Some things never change ~ enjoying a taste of freedom.

My mother had positively hated that house. I’m sure there wasn’t one single happy memory for her there and when we moved, knowing the whole building was soon to be demolished, she couldn’t have cared less.

She had let me have posters on my bedroom wall in this home; she hadn’t allowed this before and I couldn’t have posters on the wall in my new bedroom. Here, she simply hadn’t cared.

The building was old and we had a shop downstairs, where she was forced to work seven days a week. She detested anything old, and hadn’t wanted to buy this business at all.

My mother’s disinterest in the condition of my bedroom walls, however, allowed me the freedom to be me, to add my own personal touches to my bedroom.

As I came into my teenage years, living in a new town, starting a new school and making new friends, a whole new world was offered to me on a silver platter. With my mother otherwise occupied by the loathed business, her attention had been diverted to something else, other than me. For the first time in my very young life, I began to enjoy my first taste of freedom.

My one and only rather small bedroom window looked out across the river. I would sit beside my bedroom window, watching the world go by, sketching what I saw, breathing in the warm country air.

The school bus stop was right at the front door of our shop and during the three years we lived there, I remember catching the bus only once, under protest, when a friend tried to convince me that the bus ride would be a preferred alternative to walking home from school. If I didn’t ever take the bus, how did I know I didn’t like it, was her argument. So I took the bus, just once. Once was enough.

Every morning I looked forward to my walk across the bridge, taking me to the other side of the river, where, after a few shortcuts here and there, I would be at school in fifteen minutes. At the end of the school day, I would do it all again, and I enjoyed every step of the way.

During the three years that we lived there, I discovered nail polish and grew my nails. And I grew my hair long for the first time in my life. When I could look after my own hair, mum would let me grow it long, and multiple arguments later and a lifetime of years, I finally convinced her that I did know how to wash my own hair, and yes, I did know how to drag a brush through my unruly mass of thick waves and curls!

Summer days after school, and all of the weekends were spent at the swimming pool in town. My friends taught me how to swim, assuring me I wouldn’t drown if I let go of the side of the pool! Mum would have died a million deaths, had she seen me jumping off the diving board, known as “The Tower”, into water that was perhaps fifteen feet deep, once I had gained my confidence in the water!

For a person who loved to take photos throughout every moment in time, mum took very few photos of this old building that we lived in. Obviously she didn’t wish to etch these walls into her memory. So tonight, as I looked through my old childhood photo album, I came across just one photo of my bedroom.

My hair had started to get some length in it and mum had said she wanted me to stand in front of my dressing table so that the back of my hair would be reflected in the mirror. She wanted to send photos of me to my sisters, still living on The Blue Mountains, to show them how much my hair had grown since we had moved away.

All the photo shows is just one corner of my room. What I was hoping to see was the huge poster on my wall, just above my bed, of Marc Bolan from the band T Rex. If mum had stood slightly to her right when she took this photo, the reflection of Marc Bolan would have been showing in the mirror.

What the photo does show is my very 70′s yellow transistor radio, sitting on top of my dressing table, the stool with the fluffy seat that was really soft to sit on and the picture that a friend had painted for me as a going away present when I had left my last school the year before.

These days, I’m the person taking the photos of every moment in time, knowing how fleeting those moments are, and realising that there are some days when you just feel like reminiscing and remembering what once was. You don’t necessarily wish to return to that place and time, but the jig-saw puzzle of your life can be helped along the way by the reminders of where we have come from, where we are now and where we are heading to.

As I reflect back on those days, when I enjoyed my first taste of freedom, there are some things that are very clear to me ~ I still love my freedom, I can still gaze for hours at a river, I would walk in the fresh country air rather than catch a bus any day, I still have long hair and I still love the feel of soft, fluffy fabric.

And I still get shivers down my spine when I hear the songs of Marc Bolan and T Rex.

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A Sea Change…(AKA – An Adventure with my Reckless Parents!)

On our way north, with our lives packed into a caravan...

In 1971 my parents decided to make a “sea change”, selling our house, all of our furniture, discarding or giving away personal belongings which they believed we no longer needed, packed a few “must keep” items into boxes which were sent away to be stored, bought a caravan, and off we went.

Even writing that first line here gives me a feeling of panic; I personally would never dream of doing such a thing! Yet my parents found the whole idea so easy, almost as if it were a natural thing to do.

Sell your home; sure. Pack in your high paid job; no problem. Take your youngest child out of high school when she has only just started at her new school; she’ll cope!

Well, I did cope. I had no other choice, did I? What else could I do, other than tag along with these reckless parents of mine?

But here’s the thing; they had done it all twenty years before. When they had three young daughters, aged nine, six and four years of age, they packed a few beloved items into two large trunks, hopped on board the ship, “SS New Australia” and floated away into the sunset, in search of a new life on the opposite side of the world.

I must admit, buying the caravan was pretty great. And the idea of hooking the van up to the back of Dad’s station wagon in the middle of the night and beginning the drive north was very romantic.

And I knew I would be safe with my parents. Dad would fight off any monsters that threatened to harm me, whilst Mum held me safe within her protective arms, so really, I had nothing to worry about….did I?

How did a home-body like me happen to be born into a family where the father is absolutely fearless and the mother constantly has “itchy feet” and wants to spend her life in search of adventure?

Well, if it was adventure and change they were after, they succeeded, but that didn’t come as any surprise. My parents were both very feline like; they were a pair of cats with nine lives and always landed on their feet!

Dad out the front of the shop, with that dreaded bread window at the right side of the photo!

After four months of living in caravan parks (and using public facilities for our bathroom!) they finally decided to buy a shop in the very pretty town of Murwillumbah, New South Wales, slightly inland from the coast and just south of the Queensland and New South Wales state border.

To say “they” decided is not completely accurate; Dad had his heart set on buying the shop and Mum, true to her sense of adventure simply went along for the ride. Mum thought the buildings were shabby and old; well, looking at the old photos, she was right! But oh, that old shabby building was full of character and there was never a dull moment in the shop.

Poor Mum, she didn’t want to be tied to working in a shop, seven days a week, from 6am to 9pm! And when they went to view the business with a view to purchase, she remembered we had stopped at the shop on one of our previous trips north to buy a drink, but she had refused to buy anything. When she had looked in the fresh bread window there was a fly buzzing around the loaves of bread!

“Well, we’ll just make sure we don’t keep any flies with the bread then!”, Dad had argued, and he won the battle, although Mum was not satisfied until Dad renovated the shop, removing the dreaded bread window!

Our home was directly above the shop and apart from the white-ants in the wall in the hallway, the clanking blinds on the veranda that kept you awake at night (there was no glass in the windows on the veranda) and the toilet room was as big as a ballroom, it was a pretty comfortable home to live in! The old building had charm.

Dad inside the shop with staff, and friends, May & Betty.

Dad had convinced Mum that the business would be a little gold mine and he was right. It was situated right across the road from the ralway station, right where the railway line terminated, so when every train arrived, the shop became flooded with customers, plus there was a bus stop right at our front door. We were also right on the Pacific Highway and the last main town before reaching Tweed Heads and Coolangatta on the state border, so our shop was a huge draw-card to holiday makers. (Remember the fly in the bread window? We were on holidays at the time and stopped at the shop ourselves!)

We sold take-away food, groceries, bread (ha, ha!), dairy products, chemist items, we were a sub-newsagency and green grocers…you name it – we sold it!

Back view of the shop, showing the old shed and the bakery.

Apart from first thing in the morning and later at night we had two to three ladies working for us and I made friends with them all. I loved to help the ladies when I could; restacking the shelves or buttering bread for the sandwiches during the lunchtime rush, if I wasn’t at school, that is!

Out the back of the shop were some old sheds, which I couldn’t wait to explore. One building turned out to be a disused bakery (there’s that bread reference again!) that looked as if someone had just walked out one day, leaving everything in its place, never to return. The other

Looking towards the river, across the flood waters, from upstairs.

building, a shed actually, contained a neatly made bed (complete with folded up pyjamas under the pillow) and various other household items, including a bottle of metholated spirits. Urgh! After asking around, we found out that an old tramp had once lived there, and unfortunately the metho had been his “cheap alcohol”.

Around the back of the shop and across the road we had the Tweed River, so when it rained heavily for days, and flood warnings were issued, it was a matter of “all hands on deck” as we rushed around the shop, lifting everything in sight, before the river broke its banks. The flood waters ran straight through the shop, while we were safely tucked away upstairs, with Mum taking photos of the flood waters!

My parents had wanted a new adventure in their lives and for the three years we lived and worked in Murwillumbah it was a fun time, with so many memories, even more than I have recorded here.

It was a time when I thought my parents had totally lost their marbles and were in need of a “sanity check”, but being the felines that they were,  they landed, unharmed, right on their feet.

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Childhood Poetry

As a child of perhaps nine years of age, I discovered the joy of rhyming words.

I had just moved to a new school and had few friends. I think that my mind may have wondered off in my moments of solitude, finding a friend and confidant in the written word.

Every weekend my father would buy the Sydney Sunday newspapers, “The Sun Herald” and “The Sunday Telegraph”. I would run off with the comic section before Dad settled himself down with his Sunday morning cuppa and the newspaper, as I wanted to find the children’s competitions, published each Sunday.

Some weeks there would be a maze to navigate, others a colouring competition, or join the dots, or a word scramble to solve.

With puzzle solved or colouring in complete, Mum would give me an envelope to address and send off my competition entries in.

Children who were aged up to a certain age, I think perhaps twelve years old, could also contribute poetry, my forté!

Just recently, I have re-discovered a newspaper cutting of one of my poems, published in the “Sun Herald”, when I was the ripe old age of eleven.

As sad as it sounds now, I really didn’t enjoy my new school. For three years, before beginning high school, I suffered the torture of a school where I just didn’t seem to fit in.

Every day I would leave my mother, who even at such a very young age I had discovered was more than just a mother, she had also become my friend.

Basically, I loved to hang out with Mum! She was fun. I could trust her. I’d rather stay at home with her than go to school!

But, to school I had to go, whist wishing I could stay at home.

It was at this time in my life that I wrote this poem, submitted it to the paper and as a consequence, it was published.

My Mother

Although she is often strict,

I love her just the same,

She is so very dear to me

And Mother is her name.

She talks to me so very kind,

When in need she’s always there,

When I’m sick I always find

That she is aware.

Whatever would I do without her?

When I’m not near her my mind

Always wanders back to her

Where I always find

Her loving face with a pleasant smile,

I’d love to be with her all the while.

This is my only poem that I still have, saved as a newspaper cutting. Goodness knows whatever became of all of my other poetry, hand written carefully onto sheets of white cardboard.

My one and only childhood poem may not save the world, but the enjoyment of writing it at that time made my world a better place to live in.

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First Love

“Once upon a time, Once when you were mine,
I remember skies, Reflected in your eyes,
I wonder where you are, I wonder if you think about me,
Once upon a time, In your wildest dreams.”

Lyrics from the song “Your Wildest Dreams” by The  Moody Blues.

The Place ~High School

My Age ~Fourteen

With Me ~ My Best Friend

Talking, walking upstairs, heading to our next lesson.

As I turned to speak to my friend, the dull buzzing of voices around me turned to silence; my friend became invisible.

Time stood still.

For, walking up the stairs, directly behind my friend, I saw HIM, for the first time.

He smiled, and his eyes pierced into my soul.

A Year Later ~

I had noticed him around school every day since That Day. I knew his name; who his friends were; the sports he played.

I knew where he worked after leaving school.

I thought I’d never see him again.

And then we met again, and talked, for the first time.

It was an August night, the weather beginning to warm slightly as the end of winter approached.

We enjoyed the same music; we talked some more, while he smiled that smile and his eyes searched deeper into my soul.

We were inseparable for over a year. Then another boy smiled at me. And he was gone.

Six Months Later ~

Fate brought us together again. I had missed him, as much as he had missed me.

We laughed, as he told me about the girls he had met during the time we were apart, all of which he accidently called by my name.

They were not impressed.

For the next two years we were together, but I always knew the day would come when we would part again.

The very same year that I was married, he was married too. To a girl whose name was the same as mine. I joked that he wouldn’t call her by the wrong name!

The memories of him, my first boyfriend, my best friend, my first love, I cherish.

He left town and so did I. There was no further news of his whereabouts. Not that I asked. He had left my life and he had become nothing more than a cloudy,  mystical memory, lost somewhere within the recesses of my mind; simply memories from a lifetime ago.

He had left my world, just as I had left his.

And to this day, I have never seen him again.

Fast Forward to Two Years Ago ~

Returning to the town of my teenage years of carefree days, spent with crazy schoolgirl friends and filled with memories of yesteryear, my own teenage daughter and myself browsed around one of my favourite country stores from a lifetime ago, where I too had shopped as a teenager.

Whilst my daughter browsed through the racks of clothing on display I chatted easily to the friendly shop assistant, who explained that her sister had recently become the new owner of the store.

I found the shop assistant to be a most amicable lady and I soon discovered we were talking like old friends.

During the course of our conversation, we discovered we had something in common, having both worked at the same store, at different times, in a nearby town.

At this point, my new friend brought another lady into the conversation, someone who I hadn’t noticed was there, as she quietly stacked new stock onto shelves against the far wall. This other lady had also worked at the same store in the nearby town, many years ago.

As much as the first lady spoke easily and freely, the second lady seemed shy, awkward, ill at ease and spoke in a monotone voice. Yet they were long-time friends.

Now feeling just a tad awkward myself, as a result of her uneasiness, I managed to continue the conversation in the same vein as before.

Mentioning an old friend who had once worked at the store we were now in, I was delighted to discover that she still worked there, although today was her day off. Never mind, I’d come back to visit her another day.

I explained my old friendship with their co-worker, which dated back to my early teenage years, further explaining how we had become closer friends during the years I had dated her now-husband’s brother.

The ensuing events had me mystified.

To my left, my daughter proclaimed, “My Daddy’s better than him!”

To my right, the ill at ease lady with the monotone voice shrieked, rushing back to the safety of stacking her shelves, from whence she came!

The friendly lady muttered a comment regarding the “small world we live in”, collected herself and managed to continue our conversation with dignity.

Puzzled as to the outburst, although containing my composure, I purchased my daughter’s choice of a pretty white summer dress, we said our goodbyes and off we went.

Weeks Later ~

This incident played on my brain. Why the outburst from The Monotone Lady? Every day, a recording of this incident replayed itself within my mind’s eye. Still no answers.

It got the better of me.

As soon as my daughter arrived home from school one afternoon, I asked her the question that had been plaguing me. Did she think Mrs Monotone had reacted in an odd way, or did I imagine something?

“No Mum, she acted very weird.”

“She wasn’t very friendly, was she, not like the other lady,” I continued.

“No Mum”.

“I don’t understand what I said for her…what was her name again?… to react that way”.

“Her name was the same as yours, Mum”.

And then, the penny dropped….

“You don’t suppose…..she wasn’t the wife of……”

“Yes, Mum”.

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It’s All In A Name….Or Is It?

A casual conversation this morning with my son has turned out to have been a thought-provoking event. It began by my asking him who he had sat with at lunch yesterday at school. (My question being posed due to knowing that he had “broken up” with his first girlfriend of two & a half weeks, at the ripe old age of 12 & had spent every lunchtime for the duration of the relationship sitting with her & her friends).

Oliver reeled off the names of a few friends….Brodie, Jarred, Savannah, etc. etc…
“What about Alice?” I asked. He looked at me, stunned.
I explained my question, re. Alice. “Isn’t she Savannah’s best friend?” (I knew this for a fact, as both girls had signed his pencil-case recently).
“No! Alice is friends with Montana!”

My mistake. Hence my morning of contemplation.

My older two children have collected many friends & acquaintances during their school years, with names such as Joshua, Tim, James, Matthew & Daniel for the boys & equally as regular girls names such as Laura, Rachel, Emily, Katie & Sarah.

Now, with my younger two, I am hearing the names Savannah, Montana, Madison & Dakota. (Is this due to the American influence on the western world, I ponder?) Then there’s December, Aries, Storm & Night. (Perhaps chosen due to the times they were born?)

Names do have their phases of popularity. My school days bring back memories of my friends Susan, Judith, Julie, Karen, Virginia & Heather, all lovely girls. A girl named Rebecca, a most unusual name at the time, I thought, had waist length plaits & a gentle manner. Which explains why, ever since that time, I have expected any Rebecca who has crossed my path to be a gentle soul.

Rebecca’s twin brother, Kingsley, an equally gentle mannered boy, was the kindest boy in the class. You would never catch Kingsley pulling a girl’s hair, or putting his foot out to trip someone up as they passed by his desk!

“Nice boys” were always called Bradley or James (including Jamie, a name now usually given to girls!) or Ian or Peter. Philip was a smooth talker, with dreamy eyes (Well, I was only 10 years old when he came to my school!) Andrew, Haydn & Noel were the trouble makers, while Ronald pushed me over at the cloak racks one day! (From that day onwards, his name was “Mud” to me!)

Then there is John. Oh dear…John. I once confided to my best friend, who was married to a John at the time, that to my mind, parents only named their babies John if they didn’t know what else to call them. To my amazement, she agreed! Story had it that her then husband had been born, most inconveniently, on his parents honeymoon. And about two months prematurely. Not knowing what to name their sudden arrival, he was named after his father….John. (Mind you, John senior, to his credit, had spruced up his name somewhat, being known himself as Jake!)

No offense to any John’s who may be reading this. My own father in law is named John. But that is actually his middle name. (Whatever possessed him to want to be known as John, I really can’t imagine!)

When tracing my family tree a couple of years ago I came across the same old names, generation after generation. Every man named James would name his first son, you guessed it…James. When son number two came along, he was named William, after his wife’s father, of course. Imagine my joy when I came across the name of my three times great grandfather…Jabez! Now, that’s a name you don’t hear every day.

All of the women in my family were named Sarah or Lily. But then I discovered a Rachel! (Oh, but then Rachel’s parents were William & Sarah).

My husband worked with a man named Arthur some years ago. Arthur was around my husband’s age but the name Arthur gave me images of an old man. So, I asked my husband to find out what Arthur’s middle name was. That might help, thought I. Sadly, I was to learn that his middle name was Harold…Arthur Harold. My spirits dropped. My mind’s eye was now seeing a little old man, short, thin & hunched over, wearing thick rimmed glasses & speaking with a timid little voice. How could this be? My husband enjoyed working with Arthur! They had become close friends!

Well, I finally met Arthur. In walked a tall, muscle-bound, handsome man….his voice boomed across the room; his manner oozed with confidence; he had an amazing sence of humour!!

From that day, I immediately & totally lost confidence in my judgements of people based on their names! I felt totally at ease with Arthur & admitted my pre-conceived ideas to him, asking if he would mind if I called him Arthur Harold, as the two names together seemed less “nerdy” (which he certainly wasn’t!) He agreed to the image that his name may suggest & also agreed to allow me to call him Arthur Harold on one condition….so long as he could call me Misses! Arthur Harold & I became friends.

Names definitely have their way of conjuring up images of the person in possession of the name. And they also go through their phases in popularity.

I remember a scene in the Disney movie “Pocahontas”, when John Smith & Pocahontas are introducing themselves to each other. John Smith says, “You have the most unusual names here…Pocahontas”, to which Pocahontas replies, “You have the most unusual name too…John Smith”!

Can’t you just see it now…in the year 2110 trend-setters will be giving birth to baby boys, and, tired of the old-fashioned names that have been around for the last 100 years, will start a new trend by naming their sons John. Followed closely by son number two with an equally unusual name….Arthur.

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There Is Only One Me…

Today I have come to the realisation that I am happy with the person that I have become.

The years have passed & people have entered & left my life. Others have stayed. But they have all contributed, in their own way, to who I am now.

What a long way I have come from the timid little girl I remember! Always the quiet one, the introvert, the loner. Books were my best friends. But I didn’t miss anything that happened. While the other kids were racing carelessly around the school playground, I was the child who helped the one who had fallen over & skinned their knees by taking them to the teacher on playground duty, where they would be given a band-aid for their wound & sent on their way.

When one of my classmates were quiet & sad, no words needed to be spoken. I just “knew” in my child’s mind, when there was a problem. I was the one who walked up & asked “are you okay?” while the other kids continued with whatever they were doing, oblivious to the pain of a friend.

During my teenaged years, I was never the wild party-goer. But I did begin to read less & talk more. The quiet loner found her tongue & was often scolded in class for too much talking & not enough listening. What short-sighted teachers they were, I thought. Don’t they realise that I can talk AND listen at the same time? I AM WOMAN!

Boys would tell me that I was “different” to other girls that they knew, with the way that I listened to them & cared about what they were saying. It was during this time I learned that a smile & eye contact is worth a million words, especially if you wanted that cute boy across the room to notice you!!

But the smile & eye contact worked with everyone; male, female, young, old; everyone wants to feel special. I was very young when I realised that making another person feel important gave more meaning to my own life too! No false words would do. Truth was all that mattered. If you are going to hand out a compliment & a smile, it HAD to be genuine.

I must compliment my husband on his choice for a wife & mother of his children. I rarely yell at anyone. The truth is, it gives me a headache & makes my heart pound too fast!! If it makes me feel so bad, imagine how it would make my family feel? So, my lucky husband lives in a house of mostly peace & harmony. Any battles that develop in the household finds me as the mediator. I can think with a clear head & I don’t show favouritism. I love cooking, cleaning, gardening, I don’t spend heaps of money on extravagances, I’m GREAT with money…yes, my husband did well in choosing me!

After my first child was born I had such moments of clarity & realisation! All four of my pregnancies went well, but then, I somehow always knew they would. I “knew” each of my babies BEFORE they were born, it was just a matter of seeing their tiny, newborn faces & my unwavering maternal love for each one of them was complete! When I became a mother, I told my own mother that I FINALLY realised how much she had loved me all of my life. I had to actually become a mother to reach that realisation. And after that, I appreciated my own mother every single day, for the rest of her life! I know now that I was a very good daughter….

My amazing father once told me that no matter what anyone ever told me, about any subject that life would throw at me, if it didn’t feel “right” to me, then turn away. Follow my own instincts. Never be afraid to stand alone if I had to, if my inner self told me to do something that was an opposite to the majority. He didn’t actually call it my inner self though. He called it “women’s intuition”. Same thing really. My dad was a very wise man; I was very wise to listen to him….

So many people enter & leave your life. You have choices to make with each & every one of them. You can choose to see the best in them, to appreciate them, to compliment them. Or you can choose the opposite. I am so glad that it comes naturally to me to always find the best in everyone. And every person leaves a little mark on your heart, in their own way, that says “I was a part of your life, you were a part of mine. We both cared”.

During some of the hurdles that I have had to survive throughout my life, I could have crashed & burned…but I didn’t. I am strong. I am a survivor.

I am an optimist. I care about peoples feelings. I am a good wife & an amazing mother. I may not have become a “world-famous something-or-other”. My name will not be in the history books. But I have always been, & always will be, the best me that I can possibly be.

Yes, the timid, introverted little girl has come a long, long way. And I like her…

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Summer in Australia

Living in the sub tropics of Australia might be the ideal life for some. The thought of all year ’round sunshine must be very appealing, when you are knee-deep in snow. But every summer, I have the same complaint. I really dislike the summer where I live! So, what am I doing, living here? I ask myself that same question, every single year.

It really is an excercise in futility, contemplating the why’s and the wherefore’s, though. I know why I’m living here. My family loves the summer! Yes, I have a family of beach-loving, heat loving, summer clothes loving people.

We had very little winter last year to speak of. While I was patiently waiting for the winter coldness to kick in, an early spring arrived. And spring felt like summer! Here it is now, mid-January, and even Sam and Amelia, the two biggest heat lovers of all, have had enough of the heat! Rosie  is convinced she is about to melt and Oliver has spent so much time in the salt water at the beach, he says he’s pickled!

There are so many advantages to living in a cooler climate. It’s just that those living in the snow have probably never experienced the extreme heat that the summers in Australia can, and usually do, bring.

For the first thirteen years of my life I lived in a mountainous area, where we enjoyed four seasons each and every year. Although there was no chance of snow where I lived, we only need travel about 20 minutes further into the mountains for the snowy areas. Summer was a time when the weather warmed up quite a bit, so we went into summer clothes for a maximum of about three months. There was the occasional hot day, but probably only 3 or 4 days of unbearable heat. And I thought those 3 or 4 days of  heat were tough to cope with!

Then my parents came up with the bright idea of moving north…the weather would be much nicer, they said. We moved in late September. In early October I had started at my new school. At the end of the first week at school, there was an athletics carnival. I remember the day well. I was saved from having to compete in any other event than one running race, due to my recent arrival at the school, so I spent a very enjoyable day sitting on a grassy hill overlooking the events, chatting to all of my new found friends.

By lunchtime, my legs were starting to itch in a way that I had never felt before, like a burning feeling.

One of my friends asked me if I was wearing sun screen. After my new-found friends had kindly educated me on what exactly sun screen was (!) they then went on to tell me that I had sunburnt legs! Can the sun actually burn your skin, I asked? Children can, at times, be very cruel. I was extremely lucky to have come across a great bunch of kids, who didn’t ridicule me for being so clueless about the sun!!

Needless to say, after my crash-course on the effect of the suns’ rays, during that sunny October day many years ago, I have since always owned a tube of sunscreen!

I miss the autumn leaves. I long for the days of walking through the yellow, orange, red, crimson and purple leaves, when they have fallen from the Liquid Amber, Japanese Maple or Golden Ash trees. Cooler autumn days, turning into colder winter nights, snuggled up under a cosy rug in front of a blazing fireplace, reading my latest book discovery. Spring in September, bringing with it the new buds of growth on the bare tree branches, with a promise of beautiful sunny days and a kaleidoscope of coloured flowers in the garden, warming up even more to lazy summer days at Christmas time, spent with friends and family. The four seasons are just divine!!!

Well, for now I have to stay put. My children love their schools. They have friends here. So, for now anyway, I will continue to sit or stand in front of a fan, dreaming of the cooler days to come.

And next summer? I might just visit England!

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End Of An Era

Oliver finished primary school last week.

For 19 years, since the very first day my eldest began his school days in kindergarten, I had been dreading the day when my youngest child would graduate from the safe cocoon of their childhood, in readiness of their progression to high school, where maturity would be expected of their immature little souls.

Throughout this year, my 12 year old has retreated home with expectations from his teachers of neater hand writing, more homework, week-long camp to attend, caring for children in the younger grades, using the internet more often and more responsibly, more tolerance towards fellow student who are having a bad day (or life), attending and participating in as many sporting activities, inside and outside of school hours as they can fit into their waking hours…..

Were there as many pressure on young people when I was growing up? No, I don’t believe there was. And yet these children somehow manage to cope.

Ahead of my son is now six weeks full of carefree days. No pressures. No teachers whose ideas differ from those taught to Oliver at home. No homework. No exams. No neatly formed lines in the quadrangle for school assembly. No tucked in shirts or elastic garters holding up hot knee-high socks….

For the next six weeks my boy will live a life of freedom. Summer days swimming at the beach, kicking a football around the back yard, going on fishing expeditions with his grandfather, watching movies on television, days at his mates houses & having them around to our home for sleep-overs, carefree days of his youth….

And before school resumes next year, he will begin remembering the school friends he hasn’t seem for a while….and the new school that we have already enrolled him in for next year….making new friends….meeting his new teachers….

After six weeks of rest, he will be ready to begin this next phase of his life. As a high school student. His primary school days behind him.

He will be ready to move on….we both will.

Oliver will arrive at his new high school next year, proudly dressed in his new school uniform, sporting shiny black leather lace-up shoes, knee-high socks held up with elastic garters, crisp white shirt tucked neatly into his long grey shorts and a maroon cap perched neatly on his recently trimmed hair.

And there will be no one more proud of him than me and his father. Our youngest boy. The beginning of a new era.

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