecting a few friends, drove around Goulburn city on the lookout for an open liquor outlet. As the RSL Club was the only thing open, we decided to drive to Bredalbane Hotel some 25km down the highway. What were we thinking? Believe it or not, I was an A student, I used to be smart. Judgement however was lacking that night. I recall the laughter and fun ans we oh so cool teenagers drove down the freeway but then the horror as I looked down to see the car odometer was on 00003! It has clocked over! OMG!!! the hole in my plan was suddenly exposed. Boys notice odometer milestones being met. If we see it nearing a 1000 or even better a 10000 we get all excited and want to watch it happen. watching a clock over from 99999 to 00000 is ENORMOUS. I returned the car to its garage, shaking in my boots at what was to follow. As dad had a work car and mum had her car, the P76 didn't see the light of day much so it was literally weeks later when on a trip to the dump (the P76 had the tow bar) that dad turns to me and says, "Did you notice the car had clocked over?" That is something I did not want to hear my dad say. My blank stare and pale complexion must have confirmed his suspicions but he never said anything else except "You're mother must have been in the car when it happened". We both knew mum never drove that car but I relaxed in the knowledge my plan had worked after all and I the teenager still ruled the world. At the age of 46 looking back to that kid in the passenger seat, the lying little piece of shit. If ever I hear someone complain about the cost of having a car key cut these days with the transponder and codes and stuff, I hear myself thanking god.
Lewis heard me say yesterday "sorry". I had blamed him for the loss of a set of drill bits that I knew he had used somewhere and lost. I knew it!! I found them in the shed yesterday in the pop rivet tool box. I like to say sorry to the kids, its something I don't recall much when I was a kid. And they like to hear it too.
I do want to hear one thing though. A few years back, I found a hammer and a broken terracotta tile beside the pool. "Did you bang it just to see what would happen Lewis?" "No Dad, it must have just broken by itself". I still want to hear him say it but maybe I'll have to wait til he is 46 and writing his second blog.
Last night as I was saying goodnight to Lewis, totally unprompted or scripted, he told me he loved me. We were lying next to each other on his bed testing out his new sheets and talking over the days events and there it was. It stuns me every time. I never take it for granted nor take it lightly, I would trade anything for those moments. I should not be surprised though, I told my dad I loved him practically every day and still do. We hug and I hold him tight whenever I see him.
The list of things not to say seems far larger and comes to mind far more easily. Would you believe I have actually uttered these words to my eldest. " You are BANNED from Nutella". Yes, I have been so stressed at his excessive consumption of the delicious chocolaty spread that I spoke the words out loud, and at the time was deadly serious. Upon reflection, probably not the best use of the English language. You really do have to appreciated the expectation I have that an $8 jar of spread will last more than 2 days. I am tempted to employ similar tactics to combat similar consumptions of Milo Cereal or Nurtigrain, the little bagged biscuits reserved for school lunches and of course, Milo itself. Jane has herself said "Milo is no longer allowed in the house", but as I reserve the right to ignore any instructions that impact my own consumption of chocolate powdered drinks, I have on occasion purchased said product but then had to hide it from the kids. That's is a great game for anyone interested. Let's play find the Milo tin. Can I say, they never did until given clues by a mother that shall remain nameless.
I want to hear the boys tell us truths. Whatever it is, the truth. It strikes me though that as I look back at my teenage lies to my dad, at the time I thought I was being clever but upon reflection, know he knew the facts. Dad had a 1973 V8 Leyland P76. It was a monster of a car and I loved the sound of that motor. Being the teenager i was and having the brilliant criminal mind that I do, I once (at around 14 years old) stole away to a locksmith with his keys and had my own car key cut. On occasions when my parents were away, I could then use the car without having to worry about if he took his keys. The plan was brilliant. I did take the car one night and after collecting a few friends, drove around Goulburn city on the lookout for an open liquor outlet. As the RSL Club was the only thing open, we decided to drive to Bredalbane Hotel some 25km down the highway. What were we thinking? Believe it or not, I was an A student, I used to be smart. Judgement however was lacking that night. I recall the laughter and fun ans we oh so cool teenagers drove down the freeway but then the horror as I looked down to see the car odometer was on 00003! It has clocked over! OMG!!! the hole in my plan was suddenly exposed. Boys notice odometer milestones being met. If we see it nearing a 1000 or even better a 10000 we get all excited and want to watch it happen. watching a clock over from 99999 to 00000 is ENORMOUS. I returned the car to its garage, shaking in my boots at what was to follow. As dad had a work car and mum had her car, the P76 didn't see the light of day much so it was literally weeks later when on a trip to the dump (the P76 had the tow bar) that dad turns to me and says, "Did you notice the car had clocked over?" That is something I did not want to hear my dad say. My blank stare and pale complexion must have confirmed his suspicions but he never said anything else except "You're mother must have been in the car when it happened". We both knew mum never drove that car but I relaxed in the knowledge my plan had worked after all and I the teenager still ruled the world. At the age of 46 looking back to that kid in the passenger seat, the lying little piece of shit. If ever I hear someone complain about the cost of having a car key cut these days with the transponder and codes and stuff, I hear myself thanking god.
Lewis heard me say yesterday "sorry". I had blamed him for the loss of a set of drill bits that I knew he had used somewhere and lost. I knew it!! I found them in the shed yesterday in the pop rivet tool box. I like to say sorry to the kids, its something I don't recall much when I was a kid. And they like to hear it too.
I do want to hear one thing though. A few years back, I found a hammer and a broken terracotta tile beside the pool. "Did you bang it just to see what would happen Lewis?" "No Dad, it must have just broken by itself". I still want to hear him say it but maybe I'll have to wait til he is 46 and writing his second blog.
Tuesday, 4 September 2012
Realisations
I look at my boys and am in wonderment at how well they are turning out. I must be an OK Dad but I think Jane is an awesome mum. At my time of life there is a lot of new stresses presenting themselves with aged parents nearing the end, my own body starting to show signs of wear and tear and the boys on the cusp of early adulthood hood. I hear you say "but they are only 14 and 10" and I know I'm beating the starter's gun a tad, but I cannot help but think about what sort of men I am shaping them to be. Whether its physical fitness habits, diet or temperament, I am just impatient to know I didn't fuck them up in any way. Seeing my own parents ailing just highlights to me I have only another 30 or 40 years to be an effective dad to them. Isn't that a great thought! I have another 30 or 40 years to breath them in and rejoice in their achievements and watch them being the supermen they are to me. Lewis, the eldest one recently confided to Jane (illustrates how awesome she is) that a 'friend' at his previous school had offered him dope. It never struck me that at 14 he was old enough to be exposed. My very limited experiences with soft drugs didn't start til I was 16 or probably 17. I realise what an excellent mind he has when out from his mouth popped every bad aspect of dope straight from the school text book. I don't think I need fear for him in this respect, he has decided its not for him so far. I cannot imagine what torture it is for a parent to see their child make an alternative decision. Do they block it out maybe? I don't know. I knew a boy once. Keelan. I knew him since he was 2. He and his parents lived in the flat above me when I first moved out of home. I loved him as a son, not even like a son, he filled a part of me I think. Long story short, he made the alternative decision and died at the age of 21. I still miss him. And I still have a deeply troubled heart for his parents, they were good friends yes, but good parents? no. Yes, I'm harsh. What right is it of mine to hold them responsible for Keelan's decisions, he was an adult. Well, because it started when he wasn't an adult. To be 'cool' and 'modern', they agreed to provide limited beer to a 15 year old birthday party for him. As Lewis now approaches that same milestone, I am even more horrified than I was at the time. I realise now, maybe I should have said something to help Keelan more. Actually not maybe, I should have. I should have saved his life. There is not a word guilty enough to describe how I feel about him still to this day. I don't ever plan to give it up either. I do plan use that as my reminder to keep my own boys safe always.
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