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!
Tuesday, 30 October 2012
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.
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