A Weekend in the Big Smoke

I drove to Sydney on Friday night, and came back Sunday night. At no point did I see vistas like the one above. Thanks to a trapped High, we have had about a fortnight of constant rain, with occasional periods of it bucketing down, typically when I was driving.

So, when I got to the soccer on Friday night, this is what the view was like:

Nevertheless, it was not a bad night. There were four of us: my son, husband, brother-in-law and me. The match was pretty competitive. The Championship-winning women’s team came out at half-time, so we got to see the great Courtney Vine up close.

Our movements that night had been set out with military precision. The son lives in Wollongong; brother-in-law in Eden (but was travelling back from Queensland); and at the end of the night, I was staying in Sydney, son was heading back to Wollongong and the other two were heading back to our place in the Shoalhaven. So we had left one car in Wollongong, one car in Stanmore, and one car in Sutherland, each primed to get someone to where they next needed to be.

For Phase 1 we were all on the light rail to Central, where things were further complicated by there being no trains running all weekend. The Senior Colemen were off making friends with drunks on the light rail while Child the Younger and I were sitting at arm’s length, quietly keeping to ourselves. He then helpfully led me to an Uber and sent me off on my way to Child the Elder’s new place, which I’d been to once for approximately three and a half minutes, while we dropped the car off so it’d be in staging position when I needed it.

We had, unfortunately, written in the wrong address: a lane with the same name as the road we were actually after.

Thankfully, the Uber driver took pity on my swearing, panicking self and told me how to make changes to the trip–as I apologised and explained that we effectively don’t have Uber where I live. There are about two Uber drivers in Nowra when last I checked, and so the likelihood that they are on shift when you need them is remote enough to lead to me being very inexperienced with the app. I got pretty good at using it when we were in the States, but as my Facebook memories very helpfully keep reminding me, that is a whole year ago now.

On this day in 2023: drinking cocktails at a luau in Hawai’i

After that small glitch, I set up my indoor campsite for the night and headed to bed.

Saturday morning dawned … still grey and rainy. Which was less than ideal, since we had three coats of paint we needed to get onto the walls. Child-the-Elder’s partner’s mother, like me, was in town for a party, and so we actually met, shook hands over paint rollers, and got stuck in.

The primer went on great.

Demonstrating the patented Barry McMahon “eh, we’re going to get rid of this flooring anyway, let’s just cut some of it away for better access to the skirting” method

Then we waited for it to dry.

And had lunch.

And waited some more.

And then we decided to add a blow heater to the dehumidifier.

And then thought we’d try the air conditioners for an hour or so.

And eventually the Other Mother-Out-Law had to leave.

And we thought the first room was finally ready. Child the Elder and I prepped everything we needed in there; her partner was set to work priming a door. All of us got precisely one stroke of our preferred painting implement in before we heard a loud pop and all the lights and all the electrical appliances went out.

At first, we suspected that the tenant who had just vacated had perhaps had the power cut off and the “new” power–which they had been told might not be actioned until Monday–had not kicked in. A quick call to the power company confirmed that as far as they were concerned, we had power.

Then we realised that the air conditioners were still working, which (somewhat ironically) blew my tiny little mind. Given that that the lights and the appliances had gone out, I figured we weren’t looking at a single fuse.

By phonelight, the new homeowners peered at the fusebox and discovered that it was not only ancient, it was weird, with at least one safety switch in upside down and labelling suggesting that–somewhat improbably–the lights and the mains were on the same fuse. Which was also not a safety switch, but I didn’t clock that at the time because I wasn’t the one sticking my head in there since it’s not my property. But perhaps I should have, since I was a bit less stressed because … it’s not my property. For them, this was one in a long sequence of events that had gone bizarrely wrong in the two days since they’d got keys. And when I say keys, they were actually given one that worked and a whole bunch that didn’t because the tenant had taken it upon herself to change the locks but not tell anyone (like the owner, or the managing agent), let alone give them a key. So what was dutifully passed over was … useless. And no one knew until they tried to use them.

Cue the calling of 24/7 electricians on a Saturday afternoon.

We thought we had success–the sparky was probably “about two hours away” because, they told the Son-Out-Law, he’s doing a job in Hazelbrook.

“It couldn’t be Hazelbrook,” I said. “That’s halfway up the Blue Mountains.”

“Maybe it was something else-brook,” he said.

Two hours passed and he rang for a status update. Yes, it was Hazelbrook; yes, the sparky was still there; no, the receptionist didn’t know what the nature of the job was or how much longer he’d be.

I think it was about this time that I contacted the schoolfriend whose party I was supposed to be attending and sent my apology. There were tears and despair in front of me and to depart to pound the wet streets of a different part of Sydney in sequinned shorts just seemed all kinds of wrong.

At some point, Child-the-Elder called a different 24/7 electrician and relayed the story, and said how they’d flipped all the (existing) safety switches but nothing had happened.

The bloke on the other end of the phone went into full Dad mode and told her that there would be a similar safety switch in the electrical meter room, and if she could get into that, then that would make a lot more financial sense than paying a weekend call out fee for him to do it.

And so began the “running around the building trying to find the guy with the key” portion of the evening. Somehow, she got the number of the guy with the key, who very helpfully told her he’d not be home til 11pm, and by the way, if they make a mess in the common areas, they should clean it up. Presumably he has access to a vacuum cleaner powered by magic, as opposed to electricity. I also note that when he appeared and had lovely chats with her male partner the next morning, there were no housework tips involved. But I digress. He did agree that he would open the necessary door when he came home at 11pm, and I naïvely believed that this would mean all the problems would be solved when we rocked up in the AM.

In the midst of all this chaos, her best-mate-since-birth called to say that her conference in Sydney was over and she was trying to make her way back but was a bit stranded because there were no trains. And so we went on a little adventure to find her, and the Son-Out-Law bought us all gelato, and he and I took turns patting Child the Elder on the back when reality hit her hard, and then we headed back to the “old” flat which they are in the throes of packing up, to try to get some sleep.

Which is when we realised that both my blow-up mattress and theirs were probably at the new place, and we were one bed down.

While both girls expressed their ongoing horror at this plan, I took advantage of the relative comfort to have a cuppa, a shower and charge my phone, and then got an Uber back to my unpowered indoor campsite. I very optimistically plugged in my phone, believing that the power would be returned at 11pm. And then got some sleep – until about 2am. With nothing else to do, I headed down to the car to use the seat warmer, charger and listen to a podcast for a bit. It was in here somewhere that I decided to look at the fusebox and realised that some had never been upgraded to safety switches and that in all likelihood no switch in the world could be flipped to save it. So first thing in the morning I texted to say, Sorry Kid; but you will need to call out a sparky, Stat.

And not long afterwards I got a phone call to say that they’d processed the same information, come to the same conclusion and that someone would be there at an agreed time.

The sparky did, in fact, turn up at that time.

He spoke to them politely, told them that their fuse box was not legal and it needed to be made compliant. He could fix it properly or he could walk away and do nothing but there was no patch-up job option. These were all conclusions everyone in the room had already come to privately. He offered them a generic brand or a name brand.

He told them it would take two hours. It took less.

He told them how to test things if the safety switch was ever flipped. He showed them how top pop the covers off the faceplates for a better finish on the painting.

I said to them: Congratulations, you’ve just found your sparky.

By 10am, we were painting again.

Once again, after a late lunch, we had to all sit around waiting for paint to dry. Child-the-Elder and I have both done a lot of painting–she’s been my right-hand woman for home renos over the last fifteen years–but we’ve never painted during such a long rain event or with such high humidity.

Eventually we got the final coat on the walls and I started the rainy drive home about 7.30 PM.

They’ve since had the floors sanded and revarnished and the grout in the bathroom redone and the place is looking so much better. Hopefully in time the pain of that first weekend will fade and they can enjoy their new home. And they will be pleased that they didn’t leave the singular key and walk away, which was an idea actually articulated on more than one occasion.

Recent Regional Adventures

Last week I took the leave I’ve accrued, combined it with the Public Holiday, and went regional. Well, more regional.

I have a complicated relationship with the public holiday, ANZAC Day. It is not something we particularly commemorate in this household. Both my grandfathers were in protected services and my Dad somehow managed to actually be lucky during the appalling years of the Vietnam birthday ballot. My husband was in the early years of High School when Australian involvement in that war, mercifully, came to a close. So we have no family medals to proudly pin to our chests and go march with. Our service people are a bit further removed (for example, my great Uncles).

I also, however, get extremely irked by people talking about “celebrating” ANZAC Day, not knowing what ANZAC stands for (I was once mortified when we were in New Zealand at an academic conference on ANZAC Day and a peer starting explaining to a Kiwi what the day was … I’m pretty sure they already knew!), draping themselves in the Australian flag (which anyone who had ever fought “for the flag” would never do, because they tend to adhere to flag protocols) or conflating ANZAC Day with acts of heroism on the Kokoda track during a totally different war.

And so it was that we left our navy town and ended up in an army town on ANZAC Day, where we had moments of quiet reflection but didn’t participate in any public commemorations.

First, however, we stayed in Milawa in Victoria, where we’re previously stopped only to visit the cellar door of Brown Brothers. We’ve always looked longingly at the lovely accommodation across the road and the quaint shops, and I’ve googled all the gourmet food experiences, but this time, we were determined to experience at least some of that.

I called this phase of our trip “Superannuants among the Vineyards.”
We had an absolute ball, but owing to the Sunday/Monday timing, we had to have both our “special” lunch, at Patricia’s and our “special” dinner at Lancemore on the same day.

It’s fair to say that my dreams were particularly lurid that night. I’m not sure I’ve ever eaten that much food in one day.

We then moved on to Seymour for a visit with our faux-niblings and their Mum. We got to see the kids’ school-albeit briefly–and were both offered jobs on the spot! As per usual, we failed to take a single photo to prove we were there and spending time together. I did take one of me “cheating” on my cats by snuggling with one of theirs.

Then it was back on the road, this time to Lithgow. For those playing along at home, that means that, somewhat improbably, I’ve been there three times in six weeks.

On this occasion it was a for the wedding of a dear friend. I was really chuffed to be invited. A group of us went out for dinner on Friday night and I finally got to meet the groom. And then the next day was big event, and we were adopted for the evening by a gaggle of aunties. I got to catch up with her “little” brothers and sister, and teased the daylights out of the younger brother, who I had last seen over thirty years ago, at which point he’d told me that he didn’t like teachers but supposed he could forgive me for deciding to become one.

I totally missed the opportunity to get a photo with my friend (clearly, it’s a behavioural pattern) but how cute is the happy couple?

Once again, being “home” filled my cup and has made me smile all week.

Which is probably a good thing, because I’ve spent some time this morning trying to forward plan and diary wrangle and I fear that I am once more trying to juggle a few balls too many. Stay tuned to see how that all plays out.

The Road to Hell

I just read back over my New Year post and gosh, I was cheery. Full of good intentions!

It’s been three months since my last “weekly” post. That probably has some significance.

Although we have moved into the extension which now has adequate means of blocking out light, and it even has an Occupation certificate, the pool build is ongoing and despite the fact that it looks finished and has pumps and heaters and fences and gates and filters and covers, it is still officially a building site until it also gets certified.

Astute readers will note it is now Autumn, in these parts.

Here’s the reason why it remains uncertified:

On fencing installation day, I heard an almighty crash. And I ran.

Then I saw the fencing guy standing there, looking perplexed, with shattered glass all around his feet. I figured I had nothing to add and went back to my desk. And so we wait.

There are two reasons why I ran when I heard the crash. Their names are Calpurnia (don’t worry; we’re calling her Callie) and Clover, and they are the most adorable troublemakers we’ve seen … well, since Tinkerbell and Scout were the same age, anyway.

Working with these guys around feels a bit like a mini-Staypuft scene.

Now when Mum (ie me) is a former English teacher with a PhD in English literatures, you get themed pet names. Cats are named after favourite book characters; chickens after the Doctor’s companions. When we had quail, they were named after characters from Bridge to Terabithia and lived in an aviary named Janice. (Geddit?). Fish have been named after Mulder, Scully, Lone Gunmen etc.

Naming the kittens proved trickier than one might think, since there is still a dearth of strong, female characters out there. I went back to childhood and in one instance, there was a seven book series featuring only two females. And they were named Jane and The Lady, so that wasn’t going to work.

For the record: Scout & Calpurnia are from To Kill a Mockingbird. The late, great, Tinkerbell was named from Peter Pan (I looked for more options from the same text, but there were very few: Wendy or Jane, or the racially problematic Tigerlily, or Nana, who was both a dog on the page and stage, and a grandmother in our household, so that wasn’t going to fly. As it were). Clover comes from What Katy Did, which was probably my earliest introduction to representations of disability in literature. Clover was the eldest sister after Katy and was described as being “pretty and clever with a cheerful disposition,” as being loved by everyone and loving them in return.

Callie and Clover were being fostered in Lithgow, and I saw their pictures on a local Facebook group and fell in love. And so I ended up in Lithgow for the second time in three weeks, having just been back for a school reunion. This time, I caught up with a school mate who hadn’t made it to the reunion, and we talked for hours. We’re booked to be back there in another three weeks, for the wedding of another dear school friend. The Spousal Unit is totally on board with this, because he reckons that when I visit, I come home happy and stay happy for, like, days.

For someone who actually lived outside of Lithgow (apart from eight months in 1978, but that’s another story) and always felt a bit Other, going “home” to Lithgow has been something of a revelation to me. When I left for Uni, I didn’t think I was all that attached –we had lived in three states by the time I was in first grade, I went to 5 different primary schools, and after going on a high school exchange, I effectively only spent nine months with my ultimate year 12 cohort–so I never had a particularly strong sense of belonging anywhere. But that year 12 cohort went a long way to change that, and I’ve since been told, on more than one occasion, that I was–and am–a “Lithgow person.” And Lithgow people have the back of other Lithgow people permanently, as far as I can tell. So when I go back, I feel very safe, and at home, and understood, and like I don’t have to give a back story because there’s a shared history there.

Adopting two wee feline babies from there seemed like an apt way to bring a little bit of Lithgow into our daily lives.

New Year, Same Me

And, as I added when I said this to my spouse in response to some God-awful ad for new year weight loss programs … “because I’m an effing delight.” Or something like that. 😉

I have managed to restart some (good) old habits with the turn of the calendar … my morning pages and my morning walk, aka the morning ritual that hasn’t been done consistently in … well, it might even be years, at this point. I’ve been in my new work-from-home role a couple of months, and the build is more-or-less finished, meaning that I’m in my study/home office, so the feeling of “camping out” while transitioning roles is pretty much gone. I say “pretty much” because yesterday was my first day back, and it was challenging. The NBN guys who came out on December 20 said it was too wet to complete the task so even though we’d moved the furniture and computer equipment into the brand spanking new study so I could work from there (Happy Birthday to meeee!), it turned out that the internet didn’t actually work reliably in there, as I discovered during my first hour of attempting to work in there yesterday. So the Spousal Unit went off to buy a wifi extender and then I spent about the next twelve hours trying to retrain the printer and all our other wifi-reliant services.

I sent my colleague a text saying, “Look what I got for my birthday!” She congratulated me before pointing out how much less fun adult birthday presents can be. Not pictured: “Real” annual present of a trip to a musical with Firstborn, who also has a pesky just-before-Christmas birthday

I was doing this “retraining” on very little sleep because I’ve sort-of moved into the new extension, but one blind was the wrong size and one shutter can’t be fitted until something else is, and so on I only sleep on cloudy nights. Which the evening of January 1 was not. So I was not in a good space to be trying to think things through, and feeling vaguely homicidal.

Lovely and light-filled … which is great *during the day*

Nevertheless, we persisted. Without a homicide that would have stopped us making it to our 26th Wedding Anniversary today. Five years ago we were in Paris; one year ago in Fiji. Today I’m in the home office and gritting my teeth as he watches things too loudly elsewhere in the house. Seems like a pretty good metaphor for the ups and downs of a long-term marriage, really.

Also, please note that it’s “WordPress Wednesday” and I’ve actually logged in to WordPress. On a Wednesday.

And now, onto my next good intention … finishing up the proofreading and Indexing of our Vampire Diaries project. It’s due in four days (five, if you count the way the time difference works in my favour). You can preorder here from McFarland in the US, or I’ll be selling them from my website – probably by the end of January, but it might end up being February.

Check-In

Time for a check-in.

The check-in is: I’m feeling a bit out of sorts, and then I feel guilty because I shouldn’t be feeling out of sorts, and then I remind myself that it is unhelpful to be trying to tell my brain what it “should” be feeling because that is not a path to better mental health by any stretch of the imagination, and I probably should go back to doing Morning Pages to process this stuff but I haven’t, and uh-oh, that’s another potential guilt trap, right there.

Brains, amirite?

And so in the immortal words of Leonard Hofstadter, I sometimes hear myself interior voice whining: “so my question is–what’s up with that?”

Pretty sure my face often looks like this, too.

I feel like I shouldn’t be feeling out of sorts because I think I actually love my new job. I’m working with a great bunch of people. It very much reminds me of when Child the Elder first switched schools and one teacher after another addressed her by name, told me how she was settling in, and said how great she was at the first Parent-Teacher afternoon. Eventually one teacher called me on my Hofstadter face and asked why I looked so surprised, because CTE is a good kid. I told him I knew–but I didn’t think her last school did, because they just kept telling me that she talked too much (in one instance, famously, while calling her by another child’s name). Same kind of energy, here–scheduled meetings happen on time, but the person who appears on screen asks, before any “work stuff”–how I’m settling in, and there’s a bit of chit-chat about our lives etc. Small kindnesses, that make you feel appreciated. It’s a really lovely thing, and I’m fascinated by how routinely it happens, especially since we’re in a very distributed online environment so there is no water cooler or tearoom in which to first establish the relationships.

And as for the work itself–I’m researching UDL with a view to creating some best practice guidelines to make subject webpages more accessible to more students, including students with disabilities. In other words, I’m back to inclusive education practices and using my training. This is stuff that I’m good at. That’s pretty cool.

In the last fortnight, I have also helped (a little) with the Teaching Academy’s online L & T conference, facilitating a panel; and on the Research side of the house, one abstract I submitted and had accepted has, just this past weekend, spawned an additional two contribution requests. I’ve also accepted a request to review a paper on mental illness and popular culture for a psychiatry journal. I’m still on the Board of Directors for a local disability service provider and we have the AGM this week, so there are a few balls being juggled just at the moment; none of them ones I would want to drop.

In the background, the home renovation project is in Week 11 of a scheduled 14. I am so incredibly grateful that we chose the team we did–I can talk to both the owner and the foreman honestly and know that it’s going to be a respectful conversation and that I’ll walk away with the information I need. Even more impressive, they’re keeping to schedule. I am stressed to the eye teeth because they are due to finish mere days before Christmas and this is throwing my usual over-planning and over-decorating tendencies into disarray, but can I just reiterate: they are scheduled to finish before Christmas. The rooms even look like identifiable rooms, now.

I do have to keep reminding myself that we need to keep the job moving, though, because that is 11.5 weeks of people being here from about 6.45am pretty much every day. That is a LOT of peopling for an introvert (and it’s also an uncomfortably early start for a chronic insomniac). I basically have a peopling-hangover every day now, but I can’t tell everyone to bugger off for a day or two and let me reboot, or the schedule just won’t be met. This past weekend was the Spousal Unit’s birthday so we had family visit, and we had tradies here on Saturday (albeit briefly) AND Sunday. Again, I am beyond grateful–and I made sure to serve them birthday cake–but it means there has been not even a short reboot opportunity this week. I’ve formed the habit of making something for the workers for morning tea, but I haven’t managed to find time to #bakeforthebuilders for the past three days, which I hope they are not taking personally–but I just haven’t had that extra little bit of capacity.

There’s also a lot of decision-making involved in a project of that size. Decision-making gets progressively harder with a people hangover. Switching gears between tasks also gets slower.

Add to all that, we’ve been hacked and/or had our virtual identities stolen, I guess, with attempts to gain access to ATO accounts (his) and Apple (mine) within the space of about 36 hours. Thanks once again to Optus for letting customer details make their way onto the dark web, I guess. Also on the to-do list: change mobile provider.

(OK, maybe there are some reasons for my brain to be screaming “stop the world, I want to get off!” just at the minute).

On Sunday, I’m heading over to the Wagga campus for the first time, before a three-day retreat and planning session. But in one of the afore-mentioned honest “how are you going?” chats with my boss, I admitted that I am feeling a bit tired and like some cylinders are occasionally misfiring. She promptly advised me to take an afternoon off and refill my cup–time to be taken in lieu of the time spent on the long drive out to Wagga on Sunday.

It’s so lovely to be shown that kind of care and grace. Now I just need to work on routinely extending that to myself.

A change is as good as a holiday …

… and if you can manage to have a holiday before the big change, that’s even better.

A lot has changed here in the past six weeks. After about two decades of working for UOW in various roles, I have moved to a new employer, still in Higher Education.

I wasn’t actively looking for alternatives, because I wasn’t looking to leave Higher Ed and I’m certainly not looking to leave the Shoalhaven. But there were a number of things that happened in quick succession that made me wonder if I should start looking. One incident, in particular, happened on a Monday. On Tuesday, a job alert landed in my in-box, and for once I skimmed it, thought “I could actually make that work, without too much disruption,” didn’t delete it immediately, and went back for a re-read. Then I sent it to my ex-boss and co-author, who texted back: “You HAVE to apply for this. It sounds like you.”

So I did.

And within three weeks, I’d been appointed with another of my alma maters, at Associate Professor level, in a more teaching-related role. And, just as I was worrying about the logistics of a part-time, fixed term move back to the area where I went to school, they unexpectedly suggested that I might like to work 100% remotely.

And so now my daily commute is to our dining room.

Happily, the builders are here and creating a more permanent home office (this was already well in train before this latest turn of events). So I’m living in utter chaos in the run-up to Christmas, but in 2024, we’ll have a guest suite for our international visitors, an office for me, and the pool I’ve been promising Tony since we moved in almost 18 years ago. It’s all happening, and all at once, and it’s thrown my Christmas decorating schedule into complete disarray. I’m still trying to problem-solve for that.

In addition to offering me the opportunity to work from home, when I was appointed I was asked would I perhaps like to take a little holiday before I started? The end of my notice period with UOW coincided with the start of what will be Tony’s last set of school holidays, so we booked ourselves flights to Bali and returned to the fantastic Nike Villas in Sanur. We had a couple of nights at Febri’s in Kuta on either side, because it’s close to the airport, cheap, and they have a spa that does amazing massages. But Sanur is a lovely home base for us; we didn’t have a dud meal the whole time, and saw some great live music, and basically did not much except a lot of swimming and reading, which just what was needed.

I’m very grateful that we had this reboot when we did. It will be some time before I can get away again, since my leave balances have all reset to zero.

Happily, the job so far is going well. I once again am working with a really nice team, and I’m offering advice on how to make university websites and subjects more accessible and inclusive, which is something about which I’ve always been passionate –but it wasn’t something I could pursue in my last role.

And, if I’m 100% honest, the thing I’m most relieved about is that I no longer have oversight of the management of four campuses in bushfire zones. Don’t get me wrong–I love our campuses and the folks who sail in them, and I most definitely still think in terms of those shared pronouns–but with a horror bushfire season predicted and how often I get triggered by the hazard alerts that are already coming through on my phone, I’m grateful that I’m no longer the first call on the phone tree. I know that I will still worry about “our” people when there are fires–in fact, there was a fire that impacted some of our people while we were in Bali, and check-ins did happen, despite the fact that I had already officially ceased employment. But moving forward, the only site I’m actually responsible for is my home, and that feels right. I don’t know that I could get through another Summer like 2019/20. It was a lot of responsibility. I suspect many of us were more traumatised than we acknowledged, particularly as we then immediately rolled headlong into a global pandemic.

Tomorrow marks one month in the new role. So far, so good.

Yes. Just, Yes. Please.

It’s Referendum day here in Australia.

I was offered the opportunity to work on the poll for the Australian Electoral Commission, and I opted out because you had to give an undertaking that you would not do anything to promote one case or the other, and that included even minor social media slactivism. I feel pretty strongly about the issue, so I didn’t think it was an undertaking I could give. There has been so much vitriol about the topic, however, that in reality, I’ve posted very little. It’s been a protective mechanism, and I recognise that our Indigenous brothers and sisters have probably found it infinitely harder to protect themselves from the noise.

Here’s the question: To alter the Constitution to recognise the First Peoples of Australia by establishing an Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Voice. Do you approve this proposed alteration?

That’s it. Nothing more.

You would think this would not be overly contentious. Australia is home to the oldest continuous culture, and I think we’re one of the last former-British colonies to acknowledge the First Peoples in our constitution. As for establishing a “Voice,” it’s to be elected Indigenous representatives who form an advisory body with whom the government has to consult on policy that impacts them.

This is not a radical idea, either; we’ve had a few bodies like this. All have them were legislated and were subsequently abolished by a change of government. So the idea here is that the *concept* is enshrined in the Constitution; the detail follows in legislation. So the form could legislatively be changed, but we can’t be left without an advisory body for years (or worse, decades, as has happened in my living memory); there has to be something. Folks who get to have a discussion, alongside the public service, when a Minister is making a decision that impacts on them specifically.

Now, if you happen to be an Indigenous Australian, people of a different culture have been making these decisions on your behalf for most of your lifetime. I think our last three Indigenous Affairs ministers have actually been Indigenous, which is great. But Australia became a federated nation in 1901, so the last three is what we might call a good start. And in the meantime, the “gaps” we agreed to close–around education, mortality, childhood illness, poverty–are not closing or even narrowing. Some key indicators have even gone in the wrong direction. To me, there are two key ideas here: First, what we’ve been doing hasn’t really been working, so it’s probably a good time to try something else. Second, it’s just good manners to include people in the conversation if they are the ones who have to live with the consequences. The Voice will have about as much power as the average P & C – they can share their input, they will be consulted, but ultimately, the existing power structures of the day will still make the decisions. Our democratically elected power structures of the day.

So, why am I getting so agitated about this? As a white woman with significant privilege, the impact on me is non-existent. Literally. There are folks out there clutching their pearls and predicting reparations and lost back yards, but the actual question is not about reparations or land rights–issues that could be discussed by a Voice to Parliament, sure, but the parliament would ultimately make the decisions, and I reckon they’ll be as unlikely as they ever were to commit political suicide by entertaining such radically scary ideas.

The voice I hear in my head as this debate goes on, and the face I see, is that of Uncle Sam Watson. Uncle Sam was an activist, a legal advocate, a writer, and, in my opinion, an all-round good human. Sam wrote The Kadaitcha Sung, a book that was the focus of half of my PhD project. It’s a disturbing, violent book, but its author most definitely was not. I interviewed him many years ago, when my kids were small. He bent down and had a long chat with them before Tony took them away and distracted them so Sam and I could chat. I got the distinct impression that he would have preferred to play with the kids than do an interview with a PhD student! I don’t recall the conversation, and I doubt they do either, but he definitely made an impression. For years afterwards, I’d be at the computer or in the kitchen when the 7 o’clock news was on, and one child or the other would hear that distinctive voice and yell, “Mum, come quick! Uncle Sam’s on!”

When I completed my PhD, I sent Uncle Sam a copy. I didn’t really expect him to read it; that’s the nature of academic texts, you pretty much assume that no one will. But in due course there arrived at our home a personal note, from Sam, congratulating me on the completion of the project and saying how honoured he was that I had shared my thoughts about his “humble little book.”

Uncle Sam was part of the original Tent Embassy movement which began in 1972. He did not see the kind of meaningful change he hoped for in his lifetime. He was (marginally) younger than my parents; one of his children was born the same year as me. And yet, my parents are still in robust good health, and Uncle Sam passed into the Dreaming several years ago. He was 67. The average for an Australian male is 83.

That’s the kind of gap we’re trying to close.

This morning, I took my 85-year-old Scottish father-in-law to vote. He asked about the question, and we explained that “Yes” meant you were agreeing that a group of Aboriginal people should get to have a discussion about issues affecting them, before the parliament voted on them.

He paused and thought for a minute.

“Well, I reckon that sounds fair enough,” he said.

And that, at its core, is what it’s about. The Voice is not a panacea and it likely won’t fix everything. It may not even move the needle fast enough for many of us. But on the balance of probabilities, it would probably be fairer than what we’ve been doing.

So I’m sitting here nervously hoping that the polls are spectacularly wrong. I have to believe good manners and human decency has a chance of winning out.

6-sational

And today in Birthday Land, it’s the turn of Miss 6.

It was such a privilege to spend some real time with these kids a few months back, and I miss them terribly.

So this year’s birthday gifts to both kids featured Bluey & Bingo; specifically, versions which sing and dance.

It’s all part of my master plan to make sure they retain familiarity with our accents, so there are no barriers to communication when next we get to be in the same hemisphere.

The Glorious 4th

Welp, things around here have been absolutely ridiculous lately, particularly on the work front–lots of deadlines, most of them short–and so blogging time keeps getting bumped in my diary. Suddenly, it’s been weeks without a post.

But I need to take a minute to mark an auspicious occasion: today is my American grandson’s 4th birthday.

He featured significantly in my last post, and he’s an absolute delight of a kid.

Happy Birthday, Master 4. We love and miss you more than words can say.

Adventures UpOver

I’ve been back at work a couple of weeks after a blissful two months off under that delightful Australian invention, Long Service Leave. As a female who has had what is called, in HR parlance, “interrupted or non-linear career progression;” (known more colloquially as “having kids”), including lots of short term and casual contracts, I never expected to qualify for LSL. But I have, and it’s awesome.

My husband retired at the end of last year, and then a few weeks later took up a post-retirement casual contract for this year, and then just as promptly took ill and was unable to work for a month. So between broken ankles, oncology scans (thankfully, I was cleared), hospital stays, and then elderly in-laws also taking ill, I never really believed that we were actually all going to get on our booked flight, and I found it hard to get excited about a long dreamed-about adventure. (I went back through old posts and can confirm now that this trip was two years in the planning).

But somehow, we did. Master 21 came over for the first fortnight as well, and became Master 22 while waiting in a queue at Disneyland. It was a queue for the gorgeous car photo below, because apparently Disney After Dark nites mean fantastically short queues for rides, but much-longer-than-anticipated ones for photos with static props.

Master 22’s trip overlapped by two days with the start of the visit from his American host-sister, Ellyn, and her family. Ellyn lives on the opposite coast but loaded up her entire family and flew out to California for this much-anticipated reunion. I was pretty determined to get a photo to mark the occasion, and while there is an “official” one, this feels like the most Cole-Quinn portrait ever, right here:

Ellyn’s lovely groom has very thoughtfully taken on a job with Disney recently, so we had great access to the parks. Tony and I bought “Grandma” and “Grandpa” mouse ear shirts from Walmart, which caused some confusion at the gate on Day 1 as David introduced me as a family friend and the Cast Member asked, “Isn’t she Grandma? Her shirt says she’s Grandma!” and Ellyn said, “well, she is …” and then I burst in with my best Strine accent and announced “I’m Bonus Grandma!”

Well, Miss 5 picked up on this, and from then on, Bonus Grandma I became.

Both kids quickly adopted us as family, and Tony (who was NOT an exchange student, and is also therefore inclined to use “friend” language) marveled at this. At one point I told Master 3 to hold the hand of “one of his grown-ups” and he promptly returned to me and offered his hand. “He didn’t know you two days ago!” Tony pointed out. “Kids know when someone loves them and they’re safe,” I reminded him. And after being climbed all over and loved on for a very short while, he decided that yes, he really was a Bonus Grandpa and the lack of biological ties doesn’t mean much, and the whole thing is actually kind of cool. And so now there are live discussions about our “next trip” and perhaps staying much closer to our American family.

We crammed a lot in … a trip to see Redwoods and Huntington Beach, multiple trips to the Disneyland parks, character breakfasts, an abortive attempt to interest the kids in baseball, and lots of long chats about very important things like ATAT walkers and Chef Mickey artworks (the latter now hangs in my office).

Along the way, there were plenty of fun park moments. Geppetto– one of the less common characters–was out and about in Fantasyland when we were there. At one point, he walked past and waved and blew me a kiss, and I blushed and giggled like a schoolgirl, for no sensible reason.

I also had some discussions with adults in cartoon suits as though they actual cartoon characters. Notably, there was a chat with Dale about how Chip had rudely ignored our table, and then there was a conversation–admittedly a one-sided one in verbal terms, but there was some very expressive mime involved–about style with one Minnie Mouse. I kind of assumed they couldn’t see much, but she saw my brooch. And then she saw my shoes, and mimed for me to take them off, and I told her no, I wasn’t giving them to her. And she dragged me to my feet for a photo that featured them properly, while I complimented her style and ongoing appreciation of a good polka dot.

This amazing brooch from @acrylic addict has interchangeable ears–this is the Small World version, worn on the Small World ride.

The thing I love most about the Disney parks is the attention to detail. I’ve often joked I could write a whole blog post about the light fittings, and I’m seriously considering doing just that. I also took heaps of photos of the (largely edible) gardens, and the much improved accessibility options/inclusive practices. Certainly there will be more posts about our Big Trip, because this post has already dragged on, and there’s a lot more to cover.

But for now, I’ll finish with these contrasting images of my kids and grandkids over the fifteen years since we first visited DLR.

One very lucky Mum/Grandma, here.