And the meek shall inherit the earth.

As I type this, I am surrounded by the carnage.

Dead bodies litter the floor.

There are smears of blood evident – physical proof of the trauma that has taken place  not just minutes before, but over the best part of an hour.

Anyone who looks at me, would not know the secret thrill that witnessing this carnage gives. I care not that there is more meat on my floor than in the freezer.  I care not that living creatures are being struck down – nay – slaughtered – and by no one other than me. Right here. Right now.

I am a sadist, I look for more. I wait, I watch, and when the time is right – I strike. Each falling body offers another notch to my mental belt.

Like Goliath, I crush; like David, I cast the final stone.

And those that seek my flesh, to feast on my blood, with the aim of fulfilling their own selfish desires  are struck down.

When they least expect it.

Lord, how I hate mosquitoes.

I am Rhubarb. Fly me.

One thing I have always wanted to do, ever since I was a little rhubarb, is fly.

I used to dream of growing wings and circumnavigating the earth.

In my childhood fantasies, I would skim soil and sky, weightless and free, looking down on my earth and knowing that the sky was the mystical place to be.

As I grew, of course, it became clear that wings and I were not going to happen. Although I grew taller and older and sprouted many things, wings were not among them.   This inconvenience only served to increase my fascination with flight. Given a chance, any chance, I will fly. I love the feeling of the sky. Jet plane or Cessna, chopper or glider,  put me in and let me go.  Fly me anywhere, anytime, in anything. Strap me to a kite,  slip me into an air craft, whether it be motorised or not, I am happy. Even being towed along in a parasail gives me a thrill.

Mechanics, however, is not my thing. Neither are mathematical equations. For an aircraft to fly, fuel required equals mileage calculation plus wind direction plus pressure equated with altitude multiplied by distance less the cost of the iced buns for morning tea.  I just don’t get it.  I just want the flight – just give me the speed and the sky and I am a happy girl.

*

My new neighbour is a pilot.

He flies planes.

Big ones.

For Qantas and Virgin and British Airways.

He also owns planes.

Little ones.

Like Cessnas.

He also owns half a flight school and several air hangars.

And he likes me.

‘Cos apparently girls who like to fly and like aircraft are pretty rare, and there are not many females around who have the passion.

And you don’t need to be good at mathematical equations or mechanics to work out what the total of those two equations turns out to be.

Looks like I may sprout those wings after all.

(squeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeIamsoexcited)

The End of an Era

It wasn’t long ago. I know that for certain, because I can still remember what I was wearing.  He, of  course, in school clothes, and me? White pants, navy and white T-shirt, new sandals. I looked crisp and efficient. I wanted to – I was meeting his new teacher for the first time, and since it was his first day of big school, I wanted to send a message that I was one of those competent, all-together mothers who was always dressed reasonably well, didn’t lose school notes, always had money and forms handed in time. Navy and white does that. Navy and white is organised and together and in control and all very Brady bunch.  I would help with reading, I thought, and math and  art as well.  I’d front up in the mornings, greet the teacher by name each day and we’d smile and share a conspiratorial wink.

I knew all this, because I’d planned it all out well in my head.

I knew that as the years progressed and as I’d meet more teachers and the grade numbers became higher, I’d spend less time in the classroom and more time assisting with homework, but I was ready for that. I’d even sharpened my pencil and set aside the diary space for the next 7 years. My navy and whites were at the ready.

I’d choose everything with careful deliberation. I’d cover books in advance, always have spare packets of pencils and erasers at the ready. Afternoons would be a breeze of milk and cookies when we arrived home followed by homework, which would be a simple task, and then free time for both of us. I made sure he had a homework desk and a place to read and drawers to keep everything in and a place to display the merit awards and certificates he would earn over years.

Yep, I was ready.

So how did I end up with lost property and misplaced hats, mouldy school lunches, notes from the teacher that never made it home, notes TO the teachers that never made it to school. And how did  items that should have come home from school that not come home like lunch boxes, drink bottles, pens, pencils and homework; items that did come home from school that I’d rather did not, such as nits, lice, scabies, someone elses lunch, envelopes with red letters on the front and even an extra child or two happen?   Or the stupid things done, like fronting up with my child for school on pupil free days, not supplying  fancy dress on fancy dress days, wearing fancy dress on uniform days,  not knowing about the 2 dollars for the sausage sizzle (again!), missing the bus for  chess comps, forgetting parent teacher interviews, forgetting to bake a cake for the take a plate days that I didn’t know about.  Or him losing 435 hats, hiding homework, needing remedial writing lessons,  throwing a chopstick at his Chinese teacher because he misunderstood her words and a year 5 teacher so influential we caved in and bought a Nintendo DS.  Or doling out money after money after money for fetes and cakes and pizza days and lamington days and market days and choir practice breakfast every Thursday for 7 years and violin lessons and a recorder and ‘I-don’t-actually-really-like-violin-mum-but-I’d-like-to-learn-piano lessons ’and Mrs V says  should have a keyboard at home to practice on’ so let’s buy a Yamaha then.   Or things not prepared for, and things not fair – like  the day  I was called to the headmasters office because he had  punched someone in the eye – and having to take him home even though he was actually standing up for some girls who were being bullied by someone else. And while I was still trying to figure out how to manage the year one tuck shop system I would not have time to catch my breath before someone would remind me that it was now year 7 so managing that task was all a bit redundant at this stage.

Hang on a minute, my white pants and navy shirt are still at the bottom of the ironing pile. 

 

It wasn’t long ago. I know this because he’d chosen the clothes he wanted to wear.  At 5.30 PM I was still in my school clothes, and he? He was in self chosen black pants and a trendy checked shirt (They are in, mum). I had no say in it, no say at all.

After 7 years, primary school was over, complete, finito. The graduation dinner – the 12 year old’s equivalent to a formal – dinner and a dance. 

And so, we begin the venture into High School.

If I could just catch my breath, I am sure I still have the white pants and navy  t-shirt somewhere here…

Puberty Blues Goes to Camp

So, we are sitting at the dinner table, just starting the main meal. It’s a roast (lamb!) with roasted spuds, real gravy and a green salad. Geek boy has been on camp all weekend – laser skirmish with the scouts – hence the roast. It’s a ‘real meal’ after what’s usually a weekend of little sleep and skipped meals because boys of 12 and laser skirmish take precedence over remembering mum’s instructions to eat, stay dry and change your jocks and socks.

And, just before dinner, the other ritual that follows camp – a long bath followed by ‘mum can you check me for ticks, please‘.  The checking for tick ritual always yields at least one tick – as it did again this time – and always involves a goodly mother look at all intricate bits of anatomy. Those little buggers hide in secret damp bits of 12-year-old boys – hence mum’s instructions of ‘eat, stay dry and change your jocks and socks.’

However.

 This time, when said mothering look was taking place, something else was visible to the mothering eye. Something I wasn’t quite ready for. First fuzzies, to be a little graphic. Not just under the arms, to add detail. My little boy is growing up.

Trying to remain nonchalant about said fuzzies, I make some lame comment about hair and powder and washing growing up and flee to the tending of my sheep. In the oven.

There is my first heart attack of the day. I was not ready for that. I need some time to think. I tell myself, this is expected, your baby is growing up, time marches forward, blah blah and etc. Deep breath, mental note to self about personal hygiene discussions ahead.

Back to the story at hand, we are sitting at the dinner table, just starting the lamb (remember that?) and just as I am about to ask the usual ‘how was camp, tell me all about it?‘ type questions, geek boy drops clanger number 2.

“So, I meant to tell you mum, on Friday, we had that lady from Fawlty Towers come to school and have that talk with us”

“What lady? What talk?” Penny drops. “WHAT talk?”

“You know, the lady who sits in the office all day on the phone and says BAS-il“. Her“

“SHE came? You sure it was her? What talk?

(Prunella Scales visited my son’s school to give the puberty talk? This I must look into. It would have been on the note. Should I have received a note. Was there a note? I do not recall a note.)

“Was there a note about this?”

“Yeah I gave it to you… Didn’t I?”

“Ummmmmno.  No note.  Tell me about the talk“

“Oh yeah. Oh well, it was just, you know, growing up and what happens  to your body and why it changes and stuff. She was funny but good at it. I kept waiting for her to say BAS-il.”

“Oh. Hmm. How long did it go for? The talk I mean. “

“Oh, all day. Except for the afternoon went we did PE. The girls and the boys went together for the first half and the boys had to go and play soccer while she talked to the girls and then the girls had to go and play handball while the boys had their turn and then we had some time all together again”.

“Oh. Right. That’s long time.  And what did you talk about?“

“Oh, just pimples and skin and bodies and stuff. Then the girls had their turn and I don’t know what they talked about. She wouldn’t tell us. Probably babies and stuff. Then we had lunch and it was our turn. And she talked about bodies and hair and changes and stuff.”

 

“Oh, and wet dreams.”

 

I seem to have a piece of lamb stuck in my throat. I chew the lettuce leaf earnestly and clear my esophagus.

“Uh huh. It sounds interesting.” (Here, I launch into parental spiel and questions about bodies and changes and so forth but wondering what else was covered at school).

“We talked about other stuff too. The boys had to say what they thought would be the hardest thing about being a girl was. Some kids said it would be hard having boobs, having to have  babies, giving birth, feeding babies with your boobs, that type of stuff. Oh – and having to buy so many shoes and needing all so much money to buy so many handbags and stuff”.

“Oh, OK.  Anything you would like to talk about, from all that?”

“Yeah”.

Silence.

I have given up on my dead sheep. It can graze in the salad.

“Yes?” I have on my most open face,  radiating encouragement for tricky questions and confident of I-am-an-educated-teacher-and-can-deal-with-your-questions  type responses. From somewhere.

“Can I tell you something, now?”

“Of course, you can tell us anything. Go on…”

“Can I tell you about laser skirmish camp now? See, there was this kid and….”  and the rest of the conversation about lasers and guns and being dead and shot and targets and mud and leeches and snipers in the trees and so on carried on. I know I punctuated it with various umms, and wows and cools. 

I just don’t remember.

The skipper did take part in this discussion, I just can’t recall a thing he said, for the life of me. And, you know, although we have not had the talk before, and we have always been very open and honest about bodies and sexuality and stuff.  If the question arises, it’s answered.  The level of depth of the question determines the level of depth of the answer.  I was as surprised by my response and reaction to the dinner table discussion as I was to the discussion itself.

Tomorrow, I am off to look up Sybil and see what advice she has to give me.

A Break in the Machinery – Part 3

A memory is what is left when something happens and does not completely unhappen.  ~Edward de Bono

 

When I did see him, I was stunned. He was emaciated, his body shrunk and hanging off the frame. The whole left side of his face and body was (temporarily) paralysed from a ‘stroke like’ condition in the brain. His arm was curled, his face contorted, he could not speak.  He drooled, he was bereft, his gait limped and only able to take a few steps at a time. His small amount of speech consisted of a cyclic pattern of incomprehensible gibberish punctuated with “I’m Sorry”s,  His feet were bleeding, swollen and tattered. He needed to be washed, to be fed, to be treated as one would an infant. Heavily medicated, numerous side effects. He had no comprehension of time or space. He had hallucinations punctuated with memory ‘pictures’ of holidays taken in a previous life.

 

What he can remember, is walking – but not where , or why.  He walked on freeways, on bridges, through bushland. How he did not get run down or attacked is unbelievable. The distance he covered  was huge. He walked for days. He says he was following the stars – the biggest star was telling him to walk, to find calm, to go the peace. (This is eerie, he talked about this ‘star’ for days afterwards). 

It took weeks for some type of normality to surface. The speech returned – although lapses still occur when he is tired or anxious. He still has the anxiety attacks. His physical ableness has mostly returned, the limp noticeable when he is tired or has walked too much.  His face droops when tired, his body still twitches uncontrollably, especially when he is fatigued.

It took months before he stopped the ‘walkabouts’ (He would just walk out the door and head to somewhere unknown with no warning).  Even in presence he would ‘vanish’ from us – he would be on the Murray river, or the top of Ayers rock, or up the bush camps.  He would describe the place he was at perfectly, right down to the tiniest detail. When he ‘came back’ he is disoriented, confused. 

 

Our life changed. His ability to do specific types of work has been removed.  We have had to – and years later, continue to make – huge changes. His memory and abilities will never be the same. His memory shocking. 

From time to time, we sit on the beach at night and gaze skywards. We talk of the urge to follow the star, the star of peace. Then we rise, hold hands and turn away, to walk once again home.

To this day, the sight of work boots by the door sends cold chills down my spine. 

 

We enjoy warmth because we have been cold.
We appreciate light because we have been in darkness.
By the same token, we can experience joy because we have known sadness.
-David Weatherford