Not an election party

Liz and Dan get hitched.

There was a room full of voters from both sides of politics. The country visitors were committed National Party conservatives. The interstate visitors were rabid Labor supporters.  And the rest of us? Well, some had been directly involved in politics. Many of us had worked in the alternative arts and cultural areas. The bride and groom were unimpressed with the election date interfering with their carefully laid plans. How dare Kevin Rudd spoil their special day!

Doubly spoilt. Distracted guests and a depressing outcome for most. How to cope?

The groom banned TV monitors in the room. Only partially successful given the advent of  the iPhone.Most of us knew the result was a foregone conclusion and avoided even discussing it.

The best man began his speech. "There are many parties making promises today. Some of them outrageous. some modest; many merely thought bubbles rather than commitments. But here we have the real thing. Two people making real commitments with integrity and honesty........................................"

Ahhhhh. If only political parties were less combatant, less driven by the need to accomodate wacky fringe groups, more forward thinking. The Liz and Dan party was grounded and surrounded by true believers. We believed in Dan and Liz. They were making real, long term promises.

Twice the age and twice the girth of yore.

Outside on the bowling green a group of once young men reconnected over a game of barefoot bowls and grappled with bias and left leaning tendencies. These men had been dancing, naked in a few cases, in an old warehouse in West End many years earlier on the occasion of another election event. The demise of the Bjelke-Petersen government.

Inside, the young brigade ignored the election result and danced. Ironically the limbo was their dance of choice, an invention of their parents era. Great ideas never die. The best games are simple. Music and a stick. The best policies are simple, though complex in their implementation. At least Dan and Liz had some that they want to work on.

Not just a trumpet player  

 Tony Abbott and his team will reap what they have sown as will Liz and Dan. In Liz and Dan's case they have spent the past three years in building relationships and looking positively to the future.

The bride goes under

New Italy Old Italy

Paddy and his sister in law

From Woodburn it's a straight run to our destination, a pit stop half way to nowhere along the Pacific Highway. Not 'Nuova Italia' as it would originally have been named, but simply New Italy. It's a collection of mud brick buildings housing a cafe, bookshop and the fading remnants of the Italian Pavilion from Brisbane's Expo '88. There's also a large barn structure with open beams and natural ventilation which houses memorabilia from the original 1885 settlement. By 1920 the last of the Italians had given up on this place, a site distressingly similar to the poor land of Veneto from which they had escaped. While not the utopian dream which had driven their journey, it did offer opportunity rather than the inevitability of poverty.

The descendants have moved to better land or moved away. My grandfather and his brother set up a thriving fruit and vegetable business in Leichhardt in Sydney; a branch of the Spinaze family had moved into sugar in the Pomona area north of Noosa Heads a good 400 kilometres north. Through hard work many purchased dairy farms and sugar holdings along the Richmond River.

One hundred years after the original descendants arrived, a group of descendants, none of whom spoke Italian, few of whom had immediate recollections of the original settlement, nevertheless felt driven to create a museum on the site. In the twenty first century the 'New Italy Carnivale' brings together a curious mix of descendants and locals to share stories and keep alive a memory.

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I'm travelling with my Uncle Paddy Powell, a name as Irish as the name of the closest regional town, Ballina. That's not uncommon. His mother was a Bazzo. My grandmother was a Kilcoyne. It went both ways. We arrive in time for Mass, the first event on each of these days.About 80 seriously Catholic people sit in a large unpretentious room. Curious life-size plaster cast Venetian peasants and aristocrats stare down at us from a mock balcony above the makeshift altar.

Paddy scans the seats for familiar faces. He's looking for his friend Maureen who has supported him through the hard years of caring for his wife Rita, my aunt. I only recognise two faces in the congregation, both of whom are relatives whom I have only met recently. As my eyes wander among the pews I'm conscious of looking for faces like mine. Angular faces with large noses and pale skin, blue eyed northerners.

There are plenty of ruddy complexions and pale skins but mostly broad Australian farmers faces - the Irish. Among the other there are dark eyes, dark haired, dark skinned southerners - more recent migrant arrivals. I can't see me anywhere.

My search is broken by the priest. He's welcoming us in Italian He's clearly not Italian but he is fluent. a Lismore priest with no Italian would be estranged from half his parishioners. Italian prayers, Italian hyms, Italian responses. Most of us don't have a clue. Two ladies in front of me sing with gusto and depart from the script with their own responses. They are real Italians. I concentrate on picking up a phrase here and there in preparation for my imminent trip to the villages of my descendants in Veneto. Paddy drifts off and causes a mild disruption when he attempts to rescue a skink who has become disoriented and finds itself in the no-mans land of the aisle space. Paddy knows it's about to fill with the feet of the fervent lining up for communion. The ladies in front react with shock as Paddy ushers his new friend from the aisle towards safety under their chairs.

Outside the numbers have begun to swell. Paddy is a bit overwhelmed. It's his first visit without Rita. "I think I'll just have a little wander around and see if I can find some familiar faces" he says. "Will you be okay Paddy?" I have a sense that I am Paddy's guardian for the day. And away he went, wobbling through the crowd on his twenty year old metal knees.I'd noticed that Paddy had a tendency to sway when stationary. I figured it was like the steering on an old car. There was a fair bit of play in the joints and he was forced to constantly rebalance himself.

I take the opportunity to reconnoitre the displays in the museum. I've taken on the task of organising a family  cabinet in which we'll tell our story. It's a great idea. With challenges. One hundred and thirty years after their arrival and with our original family being a blend of three families  - two mothers, two fathers, only one of each surviving and finally ending up as the family of Lorenzo with ten surviving children and carrying two family names means we have some serious gaps.

An hour later I find Paddy in animated conversation with fellow Richmond Valley locals. He's seated at a heavy wooden table alongside my new found second cousins, one of whom I've never met. In the background a slightly overweight Italian singer in his late forties is channelling Dean Martin and charming the ladies with his versions of 'Volare' and 'O Sol a Mio'. He's dressed in a cobalt blue jacket which, at one point, he casts aside, exposing his broad chest and his luxuriant growth of Sicilian hair - all part of his seduction of the audience. Having exhausted his Italian repertoire he launches into a set of Elvis numbers.

Paddy's in his late 80s and he's been on his feet for five hours now and he's beginning to fade. He's had his obligatory plate of  spaghetti bolognese and a glass of rough red. He's ready to go. As we prepare to exit, my second cousin is in animated conversion with his brother. He's convinced that the photo I've given him of his grandmother is definitely not her. I offer him as much information as I can and then decide to leave him to it. "You'd better take that up with Linda (another cousin in his line who has supplied the photo)" I say as I back away. "Let me know what you all decide."

I'd hoped to complete the family cabinet by the end of the year but with ten descendant lines these small details will become the sticking points.

Paddy and the Richmond

"Oh, it'll be on for sure. They're setting up the tarpaulins as we speak"

It's pissing down here in Brisbane. Has been for four days straight. When I check the satellite image for Ballina a sea of blue with occasional yellow and red spots twinkle at me from my screen. This weather pattern extends 250 kms from here to the mid north coast of New South Wales. My distant cousin John, the convenor of the New Italy Carnevale, is an optimist.

I'd cancelled the  trip three of us had planned to fish the Richmond River on the advice of Uncle Paddy, my north coast fishing guru. "We had 4 inches of rain here the other night Steve. True! I've got a moat around my house. Too much fresh in the river Steve. Be a bloody waste of time." That was three days ago and it's still raining.

I'm facing a solo trek and a choice: drive 250 ks and waste my time or take a chance on the Carnevale. Paddy calls at 2pm. "What do you reckon Steve? I won't be goin' if its raining mate. The doc says I need to keep me bung eye dry." "I'll be there at 5" I say. Paddy has offered me a bed for the night. He's 86 and lives alone. He wasn't up to having three guests but he reckons he can cope with one. I sense he's a little hesitant. He's been full time carer for my aunty Rita for the past three years and since she passed away he's slowly recovering from the loss of Rita and the loss of  four years of his life. He's sick of looking after people.

I don't turn my wiper blades off for two and a half hours. At times the road ahead looks like I'm driving into a snow drift. I can't see past the bonnet. Occasionally it eases, seducing me into a false sense of hope and then smacks me again like a mini cyclone slapping the side of the car. This is ridiculous.

Remarkably it's not raining when I take the turnoff to Titenbar and head for Wollongbar. Avocado orchards line the back road as I enter and emerge from what's left of the original rainforest. They called it the "BIG SCRUB" in the old days and the locals cleared it by hand. Hundreds and hundreds of acres. They're very proud of that achievement. Now its prime dairy and orchard country. It's like driving through English country side. It's deep green all year round.

Paddy is there to meet me at the door. "G'day Stevo" He's got me in the second bedroom. I insult him by offering to sleep in my sleeping bag and insult him again by offering to take him out to dinner at the local tavern. " I've got some steak for you. Do you eat steak? I've had it marinating in my special mix for three days." We sit and chat or rather he talks and I nod and ask questions. He's old school country is Paddy. Builder, duck shooter, pig shooter, fisherman. He's famous in the district for his knowledge. The story he loves to tell is the day he was getting ready to clean his favourite rifle on the back veranda and spotted a cat crossing the lane nearby and he let him have it. One shot. It was instinct. And a hatred of cats. The neighbour never could figure out where puss disappeared to.

Paddy is one of the gentlest people I know. He's a natural hunter gatherer. And he has developed that tendency of the lone householder to become a little fussy about how things are done. "No, Steve. Wait!" he stops me mid action as I go to make a cup of tea. I've filled the kettle from the tap. He empties it down the sink and fills it again from the jug on the side table. "Rainwater." Over the next 12 hours I notice him and his routines. And his generosity. I get offered the reclining seat in front of the TV to watch Black Caviar make it 25 wins from 25 starts.  Everything in the kitchen is spotless and arranged very carefully. When it comes to washing up he sets the water in the sink and adds the detergent. He won't let me clean the electric frypan. I haven't done the inservice training. I'm chastised for bringing bacon and eggs for breakfast. But all this lovingly and gently. "I like a clean house. I always clean up straight away so I don't have to come back and do it later" he tells me. It's touching and surprising in this man of guns and fish gut. The marinated beef is beautiful by the way, just as he'd promised.

"If its fine tomorrow I'll come" he says as we head off to bed at 8:30. "I'm an early to bed man, Steve. You stay and watch TV if you want." But I take Paddy's cue and crawl into the freshly made bed. "I hate electric blankets. Rita used to love 'em. I love getting into cold sheets and that slow warming feeling" he says by way of good night.

I'm awake at 6:30 next morning. I can't see the day for the heavy blinds. I decide I can go another 45 minutes before the breakfast I've promised. At 7am Paddy is standing at the foot of my bed. I know he's there. I can feel his presence but I pretend to be asleep. "You wouldn't believe it Steve. You should see the day outside." No, 'Excuse me Steve are you awake?' He reminds me of my mother. One up all up was her motto.

It's true, its a clear day. "Lets head off early" says Paddy. "Get there for mass." Jesus!
"Want to take the back road?" Paddy asks as we descend the Wardell road towards the flats. I recognise the landscape along here from childhood visits with my cousins. Lagoons full of wild duck. Concrete fords over constantly running streams. And the old Meerschaum Vale hall where my father danced and drank and grew into a man.

"We'll go the Bagotville Road." We go from two lane to one lane, from slick bitumen to neglected potholed and patched shortcut. At every turn Paddy has a story. "Jeez, that lagoon used to be black with Magpie geese in the old days. We'd always get a feed." We round a bend and a wide expanse of water stretches before us curving to the south in the distance. It's one of the loveliest stretches of river I can recall. A line of giant figs line the bank. Entwined with strangler vines climbing to escape the regular floods. "The flood of 54 came half way up those telegraph poles. He points out a level well above anything imaginable. "This section here is real deep," Paddy tells me, as we cruise past lines and fields of scrappy cane on our right. "Got some bloody good jewfish and perch on that bend. Full of catfish now."

And so the commentary continues. Each bend has a fish story. Each homestead has a family story. This is where he grew up. This is why he's brought me this way. He expects me to recognise the landmarks. But in all the years of my childhood my father never took us down this road. "Me and Percy built that house. Fay still lives in that one." His father got out of cane early and ran a dairy herd. "That heap of crumbling timber and iron was the old dairy" It looks like someone has taken a sledgehammer to it. It leans over like a drunk and threatens to fall face first into the sodden earth.

I see beautiful green valley and nostalgic river oaks. Paddy sees lives lived and lost. "That cane there is rubbish. No fertilizer. Now that deeper green paddock that's more like it. Some of em have given it away. The prices are just too low."

As we approach Wardell and our destination he tells me the story of his brother who died rescuing his daughter from downed power lines in the paddocks we've just past. They're boggy and the access lanes running beside each cane field are full of this weeks downpour. She was 16. A real handfull. Constantly in trouble with school and the local cops. She was wild. It was weather similar to the week just gone and she was riding home from school on her bike and didn't see the power lines lying across the ditch. She's plunged in. And zap. But miraculously she got caught but not killed. He hears her calls for help and rushes out and grabs the nearest thing he can see to free her from the lines. He grabs a length of timber from the ditch and wades towards her. The timber is wet and as soon as he makes contact with her he's the one who gets whacked. Somehow he's the conductor and she's earthed and it's him who is gone. Instantly.

Paddy tells the story soberly. "How old was he?" I ask. "62." Crikey. My age. He must have had children late. "Second marriage" Paddy adds. "And the daughter? Did she go on to live a settled life? Did she get a wake up call?"

"Nope. Still the same."

"Plenty of flathead and bream under this bridge" Paddy tells me as we arch over the Richmond and enter Woodburn.

Macadamia Raider

Harvest awaiting drying and shelling

CAAAARK  CAAAARK
I hear the raucous call and jump to my feet. A sulphur crested cockatoo is an unusual visitor to my backyard. He sounds like a young version of my grandfather who spent his last years in the front room of my parents' house smoking his rollies and coughing himself to his grave. This pure white raider, still in his adolescence, doesn't have the chest rumble and the deep voice of Larry. He's still proud and potent and announces his presence without hesitation.

 In reply the pathetic Noisy Minors make their challenge. yeeep yeeep yeeep. The sulphur crested one cockily ignores them and they give up, acknowledging the futility of mounting this campaign.

He's up there high in the macadamia nut tree clumsily clawing his way along each thin branch to reach the nuts at the extremes. He looks like he's a dapper pirate walking the plank. It's a large tree. It was mature when I arrived here almost twenty years ago so it's a survivor. I've just finished harvesting a good crop but there are plenty remaining for those prepared to fly or risk their lives.

The past two years have provided very generous harvests - one an extraordinarily wet year and this, a very dry and hot year. One a pest free crop and this year compromised. The wasps have deposited their larvae in the shells and their pupae have bored into the core and spoilt every second nut.

'Sulphur crest' cocks his head to take me in as I wander around the base of the tree but he soon returns to his task which appears to be the snapping off as many branches as possible. His strong beak simply bites through the branches as he goes. He's giving the tree a good summer pruning. He's behaving like I do when I get a pair of gardening shears in my hands - cut and cut until the urge departs - which is why I think of him as male.

He's not particularly interested in the fruit, or at least he is happy to be wasteful. Nuts fall to the ground around the base of the tree as he crawls from one bunch to the next. I don't see him crack or eat any of them. He just shows off by throwing them out of the tree like discarded babies.

Maybe he and I should strike a bargain. He can throw the high ones out of the tree, I'll gather them, then I'll crack a few and leave them out for him. And then we can both let our hair down and go on a rampage of pruning together.

CAAAARK CAAAAARK. We speak the same language.

Mrs Pinkle

Mrs Pinkle's entrance

Sixty people had sat down to dinner to celebrate the 50th birthday of our great, and until this week young, friend Mary. The food had been prepared by her son Jack, recently returned from a trip to Europe seeking out restaurant experiences to further hone his cheffing skills.

As guests arrived at Mary's sister's home (a converted church hall with original 50s kitchen, a stage masquerading as a lounging area and an open timber dance floor) we were offered fried polenta and home made tomato dipping sauce, aranchini balls with fresh mayonnaise and mediterranean eggplant and capsicum served warm, tapas style, on toasted sourdough. Then followed a smorgasbord of marinated swordfish, slow roasted leg of Tasmanian lamb, rocket and shaved pameson salad, a tri-coloured cherry tomato salad and side dishes - hand made pesto and salsa verde.

We were in for a night of gastronomy, stories and songs.

We ate and were just beginning to get post meal proceedings under way when we were interrupted by a knock at the side door. We all paused and an old woman dressed immaculately in a smoky green chiffon frock poked her head into the room and asked if this was the party for Mary. The MC , a little taken aback, informed her that this was a private function and that we'd just finished eating and were about to begin the entertainment. She replied that she didn't mind, though she said she hadn't eaten and proffered her invitation which she read to us  -only then realising that she had misread the start time.  She had indeed followed the invitation  to a "T" (apart from missing the meal and pre-dinner drinks and nibbles and games of boule on the former tennis court) choosing to dress herself in reds and greens as requested.

The MC, being a warm and inclusive gent, engaged her in gentle banter while looking to Mary for guidance. Was this person in fact invited? Should we invite her to sit down?

At that point she introduced herself as Mrs Pinkle and Mary's response was immediate.

'Mrs Pinkle. Oh my God. I haven't seen Mrs Pinkle for forty years'

Ruth, Mary's older sister by two years, who she had stabbed with a 2B pencil in their Toowoomba garage as an act of revenge for her teasing that same many years ago, also jumped to her feet. Older sister Jenny sadly missed the reunion having left to pick up a friend from the airport fifteen minutes earlier. What unfortunate timing! Particularly so, since it turns out Jenny had never met Mrs Pinkle, only hearing of her from her sisters. Jenny always seemed to develop one of her migraines on Mrs Pinkle's rare visits.

Let me describe Mrs Pinkle in a little more detail if I may. She was clearly a woman with a great sense of self pride and style  - in the nicest sense. Her dress was, as previously described, a demure green chiffon. She wore red globe earings to match her hat which sported an off centre floral motif and she sported a pair of crimson gloves (for which she apologised explaining how difficult it is these days to secure a pair of ladies gloves of the shade one prefers, even on eBay). This was set off with contrasting charcoal handbag and patent red (sensible) lace up shoes. A pair of pince nez glasses poised on her nose and pink  lipstick applied rather hurriedly completed her outfit.

Mrs Pinkle was rather shy amongst the large gathering but when invited, did not hesitate to choose a chair in the very centre of the gathering.

As the evening proceeded Mary's 88 year old father brought us to tears with his unaccompanied version of her childhood favourite  "My Bonnie lies over the Ocean". There was a blues version of "Wild Thing" performed by a round bodied male friend of the family with the backing of a six piece group of classical choristers, none of whom knew the words - ' Just sing what ever you like, whenever' were Dave's detailed instructions. Two nephews sang a beautiful song titled "Mary" they'd sourced from their contemporary iTunes files. And there was a quiz.

Mrs Pinkle's hand shot up with every question. She was very well informed about the family and even knew that Mary's middle name was spelt Catherine and not Kathryn. She was less aware of Mary's ongoing compulsion to count up to her age before turning off the shower (which is having quite a significant effect on Mary's water bills now that she must count to fifty - luckily the need to shower numerous times each day is not, as yet, among her compulsions). Since this shower routine begun at the age of nine on a beach holiday at Caloundra it's understandable that Mrs Pinkle was unaware of this debilitating aspect of Mary's personality, especially given that she doesn't drive. She was, however, strangely alert to the pencil incident. All that aside, she was having a rollicking time, clapping and muttering excitedly at each thing which took her fancy.

Now came the time to sing Happy Birthday and move on to the mountains of home made cakes which a range of cooks (all women) had provided. The MC invited some of the choristers to lead us in singing the song but this idea was interrupted when Mrs Pinkle's pinkies fluttered above the heads of the assembled and quietly, almost inaudibly, mentioned that she too was musical and that she played the organ. Well, that's very interesting joked the MC but unfortunately not every birthday party is supplied with such an instrument so... ......In a twinkle Mrs Pinkle was up on her feet and headed to the western side of the room and there, to our amazement, she stood beside a grand piece of antique furniture masquerading as an organ.

Again it was Mary's birthday and Mary seemed quite keen on this turn of events. The crowd settled. There was a long moment of held breath - both Mrs Pinkle and the birthday goers - as she adjusted the chair, poked at the keys and looked dismayed when there was no sound.

'You've got to pump the pedals Mrs Pinkle' Mary reminded her.
'Oh yes. I'd forgotten.' came the muffled reply.

With a further settling, a straight back and a final adjustment of her hat, Mrs Pinkle approached the key board. The multitude again held their breath, and then, moments before we collectively burst our lungs, small pumping legs and gentle fingers coaxed sound from the instrument. The notes came. The tempo was slow. The room joined in. I tell you it was magnificent. The singing hung sweetly in the air and Mrs Pinkle led us all in the most moving rendition of that hackneyed old birthday song.

'H A P P Y  B I R T H D A Y  D E A R  M A A R Y.      H A P P Y  B I R T H D A Y  T O  Y O U.'

And then Mrs Pinkle was gone.
'Ooh, is it that late? It's well beyond my bedtime.'

Poor Jenny. After forty years Mrs Pinkle had returned to knock on the door and join the family as she had many times in those long ago years. And again Jenny missed meeting her.

Bloody airport scheduling. Unbelievable.

My Coat

Loani had asked me to MC her book-launch. Oh god! Public speaking. A joy. And a reason to have a nervous breakdown. I had two weeks notice. I began with a self hypnotic mantra which was intended to convince myself that if I just allowed time the ideas would come. The toilet was a pretty productive place as was my regular 20 laps of the local pool.

In my mind I was very clever, not to say hilarious, as I churned through the laps; laps turned out to be better than the toilet seat. Thirty minutes meditation on the loo I realised, was not only going to cause some disruption to family habits but to bowl habits as well; I remembered my mother's words: ' get off the toilet Stephen, you'll get piles.'

On lap 68 my plan began to develop. I would tell the story of the Adelaide woman who had knitted thirty of Loani's tea cosy designs and offered them to the local coffee shop where people came just to admire the wacky creations. And order a pot of tea on the side.

I would take the piss out of the self proclaimed 'Queen of the Tea Cosies' by quoting from the comments on her blog left by her acolytes. I would pose the possibility that Loani had, in fact, created a cult, with her as the goddess. There was plenty of material. My 'piece de resistance' would be to demonstrate that not only was most men's first response to a tea cosy one of putting it on their head but I would go one better, I would wear a teapot (and tea cosy) on my head as the final joke.

There was too much chlorine in the pool that week I suspect, because I couldn't figure out how to attach a tea pot to my head so my punchline was dead in the water, as it were.

By now it was the morning of the book launch. The table was littered with things. A couple of tea pots, some double sided tape, a roll of gaffa tape, an akubra hat and a length of cotton cloth. It was a disaster scene. I needed saving from my creative chaos. In stepped my regular saviour in these matters - Mistress A, mother, wife and costume designer, 'wear that dress up coat of yours. Add the tea cosy and it'll look great.' Where's that coat I wondered? Oh yeah. In the spare cupboard with all the other leftovers I am saving for an unknown occasion.

One set of things I've never chucked out is my costume collection from my performance days. I have the black twirly coat, a yellow and black check jacket, my original clown's hat; I even have my original striped circus bloomers from 1983. I can't bear to dump them. They have such memories, such stories to tell.

That evening at Avid Reader Bookshop, my swimming meditation paid off; my script flowed, my jokes hit the mark. Loani was brilliant.

One of my oldest friends asked: 'What show was that coat from?'. 'The Bob Club' says I. 'Remember. When every character was called Bob and the subtitle was "A Few Bob's Short of a Quid". It was a show full of acrobatics, cabaret, music and political satire, I played "Bobby Pin", a punky slapstick character obsessed with supermarket trolleys. 'Yeah. That was one of my favourites' says she. Did she remember the show? My performance? Or just the coat? No matter, it had helped a moment survive the moth eaten remnants of the past.

And so my curly coat goes back into the wardrobe for another possible occasion. It's been 27 years. In another 27 I'll be wearing it to funerals. There's a thought. I'll dictate in my will that I am to be buried in style. In my favourite coat.


For a great account of the meaning of things:
Sarah Toa over at A WineDark Sea has been moving house. She has written a great piece about the dilemna she confronted when faced with the choice of throwing or towing some of her 'icons' she discovered in the process of packing up.

Old friends over lunch - Brisbane

Old friends are marvellous aren't they? Had lunch today with a pair of work colleagues. We first worked together 21 years ago and last worked together 17 years ago. We were in the drama department at a university together. We are, each of us, very different. One, young, beautiful, talented and full of spunk, another, warm, energetic, a long term academic (but not a wanker) and the third always sitting slightly outside the mainstream though not loud and angry.

We like each other. Two women and a bloke. We shared a view of the academic world back in the 90s, seeing it for what it was (a place full of ambitious and often self serving people - with a smattering of the genuine and balanced) and could laugh about it. Feels like there is a more than an average representation of narcissists and mildly aspergers types in academia.

Today was the third time we'd got together in three years. The last time was in January this year at someone's retirement bash. Yes, it was one of ours.

Today was was so easy. What is that? Shared history. Shared disillusionment. Common interest in our children, in theatre. A mutual respect for our differences. An interest in listening to stories. None of us has changed (or so we tell each other). We're all growing to be more like ourselves year by year and that feels comfortable.

At the end of our 90 minute lunch we said let's do this again. One said that she'd be in the UK for five months next year enjoying her second grandchild due in early March. She suggested August.
We all looked at each other thinking the same thought. That seems like a long time I said. So we said lets try for February before she goes. But it probably will be August, or later more likely, by the time we all get in touch again.

Funny but it feels kind of normal. At least we have plenty to talk about in our 90 minutes per year.

Dear Mick

Dear Mick,

We've been brothers for 60 years today. As a tribute to those years I thought I'd set down sixty special moments, one for each of those years.
Then I thought NO. I need to get this written today.

Mum was a counter - counting her way through her daily shower; counting how many pegs she used at the washing line; counting the number of steps to the bus stop. A little odd but then she did work as a comptometrist, an occupation I never fully understood but there was machinery involved and .... numbers. So, following in my mother's footsteps - I've reduced the sixty to about ten.

Before I begin I'd like to say thank you for giving me an 18 month start which allowed me to have the undivided attention of mum and dad for a period. I don't remember those months but I believe there was a lot of breast time involved and I imagine lots of cuddles and bouncing on Kev's knee.

I remember sharing a hard wooden stool at a small table in a tiny kitchen for the first five years of our brotherhood. It was one of dad's masterpieces , designed in such a way such that if either of us stood up without notice, the other would be catapulted off the other end. Dad was a salesman, a handyman but maybe not a carpenter. I believe we have both inherited his enthusiasm and lack of skill.

I remember playing with you every day for what I calculate were over 5000 consecutive days - backyard footie, cricket, marbles, monopoly, made up games using the garden hose as a speedway, go-karts made of junk we scavenged from our local dump - the best playground ever invented; we even created a nine hole golf course in the tiny back yard and got away with it. Dad was very tolerant and backyards were for play not display. We learnt so much mucking about with hammers and nails, bits of timber, axles and wheels; whatever we could lay our hands on. Broken pieces of asbestos fibro became frisbees when we visited the dump. I still have a hidden fear that those asbestos toys may come back to claim me. As I get older and my lungs slow down each cough or shortness of breath reminds me of those carefree days..

I recall being crowned BODY SURFING CHAMPIONS at Currumbin beach in 1965. You and I were the only competitors and dad was the sole judge. Still we deserved the accolades.

I remember drifting off to sleep in the twin beds in the room we shared for 15 years. It had one dresser and one small wardrobe. We had simple needs. We'd talk about the meaning of life and school and girls until one of us stopped talking in mid sentence, exhausted.

Those memories of childhood are so intertwined that I sometimes find it hard to distinguish your life from mine. We were like twins.

And then at university we lived parallel lives but we were still connected by mutual friends and in listening to the same anti Vietnam speakers and sharing a set of values. And later we married two girls who we hadn't met at uni but who together had been uni friends themselves.

We shared the terrors of parenting and watched our children (your three and my two) grow up as cousins as we too grew older - watching our lives take different paths. You into the sciences and me into the arts and humanities.

It was the first time I really knew we were different. That was hard at times but we still found ways to stay connected, even into our fifties;

Where we found ourselves sailing together on Saturday afternoons on the Brisbane river in our four hundred dollar last in the fleet NS14 dingy. We talked about our kids and our lives and not the meaning of life but superannuation and the concept of life after full-time work. It was like we were fifteen again and in that bedroom. But no - we would never be that innocent again.

So sixty years later we're still good mates. We've remained friends. Something we take for granted. We've made choices along the way, sometimes consciously sometimes unconsciously which have helped make this a reality. We can thank our parents and perhaps some mysterious force for having a hand in that. For whatever reason, we did it. Not all siblings have the satisfaction of achieving that.

Now, with my eighteen months advantage, I can welcome you to your next life and assure you that, from my vantage point, there's nothing to be apprehensive about. There's a world of things out there which are yet to be discovered.

Happy birthday brother.
love
steve

IKEA Flatpack

My son and I spent the afternoon putting together some 'flat-pack' furniture this afternoon. It was a nice opportunity to spend time working together. Father passing on some of his highly developed technical skills to his son.

There are too few opportunities for father-son bonding in my life. I keep busy, Nick keeps busy. We occasionally go to the football together; two years previously we spent a week at Carnarvon Gorge walking and camping with my mate Denis and another 'old fella'; last year we spent a weekend camping in the high country of Stanthorpe freezing our butts off in the middle of winter visiting wineries and climbing granite outcrops.

It's winter again and though the sun shines each day the cold gets into your bones. This year our bonding looks like being an IKEA experience. Nick has moved out. He moved out for the first time eighteen months ago when he got a teaching contract on the Darling Downs, the fertile tablelands one hundred kilometres west of the coast. He was terrified of living in the country so chose to live in Toowoomba, a regional centre, ahead of Clifton, the tiny one street, six shop, grain silo siding where his teaching job was located. He survived his year and discovered the joy of living in a household other than with his parents.

He quite liked Toowoomba and learnt a lot from a year in a tough country high school where talented young sportswomen were forbidden by their fathers from competing at the state athletic titles because they were needed for early morning milking duties; where one young fella chose to sleep on the footpath outside the Principals residence because he figured he'd be safe there. Those places teach you about the best and worst aspects of family life.

He came home at the beginning of 2010 as the Clifton contract, a maternity leave back-fill, was not extended and he was desperate to return to the city and his mates. He moved back in with mum and dad for a couple of months. And stayed eighteen. Mum and dad then went away for two weeks over Easter in 2011 and he rediscovered the delights of independence.

So he's gone. He's signed a 12 month lease on a two bedroom apartment in the neighbouring suburb of Yeronga, an inner ring suburb five minutes drive away. Funny, it's been less than two weeks since he left and we've done more together in that time than we normally do in a month.

Furniture is our common bond. I have a tow bar and access to a trailer and he has a bed, and a fridge and a washing machine which need moving. Saturday morning we head to Springwood, a half hours drive south on the motorway. The IKEA showroom is less a building and more of a football field with a roof. We find a park (under the football field) and head upstairs. I nearly turn back to the car when I see the crowd. It's like it's grand final day and it's a sellout.

IKEA is designed to sell you stuff. You enter one end and can't deviate from a preset path until you reach the exit 30 minutes later. As a maze it works well. I wish I was a kid again and maybe I could enjoy it. We do some aisle surfing, swerving in and out and around families who seem to have come for a sightseeing trip. A day out at IKEA. We're efficient. We spot the table we want, sit on four seemingly identical plastic chairs and select the cheapest and head towards the pick up area and the exit. Nick has noted the code and pick up aisle on his iPhone. Things are going smoothly. We find the aisle, load the flatpacks on to a trolley and head for the cashier. We're all done in twenty minutes. We've broken the official land speed record for shopping at IKEA.

That afternoon the fun begins. We carry the rectangular packages up one flight of stairs to the flat and feverishly begin to pull the boxes apart. Ten minutes later the floor is awash with discarded plastic and cardboard and we've laid out the pieces we need to put together. We start with the table. IKEA instructions are designed to work as well in China as on the coastal plains of Australia. Everything is set out as a series of diagrams.

At first glance it looks like a simple task and the first few steps flow freely. We chat and laugh and line things up together, the only challenge comes with attaching the legs. Hey, who needs legs on a table? We choose to continue, deciding eating Japanese style is probably not our ultimate goal. We do manage to finish the job and set it up in the corner of the room. It's white melamine and looks good. Our struggle with the legs was a simple case of alignment - bolt with socket. We've made a few false starts but it doesn't prepare us for the chairs.

These chairs are SIMPLE. Four pieces of black metal plus a plastic back and a seat. We also have two screws, four bolts and an Allan key. We follow the large diagrams. They are designed for children and could translate into a childrens illustrated story book - "My Chair". Sadly these two adults have lost their ability to read children's books and the first horizontal metal rod connecting the left and right frames across the front takes twenty minutes to attach. We've explored sixteen variations in our attempts and finally have them in place.

We then turn our attention to the rear cross bar and after five minutes have managed to complete the second step. Next comes another straightforward task. The diagram tells us we need to "slide a plastic sleeve up the back upright, rotate and attach it with the screw provided". This takes another seven minutes. Nick is impatient and keeps trying to force the screw, consistently missing the intended destination. I take over and demonstrate to him the art of gentle persuasion. 'It like making love to a woman' I tell him, 'don't force it. It's all about touch. Be gentle'. He looks at me bemused.

I may be older and think myself wiser, but my eyesight is not my best ally. The black plastic sleeve and the black metal frame contrive to turn me into a blind man. I can't see the hole. I resort to closing my eyes and working by touch, caressing the pieces into place. The final step in constructing the chair is to slide the plastic back over the metal sleeves and then over the plastic guides until with a final 'CLICK', the only words included in the instructions, it will be finished. But there is no way the plastics will fit, let alone 'CLICK'.

We try the same step a number of times until out of the corner of my eye I spy the instructions lying beside me as I work on my hands and knees and the penny drops. 'Shit', I say to Nick. 'We've got the frame reversed'. 'Are we dumb or something?' asks Nick, beginning to lose confidence in his intelligence and his fathers. I assure him that IKEA has set out to achieve this outcome on a global level. The Swedish pointing out to the rest of the world how intellectually and visually advanced they are and how far we have to go before we catch them.

We start again, unscrewing all the connecting screws and bolts until we again have a pile of bits strewn around us. It's now thirty five minutes we've spent on this one chair. Luckily we have learnt something from the previous excruciating experience and our second attempt achieves an outcome in five minutes. The sun is sinking. We decide to proceed, attacking the task of putting the final two chairs together with enthusiasm.

We have succeeded in completing our task. We have managed to avoid serious damage to our relationship and I have demonstrated to my son that my sixty one years of life have taught me many things, about women, relationships, trailers and tow bars, curtain rods and light fittings, cooking and budgeting but clearly I have not reached full competency in the IKEA department.

It's then that Nick digs into his pocket to check for messages on his iPhone. His face drains. It's not there. I pretend to stay calm. We retrace our steps and realise that he must have put it on the shelving in the aisle where we loaded the table on to our trolley. We've been so busy he hasn't paid attention to his favourite toy. 'How much to replace your iPhone if you've lost it' I ask gingerly. '$900' he replies, his body language giving away his despair.

It's a forty minute drive down the highway at this time of day. We're part of the endless sets of tail lights as we have another opportunity for extended father son bonding and we have IKEA to thank.

Phoenix

I've arrived at 'the framer' to pick up a print for my wife's birthday. It's a piece from Vanuatu. I like this artwork. I'ts as a woman's story. I sense a strong feminine essence in this work. I see children sheltering in a safe place from a menacing presence. The children are fish and shelter in the centre of a breadfruit plant. There is security in this womblike haven. The world is a dangerous and wild place. I'm quite chuffed with myself. For once I'm thinking of her tastes and not mine in selecting a gift, an art piece.

'Be with you in a moment' calls Kerry as I enter the shop. She's tall, fit and wearing navy jeans and a dark t-shirt. She is an artisan in artisan's clothes. Her eyes glimmer with excitement at the prospect of framing another loved piece brought to her by another stranger.

The shop was once a butchers shop in the days when the butcher had his own smoking room. It's still there behind the old timber structure. These days its painted in shades of cream and heritage brown. It fits in with the new West End where style is gradually pushing out the old grunge, the old charm. Still Kerry is okay. She's had a connection with the area for many years. She understands the place. She has kept the business simple. For her it's about making things, not a glossy and superficial shop full of baubles.

I wander around the open space while I wait. She has some local artist's work on the walls and a pile of cheap, ready made frames propped up against the wall. There are two other people waiting. A young woman about five foot three with long blonde hair. She's wearing jeans and a singlet top. It shows off her strong young body and seems to accentuate her quiet presence. There's a tall bloke with her. Nothing much to report about him. They talk quietly.

'Okay' says Kerry as she turns her attention to the three of us. "Won't be a moment' she again says to me. I'm in no hurry I think. But she's making sure I know she hasn't forgotten me. She disappears into the back and brings out a number of large images which have been mounted on lightweight foam sandwich backing. The only image I can see is of a young blonde woman with a shoulder smashed with tattoos. Only then do I notice the tattoos creeping across the shoulders of the young woman in front of me and flowing down the inside of her upper arm. They are flowers and vines and abstract designs - not roses and romantic flowers. These have a tough edge and the red reminds me of blood. There's not a dragon in sight.

When she speaks I am shocked. I expect this pure sound to fill the room but her voice is thin and its American. This is not the voice of mainstream America. No movie comes to mind which could help me. It's a little girl's voice, almost innocent but there's somthing not right. The voice shouldn't have a tattoo on its shoulder. I try to imagine the map of North America. and struggle to find a state to place her in. I realise how limited my knowledge of geography is. I imagine she's from somewhere remote but the best I can do is to picture a large expanse of desert. She's a survivor of a harsh environment. That's my guess.

The exchange is over in less than a minute and she exits with her male friend carrying the collection of images. 'Thanks Phoenix' says Kerry. 'All the best with the show.'

I watch her walk out into the soft afternoon haze and turn back to Kerry who has retrieved my piece from the storeroom. 'Phoenix' I say out loud for no one in particular. I turn to Kerry. 'What's Phoenix's story' I ask, sensing something here than I am not aware of. Kerry lets out a short breath and arches her eyebrows. 'Oh. She's getting ready for 'sexpo'. She's got a stand. She's a stripper.' Kerry is wrapping my frame and shares this with me as if I should know.

'So those pieces are her backdrop?' I probe. 'Sort of' says Kerry. 'There's some beauties there' she adds. 'I wrapped them up so the most discreet one was at the front. There's a couple of pretty hot ones' she adds as she prints out my invoice.

My present looks good. We've made the right choice with the frame. My women's piece seems rather demure beside Phoenix's.

At home I do a little research. I google Phoenix and Sexpo and there she is. She's a cover girl for the news-stand mags that men love, Picture and People. She has a bio that tells of a body which has travelled the world. She's selling what she's got while she can.

I can't get that voice out of my head. 'Good that she's a dancer' I think.

Mowers as Metaphors

I realised two days ago that my relationship with my motor mower parallels that with my wife.

I've written about my mower previously but have written very little about my wife.

I bought a new mower about three years ago after my previous mower and I had come to an impasse in our relationship. She (I shall give her the feminine gender for no particular reason) had reached the point where getting her started required a lot more coaxing than I was prepared to do. So, like any normal middle aged man with an identity crisis, I decided to trade her in for a new model. I did my research and compared performance, styling and cost and eventually drove across to the other side of the city to pick up my new 'Victa'. It didn't have a tried and true Briggs and Stratton motor but an Italian engine - a Takumsi. It was on special and I figured that a new motor mower is a new motor mower and hell, what could go wrong.

Well as it turned out my new mower had a personality - don't you hate that. I wanted a compliant workhorse who would do my bidding, no questions asked and with no hesitation. All went well for the first few months. It must have been a wet year and she got a regular outing. We were getting on fine. Then over winter she sat and, well, maybe she felt neglected because come spring her tone had changed. I did everything the same. Same petrol, same oil, same foreplay but no response. I swear I sometimes spent two maybe three days sweating and swearing until finally I would give up and rinse the air filter and replace it afresh. Every time I did this she started the first time. But every time it came to the nest mowing weekend I refused to accept that this was my fate. I wanted a mower that would start first pull of the start cord without me having to meet her need for a sweet and clean air filter. Now you would think I would learn, but three years later Iwas still saying to myself (and my wife) 'just one more pull on this cord and....' I was a slow learner.

Until last weekend. For the first timeI finally accepted who was in charge. I knew that if i changed the air filter before I pulled the start cord that it would start first time. I had been doing this for about the last three or four times but always reluctantly. This time I understood who was in charge. I relented. I bowed to the greater force. and it worked. we have reached an understanding.

And in my other life I have also accepted this. When my wife and I travel and whenever some fork in the road of decision making is upon us I simply say "yes boss" to her assertive suggestion that we do it her way. Of course the "yes boss" has a sting in the tail and it always pisses her off. She doesn't accept the implied "you always win" tone of my compliance, my henpecked husband routine. And so we begin another round of 'counting the times when you've/I've.............' Luckily we like each other and rather than end in tears and a new mower, it genreally ends in laughter. The laughter of the familiar. The game that never ends.

PS she does get her way more often than I do .... but don't tell her I said that.

The house next door

There's only one car next door I remarked to my wife. I haven't seen the kids around for a while.
It was the end of school holidays so I assumed that perhaps they'd extended their stay away. The weather had been terrible and now, as the school term began again, suddenly, it was clear skies. I'd have extended my leave if I'd had the option too.

At the end of another week the silence continued. There were glimpses of a car entering and leaving and occasionally the dog returning from a morning walk. There were moments of familiarity. But there was no noise. No lights in the kids bedroom, no laughter. The pool failed to erupt with squeals and games each afternoon. There was no constant flow of cars dropping and picking up kids. It was an absence of laughter. The house seemed to have died.

I'm not one to give houses personalities but when the rhythm stops it feels like a loss. This was exacerbated by the relocation of our other neighbour of more than ten years, and a close friend, to a distant suburb. There was a mourning feel to the neighbourhood.

Yesterday as I pulled up outside my house my disappeared neighbour was stepping from her car. She'd parked on the other side of the street outside her own house. I'd never seen her do that before. Hi. I called. Havent seen you for a while. And then she began to cry. And some of the tale tumbled out amidst apologies for the tears and some embarrassment. I moved out in May she informed me.

Oh my god. This was the middle of October and it had taken that long for the penny to drop. I felt stupid. Admittedly we had been overseas for June and July but three months, five months? How could that happen?

When was I going to ask? If ever? Was it any of my business? Perhaps not. But if neighbourhoods have any life., any real sense of community when and how do we share these stories. How do we make sense of them without being intrusive. Without it being gossip.

The boys visit three or four nights a week. But something vital has gone from our street.
My house mourns that loss.

Magpie 29 Picture perfect

Wistful, dreamy, picture book homes exist.
Slate roofed, cream brick, vine covered
set in large estates
with huge dogs loping across expansive lawns.
I know.
I've driven past them.
They sit in suburbs on hills with views of the city.
Highgate in London, Ascot in Brisbane, Potts Point in Sydney.
I'm not envious.
I'm just more aligned to other planets.
And other lives.

I drive through the poorer suburbs
and wonder at their lives.
I see small houses on small lots.
Fibro, corrugated iron, champerboard.
The yards are sometimes bare.
They're rentals or housing commission.
Some of them are unkempt
but many are proudly neat and loved.
There's an honesty about these suburbs.
A lack of pretension.
I grow to like that about them.

Aussie Rules

Today I'm visiting a youth centre in one of these areas. I'm in the simple kitchen of this simple youth facility making myself a cup of tea. I'm not familiar with the place so I'm searching for the tea bags and the mugs and the sugar. I open every cupboard and drawer. All the time I'm doing this I notice out of the corner of my eye these three African boys sitting together on the floor. There's no one else here except for the three staff members and myself. It's 11am and all the local kids are at school or hiding at local skate parks or in the bush on their bikes. They don't turn up here if their wagging school. But here are these three looking very comfortable. They look about 16 and maybe school age but Jeff, who's in charge, doesn't make any comment.

After a while I wander over towards them. They're sitting in the far corner of the activity space and they're playing a game on the TV. A Playstation game I guess. They are totally engrossed and calling to the screen as they compete against each other.

There's been a lot of tension in the local suburbs lately. In the past few years increasing numbers of African migrants and refugees have arrived and settled here. The locals don't like the way they hang around the street and gather in groups in parks. They're too different. They've come from refugee camps where home has been a cardboard box or a sheet of iron held up by four posts or, if they're lucky, a tent with sides.

Now here they are in Australia. Their housing commission home is luxury. And here they are playing and feeling safe. I step a bit closer to see what game they're playing. I'm looking for a way in. I want to make contact. They're playing a ball game, but it's not their native game. It's not soccer. I hear one of them call to his player on the screen 'MARK!' It's a term I'm familiar with. I look more closely. My whole body bursts into a smile. An athletic figure wearing the colours of my favourite team, the Brisbane Lions, soars into the air to take a beautiful high catch. A mark. 'Do you like that game?' I ask. 'Yeah, its good' they say and turn back to the game to send their players scrambling for the ball. To take that mark and kick a long low drop punt towards the goals.

They're playing Australian Rules Football. Aussie Rules. The iconic Australian game which obsesses the nation. If only their neighbours knew. Aussie Rules could change the world!


For more writing on this theme visit Magpie tales. Click on the Magpie Stamp

That Ordinary House 19 Hopes and Lies

This is part 19 of a story following my brother and I as we try to sell our late parents house. We are do it yourself real estate agents. You can find the first 18 instalments under 'short stories - domestic' in the side bar. We've just spent quite a few instalments exploring the house and the memories it triggers as we escort this family through on our first open house afternoon..

Hopes and Lies

How big is the property again?

Sixteen perches I hear my brother reply.

We love the place.

We’d like to get a builder in to do some costing on a few extensions out the back.

I can’t believe my ears. “We love the place!” They’d even improve on the old cottage. Perhaps do the extension that my father had always refused to do. A strange sense of pride pulses through me. And hope. Maybe we’ve hooked a buyer on our first cast.

I could see what they could see. Push out the back wall a couple of metres to double the size of the kitchen and add an outdoor eating area, my mother’s dying wish. How ironic.

This could be a neat ending.

What are you asking, the elder enquired innocently. Four hundred to four twenty I said on a deep breath. The official valuation had been three forty to three sixty.

That sounds about our price said the younger.

We’ve got a couple of other people interested I lie. We’ll take the best offer.

I felt a surge of power. Wow! Could it be this easy? Maybe we should be asking for a bit more.

Then I see the message in my brother’s eyes. Steady. Play them gently he’s saying. He knows me too well. I’m ready to jump. Don’t want them to spook and throw the hook. Reel them in slowly. Our eyes meet over their heads. He’s right.

We’ll get our builder around here in the next couple of days.

We’re keen, so if he’s happy and the figures add up... the daughter proffers her hand confidently and grasps mine in a firm Germanic handshake.

Here’s my contact details says her blue eyed mother and hands me her card.

My heart sinks. She’s a bloody real estate agent. Cripes! We’re dealing with professionals. My bravado is shaken. My mind races back over the past thirty minutes. Had I missed a vital clue? Tracking back at high speed rewinding, I’m looking for clues. Are they really interested? Had I overplayed my hand.

Then my paranoia kicks in. It becomes clear. She’s been leading me around like a puppy. It’s been a great piece of team work. Two blue eyed women beguiling me while their husbands do the real inspection below decks.

They’re the ones who’ll make the decision. I still haven’t exchanged a word with them. The two women are just the decoys. The blokes talk to each other but in muted tones. Their words are coded. Full of builders terms and engineering references. I haven’t got a chance. I’m a public servant who manages feel-good community projects. I don’t know where the wheel jack is in my car to change a flat tyre. My brother is a soil scientist for god's sake.

Then like a school of fish they turn and head for the exit.

I shake their hands as we reach the front door but it’s not with any meaning. I may as well be the dignitary at a state function clasping anonymous hands. My heart’s not in it. It’s all formality. I fake a smile.

We’ll be in touch once we’ve done the figures, the real estate agent says from the bottom step.

I join my brother on the settee as the afternoon shadows fill the sun room.

We sit and wait.