I spoke to my stepdaughter last night on the phone. She lives interstate and we occasionally have long phone calls - usually she needs someone to rant on to about something or other and often it's me or G.
My stepdaughter - I'll call her Mittens for no other reason than she likes that word - has two small children of her own. One is five and has just started school, the other is three.
They are very cute kids, and Mittens is strict on things like table manners. She's says she is pretty strict in general and doesn't cop much lip from them, except ...
She lets them draw on the walls of the living room.
I had Mittens on speakerphone last night and G and I exchanged glances when she spoke of their drawings.
"But it's okay," she said breezily. "They just use crayon or pencil. It's not like it's textas. I can wash it off. It took me a whole bottle of Orange Power last time to do one wall." Another eye roll between G and I.
"Do you ever tell them not to do it?" I asked cautiously. I have to be a bit cautious as Mittens balances being strict with being a Steiner-school, encourage creativity at all costs-type parent. She also has an absolute belief she is always right, a hangover from her teen years which aren't, after all, that far behind her. I don't want to get into an argument with her as I'm hopeless at arguments and she has a very quick mouth. I'd lose.
"Yes, but then they do it when my back is turned."
I suggested pinning big sheets of paper to the wall. She said she had tried that but the kids drew over the edges and onto the wall.
"There's a cute little bee Miss 5 has drawn above the sofa. I haven't the heart to scrub it off," she confided, almost proudly.
It's not that there is a lack of paper in their house. The kids are encouraged to paint and draw on paper. Why the hell she lets them continue to draw on the walls is beyond my comprehension. It's not encouraging creativity, it's letting them get away with something they know is wrong. They have been told not to do it again and again, and they ignore their mother and continue to draw on the walls.
If I had drawn on the wall, just once, as a small child, I would have had strips torn off me. I was told from a young age that you didn't draw on the walls, and was given plenty of paper instead. Mum was a kind but very strict parent. She didn't believe in smacking, and I was so keen to stay in her good books that a damn good shouting would have had me contrite and in tears and unlikely to do whatever-it-was ever again. (I was terrified that if I was a bad girl that Mum would run away as Dad did… nothing like an absent parent to keep you in line. Not that that was ever threatened by Mum, but who knows how the mind of a small child works except a small child?)
I confess, if Mittens' kids were my kids and I caught them drawing on the walls, they would get a bawling out they would never, ever forget. Bugger that modern school of parenting where you talk in a soft voice and tell little Jimmy or little Mary why it's wrong to draw on walls and that they aren't naughty children (because apparently you are not supposed to tell children they are naughty anymore) but simply channelling their creative talents in the wrong direction. Nope. I'd tower over them screaming and reduce them to quivering wrecks, to get the message across that if I said No to drawing on walls, I meant No. I may even use my hand on their backsides, even though that's probably illegal by now. I would certainly use the word naughty, probably again and again. I have seen my friends' kids grow up with modern parenting and turn into disrespectful teenagers who treat their parents with total disdain; 'whatever' is their favourite word as they ignore any household rules.
I would also lock up the crayons and other drawing materials and only dole them out when I was available to supervise how the children used them.
Which brings me to another of Mittens' problems. The kids get up early in the mornings while their exhausted parents grab another five minutes of shuteye, climb on benches and furniture, open the cupboards and help themselves. Sadly Mittens and her partner Guitarman live in rented premises and can't put locks on the cupboards. The kids go through Mittens' handbag and do fun things such as hide her house keys. The last time they did that she couldn't leave the house for three days. They mixed coffee grains with paint and painted the living room carpet one memorable early morn last year ("Oh Meester Harrrt!"); even worse they used a set of makeup artist Mittens' professional makeup brushes to do it, rendering them totally buggered.
In a way I'm sad that I only get to see Mittens and her kids once or twice a year, as when they are not drawing on the walls or getting into other mischief they've been told time and again not to do, they are lovely. Sweet and smart and funny. On the other hand, if they lived closer I would probably be a babysitter, and I don't reckon I'd cope well with those two destructive forces in my house. There's no bench they can't climb and no cupboard they can't open; anything I treasured would be broken in a day. And I'd be damned if I could stay at their house and watch their children draw on the walls.
Tuesday, March 25, 2014
Thursday, March 20, 2014
A visit from Dad
I mentioned in my last post that I had an angel card reader come to the house recently for a morning tea reading party.
This was the second time I'd had a reading from her, and she is uncannily on the ball.
During the reading she mentioned my Dad and asked if he had died after a long illness (he had: cancer). She picked up a lot about my Mum, and said that Mum watches over me. I feel she does, too. I talk to Mum and ask her things - particularly if I find something in the house and don't know what it's for. The answer will pop into my head in a minute or two, and I think Mum puts it there.
But I digress… this post is about Dad.
During my reading I had three friends in the other room - V, C, and V's daughter-in-law P. P is rather psychic. As a teenager she knew when her best friend was having a sleepless night as it would wake her up. She's seen relatives by her bed at the time of their passing.
When I came out from my reading, P said, "There was a man at the front door." I had an inkling the man wasn't real… otherwise the others would have spoken to him and asked what he wanted.
"What did he look like?" I asked. "What colour hair, how tall?"
"He had dark hair and was less than 6 foot. Medium height."
"Slim build?"
"Yes."
"That sounds a bit like my Dad. Hang on, I'll get a photo."
I have a photo of Dad in his late 30s-ish in my office and I whipped it out and showed it to her. P's face contorted horribly; for a moment it seemed as if her face had turned molten. I thought she was going to faint. She looked like she'd seen a ghost, in other words, and I do believe she had. (Now I know what people look like when they say they see a ghost!) "Oh my God," she said faintly, and then we were plying her with tea and I was apologising for giving her such a fright and thanking her for seeing my Dad. I felt so awful for giving her such a shock, and was at the same time stunned and rather elated that my father had been standing at the door.
P said Dad stood at the front door, and when I appeared with the angel card reader, he turned away, walked down the two steps and down the path out of sight. P said he wouldn't come in.
So… I am pondering. Did he appear because there was such a strong psychic pull that day, with both P and the angel card reader in the house? Or because the angel card reader had somehow called him during my reading? And does he visit often? Does he watch, and has he watched this house since he died in 1991? He and Mum designed this place when they were still in love…
I think Dad is one of my guardian angels, even though we weren't close. I think he's the one who looks after me when I'm flying either as a passenger or a trial flight pilot.
Mum is another, as is my Nan. And the card reader told me the little girl on the swing, who two reiki practitioners have both seen when they have worked on me, is my guardian angel, looking after the child inside me who so often wants to come out and play.
So now I guess I have a few 'people' to talk to who may or may not just be hanging around, looking out for me.
Some things don't change though - Dad would never come in the house after he left; he would leave Christmas and birthday gifts on the front step. Only once did he come in, when I was 14 and he was handing over the deeds of the house to Mum. I had to grin at the thought of him looking through the front door - and have told him since that he is welcome… inside the house.
Wednesday, March 19, 2014
The Takeover Merchant
Last Friday I held a morning tea, and very swish it was too with gorgeous china cup trios, Mum's best silver and some delicious cakes and biscuits I'd made. I had arranged for an angel card reader to give ten of my friends a reading, and also used it as a candle sale opportunity.
All went swimmingly. Three of my guests, V, P, and C stayed for lunch, as I hadn't seen them for ages and they live across the other side of Sydney. V's son, whom I shall call Dickhead, is married to P and he dropped them off with a promise to pick them up around 3.
I have known Dickhead all his life. He was a nice enough kid as a youngster, but I suspect suffers from some kind of mental illness - almost certainly schizophrenia and a narcissistic disorder too. Not that mental illness makes him a dickhead. It's his behaviour over the years - a web of lies and big noting. OK, so that may be driven by his mental illness but the thing is, he hasn't being diagnosed by anyone nor is he on medication. I suspect if anyone suggested to him he needed to see a doctor because he appeared to have mental issues he'd half kill them. Yes, he has a violent streak. Nearly murdered his Mum once a few years back.
But I digress. As usual.
So there we were, V, P, C and me, tucking into cake and tea at three (gosh, that rhymes!). Conversation was flowing nicely, everyone got to comment and talk, and there were plenty of giggles.
Then Dickhead turned up to collect the girls. Immediately, he sat down and took over the conversation. He always does. He and P have a son 7 months old so the conversation was dominated by Dickhead talking about his son and the swimming classes they are taking him to. The child is a genius apparently, much more advanced than any other 7 month old baby on earth. P got a word in, whenever Dickhead asked her to agree or comment, but the rest of us didn't. We just ate more cake. Then Dickhead started talking about his new job, driving a miniature train. You'd think he was the MD of a global multinational the way he spoke about it; chest puffed out with self-importance. We ate more cake.
Dickhead's Mum V knows what he is like; several people including C have mentioned to her that when he enters a room he takes over.
And that was one of the reasons* Mum didn't like having him over to visit. I felt the same on Friday. I could almost feel Mum's anger bristling behind me and I was getting cross with him too. How bloody rude, not letting anyone else change the subject, but dominating the room. I don't really want him coming over any more either. In his younger days, when he was in his late teens, he came with his parents one Christmas Day and took over the conversation, telling everyone about the new job he had as a baggage handler with Virgin Blue - all the little details about behind the scenes in the terminal, about how to load baggage carts on the aircraft, anecdotes about other handlers and strange items he and they had to get on and off aircraft. It was only weeks later that we, including his parents, found out the entire job was a lie. It didn't exist. The whole conversation with its attention to detail was a sham, designed to let him take centre stage. "He's a Walter Mitty," Mum grumbled at the time, but Walter Mitty kept his fantasies to himself living his secret imaginary life, he didn't lead others on to believe it.
By three on Friday I couldn't wait for them to go. I'd loved having my girlfriends over, but was fed up with Dickhead. I felt just like Mum must have. Finally the cake was finished. There was no excuse to stay.
Dickhead called the shots and said they had to be off to pick up said genius baby son from childcare. I felt a rush of relief. It was almost as if the atmosphere in the room had turned a palpable opaque shade while he was babbling on. I waved them off and set about the task of carefully hand washing eleven delicate bone china cups, saucers and plates.
So now I don't want the Takeover Merchant in this house again either. While the angel card reader told me that Mum wants me to make this house my own and bring my own love and possessions into it - that's another story too! - I think I'll be true to Mum's wishes re the Takeover Merchant.
Who else out there knows a Takeover Merchant? How do you cope when they take over the conversation, no matter what topic is introduced? Or when they change the conversation to only the topics they want to speak about?
* The main reason is that Dickhead had fathered a little daughter a couple of years before he got married, and wants nothing to do with her. Won't see her, pays as little child support as he can get away with. Poor kid. Mum brought up a daughter whose Dad wouldn't see her and apparently wanted no real part in her upbringing, and Mum despises that kind of behaviour. Oh, and I did mention Dickhead almost murdered his own Mum in one of his rages...
All went swimmingly. Three of my guests, V, P, and C stayed for lunch, as I hadn't seen them for ages and they live across the other side of Sydney. V's son, whom I shall call Dickhead, is married to P and he dropped them off with a promise to pick them up around 3.
I have known Dickhead all his life. He was a nice enough kid as a youngster, but I suspect suffers from some kind of mental illness - almost certainly schizophrenia and a narcissistic disorder too. Not that mental illness makes him a dickhead. It's his behaviour over the years - a web of lies and big noting. OK, so that may be driven by his mental illness but the thing is, he hasn't being diagnosed by anyone nor is he on medication. I suspect if anyone suggested to him he needed to see a doctor because he appeared to have mental issues he'd half kill them. Yes, he has a violent streak. Nearly murdered his Mum once a few years back.
But I digress. As usual.
So there we were, V, P, C and me, tucking into cake and tea at three (gosh, that rhymes!). Conversation was flowing nicely, everyone got to comment and talk, and there were plenty of giggles.
Then Dickhead turned up to collect the girls. Immediately, he sat down and took over the conversation. He always does. He and P have a son 7 months old so the conversation was dominated by Dickhead talking about his son and the swimming classes they are taking him to. The child is a genius apparently, much more advanced than any other 7 month old baby on earth. P got a word in, whenever Dickhead asked her to agree or comment, but the rest of us didn't. We just ate more cake. Then Dickhead started talking about his new job, driving a miniature train. You'd think he was the MD of a global multinational the way he spoke about it; chest puffed out with self-importance. We ate more cake.
Dickhead's Mum V knows what he is like; several people including C have mentioned to her that when he enters a room he takes over.
And that was one of the reasons* Mum didn't like having him over to visit. I felt the same on Friday. I could almost feel Mum's anger bristling behind me and I was getting cross with him too. How bloody rude, not letting anyone else change the subject, but dominating the room. I don't really want him coming over any more either. In his younger days, when he was in his late teens, he came with his parents one Christmas Day and took over the conversation, telling everyone about the new job he had as a baggage handler with Virgin Blue - all the little details about behind the scenes in the terminal, about how to load baggage carts on the aircraft, anecdotes about other handlers and strange items he and they had to get on and off aircraft. It was only weeks later that we, including his parents, found out the entire job was a lie. It didn't exist. The whole conversation with its attention to detail was a sham, designed to let him take centre stage. "He's a Walter Mitty," Mum grumbled at the time, but Walter Mitty kept his fantasies to himself living his secret imaginary life, he didn't lead others on to believe it.
By three on Friday I couldn't wait for them to go. I'd loved having my girlfriends over, but was fed up with Dickhead. I felt just like Mum must have. Finally the cake was finished. There was no excuse to stay.
Dickhead called the shots and said they had to be off to pick up said genius baby son from childcare. I felt a rush of relief. It was almost as if the atmosphere in the room had turned a palpable opaque shade while he was babbling on. I waved them off and set about the task of carefully hand washing eleven delicate bone china cups, saucers and plates.
So now I don't want the Takeover Merchant in this house again either. While the angel card reader told me that Mum wants me to make this house my own and bring my own love and possessions into it - that's another story too! - I think I'll be true to Mum's wishes re the Takeover Merchant.
Who else out there knows a Takeover Merchant? How do you cope when they take over the conversation, no matter what topic is introduced? Or when they change the conversation to only the topics they want to speak about?
* The main reason is that Dickhead had fathered a little daughter a couple of years before he got married, and wants nothing to do with her. Won't see her, pays as little child support as he can get away with. Poor kid. Mum brought up a daughter whose Dad wouldn't see her and apparently wanted no real part in her upbringing, and Mum despises that kind of behaviour. Oh, and I did mention Dickhead almost murdered his own Mum in one of his rages...
Monday, March 10, 2014
The joys of procrastination
Not for nothing have I renamed my blog But I Digress… I am good at digressing. I am also an expert procrastinator, especially on Monday mornings.
For the last two days I have been deliberately computer-free. I've used my phone and iPad to access social media and for fun only. Using technology for good not evil, as I put it. The only bad thing about this is that it has given me a taste of freedom, the opportunity to truly switch off and forget about work for the weekend.
So how did I spent my weekend? I didn't do anything most folk would consider exciting. First thing Saturday we headed to Orange Grove Markets for some good fruit, veg and pasta (well, that's mildly exciting, I love OG Markets). I weeded dandelions from the lawn both days, taking my weeding hours in the last seven days up to six. I mowed some of the lawn - will have to pick up some chunks of umbrella tree trunk before I can do the rest. G and I poisoned the remaining umbrella tree root in a very satisfying exercise. G and I took the dog for a good brisk walk on Sunday before breakfast. I hoovered the house. I scrubbed the bathroom. I did a few loads of washing. I read a book. G and I hung and rehung some pictures. I took down the venetian blinds in the living room as the cords had broken on two of them and anyway they were cheap things from Freedom Furniture 20-something years old. I polished some furniture. We rearranged some of the bedroom furniture. We both did some ironing as it had piled up. Are you seeing a picture here? Apart from reading a book, it was a pretty physical weekend.
After weekends like this I find it hard to tie myself down to a computer on a Monday morning. So all this morning I have been procrastinating, playing for time before sitting at The Screen of Doom. G leaves for work at 7.30am. At that point I put on washing; I have some blankets to wash which I am giving away on Freecycle. I did the washing up and cleaned the kitchen benches. I hung the first load of washing out and put another blankety lot on. That's also hanging out now, together with load number three, white stuff. I mopped the kitchen, bathroom, loo and laundry. I brought the bins in. I watered the lawn where I'd put lawn seed down the week before, and the little garden near our front door.
Yes, it's sad: I far more enjoy housewifely tasks than work tasks. I would rather scrub the floors than build a website. With the changes I've had in my life over these last few months I would rather clean the toilet with my own toothbrush than build websites and put up with clients.
G has been away quite a lot in the last couple of months, so I have ironed several shirts for him. He usually irons his own shirts (quite the enlightened bloke in some ways). In our marathon ironing session yesterday he mentioned that and thanked me for it, whereby I answered it was the least I could do and anyway, that's what I do. His reply: "I didn't marry a 'wifey'." Now 'wifey' I am not and we both know it. But is there a difference between a 'wifey' and a woman who enjoys the physical side of housework and treats it as exercise? Plus, I get a lot of gratification from cleaning things and seeing the result.
I've spoken with G about my loathing of doing the work I started my company for in 2001. Now we have moved into a mortgage-free house he has told me that if I want to cut down on the stuff I hate doing, I should. He'd sooner have me happy than stressed and miserable. So I have. I'm not building any new websites. I'm telling potential clients I'm too busy, and just keeping the existing ones and their odd requests for changes and updates.
But still, I have come to dread spending my days sitting in front of the computer. I've been using computers for more than 20 years, and am finding technology increasingly frustrating. I get cross with websites which don't accept the login I set up with them. (Not, I hasten to add, the ones I build myself). It seems you need a password for absolutely everything these days and it's overwhelming. I get cross with email spam, especially when it uses my own name as the sender, so I can't put it into junk mail as I don't want to ban my own email address from my own computer. I get cross with Microsoft products, particularly Excel as it keeps crashing when you least want it to. I get cross with Google products when they change the layout and setup and you can't find what you bloody well want in terms of functionality. I just get cross.
So I procrastinate. I figure I can spend at least an hour after breakfast each day on cleaning maintenance, i.e. washing up, sweeping the kitchen, using the carpet sweeper on the rest of the house, with a major hoovering at weekends, watering the garden and lawn. I can walk to the post office and check my PO box.
And when I do get onto the computer and go through the emails and say "fuck off" to every single junk email - today I fantasised about meeting the bastard who sent me 47 emails about Louis Vuitton products using my own email address, and strangling him -, I then spend some quality time on Facebook and personal sites. Anything to put off the inevitable work stuff.
I have even stalled the workday by writing this blog post. But all good things must come to an end. The sun is shining outside and the sky a superb azure. And I'm stuck in the office, about to research some social media products for a client.
Ooh! Procrastination alert: it's almost morning tea time. I'll go and put the kettle on and that will give me the opportunity to enjoy a cup of coffee outside in the sun…
For the last two days I have been deliberately computer-free. I've used my phone and iPad to access social media and for fun only. Using technology for good not evil, as I put it. The only bad thing about this is that it has given me a taste of freedom, the opportunity to truly switch off and forget about work for the weekend.
So how did I spent my weekend? I didn't do anything most folk would consider exciting. First thing Saturday we headed to Orange Grove Markets for some good fruit, veg and pasta (well, that's mildly exciting, I love OG Markets). I weeded dandelions from the lawn both days, taking my weeding hours in the last seven days up to six. I mowed some of the lawn - will have to pick up some chunks of umbrella tree trunk before I can do the rest. G and I poisoned the remaining umbrella tree root in a very satisfying exercise. G and I took the dog for a good brisk walk on Sunday before breakfast. I hoovered the house. I scrubbed the bathroom. I did a few loads of washing. I read a book. G and I hung and rehung some pictures. I took down the venetian blinds in the living room as the cords had broken on two of them and anyway they were cheap things from Freedom Furniture 20-something years old. I polished some furniture. We rearranged some of the bedroom furniture. We both did some ironing as it had piled up. Are you seeing a picture here? Apart from reading a book, it was a pretty physical weekend.
After weekends like this I find it hard to tie myself down to a computer on a Monday morning. So all this morning I have been procrastinating, playing for time before sitting at The Screen of Doom. G leaves for work at 7.30am. At that point I put on washing; I have some blankets to wash which I am giving away on Freecycle. I did the washing up and cleaned the kitchen benches. I hung the first load of washing out and put another blankety lot on. That's also hanging out now, together with load number three, white stuff. I mopped the kitchen, bathroom, loo and laundry. I brought the bins in. I watered the lawn where I'd put lawn seed down the week before, and the little garden near our front door.
Yes, it's sad: I far more enjoy housewifely tasks than work tasks. I would rather scrub the floors than build a website. With the changes I've had in my life over these last few months I would rather clean the toilet with my own toothbrush than build websites and put up with clients.
G has been away quite a lot in the last couple of months, so I have ironed several shirts for him. He usually irons his own shirts (quite the enlightened bloke in some ways). In our marathon ironing session yesterday he mentioned that and thanked me for it, whereby I answered it was the least I could do and anyway, that's what I do. His reply: "I didn't marry a 'wifey'." Now 'wifey' I am not and we both know it. But is there a difference between a 'wifey' and a woman who enjoys the physical side of housework and treats it as exercise? Plus, I get a lot of gratification from cleaning things and seeing the result.
I've spoken with G about my loathing of doing the work I started my company for in 2001. Now we have moved into a mortgage-free house he has told me that if I want to cut down on the stuff I hate doing, I should. He'd sooner have me happy than stressed and miserable. So I have. I'm not building any new websites. I'm telling potential clients I'm too busy, and just keeping the existing ones and their odd requests for changes and updates.
But still, I have come to dread spending my days sitting in front of the computer. I've been using computers for more than 20 years, and am finding technology increasingly frustrating. I get cross with websites which don't accept the login I set up with them. (Not, I hasten to add, the ones I build myself). It seems you need a password for absolutely everything these days and it's overwhelming. I get cross with email spam, especially when it uses my own name as the sender, so I can't put it into junk mail as I don't want to ban my own email address from my own computer. I get cross with Microsoft products, particularly Excel as it keeps crashing when you least want it to. I get cross with Google products when they change the layout and setup and you can't find what you bloody well want in terms of functionality. I just get cross.
So I procrastinate. I figure I can spend at least an hour after breakfast each day on cleaning maintenance, i.e. washing up, sweeping the kitchen, using the carpet sweeper on the rest of the house, with a major hoovering at weekends, watering the garden and lawn. I can walk to the post office and check my PO box.
And when I do get onto the computer and go through the emails and say "fuck off" to every single junk email - today I fantasised about meeting the bastard who sent me 47 emails about Louis Vuitton products using my own email address, and strangling him -, I then spend some quality time on Facebook and personal sites. Anything to put off the inevitable work stuff.
I have even stalled the workday by writing this blog post. But all good things must come to an end. The sun is shining outside and the sky a superb azure. And I'm stuck in the office, about to research some social media products for a client.
Ooh! Procrastination alert: it's almost morning tea time. I'll go and put the kettle on and that will give me the opportunity to enjoy a cup of coffee outside in the sun…
Thursday, February 27, 2014
The letter no wife wants to get
I have been sorting through my Mum's desk; a hotchpotch of letters, ancient receipts, brochures, information about the suburb I live in and much more.
Mum's letters have been scattered in boxes in her bedroom and pigeonholes in the desk. Some are letters from her sister, and parents when they were on holiday. Some are carbon copies of letters she has sent others. And there are, most interestingly and importantly, letters from my father. I have yet to put all these letters in some kind of chronological order, but have read most of them over the last couple of months.
Dad was an airline pilot and was sent to Geelong to train on the Boeing 707 in 1964, ostensibly for six months. He returned on leave to Sydney a couple of times at first, and his letters to Mum were initially full of love for her and for his little infant daughter, me. They also spoke of what he was learning. Then there was the letter a few months in saying he would stay in Geelong on his next leave and catch up on his study and try to get more flying hours in. The letters got shorter. I can't find any carbon copies of Mum's in reply to Dad's letters but they could turn up.
Then two days ago I found this one, in Mum's desk:
Dear J---,
Well I did check yesterday and it was terrible although they passed me except for the night part of it. I am getting another go tomorrow at it. My flying seems to be going from bad to worse and so does everything else. I guess you can tell by the last few weeks that I am not interested in coming home again so I think it would be better for all concerned if I did not and we keep on going as we have been over the last six weeks. I will be up in Sydney as soon as I get through here & will give you a ring and talk about it, you decide what you want to do about the house etc as it is yours to make the decision also about "Carinthia". I am missing her very much and still think you are a wonderful person but cannot go on deceiving you and myself about our relationship it just worrys me all the time I am home so that it will be better this way. I guess you have been expecting this the way you were speaking before so do not be too upset. I think it is the best for both of us so please be sensible. Will ring you when I get to Sydney and still
I vaguely remember this time. I was two and a half. I remember waiting at the living room window with Mum, watching for Dad's car to come down the hill and into the drive on his return from Melbourne, but it never did. Mum cried a lot. I did too. I was told that Daddy wasn't coming home again. I was used to him being away for days at a time in the job he had, and always waited at the window on the days he was due home.
Mum reckoned she and Dad never argued. I don't know what went on in regard to 'the way you were speaking before' but I suspect Mum challenged Dad about him having an affair with what was then called an air hostess (hostie) - the woman he divorced Mum to marry. I think she suspected the hostie was also staying in Geelong and I suspect she was right. Neither of my parents is around now to ask, and Mum was pretty frank with me when I grew to adulthood about Dad and the hostie and my parents' marriage breakup.
Frankly, I think this letter is a copout. It's like being dumped by text or, in the 90s, email. My parents were married for 14 years before Dad wrote this letter. Mum was furious for years about it and called him a gutless wonder, because he didn't say what he needed to say face to face.
The copy of the letter is a photocopy with no original available. I suspect the original got used in the divorce courts when Mum was fighting for the house. Dad's letter clearly states 'you decide what you want to do about the house etc as it is your to make the decision'. Mum made damned sure it was hers!
I can't imagine my Mum's utter sadness when this letter arrived in the post. It would have wrenched her heart out and thrown it on the ground to sizzle and die in the Sydney summer sun. My poor lovely Mum, getting a missive like this. I think she thought Dad had had a mental breakdown of some sort and that he'd realise his mistake and come home then as the months went on in 1965 realised he was serious.
So now I have a cataloguing job ahead of me, putting this whole story together chapter by chapter, letter by letter, date by date. I can't bear to throw them out; this is my family history.
Many couples go through divorce, but in the 60s it was less common and a long, drawn out process which took a good five years to complete. There was a social stigma attached too, even in those modern times. My Mum wasn't alone in divorcing her husband, but her story is important to me and deserves preserving, even if I am the only one who reads these letters and feels my own heart wrench in sympathy.
Mum's letters have been scattered in boxes in her bedroom and pigeonholes in the desk. Some are letters from her sister, and parents when they were on holiday. Some are carbon copies of letters she has sent others. And there are, most interestingly and importantly, letters from my father. I have yet to put all these letters in some kind of chronological order, but have read most of them over the last couple of months.
Dad was an airline pilot and was sent to Geelong to train on the Boeing 707 in 1964, ostensibly for six months. He returned on leave to Sydney a couple of times at first, and his letters to Mum were initially full of love for her and for his little infant daughter, me. They also spoke of what he was learning. Then there was the letter a few months in saying he would stay in Geelong on his next leave and catch up on his study and try to get more flying hours in. The letters got shorter. I can't find any carbon copies of Mum's in reply to Dad's letters but they could turn up.
Then two days ago I found this one, in Mum's desk:
Geelong
19/1/65
Dear J---,
Well I did check yesterday and it was terrible although they passed me except for the night part of it. I am getting another go tomorrow at it. My flying seems to be going from bad to worse and so does everything else. I guess you can tell by the last few weeks that I am not interested in coming home again so I think it would be better for all concerned if I did not and we keep on going as we have been over the last six weeks. I will be up in Sydney as soon as I get through here & will give you a ring and talk about it, you decide what you want to do about the house etc as it is yours to make the decision also about "Carinthia". I am missing her very much and still think you are a wonderful person but cannot go on deceiving you and myself about our relationship it just worrys me all the time I am home so that it will be better this way. I guess you have been expecting this the way you were speaking before so do not be too upset. I think it is the best for both of us so please be sensible. Will ring you when I get to Sydney and still
lots of love
L-- xxx
I vaguely remember this time. I was two and a half. I remember waiting at the living room window with Mum, watching for Dad's car to come down the hill and into the drive on his return from Melbourne, but it never did. Mum cried a lot. I did too. I was told that Daddy wasn't coming home again. I was used to him being away for days at a time in the job he had, and always waited at the window on the days he was due home.
Mum reckoned she and Dad never argued. I don't know what went on in regard to 'the way you were speaking before' but I suspect Mum challenged Dad about him having an affair with what was then called an air hostess (hostie) - the woman he divorced Mum to marry. I think she suspected the hostie was also staying in Geelong and I suspect she was right. Neither of my parents is around now to ask, and Mum was pretty frank with me when I grew to adulthood about Dad and the hostie and my parents' marriage breakup.
Frankly, I think this letter is a copout. It's like being dumped by text or, in the 90s, email. My parents were married for 14 years before Dad wrote this letter. Mum was furious for years about it and called him a gutless wonder, because he didn't say what he needed to say face to face.
The copy of the letter is a photocopy with no original available. I suspect the original got used in the divorce courts when Mum was fighting for the house. Dad's letter clearly states 'you decide what you want to do about the house etc as it is your to make the decision'. Mum made damned sure it was hers!
I can't imagine my Mum's utter sadness when this letter arrived in the post. It would have wrenched her heart out and thrown it on the ground to sizzle and die in the Sydney summer sun. My poor lovely Mum, getting a missive like this. I think she thought Dad had had a mental breakdown of some sort and that he'd realise his mistake and come home then as the months went on in 1965 realised he was serious.
So now I have a cataloguing job ahead of me, putting this whole story together chapter by chapter, letter by letter, date by date. I can't bear to throw them out; this is my family history.
Many couples go through divorce, but in the 60s it was less common and a long, drawn out process which took a good five years to complete. There was a social stigma attached too, even in those modern times. My Mum wasn't alone in divorcing her husband, but her story is important to me and deserves preserving, even if I am the only one who reads these letters and feels my own heart wrench in sympathy.
Wednesday, February 19, 2014
The Mid Century Modern House - the living room
I have inherited a house built in 1959 and completed and furnished in 1960. Unlike many of its contemporaries, it hasn't been renovated and updated. It's a time warp.
In a way, this is no bad thing. 'Mid century modern' is very hip right now. People are paying over the odds for dining table with tapering legs and their matching chairs. Which is a bit annoying, as Mum had a set and got rid of them in the '80s in one of the few updates she did to the house. I'm trying to buy a set to replace the '80s stuff LOL!!
Anyway, this house has good bones. Let's look at the living room first (or lounge room as Mum always called it). It has a big stone fireplace and groovy chandelier in the living room. To complement them I found Mum's original coffee table - 6 curved pieces by France of Denmark which fit together to make a round table - behind her dressing table, gathering dust. The brass legs were in a disintegrating plastic bag beside them. It was the matter of five minutes to put the table back together and into its old home, and another ten minutes of furniture polishing to get rid of the dust and bring the lustre back.
Over the dining table there's an original pull-down light.
And then there is the 50s piece de resistance: the bar. It's yellow vinyl with black studs and a black glass top. Behind on the panel supported by the copper pipes are the original 50s flying ducks I unearthed from one of the cupboards (Mum had put two more traditionally shaped carved wooden horses there but the ducks look cooler).
And another gem I unearthed: this little black napkin holder. Probably terrifically politically incorrect now. You fold the napkins into triangles and they make up her skirt. She's flanked by two more 50s kitsch items in the form of bottle openers.
At the moment the living room is all still a bit cluttered. It's getting there, though. For a week now the living room has been free of boxes. Bliss! The boxes were full of things I was sending to auction, both mine and Mum's. That's another blog post in itself.
Still to happen: repaint the walls. Several of the walls in this house are still proudly bearing their original coat of paint. They look like it, too. As a temporary measure I am washing them and they are coming up ok for the most part. The living room walls aren't in bad shape considering the paint has been there for 54 years. They don't have the marks from wear and tear the hallways walls do for instance as while I was a child the 'lounge room' was off limits unless we had guests. Our life was lived in the kitchen, sitting around the kitchen table on hard chairs to watch telly at night.
After much deliberation I've decided to redecorate in the original colours. They suit the house and are mainly cool shades, as this house is north facing and sunny. I don't think I can improve on them. I used to cringe at the 'chartreuse' colour on three of the living room walls when I was younger. I haven't posted a pic of it here, just the deep aqua feature wall which is a superb colour. The chartreuse is a soft yellowy green, and I've come to love it in recent years.
A major repainting job throughout will be all the ceilings and the stairwell. I'm going to hire a painter for that one. I don't do ceilings and stairwells, but I'm happy to paint walls; it's a pleasant, rather mindless task that lets my mind wander onto plots for short stories and other diversions.
After the painting is done - who knows when that will be!? - we will have to replace all the carpets. Again most of the carpet is original and getting quite threadbare in places. No point in doing it until all the painting is done though as I'm a mucky pup when I get a roller or brush in my hand.
Back to the living room though. There is mismatched furniture from the '70s, '80s and '90s along one wall: a display cabinet, a sideboard and some hi fi furniture, all different coloured wood or veneer. It looks pretty clumsy. I'm going to replace it with matching units from Ikea. Ikea. Yes, I know. But I like Ikea, whose designs echo classic mid-century modern, and the unit I'm considering is the top of their line and well made and sturdy. I also haven't been able to find what I want anywhere else, and certainly can't afford to get something custom-made. At least it will all bloody well match and be the same style and colour.
So that's my new living and dining room. It's about three times the size of our old one. I don't feel hemmed in or crowded now when G is in the room with me. It feels odd living in Mum's house without Mum, and I do wonder if she's watching over me and cringing at me going through cupboards and deeming what stays and what goes. I think she would be happy for me to put my own stamp on the place, though.
In a way, this is no bad thing. 'Mid century modern' is very hip right now. People are paying over the odds for dining table with tapering legs and their matching chairs. Which is a bit annoying, as Mum had a set and got rid of them in the '80s in one of the few updates she did to the house. I'm trying to buy a set to replace the '80s stuff LOL!!
Anyway, this house has good bones. Let's look at the living room first (or lounge room as Mum always called it). It has a big stone fireplace and groovy chandelier in the living room. To complement them I found Mum's original coffee table - 6 curved pieces by France of Denmark which fit together to make a round table - behind her dressing table, gathering dust. The brass legs were in a disintegrating plastic bag beside them. It was the matter of five minutes to put the table back together and into its old home, and another ten minutes of furniture polishing to get rid of the dust and bring the lustre back.
Over the dining table there's an original pull-down light.
And then there is the 50s piece de resistance: the bar. It's yellow vinyl with black studs and a black glass top. Behind on the panel supported by the copper pipes are the original 50s flying ducks I unearthed from one of the cupboards (Mum had put two more traditionally shaped carved wooden horses there but the ducks look cooler).
And another gem I unearthed: this little black napkin holder. Probably terrifically politically incorrect now. You fold the napkins into triangles and they make up her skirt. She's flanked by two more 50s kitsch items in the form of bottle openers.
At the moment the living room is all still a bit cluttered. It's getting there, though. For a week now the living room has been free of boxes. Bliss! The boxes were full of things I was sending to auction, both mine and Mum's. That's another blog post in itself.
Still to happen: repaint the walls. Several of the walls in this house are still proudly bearing their original coat of paint. They look like it, too. As a temporary measure I am washing them and they are coming up ok for the most part. The living room walls aren't in bad shape considering the paint has been there for 54 years. They don't have the marks from wear and tear the hallways walls do for instance as while I was a child the 'lounge room' was off limits unless we had guests. Our life was lived in the kitchen, sitting around the kitchen table on hard chairs to watch telly at night.
After much deliberation I've decided to redecorate in the original colours. They suit the house and are mainly cool shades, as this house is north facing and sunny. I don't think I can improve on them. I used to cringe at the 'chartreuse' colour on three of the living room walls when I was younger. I haven't posted a pic of it here, just the deep aqua feature wall which is a superb colour. The chartreuse is a soft yellowy green, and I've come to love it in recent years.
A major repainting job throughout will be all the ceilings and the stairwell. I'm going to hire a painter for that one. I don't do ceilings and stairwells, but I'm happy to paint walls; it's a pleasant, rather mindless task that lets my mind wander onto plots for short stories and other diversions.
After the painting is done - who knows when that will be!? - we will have to replace all the carpets. Again most of the carpet is original and getting quite threadbare in places. No point in doing it until all the painting is done though as I'm a mucky pup when I get a roller or brush in my hand.
Back to the living room though. There is mismatched furniture from the '70s, '80s and '90s along one wall: a display cabinet, a sideboard and some hi fi furniture, all different coloured wood or veneer. It looks pretty clumsy. I'm going to replace it with matching units from Ikea. Ikea. Yes, I know. But I like Ikea, whose designs echo classic mid-century modern, and the unit I'm considering is the top of their line and well made and sturdy. I also haven't been able to find what I want anywhere else, and certainly can't afford to get something custom-made. At least it will all bloody well match and be the same style and colour.
So that's my new living and dining room. It's about three times the size of our old one. I don't feel hemmed in or crowded now when G is in the room with me. It feels odd living in Mum's house without Mum, and I do wonder if she's watching over me and cringing at me going through cupboards and deeming what stays and what goes. I think she would be happy for me to put my own stamp on the place, though.
Thursday, February 13, 2014
The hardest time
When I was a child I used to be terrified of losing my Mum. Either she'd run away, as Dad did, or she'd get hit by a bus or die of a terrible disease… you get the idea. The very thought could have me in tears.
I have been lucky. I have had my Mum as both mother and closest friend for 51 years. And now I know what it is like to lose her, for I lost her on December 28 last year. It's numbing. It's a deep awfulness inside. It's incomprehensible to me that I shan't see her again or hear her voice, or feel her arms around me and mine around hers.
Mum had a stroke on 17 December and lasted ten days, fluctuating in the first week between a vague lucidity and a coma-like state. She couldn't move her left side. In the first few days she could talk in that the sounds she made were occasionally comprehensible. She only said one sentence clearly, five days after her stroke: "Get me a jelly bean." That might sound nuts but it was a perfectly sane request by a diabetic worried that she hadn't eaten in days (she couldn't eat and was being fed via a tube).
If seeing her - this vital, wonderful, active woman of 88, she who was more up to date on current affairs and politics than I - lying incapable in a hospital bed festooned with tubes and monitors wasn't bad enough, the last week was the worst of my life.
You see, the three specialists I spoke to all said it would be kinder to turn off the food and water and let nature take its course, as it was clear Mum would never recover and the best she could hope for would be a couple of months in a nursing home before the grim reaper paid a visit. Knowing Mum's horror of nursing homes, especially after seeing her own sister-in-law in the same situation, I agreed with them, feeling sick with guilt at the decision and in floods of tears.
What can be crueller than to watch the person you love most in the world fade away day by day?
Until almost the very last Mum could squeeze my hand or kick the blanket with her 'good' leg to answer yes/no questions, but even that wasn't enough to convince the doctors she had a fighting chance. They had her on low dose morphine and increased it when a gland in her neck started to swell and was obviously painful.
I did my mourning and grieving while Mum was still alive, being as brave as I could as I sat by her bed, talking of everyday things, telling her about the birds in the umbrella tree outside her house, telling her about the weather and mainly telling her I loved her.
It was outside the ward, in the corridor, that I would burst into racking sobs, wanting her back as she was, a bit frail but still independent, funny and clever.
When the phone call came at 3.45 in the morning, my heart turned to lead. We raced to the hospital but were fifteen minutes too late. I had asked the nurse to tell Mum we were coming, to hang on, but I think even her strong will couldn't overcome the inevitable. That, or she didn't want me to see her die, and I'm rather grateful for that if it's the case. Watching her dying was one thing, seeing her take a last breath would have been a killer for me.
I wanted to blog this as it was happening, to pour out my raw soul, but the internet connection at Mum's house where we were staying while she was in hospital was too slow. I had enough on my plate without ISP frustration.
So now it's nearly two months later, and I am ashamed that I don't cry on a daily basis; when I think of Mum though I get a beautiful feeling of warmth, as if she is still there beside me. I can imagine I'm putting my arms around her and I can feel her body, the shoulder that was damaged in a car crash in the 1960s slightly lower than the other. It's a feeling of comfort rather than a feeling of loss, and I am grateful and glad my mind has decided I will transmute my grief to this rather than be the wreck I thought I would be, depressed and howling on the hour. I have had to be strong; Mum was a strong woman and I think I have somehow, in these weeks, garnered some of her amazing spirit. Maybe she's still around. I hope so.
I may have lost Mum, but I will never lose her. Does that make sense? I think it does. I love you, Mum.
I have been lucky. I have had my Mum as both mother and closest friend for 51 years. And now I know what it is like to lose her, for I lost her on December 28 last year. It's numbing. It's a deep awfulness inside. It's incomprehensible to me that I shan't see her again or hear her voice, or feel her arms around me and mine around hers.
Mum had a stroke on 17 December and lasted ten days, fluctuating in the first week between a vague lucidity and a coma-like state. She couldn't move her left side. In the first few days she could talk in that the sounds she made were occasionally comprehensible. She only said one sentence clearly, five days after her stroke: "Get me a jelly bean." That might sound nuts but it was a perfectly sane request by a diabetic worried that she hadn't eaten in days (she couldn't eat and was being fed via a tube).
If seeing her - this vital, wonderful, active woman of 88, she who was more up to date on current affairs and politics than I - lying incapable in a hospital bed festooned with tubes and monitors wasn't bad enough, the last week was the worst of my life.
You see, the three specialists I spoke to all said it would be kinder to turn off the food and water and let nature take its course, as it was clear Mum would never recover and the best she could hope for would be a couple of months in a nursing home before the grim reaper paid a visit. Knowing Mum's horror of nursing homes, especially after seeing her own sister-in-law in the same situation, I agreed with them, feeling sick with guilt at the decision and in floods of tears.
What can be crueller than to watch the person you love most in the world fade away day by day?
Until almost the very last Mum could squeeze my hand or kick the blanket with her 'good' leg to answer yes/no questions, but even that wasn't enough to convince the doctors she had a fighting chance. They had her on low dose morphine and increased it when a gland in her neck started to swell and was obviously painful.
I did my mourning and grieving while Mum was still alive, being as brave as I could as I sat by her bed, talking of everyday things, telling her about the birds in the umbrella tree outside her house, telling her about the weather and mainly telling her I loved her.
It was outside the ward, in the corridor, that I would burst into racking sobs, wanting her back as she was, a bit frail but still independent, funny and clever.
When the phone call came at 3.45 in the morning, my heart turned to lead. We raced to the hospital but were fifteen minutes too late. I had asked the nurse to tell Mum we were coming, to hang on, but I think even her strong will couldn't overcome the inevitable. That, or she didn't want me to see her die, and I'm rather grateful for that if it's the case. Watching her dying was one thing, seeing her take a last breath would have been a killer for me.
I wanted to blog this as it was happening, to pour out my raw soul, but the internet connection at Mum's house where we were staying while she was in hospital was too slow. I had enough on my plate without ISP frustration.
So now it's nearly two months later, and I am ashamed that I don't cry on a daily basis; when I think of Mum though I get a beautiful feeling of warmth, as if she is still there beside me. I can imagine I'm putting my arms around her and I can feel her body, the shoulder that was damaged in a car crash in the 1960s slightly lower than the other. It's a feeling of comfort rather than a feeling of loss, and I am grateful and glad my mind has decided I will transmute my grief to this rather than be the wreck I thought I would be, depressed and howling on the hour. I have had to be strong; Mum was a strong woman and I think I have somehow, in these weeks, garnered some of her amazing spirit. Maybe she's still around. I hope so.
I may have lost Mum, but I will never lose her. Does that make sense? I think it does. I love you, Mum.
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