Sistahood

I'm the red head

When I was growing up my siblings were my best friends. And being a middle child I had it good. My little bro provided escapism and adventure, outdoor games til sunset and someone to lord it over. He possessed a remarkable ability to make me laugh at the silliest things, and still does.

But when I wanted so badly to be grown up my big sister was the one I looked to. She was my staunch defender when schoolyard bullies threatened, my leading light academically and, I guess, a bit rad for the late 70’s. She was the dungaree-wearing, roll-your-own smoking, Ry Cooder-listening, scare the pants off Mum and Dad with a motorbike-riding boyfriend type of big sister and I idolised her. Perhaps for all the wrong reasons given that list of descriptives.

She was the one who sneaked me into my first under-age gig*. She was the one who convinced our parents to let her paint our bedroom teal green, including the ceiling. And she was the one who saw me through those angsty teenage and tough early twenty-something times without judgement. No wonder she was the one I wanted at the delivery of my first born and, 17 years later, at that child's high school graduation.

Today, nothing has changed. When I’m down or stressed I look to her for guidance, a shoulder to cry on, a laugh over a glass or three of wine or a spot of cleaning. Did I mention she’s a domestic goddess?

She was the rock when Mum was diagnosed with cancer, travelling miles weekly to attend appointments, decipher medical and legal jargon, provide companionship and ultimately nurse Mum in the final weeks. For that I owe her an unfathomable debt of gratitude.

Although we are chalk and cheese, in so many ways, the bond we share will never be broken. Happy Birthday Bec!

* it was Mental as Anything at the Manly Vale Hotel

Greensleeves

It's not summer yet (and mountain summers can be underwhelming) but the shrill of cicadas has got me feeling nostalgic...

In my childhood memories it is always hot.  Nothing ever moves quickly and even sounds are lazy and low.  It’s about summer and fibro.  Long weekends, blowflies and pink zinc.

About Dad wrangling the Victa through the backyard.  Purring, spluttering past the wading pool littered with jacaranda confetti.  Around the outlawed incinerator, then stalled, swearing and sweaty under the Hills hoist.

Me on a rusty swing, creaking to and fro, back and forth, bare toes tickling the buffalo grass.  Running back to the house trying to avoid the biting black ants.  Cool, lying flat out on the linoleum floor.

The radio’s murmuring that steady, reassuring rhythm of cricket.  And a whirring fan pushes warm air around the room.

Mum’s upside down.  I watch her walk into the kitchen, taking in her long legs first, then that spotty, lime green dress she made herself.  Even upside down she looks beautiful.

Dad’s in the kitchen now.  Big brown back, droplets of perspiration.  Flag ale – ah that’s better.  They smile.

It’s lunchtime.  Our legs stick to orange vinyl and my brother makes squeaky fart sounds with his.  We all giggle.  There’s tepid cordial and ham left over from Christmas.

Mum makes a salad with tins of Golden Circle pineapple rings and beetroot.  

After lunch my brother and I escape.  We put T-shirts on and rubber thongs, cause mum said to, and slip through the broken paling fence.

“G’day Bluey,” says Mr Farley ruffling my orange hair.  “Hello little man,” he says to my brother.  We grin.

Mr Farley takes photos.  He invites us inside.  Spooky and quiet in the dark red glow we watch as our mum appears, slowly, like a ghost floating in the developing tray.  I like the acrid smell of the chemicals.

“Don’t touch now,” Mr Farley warns but he’s not angry – he likes us.  He likes my mum too.

We come out into the glare and shield our eyes for a moment.  Waving goodbye to Mr Farley we return to our world on the other side of the fence.  Dad has the hose and a smile in his eyes.

We know what’s coming next and pretend to run away screaming as delicious spurts of water fall on backs, heads, legs.  Soon we are soaking.

Dad turns the hose off.  My brother goes inside and I go back to the swing.  Overhead grey-black clouds are creeping up on our Sunday.

The air becomes thick and sweet, heavy with the smell of rain not too far away.  There’s a distant rumble of thunder and for some reason I think about loneliness.

Then I hear something.

“Alas my love you do me wrong…”  The sad, melancholy tinkling of Greensleeves.

“Come and get an ice cream,” calls my brother from the back door.

We swing our legs on the banana lounge; happy, gripping sticky, drippy Mr Whippy ice-creams as fat drops of rain from the afternoon thunder storm splat on the concrete path.