I believe in signs

As we turned nervously into the school we’d selected for Girlchild  and Boychild, I was in awe of the vast greenness of the wetlands that lined the driveway. Waterbirds, wallabies and blooming wattle. Divine. Acres of fresh air and native plants were surely a far better choice than the concreted rat maze we’d left behind. I hoped the kids would be happy, that the transition would be painless for them and they would be comfortable in their new world.  Magically it appeared. The sign that assured me they’d fit right in:

And so they have. They love it here. What kid wouldn’t love a school that has a vegie garden, baby animals and a surfing academy? But the transition hasn’t always been so painless for me.

I’ve always said I should write a book titled The Oldest Mum in the Playground about the perils of later-life parenthood and the joys of being mistaken for the grandmother… or the nanny. It’s something I’ve always been self-conscious about. Moving to The Rock hasn’t eased that. Not even a teeny-weeny bit. Most of the mums down here look like they could be dating our older son. Oddly enough, it was a Cape Barren goose who provided my sign.

These elegant large-bodied creatures abound down here. OK, so their honk sounds disconcertingly like a snorting pig, but their grace is undeniable.  And they mate for life. I have absolute respect for them. So I was more than a tad disturbed when one pair chose to make their nest in the middle of the roundabout at the school's kiss-and-go drop-off point. Not just that, this couple was starting very late in the season.The other parents were already proudly showing their progeny how to forage and swim when this female settled to sit on her ill-placed eggs. 

The school bells rang, the cars came and went, the buses rumbled by. And still she sat.

Some days her partner hovered nearby. Other times he clearly lost interest and wandered off to find something decent to eat. But she sat. She sat as the other mothers herded their broods and preened themselves in the sun. She sat and watched as the fluffy chicks about her grew to be unkempt adolescents, feathers askew as they filed behind their parents.

My heart broke for her. Her laying had been too late. Her eggs were no good. She’d have no babies to tuck under her wings as the cool night airs fell.  

 

And then it happened.

She had her reward. 

I had my sign. 

This is home.

...writing into the void

I've been 'gunna' start a blog for ages... not quite as long as I've been gunna start a diet, but definitely longer than I've been keeping a list of thing I might write about. Absolute ages. What stopped me wasn't an inability to express myself in words, nor a dearth of ideas; it was the lack of an audience.

Several years of my professional life were spent in a publishing house, and it always bewildered me that so many people wrote manuscripts — whole books — tapping away during every spare minute they had for years, writing into the void without first checking whether there was actually an audience for their work.

Hundreds of would-be authors had complete faith in the twaddle and dross they submitted for consideration, thinking of themselves as great writers, even if nobody had ever read what they’d produced. They assured me there clearly was a market for their masterpiece, because their husband/mother/son/ aunty/neighbour/best friend/highly literate cat had simply adored it. And every one of them was stunned when I rejected their submission. Stunned and hurt.

So, if I started a blog, who the heck was it for? Just me? If that was the case, then perhaps I should just keep a journal. For my friends and family? Let’s face it, they listen to me in real time, so it would be grossly unfair of me to expect them to devote their alone-time to hearing my voice too. I had snookered myself. No readers = no point in writing.

But a couple of months ago, I went to a writing workshop that promised to help me get started with whatever it was I was burning to write. I hated it. I sat through the whole day battling the voice in my head that was telling me I was a fraud, an imposter, not a writer’s bootlace. Publisher-me kept rejecting writer-me.
What are you going to write?
I have no idea. Just stuff.
Stuff? What sort of stuff?
Oh, you know… life… work…kids…
And why?
I dunno. Just because I want to…
And who’s it for? Who’s your audience? Your market?
…ummm…

And then the instructor said this: It’s none of your business what you think about your own writing.

The woman is clearly crazy. What does that even mean?
She might just have a point .
Are you kidding? It’s meaningless drivel.
But what if she’s right?

So, here I am. Writing into the void. Throwing my voice into the black hole. Making a commitment to blog every day for a month, with no safety net. And no known audience. But that’s none of my business either.

...the great confusion

The great secret that all old people share is that you really haven't changed in seventy or eighty years. Your body changes, but you don't change at all. And that, of course, causes great confusion.      Doris Lessing

I’ve often said that I knew I was getting old when everyone under thirty began to look gorgeous to me: vital, tight-skinned, wobble-free creatures positively bubbling with beads of potential like a chilled Veuve under a cerulean sky. Dazzling— every one of them.

Soon after that, I started to sound like my mother.

And just lately, I’ve been emitting undignified grunts to accompany the ugly wincey faces I make as I lift the shopping into and out of the car.

But over the past month, I’ve developed a whole new sense of my relative state of decrepitude. And yes, I do understand that age IS relative.

For one afternoon per week, fifteen Year 9 students have been ‘working’ with me as they clock up their community service hours at the museum where I, too, am a volunteer. Usually, I’m the youngest adult in the place. Don’t laugh. It’s true. Some of my co-workers even think I’m a groovy young tech-savvy chick with ideas and energy aplenty. Yep, I know, perceptions are relative too. Ours is a volunteer-run workplace that’s decidedly un-PC, bereft of funds, and filled with potentially dangerous items. So, herding coping with entertaining mentoring a tribe of teenagers in this environment was always going to be one of those euphemistic challenges.

 Naturally, having fifteen adolescent assistants ensured that I accomplished none of my own tasks. In fact, I lost more than twice the actual time of their visit because I had to plan, set up and then clean up after activities that I hoped would: a) engage them for more than two minutes, b) teach them something, c) be useful to the museum, d) vaguely fall within the expectation of the museum’s OH&S officer, and e) minimise any damage they might do to the collection or my delicate psychological state.

To be honest, it was more like sixteen adolescent assistants. The track-suit-clad teacher spent most of his time either chatting on his phone or bouncing around the museum punctuating his selfie-taking with ‘Awesome’ or ‘Wow’ or ‘This is soooo cool’. His enthusiasm far out-stripped his knowledge. I wondered how he was going to assess the museum-based assignment he’d set the kids when it was all news to him too.

Anyway, on the last of the student visits, the museum was also host to a group of two hundred Vietnam War veterans and their partners. When I told the kids this, they looked decidedly sans-gruntle. You see, the week prior, I had organised for one of the regular museum guides, a volunteer in his sixties, to come in and address them about topics in their assignment, and to show some of his photos of the era they were meant to be researching. It was a disaster.

As much as he wanted to share, they did not want – or were unable— to listen. They giggled and fidgeted and doodled on their books. They yawned and rolled their eyes. They texted each other: OMG DILLIGAS…like really...WTF… IMHO borrrrring...like when is this old guy gonna STFU ? One even put his head down on the table and went to sleep. And the teacher said nothing. He was too engrossed in what he was hearing and seeing to even notice. Grrrrrrrr

Me? An old-school-educator? You bet your dried-up whiteboard markers I am. My decrepitude factor elevated to such a hazardous level that I was in serious danger of uttering a sentence that began with the stultifying words, ‘In my day…’.

So, for their final visit, I had nervously set up a work area for my young charges that was highly visible, but tucked safely to one side of the building where they wouldn’t block the traffic of two hundred geriatrics with associated walking frames and wheelchairs. The kids were cleaning and labeling artifacts, and hand-painting small display easels. They were, indeed, happily engaged. They were also unaware that they were attracting a great deal of attention from the other guests. Before long, my fifteen assistants became a living exhibit.

An old gentleman wearing his war medals asked one for help with a digital camera. A conversation about the medals followed. Another asked a boy if he knew how the old telephone set he was cleaning operated, and then explained how. A woman in a hand-knitted cardigan sat down beside three girls who were working with fine paintbrushes and asked if they thought it was sexist that they were doing a delicate job while the boys worked with large objects. It was magic. Facades crumbled…No need for concern, nor even vague hesitancy. No confusion at all. Just people. Talking.

Topol meets Monty Python

‘…we have traditions for everything: how to sleep, how to eat... how to work... how to wear clothes. For instance, we always keep our heads covered, and always wear a little prayer shawl that shows our constant devotion to God. You may ask, "How did this tradition get started?" I'll tell you!

[pause]

I don't know. But it's a tradition...’

Tevye in Fiddler on the Roof

Tradition... What exactly does that mean? And who decides what gets handed on and what gets shut down as inappropriate, unnecessary, outdated, irrelevant or just plain silly? What harm is done if someone chooses to break from tradition? And who determines whether a departure from the usual is a detour that will lead back to the old road, or a T-intersection from which there is no return?

In 1558, in a culture where white was the colour of mourning, that crazy wild child Mary, Queen of Scots, wore a white wedding gown because it was her favourite colour. And I don’t think it was the break with tradition that caused the marriage to be brief and childless. I reckon the fact that her husband was a sickly 14-year-old with undescended testes probably had more to do with that.

Traditionally, after a Korean couple married, the bride’s brothers and their friends played a happy game of Family Feud with the groom. They would take him outside, hang him upside down from a tree, then slap the bottom of his feet with dried fish and sticks while asking him tricky questions to test his wit and staying power. Only when their mother called them in for the wedding feast would they cut him down. Welcome to the family! Today, this unique version of the fish-slapping dance has been tainted by exposure to western life-styles and may form part of another traditional oddity, the Buck’s Night. Now, the groom’s mates tie his ankles together, remove his shoes and socks, and slap the bottom of his feet with a dead fish. Some say it’s to improve his virility. Really? It strikes me that it’s more like a warning to the poor girl that his stinky feet are part of the whole marriage deal. But it’s a tradition.

No, “..because we always have” just doesn’t cut it with me as a reason for something to continue.  I get that traditions are links with the past and past generations, but I believe tradition is more than historical. It's cultural too. Not just ‘cultural’ meaning that it represents the attitudes of a group of people, ‘cultural’ as in relating to artistic and academic achievements. Surely traditions must have a reason, a significance that goes beyond mere repetition. The justification doesn’t even have to be logical; sometimes purely artistic, aesthetic or spiritual explanations make the most sense. But either way, shouldn’t a tradition be symbolic of something?

What started this little rant of mine was, not surprisingly, a relatively humble and completely honest request for a departure from a ‘family tradition’. A departure that would make life easier for many of the people involved, that would please several others, and would most definitely not be an imposition on anyone… except perhaps me. It was not a request for a permanent break from the tradition, neither a criticism of the norm, nor an attempt to start a new tradition. For a number of reasons, I was politely seeking permission from a family matriarch for a one-off departure from the usual.

Permission was denied.

My request was met with a bitter rudeness that stunned me. She certainly silenced me. I won’t ask again. But the situation led me to musing: when does failure to change morph into tradition? Can entrenched dullness ever be described as cultural? And is tradition truly passed down through the annals of history, or does it reach us via the anal retentiveness of the dominant?

 

Coz right now, a slap in the face with a wet fish has me in danger of falling off the roof.

...the countdown begins

It is a kind of nowhere, famous for nothing at all and has an appeal because of just that.

― Robert M Pirsig, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance: An Inquiry Into Values

So it’s October, not quite officially even mid-October, and the Christmas merchandise has begun to appear. Oh what joy. Summer holidays approach.

You see, here on The Rock, the murky muddying overlap of festive season with silly season becomes dazzlingly clear as the invasion begins. And silly prevails. Forget popping in to town unless it’s 5.00 am, as the number of cars far exceeds the number of places to park. Abandon hope of finding edamame for that Asian salad: the freezer section is chockfull of Papa Guiseppi and potato gems. And don’t even consider looking for a pinot gris to complement the salmon because strawberry-kiwi-pine cider and choc-banana cruisers seemingly proliferate as they fight for shelf space with Redbacks, Bluetongues and Pure Blondes.

This weekend we get our pre-summer training. Thousands of balding or grey-haired, genuine non-retro Ray-Ban, Levi 501 , black-t-shirt, and leather wearing dudes will descend upon The Rock for a major motor-sport event and take over our not-so-tidy town. They’ll be paying way too much to stay in non-atmosphere-controlled shoebox-sized beach shacks, packing the fish ‘n chip shop, and talking way too loudly about what a relief it is to be having a break from the old ball and chain as they tap tap tap away at messages to said ball and chain. 

Shiny black and silver beasts with Harley-style handle bars, or even cheeky sidecars, will rumble along our pot-holed main street, revving menacingly at the round-abouts as their what-middle-aged-crisis-? owners seek out somewhere to stop that will both maximise impact on passers-by and minimise walking distance to a take-away coffee. Sons of Anarchy helmets will belie the allegiances of the wearers. These are some mean mofos in Oroton undies.

Our cliff-top abode is about a kilometre as the great grey gull flies from the track. So, if today’s Antarctic blasts continue, we won’t hear a thing. But if they abate, the drone of super-charged mosquitoes will float over the cow-dotted hill to underscore this weekend’s activities. Mind you, albeit not significantly enough to challenge the refrains of the near-constant activity of Lawn Mower Man (aka Dr Dad the cowboy accountant).

Sticky-beaking strangers will routinely invade our unmade dead-end street. The afterglow of too many LED-campfires will sour the milkiness of the Milky Way. And there will be a sudden increase in the number of wallabies wearing ear-muffs. But to be honest, it’s pretty much only a gentle-jog-around-the-block kind of training run for the Christmas crazies.

Seventy-two days to go…

And death.

Life was something you didn't argue with, because when it came down to it, whether you barracked for God or nothing at all, life was all there was. And death.
― Tim Winton, Cloudstreet

 

 

I squashed a bird. It was a still-mostly-fluffy curlew-plover-type thing.  I was driving the kids to school. They’d missed the bus. Again.  

It wasn’t a rare species. Not a hooded-plover. It was going to grow up to be one of those annoyingly loud creatures we call Sticky-Legs-Birds that sound their cack-cak-cak-cak-cak alarms at ungodly hours and are so stupid they nest on running tracks and beside carparks. Birdbrains. Even so, I felt like shit .

With a pointless No! No! No! I failed to avoid the matchstick-legged dandelion clock skittering across the road at some distance from its mother. At least I assumed it was the mother. My upset was for the remaining bird that turned back to inspect or call to the damaged feathered pile, not for the smudge on the road. 

Girlchild gasped out a horrified Oh poor baby! for the tiny deceased, its journey cut short. If only we’d caught that bus. Been a minute earlier. 

Boychild responded with Stupid bird. Should have got out of the way. 

I sank further. Was this the stereotypical female/male worldview in my Mercedes microcosm?  Despite my feminist principles. Irrespective of my earnest attempts at contemporary mothering.  Had empathy and sympathy lost to alpha-male apathy?

As the car door slammed, a deep voice I love more than Life itself suggested Hey Mum, reckon you'd better go home a different way. 

So I did. Singing all the while.

...the safecollector..a not so modern tale

Once upon a time in a land where the sun seldom shone, there lived a woman who dreamed of better things. She longed for storybook flowers to bloom outside her window. She yearned for just a tiny glint of something warm to seep into her room, for just one ray to break through the glass. She hoped upon hope for a visitor. But every day was dark, and every night was the same as every day.

As time passed, actions were drowned by thoughts. She ceased bothering to sit at the table or change the linen. She stopped even intending to polish the silver or vacuum the rug. No one ever called. No matter how hard she wished they would.

Then one day, one dark day in January as she sat illuminated by the bright gleaming notes of her favourite song, she had a thought. A new thought. Not one of those ideas that bumps around forever until its corners are worn and its edges tatty, but a sharp pointy thought. 

 ‘Maybe it’s not here.’ 

You see she’d never been beyond.  She came from a family that had never dared. They were safecollectors, generations of them gathering up sameness and security to pad the walls of their lives as the darkness grew around them. And because of that, she too had been no more than a dreamer — an imaginer of otherness for so long that she had become lost to herself.

And so, fearfully, she set forth for the uncertain with only the music in her head to light the way.