In the name of the father

Last weekend we woke to sunshine over Pittwater, a gentle breeze and the excitement that comes with any family celebration. It was Father's Day... the day Dada gets to sleep in (a little bit) before we wake him up with jumps, wrestles in bed and a cup of tea. The day we have banana pancakes for breakfast before doing something luxurious. This year, our something luxurious was taking a picnic, flask of tea and a rugby ball to The Basin for a relaxing day in the sun.

(I don't know how to turn this one around)

  There is a reason Choochie had the water to himself. It is only the start of Spring... the water is still freezing!

  Choochie trying to contract into himself to warm up!

wallaby with joey

We had such a lovely day. The Zimbo was suitably celebrated with family boating, bbqing and touch footy. I had quite a lovely day myself with a cup of tea and some crocheting in gentle Spring sunshine. 

May all fathers be loved and supported in striving to be their best, for the benefit of our children and world at large. Happy Father's day!

what on earth are you on about?

You know what I should be doing, don't you... I should be submitting this week's blog post for Anthropology, on magic, witchcraft and ritual. But instead, I'm perusing ebay for boats - just for fun, looking for my ultimate "ladies boat" (for the day when I become a "lady"). Then I went browsing around for a campervan... vehicle of my dreams. Quite out of reach for now so I lowered my sights to a new tent. Ahhhh yes. I could do with a new tent. One big enough for all 4 of us. When we've camped since having little nippers, we've taken 2 small (3 wo-man) tents. I feel the need for a family tent. Of course all of this is just rambling procrastination because what I should be doing is submitting that anthropology blog post.

You know what I discovered this week? (By the way, who are you!? WHO am I talking to? No wonder the Zimbabwean thinks I'm going mad.) Well, I discovered the voice memo capability on my phone. I love it! Not only does it look like a microphone, I can talk into it, leaving myself all kinds of useful memos whilst looking like I'm having a legitimate telephone conversation with someone, thereby appearing sane! I'm sure this will come in handy for all manner of messages (to myself). Sun number one had already discovered this feature, on the 19th April 2012. Tonight I got to hear a delightful memo recording all sorts of interesting warbles of his voice. And farting noises. Ha ha.

So, I was at uni yesterday - oh my, what an inspiring place to be - walking across the spacious campus in Springtime sunshine, when I thought of Nancy, the list writer. Nancy, if you are listening, I hope you are sitting front and centre, feeling engaged and passionate and thoroughly participating, like a good mature-age student should! Second semester is progressing beautifully in my world. I'm appreciating my lecturers and my subject choices and I've lost the first semester nerves/urge to vomit. I'm mature age and I'm OK! 

Lately I've been forming clear enough questions regarding my current study path to actually request an academic advisor for, well, advice. So off I trit-trotted to the Arts faculty to seek out the sucker who would bear the brunt of this week's barrage of questions. The only 'advisor' who appeared to be in his office and available was none other than the head of anthropology at my chosen university. In I went. I refrained from (very obviously) looking at the books on the shelves. The desk was a mess, in an academic kind of way. The office was large, large enough for a desk placed 1/3 of the way across the room, between two windows, as well as a round table big enough for a family of 6. That's where we sat, at the round table. I tried not to make myself appear too comfortable. You could say that's a fault of mine... the ability to make myself too comfortable in someone else's office/house/kitchen/space.

The walls were pale blue, the furnishings were daggy. Oh it was quite a lovely office (in need of a feminine touch). I asked my questions. I didn't really receive answers, but I found my answers, if you know what I mean. It was like having a conversation with myself really. Or with Mr Bean. Although this man was much more attractive than Mr Bean. 

I descended the seven flights of stairs with (just a touch more) clarity and a bounce in my boot, feeling pleased with myself for being brave enough to speak with such a high-ranking intellectual. Although, you know, on deeper reflection, for a more grounded reality perhaps the head of anthropology should find a ground floor office. I think it's hard to feel grounded when you are indeed, so far from the ground.

Afore-mentioned sun number one is away on his first school camp. Yesterday, apparently, on day one of camp, his head somehow collided with some kind of metal post, resulting in much blood and a trip to a medical centre to have his head clued back together. Really... are all boys as reckless as mine?

A distracting campus

The man behind me is wearing a scent that was worn by the men (boys) in my life twenty years ago. So, were they ahead of their time, or has this man failed to mature? Either way, it is distracting me from my Human Geography text book.

Opposite me sits a slim, trim man in a pale grey suit. He's wearing pink, stripey socks, a shiny silver tie with small pastel flowers. He looks considered, intent, serious, ready for business. He wears a wedding band. His companion wears smart casual cream trousers. Not beige, cream. A white shirt, black suit jacket (too big for him), white sneakers. Bru, white sneakers? With a black suit jacket? Whatever blows your hair back.

This week's university phrase (now that I have 18 year old acquaintances) is: "Hey, don't judge me".

People are sooooo distracting!

on feet

Today I've seen thongs on feet. That's a flip flop, jandel or sandel. Not a g-string. Move on.

Bare feet! It's too cold for bare feet people! Put your boots back on! Don't have boots? Save up... buy some!

Now I do relish a bare foot. Especially mine. I like my own feet a lot. Not too large, not too small, connect me to the earth, support my upright stance. But why, O why, would anyone unnecessarily shorten boot season?

One of the faults of summer is that it is often too warm to don boots.

A bride's foot, enhanced by beautiful foot beads, the day the bride married the Zimbabwean.

Ha! caught you on film afterall

So it turns out that I do have a couple of happy snaps from Venice Beach, California.

There were three areas around LA that I did really like. They were the wide, quiet streets of Pasadena (where I also found an excellent pair of Dan Post cowgirl boots. Alas, I didn't bring them home), the tightly packed but full of life canals of Naples, Long Beach; and the quirky-off the beaten track feel of Topanga.

We could imagine ourselves living in any of these three places for a stint. In Topanga I saw hints of free-living, which we enjoy so much where we are. Naples appealed to me because it is 3 islands in the city... my boys could still sail and kayak and be near water and we'd have more chance of getting around on bike or foot. Pasadena just felt calm and lovely, and lay at the foot of some pretty amazing mountains.

But, for now, it's not to be. And I can't say I'm disappointed. Upon my return, the winds through the spotted gums whispered my name.

Good morning blossoms

A signs of things to come... a reminder that nothing is permanent.

"take these broken wings and learn to fly"

This island has already taught me much about living. It also brings lessons in dying.

Last week a much loved islander died. Yesterday we celebrated the way he lived.

What I saw was a great big community heart. The fireshed overflowed - bursting at the seams - with people wanting to bring their love and respect for this man, and his beautiful wife. I stood on an upturned milk crate at one of the windows. Cobwebs clung to my hair as I tried to get my ears further inside the window. Even whilst on a milk crate I couldn't match the height of the friend beside me. When the kids weren't shouting and the dogs weren't fighting I could hear most of the tributes, and I could definitely hear the band, choir, and the beautiful lone singer singing The Beatles' 'Blackbird'.

The fireshed kitchen was full of homemade goodness: quiches, tarts, biscuits, cakes, slices, sandwiches, pastries, fruit salad, with the smell of the previous evening's curry still lingering.

We have a few weeks of winter left, and when the wind blew I shivered in my Sunday Island best. We stood in the cold, laughing under the gum trees, sharing stories - as usual. Then we sat at the fireshed bar, drinking tea and wine, eating cake and oranges, still laughing. The kids were handed juices and left with big smiles. Chooch tried his luck: "hey Mama, because it's a special day, can I have a coke?" No my darling. Nice try, but still No.

I love seeing islanders in their Sunday Island best. For me that meant brown boots, my favourite new green skirt with a hint of gold thread, black wool vest and a blue and green butterfly scarf. One old-island-timer wore what may have been her best green velour dress. There was also an electric blue, long velvet coat, worn with fish-net stockings and cowgirl boots. Seriously, life here is LIFE.

I left with two empty baking trays and a pot of left-over curry for our dinner.

Today, life goes on, with a blanket of cloud keeping the chill in, the sun occasionally shining through it. I'm down to our last log in the fire, hoping that our final tonne of firewood is delivered today as promised. I have readings to complete for "Geographies of Global Change". Later I'll bake muesli muffins and wait at the wharf for the ferry to bring my boys home from school.

"You were only waiting for this moment to arise"