1977: Sunshine And Rose Coloured Glasses

I read somewhere that 1977 was one of the wettest in Melbourne's history (or since records have been kept or since records were kept). It's strange that, since my memory of that year is based on sunshine and happiness and not floods, rain and storms. It's true that over the years you kind of remember the good things rather than the bad. I remember the hot summer nights when me and my sister would be outside under the sprinklers, because you could "waste" water in those days, but I don't remember a single wet day. I remember the sound of crickets at night after Mum or Dad had watered the garden or as the still of the night tended to make the evening a standstill.

In fact, the warm summer nights I remember in ALL of my childhood had the sound of crickets, the smell of sprinkler or hose water on the ashphelt. I remember the "smell" of the air at night and staying up until the sun would disappear over the horizon and we'd have to go inside to escape the huntsman spiders that would always somehow be in the doorway to where we'd go inside.

I have a memory of Dad painting the guttering in 45 degree temperature and Mum telling him to go inside. In those days there was no "Sunsmart" rule -- Dad was bare chested, no sunscreen or hat, painting the guttering or whatever he was doing, while Mum kept us kids inside the hot house with no airconditioning and only a fan that would circulate the warm air - in fact, I'm not even sure we had a fan back then.

I always wondered why so many Dad's would wait until the temperature would get over 30 degrees before they mowed the lawn or did some outdoor home maintenance. Perhaps it was an excuse to sweat. Maybe it was an Aussie thing. As an adult male I never subscribed to this. I'm always the first to turn the split system on before it gets over 25.

Kindergarten was a particularly happy time. Perhaps that's what made it "sunny". The Kinder photos are colourful though, and show a happy kid, somewhat overwhelmed by the attention. At first I hid in the bathroom. I knew the photographer was coming because I'd been warned beforehand. Mum was there that day because she had kitchen duty. When the photographer arrived I remember hiding - I never understood why, but I hate having my photo taken. Come to think of it, I still do. They found me eventually and I had some nice photos taken out in the yard. My fair haired mop-cut came out loud and clear on the Kodak and to this day there's a surviving photo of me somewhere on one of those tire swings. There's also one of me with a "real" hammer in my hand. Yes. A real hammer.

My other memory is about having the group Kindergarten photo taken. I was standing next to Nicky. When the photo was taken, Miss Hayes asked us one row at a time to move away from the stands. I was the only one who didn't follow the instructions. I followed Nicky.

Happy times in 1977. And I'll always remember it as sunny. And so it was.

Who Am I?

I find it completely strange that one person can be seen completely different through the eyes of many different people.

I look back over time, and I find that the perceptions people have had of me over the years, in turn, makes me feel different about myself. Some people who's personality I have clashed with, give me the feeling that I am not the person I am. Other times, when I have been praised and well-liked by an individual or a group of people, again, I feel like a different person. The question still remains though - who am I?

To one elderly lady I work with, I will always be treated as a child. This dear lady is the authority on everything. She always advises me (even though I often don't take the advice, or pretend I have), but I find myself nodding in agreement or acting "stupid" - "Oh yeah?", I'd say, "you're right, I should do that" or  "yes, I never thought of that". Sometimes I find myself asking her questions I already know the answer to, just to make her feel like she's the authority.

To my father, I will always be 14 years old. To my sisters, I'm probably the person they can't forgive for my childhood misdemeanors. To the parents of the children I care for, I am highly considered. My wife worships the ground I walk on. I never understood that. In the ten years I've known her, we've never had a crossed word. I truly believe that she's the only person who's ever understood me. She accepts me when I snore. She understands me when I drink too much. She puts up with my moods. She knows when I'm upset and don't want to talk about it, and she's listens when I do.

And it's Valentine's Day today. My wife had a terrible day at work. Mine was about average, but when I heard about her's I felt miserable for the rest of the night. You see, I feel bad when she feels bad. I feel happy when she feels happy. It's the same for her. That's part of what makes it special. As for understanding what makes a relationship work... buggered if I know. Sometimes it just does.