Confess

For those Schadenfreude moments

In honour of my Dads

I loved my Dads. Both of them. Birth-dad. Step-dad. Though they never met in this life, the pair no doubt busy slaying those in the next with classic Dad jokes, after all, that’s what Dads do and today as we celebrate Father’s Day, my chance to honour them.

Never experienced the love of my birth-dad first hand for Mum, at the tender age of 20, bid him farewell, packed a few books, two-year-old me and headed west. Governess, Jillaroo, Pub Chef, Telephonist, not a thing that woman couldn’t put her mind to, including an impressive ability to stay ‘mum’ about my father. Evan. The Journalist. The man whose lust for her very impressive breasts had led to my conception. So why do I love him? Well, he gave me the opportunity to meet my Mum. 

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Munchkin Jane

Evan also gave me the pleasure of three half-siblings. When meeting them for the first time in my mid-30s – the same laugh, same humour, same mannerisms, love of writing, of MC Escher’s work – a beautiful, genetically engineered puzzle piece fell into place. An intense, intrinsic connection – I’d found my ‘kin’. And doubled my sibling count.  

While Evan was generating said siblings, Mum was hanging up her nomadic boots and succumbing to a man who, in adoration and with a tad of recklessness, whisked her and her daughter away to an outback sheep station. A place of dusty plains, Gidgee trees, red gibber rocks, flies, swelter and spectacular sunsets. Ian. The Mechanic. Should have been a cowboy I know but Mum found them notoriously unreliable.

Ian taught me how to ride a bicycle, shoot a gun, skin a ‘roo; the secrets to finding my way back to the homestead should I ever lose myself on the vast acres, how to put a whole duck
egg yolk in my mouth without it oozing down my chin. He also tenderly brushed my hair before bed, vetoed my first boyfriends and continued to love my mother as evidenced by my other three siblings whom I absolutely adore. Nappy changes, bathing, feeding, reading to them, watching them grow into the grounded, loving, beautiful adults they are today, how could I not.

Seems I’m one of the lucky ones. Two dads, six siblings, a magnificent Mum who continues to inspire (their’s too). The people who shaped the person I am today – a city girl, a country gal. A woman with a love of writing, an insatiable wanderlust and the uncanny ability to always find her way back home…and into their arms.  

Here’s to the Dad’s today – Happy Father’s Day, wherever you are.


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Evan and Jacqueline – Feb ’56

 

Rollin’ back the years…

Hainsey, Schnoz, PawPaw, Di and Jane. A small reunion strolling a memory lane littered with mischief and mayhem brought upon a small country school way out west. The place where we, loved, fought, learnt and morphed from kids to adults, bonds thinning as wanderlust, education continuation or career progression transitioned us to ‘the big smoke’

We giggled at collective high-fives as teacher upon teacher limped away mentally broken and emotionally destroyed before each term concluded.

Snickered at the memory of a headmaster reduced to tears at finding his office stripped of paint, two floors flooded, a waterfall staircase – the overnight aftermath of a fire hose equivalent lawn sprinkler placed strategically upon his desk.

Reminisced at peeling silver foil lids off sun warmed quart milk bottles, cheering fights at the school gates, catching a fag behind the toilets, choirs, parades, sun-blistered noses. A teacher who wore sexy lingerie, another who unleashed his willie on our innocence…the nice, the mean, the keen. Blackall State High.

Smiled for marriages that endured, sighed for those that didn’t, cried for loves lost to illness, accidents, one marriage, two, three kids or more.

Cheered at career successes, commiserated those that faltered, championed those still unfolding. So much to absorb, so little time as current life pressures demanded attention.

As we planned reunions, Facebook connections, coffee catch-ups and swapped numbers, I cast my eye around my companions. No signs of physical enhancements here. Simply the same vibrant, animated, smiling faces that 45 years had failed to ravage. A few grey hairs, a little more cushion and a whole lot more wisdom.

On broken hearts and empowerment…

‘Get up, dress up, show up and never give up‘ 

I’m sipping a latte and gazing aimlessly at an ocean mottled grey. So too the sky. The vista suits my mood. My rockstar-esque dark sunglasses hide swollen eyes that have a propensity for tearing up without warning, a tad embarrassing amidst a boardwalk of loved up couples. Beloved Noosa, Bistro C, broken heart. My bolt hole for celebrating, relaxing, contemplating and miserating. Yes I’m miserable. Indulging in emotional fallout, licking wounds, ruminating on what went wrong, what might have been…miserating.

A broken heart of sorts – for how could it be more given I’m pretty sure I now hold the world record for the shortest relationship – seven days. Caught your attention haven’t I. She of the ‘always bubbly, upbeat genre any self respecting fellow would be lucky to love’ sporting a wounded heart? How can this be? And why the big deal? And why the need to share given the story exposes the more vulnerable side of Jane? Simple really – none of us are immune and all of us hurt at some time. This is a (hopefully inspiring) story about stepping up, learning and moving on…

(more…)

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