I’ve written a few post over the last few months about ‘my trek’ or ‘our trek’ which to many make as much sense as Star Trek. I wrote about ‘instructions’ for my trek which I hope were helpful, but upon reading them again I see that they are about as comprehensible as the ‘how to vote’ cards that are handed out at election booths.
I think they all want us to vote above the line by making voting below the line about as easy as solving a Rubic’s cube with all the sides the same colour; perhaps that is really the reason – the puzzle is solved before we start?
Anyway ‘My Trek’ is continuing and I have looked back and this is probably part three?
I think it is about time to seek some more points on my map; or as the Navman tells me, insert a ‘waypoint’. I am drawing my map as I see the ground. Which for the most part defeats the purpose of a map unless you are Captain Cook going somewhere for the first time in a cartographers capacity.
Most of the time I feel like Burke and Wills arriving at the dig tree a day or two late.
I must digress. And in that digression I wrote a muse which I will load up somewhere else as I already understand your attention is waining…. link here to my muse “Satisfied”.
I’m back: My trek. I found an important part of trekking is that some days I travel alone. I suppose we all are, but there has to be some connection with others, otherwise what is the point of trekking anywhere.
Still, my destination is unclear, perhaps unimportant, but it is still hidden behind a smoky mist of today, yesterday and the idea that tomorrow is not set; and in reality a total mystery. I suppose travelling to an unknown destination that you know you have to get to is about faith; yeah, that old chestnut; the belief without evidence (much like the story without facts in the majority of Media Reports – so at least I am not alone in that theological quandary).
I really have nothing new to report on my map making. There seems to be more box canyons than I thought, more areas to mark ‘there be dragons’ and landmarks that turn out to be mirages.
Trekking after all is a lot about discovery. Even walking the same old tracks there is always something new to notice, that was missed when you walked that way a hundred times before.
I broke so many of my rules tonight about watching TV.
I watched the News without appropriately suspending my belief in everything they said?
I then watched a small segment on the creditable ‘news commentary’ show, The Project
I did the above sober
The Media, as I have so fondly called them in the past “The Merchants of Misery” are demonstrating their complete involvement in a world that does not exist, as are our professionally appointed most popular people in charge, our politicians.
I want to rave, but know the average internet exploror only has a few moments before the next Tic-Toc is due with another person dancing badly…. so:
I am watching the Merchants of Misery, accompanied by condescending politically staged medical professionals reciting rhetoric of equally confusing renditions – with people nodding their heads in the background, of incomprehensible lockdowns and red, blue, green and something else areas, being enforced with massive fines in NSW, and travel restrictions and exceptions that allow …..” stuff” and prevent other “stuff” ….. as we open our borders to Victoria…. as the most popular person in South Australia, no qualifications required, The Premier in charge, tells us all to go out in Rundle Street and have a party…..
I couldn’t make this shit up.
I have brought myself to tears of laughter, with a mate, ‘voice overing’ the News bulletin, which, I think would make a great You-Tube channel, but, I not have not bought myself to do it…. as I check in, comply, live in the country and have 100 days of food. I’m okay.
Have a good time in Rundle Street on the piss with Steve Marshall.
I hope this post “The Media” is the beginning of a planned continuation of their abuse and lasts longer than the first session of most Netflix series we are sucked into.
The 21st April just gone, was the day 26 years ago, that Dad shuffled from this mortal coil; I wrote the following and thought I’d posted it, but…..?
A few years ago I wrote about Dad on Father’s Dad and read it this morning; the sentiments remain the same although 6 years have passed – click here to read it.
I woke this morning to a lovely message from my dearest cousin Fiona saying she couldn’t believe it had been all these years…. me neither. I chatted to my sister Cheryl this morning and we both commented that often things still happen in our lives where for that moment we think “Can’t wait to tell Mum/Dad”… before the realisation hits as it has so many times; I have got to the stage that when this happens, I often laugh out loud and savour the moment of remembering our dear Mum and Dad.
Dad was ‘a character’. He laughed easily, forgave quickly and was generous to a fault – but, I have learned that there was no fault in it.
Things I have learned of late is that stories are everything. Our legacy is not left in monuments, plaques, awards or accolades, but in the moments we made someone feel just that little better because of something we did. Most people will not remember what you did, but, they will always remember the way you made them feel.
My Dad’s legacy is that he made people feel better, worthwhile and cared about. This legacy continues as each of us that knew him have the privilege of passing on that feeling; we just have to choose to do it each time we can, as Dad did.
I was often frustrated by Dad’s generosity and forgiveness. It takes a lifetime to understand what is truely worthwhile and although Dad’s life was cut short he did live that lifetime of being who he was. So, I thought I’d just write a few stories about Dad that I have told many times but never written down; if you know these stories and they sound different to the one I told you, know I also have Dad’s flair for poetic license!
I was once driving home from Adelaide and I saw our old Holden passing me going the opposite direction packed to the gunnels, inside and on the roof rack. When I got home I asked Dad if he had sold the Holden and he said yes. ‘A real nice local bloke, he gave me $50.00 deposit and is paying the rest off, each pay day. He was doing it a bit hard.” I told him what I had seen and he just shrugged his shoulders – we never saw the car again and he never saw another cent. Funny part is, I know, he didn’t really mind.
Dad build the quarry up at Loch Luna on Sugarloaf Hill. He slogged building it, mostly by hand and ingenuity with not two cents to rub together. I still travel there today and remember the old fashioned clutch driven ‘steam shovel’ that all us kids loved. Dad had a big offer for the quarry when he was going to retire – in those days it would have set Mum and Dad up for a nice retirement. Dad however had a young fella working for him who he thought needed a break so vendor financed the quarry to him, on a handshake, for a 5th of the money Dad had been offered. Dad saw one $5,000 payment and that was it…. again he never saw another sent.
When I was younger I was frustrated by these, and many other stories. As I have grown older and had time to look back, and perhaps experience more life, I have no frustration, just pride.
I try to live my life, and have for some time, on ‘my mantras’ – I used to say “I will be” before each one, but realised that was just another excuse not to do them until everything was right, and everything is never just right – I now say ‘I am’ because it is who I am, and strive for, each moment:
I am peaceful, I am patient, I am grateful, I am forgiving, I am kind, I don’t judge….
I have just come to the realisation, in writing this, that I say these words daily, yet, Dad lived them daily. If asked he probably couldn’t or wouldn’t have put them into words: he was just Dad, Lindsay, Uncle Lindz… he was just a down to earth, humble, generous bloke who had a laugh along the way…. and lived his mantras.
I have striven all my life to not be ‘poor’ like Mum and Dad; I wanted money, fame, power and all the fancy trappings. I wanted to be rich. Again, another, all of my life realisation: Mum and Dad, were never poor; they were some of the riches people I have ever known, in words that I don’t even have.
Dad was not a religious man, but he often accompanied Mum to Church (we all know he slept most of the time and mumbled the hymns!) ….. he was always one of the first to volunteer to cook the barbecue or ferry people around in the back of his truck.
I am not a ‘religious’ man either, I believe God and I are mates, as I believe Dad had that same sort of relationship too – no pomp, no pious bullshit, acts not words and mostly a heart of gold which looked after the other guy first. I spend a little time each morning reading something positive; today the universe brought me one just for Dad.
“Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit. Rather, in humility value others above yourselves.” Philippians 2:3
My Dad, was a character, but more than that, he was a man of character.
We were lucky that Dad and Mum chose Chris, Cheryl and I.
PS: One final story. When they opened the new Berri Council library, Dad was asked to attend as the Citizen of the Year. So, the first thing he does when he walks in the brand new library is light up one of his Viscount Red cigarettes and proceed to smoke throughout the entire building and flick the ash into the palm of his other hand. The looks on the faces of the Council members and Library staff who were giving him the tour was gold!! – Dad didn’t notice….!?
Well for those who read my post on 26th January 2021, here is Part 2. I have managed to keep the chronology the same as I wrote it in my little ‘travelling notebook’ so I hope it is reasonably understandable – even though most of the journey home I was a bit confused. I apologise there are no photos (PS: I put photos in after….?), but it is a story and not a comic – although?
Enjoy…
17th January 2021: Sunday – Today I chose to do nothing and succeeded!
ISO Day 12
Isolation Day #1. I slept like a log; sleeping from midnight until 11.00 am; Checked the Fit Bit and I was actually asleep all the time other than all the hours I was tossing and turning – I had lots of REM sleep but I think most of it was reliving the journey home.
Now, where did I leave off yesterday? Oh, yeah, Melbourne…. and I think this part of the journey is definitely worth a Part 2.
15th January 2021: Friday: I land in Melbourne; I wore my ‘N95’ mask on the plane, which was a good idea s everyone was in their own separate row, and there were lots of empty rows; except mine where there were three of us and I was sitting in the middle?
The guy on the isle asked the Hostie if we could fill up some of the empty rows, and as nice as she was, apparently the rules were not to change seats until after we had taken off; we complied. First time ever that I didn’t have to fight for an armrest.
NB: Just a point of interest: are airline hosties getting larger and older?
Plus, I noticed that the guy on my left, by the window, was still wearing his hospital arm band; all good; doors closed; taking off soon and I’ll have an isle to myself.
“…. Your Captain speaking. A thunderstorm is passing over the airport so the ground staff for safety reasons can’t oprate and we will have to wait until the storm passes. We don’t want any mishaps from wet tarmac or lightening strikes which I’m sure you all respect and understand….”
Some grumbles throughout the plane but, most nodding with approval and understanding.
I’m sorry, but am I the only one on the plane who doesn’t understand the implications of what the ‘Captain’ just said who is apparently subordinate to some bloke in HiViz who waves ping pong bats!!!!
Plus, I’m about to rumble down the runway at about 300 km/h and the tarmac I suspect will still be wet; and I am sitting in a giant metal lightening rod!!!!
I believe my friend on the left sensed the same thing and saw the gravity of our predicament as a skid pan faraday cage and started pulling on his hospital bracelet? He did manage to calm shortly after when he started to play some music on his iphone…. unfortunately he was playing it at full volume and didn’t have any earphones… things were starting to get interesting as the Hostie waddled past and ignore us.
… and, although it doesn’t sound true the first song he played was “People are Strange” by The Doors!? (It’s interesting to listen to that song as I commented in Part 1: so, I thought with my mate on the left faces were definitely coming out of the rain!)
And, then there is me, not completely devoid of mental ‘challenges’ thinking that my mate on the left might needs a hand and I’m not one for being a bystander, if I can help.
So I said “Hey, mate, The Doors, People are Strange” pointing to his phone which he had jammed to his ear. He nodded, and smiled and asked me when we would be taking off: I told him what the ‘Captain’ had said… I offered him my three quarter bottle of water; I thought considering our sitting positions if we were going to transfer COVID19 it was already done. He took the bottle tentatively and drank the lot in one guzzle…..
…. and we listened to his Doors music, no one else spoke (funny how people will complain about a crying child – but if you have crazy eyes and look a bit dishevelled you can get away with most public displays of weirdness without question or comment?) He smiled and pointed at his phone as each new song started; we listened to Riders of the Storm and a few others and thankfully “The End” wasn’t next on his shuffle playlist!
The thunderstorm passed, the highly tattooed, bearded and Mr Universe muscled ground crews came from hiding in the basement from the scary thunder and rain and got into their enclosed air conditioned ‘plane backing up thingo’, and I am sure someone had the hazard pay for kicking the white wooden block thingo’s from behind the wheels and wave around the ping pong bats, and we were away.
Shortly after a lovely Hostie squeezed down the isle (I apologise but I just remembered the new term is Flight Attendant?) moved us all to the empty rows.
My friend next to the window stayed in his place; later during the flight we caught each others eye and he gave me a smile and a wave.
So we get to Melbourne: I noticed as everyone was getting ready to get off the plane, they seemed kinder to each other?
I realized as we were taxiing to the terminal that perhaps my ‘papers’ were not in order? I switched on my phone and checked my emails first, as about 10 days ago I had applied to re-enter South Australia and even after 2 followup enquiries as to what was happening I was to please to say I received an automated reply to say they were very busy…. As Jackie and I had already completed an ‘entry pass’ to Victoria that appeared to be answered by a computer, that we had never been asked for, I thought I’d do it again….
…. and I did, and before we reached the terminal Hal9000 (for anyone under 60 see movie “2001 a Space Odyssey – Hal9000 was the first movie computer to kill humans for their own good…) gave me the big thumbs up to explore Victoria.
I was flying with our friends at JetStar so expected when we got off we would walk down the stairs and across a windy tarmac, when our informative ‘Captain’ advised us that buses would be transporting us to go straight to quarantine… ?
The seat belt light dings off and over head lockers open and crunched necks under them all looks towards the door; I sit and wait, I’m patient plus I forgot which locker I put my bag in?
We all walk off; I am beginning to not have to think as I am again ushered into a line, onto the bus: I comply. We are all now crammed on a ‘Midnight Express’ bus using the Tetris approach of fitting a giant plane load of people all having been sitting in their separate seats, into a bus a 10th of that size and grabbing hand rails and each other as we stop and start and jerk and weave to the terminal – what a fitting word?
I shouldn’t complain about the driver as I was initially expecting a ‘Bali Airport Bus ride’ and in fact this bloke made Jackie dealing with a bad customer look relatively fast – the pace allowed us all to stay on the bus longer I suppose; don’t want to miss anyone out getting infected.
Finally, we did terminate at the terminal into a coned, taped and signed off area – there is no-one there and people, I presume to be somewhat ‘official’ standing at the front of the bus seemed confused – as did the bus driver as he couldn’t get the front door open – there was many muffled ‘walkie-talkie’ chats – how do they understand each other?….
… and suddenly men in gloves, and masks and shields and yellow plastic gowns came scampering towards us to everyones relief – I thought it was all a bit comical and dystopian at the same time. We are then ushered off the bus, through halls and corridors which I think were previously used by our beloved ground staff to hide during thunderstorms and for a sly smoke, into and area identified by a hastily printed and laminate sign saying; “Arrival hall.” We are met by no doubt hard working, best intentioned, recently trained, contracted and no doubt overpaid “COVID19 OFFICIALS’, they had HiViz and everything- we all line up again, I comply.
I flash my phone as the computer has already told me on the tarmac that I am welcome to Victoria… many others get ushered into the naughty corner to sit down and fill out their forms, on their phones, for the computer to say yes… (I thought that too – what if you didn’t have a phone, or didn’t know how to use it – I didn’t’ see that, which disappointed me a bit?)
… and then there was the poor bastard in front of me ushered into the naughty corner to fill out his forms, with his mate, who doesn’t have a phone as his mate has one… who says “My phone is flat do you have a charger?” The wonderful, underinformed and untrained to anything other than robotic responses, who at that time will always be blazoned in my mind, with his disposable mask, shield, gloves, gown/cape that looked like a many times worn $2.00 poncho for the footy: somehow, I dont know why? Reminded me at that exact moment of the first condom I had ever purchase from Johnny the Barber in my home town in Berri (Johnny is still cutting hair in the same shop 40 years later. I have a tony-tail at the moment but I miss sitting in the shop which I used to do when I first moved back a few years ago, with a minimum 45 minute wait, which was never boring as all the men about town would drop in, some for hair cuts, most not, and exchange the latest tale or rumour or snippet of gossip… I’d learn more in 45 minutes that reading the local paper or perhaps any other source – and some of it was gooooood!)
NB As a side issue, while I am thinking of it; many hours, or it could have been days later, I saw the poor bastard again with the flat phone at the Taxi rank; he was asking all the drivers if any of them had a charger as he had to pay with his phone. I had a charger that fitted his phone that didn’t even fit my phone? I had a power pack as well; but, really who doesn’t travel with a charger? I was a bystander and walked passed – the bloke needed to learn a lesson and I was part of that teaching process.
So, I walked on past to the ‘smoking prison’ and smoked my guts out.
Plus, I am loving the slight bite to the air and walking with my really cool carry on… which I occasionally let go of as I am walking down a slight slope and watch it do little spin turns before I catch up a few steps later…. it is a cool carry on which I bought at ALDI … went to get milk again and came home with a suit case! I always wanted one with the 4 wheels which this one has; I actually bought a full size suit case and when I got home this one was inside like a Babushka Doll!
Interlude: While waiting at the airport, after smoking my guts out, which I did several times, each time having to go through security… My sister Cheryl called me from Perth. We chatted about how things were going as her wife, Sam has breast cancer and is going through treatment. It is funny how at different moments you think of things differently, and even if you change your mind later that thought, that feeling lingers; I think also it has to be a good thought. After I hung up I had a little ‘teary-teary’ as I do love my sister very much and we have gotten over some pretty big hurdles; also Sam and Chery have been together for I think at least 25 years. The thought came to me, that I would give Sam my last years if I could as I want nothing more than to see my sister truely and always happy; I am very proud of her and Sam; I know my girls would understand, but, you can’t transfer cancer. So, I went and got a combination Vietnamese Poh and was grateful it wasn’t me that had cancer.
Belly full, smoking jail visited again, notebook purchased and writing my ‘Jacki and Ian’s Sydney Adventure, Part 1’…. 5 hours in the Melbourne Airport, about an hour on the plane, 3 hours on the road home back to Berri…. What could possibly go wrong: oh, you fool……
Getting Home: 15th – 16th January 2021: I’m starting to enjoy myself going in an out of security to the smoking jail: I like that the same security guards don’t seem to recognise me and give me the same instructions each time, and often different degrees of searching – we don’t have to worry about robots taking over the world they are already here; and they are not that clever….
Okay, I’m bored. I sit myself in a good spot to see the departure screen as apparently the gate we are on is a secret and next to each flight as it comes up is “Relax! Your gate will be displayed in 60 minutes” and it appears that this countdown has no actually rhythm to it as the next screen still telling us to relax could say its 11 minutes or eighty – at least it does appear to be a count down. Now, as you can see, I love the 24 hour clock as that is what I have used during my entire working life, so I was all over when by plane departed.
Now the guy I’m going to talk about doesn’t know this yet as I think I made up a story about what happened next, or just skipped over the question. My mate Mark, who regularly video calls me in the evening and we have a beer together, him in his back room and me in the shed; as we have official notification from many drinking authorities, that this does not count as drinking alone. We have a video call and I am in smoking prison, but move inside as that brisk breeze has now turned into a howling gale and I understand that all airports and public building are designed and specifically engineered to enhance any breeze into wind tunnel equivalent speeds. I chat with Mark for some time as I can’t go through security on the phone. I let him know I have to go inside as my flight is soon; the departure board will be telling me it is anywhere between 13 minutes and 5 minutes before they tell me which gate I have to walk to and how long it will take me to get there…
Security, again: glance up at the departures board “JQ776 Adelaide GATE CLOSED’
There is no direction to ‘RELAX’ so I go into ‘survival mode’; knowing that only 15% of all people on the planet are natural survivors and that in the movies when you get to the gate they always let you in if you tell them a story about life or death, or love…..
But, I decide to run because although there is no ‘walking time’ on the board it is Gate 59 or something similar…. I try to run and look cool and pretend I am the kid in love actually weaving through the crowd…
I see the ‘travelator’ knowing that most people just stand on them and block the way but they are designed to either do great YouTube clips on or get you to your destination faster… I might add at this stage my cool jog may have turned a little into a desperate sprint and I am multi tasking and thinking up a story to tell the gate attenants along the lines of I am a bone marrow donator and a small child has only 24 hours to live…… and I prove that men can’t multi-task and jump on the travelator on the right that is apparently going the wrong way but I am committed at this stage and give it that extra spurt feeling the muscles ripping from my shins knowing walking may be a problem tomorrow; I shoot of the end off the end of the longest travelator I have ever been on at about 30 km/h and if not for the sea anchor of my ALDI carry on would have fallen flat on my face: I don’t know if anyone has seen any of this as I am in survival mode with the peripheral vision of looking down one of McDonald terrible new paper straws.
I’m at Gate 1599: the wheels on my ALDI carry on are smoking and my legs are like jelly, but, hallelujah there are people in orange uniforms and I say, almost breathlessly and with a deliberate pathetic whine “Am ….. I ….. too ….. late.”
In the calmest of voices, me expecting to hear “of course not sir, we heard about the bone marrow donation…” a lovely flight Attendant, or in this case the evil Gate Keeper says: ‘Yeah, it’s gone. Go downstairs to the service desk and they should be able to assist you.”
In this well rehearsed rebuke of pleasantries he waves his arm at the gate door in what I see as his private triumph. In one last hope I look past the gate keeper thinking if the plane is close enough I could jump (to a certain extent I am still in a movie?) and see but one thing; my trip nemesis’s the infamous ground crew are triumphantly backing my plane out in their air-conditioned comfort; the bastards.
I walk the 7 or 8 kilometres back to the departure lounge, using the travelator in the right direction and just standing there; I go down the familiar escalator and take a moment in smoking prison to gather my thoughts.
Okay, this is not a disaster, but just another unplanned leg on the adventure; I am the 15% survivor. I approach the ‘service desk’ with a plan and draw the attention of the three ladies behind the counter “Hey, what’s going on here….” leaving that hanging for effect, before and looking at three stares that are drifting from surprise, disbelief to instantaneous thoughts of ways they were going to delay me for days at the maximum cost when I follow up with “…. obviously you have to be a model to work here….” the looks soften and smiles appearing, and the coupe-de-gras “…no, if must be a models conference and here’s me thinking it was the service desk…”
…. about thirty minutes later I have a rebooked flight, seat 5A, all with no charge.
I’m back!
I plan to relive Tom Hanks role in “The Terminal’ and live in the airport for 20 hours before my flight leaves; easy, free wiFi, comfortable bench and I am sure I can con a free meal and coffee…. my somewhat lethargic step has a new bounce although the hammy is stinging a bit and I approach my old friends at the security check point.
“Excuse me sir, do you have a boarding pass?”
Cool, this is a new one. I confidently whip out my paper boarding pass which the models issue to me and with the arrogance that comes only before a fall swagger the words out “Here ya go then.”
“I’m sorry, the domestic terminal is closed and this ticket is for tomorrow.” I hate statements which are suppose to be questions or directions, so I answer this robot of rhetoric with the first thing that comes to the master of wit:
“Wha?”
At that stage my security robot without emotion, and I am sure, she didn’t blink, monotones at me:
“The international terminal is open and there are motel’s nearby.”
I find myself channeling one of the greats; Richard Gere in an “Officer and a Gentleman” when he is being punished by the Sergeant Major and is told that is doesn’t matter what he does he is going to be kicked out. I feel the moment, I save the tears, but take the tone:
“I got nowhere else to go.” I think I managed a whimper.
My darling uniformed, unblinking Stepford Wife, is unmoved. I turn with my little ALDI carry on, which was packed for one day and start to slowly walk away:
“Sir, it’s the other way.” I don’t look up. I turn around and shuffle off, I think I developed a limp until I was out of view.
I realise another moment in smoking prison is what I need and perhaps an internet search for boarding houses nearby.
I make my way to my favourite exit, with doors that only seems to sense me just before I walk into them; again timed perfectly, as it begins to open an old lady on a walker smashes into my ankles. We are the only two people in the airport at this time other than the robots. Always the gentleman, I step aside as the doors open as she cackles at me is a voice of death “Where are the Taxis” – just as she walks into gale force winds and a torrential down poor.
I laugh. I think a little bit too high pitched. Granny grimaces at me as all I can say is “Can I help you.” I get a no thank you without the thank you and I let the doors close with the Wicked Witch of the West on the other side. I laugh again and I’m glad I’m not her.
I sit in the part of the airport where all of the robot booking in terminals are and search the internet: my Tom Hanks plan abandoned. I see the fancy hotels but I’m going for speed. The IBIS Budget Motel looks good for me and is within walking distance – the rain has stopped, the airport is abandoned and I’m feeling like The Omega Man. A Taxi driver stops and asks if I need a ride and I explain my IBIS Budget Motel plan and he gives me directions which are helpful but finished with the phrase “… its hard to get to from here…” I set of with my little ALDI carry on in tow and Google maps talking to me in the background and apparently only 800 metres to go, not problems I ran further than that a few hours ago to miss a plane.
Just another little interlude: As I was walking to the motel I saw a young lady about Jackie’s age sitting under the terminal veranha, in a T-shirt and no shoes. I walked past as I was probably creepier to her and more worrying than any help I could provide; but, I was in a good mood and would at best just get a smoke bummed off me or told to please go away with the use of two words. I stopped and turned and said “Are you okay?” in my most Fatherly caring voice and she replied “Yeah, I just finished work and Mum is picking me up” “No problems, it’s just a bit cold, thought I’d check” I replied and turned to keep walking when “Hey” I turned back “Thanks” she said, smiled and I smiled back and walked on towards the motel. I got to where the path turned and could see back to where she was; and her Mum picked her up; and, I felt the better for it.
Onward, along the path which appeared to be manufactured as a texture test track for my ALDI bag and Google telling me I was there. I walked around a couple of industrial sheds and found the IBIS Motel right there. I might add, a welcoming site – I was getting a bit knackered by this time.
I walked into reception and the only other thing that would have surprised me more was if my friend from the plane was there or they were playing The Doors over the speakers…. ….there was the Wicked Witch of the West with her walker demanding the guy on reception carry her bags to her room. I sat patiently in the waiting area and eventually after the witch had gone, I was booked in and carried my own bag to my room.
It was a great little room; my idea of an airport hotel; clean and basic with everything working and nothing you don’t need to pay for. I had a shower, hit the sack in clean crisp white sheets and suspect I was asleep in 10 seconds.
I want to say the next morning, the adventure got even more exciting, but it just didn’t. I had a Macca’s breakfast marvelling at the staff who though wearing a mask didn’t mean covering your nose; which as I stood there waiting for my sausage McMuffin was revealed to me as a trend set by the two uniform cops who came in showing their noses.
I walked back to the terminal; through security and my robot buddies; it must have been a new shift as this mob mainly ignored us travellers and appeared more intent on chatting to each other.
Then I sat, watched the departure board and went to the Gate at a leisurely pace and didn’t use the travelator. I suppose I then saw why they post the gates late; there is no where to sit and we are all crammed in a very small area standing around waiting for the Gate Keeper to open up. I hung at the back with my up front seat.
On the plane sitting one seat away from a lady who made the Wicked Witch of the West’s gaze look positively pleasant, so, headphones on and a meditation to Adelaide (well I slept?).
It’s not really exciting here on as we did, step forward, repeat… going through screening where I looked surprised when they told me I had to do 2 weeks isolation and asking multiple times if they were sure – they were sure. They had received their training last week and were told to be sure even if they weren’t….
I drove home and loved the trip which I took at a leisurely pace: I laughed when I walked through the front door as I was so glad to be home: I drank beer and went to bed.
Well, that’s my trek with my wonderful daughter Jackie and the return trip of an idiot – much like the Ricky Gervais show An Idiot Abroad, but this was just in Sydney and Melbourne.
I have just returned from getting my Day 12 COVID19 test and only have a few days to go; there will be no Part 3 of me in isolation as basically I did nothing. In reflection of my ‘adventure’ I probably realised a few things:
If the pandemic has another wave in Australia we really need to learn how to wear face-masks and not touch our faces; and what 1.5 metres really is.
When something has happened, not matter how you feel about it, you can’t change if from having happened; so, you may as well accept it and enjoy it.
Road trips are cool (especially with your kids, one-on-one).
Coming home is always fantastic not matter how great the journey.
I am sure I will go on many more adventures, journeys and treks …. I am planning a trek for a year (well that is as far as I have got so far, I don’t know where, I don’t know how and I don’t know when, I just know I’m going….) and hoefully will be able to share many more stories.
Be Happy, Be Healthy, Be Peaceful, Say Hello and Smile…. it scares the shit out of people!
I wrote the following as the adventure was almost to an end; little did I know that Part 2 was equally exciting. I have just transcribed my writings from a notebook I bought at the airport, so the chronology is a little challenging… but, it is what it is, as this is what it was.
So, let’s get to Part 1….
15th January 2021: Friday – As I sit in the Melbourne Airport, with another 2 and a half hours until my flight back to Adelaide, and if they let me in, another 3 hour drive home to Berri, in the dark? I thought to myself, self, I shall have a little reflection on the last couple of days as I escorted my youngest to a new life, new job and no doubt new adventures in Sydney.
I might add, it just feels great to be actually writing pen on paper again; I hope all the electronic journals I now use are, will be, with all the others; at least the girls can read the types ones and not my cursive!
So when did we leave? It was actually is a little hard to remember?
13th January 2021: Wednesday – and so it began. I drove down to Adelaide pretty early in the morning as I had scheduled with a mate Adam to attend and interview with him – you know the old caring support person – except I was ready to pounce!! So, when that was done there was only one way to celebrate and that was to have pies for lunch by the beach.
The morning went quickly and so I went down to the Adelaide airport to leve my car in the long term carpark and walked back to the terminal for Jackie to pick me up.
So, around 14:30 I was in the car with Jackie, only just as it was packed to the roof with all her things to take on the move – I didn’t realise until later that the two four draw cabinets in the back were full on make up…. in fairness jackie has been a makeup artist for Mac for the last few years. I did manage to find a little gap to put in my carry on bag after some re-arranging which Bryony, Jackies Mum, had told Jackie I would do?!
We had a pretty pleasant drive to Berri and a really nice evening and a few chats. We watched a movie (John Wick!!!) after cooking dinner together and had a Dad and Daughter evening; can’t remember the last time I did that with just one of my girls.
Jackie hit the sack at about 2230 and me not long after: well actually after a few more ciders and smokes – great idea with 1200 kilometres to drive tomorrow!
14th January 2021: Thursday – We got up to an early start and it didn’t feel like we were rushing too much. I cooked eggs and avocado toast for both of us, and a coffee; all went just like last night and it was just lovely.
Away early to Mildura….
I just remembered, the excitement started early yesterday. When Jackie picked me up from the airport she hadn’t thought to refuel her car so we ran the gauntlet all the way to Nuriootpa before refuelling; I was very bravado about the entire thing, but pretty sure halfway there we weren’t going to make it! With the fuel light on from Gepps Cross we eventually pulled in, I think literally on the smell of an oily rag. I thought this was a good omen for the rest of the trip.
So, back to where I was, Thursday morning off to Mildura.
16th January 2021: Saturday – The future is definitely not set?! I missed my flight home to Adelaide last night, so I am sitting in the Melbourne Airport waiting to go later this afternoon; it is now 1230 and I fly out at 1655; a few hours yet, so, I think I would like to continue my story from yesterday, or was it the day before, as to how I actually got here, and how it has not actually been a ‘trk’ other than having the hallmarks of one…..
14th January 2021: Thursday – Jackie and I set off from Berri heading to Mildura which is about 160 km away and on roads that I had travelled on several times before. Although when we got to Mildura we had to refer to our old friend Google Maps to actually get us into New South Wales.
…. which of course reminds me that very soon after leaving home we did cross the border into Victoria. We did see that there was a big presence of bio-security and Police at Yamba which, I suppose is more the ‘official’ entry into the Riverland and has been there since I was a kid. Basically the fruit fly inspection which now is also being used to keep out other bugs.
It was fun and interesting to shove my very limited knowledge of history and the rivrland and the Australia we were travelling through – I did know that the Mildura working Man’s club used to and for all I knew still had the longest continuous bar in the souther hemisphere; these are real gems of knowledge. I suppose the world has become so electronically small that teaching or learning about how irrigation was introduced to the Riverland or other extraneous facts just don’t hold the weight or interest as much as a cat riding a vacuum cleaner or the latest video clip..It just seems that I knew all this from when I went to school; I can’t really remember looking it up since – maybe now I will?
So, down the main street of Mildura, without getting lost and across the mighty Murray, again I might add, leaving Victoria and entering New South Wales.
We had to apply for ‘permits’ to enter Victoria which both Jackie and I did, even though it appeared to be an automated service; they were never checked? As, we left Victoria, over the bridge for NSW it was as if we were never there… except…
… on the bridge coming from NSW to Victoria there was a massive line up of cars, uniforms everywhere and temporary tents and inspection stops all along the bridge; it was a bit disconcerting and I realised the only time I had seen this before was overseas or in science fiction movies – I decided not to share this with Jackie.
After doing over the bridge we both agreed it was coffee time so we saw out first coffee shop at GolGol.
It was one of many places and towns we would travel through with repeated names, eg Wagga-Wagga, being just one (I think I will find them all later if I type this up and send the story to Jackie – of course I will have to type it us so Jackie can read it – looking back at the following pages and my deteriorating had writing and chronological scatter gun approach I may have trouble deciphering it myself) (Author Note – I didn’t look up all the towns…)
In GolGol; me telling Jackie the historical fact that the original topographer was afflicted with a stutter and his junior scribe was too scared to correct him hence the naming of all the towns with double words….
Into the GolGol general store, which was called the ‘Golly Cafe’ without to higher expectations. Immediately upon entry we knew it was going to be good as it was full of locals and had a magnificent cake cabinet with a vanilla square that was calling out to both Jackie and I; we did however decide to share. The staff were all happy, helpful and engaging; both Jackie and I commented on this and agreed when we got back in the car.
The Golly Cafe served up our vanilla slice and being forever the practical one decided to cut it exactly in half rather than at 110 km/h later in the car; no knife…. but, Ian is the ultimate doomsday prepper and the master of innovation and decides his credit card is sharp enough… and proceeds to flatten the vanilla slice in the middle, not cutting happening but custard squeezing out both ends…. the staff laugh, Jackie films and we get a knife, make the cut, grab coffees and hit the road… I eat most of the squashed bit; but it was a fantastic vanilla slice anyway!
Jackie’s now behind the wheel.
We headed from our coffee stop and a little getting over what we had seen on the bridge coming from NSW to victoria. The cars were lined for at least a kilometre and all the tents and uniforms had definately made an impression on both of us. I know it is all for our safety and it looked like many were just going through on cross boarder passes, no doubt for work; but, as Jackie commented, it was ‘scary’. I agreed, yet thought it also ‘ominous’ which I also didn’t share.
But, we were on a ‘road trip’ and Jackie had her play list on which to me sounded like the same ‘boom-boom boom-boom’ song over and over again…. and we just burned the kilometres…
Some time crossing the Hay Plain, ot later?… we did change drivers again and thankfully play lists! Jackie and her sisters had been subjected to my taste in music from their younger years: Jackie got to experience the full 15 minutes of The Doors, The End and I became a Tik-Tok start singing the finale. I also thought their song “people are Strange” was pertinent, because it is a song really about being a ‘stranger’ as Jackie may feel for sometime in her new home.
And, our Australia drivers never disappoint and over a few hundred kilometres we got to see great examples both by truck and cars; and Jackie and I both realised that trying to understand what they were doing and more importantly why, was like trying to solve an illogical problem with logic….
Which brings me to fun we had on our travels on Friday, which seems to fit here in giving each other logic problems to solve. jackie got an early advantage which stumped me for a while and I had one which drove Jackie insane for 100’s of kilometres…. so I thought I’d share (I will never tell you the answer but when you get the right answer – not just a guess which you hope is right – you will know it is the right answer…)(… and they are all solveable with the information you are given…)
Two men are found dead, on top of a mountain, in a cabin. How did they die?
A boy is with his Father when the boy is seriously injured. The Father rushes him to hospital. The Doctor comes out and says I can’t operate on him, I’m related; he’s my son. How could this be?
A man is walking his daughter to church. They cross a railway line and a train runs over the man’s foot, he is not injured. How can this be?
At night a man is standing on top of a hill. He lights a cigarette and fires a Cannon. What is his occupation?
Good luck….
Just to show off: I’ll let you know I made up the last two!
Games in the car were killing the kilometres and I think we both learned stuff along the way. We continued to burn the kilometres all day and decided that we had a good breakfast, a great squashed vanilla slice and we had stopped for fuel and got ‘snacks’ which Jackie insisted were potato chips and Twisties!
We decide to just keep driving and have lunch and dinner combined. We couldn’t decide if that would be a ‘dinch’ or a ‘lunner’. I like the first one but would love the second one if you spelt it with 3 n’s?
It was fitting then that we had dinch in Wagga Wagga; Jackie had a healthy vegetarian subway and I decided to see how much KFC and coke I could force down my throat? The kilometres were burning away; play lists changed to local radio and chatting and conundrums filled the spaces.
We actually had a plan to stay a few hundred kilometres out of Sydney so that I wouldn’t have to travel into any ‘COVID19 RED ZONES’ (All the terms are sounding more and more like the dystopian futures I watch are read in my science fiction…)….not that we had actually booked anything?
So Goulburn approached and seemed good and ‘The Bakehouse Motel’ had good review and more importantly was within our price range and had vacancies. Arrival was easy and the guy at reception was friendly and helpful; although Jackie did point out that his directions to the nearest hotel were lost to her after the 5th turn and ‘going up the road a bit, about 5 minutes, and there is a great little pub’ – we never found it.
Jackie showered and I was sent on a shopping expedition for cider, smokes and a vegetarian rice thing that I would find in the freezer section at the super market? I should have had the first shower!
I drove into downtown Goulburn and it was lovely: so many lovely places in Australia.
Everything really is ‘close’ in Australia; especially for a population who historically (in the country areas anyway)who would drive 60 km for a Hamburger at midnight and home again…. and, the countryside, even over the Hay Plain, is never the same, changes all the time, especially over all the kilometres we had done that day.
I was back at the motel after only a slight geographical embarrassment and the grattitude that I had not been killed when I initially pulled out of the motel on this journey, straight in front of two cars, one from the left the other from the right in a classic pincher movement; both braked hard…. then smiled and waved….
This actions by the locals, and the motel manager at reception was the first of many polite and friendly encounters I had in my short shopping expedition in Gouldburn; the ladies in the smoke shop, the guy in the bottle shop, the checkout dude scanning my frozen veg rice and qwinwhaa abomination (ok – quinoa); plus I drove past nice parks, old well looked after building and people out and about; it made me happy.
Jackie heated her healthy dinner by blasting it with microwaves and I drank a few ciders outside, doing the fellow traveller nod, and a g’day as you accidentally make eye contact in the motel carpark.
We were both a bit knackered so we jumped into bed (of course I had a cider on the night stand!) and said we’d take pot luck with a movie and both laughed, both seeing the wrongness of ‘super Bad’ and loving it at the same time.
… a good end to a ‘Dad and Daughter Road Trip Day’.
15th January 2021: Friday – Well, here will be a day that will go down in the annuls (or anals!) of our family history; butt, remember, that in this next tale nobody dies, so it was a good day.
Jackie and I had set our alarm for an early start; you know around eightish. We moved with the pace that Jackie described to me that she moved at when she had a difficult customer in retail – glacial… but, Maccas breakfast awaited us and we sat in the ‘restaurant’ (the definition of which has certainly changed where it was required to wear a shirt and tie)… and I explored the wonder of the Macca’s ‘Hot Cakes.’
We took a photo!
Jackie driving on the last leg of our journey together; straight to the Sydney airport what I thought was all through ‘GREEN ZONES’ ? flight out tonight and I was away.
Jackie got us the last few hundred km’s super dafe and alive although it seemed that every truck we came across was trying to kill us and we were the only ones who were’t speeding. It was nice to have some 500 km of freewway into sydney over the last couple of days.
Man1 We arrival at the Sydney Airport drop off zone brought home that I now had to let go of my little girl for her to live her new life and adventure, a long way away. I wrote the following in my little book of wisdom that I keep and was sure that I had included it one time or another in cards I had given to my girls. Now it was coming true:
Your World
Take any opportunity to live overseas or at least interstate. this is not going on a holiday but living there. Learn to be independent; enjoy your own company, miss home (and cherish it); experience another culture; eat their food, speak their language; make friends with the world and mainly yourself. Love the worlds diversity and vastness; don’t feel small, feel a part of it.
At the airport we managed to get my bag out the back of jackie’s car without the use of a crow bar; and there we were, about to part.
The little tear on Jackie’s cheek and the quiver of her chin will be with me always; in that moment, I thought how lucky I was to be here with my wonderful daughter; and now she had to make her own way.
On this trip, we had done many miles; for me and Jackie to I hope, we had done many years. I learned things and I got to know my daughter and more about the years, the people and the decisions that had got her to this farewell.
I learned of the life Bryony, Kym and William had created with our girls; there are some debts you can never repay; then again I am sure no repayment is necessary, asked for, or expected. i was privileged to be the parent that took our daughter to the launching pad of her new life….
…. and I said farewell to our youngest daughter and sister who would be the farthest away but forever just around the corner in our hearts and thought…. and that interweb video chat thingo.
Jackie drove away, leaving a very proud Dad with about 4 hours before his flight. I had a full pack of cigarettes, half a charge on my phone, a stop over in Melbourne for a few hours and home before midnight; all in one day…. … what could possibly go wrong?
Before I took off from sydney, Jackie had reached her friend Maddy’s place and to me the trek, this adventure was done, all safe, daughter done, Dad on the plane, Melbourne….
I thought the hard part was getting Jackie to Sydney… when in fact, the hardest part was getting her idiot Father home.
Thanks for your patience in reading my rambling story so far. Apologies for the typos and never ending sentences… I just wasn’t up to proof reading and wanted to post it tonight. Plus, I just wasted a whole lot of time watching The Castle again… so the above, is my story.
In the closing hours of this day, I have called friends, had a beer and now sit to do what I love (other than drinking beer!)…. write.
I have rambled more in recent days than I have for some time. For this rambling if unread, scorned or ridiculed, I am grateful and lucky.
It was two years ago today, a few hours before now that my ‘brain exploded.’ I had a brain aneurysm and think but for the grace of God I may have died. Statistically everything was against me. But….
I was in Adelaide – no ambulance to the local under resourced hospital and the overworked doctors and nurses; no waiting for the 45 minute flight to Adelaide – basically if this happened, here in Berri, I am sure, I was a dead man.
The ambos arrived at the small family gathering we were having in Norwood and I was in care shortly after and stuff being pumped into me to save my life.
To me, this was a blur; and for some time the days after; I still walk many times a day into a room and can’t remember why I went there, I lose things a lot.
But, I remember; not for some time, that at the time I was having the brain explosion, I was not scared. My family was with me and I was a peace.
So on Jesus’s Birthday two years ago they got the Makita out and drilled into my head.
A lady, who I saw was a healer spoke to me before and said she would save my life. I am a sceptic but I believed her. I have spoken to her since in her office with an entire wall covered with ‘thank you’ cards.
Her name is Associate Professor Amal Abou-Hamden.
I am still grateful to her and tell her receptionist that at my next appointment I will ask her to marry me: our appointments are often rescheduled as she is saving someone elses life – plus I am worried about the age gap?
My brain exploding changed my life – other than never being able to find my keys.
I saw that the ‘well’ decide what the sick really needed in rehab – and I checked myself out twice and was nasty to people, but no more than I saw the suffering of those who have lost everything.
I was angry, demanding and offensive (after all I had a brain injury)… maybe it was just that all my life long ‘governors’ were off.
People I loved came to see me; having three ex partners standing by your bedside all at the same time can seem like a nightmare, but: old mates came; young mates came…. and I wrote crazy stuff in my journal and pushed my wife away.
My sister travelled to be with me.
My daughters held my hand.
… and then I went home.
I have been here since and found that death is not something that is now a stranger to me… I wrote my epitaph several times in hospital and rehab (for the short time I stayed there – checking myself in and out …?) and it was not good?
My wife left me, my heart broke worse than my head had, and I broke with it.
My friends, my band of brothers, my guardian angel daughters saved me.
I went to the Rural and Remote ward in Glenside Hospital. I was humbled, lost and sad. (I love my Band of Brothers but the tricky bastards got me locked up because they knew I would con my way out!!!)
My Pastor friend Toh Sang Ng visited me… My daughters and band of brothers visited me… Old mates of heart and courage visited me…
I bought smokes, and popcorn, and watched movies, with friends I would never have met, had my brain not exploded.
I found something else; I found me. Not the one I hadn’t mostly liked, but the one I was looking for and knew was there from one of the last things my Mum said to me before she passed away… “You are a good man.”
My Mum was wise and loved God and I am certain was loved right back. It wasn’t until after my brain exploded that I realised that my Mum wasn’t telling me who I was, but who I could become.
I just always remember that Colonel Sanders didn’t start KFC until he was 65 years old, that, I realised I still had a chance.
I wrote a lot of apology letters to the Doctors and Nurses, to my wife, family and friends; some things can’t be mended and must only be forgiven.
… and time passed…. not long, but enough for me to realise that all the bullshit of knowledge and wisdom in these writings (although I must admit, rather eloquently and inspirationally written..) lacked the spirit that I wrote about – the connection to something bigger than me – I knew it was there as Eckart Tolle had told me so, YouTube clips told me so, the Art of War told me how to kill those who told me so, The Art of Peace told me how to do it with a stick and not actually hurt anyone during a fight (?), my mate Made in Bali taking me to the temples and dressing up in the garb told me so, the Philosophers I read and read told me so, my old mate Toh Sang told me so.
So, I didnt need to reach out, I just had to understand what I had always know.
And… I did. Now I have the life I always felt but didn’t quite know; like waking from a dream that you can’t quite remember but know it was a good one (Not the flying dream, because that one is always a bit scary!)
So, now two years after my brain exploded (and thanks to Associate Professor Amal Abou-Hamden’s skill, I have maintained my stunning good looks)… I am grateful and lucky.
I post only the picture of Associate Professor Amal Abou-Hamden in this post as most of the pictures I would otherwise share are inside my head and can never be printed as they would so underestimate the things I have seen, experienced and begun to understand.
The best part, is that I still falter about 1000 times a day (about the same amount of times I have looked for my car keys – this week!)… it teaches me that the past is gone, I try to learn from it: the future is unwritten (please see the Movie Donny Darko because at any minute like him, a jet engine could fall through your roof and kill you), I have a plan, but it will most probably not turn out that way…. but, mostly my life is consumed by trying to appreciate the moment I am now in.
I want to thank all you dudes who have travelled with me on this trek, before and after my brain exploded; and especially to those who have helped me with my baggage, or even carried me when needed; and mostly, for seeing the things in me my Mum did.
In life you rarely get BIG second chances – I got one (please don’t stuff it up Ian!!!)…
I believe what I believe, which before I just thought I understood…. I live now, like today, is my last day (and forget most days and live like a rock star…?)… I forgive easily, I hope more… I think I love more, better, and deeper… I write bad poetry…. I try to be kind…
I know my story is just one of many that in the past I wouldn’t have really listened to because I was too eager to talk myself…
I have time now:
I have every moment until I shuffle from this mortal coin; where you all come to say goodbye and note that their is no trailer on my hearse, as I have left it all behind;
I just hope, I leave something more behind, than all the fantastic, magnificent unfinished projects in my shed and my bad poetry….
That is a weird start to any post….. considering it is pointing out the obvious: but so often the obvious is hidden, literally in plain sight?
A few nights ago I found the courage to sit and write again: publicly I mean: not in the beloved confines of my shed with pens, chalk, markers on pieces of recycled cardboard (often beer and cider boxes): but on my long lamented blog.
I had a thought a few days ago when a trek I had been on, took a turn that I did not expect.
I have been working on a project for a year, called the ‘Out Town’ initiative. I have no inclination to explain it all here and will place ‘strategic’ links to The Fay Fuller Foundation (click here for all the info), TACSI (I just wrote that as my reminder that I despise acronyms…. The Australian Centre for Social Innovation – click here for these super dudes) and a myriad of other organisations, individuals and communities that have a hope, vision, drive and purpose to make our world a better place.
“Our Town” in a Nut Shell
Is an initiative to provide rural towns in South Australia with the guidance (through TACSI) and the financial backing (through the Faye Fuller Foundation – okay I hate acronyms but from here on referred to as FFF) to set our own courses to the future, to have towns (and regions) which are well; I interpreted that both physically and mentally; even in regards to prosperity and thriving; to a mutually agreed future.
The above is but an understated ‘quote’ of what these two organisations have offered us; mostly, to me, they have offered me hope in our community.
Yes, wonderfull words, but backed up, as all good mates do, with deeds.
After our initial application, which was submitted by hard working visionaries in our community, we were short listed to the final 6 towns.
Now let’s get this into perspective.…. We were short listed to receive funding for ten years, consisting of $300,000 per year, to fulfil the plan that our town would come up with. …. not sadly, but graciously the Faye Fuller Foundation was going to fund two towns of the 6 ‘finalists’.
… and then the world changed: Kangaroo Island: our States southern jewel was devastated by bushfires……
The FFF in wisdom and generosity, gave one of the ten year funding grants to Kangaroo Island.
… and there are people in this world, organisations that you hope exist, and they step forward…. that do things you would never expect (but, secretly always wish they did and that person or organisation actually existed…)
The FFF decided to still provide the funding for two town of the 5 towns….!!!
It them became even more than we could have ever hope for in todays world: The FFF, then provided us with the guidance and mentoring of TACSI, and unbelievable $45,000.00 in ‘seed funding’ to help us put our final ‘town plan’ together and …. then gave us a year to do it.
We worked hard, and people got tired and their community picked them up and gave them a rest; always finding someone to take their place. AND, and a big AND, we learned about ourselves, we learned about our towns, we learned about doing things differently, we learned to ask for help, we learned to fail, we learned to accept that there was no right answer, we learned to plan and design and implement, not from the board room, the committee, or the financiers ….but to do all this from a chat with a mate, the park bench, the neighbour we have never spoken to, the invisible, the lost, lonely and forgotten members of our towns. (See a lot more detail and our town ‘insights’ on our Facebook page – click here)
We chatted, we talked, we went and spoke to our neighbours, people we had never met (and even now we know there are people we have not yet met… but want to…)…
… and I speak just for me here; I found a new way of doing things: I met mentors who were half my age; I saw with wonder the fantastic young people in our community; I learned, and learned and learned; each day knowing the more I learned, mostly only taught me how much I didn’t know and still had to learn….
All the ‘finalist’ worked towards their plans, for their community for their people for their future….
… again I stopped and wondered about all the tings that I ‘knew to be true‘ crumbling as I watched….
All these ‘competitors’… left no one behind; they shared their visions, their ideas, their insights, their failures…. the towns were not competing, but travelling on a trek that we were all going on; carrying our baggage; on the hard days carrying each others… it wasn’t a competition it was a community.
And on the last day the ‘winning’ towns were chosen: and the congratulations were as soul felt as the commiserations.
… and the FFF had decided at the last minute to give another town the ten year funding… is there no better gift than that which is given freely…. and so generous, and so unexpected
There were two towns that missed out… And we were one….
But, the FFF and TACSI had still found us funding for one year of $100,000.00 and the promise, of which I have no doubt, to support us.
Just about me….
As I sat and listened to the announcement from the FFF that other towns had received the funding, I sat back and looked at the disappointment in our teams face…. it was strange…. I saw, also complete acceptance and gratitude, joy for the other towns… and determination, we would not let our town down and would go on… in that moment I wrote the following on my phone (I love pen and paper but I am learning to be ‘techno-savvy’):
Our Town 1300: just found out we missed out on the Our Town big grant….. wow, didn’t think I’d be this ‘hit’ by it…..
Now: it becomes a real challenge to make a difference when we are not able to splash cash around… which rarely solves anything…. it just feeds egos and often attracts the wrong people… now we have no choice, but, to have this driven, from the park bench, the shed, the blockies, the ones that need us the most….. the people we have not yet met and are wanting to meet….
Now, we work for us: for our Real town: real people and not key words, phrases and trendy idioms …. I know in this town we have wisdom and knowledge: champions and characters: history and stories …. all of which are ours, they are our community, our family, and we bear the scars.
I think we have actually won more by not getting the money: we get to not give up: we get to continue our trek with all our baggage, and the more we have collected along the way: but, we have a whole lot more people to help us carry it…. we have people, groups, an entire town who are hungry and have the appetite to make the changes we want and need….
… and I still mean this: I am tired; I have bad days where the troubles of my life seem more important than my neighbours; but, mostly, in this trek that continues, I know I can not go on without my neighbour…. even if I don’t like them; or I envy them; or they wronged me in the past; they, in some fashion, are still my neighbour, and do I want to actually go on without them…..
In the days that followed, particularly the day after, I nursed my hangover, because at the time I was drinking with my mate Wayne who had been hurt in the days before and will be recovering for the months to come…. and I walked home through my town and was glad to be there.
Fait, is a wonderful thing: so long as it is in your favour….
The next day I read this (I read a lot and a lot of what I read bewilders me and some times inspire me….)
The Best Seed
There once was a farmer who grew the most excellent wheat. Every season he won the award of the best in his area.
A wise woman came to him to ask him about his success.
He told her that the key was sharing his best seed with his neighbours so they could plant the seed as well.
The wise woman asked, “How can you share your best wheat seed with you neighbours when they compete with you every year?”
“That’s simple” the farmer replied “The wind spreads the pollen from everyone’s wheat and carries it from field to field. If my neighbours grow inferior wheat, cross-pollination, would degrade everyones wheat, including mine. If I’m to grow the best wheat, I must help my neighbours grow the best wheat, including mine”
The wise woman learned a lesson and left better for her visit from the farm: as she walked away she thought to be wise is always to learn from where you least expect it.
…. and I sat on this thought, and all my thoughts that spin around inside my head… I often say my head is a dangerous place and I never go there alone: I think any trek, whether in the wild unknowns, or inside your own head, requires the company of those you trust; perhaps the person just next door, your neighbour.
So I thought I’d ask a question of my neighbours….
“If we were on a trek and there was just the 6 companions, friends, neighbours heading for different destinations but all on the same pilgrimage; what would I do as a fellow traveller.
We had set out together, with the same goal, but provisioned differently. Four of us had 3 apples, but two had but a small portion of an apple, which to continue would have to be eaten on the first day of our 10 day journey.
Would my four companion travellers each give one of their apples so that we all had 2 apples to journey onwards together?
Each sharing their bounty, evenly; so that all could continue on the journey together; equally nourished, each supporting the other; each pollinating each others fields, so that all may grow the best crops”
I think we all have stories, we all have stories yet unwritten.
Our pervious stories, if we listen, teach us lessons; so that the next step we take is a better one, in the right direction, with the right companions, for the right reasons.
I know tomorrow when I wake up, I will move that one thing, I will take that one step, I will continue my trek; after all what else is there; there is the joy of sharing it with a neighbour who has become a friend.
I still actually write and dont just use the keyboard and screen.
Some of you may have in the past; and still receive my handwritten letters on real paper. I also keep a journal and have done so since I was about 15 years old; okay, I may miss a few days here and there (well sometimes weeks, months, years) but I always come back to it.
I cut up cardboard to about the size of a playing card (good recycling!) and have stacks of them around the house. I use them for making little notes, jotting down ideas or even the original reason for doing it, writing a shopping list. In the shed I also have these little cards (and in the car) but, in the shed I have bigger pieces of cardboard cut from beer and cider packaging, which I make my ‘shed’ notes on – plans, measurements etc.
And… in the late of the night, I use these larger ones to write poetry?
I learned the art of recycling little pieces of paper to make ideas bigger, plans clearer and a place to actually put a pen to a piece of squashed wood, found in a broken carton or beer box, from a friend: a lifelong friend: for which I will be forever grateful (although now I have more stacks of little pieces of cardboard and paper than meaningful thoughts!)
… and now I sit and write (very close to a friend of mines birthday?) and think about why it is that I often write, knowing, but hoping, that others may read what I …. muse about.
… in addition there are many stacks of these little cards: and perhaps tooooo many of the larger cards with my poetry, that I don’t share: I think perhaps in the new year I will post them regularly so-as you may suffer, as I have, in writing them….
I have but a few days until the celebration of the birthday of a mate (and gratefully the day before the birthday of my always stalwart sister Cheryl)… I think in this time, other than packing my bags to travel to the big city; where I look forward to spending time with friends and family, I will perhaps not trouble myself with those thoughts that seem to engulf our lives, particularly mine; for no purpose other than pain, or anguish, or regret, or the imagined sinister nature of the future yet untold… I think, I will spend that time writing things that are honest, meaningful and do not preach but tell a story, of from now until then.
I have missed writing, although I have been doing it so long… and since the theft of my beloved diary (not my Journal as that would be just tooooo harsh!); I have, well no, I am, attempting to enter a digital age of writing that travels with me, is saved in the cloud (where ever that is) and I know will be a place I can come to, hide perhaps, but always access, the writings, that I love so much.
In doing that, today I posted a letter (I think I paid too much for the postage… it changes all the time and I have outdated rolls of stamps in the hundreds which I bought with a great of expectations, and now plaster on the envelopes, of letters with as much expectation…)… the first for a long time.
I am practicing tonight, with fingers on a keyboard; not as I love, the swirl of pen on paper; to write a request tomorrow to ask for a new view of what it is like to be a member of our race, our humanity, our planet, out country, our state, our region, our community… or just neighbours:
…. and if the world is as I see it, I do not expect to fail: for in this request, there is but triumph for everyone.
I hope, pray, believe: I can write tomorrow and make a difference.
(Wow, how is that for click bait… although, I have no intention but to post this on my long lamented blog: which I love: I am embarrassed by: I am proud of: and it provides me with the solace to be, who, I suspect I have always been.)
I just wanted to write a quick post as I have been thinking why am I so confused about what is happening in the world. To me it is just weird. Old models of politics and economics don’t seem to fit. People have been at their best and their worst.
Grandpa Presidents
Today is the US Election. I think this is the catalyst for ‘something’? I don’t think it matters who wins the outcome will be the same.
I said sometime ago during the pandemic when our economies were collapsing that usually politicians get a country out of recession, well in the west anyway, by starting a war.
No matter the result of the US election I just feel that things might get a bit worse. In this weird time it is not unreasonable to think it will get weirder and worse. I find not joy or even evil glee in any of this. We, the people, are always the ones that ultimately pay the price: the foot soldiers sent to slaughter by politicians sitting in their offices.
Oh, I am really feeling the doom and gloom in this post … I suppose this is why… because I think…
America will fall into civil war
Europe will fall into total social and economic disorder
England will stand out and close its borders
Australia will stand out and close its borders
Russia will stand and watch with China and pick up the pieces
China will invade and take over Taiwan and escalate hostilities with Japan
There will be a war somewhere and it will be someone else fault.
The Middle east will be forgotten
North Korea is liable to do anything and invasion of the south is not out of the realm of possibility
The pandemic will always be in the background (pray for no mutation!)
Sorry, but this is just what I think. It is not based on years of study but just a feeling that the world is coming for ‘correction’.
I am lucky. I live in the country, in the Riverland, in South Australia, in Australia. Our safety will only be compromised by our politicians. I think they may get a surprise if they continue to ask the people to follow them blindly.
….and always right in the mix of mayhem will be “The Merchants of Misery” (The Media) who have set themselves up as the ‘unelected aristocracy’ ruling from the pages, screens and their images and back room voices, as they see fit.
I think we will all find in days to come, our best friend is our neighbour, our community and the friends we have not yet met who live down the street. Our history was firstly written by the people, then the politicians and the rich and powerful; I believe, and feel in my heart, it is the peoples turn again.
I can’t believe I haven’t written for almost a month…. but, I have been busy, putting on 6 kilograms and ensuring that I was well and truely in the 70% increase of alcohol consumption since the COVID19 invasion.
So, ANZAC Day…..
I have a few difficulties with its sudden ‘popularity’ and all the wonderful heartfelt sacrifices made on the day and the wearing of other peoples medals. It’s not the sentiment that troubles me, its the short lived nature of it.
I wrote a poem about this a few years ago and usually publish it on ANZAC Day; but, seeing I sent it to the ADF and they ignored me, I’ll just leave a link for you to ignore as well. (To read a really good ANZAC Poem, click here!)
So, ANZAC Day…..
Often referred to by our politicians and The Merchants of Misery (The Media) of late, in a sentence including the term Un-Australian….. also, a lot of the merchants quoting a ‘millyun’ when quoting financial figures around the million mark, which is much less than a ‘billyun’.
I attend the dawn service; usually. Being in the country is better. But, this year it will just be the Politicians who send our ADF to war and sit at home being very Australian. They will be representing us as they do not on the battle field. I will walk to the end of my driveway at 5.30 am on ANZAC Day and remember the fallen and the ultimate sacrifice they made in all the wars, ‘police actions’, peace keeping roles and all the other names we hide behind when describing war and death.
It would be really nice NOT to see a lot of people doing this – I don’t want to see them on Facebook, Instagram, Snapchat…. but, as I will do, I will just be doing it for myself, because it is important to me; unrecorded, just lived.
I will remember the two photographs of my Nana’s brothers, both of whom died in WW1; and who we never really spoke about. I remember when I was young, not really understanding; even if I did wear their medals one day while playing; children don’t understand war; young men mostly, and young women, dont really understand them either, they just die in them.
So, ANZAC Day…..
I will really be thinking of the approximately 6000 veterans who are homeless, today.
I will really be thinking of the almost 500 veterans who have suicided in the last 20 years; and their families who have been left behind.
I will think of these lost souls, destroyed and killed by war; of families still grieving the loss of the men and women who they knew, for the ones who returned home.
I will think what can I do?
A wise young man told me the other day, “compassion is empathy and action.”
To me it is not, just getting up early one day a year. Compassion, is perhaps, acknowledging if you have never served, that you can never know what it was like; compassion is asking our Politicians why our heroes are lost in the world they fought for, and live in today.
