Standing on their shoulders

It happens in schools sometimes. Decisions get made from high up.

Year 7 White, Year 7 Red, Year 7 Blue, Year 7 Gold and Year 7 Green  were all meant to get their year level camp in 1979, my first year of high school. Someone decided that for that year it wasn’t happening. The camp had happened for as long as people in the school could remember and it was reinstated in 1980. All the way up to my final year of school, there was a Year 7 camp. Just not in our year.  

It has filtered down some 33 years afterwards that my homeroom teacher in that year, Mr. Thompson wasn’t happy about the decision. He didn’t show his disappointment to his students. I’ve worked in schools and can tell you that he was utterly professional about the whole thing.

Mr Charles Thompson (we called him Chuck) was a great teacher. If you are of a certain age, you will understand that he could pass as the twin of Gabe Cotter, the star of the hit 1970’s TV series about a teacher in the Bronx, Welcome Back Cotter. He had the afro’, the flares. He was in his second year out of teachers college. Our classroom door was always the first open. There was Chuck at his desk each morning with his cup of coffee, doing corrections. A group of us would just stand around his desk and talk about nothing in particular. He was great to be around. We could joke with him and when the bell went he would teach using quizzes, stories – Chuck made learning fun.

 A few weeks after the camp had been called off, Chuck spoke to the class and said, “If we are going to do this, it’s all in or it’s not on.” And so student by student, a permission note came from home and the camp was on – just for 7 Green at De La Salle College. We also had to keep it quiet from the other classes. I understand now that Chuck had arranged with the principal, permission to have a weekend camp... not in school time and at no cost to the school. Chuck made it happen on his time. Here we are, your blogger is sitting on the floor there on the left (they forgot to name me and the other fella in the school annual - Blue & Gold).

I remember that camp so clearly, cooking damper in hot coals, walking through the Dandenong ranges and stopping for a swim at the Monbulk pool, sleeping in tents Chuck had got a hold of. As time went on and I became an adult, I appreciated the effort and commitment Chuck had shown to us.

‘Effort and Commitment’ was the theme of a presentation I was asked to give at a school I run the Time & Space programs for – Yea High School. They have a special assembly each semester and award the students who have shown, you guessed it, effort and commitment in some aspect of school life. Pennants are given out to the students in the Yea Shire Hall and their parents and grandparents are invited to the celebration.

I told the gathering about Chuck and was delighted to pass on that in the two years I have been working for Yea High School; it has been evident that there are teachers like Chuck in their staff community.

There’s Phil Wischer, the art teacher. I’ve got to know Phil and on the day of the presentation, he brought in a painting he had done. It is inspired by Wilson’s Promontory – a mountain and seascape. The picture has a rope ladder falling from the sky and in near invisible writing, he has written a verse of Coleridge’s The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner. I said to the students – how cool is it that your art teacher is an artist? Phil is coordinating the school musical production as well. I understand his main motivation is that he wants the kids to experience that feeling of being part of something bigger than them – that’s what Phil remembers about the times when he was a student in his school productions.

Then there’s Nicole Gillingham. We run the Time & Space evenings in the building she teaches in at Yea High School. Without fail, every time I go in to set up after school has finished, Nicole is there tutoring a student in maths. One-on-one, carefully explaining the problem and I know as I walk past, that she will explain it again and again, in different ways until the student understands. She is so patient. When I have visited the school during the day, I have seen her at a little makeshift desk outside the staffroom, helping a student during lunchtime.

Sandy Reddan the ‘food-tech’ teacher always arrives before the Time & Space nights with a basket of muffins (always two flavours), scones and jam and Cream and even some Anzac biscuits – all freshly baked. Sandy simply doesn’t have to do this but she does. One morning after I arrived back in Melbourne late the night before from the 90 minute drive from Yea High School, my wife saw a carton of eggs on our kitchen bench.

“Where did you get those”, she asked?

“Oh Sandy told me her chickens were going crazy and she had stacks of eggs left over, so she gave these to me”. We had some for breakfast – those eggs seemed to have so much more flavour than the ones you get from the supermarket.

Yea High School deceptively contains a humble set of buildings. There are champions of ‘effort and commitment’ inside those walls, inspiring the kids.

I asked the students and the mums and dads and grandparents to close their eyes and take thirty seconds to consider the person, the teacher who made a difference in their life.

So here’s an invitation to you to do that now. Look away from this story... close your eyes for 30 seconds and try to picture that teacher whose shoulders you stand on because of their effort and commitment.  

Could you picture them? Great, I’ve got a suggested action for you in just a moment.

With respect to Chuck - I’ve actually written about him before – and when I did, I made the suggestion to reach out to that teacher (if they were still around) and simply say ‘thanks’. I wrote Chuck a letter. As it came to pass, I did a session at my old school for the staff late last year. Chuck was in the audience and I told the story of his effort and commitment for 7 Green in 1979. Chuck was beaming. A colleague of his recently told me he was really chuffed. It took me over 30 years to say thank you.

So you guessed it. If you know your teacher is still around. Drop them a line. You might be the person who makes every ‘effort and commitment’ act your teacher gave, across a career, seem completely worthwhile.

If the teacher is not around anymore, in the next 24 hours – tell someone important to you why your teacher inspired you.

      

Doing one thing well...

... in a world that demands flexibility, lauds the multi-tasker and pronounces that today’s 15-year-old will have about 20 different jobs throughout their career... it isn’t difficult to build the argument against the specialist.

You can see how the person who does one thing well could be dismissed as unsuitably equipped to make their way in life. Where the contemporary phrase ‘keeping your options open’ can be matched with another trendy term, ‘the collective wisdom’, doing one thing well, might be the foolhardy approach.

The caveat though is if that one thing, done well, is something the person loves doing.

Did you ever do one of those career aptitude tests?

A company called Career Wise visited my school in the 1980’s. I was in Year 9. We all sat in the school hall and under exam conditions filled in the multiple, multiple choice circles with grey lead pencil. There was an IQ component as well. The company then collected all the answer cards, took them to their office to feed into a big computer. Computers were big then. 

Some weeks later, we all went back into the hall with our mums and dads and listened to a person from Career Wise explain the science behind the results. We sat down with individual consultants and they presented us with our envelope with the personalised print-out of our strengths and weaknesses.

My test said I should become an accountant. I don’t remember any of the other suggestions but I am certain there was nothing remotely suggesting ‘parent-child program facilitator’. Another strong memory is that at least three of my classmates were somewhat bewildered, asking “Do you know what a Ship’s Purser is?”

There is a glut of international sporting competitions right now. Amongst The World Cup, Le Tour and the Commonwealth Games, The Open Championship – one of the four world majors – was held at The Royal Liverpool Golf Club two weeks ago. Over the last few years, I have started to notice one person particularly in this tournament. I’ve had a quiet chuckle to myself wondering at the career aptitude test that a gentleman named Ivor Robson might have taken when he was 15.

Would Ivor’s test have turned up First Tee Announcer?  Probably not.

Ivor Robson is the man who announces the names of the players hitting off at the first tee. And that is part of his magic. He simply announces the names and the country they come from.No curriculum vitae of the player’s achievements (one exception is that he acknowledges the defending champion). No big build up.

I don’t know the name of any of the guys who announce at the other three majors. Why do I know Ivor’s? Because I started started to notice that each year he was always there. I like his minimalist approach, his mastery of difficult names and the distinctive musicality in his voice. He makes me smile. This simple talent prompted me to find out more. His story is delightfully interesting.

Ivor has been the announcer at The Open for 40 years now. He arrives at the tee 90 minutes before the first group and he never takes a break, a snack or a sip of water. In fact he doesn’t take a toilet break. This would explain his routine of refraining from eating or drinking from 7pm the night before. Until the last group tees off, Ivor remains, standing, at his post. He checks the players have the regulation golf balls, ensures they don’t have more than the maximum 14 clubs allowed in their golf bag and gives them their score cards. Sending 156 players off in the first two days, he will be at his station for upwards of ten hours. Ivor is meticulous about keeping time and there is no fear or favour – if a three time major winner is late, he’s disqualified. Sending 52 groups off in the early rounds, you can understand why, when quizzed about his job, Ivor has offered that he needs to maintain strict concentration.

You can see I’ve become something of an Ivor Robson groupie. I've, err, (pardon the intentional pun) learnt that: he has never answered a question about his exact age; Ivor breaks the difficult-to-pronounce names into manageable phonetic bits and his advice to the aspiring announcer, is to say the name once, and convincingly. It is easy to pick up that Ivor simply loves the game. And he is humble. At last year’s tournament at Muirfield, he was asked about his legacy after he retires (one day).

Ivor remarked “Seven days after I’ve gone, they’ll say ‘who was that grey-haired old man who used to announce the players.'”

This year, Ivor received that classic accolade... what do they say? The greatest form of flattery is imitation. Have a look at this.

Ivor Robson does one thing well.

And here are three others who belong in Ivor’s class.

John Donegan was in my year group at my school. He would have taken that same Career Wise test.

Maybe they got him right. Search John on the web and you'll find that he sold his first photo when he was 14. I remember John, as a student, seemed like he almost had his own set of keys for the Media area. He was always developing his latest set of photos in the dark room. I’ve enjoyed following John on Twitter in recent times. A couple of weeks ago, he travelled around Australia's major cities and captured scenes from his angle of vision. It is great art. He has mashed those city shots with photos taken of the same scenes back in 1914. It is late July as I write this. One hundred years ago, most Australians would have been innocently unaware of how close they were to the beginning of The Great War. Check John's work out here. It is a sublime concept, professionally executed.

Julie-Anne Geddes was my work supervisor in a volunteer year I did in Sydney in 1989. She coordinated  a coffee shop, which was a special work of the local Anglican parishes, for the transsexual prostitutes who worked on William Street down from Kings Cross. Julie oversaw this safe place, called PJ’s, ensuring these ladies could come and take a break from their work and she looked after the eclectic group of volunteers in her charge as well. 

She was always a grounded, kind helper. Now living in Wollongong with her family, Julie is a psychologist with well, that Julie spark. No doubt she would be doing untold good for the folk she supports. I've just ordered her recently released, first book Acts of Love: a thousand ways to sustain love. Can't wait to read it.

And finally, how do you fancy  being lost for 92 minutes within a beautiful story?  Then see Still Life. Eddie Marsan's performance is masterful as he occupies the character of the utterly decent, selfless council worker, John May. What’s the one thing that John May does well? He has worked for 22 years carefully, respectfully trying to find the next of kin of those who died alone in his South London borough.Oh yeah, Joanne Froggatt of Downton Abbey fame puts in a wonderful performance too.

Ivor Robson, John Donegan, Julie-Anne Geddes, John May (and Eddie Marsan) all do one thing well, very well. And in their work, you easily spot the generosity that emanates and delights. They love what they do and they are good at it.

It’s underrated but I reckon it is worth encouraging our kids to explore their hearts to find that one spark that fires them more than any other option.

This story is dedicated to my young bloke Jack who turned 18 earlier this month. Jacko - you could be a philosopher - in fact you are a philosopher. You are a bloody good actor as well. I know I may not put my advice at a premium - you probably get too much of it from your less than perfect old man... all the same... Son - work out what is it is that you truly love doing and then do that one thing well – maybe, against the tide of collective wisdom, for a lifetime.

Gabi - a Mothers Day Champion

It has been a big week for Gabi.

On Tuesday night Gabi was a participant at the Mother and Son session at her son’s school, Saint Ignatius College in Drysdale, a 20 minute drive through Geelong.

Two nights later she fronted up and was a team member at the subsequent Mother and Daughter night. At her Mother-Daughter session in 2012, Gabi had ticked a box on the evaluation form to say she would be interested being a team member at a future event.

Participants can also tick a box to say that they would like to become a member of the Time & Space Community. They receive stories about mums, dads, young people who often are going about, what the subjects consistently consider to be, their ordinary life. And then you and I, encountering their story, might contend that they are quietly being extraordinary. Another way I describe the people of these everyday stories are as ‘champions who have been spotted’. Gabi is one such champion.

If you have been to a Time & Space session you will have seen and heard from that brave group up the front... the people on the community panel. We usually have two parents and two young people sharing their insights about the questions the participants will answer in their small group session that follows. Gabi was a panellist on Thursday night.

In answer to the question... what is a special quality you see in your child? She said this about her daughter...

My daughter’s special quality would without doubt be her inner strength. Her courage and ability to overcome adversity, adapt and navigate her way through an experience of great loss in Year 8 was just remarkable and inspiring.

At the end of the evening, Gabi came up to me with a specific question. I got a chance too, to say thanks for the insights she shared and for how she impacted on the audience of mums, mentors and teenage girls.

Her daughter has completed the two Time and Space programs in sequence – The Father-Daughter in Year 7 and then the Mother-Daughter in Year 8. As a family – they have now done three of the four sessions available in the transition years of high school. As you know, Gabi and her boy did the Mother-Son this week.  

In our conversation, I shared a clear memory from the Father-Daughter night three years ago. Gabi seemed surprised but her husband stood out to me.

He explained how determined he had been not to miss the father-daughter night. He was seated, had a quiet satisfaction that he had made it. He had kind eyes. Gabi remembered and reflected...

“Oh yeah, we made a big effort to make it to that night. He made the journey down here from Melbourne.”

Often dads make big efforts to get to Time & Space events from work far away. It is humbling to witness the priority they put on being with their son or daughter.

This was different again. Gabi’s husband mustered the energy to be transported from the Royal Melbourne Hospital to be at the night with his daughter.  He had a terminal illness and passed away just a few months later.

You see Gabi’s question was opening up how we might tackle the Father-Son night for her boy next year. There is always provision for a mentor to be there if mum or dad is not around (and, as in this case, sometimes it is a sad reason). It is that care and foresight that makes Gabi a pretty obvious and ‘spot-able’ champion mum.

In saying on the panel that her daughter has inner strength – we kind of know how her girl has inherited that. Having affirmed her daughter’s quality Gabi went on to offer a message to the girls there on the night...

It also highlighted to me that our girls are strong. Without knowing the young ladies here this evening, I do know that you all have inner strength, because of the wonderful role models you have sitting beside you. I hope you always remember that.

It was evident to those of us there that we were in the presence of, to use Gabi’s words, a wonderful role-model. The principal of the school remarked to me afterwards that whilst Gabi didn’t specify the detail of her loss, a good number of the mums there would have been in the know.

That’s why I reckon Gabi’s story is a great example to share on Mother’s Day (here in Australia today). Gabi has courage. There’s selflessness in the way she first sees and acknowledges her daughter’s quality that emerged from that loss – a loss that was obviously Gabi’s as well. And then let’s regard the kindness in her forward planning to start thinking about a session for her son that will be happening in September 2015.

Let Gabi and her story represent the way mums give, the way so many mums sacrifice as a default action and the way mums are ‘extraordinary in the ordinary’.

This story is a gift for Gabi and her kids written on Mother’s Day 2014.

If you are reading this now it will be because Gabi (and the kids) said it was okay.                                                                                                                                                                               

  

Treasured Moments

This year it finally happened. The threat had loomed for a while but when the time came, it kept coming. He proved the next two times we played, that his victory wasn’t a fluke. 

For about four years now, my 17-year-old son and I have had a regular hit of squash up at our local RSL gymnasium. Up until this year, my title was unchallenged. I’m a bit old school when it comes to the debate about whether you play full tilt or let your kids have a chance against you in competitive games. Especially with our squash games, I have always shown no mercy. And when his turn came, neither did he.

You wouldn’t have seen it on the back page of your newspaper and it wasn’t the lead story in Sport on the evening news but, in June this year, whilst still 16 years old, Jack beat me 3-2 in a fiercely contested game of squash. He lead 2-0 and I clawed back thinking, “I’ve got him” and then, the rest is history - he allowed me only two points as he finished his dad off in the fifth game. I thought, “Right... next time, I’ll get him back”.

Well, next time, he beat me 4-1 and then for good measure, he got the same score the time after that. There was a definite pattern emerging in the way our games were going.

You hear about how the lion packs in the African Savannah working out who is the boss lion... the old lion often sees off some early challenges but eventually the young lion wins a fight and becomes king of the pride. During that first loss, whilst scrambling to try and maintain my title, I could see that he was bringing a new strength and pace to the game that I couldn’t match. Promise you, the fight went to the last point but when he won, a wave of pride washed over. He had done it... gone past his old man.

This was a treasured moment.

Everyday life goes on. Then something happens that marks a moment in time. Our kids have got to a new stage.

These moments don’t have to be contests. It can be a moment you become aware of sometime after a new change has occurred. My oldest Amber provided one of these moments this year, along with my mum. 

Amber actually stopped being a teenager this year (by virtue of turning 20). Life is flowing for her: just finished second year university; she’s recently done some house-sitting for friends; she has got herself a great steady part-time job and now, is driving her own car. She has been forging her own independence.

Somewhere along the way, I heard my mum start a sentence that will probably read as fairly ordinary to you. Mum and dad are still in the same house I grew up in. We are now on the other side of town.

Mum started “When Amber popped in again the other day...” Like I said, this would seem somewhat innocuous to you but as Amber’s dad, me and her mum have always driven her over to see my mum and dad. Now she was popping in, of her own accord, after uni. When she house-sat, she was closer to her grandparent’s house than to ours. Mum explained that Amber had been coming to visit just to say hello. Over the visits, an idea Amber has for a family film project grew. Amber is lucky enough to have a memory of mum’s parents - her great grandparents. My grandpa died in 2002 when Amber was nine. She remembers this kind old man who had lived a tough life. Grandpa grew up in the Depression. He was orphaned and built a life with his own family from this starting point of adversity. Amber is fascinated by her great grandfather’s story. She has developed a passion for documentary making at university. At a recent family gathering she asked everyone to be ready to share their memories of grandpa sometime soon on camera.

Mum told me that she had shared things with Amber that she can’t recall telling me or my brothers or sister. Mum said it was easier to talk about when she was growing up to her grand-daughter.

My daughter who it seems, just a second ago was a little baby I could hold in one arm... now has her own adult connection with my mum. It is their relationship. Amber’s got her own independent, creative ideas. Of course she has. It might read as obvious but when mum said, “When Amber popped over again the other day...” the sense of another wave of pride washed over. A treasured moment had visited again.

Almost invisibly, another stage in your child’s life is progressing to a point where some time soon, you’ll be right in the middle of a treasured moment. You’ll feel it right there and then – perhaps being delightfully confronted by the realisation that they have gone past you, like the young bloke did destroying me on the local squash courts. Maybe you’ll become aware sometime after the event - like I did with Amber – realising, “wow she seriously is a young adult now... she has an impressive generous imagination... she has her own family connections that she can pursue.

Sure, we drive each other crazy. We get things wrong a lot of the time with our kids. But hey, our kids surprise us. They can delight us with a treasured moment that says, they are on the way to being their own person, a young adult.

Tip

This story is posted on the last day of 2013. This is a good time to look back and wonder... where were those treasured moments for you as a parent, as a mentor to a young person? Give yourself a bit of Time & Space to wonder at the magic of your kids growing up.

 Bill Jennings
www.time-space.com.au

If you would like to be notified when a new story goes on this blog, you can join the Time & Space Community right here.

Thanks for reading this year. As always feel free to write a comment in the space below. There are a few ways you can comment - if you choose anonymous, it is always appreciated when you put your name next to what you say. Have a grouse 2014.

The Tram Ride Home

From the day this story is posted consider how time has moved since these two events.

It is 42 days since Adam Goodes was called an ‘ape’ at the MCG by a 13-year-old girl.

It is 44 days since Private Lee Rigby was hacked to death in Woolwich in the UK.

If you read this blog in Australia, the Adam Goodes story preoccupied the nation for about a week. With regard to the Woolwich story, it doesn’t matter where in the world you read this blog... you would have heard news about the murder of Lee Rigby.

Do you ever feel naive when the media circus, pulls out the tent pegs, packs up and heads away in search of the next story? I do. The fervent discussion on talkback radio, the collective introspection that goes with big news, evaporates as quickly as the storm brews up.

What do we learn?

What enables us to be different the next time?

I reckon it is the moments of chance learning we get that don’t make world news.

So, 41 days ago the Adam Goodes and Lee Rigby events had happened. They were unrelated, yet both race related. They were curdling in my mind as this 'chance learning' happened on the 112 tram...

My daughter Amber and I have been going to the footy for years. Her younger brother has come along with us most of that time but on this Saturday night, it was just me and her. Just like when she was little. Our team Essendon had won. We had beaten the Tigers in the big Dreamtime match at the MCG.

We walked through Fitzroy Gardens to get to our tram stop. We talked along the path. Both of us agreed that there was something unusual in the atmosphere that night. The crowd of over 80000 people had been noticeably quiet. The Dreamtime game is meant to be a celebration of the contribution of indigenous players to Aussie Rules. But something sad had happened at that ground on the previous night. Something that didn’t fit the script. That was the night Adam Goodes, an aboriginal champion of the game, had been racially vilified during the final stages of the Collingwood-Sydney game. Amber and I both wondered if that rupture, on the same ground, had placed our crowd into that subdued, reflective state.

That week, I had been working flat stick and only caught snippets of the brutal murder of a British soldier, in the broad daylight in a London high street. Having only snippets suited me, in a way, because this attack felt new. It was disturbing and hard to let in. The Lee Rigby story also brought up a familiar sense of anxiety, uncertainty. It is irrational and a bit embarrassing to say but I felt afraid. I remember feeling the same way after September 11.

We got to tram stop near St Vincent’s Hospital. Well, when Amber was six it was a tram stop. These days it’s called a Super Stop. That distinction is made because we had to top up our Myki cards. That meant I had to open my wallet. It was getting late so I scanned the characters waiting at the super stop.

There were two aboriginal women who walked up to the stop and past us. One of the ladies had no shoes. They were pretty tipsy and happy. A sad scene but their jovial, boisterous ways made me smile. There was a familiarity that didn’t feel threatening... I had seen this before.

A man was sitting right near the Myki machine... he had darkish skin too but I was pretty sure he wasn’t aboriginal. He had a vacant expression on his face. He was looking forward and not giving even any fleeting eye contact. I felt uncomfortable as I started to put my credit cards on the Myki machine to top up my card.

I’m placing myself here at your judgement but a friend of mine says that if we write, we have to be prepared to share something that we don’t like in ourselves... something from the shadows, something that might even disgust us about ourselves. This reads pretty heavy I know but put simply, I was frightened of this man. I wondered if he might be muslim. Specifically, an extreme Islamist.

Here are my irrational thought processes, my inner dialogue...

... that soldier died this week because he was a soldier. I’m not a soldier, I’ll be OK. This guy looks like he might be a Muslim. Maybe the next random attack is going to be on a random westerner. Hey that could be me. Bill don’t be an idiot. You know most muslims are not extremists. He’s not going to attack you. But then again, you never know...

So, Amber and I (and my irrational thoughts) got on the tram... with this man. We found two seats in a booth with a couple who had come from the city. The man I was frightened of took his seat a couple of booths away taking one of four seats on his own. The aboriginal ladies lit up the tram with laughter and got off two stops later.

Next our attention turned to some young blokes who also had had a few drinks. They weren’t full hipsters but tertiary students with a lot of young fella confidence and bits of facial hair... they enjoyed the mix between their intellectuality and their ripe language. They were making outlandish, bravado fuelled remarks about the young women they knew... very loudly. Their demeanour was so overconfident and so loud and so oblivious to the rest of the passengers that they were actually quite amusing. The other two people in our booth, a man and a woman were smirking. These lads were very happy for themselves. If on the other hand, my paranoid profiling of the man sitting on his own was indeed correct and he was an extreme Islamist, then these young blokes had done nothing to argue a case in support of the modesty and decorum of the infidels! They were pretty crass. In a couple more stops they were off, congratulating each other as to how funny each of them really were. This was such a typical Friday night tram ride home along Brunswick Street... a classic mix of footy crowd along with others coming back from the restaurants and pubs.

Two stops later, a lady was giving a warm hug at the stop to two friends she had dined with. Well dressed, middle aged, Caucasian and attractive looking... she got on the tram, waved and blew a few extra kisses to her friends. Another tipsy person was with us. The tram took off with one of those jolts that could throw you off balance if you were fully sober. The lady was flung in a pirouette... she did a full 180 degree turn, flung out her hand, grabbed a rail, swung again and fell, into the lap of the man I was afraid of.

“Oh, how are you?” said the well dressed, tipsy lady.

She remained on the man’s lap longer than she should have.

The man spoke in a gentle voice, “I am fine thanks, a little tired actually.”

Somehow he managed to assist the lady off his lap. She slid and slotted into the space next to him. There was room for her to create some space, move and take the seat opposite but she sat snuggled right in, in a flirty fashion. The lady looked around the tram and saw a few footy scarves adorning some of the passengers.

She asked the man, “Have you been to the footy?”

“No I have been working tonight in the city,” he replied, “I did see the score at about half time.” The man’s accent was hard to place... middle eastern maybe? Maybe not. His voice sounded kind. My fears was dissipating and being replaced by a feeling best described as foolishness.

“Oh, who was playing?” the lady asked.

“I know Richmond was one team, I go for Richmond but I think we might have been losing.” Wow. I thought. This extremist guy goes for the Tigers.

“I go for the magpies... that was bad what happened to Adam Goodes last night – are you aboriginal?” the lady asked very forwardly.

“No, I am from Afghanistan,” said the man.

“Oh, are you a muslim?” asked the lady.

The ladies questions raised a few eyebrows again. The people in our four seat booth – the young couple, Amber and I, didn’t say anything with our words but our glances at each other said, “this has been an interesting tram ride!”

The man was very patient. He answered every question the lady asked him.

We were witness to a fascinating conversation. The gentle way the man’s intuition summed up that the lady was tipsy, and meant no harm, gave her permission in turn to take the conversation deeper and deeper.

We heard her talk about a documentary she had seen that week on TV. She connected it with the murder of the soldier in London – the program was about Islamic fundamentalism.

As she spoke, you detected that the lady was qualifying as she heard more of the man’s story, “Of course fundamentalism is the same in all religions... it has tragic effects whether it is Christian fundamentalism or any other religion, not just Islamic extremism.”

“That’s right" said the man. "I am a muslim but those men in London don’t represent me. Their behaviour is against Islam... all of the big religions ask us not to hurt another human. In fact, even as a muslim man, I have been affected first hand by Islamic fundamentalism...”

And so his story was told and the lady listened. Amber and I and the couple and everyone around couldn’t help but eavesdrop. For the second time that night, the place we were in went unusually quiet...

We heard how his particular tribe in Afghanistan had been a happy group of people. He remembered untroubled times when with his tribe, there was singing, dancing and regular celebrating. Then the Taliban came. They took some of his friends, and then his brother-in-law. They learnt that all of them were killed.

When he was a teenager he came to Australia. Because of the danger... because he is now ‘Australia’s responsibility’, as he put it, he can’t go back to Afghanistan. The only way he can see his family is if they come to the border and cross into Pakistan. He had managed to do that a couple of times, we think we heard him share with the lady.

The couple got off the tram and it wound around into Miller Street.

The man kept talking and shared that eventually he wants to bring his mother and family to Australia.

Amber distinctly heard him say, “but that is a dream for the future.”

The tram got to the Gilbert Road turn and the lady said, “This is my stop, I need to get off.” She sounded more quiet now.

“Thank you” she said.

“It was wonderful to talk with you. Nice to meet you.” A simple statement of gratitude by the man.

Two stops later it was Amber and my turn to get off. We walked down the side street to our home in West Preston where we have lived in peace for all of her life.

“You just never know what you’re going to get on that 112 tram, do you dad?” Amber remarked.

“Very true Amber,” I replied.

And quietly I thought back with some embarrassment to the way I had painted the man as a potential threat. I didn’t feel frightened any more. I had heard his story.

I felt grateful to have heard the man’s gentleness. I think it affected everyone within earshot of him on that tram ride home.

All I can say is that I hope his dream comes true.





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98 Anzac Days

Arch walks us out to the car. We stand on the footpath outside his Lindisfarne home and look out over the Derwent River and the Tasman Bridge. For a few minutes we chat about the view. Arch is very understated. He says something about how you can get a good look at the water from a lot of angles in Hobart.

The other person in the picture is my son, Jack. Whenever he features in one of these stories, I make sure to ask what he remembers. He remembered this simple scene.

I asked him, “Why did you remember that part?”

“Dad, because he walked us out to the car,” Jack recalled, “and Dad, do you remember? That driveway was steep and how old was Archie then? It was the time of the World Cup in 2006, I was nearly ten, Archie was like, 91?”

Parts of my memory that are smudged, Jack remembers and restores them like an old painting. He brought back into the clear, Archie’s old world courtesy. He saw out his guests – simple kindness. Paul Kelly once wrote in his song about Don Bradman, let the part tell the whole.

How did we get to visit Arch and his wife, Helen? They are the parents of someone who I’m fortunate to call a friend. I learnt that day that the family call him ‘Mart’. Readers of The Age would know him as, senior writer and author, Martin Flanagan. I had always felt buoyed by his stories. He makes images and sounds with his written words. I feel like his words, speak for me, only far more eloquently. We met in 1998 at a conference where Martin was the last speaker. I had plucked up the courage to go up and say ‘thanks for your writing’. He responded with a warm ‘thanks for that’ back and, with a smile in his eye. I recognised that same characteristic in his dad’s eyes when he opened the door to welcome me and my son, on that day in June, 2006. In the hallway I recall there were stacks of Age newspapers piled high, mementoes of Martin’s work.

Yesterday I went out to my shed where I have a filing cabinet full of stuff like the notes I have kept from that education conference. I found a page of quotes and reflections I’d scribbled from the talk Martin gave. On that day I learnt that his dad was a veteran of what is known by the soldiers as ‘The Line’, the infamous Thai-Burma Railway that was built by allied Prisoners of War in the Second World War. Martin wrote that ‘it is said that one man died for every sleeper that was laid’. In barbaric conditions, hungry, and bare footed, the POW’s worked eighteen hour days to break open enough of a cutting to put the railway line through. Their leader was Colonel Edward ‘Weary’ Dunlop. With Weary, that often overused description, 'legend' remains undiluted by his acts of leadership, courage and service to his men who worked on 'The Line'. 

In my notes, a direct quotation from Martin is there...

“I didn’t know my father’s totems.”

And below it are the words, “you’ve got to tell me dad”.

In 2005 some of that ‘telling’ happened as father and son, Arch and Martin, published The Line – a man’s experience; a son’s quest to understand. I commend it to you. Arch does not waste a word.

So back to how we came to be visiting Arch and Helen? The young bloke and I were in Hobart. I rang Martin in Melbourne to let him know I was in Tassie, his country. I had recently read The Line. Martin suggested that if I wanted, he could set up a chance for me to go and visit his mum and dad.

“Are you sure Marty?” I asked.

“No worries Billy, they are always having visitors over and they love it.”

So in Jack and me went. Arch ushered Jack straight to the lounge room and turned on the telly for him and I was taken to the kitchen table where scones and cups of tea were being produced in quantity by Helen. We talked footy and ordinary things. Martin’s sister Jo, popped over with her daughter. I remember the care that Arch and Helen’s grand-daughter had for them. I remember too that I wanted to bring the young bloke into the kitchen. Arch had thought he mightn’t have wanted to sit and chat but of course, he was welcome. Jack loves to this day, being around older generations.

More scones and cups of tea were consumed and then it was time to go.

There was one tangible memory Martin mentioned in the book. His dad had crafted a personal tribute and I asked Arch if I could see it.

Arch took me to the hallway and there was the simple tribute mounted on the wall. Martin described how it came to be there in The Line.

Weary had a small grey splinter of Hintock rock on his desk in his rooms... When he died it was given to me. I gave it to dad who made a small monument with it. On one side of the rock is a photograph of Weary... Then written in a felt pen like slashes in the bare unvarnished wood are the names of the men he knew who died up there... On the bottom of the plain bit of board are the simple words are ‘Lest I Forget.’

I remember I wanted my boy to see the little monument that Arch had made for his mates who never came back from the Hellfire Pass.

Jack remembers that Arch walked us out to the car.

In my notes, I have written...

His (Martin’s) Father – All that mattered was humanity.

This story is posted on ANZAC Day. Arch was born in 1914... so he was a six month old baby when Australian and New Zealand soldiers landed at Gallipoli. On Tuesday, Arch died two days before the 98th anniversary of ANZAC.

It was privilege to meet him.




As always, feel free to write your responses in the space below.

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And here is Martin's article about The Line that was published in The Age (September 4, 2005).

A Father’s Gift

Arthur is putting in the last couple of rows of chairs for a parent information night.

I like to get to my presentations early and often, I bump into someone like Arthur, the maintenance man at a boys’ school where I run the Time & Space programs. I wander in with 216 sheets of paper under my arm.

“What can I do for you mate?” asks Arthur.

Arthur has got that friendly mix – he greets this new person whilst he is also busy, doing his job (and proudly, I might add).

“I’m here to talk with the parents tonight.” I explain. “My name’s Bill, by the way.”

“No worries, I’m Arthur, good to meet you Bill. So what’s written on those papers?” he asks.

I reply, “I’ve just run a session with the whole Year 9 level and each boy was challenged to write to their dad (or mentor) a ‘thankyou’ note and then to give it to him when they next see him.”

Arthur has finished now and the room looks great. He’s curious and asks another question.

“Do you reckon that what the kids write, sticks? Or do they just think it in the session and then forget what they’ve written later?”

“I reckon that the kids who actually hand the note over are saying something. You know, we encourage them to hand the note to their dad... but we don’t actually make them do it.”

“Yeah – I just wonder,” muses Arthur, “I reckon some kids have got too much these days. My kids sometimes were disappointed when they saw their friends being given things... because I told them I’d never buy them a car. That’s something they’d have to earn.”

Arthur is starting to tell his remarkable story and in that sharing what he values.

He continues, “there are some things, I’m only too happy to give them. I’m past 65 now and should be retired. My youngest is 16, still in school and looks like she’ll being going through Uni. I might be working for a while yet.”

“How many kids Arthur?” I ask.

“Three... the oldest boy went here. He’s 27. The middle one’s – she’s 23, and the little one.”

“How have they gone?”

“They’ve done good,” a proud half-smile curls from the corner of Arthur’s mouth, “the oldest one has a double degree in Management and Engineering. The middle one has a Masters in Dietetics.” He goes on to say, “I’ve told them - I’ll look after their education. I want them to have what I never got.”

Arthur left school at 13. He explains to me that education is not the only thing he’s missed out on.

“As soon as I was born, my dad took off. I never met him. So I’ve had no role-model to work off,” Arthur explains. “Until I was 7 or 8 I lived in an orphanage in Bendigo because my mum couldn’t cope with me and my older brother on her own. Then later we moved back to live with her in St. Kilda where, it was pretty rough and ready and I kind of...”, Arthur pauses for a moment and looks at me, “well you kinda learnt to protect yerself, you know what I mean?”

In the midst of this extraordinary conversation, a couple of times I hear Arthur say things about himself as a person and specifically, himself as a dad like, “look I’m not perfect” and “I’m no angel.”

It is pleasing to let him know that a big theme in this Time & Space work is to reassure mums and dads that no parent is perfect,

“I reckon it’s all about ‘turning up’ Arthur and supporting our kids... you have done that in spades and, you’ve come from a lot further back than most. You know Arthur, I reckon if your kids had the chance to do the ‘thankyou’ activity the boys did today, you would have heard how grateful they are for your gift of education.”

“They’ve done that, in not so many words,” Arthur replies, “them doing well is thanks enough for me.”

As he speaks I am reminded of the pivotal message that Steve Biddulph penned in his best-seller, Manhood – an action plan for changing men’s lives.

Every father, however much he puts on a critical or indifferent exterior, will spend his life waiting at some deep level to know that his (children) love him and respect him. Make sure you absorb this point. He will spend his life waiting.

As I’m remembering that, Arthur is still thinking about my question about his kids ‘saying thanks’ and a special recent memory has sparked.

“There was this one time last year with the youngest one, she’s a bewdy... I reckon she’s got the best of me as a dad. You know, you sometimes work it out a bit better when they come around for the third time...”

I nod. I reckon he’s right.

“My brother-in-law turned 70. He’s up in Queensland. I couldn’t go up for the party but the young one travelled up with my wife” there’s a full smile on Arthur’s face now... “I went to ring my brother-in-law up to say ‘happy birthday’, his daughter was going to get him and I hear my young one in the background, say ‘I want to talk to dad’, and she jumped on the phone...”

Arthur’s voice quavers a bit now... and as he continues, his eyes well up.

“She just got on the phone, and straight away said, ‘I miss you dad!’”

He looks me straight in the eye saying, “That really got me.”

Arthur never knew his dad. If your dad is around this Father’s day, let him know, with your words, what you are thankful to him about. It will mean a bit more than the traditional pairs of socks and jocks!

Arthur’s young daughter’s spontaneous message on the phone showed that you don’t have to do much, to make even a lifetime’s effort, like her dad Arthur trying to be the best dad he can be, seem all worthwhile.

To all the dads reading this, Happy Fathers Day.
Bill Jennings
www.time-space.com.au

IWD 2012- a gift to share

A 'choose you own adventure' post today. Very interactive - click on the click-able bits of the post as you wish.

Here is a gift for you for International Women's Day (the poem at the start is only 3 or 4 minutes). If you are a bloke reading this - pass this on to a great woman in your life.

On first seeing this... it took my breath away. In fact the second woman on the incomplete list below received the hard cover copy of this poem as a gift when she graduated from high school last year. It was given to her by me and the first named woman on the list...

This is an an incomplete list (sorry if I have missed you) that honours: the brilliant women in this blogger's immediate world; women I am lucky to call friend; women who inspire; women who have participated in a Time & Space Mother-Son or Mother-Daughter program (and wrote their name on the evaluation sheet) and, some women I haven't actually met but whose work and ideas I respect.

And this is an incomplete list of course because, as always, you are welcome to join in the discussion in the REPLY box below... feel free to add your honourable mentions and tell us a bit about the great women in your life.

So here goes (in no particular order, except for the first one) ...

Lisa J (aka The Mighty Lisa)... best friend and soul-mate,

Amber J - A young woman with great taste in Indie music (Dan Mangan is a recent addition to this blogger's iTunes account thanks to Amber J). There is a wonderful combination of toughness and gentleness in Amber. The other day I saw her consuming her course reading notes before she actually had her first class on her first day at university. I admire Amber's courage, kindness and zest for life. Me and the Mighty Lisa's first-born.

Joan J - the lady who listened to how my day was at school for thousands of afternoons in the seventies and eighties. She does brilliant work these days as a spiritual director, and granny, amongst many other roles that include being my mum.

Clare McG - super nursing director and mum who is hosting an exchange student, Lara, from Germany this year because well, she thought it would be a great experience for her pre-school and primary school kids. That is generous. Clare is my favourite sister.

Sisters-in-law, Leah, Rita and Nicole (well Nic will officially be my S-I-L by about 4.30pm this coming Saturday), Ann (my sage mum-in-law from Chester, UK) and all of the aunties and cousins (& cousin Col and Aunty Ros from Gruyere) over there. Special mention also to my wonderful nieces... Lucia, Sasha, Ruth and Tierney - young women now or some time soon.

Hilda Jennings, my Nana (RIP) and Grandma (RIP) - my brother Greg (the one who is getting married this weekend) wrote a beautiful blogpost that captures what Grandma meant to us all.

My NSAA friends and colleagues inspiring women doing good work - De, Tania (is writing a blog from a Mum's perspective called 'Surviving Year 12') Taruni, Phillipa, Gillian, Ailsa, Yvonne, Helen Mac, Melina and The Mighty Farrug' (inspiration). Former school teaching car pooling buddies Lizzie and the Harvenator and also Cate, the hardest working person I know, and wise mentor to boot.

Then of course there are all the locals - Robyn, Rosie, Caroline, Clare, Sandra, Pauline, Heidi, Miki, Leeanne, 'LGSpencer', Marnstorming and Moi (have a browse around Moira's CD, One Step Forward - there are songs here so pertinent to this day... she won an award at Port Fairy for Why Not Let a Mother and my favourite Moi song is Until You're Old, a poignant tribute to her mum).

Valerie, Kalindi (hey kids look for the carefully placed affirmation cards from your teacher on your 'vision posters', displayed in your extraordinarily 'finessed' classroom), Christine, Bonnie, Haidee and Sue who helped at the Silkwood School Mother-Son night and Bella, Oceana and Jess who were outstanding panelists at the Father-Daughter night.

Celia Lashlie - Champion delighter in the good news there is to tell about boys. Celia's other strong passion is in support of incarcerated women. One of the best speakers I have ever heard.

Another Celia, Nardis and Julie (love your Compassionate Flow blog Jules) - all have reconnected in recent times. It has been great to be back in touch.

Aunty Joy Murphy-Wandin - a lady who has worked tirelessly, as a bridge between indigenous and non-indigenous Australia. Probably has done more 'welcome to country' ceremonies than anyone. Massive Saints fan.

Sarah Kay - you saw her above in the clip. I love the story about the girl in the hoodie.

Mem Fox - thanks to you and Julie Vivas for Wilfred Gordon McDonald Partidge, my favourite all time picture book.

Leslie Cannold and Cecily (@happychatter) - last year I watched Leslie and Cecily engage in a Twitter debate on the Chaplaincy Funding issue. Different points of view - treated each other with respect. With no wish to be patronising, not a bad lesson in how to have an argument for us fellas.

A thought too for all women in the midst of a health battle on this IWD. Jacinta, we hold you in our heart every day.

And penultimately... here's a few faves from the Twitterverse @rosaliquidink , @peace_ , @SamJaneLane and @alihilltweet

Finally, I salute all the mums and mentors who have turned up at a Time & Space Mother-Son or Mother-Daughter session and if you put your name on an evaluation sheet in the last few years, you should find it here...

Adrianne, Alanah, Alex, Alexandra, Alicia, Alison, Alison, Alison, Alison, Amanda, Amanda, Amanda, Amanda, Amanda, Amanda, Amanda, Amanda, Amanda, Andrea, Andrea, Andrea, Ange, Angela, Angela, Angela, Angelina, Anita, Anita, Anita, Anita, Anita, Anita, Ann, Ann, Anna, Anna, Anna, Anna, Anna, Anna, Anna, Anna, Anne, Anne, Anne, Anne, Anne, Anne, Anne, Anne, Anne, Annette, Annette, Annette, Anni, Annie, Annie, Antoinette, Barbara, Beatrice, Belinda, Belinda, Belinda, Bernadette, Bernadette, Breeda, Bridget, Bronwyn, Bronwyn, Byron, Carina, Carmel, Carmel, Carmel, Carmel, Carol, Carol, Caroline, Caroline, Caroline , Carolynne, Cate, Catherine, Catherine, Catherine, Catherine, Catherine, Cathy, Cathy, Cathy, Caz, Cecelia, Celeste, Celia, Cherie, Cheryl, Chris, Christine, Christine, Christine, Cindy, Cindy, Cindy, Claire, Claire, Claire, Clare, Clare, Claudia, Collette, Connie, Cristina, Dani, Daniel, Daniel, Daniella, Deb, Debbi, Debbie, Debbie, Deborah, Delia, Delwyn, Denise, Denise, Diane, Diane, Dianne, Dianne, Dianne, Dina, Dolores, Donna, Donna, Donna, Edwina, Eileen, Elaine, Elizabeth, Elizabeth, Elle, Elsie, Emily, Fali, Fanny, Felicia, Felicity, Fiona, Fiona, Fionna, Frances, Francesca, Frankie, Fulvia, G, Gabrielle, Gabrielle, Gabrielle, Gabrielle, Gen, George, Georgie, Geraldine, Geraldine, Gill, Gill, Gillian, Gina, Giulietta, Grace, Grace, Harshini, Hazel, Heidi, Helen, Helen, Helen, Helen, Helen, Helen, Helen, Helena, Huyen, Ida, Ingrid, Ivy, J, J, Jacinta, Jackie, Jacqui, Jacqui, Jacqui, Jacqui, Jai, Jane, Jane, Jane, Jane, Jane, Jane, Janet, Janine, Janine, Janna, Jaqueline, Jayne, Jeannine, Jen, Jen, Jennie, Jennifer, Jennifer, Jennifer, Jennifer, Jenny, Jenny, Jenny, Jenny, Jenny, Jill, Jo, Jo (regular correspondent on this blog and thanks for the prompt last year Jo - hey Bill, blog more!), Jo, Joanna, Joanne, Joanne, Joanne, Jodie, Jodie, Jody, Jose, Josh, Josie, Joy, Joyce, Judy, Julie, Julie, Julie, Julie, Julie, Julie, Julie, Julienne, June, Justine, Karen, Karen, Karen, Karen, Karen, Karen, Karen, Karine, Karmen, Kate, Kate, Kate, Kate, Kate, Kate, Kate, Kate, Kath, Kath, Kath, Kath, Kathryn, Kathryn, Kathy, Kathy, Kathy, Kathy, Kathy, Kathy, Kathy, Kathy, Kathy , Katie, Katrina, Katrina, Kelli, Kelly, Kelly, Kerri, Kerri, Kerrie, Kerrilyn, Kerry, Kerry, Kerry, Kim, Kim, Kim, Kim Ian, Kirsty, Kris, Kylie, Kylie, Kylie, Lauren, Leah, Leane, Leanne, Leanne, Leanne, Leanne , Leigh, Leonie, Leonie, Leonie, Liljana, Lillian, Lina, Linda, Linda, Linda, Linda, Linda, Linda, Lindy, Lindy, Lisa, Lisa, Lisa, Lisa, Lisa, Lisa, Lisa, Lisa, Lisa, Lisa, Livia, Liz, Liz, Liz, Liz, Loretta, Loretta, Lori, Lou, Louisa, Louise, Lyn, Lynda, Lynette, Lynne, M, M.A., Madeline, Mandi, Mandy, Mandy, Mara, Mara, Maree, Maree, Maree, Maree, Maree, Margaret, Margaret , Margie, Margot, Maria, Maria, Maria, Marianne, Marianne, Marie, Marie, Marina, Marion, Marlies, Marly, Martine, Mary, Mary, Mary, Mary, Mary, Mary, Mary Rose, Maura, Meg, Meg, Megan, Megan, Megan, Melanie, Melissa, Melissa, Melissa, Mich, Michele, Michele, Michell, Michelle, Michelle, Michelle, Michelle, Michelle, Michelle, Michelle, Michelle, Michelle, Michelle, Michelle, Michelle, Miriam, Molly, Monica, Monica, Monique, Nadia, Naomi, Naomi, Narelle, Nat, Natalie, Natalie, Natasha, Natasha, Nicole, Nicole, Nicole, Nicole, Nicole, Nicole, Nicole, Nicole, Nicole, Ornella, Pam, Pam, Pam, Pamela, Pamela, Pati, Patricia, Paula, Pauline, Pauline, Pauline , Pearlyn, Penny, Peta, Peta, Peta, Pina, Pina, Polly, Prue, Prue, Prue , Rachel, Rachelle, Rae, Rebecca, Rhonda, Rina, Rita, Robbie, Robyn, Robyn, Romaine, Roni, Rose, Rose, Rose, Rosemary, Ruth, Ruth, S., Sabine, Sally, Sally, Sally-Ann, Sam, Sam, Sandra, Sandra, Sandra, Sandra, Sandra, Sandra, Sandy, Sara, Sarah, Sarah, Sarah, Seb, Seema, Sephanie, Shane, Sharen, Sharon, Sharon, Sharon, Sharon, Sharon, Sharon, Sharon, Sharon, Sharon, Sharron, Shenna, Sherri, Sheryl, Shikha, Sibi, Siew Lin, Silvia, Sim, Simone, Simone, Simone, Siobhan, Siobhan, Sonia, Sonya, Sonya, Sonya, Sophia, Sue, Sue, Sue, Sue, Sue, Sue-Ellen, Surekha, Susan, Susan, Susie, Susie, Suzanne, Suzette, Sylvia, Talei, Tammy, Tammy, Tammy, Tania, Tania, Tania, Tania, Tanid, Tanya, Teresa, Teresa, Teresa, Teresa, Terri, Theresa, Theresa, Therese, Therese, Therese, Tiffany, Tina, Tina, Tina, Toni, Toni, Tonia, Tracey, Tracey, Tracey, Tracey, Tracey, Tricia, Trish, Trish, Trish, Trudy, Tuyet, Vanda, Veronic, Veronica, Vicki, Vilma, Vita, Wendy, Wendy, Wendy, Wendy, Wendy, Wendy, Younga.

The usual custom for this blog is that I have got permission in advance from you if your name appears in it. As you can see, this is a different post today. I hope this is OK.

Thanks for reading and Happy International Women's Day (well it's evening now).

Bill Jennings
http://www.time-space.com.au/


PS - the first two women mentioned on the honours list are enjoying a celebratory glass of reasonably priced merlot on the couch as this post is published.

An Unexpected Conversation

"Mind if I play with you guys?"

"No worries," I say, shaking hands with the man in the sunglasses, "My name's Bill and this is my son Jack."

"I'm Andrew.”

We are on the first tee of a brilliant little nine-hole course nestled into the foreshore of Apollo Bay, our annual summer holiday spot. One of the beaut’ things about golf... total strangers can walk up and ask 'can I join up with you?' I like it that my 15-year-old has played the game enough to know that this is part of the etiquette.

So we all hit off and so does our conversation – no small talk on the first hole!

"What do you do for a crust Bill?"

I explain the Time & Space programs.

"Right - have you come across any situations where kids have suicided?"

I reply, "Oh, the parent-child programs aren't necessarily for kids who are in trouble. It is for any young person really and their parents."

Andrew explains, "It's just that the boy who was captain of our primary school, a few years ago... just took his life. Real shock to our staff."

"That's awful," I say, fairly amazed at how deep the topic of conversation is for a couple of blokes who have just met... "So you're a teacher Andrew?"

"Yep. Love it - the classroom for the first 18 years. PE specialist for the last twelve."

Andrew is a really good fella... I can tell.

"Gee Andrew - any reason, the boy... why he took his life?" I ask.

"No clue whatsoever," Andrew answers, "it is a complete mystery. We were reeling as a staff at the end of the year when it happened. Such a great kid."

I'm conscious as we talk, my son is quietly taking all of this in.

We tee off on the second.

"Have you got kids Andrew?" I ask.

"Daughter’s the oldest and two sons... 23, 22 and 19 years old," Andrew then pauses... "Yep, they're all doing their thing." There’s a satisfied tone indicating they’re all going well.

Third hole and Andrew asks Jack if he plays sport.

"Yeah soccer," offers the young bloke, "I'm a goalkeeper."

There was genuine interest on Andrew’s part.

We are covering a breadth of topics on every hole. Andrew explains about his oldest two who were heading overseas together. He was really proud of their get up and go.

"They’re not really sure what they want to do career-wise but they've worked hard, saved to make this trip happen."

We talked and enjoyed our golf. We all had a few good hits. Andrew actually chipped in for birdie on the Eighth.

As Jack chipped to the green, I thought back to what Andrew said before… "I liked how you said that all your kids are each doing their thing."

"Yeah, great kids. The youngest one has had his challenges. My nineteen-year-old Brett," Andrew pauses, takes off his sunglasses, "is gay."

Even though we'd only known each other for eight holes of golf, the chats we’d had till then seemed to allow the space for such a personal detail to be shared. What a privilege to be trusted.

"Wow... when did you find out?" I ask.

"He came out when he was sixteen," answered Andrew, "I'll admit it, I cried for about 24 hours but came good after that. The way I see it, my son showed great courage."

Jack has putted, joins us and he picks up the thread of Andrew's story.

Andrew continued, "I asked my son, I said, 'I've only got one question... did you become gay or were you born gay?"

"He told me 'I always thought I was gay dad.'"

It's clear that Andrew admired and supported his son. He learnt that a lot of dads 'go crook' and even worse, sometimes physically abuse their sons if they come out... kick them out of home and never want to see them again.

We are on the last tee now and Andrew remarks, "How do those dads come back from that?" he is perplexed as he says, "I mean someone you love has just come out... that is showing the utmost courage. I said to Brett, who’s highly respected by his peers, 'mate you've just shown the way and made stuff so much easier for other kids.’"

Jack then pipes up... "Yeah, one of the kids at my school came out... on You Tube* actually... you know what was really good about it? No-one gave him any crap."

"I'm pleased to hear it," said Andrew.

We finished our round, shook hands and said goodbye. The three of us had had a pretty extraordinary conversation.

Later in the day, Jack remarked, "Dad, that Andrew, he’s a good bloke."

I agreed.

Thanks for reading and as always, you are welcome to share your responses, your stories in the space below (even if you don't have a Google account, you can log on as anonymous but it would be great if you wrote your name).

http://www.time-space.com.au/

* I looked up the clip when writing this article and discovered it was part of a global campaign by many people called ‘It Gets Better’. It includes this video contribution from US President Barack Obama.





And importantly if for any reason you need to talk to someone – you can call…
Lifeline: 13 11 14 Kids Helpline (for young people aged 5 to 25 years): 1800 551 800 Mensline Australia: 1300 789 978 SANE Helpline - mental illness, support and referral: 1800 18 SANE (7263) Reach Out: http://www.reachout.com/

Father Bob & the 'YB' have Entered the Building

"So... do you want me to come in with you?" I ask.

The young bloke (aka YB), our #2 child, and #1 son, and I sit this morning in the car park of his new senior high school. He is starting in Year 10 today.

There is a typical pause. It could be his own considered thinking which has always been fairly deliberate or the combination of 15 year-old vagueness mixed with the general vague state he has inherited from his dad.

There is still more think time. Then...

"Nah, I'll be right."

More silence and we sit there looking at the school building.

"So what happens now... I just go to Reception?", YB asks.

"Yeah, I think there will be people there waiting for you like they did on your orientation day, giving out timetables and showing you where to put your stuff."

"OK, see ya dad." A considered handshake is exchanged. I let him know that I am proud to be his dad and he waves without looking back as he takes a heavy, first-day-bag into his new school. The earliest year level at this senior high is his year, so he is starting on an even footing with all the other kids. I sit here wondering how he is going. A lot of people are having first days this week...

Father Bob Maguire had his first full day at his new address yesterday after 38 years at his old one. For the benefit of those in Australia who live in a media black-out, and readers overseas, here is what happened at his last Sunday morning mass as Parish Priest at St Peter and St Paul's in South Melbourne this past weekend.



Father Bob at 77, 'orthodox but unconventional' as he likes to describe himself, has moved on from his parish... the base from which he carried out many services, not just as a traditional parish priest but as the leader of an army of volunteers who serve people who have fallen on hard times. The disenfranchised, the homeless, the prostitutes, the mentally ill, the elderly and disadvantaged young people of South Melbourne, Port Melbourne and St Kilda, rely on the practical outreach of The Father Bob Maguire Foundation. Many of you will know that the controversy of his move, stems from the wish that he did not want to leave his home, his base from which he was able to exercise his ministry. Bob's parish gave him identity. Being a parish priest enabled him to have some handle, a good kind of authority that auspiced his public role and outreach.

Where the hypocrisy of attention by the hierarchy, on Bob's forced retirement, has been widely reported, I have watched from a perspective of concerned comrade, with an awareness that for Bob, he was being symbolically and perhaps psychologically orphaned by his current day 'family', the institutional church - something that had happened to him as a kid. F-Bob's (as this comrade calls him) dad and mum passed away when he was 12 and 13. He fended forward with the help of his older brother and friends and that tough, unconventional perspective must have been formed in that adversity. An endearing resilience that has shown in the last couple of years may well have been borne in those days when a young teenager had to use his wits to make his way in the world, without the security of even one parent being around.

Change is tough and in the lead up to the young bloke's first day at a new school, there's been a bit of moodiness. Unlike Father Bob, he chose to move to a new place. We asked him to have a think about what was the right place for him. He liked his old school (and so did his mum and me) but he felt, on balance the new place offers a number of good opportunities. That doesn't mean the decision wasn’t tough. It doesn't mean his imperfect dad hasn't had a few flare ups as the young bloke has dealt with the decision to change in the last couple of months. We could be in the middle of a heated argument and then I'm struck by the notion - 'he's worried about the move'. Similarly, I heard Father Bob interviewed on the ABC Conversation Hour before Christmas. The anger, near bitterness, that was in his voice was palpable. It was raw and tough to listen to. Other friends' heard it and we shared similar reflections. That's the key though, people have responded and shown their care. Bob has rawly expressed his feelings, his 'truth' throughout, and on Sunday over 1000 people turned up and showed support. They are part of the big family that F-Bob’s unique perspective on life, has brought together. I reckon his own kindness, heart for the underdog, has come back at him in spades. Good people have fuelled his resilience to move on to the next chapter.

I'm mindful, as dad to my daughter and son... that they gain fuel for accepting change through life as people who love them, and care about what happens to them, wish them well as they take on the next challenge - some harder than others. We can't take away the challenges they face but we can turn up in their lives - especially at the important moments.

At his final mass on Sunday, the shift was palpable in Father Bob - he had accepted the change, and was moving on. The service had a bit of everything... Bob's irreverent humour, a beautiful song by war victim and refugee, Emmanuel Kelly - an inspiring young man, a Scottish bagpipe band that led Bob out after the final song 'Glory, Glory Hallelujah' that contains the words... 'the truth goes marching on'.

And what is that 'truth' for this story? Change, difficult shifts, will always happen to us. They will always happen to the people we care about. When they enter their new buildings like Father Bob and the young bloke have this week... that's when they need us to be there for them.

Who has been there for you in a moment of change? Who are you looking after right now? As always, feel free to write your own thoughts below. Thanks for reading.


Bill Jennings
www.time-space.com.au

The First Pill

If you don't come from Brisbane, how often do you look up the BOM website to get a weather forecast? For this blogger it is at least once a year and a comforting traditional prediction is there for today... showers and thundery rain. Huey has not disappointed. Mother Nature's roulette wheel is spun around this time of the year, every year on the first day of the Brisbane Test.

If you are not a cricket fan, please endure this indulgence (the point is expanded soon). This day has memories flooding back through 40+ years of trying to find a way to see or at least hear live, the first ball of the First Test match of the Australian cricket season. Today's first ball of the first day of the First Test (affectionately dubbed the first pill by cricket tragics) happens to coincide this year with the first official day of summer.

I've got memories down through the years of the long summer days watching a Test up at my grandparents' house where they had an orchard in the Yarra Valley. All of the cousins had their special time to stay at Grandma and Grandpa's place. Mine was the long school holidays for two weeks some time in December or January. Back then, cricket was on ABC TV and there was only a budget for one straight-on camera down the pitch. So you saw the batman face-on one over and then the next over was from behind the wicket, so you would see the bowler coming in and the batsman's back. The first day of a season was often when we were still in school. One year the first pill happened at recess and the radio broadcast was piped out onto our playground on the loud speaker. I think by lunchtime Australia was nearly all out and Rodney Hogg (a fast bowler, not a recognised batsman) was our top scorer with 36 runs. As a teacher for 20 or so years, if the timetable had me scheduled for class when the first ball was bowled, my kids would see me frantically enter the room with a coat hanger. Shoved into the back of the telly that coat hanger became a makeshift aerial and together we'd watch a grainy picture of another opening to the international cricket season.

So, thanks for hanging in there - my expanded point is? Well, here's some questions for you. Think of the patterns in your year. What are the things that punctuate your year, that when they happen, great memories burst open? Is it the Myer Christmas windows? Is it an annual holiday place that even when you say its name quietly to yourself, you are taken back there?

At the heart of this, is that intangible feeling of warmth and security. I don't take it for granted. I can see a little kid sitting on a wooden bench seat in the old Southern Stand at the MCG for the Ashes Boxing Day Test of 1974. I was really grown up - seven years old (and like, nearly eight) there next to my dad. I don't even have to close my eyes to transport back to that time. What memories do you have from your childhood days that make you feel warm? Dad took me to my first day at the cricket and a life time obsession with today was born, of wanting to see the first pill flung in anger for the long summer ahead.

You're a young person reading this? Can you guess what special things you do right now, every year, that will be the memories that make you smile when you are forty, fifty or ninety-seven years old?

People who layer our memory, with good experiences, are giving us a gift that may help us to feel secure for perhaps even, a lifetime. We can give back by doing that for our kids now and in the future. At 11am today, Melbourne time, guess what I'll be doing?

What are the memories that make you feel warm when those times and places come back around? Who made them happen for you? What are the funny little details you remember?

Feel free to share your own thoughts and memories in the space below.

Bill Jennings
http://www.time-space.com.au/

The Things We Can Control

It is now ten years and two months since September 11 2001. As a global community we felt helpless for a while. In the last post, I described a paralysis of fear that struck me. A distinct moment snapped me out of that feeling and I promised more details...

I wasn't directly affected by the terrorist attacks on the USA but I do recall feeling real fear. Irrational evaluations of risk became part of my decision making. My team, Essendon were playing off against Brisbane on the last day in September at the MCG. Should I take my kids to the AFL Grand Final? Will the terrorists strike there next? Images flashed through my mind, of jumbo jets ploughing into the Great Southern Stand.

Such thoughts were real to me... thoughts I felt a bit embarrassed about, so I was reluctant to share them. Since then, I've discovered that many others felt the same way. For a period of time, I reckon a huge proportion of humanity felt lonely in the midst of unspoken fear.

On the first day of fourth term, 2001, my daughter was in Grade 2, eight years old and loving life. Heidi, the school receptionist called me at work to say that Amber had had an accident during sport. She had been looking the other way, turned for a moment and as she turned back her forehead crashed, at running pace, into a thick, hard steel basketball pole.

"We've called the ambulance Bill... I think she's OK... how quickly can you get over here?"

It took a quarter of an hour to get to Amber's school, to only discover that the ambulance had just left. Not sure what the statute of limitations is on minor offences but I must confess to driving pretty quickly for another fifteen minutes on to the hospital. So fast that I actually caught up to the ambulance and arrived to see my daughter as the doors opened out. She was in a bad way and we learnt a new word that day Cephalohematoma. A huge swelling, like a big bag of fluid, had bulged out on Amber's forehead. It was scary. Those 30 minutes of driving were intensely frightening. On reflection the fear was because of the unknown.

A few minutes later in the emergency room, Amber said "I'm scared daddy, please hold my hand".


"Of course sweetheart". She gripped tight.

Amber was physically sick a few times as we waited for the specialist. The doctor finally arrived on a day when minutes felt like hours. He calmly said that things actually looked much worse than they really were. She was going to be groggy and nauseous for a day or two yet but so importantly, she was going to be OK. Ten years on, Amber is 18 and sitting her VCE exams.

There is still a little trophy bump on her forehead. When she asked me to hold her hand, I wasn't frightened about all the bad things that had happened in the world, any more.

There was a footy coach in that time who had a favourite saying that now has become sporting cliché... "we only worry about the things we can control". That was hard to do, post-September 11. Holding Amber's hand was something within my sphere of control... I could help her when she was frightened.

I often wonder now, when we are frightened in some way, if the best way out is borne in the effort to help another. All the best with your exams Amber. It is so special that you are able to do them.

Feel free to write your thoughts and responses in the space below.