Old mate

I looked up an old friend on facebook the other day. Actually my teenager did after I recalled yet another story from the past about “Parky”. He accepted the friend request within hours and I was able to greet him in the ether.

A phone call ensued.

It had been years since we’d last spoken and I was grateful that we were both still happy to hear from each other, shoot the breeze and catch up. There were no awkward silences, it was as if we talked every other week. Don’t get me wrong we’ve got history, purely platonic, including an 80’s share house in Woolloomooloo and a 72 hour return bus trip to Mackay to visit his old girlfriend, but I was unsure if the current Parky would still be the same.

Of course we change, life changes us and there’s no denying mortgages, marriages, kids and the politics of first world problems take their toll, but essentially we remain the same person inside. It was refreshing to hear about his life and interests. To learn he’s a devoted dad, a National Parks worker, a motorbike enthusiast, an organic gardener (who’d have thought) and a triathlete! But most of all, after the considerable loss and grief I’ve experienced over the last few years, it was good to know he wasn’t divorced, widowed, suffering from cancer or staring down the barrel of addiction or mental illness.

I’d like to think that after our conversation we both went back to our separate lives comfortable in the knowledge that somewhere out there, in the midst of our ever-changing, unpredictable, fragile existence, an old mate was doing alright.

The kids are alright

There’s been a lot of bad press about teenagers and young adults of late, and I would like to rebut the argument that these ne’er-do-wells the media like to brand ‘Gen Y bother’ are a bunch of boozy, parent-bludging narcissists.

If my daughter’s peers are anything to go by our nation is in safe hands. These kids are politically aware, philosophically enlightened, caring, tolerant, intellectual and creative.

HSC results come out today. But do they really count in the big life picture?

No matter the score these kids will travel, have careers, invent things, slack off, fall in and out of love, solve problems, plant seeds, fuck up, make art and eventually become parents themselves just like, and probably more spectacularly, than any generation before them.

The worst thing about your kids growing up is not the parties, the obsessive attachment to technology, the lack of respect for authority or tradition; it is the realization that you need them more than they need you. 

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.

Sky Burial

(a poem for Gary Tweddle)

For two days helicopters buzz the cliffs and ridges like metallic lammergeiers

Aiding and abetting the grisly retrieval work of the police ground crew.

Our very own Broadchurch unfolding on the pretty streets of a tourist town

The decomposed deceased, missing for six weeks, putting paid to delight in an early spring.

And yet here comes another unwitting victim, map and Mars bar in hand, gob-smacked by the sun-drenched sandstone edifice

Pondering misadventure in the depths of the Jamison valley.

Old school ties

At the end of September my first born will walk out her school gates for the last time (until a brief stint in the HSC exam rooms come Oct/Nov.) Sniff...pass the tissues please...

Remember leaving school and those mixed feelings of sadness, uncertainty, exhilaration and new found freedom?

Some kids can’t wait to get out into the big wide world and embrace adulthood, others would like to remain cocooned in the familiar routines and privileges of classrooms and adolescence.

It’s a long time ago now for me but I think I sat on the fence – loved not having to get up early, do homework and wear a uniform but hated the lack of opportunity a poor HSC result and geographical isolation dished out in spades.

But being a glass half full sort of gal I got myself out of those doldrums and have survived to this very day proving that school exam scores and report cards certainly don’t define you.

Although I think dear old Miss Timmins had a fair go at it in class 4.

Disgraceful Ageing

I am unapologetically middle-aged. And although 48 may be the new 12 I think it is time I started acting my age. But what does that mean?

I like gardening and punk music. I wear skinny jeans and drive a station wagon. I love food, wine, theatre and staying in on Friday night. I may have a mortgage but it doesn’t mean I understand it. I still feel the same as I did 25 or 30 years ago, it’s just that the crow’s feet and tuck-shop arms give me away.

So I guess I’ll go on badly dyeing my hair, listening to Triple J, loving John Green novels and dressing inappropriately til the day I die. The last thing I want to do is have a mid-life crisis and discover tantric sex or turn vegan or join a cult or become a crazy cat lady.

I read an article about how middle-aged women feel invisible in today’s youth-worshipping society and frankly that’s fine by me. Ever since the shiny new megamart replaced my local corner shop I feel that if I haven’t had a manicure, a facial and a nose job before I go out to buy milk I’ll be committing social suicide, because invariably as I’m wandering the aisles vaguely, in my slippers and daggy old pilled jumper, without a shopping list wondering what the hell I came in for I’ll bump into my daughter’s favourite school teacher, the local member for parliament, my sadistic ex-boss, the kid who works in the video store where I still haven’t paid the overdue fine for Eat, Pray, Love and the bloke who fixes my car. Eventually, after I hide in the frozen fish section to avoid the militant wing of the P&C, I’ll end up buying 24 rolls of toilet paper (because they are on special) and I'll forget the milk.

My dad, who is 81, is reading The Hunger Games trilogy. He loves Katniss, Peeta and all the crew. It takes him back to the Depression days when hunting small wildlife and bush survival skills were the norm (not sure about murdering other kids). Only problem is he’s still waiting for the third book to be released. 

He has a saying which I like: “there’s no future in growing old”.