Epiphany

"I'm not much of a cake person".
Let me explain why.
I had gone through my entire life not really wanting to eat cake. I remember when I was a young boy about 4 gazing through a Woman's Weekly kids birthday cake book and finally electing to have a cake in the shape of a house with freckle shingle tiles and musk stick walls.

This is the actual cake! I have no idea who the rude kid is though

How could I refuse the musk sticks! they were and still are my favourite. Of course I ate that but cakes forever after was just not me. My life progressed and those around me grew accustomed to my 'non cake status' even so far as my wife being constantly challenged on finding suitable birthday fare. The Zweefers layered cinnamon meringue cake was one of her best finds. I was happy in my non cake consuming world.
This changed when I was about 32 or 33. It was August and my birthday so friends came over and brought with them a carrot cake with sour cream icing. A) carrots were not for cakes and B) neither was sour cream meant to be used on top of a cake. I politely declined with the usual "I'm not a cake guy" but after prompting from my wife not to be rude, I begrudgingly accepted 'a small piece'. I was presented with the cake, all brown with orange flecks, lying dead on its side on the plate, the guts of icing oozing across the plate like it was road kill. How I didn't want to eat this.
OMG!! THIS is fantastic! give me more. Hurry!!  My bit was smaller than yours, I want more now!!
I think I had 3 more pieces. But I'm not a 'cake person' I hear you utter. I had said that for 30 years. over and over at birthdays and celebrations and anywhere cake was produced. "no thanks, I'm fine" How could I have got it wrong? why had I gone without this wonderful morsel for more than one score and ten? I was a changed man, 'I am a cake person' now.
Later that day my dear parents arrived and mum uncovered her masterpiece from under the tea towel. It was a layered chocolate cake. lathered thick with chocolate icing mix and perfectly 'shaped'. By shaped I mean it had lots of them. Mum didn't have 3 tins the same but did have 3 'similarly' sized and shaped. The round, square and octagon cakes sitting on top of each other could barely be seen to differ at all! well that's because the artistry in making all the sides vertical according to the most outer edge of whatever layer was on that side was second to none. The top was perfectly parallel with the cake tray too. What a great looking block of icing it was too. "quick, cut it, lets have some now" mum chirped, all excited at the prospect of her hard work providing pleasure to all those around her. I retrieved a knife from the block and approached, I am a cake person now I thought as pierced the centre of the top icing and drive my sword through the cake's heart. It put up a struggle let me tell you. The sword eventually triumphed so that a perfect wedge of cake could be removed. I should have been a geologist as the layers of any structure always interest me. This substrata was no exception. The wedge of cake slowly emerged from its parent material and gave up the secrets of its past lie a new archaeological find. As the lowest cakes had sunk in the middle during baking, mum had successfully achieved a flat surface for the next layer to rest upon by filling the cavity with icing. A panel beater would have been proud of her work. Each successive layer had received the same treatment as the one below such that when the cake finally relented and I was able to remove the wedge of cake, the point was solid icing from the top to the plate less two wafer thin layers of a non icing material. The cake matter (I prefer to call it cake matter than cake so I don't insult cakes) itself was firm and resilient, not giving up a crumb or air pocket for any man.
The Webster definition of Epiphany is "a usually sudden manifestation or perception of the essential nature or meaning of something". The past 30 years suddenly made sense to me. I felt such a relief to know I hadn't missed out on all that cake, I was lucky to have missed it.
Mum asked to take a slice home for Dad but we would keep the rest. Dad's resistance to this idea was unsaid but palpable. "It's mine mum, he can come here if he wants some". I think at that point my dad loved me more than he ever had ever before. Mum was satisfied her work had been done and with knowing eyes, dad said goodbye to me and took the chef home. His own epiphany was that I was now one of the knowing. The ones that know but NEVER speak of it. (until they blog 14 years later)

Broken

I recently saw some tweets regarding a young boy that broke his arm badly. Its always distressing when you see littlies in a bad way but he looked brave enough to withstand most things life will throw at him. Seeing him got me thinking about broken bones in my own family.
My eldest now 15 was about 4 and we were at Wagga visiting relatives swimming in a local competition and within the bounds of the pool was a disused skateboard half pipe. "Look how I can edge up the sides of this steep, slippery, steel plated, hard and unforgiving surface dad" was what he should have articulated to me. Instead I just watched as he of course lost his footing and came crashing back to earth onto his side. I was right there and saw the whole thing. "you OK?" I said. "Yep". Good, all done. At the time I had a nice luxurious company car that of course, meant I would be required to treat it as poorly as possible to get the full benefit of my salary package. Logic I hear you say. A bit more logic to come now. Between Wagga and Wollongong is a nice freeway, smooth, fast, 4 lanes wide, not busy and direct. Why on earth would I want to go on that when there are winding corrugated dirt rounds going to Canberra first? so that's what I did. Leading up to our departure for this extended journey, Lewis complained of a sore neck and shoulder so I would dutifully rub it for him as all good dads do and eventually had to give up with him wincing away from my loving grasp. The trip was fun, the rough dirt road jiggling the occupants of the car constantly hour upon hour, the sideways sliding that I was forced to do when presented with such dirt covered corners and eventually we emerged back into civilisation and home. The following day Lewis was still not happy about his shoulder so we as loving and responsible parents took him to the doctor now some 3 or 4 days after the half pipe stunt. An xray showed a clearly snapped collar bone. Note to self, don't believe your 4 year old when he says he's ok.  There was no lasting effects from the incident but he does break into a sweat when we go on a dirt road still to this day. Second note to self, don't take dirt roads when bitumen are available.

The little one of ours, Griffin, was not so subtle. Perched high on a spiderweb park, he looked as home as any other simian creature. He swung from rope to rope, climbing higher and higher...until... he climbed back down and things went awry on the last rung. Falling the 3 feet to the ground breaking his arm and requiring a lovely purple fibreglass cast. They are so much cooler these days than when I was a lad.
My own broken arm came about due to what can only be called concrete. Playing hand ball  at lunch during high school was the main attraction apart from girls. we would wear one glove on our strike hand because the speed at which we were hitting these tennis balls was causing damage to the flesh on our fingers. Darting left and right like a huge ping pong game, we'd often have to move far off our squares to get the opponents return. One such return saw the ball rocketing over a small brick wall, say 3 foot high, down into the lower area about 6 foot below the top of the wall on the other side. If you think someone else invented parkour well you 're wrong. As I lithely lept over the wall using a single hand on the top of the wall to propel myself to the lower level, my brand new grey Levi jeans (the rebel in us all didn't want to wear regulation grey trousers and the school only said they had to be grey so ha de ha ha mofo!!) sorry I digress. Well the new jeans were tight and well, bending my knees a little late lead to the toes of my black suede desert boots (yet another win for style in the stark school dress  requirements for black shoes) connect with the leading edge of the bricks and invert my body 180 degree just prior to my decent to the concrete below. I remember see these little white bits tumbling out in front of me as I open my eyes. It was my shattered upper front tooth. I also recall just not being able to get up. An ambulance was called and they took me off and all that sort of guff and it wasn't serious. I'd been smart enough to break my fall with my arm and face. In fact I was able to use the cast as a softball bat until it crushed to a pulp and I had to get a new cast. If you ever get a cast and they point out its not a softball bat, that's because of the precedent I set.
Broken people mend eventually. All they need is time.