That Time

 He had the habit, in moments of thought, of dropping his right hand to the waist-band of his trousers, and gently fondling the silver braces clip. It was an unconscious action, a comfort. Almost as if it were a talisman that enabled him to think the clearer. She watched him as he did it now, and smiled to herself as she recognised a gesture so unremarkable, so insignificant, yet so individual to this man whom she knew so well.

Unlike the heroes in novels and feature films, he had never been dashingly handsome. A good-natured face would have been the best description for it, and he would have been the first to say that he held no towering intellect. 

She looked at him, his head bent slightly, eyes looking at his feet, but seeing something so far away and perhaps so long ago. He had always done that, had always been the sort to sink into reverie in his quieter moments. She had been surprised to learn that such a thinker was also such a simple man. He had little education, and yet thought hard about many things. They were largely practical, everyday things, but he gave them solid thought. She realised very early on that he may have been simple, but he was not stupid. 

It had been a gentle Courting. More of a Romance than a Courtship, she reflected. A soft and slow meandering of two people into each others lives. Tentatively browsing each others' personality. Gently touching characteristics of the other as they spoke over time. A long time. It was as if they had opened a door into each other and discovered a shop, a shadowed and crowded place, full of interesting things that they could look at and examine before replacing them gently. Each so very aware of the invisible rule that care must be taken not to damage anything, nor steal from this Emporium of Delights which was their Lover's mind.

Perhaps it was a foolishness that allowed each of them to be so trusting of the other. Or maybe it was naiveté. Certainly, had either of them been hurt in love before, or been more worldly in their experiences, such trust could not have happened. But they were Innocents, and so they trusted. Never having been betrayed or hurt, they each allowed the other inside themselves, and found Wonder that never really faded.

Unconsciously, his fingers caressed the clip on his waist, a gentle motion, as slow as his breath. He looked far back and far away, considering.

Years after they married, Jane became aware of how fortunate they had been. Two untouched young people, living in a relatively innocent time, before the spread of media brought brash ideas, fashions and questions into every corner of life. A time when morals were firm and families strong, and where small communities could shelter innocents and give them a chance to find each other. She realised, of course, that such pipe-dreams didn't really exist, and that each society harboured its' own shadows. But she appreciated that some tiny pocket had been there, an eddy in the river of her life, which allowed her to stop, for just a moment, and find this fellow traveller, as innocent as her, and let them swirl through the World together.

 She was, she knew, no prize catch herself. "Plain" was the obvious addition to her given name, and it had been applied often enough for her to accept, despite her hidden hatred of the implication it held for her future. She could have become resentful of the name, but one person had forestalled that, before it even began.

"Jane", her Mother would say, "you have qualities you do not realise. One day someone will see them and appreciate you for who you are, not who you look like." The lesson was repeated often, and eventually to good effect. She believed, and kept her self-esteem.

They had met at a Social Dance, back when such things existed. A coming together of people from all walks of life, from miles around. Everybody brought a plate to share for supper, and the kitchen was as busy as the bar. Sharing home-made dishes was as natural as speaking, with no thought of anyone getting sick, or taking legal action if they did. She could never recall it happening, and she had eaten her share of stranger's tuna casseroles over the years. It was a more trusting time, she thought.

Bill had first held her waist during a progressive Barn Dance, a simple waltz specifically designed to force strangers to dance with strangers. He had smiled, introduced himself, asked if she lived locally. She had smiled, told him her name, and said she was the local teacher. He had raised his eyebrows in surprise and pleasure, and then she had spun gently away into the arms of her next partner. 

And so it had begun.

He wondered where the time had gone. It seemed so clear in his mind. The sunburnt ground, dry and crumbling under a heavy sun, and he, lithe and young, full of spirit and innocent optimism. So much had happened so quickly. He had hardly time to breathe before here he sat, old, and slow, and so lacking in the youth he had revelled in.

He had been (he reflected), a bit of a lad in his day. Always willing to have a go at most things, especially sport or daring. The local lads had taken him in when he had arrived in town. New faces were always welcome, and a fun loving young man found good company in the local dare-devils. He had enjoyed the sports and hi-jinks at the swimming hole, and laughed as loud as any of them at the fun they had. 

But he had his limits. He was not a drinker. It never appealed to him. He'd seen the effects of too much drink and decided it was not for him. Nor did he play the fool with the girls. That was from his upbringing, he reflected later in life. Respect the ladies, and always be a gentleman. Of course, being a farm worker was hardly likely to attract the Belle of the Ball types, anyway. He was also shy, something of a loner in the midst of the happy crowd of young men he mingled with. He was more than happy to walk away with a smile and an apology when the parties got too loud.

That time, he decided, had been an instant. A moment. A flash that only existed so he could be in the right place to meet Jane.

From that place and time, his life had been Endless. An expanding Globe of Wonder that filled him with a deeper meaning of Life and Happiness. The happiness he felt within her smile, her hand in his, his pride in her becoming his wife, his lover, and mother to their family. 

Even the tragedies and hardships were eased because he knew her support, her undying dedication to him, and her faith that it would work out, would give him the strength to carry them all through. Ah, it had been good. Such a long time now, and yet still full and fresh as their first love.

He had been shy at first, he reflected, gazing at his Old Man Slippers, but seeing only soft conversation and polite goodnights. She had been guarded and he had been unsure, so they trod softly down the path to Romance. Acquaintances first, after a meeting at a dance. He was never sure how it was they learned each others names. Funny that. Then friends, meeting at social events, picnics, the movies. Then drives in her car, for he was too poor to own one, and then holding hands, and then..... a kiss.

She saw him smile in the midst of his memories, or meanderings, she didn't know which, and smiled in return, mirroring, if only she knew, the smile he saw after that first kiss. She reached over and touched his hand, like so many times before, and he raised his eyes and looked into hers. His hand curved up and held hers gently. They both nodded. And not a word was said.

The Valley

 I sat tonight and watched as the clouds stooped low across the valley, their grey presence endowing the the night with a presence both forbidding and calming.

A blanket of dense foreboding, the anticipation of rain with no guarantee of its coming. And the air became very still.

Every breath was felt, Every current of the air became telling, a tense suggestion of the relief to come, but always as a possibility, never as a promise.

The Moon, almost full, hung invisible beyond the cloud covered Universe, it's light filtered and scattered like the promises of unfulfilled Love. Its power diminished by the actions of atmospheric intent, it could only sail on and watch.

I sat in the stillness, an unwilling watcher in the night, the heavens forming and folding in an atmospheric ballet of beauty and threat. I breathed that still air, I felt the weight of anticipation as the night unfolded in the air around me. 

My breath caught, I was entrapped by the moment as the the billowing clouds dropped lower, loomed darker, threatened the welcoming but impossible rain. 

And then, as by the hand of the Divine, they lifted. 

The Moon shone through, and all that could have been was gone.

Roast Dinner and Memories

 There is one fact that can never be denied in this world; No person ever left Norm Coleman's table hungry.

There were folks who would drop by for a chat. A cup of tea and discussion of a committee meeting or plans for some project and somehow, by accident or design, end up staying for a meal. Teenage friends of us children often came for the afternoon and found themselves seated at the table for dinner. 

Always there was enough. 

Our father was a good cook. He enjoyed cooking, and loved feeding people. To see his satisfaction when presenting a meal, whether it was a family dinner or breakfast for forty starving Boy Scouts was proof in itself of his love of giving people a good feed. Any bystander could sense his satisfaction as he watched the table being emptied of his efforts. 

Cooking for a crowd, I can see him yet; tea-towel over his left shoulder, his uniform in the kitchen. He moved with a purpose, unhurried, yet brisk, a focus in his eye. A sense of timing that ensured everything was just so when it it needed to be. Cooking for twenty or cooking for two was one and the same, or so it seemed. He appeared to be at ease in every task. The man filled a doorway like no-one I ever knew, yet moved around that tiny kitchen with a deft assuredness, as if he had all the room and all the time in the world.

Of course these are generalisations, ones that the man himself would be quick to deny, but they are also truths, in the real sense of the word, and deserve qualification.

There is more to him than this, a deeper and more personal story which I hope the family can explain more clearly. As always, I believe it began in Norman Laurence Coleman's early years.

Dad was a true child of the Depression. Born in 1930, the eldest child of a family that genuinely had it tough, he knew what it took to survive on very little. There were no government subsidies for rent or low-income payments back then. A man out of work had to hit the road to find work, and there were lots of men on the road. Dad saw how his mother (a tower of strength if there ever was), could stretch resources to feed a growing family, as younger brothers and sisters were added to the brood in the next few years. He also realised that as the eldest, a level of responsibility lay across his broadening shoulders, and it became heavier as he grew. He never shirked that load, and took it seriously all of his life, often at great cost to himself. Yet I never heard him complain. Not until the very end. But that's another story.

Our parents were not gourmet chefs. Not even close. The food in our family was basic, solid English style fare of the sort that had fed generations of British immigrants to Australia for generations. Salt and tomato sauce were probably the most common condiments in our house, with Worcestershire sauce and pepper getting an honourable mention, particularly on eggs. Dad also had a fondness for Barbecue sauce, but only on specific things. The thought of chilli, turmeric, Chinese Five Spice, or other exotics would not have crossed my parents' minds. They had nothing against herbs and spices, they simply didn't have the experience of ever using them. You don't miss the things you have never had.

I can understand why people gravitated to our house, and it was not all about the food. Our home always seemed to be a welcoming place for children and adults alike. There is a comforting security in  being welcomed without being told you're welcome. Of course, a good meal also helps.

I can still smell a roast leg of mutton, cooked in the wood stove, the outer skin made crisp by rendered fat. Potatoes, creamy, buttery softness inside, with crunchy burnt exteriors courtesy of over an hour nestled up against that roasting piece of meat. Pieces of pumpkin, cooked to collapsing, the tops burnt and caramelised, the flesh creamy mouthfuls of flavour. Gravy made in the roasting pan, using the juices from the meat. There was a technique here, a certain procedure to produce the best gravy. 

Drain the fat, preferably into a tin of dripping on the back corner of the stove. Place the pan over the stove top and warm it. Add flour by sprinkling it across the delicious residue in bottom of the baking pan, then loosen it with a fork as the flour absorbs the juices and starts to thicken. When it gets hotter, but before it burns, add water and stir with the fork to ensure there are no lumps in the flour. Cook to the desired consistency, season to taste and serve a delicious gravy. That's what my father told me, even showed me, on my specific request.

I have never been able to replicate his gravy. 

There were big dividends to be had if you gambled on a roast at the Coleman house. 

Of course it wasn't all roast dinners and big meals. I would estimate that from somewhere around the mid 1960's until Dad's passing in 2004 there were probably far more lean years than plenty. Yet somehow it never seemed that way for us children. We never felt we went without.

Oh, we knew there were things we couldn't afford. The luxuries that would have been nice, but weren't necessary were often beyond our reach, and we knew that. But the essentials were always there. We had clean clothes, (if occasionally a little threadbare), shoes on our feet, (even if they were sometimes thin on the sole), a firm guiding hand when we needed it, and food on the table.... good food... 

Recall

 Can you recall?

Can you recall being woken in the pre-dawn, then dressing in the dark?

Making your way through the sleeping house, to breakfast in the kitchen. Subdued conversation by the slow combustion stove. Steaming cups of tea? Do you recall?

Remember pulling on our boots outside the kitchen door? Walking up the slope to the shed, the dawn of an early summer's day breaking the sky to our right. The dogs chained to the kennels, straining to be let off. But not today, we have different work today.

Do you remember?

Do you remember the sound of our boots on the shearing board, as we walked past the stands on our left? Silent now. The catching pen doors to our right, worn smooth and dark-stained from years of greasy wool. The silence of the shed looming dark behind them. Do you remember?

Does it come back to you?

Does the smell of leather and horses come back to you, as we lifted bridles from their hooks and opened to door to the horse yard? The horses, brought in the night before, walking over, expectant and needy. A few handfuls of chaff in a 12 gallon drum, cut lengthways for a feed trough. a quick curry comb over them both, then bridles fitted, with cheek-straps left undone. A quick hoof check, then blanket and saddles are on. The chaff is gone, so cheek-straps are done, girths are tightened, and we mount. Now we feel the day has begun.

Remember?

Remember walking out the yard gate, around the corner of the yards and up over the ironstone patch, gently clicking and talking to the horses, their ears flicking, and pulling gently at the bit? Up to the Ram Paddock gate, opened and closed as we go through. 

Is it there?

Is it there, in your memory? The easy way we broke into a hand canter, almost spontaneously, as we headed North. The horses keen to go, and us, so young and loving life, revelling in this freedom and this responsibility. Of course, we were really burning the edge of the horses' energy, in preparation for the work ahead. Or so we would say if questioned. But it was lovely to ride like that in the early morning.

Can you see it?

Can you see the fences of the top paddocks as we rode up, the horses blowing gently, and the day beginning to warm around us? Into the East paddock. and then we split, you to ride North and then around to the East, me to go East, then off to the North. Can you see us doing that? 

Is it still in your Memory?

Does your memory still show you us pushing along the paddock edges, well in, but within sight of the fence? Far enough away to push the stock into the centre, but close enough to catch the stragglers on the fence. Watching as we rode, seeking out the clumps of Brigalow, where some old ewe may have "planted" a lamb or two, or behind a patch of lime bush, where a matriarch might stand defiant and stamp her hoof, until the wise old horse would gently call her bluff and send her scurrying off. I know your memory holds it close.

Does it come back to you?

Does the gathering of the mob come back to you? As we gently pushed them down toward the gate, the morning tending towards noon. Ewes calling for lambs, stopping and looking back. Lambs bleating, running back and forth from one sniffing ewe to another. Slowly now, no more than a walk. we have miles to go.

Remember?

Remember walking the horses slowly, sparing the ewes and lambs? Chatting, and telling of moments when some old girl would refuse to leave her lamb, until you picked it up and put it across your saddle. Then she seemed quite happy to go running off ahead, so you could put him down again and let him run to catch her. Or the sadness of seeing a young carcasse, and a mother standing near, reluctant to let her baby go. And the horses, heads down, reins loose, ambling along...content...

Can you picture?

Can you picture the gates in the corner? The mob beginning to compress. One of us rides ahead to open the gate, while the other stands ready to start the push. One of us behind, ready to initiate the push, the other through the gate, preparing to stem the rush. Not too fast, not too slow. Keep the mob together. The dust cloud gathers in the gateway as the they stream through. Now a moments milling to break the forward momentum. let the ewes find their lambs, then off we go again.

Can you recall?

Can you recall the final stage, with dusty sheep, and the heat of the day almost here? Moving the mob with care, but trying to beat the worst of the heat, so ewes and lambs don't stress. You've got at least a couple of lambs across the saddle-bow now, as the younger ones tire and need a gentle hand. The back of the mob is almost all lambs now, they are slowing, but we're almost there. I ride ahead and open the gate from the ram paddock onto the ironstone patch, then shepherd the mob around the corner and into the top yard of the stockyards. The mob streams slowly through the gate and is easily turned into its' destination. 

Bringing the lambs in for marking.

We swing down and lead our horses down for a drink... 

Writing My Way Back (pt 3)

This is supposed to be Part 4, but I skipped Part 3 because it was so redundant it was a shame. Trust me, you don't want to know.

Anyway, this one is titled "Contribution". 

As always , we are expected to examine our lives and be reminded of the times we have contributed to our family, our friends and to Society. Have we helped in our family in any way, have we done good turns for our friends, have we done a kindness for strangers? These are are strategies used to "pull us up" from the malaise we are feeling, and remind us of the good we do every day for our fellow man. 

Unfortunately, for those of us with a higher intellect, those who are more self-aware, we can see through these platitudes and recognise them for the easy escape that they are. I choose to take a harder route. 

Have I contributed? Why, Yes, I have.

In school I was the renegade. I was given an inch and proceeded to take the mile. I argued with teachers, with Principals, and with rules. I was not a rebel, but a questioner, a mirror to the standards that were taught. I won both friends and enemies, neither of which gave me any advantage in my schooling.

At work I have always looked for better ways, and my cynicism has marked me both as a trouble maker, and as a source of opinion. Often this has led to improvements for those who came later, but rarely for myself. 

In my family, I have contributed in many ways. In childhood, I was a source of concern. My propensity for trying to kill myself through accident, and my position as the more than usually inept Middle Child had both Parents and Older Siblings alternately hovering over or berating me as I grew up. The feeling of never being quite good enough has never left me. 

Then I discovered a talent for comedy. This was my contribution. I left a trail of one-liners, sarcasm, and notable quotes behind me wherever I went.  This was my passport to forgiveness. As long as I was funny, or at least witty, my physical and social ineptitudes could be overlooked. I became the family clown.

Have I contributed? Yes I have. I have provided entertainment and challenges for so many in my life.

Have I contributed constructively? I don't know. I cannot judge. That is for others to decide. 

Writing My Way Back (Pt 2)

 The question is; "What is missing from my life, right now/" 

I could be glib and mention the millions of dollars which would allow me to do whatever the Hell I wanted to do, or the talent which would make the things I struggle to achieve so much easier. But I don't think that is the spirit of the question.

Frankly, I have a problem with the question. This is not because I can name so many things which are missing, nor is it because I refuse to confront the fact that there are serious and profound elements which I lack in my current circumstances.

I think my issue with the question "What is missing in my life, right now?" is my approach to the question. As much as I am a dreamer and an idealist, I am also at heart, a practical country boy. I tend to examine things from both sides. What is broken? Why is it broken? How can we fix it? How can we not break it again? And most importantly; Can we still get some use from it until we can get it repaired?

That is how I see this question. It's not a conscious thing, more instinctual and automatic.

So, here we go. What is missing in my life, right now?

First of all I need to see what I HAVE in my life, in order to determine what is missing.

I have an income, which provides the necessities for comfortable living, in a place which is safe, secure, and has various safety nets which allow me to live without worrying about those things being taken away. 

I have a circle of friends and relatives, some of whom are more visible than others, but who are concerned for my welfare in some way or other, and who are willing to assist me in varying degrees should I need help at some point.

I have time. Time to sit and think, to analyze and examine problems, circumstances which may arise, or plans for the future. This time is built into my life by the Society in which I live. No constraints are placed upon its use, and I can share that time, or keep it for myself.

I have access. Access to information, to the political process, to those who have new or differing ideas. Whether I can change that political process or those differing ideas is a matter for argument, but at least I am aware that they exist, and I am allowed to speak of them, or to them, without fear of reprisal beyond the scorn of others who also have the right to speak their thoughts.

So, essentially I have most things I need to live comfortably in a physical and intellectual sense. So, what is missing?

 It is true that I have recently ended a very long and deep relationship, so I do not have a wife or partner. This was no light decision, and it is complicated and cuts deep. The causes were many and very tangled, and my own sanity played a part in it. It was no fault of hers, she is who she is, but the circumstances of my life had changed, and what was bearable for so long, eventually became impossible. So I guess I could say that a partner is missing from my life right now. But is "missing" the right word?

I miss her, yes. But she is not gone. We still talk. We see each other for family events, or to help each other with small things. I have not left her in search of another person. To fill a void. I cannot say exactly what has happened, but "missing" a partner is definitely not it. She is a friend, a deep, close personality who has shared so much with me, and whom I treasure greatly. She is integral to my life in so many ways, and I do not want to lose that.

No, a partner is not "missing" from my life.

So if physical, intellectual, and emotional needs are fulfilled in my life.... what is missing? Perhaps it is a philosophical thing....

I have someone whom I am proud to call a friend. He has been my friend for the best part of half a century, as I write this. He has always been a better friend to me than I have been to him. This applies to almost all of my friends. He has always been assured, focused and self-contained in his outlook. When I examine what is missing in my life, I end up looking to him and his example for the answer. The reason I look to him? He has had so many things in his life, that I have not achieved in mine, yet our background is so very similar. 

Vincent has had success in his career, achieved national and international recognition in his chosen field, travelled fairly extensively, and has achieved a reputation which allows him to be comfortable amongst the elite of his field. These things I have never accomplished. I see his life, and I see so much that is not present in my life. 

But is it "missing"? That is the question. 

Vincent has devoted his energies in worthwhile and productive ways. He has achieved a great deal of good for other people. He has contributed to the success and fulfillment of many people, and he has done it ethically and without any need for regret. I wish I could have achieved what he has done. But I don't miss it.

This is only my opinion, and I am no expert, but I think that perhaps what he has achieved has been as a result of foregoing other elements of life. I do not say he "sacrificed" them, or that he has "missed" them. He simply chose a different path. He too has a circle of friends who would come to his aid should he need it. He lives in the same society as I do, so he shares the same benefits. His life isn't "missing" anything. It's just different to mine.

I have married, he didn't. I have children, he hasn't. I didn't follow through with my studies, he did. I chose to try and make a family life, he chose a career. Not Wrong. Not Right. Just Different. 

There is nothing missing from my life right now, just as there is nothing missing from Vincent's life. The only difference is the decisions we made, and the effort we each invested in the paths we chose.  

So, finally, what is missing in my life? 

Acceptance. Acceptance of the fact that MY decisions brought me here and my life is what I make it. As much as I may envy another's life, there are hundreds who envy mine. There is nothing missing in my life except my strength of mind to change the things I do not like.

Writing My Way Back... Part 1

We all have problems, both inflicted and self-inflicted. These are the issues which define our progress forward. The problems that stymie us. The ones we overcome. The ones we avoid. All of these define our way forward. 

Some problems are material and concrete; money, housing, work, bosses, physical limitations. Others are mental, psychological; fear, repression, memory, confidence.

All of them are ours, all of them are real, all of them can be overcome in one way or another, or in some form or another. All of them can be beaten. Unless we allow them to beat us.

I am no expert in human motivation, unless failing a thousand times makes you an expert. I failed at so many things, and continue to do so. If there is one thing I have learned from my failures, it's that every time I failed, the only person that told me to quit was me.

There were times when that was good advice, but on so many occasions, it was wrong. And I have no-one to blame but me.

This all sounds so trite and smug, and full of self-knowledge, but it's not. It hurts to admit it. It is embarrassing, demeaning, and it makes me cringe when I think of the opportunities I was offered and the chances I squandered. I could have stuck with successful companies and risen through the ranks, had I only shown some humility, some self-restraint, and some respect. Instead, I turned my back on financial security, and the chance for a comfortable retirement down the road, all because I didn't want to face the obstacles that came with that role. 

Were those decisions good ones? I sometimes think they were. But when money is tight, my family is threatened, and I need to ask for help, I have often beaten myself up for not choosing the safe way, for not protecting those who rely on me. I have been known to hate myself then.

The obstacles I chose not to face, or maybe I should say I failed to face, are familiar to us all. For me, they raise the same faces, time and again. Time. I do not manage Time at all well. I procrastinate, which is another word for Lazy. I am Lazy. I don't organise my Time well. I lack Focus. I am Lazy.

If I stopped being Lazy, I would have to accept an uncomfortable Truth. That is what holds me back, not being lazy, because everyone will tell you that I work as hard as anyone at my job.

What would happen if I overcame my Laziness, my bad Time-management, my Procrastination? I can tell you, because I sat down and looked at it. If I did all those things, I would have to face my biggest obstacle.

Fear Of Failure. Not Failure, just the fear of it. As long as I avoid reaching a point of fulfilment, I can't fail. If I don't have to reach that point, then I don't have to confront that fear. That's a very comfortable place to sit. And I have sat there for a LOOOONG time.

If I never go past those obstacles, I never have to confront my fears. 

But if I never go past those obstacles..... I will always fear failure.... and we cannot succeed unless we first fail.  Children never learn to walk without first falling down. Heroes are never made without first being afraid. All That. 

And I am afraid to succeed in case I fail....