Post-Modern Perspectives

Two thought provoking articles, published within the last week are worth bringing together for a comment from this blog.

In today's Age Sarah MacDonald mentions the popular show The Voice in passing reference to the reality that a lot more families now, are probably eating on the couch in front of the TV. The reason that is significant is that The Voice is the focus of the other article by Wendy Squires that appeared in the same paper this weekend past.

So, let's start with eating together at the table. Last night I presented, at what would be dinner time, nine things I know to be true at a presentation called How to Stay in Touch on the Adolescent Roller Coaster. I have always wanted to say "eat at the table together" in my presentations... but really, in practice, if your house is like mine, it is pretty difficult to achieve that on even one night of the week. MacDonald's article is liberating because I acutely feel that guilty should of eating at the table as a family more often than we do. The article is also confronting because she pulls no punches in asserting that "the family dinner is an archaic ritual that's almost dead and buried". I'm not sure I want that to be true (and, in fact she says that too later in her discussion). The reality is that most weeks we just don't make it to the dinner table... Lisa and Amber have their fitness classes, I could be off doing a Time & Space program and the young bloke has soccer training on Tuesdays and Thursdays. This Friday night, Lisa gets her weekly night of curling up on the couch with a book, as the remainder of our mob, traipse to the MCG to (hopefully) see the Bombers fix up Carlton.

When I got home from the presentation last night, there was no tea left (in an earlier version of this post I overlooked mentioning that Lisa sorted out a quick home made pizza! Oversight now corrected!) The young fella, who had gone to bed, had scoffed the last of the cannelloni. Lisa had been hoping there would be some left for her lunch at work today, let alone my dinner. My daughter's boyfriend was over. They were watching Game of Thrones (no spoilers - promise). I asked how everyone's night had been and what they had been up to.

Lisa explained that everyone was in the lounge room at the same time when The Voice was on.  Whilst I wasn't there for last night's episode, I could immediately picture the other four and what they probably were doing. We all talk over each other. We all shhhhooosh each other. We take on our roles, our commentating perspective. The young bloke likes to sit on the couch and kind of bag it... the over-the-topness of Seal. We laugh at how how Ricky keeps saying, consolingly, to every departing contestant that "you already have a career" - surely Ricky, the music industry is going to be pretty crowded if all of them make it! The Voice equals fun times for us as a family.

At a deeper level, Wendy Squires makes an excellent observation about The Voice as representative of another modern evolution... we are seeing more and more fellas, expressing their feelings. Gender studies have a name for this - expanded masculinity. What defined a boy or a man is definitely far less narrow than back in the day.

A final take is that my colleague Michael Grose talks about 'down-time' or 'mooch-time'. This is that slouching on the couch time. I reckon it pretty vital for families who are on the go at 21st Century pace.
Whilst we mightn't get to a shared meal at an actual table as often as we feel we should, there is value in making sure that we get enough along-side, hanging out time with each other where nothing much is happening.

So have a read. These are thought provoking commentaries.  Are you shocked that I have outed my mob as having dinner table deficit disorder? Do you have TV time where the heckling drowns out what is beaming in to your living room? What are the things that truly help your tribe to stay connected? What do you think about what  Sarah MacDonald and Wendy Squires have to say?

As always, feel free to join in the discussion in the comment box below (you can actually just select 'anonymous' if you don't have a Google Account and if you are comfortable, it is always nice to see your name next to your comment). 

If you want to get this blog regularly, you can join here... http://www.time-space.com.au/community.php


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Here is the Sarah MacDonald family dinner article.

Here is Wendy Squires' article about The Voice

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).

When a Dream is Unhindered

Late last century, a network of Melbourne boys’ schools were each asked to send a senior student, one of their finest, to an education conference. The organisers had dreamed up a heady topic, ‘Boys’ Education for the New Millenium’. Mark, a friend and mentor of many years, had phoned me and asked for some help in developing a youth panel session. He wanted authenticity. He wanted the true insights of these young blokes.

I’ve been to plenty of education conferences where the ‘voices of the students’ section is wooden and cringey. It wasn’t like that with this group. In fact they were of such calibre that the facilitation was easy. The memories of that project have come flooding back in the last 24 hours for a specific reason... but more on that in a moment.

Mark and I felt we needed to get the fellas talking to each other and we wanted to give them time to consider what they might say on the panel. So a couple of weeks before the event, we took them off to Matteo’s in Brunswick Street (and yes, being seventeen, eighteen year old boys, they smashed down three large courses each). I knew the pressure was on for this group of kids to come up with something outstanding when I saw the bulging eyes of the conference organiser fixing on the bill!

He need not have worried, the chats over that dinner were a privilege to be a part of.... We asked them: what fires your spirit; who inspires you; what is your passion and what have been the instructive moments in your life, both the euphoric and tough times. We wanted to hear their stories and the group of young men did not disappoint. Mark and I knew by the time our meal had concluded that it was money well spent.

I have always remembered this group of young men and yesterday I was reminded of one of them again. The impression he gave is still clear. He knew what his passion was and he was full of gratitude for the people who had supported him in pursuit of it...

“All my life, I have loved music,” observed the young man.

He was captain of his school. I remembered thinking at the time how great it was that his peers and teachers had picked him. Boys’ schools have worked really hard in the last couple of decades at expanding the previously narrow concept of what made you a good bloke, an acceptable male. How good is it that a musician, not the hero of the first XVIII, was school captain.

The young man continued to tell his story. I remember his eloquence on the panel and how he impacted on the audience of adults. Looking out, you could see how struck they were with the clarity of his dream and how it had been unhindered by his important people.

It is nearly fifteen years ago, so the memory of his exact words is not here. The sentiment is.

Here are those sentiments I remember...

My mum and dad have always taken my dream seriously.

I love what I feel when I make music.

It is what I want to do with my life and my parents have always just supported me in that dream. Never have they suggested another, safer path.

The young man made an impact on me and his story helped to confirm a hunch I have always had... that if people, particularly young people, know what they want then the momentum of their motivation becomes an unstoppable force. When the dream is pure and fuelled by loved ones who cheer for the young person, when there is no clash of ambition between the elders and the young dreamer, then anything can happen.

Why do I know this? Because that young man just won three Grammy awards. Back in 1998 he introduced himself to the group as Wally. His full name is Wouter (Walter) de Backer, known to the music world and his fans as Gotye.



Thanks for giving yourself some 'Time & Space' to read this. As always, feel free to write your responses in the space below.

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The Extra Half a Second

It was one of those times where the internal prompt to just step up and say ‘thanks’ was strong. David had offered something very simple and, at the same time, brilliant the day before. A conference for people connected with boys’ schools from all around the world had just closed and as delegates were leaving to return home, there was only this moment to be able to express that gratitude.

“David, I just wanted to say ‘thanks’ for your workshop, there were little corners of gold around this conference... I’m so fortunate to have chosen yours,” I say to the smiling, Deputy Headmaster from St James Independent School for Boys in the UK.

My badge is still on, so David replies, “My pleasure Bill, glad you enjoyed the presentation.”

I am wanting to connect because David had made a deep impression the day before.

Have you ever been met by an atmosphere of calm when you go into someone’s space? I felt this calm surround me on arriving at his classroom workshop. Half a world away from where David and his two fellow presenters teach... these gentlemen, our workshop presenters gifted us a one hour window into the quiet stillness that is the foundation of their school’s ethos.

The wish to connect comes from the excitement that for about a year now, your blogger has been trying to start each day with some quiet stillness, some meditation. Can’t say I’ve done it every day but I could let David know that I have had a go at this for more days than not. It was exciting to share how when a number of ‘days in a row’ were strung together, I have felt real benefits. David’s headmaster (another David) had explained the day before that his deputy had been practising stillness twice a day for over twenty years.

David is kind and affirming throughout our brief chat.

“Well done Bill, with a year under your belt you are an expert in the practice!” There’s a depth of attention and sincerity, real interest.

“Hardly an expert David”, I respond, “my sporadic efforts are not even in the shadows of your years of practice.”

“It’s not so much the comparative periods Bill but that you have stuck at it, for long enough that it must be becoming a habit,” David replies, again kindly. “Tell me, you spoke about how you have benefited from practicing stillness. What have you noticed is different?”

“Ah, that’s easy,” I say. “The benefit shows up by what I notice on the days when I haven’t started with stillness.” I explain that, “on the days when I haven’t started with those twenty minutes of quiet, I am far more likely to walk into a fairly ‘focussed’ discussion with my boy, be reactive or even lose my rag if we clash over something.”

“On the days when I have practiced the stillness, and a moment arises where my son is just ‘doing his job’ as a teenager and me, as his dad – he’s pushing and I’m holding, a boundary, I get that vital, extra ‘half-a-second’. Time seems to slow down and it feels like I get the chance to choose my reaction, in that brief moment, and, much more often than on the days I do the stillness practise, that choice turns out to be a good one.

David laughs and says, “I have two sons and three daughters, I know exactly what you mean.”

As I look back at that brief interaction, I marvel at the story that David shared about an exercise called ‘The Pause’. Twice a day, the whole school stops... teachers and students alike and they become still. Below, if you are seeing the actual blog, my recollection, is on YouTube, of what David shared with the people in that workshop.

Just so you can get it in writing (in case you can’t open the link now). Here’s what you do if you want to pause each day, indeed right now. Read the instructions that follow in full (because after step 1 you are asked to close your eyes.

Firstly, make yourself still where you sit or stand. Bring your breathing to a steady flow and now draw your concentration to three of your senses...

1. Bring your attention to your sense of sight – look around where are, notice the colours in the scene around you. Hold your head still and stretch your eyes as far as you can to the left and the right and notice what you see.

2. Close your eyes and bring your attention to your sense of touch. Notice if you can feel even the slightest breeze moving by your face, your hands. Feel the touch of your clothes on your skin. Notice your feet in your shoes or on the ground.

3. Now change and bring your attention to what you can hear. Notice the sounds closest to you, hear some sounds further away and try and detect the sound that is furthest from you.

Finally, spend a few seconds bringing your attention back to your breathing. Notice its natural flow. Feel the rise and fall of your chest. Then open your eyes and feel the refreshment... and continue with a deeper awareness into your day.



Have a try of this. If you are an adult... see how it works with you in the next stressful moment. As a young person reading this, maybe if the ‘rents’ are getting on your back, I wonder if things might go differently for you next time you have a conversation that usually would end up being tense.

David offered such a simple, yet profound, activity. Supported by many thousands of hours of his own stillness efforts, this enabled him to present a memorable moment for a workshop full of people. Each of us were given a practical action that we could take back to our corner of the planet. And where ever you are right now, this wonderful practice has reached you. May there be more David’s in our world who kindly encourage and offer something good.

Jimmy Stynes – keeps on giving

My Journey, Jimmy Stynes’ autobiography is, as you would expect, an extraordinary read.

A few years ago, it was a privilege to watch Jim Stynes work with groups of kids in two of the schools where I used to teach. His charisma was something to behold. He was gifted. He could establish trust with a group of students so quickly. One time at an all boys’ school, I saw him set the mood in the college theatre... he got the lighting right... fired up some loud music and the students created their own mosh pit for a few minutes. They bashed and crashed into each other with testosterone fuelled abandon. This was chaotic ‘boy’ energy, given permission to be released.

In the ‘calming down’ that followed, Jim shifted the focus to the issues in the group. What was not being said. With a kind of magic, he invited individuals to step forward to say anything they wanted to. He asked the boys to agree that whatever was said would be received with no judgement. These 14-15 year olds poured out their hearts. Some spoke, and got out of their system, the burden of hurt that had built up because of the names others called them in the school yard. Permission was there in that moment to really say, and not hide, the impact that bullying had had on them. Some of these things had gone on for years.

The boys who had been the bullies also stood up and said that they were sorry directly to the person they had offended. Again, Jim reinforced the pact of ‘no judgement’.

Jim would ask, each time, the young bloke how he felt. The common response was ‘relieved’. Some of these boys, tough-looking exteriors, sobbed their hearts out.

This post started with the declaration that Jim’s autobiography is extraordinary. Why?

Yes, he covers off on all of the infamous and glorious moments of his sporting life... running across the mark in the 1987 prelim’, his freakish 244 consecutive AFL games and his fairy-tale Brownlow medal of 1991. The latter he shared with his dad as his guest. But, this is not why My Journey is extraordinary...

In his book he applies the same process to himself that he offered to those kids at school. He shares the everyday stuff that he struggled with, as a dad and a husband. It is all laid bare in his book (written with the support of his good friend, Warwick Green). In the chapter called ‘Fatherhood’, he explains,

Whether it was because of stress, exhaustion, medication or my brain tumours I could not be sure, but there were times when I was terribly short-tempered with the kids. It felt like there were days when I was seeking confrontation with them. I would find myself shouting, sometimes in such a ferocious way that it scared them. Afterwards, I would feel ashamed. It was something I’d always said I would never do as a parent, and here I was making my own kids cry.

From both a dad’s and a bloke’s perspective, I find myself grateful to Jim Stynes as I read these words. Here he is still giving beyond the grave.

Jim Stynes died earlier this year on March 20th. Seven days later, Melbournians turned out to his funeral in their tens of thousands to honour a man who, in 1984 had arrived in that city as an eighteen year old. A young Irish Gaelic footballer, picked out by Ron Barassi to play Aussie Rules for the Melbourne footy club. The twenty seven and a half years that ensued were filled with a generous life. His funeral is one of the biggest ever seen and it fittingly sealed his legend… he will be eternally part of the pantheon of his adopted city.

But what gets me is the ordinariness of his struggle as a dad. Have you ever lost your rag with your kids? I have for sure (and I am fit and well – he had a good excuse). For fellas, often emotions find their way out through the funnel of anger and that’s what is liberating about Jim Stynes sharing his tough moments as a dad. Here is a bloke who will be remembered by two countries for near on forever, for his greatness, persistence, positive attitude and leadership. Yet, in his own life experience, he puts it out there that he had shortcomings. Just like those kids who shared their tough stuff, reading that Jim was human, makes me feel what the kids said they felt back in those school sessions – relief. Someone who has become a giant figure in the mythology of two nations sometimes got grumpy with his kids. It’s good news for those of us mere mortals who are around this Christmas.

Christmas’ original story is set over two thousand years ago, in a stable at the back of an inn in a small town that now is part of modern Palestine. There is humanity, ordinary humanity weaved right through that story. I reckon the story tellers who wrote it down, were very mindful of making sure that that scene was set. Out of that humble beginning, emerged a great story.

Jim Stynes’ story is like that. He embraced his humanity and lived a life that was extraordinary.

He gives us all hope.

If you’ve got some time over Christmas, I commend his story My Journey to you.

First World Problems

Have you heard this phrase popping up in your conversations this year? My teenage kids are quick to spot a first world problem when someone is complaining about an issue that pales in comparison to what people face in the majority world every day – like having access to a regular fresh water supply. Recently our dishwasher broke and our household has returned to having to hand-wash and dry all the dishes in the sink, with its hot and cold running water. What did Monty Python’s Four Yorkshire men say? “Luxury. You were lucky!” There are so many instances where we can catch ourselves feeling hassled by the loss of something that really is a luxury. What has this slight inconvenience created? We’ve had more side by side time, as somebody washes and someone dries. Usually someone would stack the dishwasher in isolation.

It is Christmas time and a first world problem our extended family faces each year, is the allocation of a Kris Kringle person for the ten adults in the tribe. The process of finding a person to secretly buy a gift for, has conditions to it, you can’t draw your partner’s or your own name out of the hat. My daughter is the oldest grandchild and manages the ballot sometime in October each year. There is feigned annoyance and groans as we try to draw names out one by one and get to the last person who says – “nup, I’ve just drawn out my husband’s name.” At this year’s family Kris Kringle draw someone remarked that it must be easier to elect a new pope! The drawn out process has become a quirky annual tradition for our family. When the KK’s are finally decided and people have written the names into their smart phones (because another first world problem is that we can easily forget who we finally got), the big post-mortem ensues on how excruciating the process was, and theories are proffered about how this ‘problem’ could be solved next year.

Recently, I found a website, believe it not, called Manage my KK. It enables workplaces and families to input all the KK recipients, the conditions of allocation etcetera. It can include elaborate features like a gift price limit. Participants can log on and drop hints, suggesting the particular gift they want. What do you think? Is this an over solution of a first world problem? Isn’t the fun found in the way a family enjoys the familiarity and playfulness of complaining about how arduous it is to draw a KK?

Whilst you are seeing flippancy in this ‘first world problem’ discussion, I think affluenza, as it has been termed, does create a deeper challenge for parents who raise kids in the first world. Our kids have access to a lot of ‘stuff’. My nineteen year-old daughter has never known a world without the internet. For young people, I reckon having so much stuff threatens their opportunities to be kind, to reach beyond a concept of self-centredness. Without providing opportunities to contribute and us parents noticing these moments, the default becomes the world and all its gadgets doing things for them. It could shovel out their capacity to know the joy of deep humanity.

This Christmas time, let me share two moments I have spotted in each of my teenagers. Recently I had a minor medical procedure booked. As usual, I was busy... the appointment rushed up in the schedule and Amber (the 19 year old) showed concern when she learned I would have a local anaesthetic injected into my eye.

“Dad – how are you going to get home after having a needle in your eyelid?”

“You know I actually hadn’t thought about that Amber,” I replied.

“OK”, said Amber, “then I will drive you there.” Wow – a small act of kindness from a grown up daughter to her dad. I was touched and proud of her.

The young bloke was not to be outdone by his sister. He’s sixteen and doing his job as an adolescent... pushing boundaries and causing his dad to keep the line clear. It is parenting trench warfare sometimes and his mum and me see ‘two steps forward, one step back’ as a clear ‘win’. In the midst of all the grumpy growing up and the tense conversations that we have as father and son, there are still the moments that pop up and offer the reminder of the kind heart that is in the good young man he is becoming.

We had been working on the young bloke getting consistent with a weekly chore – taking the bins out. It is a big help as I travel to do the Time & Space programs. My schedule is varied and I am not always home on ‘bin night’. We had sat down and I’d explained how this, being a small job, could make a big difference in our household. Can you imagine the delight when I returned from a Mother & Son night in South Australia, arrived home just after Jack had left for school in the morning to find a note he had written on the floor as I opened the door. Again, how proud was I when I read the following words...

‘Dad,

I hope you really enjoyed Adelaide, I took the bins out last night and there’s a coffee for you in the pot.

Love Jack.’

We are lucky where we live. The challenge for first-world parents, around Christmas time is to find the true gifts that we can give to each other. A good starting point is noticing where our kids have been truly kind.

If you are a mum, dad or guardian – how about this Christmas letting your kids know that you spotted a kind act of theirs that made you proud.

For the young people who might have found this on mum or dad’s ipad, maybe there’s something you appreciate about what they do for you that you could tell them about this Christmas.

Feel free to share the kind moments you have spotted in your tribe this year in the space below.

Thanks for reading this year and have a great Chrissie.

Bill Jennings
www.time-space.com.au

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