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.
Monday, 26 November 2012
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.
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