Shape of the 'Thwump'

Well, my body was sending conflicting commands so rapidly I was also shaking. Not with the cold. The cold was contributing, but it was the cramping and the other muscles that were shaking my leg and my foot, which was starting to make sounds on the floor as it shook. The sound reminded me of the noise made by the feet of the small kits (baby rabbits) we had once tried to race on the kitchen floor (also linoleum), when several kits, were brought to our house by a neighbouring farmer. It was very funny to watch as we held them in a line and as we let them go, they would attempt to run. However, not able to gain any traction on the smooth floor they would ‘skitter’ sideways turning in circles, as the back feet were stronger than the front. The sound was a muffled accelerating ‘thwump, thwump, thwump’ on the kitchen floor as they struggled for purchase. Right now my muffled ‘thwump’ of my shaking leg on the floor of the bathroom was getting a little firmer. Surely my father would have heard that. I started pushing down even harder. Trying to quieten my leg before I woke up my sisters and brothers (Those who were not lying injured in a hospital at least). I was probably more concerned than I needed to be and hoped I was imagining how loud my thwumping actually was. You know how, in the still of the night (as it were), sound usually carries further or, at least stands out more. The clarity of the noise travels in the cool air of the night. You can stand at the end of a field and hear noises, which can often be miles away, far more clearly than you can in the day. I was frightened that the small rhythmic banging would wake my father. It must be carrying to his ears in the lounge room opposite. I was trying to stand exactly where he had told me I should, or I knew there would be consequences. I had no idea how long I had been here for. It had seemed for ages. Hours maybe (probably 30 mins) but it seemed to have dragged on and on. My gaze (in between the shakes) was fixed on the part head of my father I could just see due to the angle of where I was standing. I was watching for his anger at the sound of my leg. Any moment now I expected him to rise out of his chair and come and deal with me.

Then another sound began to establish itself over the ‘thwumping’ from my leg. It was definitely deeper, more rhythmic and was rapidly growing louder. Carrying easily through the still night. It arose from outside the bathroom. Deep, one could almost say with a reverberating resonance. The sound built in a wave and then fading out quickly before starting again. Yes, while I stood on the cold bathroom floor in fear, with my leg cramping, my father had actually fallen asleep and was now snoring loudly.

(Continued tomorrow)

Shape of the Nerves

Of course I wasn’t a deviant! Right now I was struggling through being a victim. Now, don’t get me wrong. Speaking as an adult, now, I am not bitter about this. I have not thrown myself down on the floor and become a screaming, or mewling, pathetic creature of despair. I am not looking back at any of this with the idea of blaming someone for who I am… Hang on! I will just stress again I am not a deviant, I am referring to the fact that despite the incidents of our youth, I appear to have turned out fairly well, as a mature and moral adult (with some intense memories). I am, the more I come to think about it, sad. For my father, and particularly my other family members. I was never the only one who had moments like this, but I do believe all of us have came to realise it was not how things should have been.

We have, on the few occasions we have been together over the years often brought up such moments. Not to dwell on them morbidly, but to laugh a little at what sometimes went on in the household. We were not always free from blame for some of the circumstances we got into as children (more on these in a later blog), and indeed, not the ‘angels’ our mother probably had wished us to be (yes, I’m sure we drove her to despair at times), but I do swear to you, for this particular incident, injuring my younger brother with a thrown stilt, that was a pure unexpected accident, despite the fact I was currently being punished for my actions.

And that particular punishment continued. I stood in pain on the cold floor of the bathroom, pressing my toes hard into the linoleum. Cramp was now well up the back of my leg as well as the soles of my feet. I was very focused on the part of my father’s head I could see. The slightest motion of his head made me panic to think that if he thought I was moving about he would come to ensure (by way of a few further slaps and smacks) I stood stiller. But I still shook. I still trembled and panicked, and tried to be still. When you do that to your body, its sending conflicting messages through your nervous system. It creates a double rapid conversation between your muscles and your brain. “Stop!” the muscles stop. “Go!” The muscles go, “Stop!” the muscles stop. “Go!” The muscles go, “Stop!” the muscles stop. Your brain says “Go!” The muscles stop, Your brain says “Stop” the muscles go.

Confusion reigns. The same as when the computer isn’t processing as fast as you would like, you hit the enter key repeatedly. That’s right. Every stroke of the keyboard is giving it another command. No wonder they ‘freeze. Not literally of course. Not like my feet were experiencing on the cold bathroom floor late into the night… or early morning as it must now be.

(Continued tomorrow)

Shape of the Spasm

So, as the spasms rip through your toes and your feet, your balance is affected, and, at the very least, you can’t help gasping aloud as the muscles contract and pain shoots up through your toes, through your feet to… well as the song goes,

“the toe bones connected to the… foot bone. The foot bones connected to the…. ankle bone… The ankle bones connected to the…”*

(okay they’re talking about bones not muscles, but, you get the general idea)

The gasping was the unfortunate part. Sure the cramp hurt, but the gasping caused my father to hear me, which resulted in me hearing him. I heard him getting up from his chair and opening the door to the lounge, the one step across the hall to swing open the door to the bathroom. I tried to stand up straight to show I hadn’t moved, but with no front balance due to the cramp in my feet, I writhed more than I stood.

He looked at me. Actually he glared. “Stand up straight’ I did. It hurt I also felt my leg shaking fairly uncontrollably as the muscle cramp leapt to my calf muscle. I lifted my foot from the floor immediately. “Put your foot down!” He demanded. I did. Well I slammed it down, but due to the cramp, my aim was off and my direction (due to the balance), and as I slammed it into the floor. I was sure I heard the toes crack as the end of them connected with the floor. ‘”Himmm!~” I gave a somewhat strangled cry as a different feeling of pain took over. “Stand there. Be Quiet. And don’t move.” My father left the bathroom door open and went back to the lounge room. This time he left that open as well. I could just see his the back of the left side of his head as he sat back into his chair. Then I remembered seeing my mother, and one of my sisters on various occasions, coming hobbling into the bathroom with a toe cramp and pushing their foot as flat as possible onto the cold linoleum the flattened out the foot as much as possible to ‘uncramp’ the foot. I thought I would try that. I flattened the foot. It hurt even more. I stopped it. Then the cramp kicked in again and that hurt even more. So I pushed down really hard.

That pain then over-rode the pain of the cramp. But it was a satisfying pain. It felt better than the cramp pain. But it still hurt, but it was a different hurt. Oh, NO! I was becoming a weirdo. I was standing on a cold linoleum floor, hurting myself, to get rid of another hurt? I preferred one pain, over another. I had read about that type of mental illness in Edgar Allen Poe’s “The Pit and the Pendulum”. The preference for the type of pain as the subject victim was tortured. Did I have it! Was I a… deviant?

(Continued tomorrow)

Dem Bones, Dry Bones or Dem Dry Bones is a well-known traditional spiritual song. The melody was written by African-American author and songwriter James Weldon Johnson (1871–1938).

Shape of the Muscle

From where I stood barefoot, on the cold floor of the bathroom, in the middle of the night, still terrified of further punishment, should I move, or even consider sitting on the edge of the bath. I heard the television get switched off and the sound of my father sitting into his chair (see blog 19^th June 2012). I was not so young and foolish as to think I could sit down and still have enough time to hear him get out of the chair to check on me. So I stood and waited. Time passed. Then the reason became obvious for him having me stand in the bathroom and not the carpeted hallway. Even if the carpet we had was that hard-wearing fibrous tight bumps of carpet that left impressions in the knees if you knelt on it. The kind of carpet designed to take the wear and tear of many children for as many years as possible. I found out later that particular carpet was designed for commercial track areas where trolleys were in use. So it was pretty heavy duty. But I was not even allowed to stand on that. For the simple reason I began to experience. The carpet was not cold.

The carpet would not affect the body temperature of the person standing on it. The cold linoleum of the bathroom floor would however. I was probably lucky that this injury incident to my younger brother had occurred during the warmer weather, which in Dunedin (bottom half of the South Island of New Zealand, below the ‘45 degrees South’) was not particularly that ‘warm’, especially during the night. The linoleum was however, quite cool. And my body had been quite warm, when under the covers. It had certainly heated up with the several whacks and slaps in the recently received punishment, even the welts from my father’s hands were retaining a certain stinging warmth. But the linoleum was cold and as I stood with my bare feet in direct contact, I began to experience muscle cramps in my feet. My toes began to cramp up and ‘lock’ together.

Anyone who has experienced actual muscle cramps, whether during exercise or, even scarier, during the night will understand the pain. The excruciating pain as a muscle spasms and lock up in a ‘clenched’ position. This actually causes micro tears to the muscle fibre. As the muscle is strained beyond its normal stretch and suddenly contracts. This was happening to my feet. The muscles and tendons of the toes on one foot then the other, then both began to contract and ‘lock up’ The strange thing is until you don’t have the ability to adjust your balance with your toes, you take balance for granted. The moment your toes spasm and your muscles stop operating, you lose that simple instinctual skill and start to fall.

(Continued Tomorrow)

Shape of the Stop

At the sound of the command, things stopped. My father must have also recognised the tone of the command. There was no further smack, slap or strike. I looked up carefully, and saw my parent’s bedroom door open, and my mother stood in the doorway. “That’s enough!” she demanded. My father started to say something, but she said, even more sternly, “I said, that is enough!” Her diminutive frame (only 152 cm. tall weighed approx 47.63Kg see blog 22^nd Sept 2012) imposed itself on the space. My father didn’t say anything further. “Get up”, she said to me. I got up very slowly and stood there cringing. I admit I was terrified of still receiving further whacks. My father appeared to have finished and I thought, thank goodness. I was more than relieved and I was sore. “Goodnight”, my mother said and closed her door. I stood a moment thinking my father wouldn’t dare start again and jumped when he grabbed the back of my neck and steered me to the bathroom door. He opened it and pushed me inside. I didn’t slip or fall, but remained on my feet.

“You will stay there until I tell you”. My father said to me in a tight whisper. “Do not sit down. Do not move from there.” I stood, still hurting. To terrified to move, anywhere. The door was closed and then swung open again. “I mean it!” he said angrily. ‘Do not move from that spot”. The door closed again. I stood. The linoleum in the bathroom was cold. In fact it was very cold. My bare feet felt chilled in the short time I had been standing there already. I heard my father’s muffled voice further down the hall. He was saying something and knocking on what sounded like his bedroom door. I heard his asking tone of voice. Then there was a bang as if the door had been slapped.  I stood waiting. His footsteps came back down the hall and I realised my mother must have shut him out of their bedroom. That wasn’t going to be good for me. I had already felt the effects of his long day and anger at having to attend the hospital, and now, if he had been shut out of his own bedroom, he was not going to be happy. Didn’t my mother realise that I hadn’t made it back to my bed yet? I don’t think she had. And now he was even angrier. He stormed back down the hall towards the bathroom door and I literally shook with fear as I awaited the door flying open and my father’s anger, finding an outlet. Then I heard the lounge room door open and close and after a moment the television came on. And there was the sound of the television test signal. Oh, dear. No television to watch, as the only station which broadcast (yes, there was once only one channel back then), had shut down for the night. So there was nothing to watch. Except a terrified, slightly bruised child, in his pyjamas, standing in bare feet on the cold bathroom floor, waiting. And waiting. And waiting.

(Continued tomorrow)

Shape of the Painting

The second smack caught me on the back of my head, knocking me in the other direction. I recall ‘yowling’. I understand the word exactly. It’s not a call, a laugh, a scream or a howl. It is a definite combination of a series of random, oral explosions of sound, and is definitely uncontrolled yet, reproducible. As the next strike connected on my rear, I realised my father had grabbed my pyjama collar and having the advantage of height and force, had struck his blow and projected me forward in such a way that I would swing back after the blow connected. I of course made the unwise attempt to twist free, which only resulted in the next blow connecting with my left leg. I had somehow, stupidly, managed to present him with four different strike zones in the first four strikes. How foolish was I. He had the impetus (obviously stored up from his long wait at the hospital) and definitely was showing the desire to deal with me.

Now from the various comments I have received from those reading my blog regularly, you have been hanging out since the event began to be explained in April (see Blog April 10, 2012), to hear what actually occurred by way of punishment. Really. Are you all serious? You want to know how much this young child went through? How deviant. Surely you are not wanting to hear the full blow by blow account? Not that I am going to wait for your further email responses. I appreciate your patience, but I trust you will all ask yourselves, why. Why I have been waiting to read this part? I will leave each of you to consider your responses in the privacy of your own minds. Me? I can remember it, so I do.

I do recall much of it. There were many blows, and strikes, swipes and slaps. Several pushes into the wall, and/or bathroom, or lounge room door. I recall this was the moment I came to really dislike one of my father’s paintings that hung in the hallway. It was of a horse’s head. A tan coloured animal with a white front blaze. As I was being slapped on the legs, I recall my eyes looking up at this horse’s solemn face. It’s large dark eyes looking down at me. It too looked sad. I could already feel bruises, rapidly developing. Fortunately (for us), we were not chubby children, as apparently bruises do not show clearly, unless you have a certain amount of fatty tissue to bruise. Our father fortunately, could generally avoid the face. I was thankful for that, but if you tried to protect where he was about to strike, then he wasn’t adverse to a slap to make you move your hand to cover your face against another, thereby, allowing him clear strike to another part of the body. My only point of relief was hearing the grunting, as my father, not the fittest man on the planet, quickly tired from the exertion of the belting I was currently receiving. Then suddenly, a single word sounded above it all. “Stop!”

(Continued tomorrow)

Shape of the Question

 I got up carefully and moved past him and out of the room. I walked past him out to the hallway and stopped not sure where he wanted me. He closed the door behind me. How thoughtful I thought. Shutting the door so my anguished cries (my notions always drawing on the dramatic side of life) won’t wake my younger brothers. I looked down the hallway towards my mother. ‘Is he all right?” I started to ask. “Of course not!” Came my fathers angry but harsh and I suppose slightly hushed voice from behind me. “What a ridiculous question.” I stopped talking and stood there in the cool evening hallway. The temperature in the hallway was somewhat lower here out of my bed. ‘He is all right,” my mother said, looking at my father with a slightly challenging expression. “They are going to keep him in, at least overnight.’ She said. “For observation.” I nodded slowly as if I understood the complexities of the meaning entailed in the simple phrase,‘for observation’.  Then it started.

“No thanks to you and your dangerous behaviour,” my father opened with. “Just what did you think you were doing?” Now, that was of course a sort of direct but seriously implied ‘rhetorical’ question. There was not meant to be an answer, but especially there was not meant to be any response, sound or movement from me. I didn’t get that. I began to immediately present my well-considered defence. Well-considered, in that, I had been thinking very seriously of all that had happened, and had, carefully and concisely, constructed a sensible, and appropriate explanation, to the actual sequence of unavoidable events, which led to the unfortunate circumstances of the injury to my younger brother. My honest mistake was that I thought by asking his question, my father actually wanted to listen to my explanation. So I opened my mouth with ‘Getting the kite out of…..”

I was taken by surprise by the slap across the ear, that sent me flying slightly into the hallway wall, which immediately acted as a catcher and stopped me dead in my tracks. My head continued on an collided with the wall as well. Now I was hurting instantly on both sides of my head. I think my mother had shouted angrily,“Laurie!” It was hard to tell above the ringing that resounded in my ears and skull. You know those sudden percussive high pitched deafening ringing that blocks out all sounds. The ones which seem to pulse. Similar to the fading, chiming of a rung bell. Except this ringing wasn’t actually fading. Just ringing very loudly. I tried to move my jaw and clear my ears. My eyes had also filled with water and through the weeping lenses, I believe I saw my mother walk angrily into her bedroom and shut the door. Something had obviously happened between my parents, in that split second and the brief moment after, which unfortunately I had failed to notice, due to my preoccupation with my pain and situation.

(Continued tomorrow)

Shape in the Light

I lay there with my eyes shut. Pretending to sleep as the footsteps approached. They came walking heavily down the hall, as I heard my mother say, a little loudly (stage whisper, loud enough to carry, but not with the full voice sound) “Leave him till tomorrow. He’ll be asleep” The steps came closer, ignoring the directive. Then a slightly louder stage whisper, “You’ll only wake the others”. The steps were just outside the door now and I heard my mother start down the hall after my father. “Honestly,” I heard her start. I lay there.  My eyes were closed pretending to sleep. I heard the door open and felt and heard the movement of the door opening. Due to the position of the bunks along the side wall of the long room, my head was effectively behind the door when it opened into our room. So, anyone wanting to look at me lying in the bed had to enter the room fully. Unfortunately my father did. Through my closed eyelids I saw the brightness of the toilet light suddenly increase into our room and I sensed his shape standing there holding the door open. I heard my mother bustle to a stop behind him. ‘Just leave it!” I recall her snarling ‘sotto vocce’.

I know I was trembling (inside, shaking a lot) and lets be honest. Nobody pretending to be asleep, can ever do it convincingly, as your eyelids tend to move as your eyes still react to light etc. And no doubt as frightened as I was of the impending punishment I was not breathing in a steady relaxed manner as would one who slept.  “He’s not sleeping” my father said. “Are you?” I no doubt did the ‘fake’ waking up routine “Hmmm?” as I pretended to stir. “See?” My mother said and I heard her start to go, no doubt reaching for the door handle. But my father would not be budged. “You’re not asleep, so you can get up out of that bed and come out here.” I opened one eye, squinting, and then the other. I looked up to the somewhat fearsome face of my father. ‘Up you get and come out.” He told me. I heard my mother, somewhat exasperated turn away, muttering to her self, as it was obvious my father was not listening to her, “Why you can’t just leave it till tomorrow, I don’t know.” She said as she walked away.

I reluctantly opened my eyes and got up out of the bed. Sitting up from the lower bunk I reached for the pair of slippers and stopped. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to reach for anything that might suggest to my father they would be good to smack me with. However, he beat me to it. “Leave those. You won’t need them.” I stopped and looked at him. ‘Out here now.” He gestured out of the room. At least being hit with the slippers was already off the options list.

(Continued tomorrow)

Shape of the Scar

And just before I go on, guess who sent a comment with a request to mention something about yesterday’s post?*

Now, back to the tale.  There I lay in my lower bunk bed and strained to hear what my mother and father were saying to each other down the hall. Neither of them sounded too happy with each other. Having just come back from the hospital, I was sure that now, wasn’t the best time for me to go and ask how my injured brother was. I lay there looking at the bottom of the bunk above me. Sagging a little under the weight of my next youngest brother who appeared to be comfortably sleeping. I started wondering about my injured brother. After all the last image I had of him was his entire head and face drenched in blood, as I carried him back from the park, thinking he was dead in my arms. There was so much blood, but then, I had not realised how much a head wound, even a minor one, could bleed. And too be honest. I was in shock from the blood, never actually seeing the injury itself. I got better at recognising the difference as I grew older, with the witnessing of many subsequent accidents and injuries.  But then, in my youth I was focussed on the blood. Now I lay there wondering about the future , not just for myself, as no doubt my father would be making that decision shortly, but also for my brother.

Regardless of the severity of the head injury I had accidentally inflicted, he would probably have some form of a scar. That could be important, as he grew older. If it was terrible looking scar, he could become the coolest, or, the most feared kid at school. We had heard and read great tales of scarred hero’s, Beowulf, Legend’s of King Arthur’s knights and the battles of Lord Fitchley. In particular, the duelling scar of Lord Fitchley was much admired by the ladies of the time, and, made him quite the figure of the romance period. But then there was the other possibility. If the scar was too vivid and terrifying, he would probably be shunned by all the other children as he grew up. He would end up alone, wandering the streets of the neighbourhood. A legend could grow of the ‘monster of the valley’. The tales would spread of the fearsome creature, severely wounded. Probably as legends go it wouldn’t mention the actual accident as it occurred, but it would become some terrible tragedy of misfortune (you could see what period of film styles I was showing an interest in at that age, mainly based on the ‘B’ movie posters, as it wasn’t that often we got to actually see any movies). My imagination was racing away on a tangent, until I was pulled back to reality with the sudden sounds of my fathers steps coming down the hall towards my room. I did the only possible thing I could. I shut my eyes and pretended to be asleep.

(Continued tomorrow)

*I should mention (at least that was what the email also suggested)

“that this fearsome, wooden spoon wielding female power of authority (see yesterday’s blog), was only 152 cm. tall weighed approx 71/2 stone (47.63Kg) and loved you all, no matter how you all tormented the life out of her? (see blog July 12 2012 for example)”

All I can say is she must have put all of her weight into every strike….

But, she finished the request with an XX

Shape of the Swing

I woke during the night as I heard something down the hall. Actually, I think it was only a short time after I had finally gone to sleep, exhausted by the fear (and the final break-up of the massive adrenaline dumped on my system) from the events of the last 24hrs. I awoke listening, and then remembered the events of the day before. Was this noise my father coming down the hall to finally deal with me? I could hear voices, more than one. I heard my mother’s voice ‘slightly sharply’ say “Just go to bed or you can sleep on the couch. Honestly!” This was obviously not the time to go out and ask what was going to happen. I stayed in the bed looking up at the sagging springs from my brother on the bunk above me. Straining to hear what was going on. Straining to hear, again. Maybe that’s why my hearing is starting to go now? All that straining to listen as a child to distant noises, in an attempt to identify what may have been an early warning to a potential threat (if heard early enough perhaps one could escape before being located?), or, straining to hear what was being discussed whenever you were sent from the room (and that happened quite a lot). And then there was the idea of it being funny, trying to listen in to what was being talked about on the phone. With three older sisters, there were always ‘boys’ calling for one or other of them, and the telephone was in the hallway. No such thing as a cordless phone and definitely not even a mobile (yes it was that long ago).

I saw a comment on social media the other day, which said;

“Many teenagers today who have a ‘crush’ on someone, will never know the heart-stopping moment of calling their ‘crush’ and having the parent answer the phone”

But if you were quiet, you could sit around the corner in the hallway, and listen to the ‘lovey-dovey chat’ of the older sister (sometimes two or three of us younger ones sitting and straining to hear), until one of us would give ourselves away by giggling, laughing or snorting, then things exploded. Fortunately as I mentioned the phone was not mobile and as it was attached to a cord, the victim of our laughter couldn’t chase you off very far.  Then there would be a scream “Muuuuuummm!!” If our mother was home, as I don’t think we would ever have done it when our father was home. The next trick was to avoid a swinging arm if mum was home, as you raced down the hall towards the kitchen to get to the back door. And you would hope that our mother wasn’t cooking or such, as she may have had a wooden spoon in that hand. But if there was more than two, then we could often confuse her as to who she would chose to take a swipe at. The chances were always better that she would miss at least two. Unless she was in top form and could fire off a quick smack on each of us as we ran past to the outside.

(Continued tomorrow)

Shape of the Cut

I waited for her to come out, and she did. Slowly coming into the kitchen where I was now bolt upright in the chair, as straight as the back of the very chair I was sitting in. My eyes must have been staring at her in fear and felt like they were the size of saucers. She stopped near the door. Now, I don’t know if my sister fancied herself as a bit of an actress. She had certainly been involved in a few theatrical items at school and had already competed in a few talent competitions in front of the public, but, right at that moment, she extended herself and took full advantage of any minor skills she may already have practiced. She entered stopping in the doorway and making full use of what could only be described as ‘a dramatic pause’ (or Rocky Horror lovers… ‘Antici’…….you know the rest). In fact it probably wasn’t so much a dramatic pause as it was a dramatic stop. She looked at me with pity. My heart sank.

‘He’s alright isn’t he?” I had asked. Thinking she had more bad news. She then realised she had been dramatically waiting to announce what she had been told. ‘Oh, yes, He’s okay”. She replied quickly. “Apart from 48 stitches.” “Wow!” I said not laughing, but really amazed. “48. That’s a lot”. I was impressed. I had received several cuts and been stitched on several occasions, but forty-eight! He would probably look like Frankenstien’s monster. Then I remembered disappointingly, the head split was not a horizontal cut across his forehead, but was a vertical cut, (median –Sagittal plane for you anatomy types), which ran from the front (and yes, anterior - ventral) of his head across the scalp, to the back of his head (posterior –dorsal). So we would be lucky to even see half the stitches, unless they have shaved his head completely. That would look so cool. Once he recovered of course.

I rapidly came back to earth when her look focused my thinking back to me, and what to expect with what I had been waiting to hear. “Mother said that you are to be sent to your bed. They will speak to you when they get home, but it probably won’t be till tomorrow morning.” Tomorrow morning? How could I sleep waiting for my father to come home to deal with me. Not that he needed to I thought. “It was an accident,” I began. “I know”, my sister said, “Just go and brush your teeth and wash your face for bed.” I got up from the table and went to the bathroom. Brushed my teeth and returned to my room. My other brothers were already asleep on their bunks. No support there. As I slept on the bottom bunk, I wouldn’t wake my next youngest brother, so changed into my pyjamas and climbed into bed. I lay there, thinking of my father’s imminent return and before long, despite my best efforts, the stress, the nervousness and my young age, took it’s toll, as I fell asleep. Tomorrow would be a new day.

(Continued tomorrow)

Shaping up for the Result

You can therefore, understand my trepidation as I waited in the room (after generously being given a brief reprieve; during that condemned man’s meal). I had already waited some hours since the incident occurred and now as the evening had grown dark and no word about my brother’s condition, or that my parents had not returned from the hospital, the stress was steadily increasing on me and it was becoming exhausting. It was wearing me down. The mental pressure was telling on my body. My head hurt from the nervous energy that had swamped my system and my body. And then my other two brothers came into the room and got ready for bed. They were of course still under orders not to talk to me. My older sister then came into the room and said I needed to come and sit in the kitchen, until she heard from our parents.

I went out and sat on a chair at the now cleared table. The light in the kitchen was a bright overhead fluorescent tube (There’s a great story about that…. but I’ll tell that in a later blog, rather than again going off track at this time). It lit the room and darkened the outside even more. In the darkness outside, there were lights across the back road and up on the hill at the Hall’s farm house. You could see the roof of the garage lit by the lone street light outside our back fence. The silhouetted bare branches of the apple tree in the back yard (under which I sometimes sat to read),  was stark in the light. Reaching up into the sky. Not as high as the back window (if you recall the flight of steps that led from the lower rear yard to the back door), but visible from where I sat. Our kitchen table was a common long Formica topped table, which was useful in preparing and serving dinner (and toffee apples see blog May 12^th 2012), as it never retained the heat. The room was already cooling from the heat of cooking dinner and I was told to sit up in the chair and not to ‘lean’ on the table. I was really starting to feel tired and sat up straight initially, before slowly sagging a lot at the shoulders and leaning forward.

Finally after what seemed an very long time, the telephone down the hall, rang. My oldest sister answered it, and I could hear her muted questions and a few surprised responses. “ How many?’ “That’s terrible”. I had no idea what she was talking about. I remember hearing her ask ‘And, what about Gregory?” Some instruction must have been received, but there was a long pause and then another question that was probably more crucial. The question? “So, are you both coming home now?” She was answered. I sat tense and fearful. She hung up the phone and went into the lounge to talk to my other sister first. I waited. If as has been suggested, stress can result in an ulcer,… I think I could feel it forming already.

(continued tomorrow)

Shape of a System

So, continuing from where I went yesterday, it appears, as we have been travelling down memory lane, and along life’s little highway (which if you look at my life, is probably in need of serious repair, or at least the potholes should be filled in), we have been exploring the ‘method’ of my father’s teachings. The word ‘unsuccessful’ jumps to mind. By example, the instance of the current thread, as I was in the bedroom, awaiting an undefined, but expected punishment. Undefined, refers to the reason I was to receive punishment for, because as it truly was an accident, I had not intended to cause the injury to my younger brother, as had occurred (see blog April 7^th 2012). Expected, because despite the fact the injury was unintentional, I knew I was to receive some form of a physical punishment. That was the way of it. I had already run a gamut of potential punishments, which my father may inflict. From my early panicked screaming of “He’s (my father’s) going to kill me!” as I carried my bleeding brother home.  Right through to the more curious question of what choice of implements, could expect my father to use, to ‘administer’ (I had always thought that word was to do with health and care, oh well) the, dare I say, ‘undeserved’ punishment?

As I sat in the bedroom with my thoughts racing through what had gone before (in regard to prior punishments), and balancing that, with what the punishments had been for, it was difficult to sometimes link the final result I had received, to the actual event or cause, and difficult to understand the reason my father appeared to have reached in deciding on any particular punishment. Trying to anticipate what I could expect was very difficult, as there never seemed to be a ‘system’ to the punishments from my father. If I did something, such as push my brother over in a game (intentionally) then one would expect maybe a quiet corner or slap on the hand/backside. If I deliberately broke something of someone else’s (eg:another family members toy or such), Then maybe a smack with the wooden spoon could have been expected. But depending on intent of the action, you could expect a certain response (see blog 15^th July 2012). The way my father operated the randomness of punishment selected (particularly when a ‘knee-jerk’ reaction to an instant event occurred), it probably would have been fairer if our family had had a massive ‘chocolate wheel’ (as seen at fetes and fairs around the world) with various punishments written around the edge instead of numbers or prizes. Then, as my father said you were to be punished, you would walk up to the wheel and spin it to see what punishment you received. While we never saw such a wheel, it appears my father operated the wheel in his own mind, given the randomness of the actual punishment we collected.

(Continued tomorrow)

Shape of Leadership

Before I travel outwards on another side-track of tales, I must finish this thread, which began (sort of) in April (I know, I know, you have all been very long-suffering and tolerant, and I appreciate it). What I have been looking at, and exploring, was of course to do with my father’s concept of punishment, at least from the point of view of the punishee, namely me (that would make sense wouldn’t it, if he was the punisher, then I would be the punishee?). But probably, and more importantly, I have come to realise, I am exploring a view as to whether his various punishments achieved his intended goal (what that was I have never been sure). I have in the last few days of this blog specifically identified that my father definitely had problems relating to his children (even when it came to punishment), of how his focus appeared not to be on the relationships themselves but possibly his interpretation of his ‘role’ as a father, no doubt influenced by his own experiences. Never having had much to do with his other family members except as very young children, and one meeting as an adult, there is nothing that we have to say if they were affected in the same way.

As children, we observed (without realising it at the time), our father’s interpretation of his sense of ‘fairness’. And yes, as mentioned (blog July 31^st 2012) whenever I hear that word ‘fair’, I always hear my mother’s phrase, spoken to one of the children when they complained, “It’s not fair!” Her, slightly tongue in cheek reply (I am sure), was ‘No dear, and neither is a china-man” (If anyone knows where that actually comes from, I would like to know, because I doubt that was one which came from the nuns who raised her) but more importantly, I am wondering (as an adult), how our father’s treatment of us, affected our own developing ‘perception’ of fairness. Certainly, he also had created a ‘fearful’ respect, and some of our moral ‘code of behaviour’ conditioning. But overall, it seems to me looking back, he seemed to have demonstrated a definite lack of understanding of the role of a father, as an effective leader, educator and guide.

I have learnt through my working life, and the many ‘bosses’ I have worked for, the essential skills of any good manger (of which I have been fortunate to have had three) is their skill of incorporating those particular elements and delivering them effectively to their staff. Regardless of a person’s involvement in the business, their history, and personal skills, the ability to find that ‘individuals’ approach, to gain the best from those working for them, requires these three skills. Admitting as a boss, you don’t have them, is a first step. But finding out how to develop them, would be a crucial second step, rather than ‘blundering along’ with how you think it should be done. Unfortunately, the ‘blundering along method’ seemed to be my father’s way of working. How he ran the family (and maybe his work place?)

(continued tomorrow)

Shaped by Cost

I can of course sympathise a little, how the constant strain of finding the necessary finances to raise a large family would be difficult, and would cause you to focus on such issues. Or so you would think. While he worked as a postmaster at various sized post offices, from small towns to larger cities, as we moved every few years to accommodate his changes in ‘rank’, he must have earned a reasonable wage. Yet it was not only spent on raising the family. He also had his other ways of spending ‘his’ money. And if I suggested that some of the money appeared to go on four legged animal races, on jugs of the amber liquid (beer) and several hundred raffle tickets (per year) for a meat tray, of which I recall he won two or three, and oh, the joyous return of the hunter-gatherer when he returned home to display them (Sorry. A bit of sarcasm slipped in there, which my mother has always said is “the lowest form of wit” and to be honest it probably still is). But, I wouldn’t be wrong. It was probably lucky for him (and for us), that we didn’t know how much of ‘his’ money he spent, until many years later.

As mentioned it was important that our mother also held a full time job. It would have been nice if it had simply been to, ‘allow her to be engaged outside the house’, as it was for many others women around that time. Yet it was more a matter of necessity in maintaining the survival our family. We may not have had much, but it never stopped our mother from telling us there were always people worse off than us. And she was right. We had a roof over our heads, a bed to sleep in, clean clothes and were well fed (particularly if you got to pick up the first dish as it came down the length of the table - just kidding). It was disappointing to think how hard we children even worked for what little we had, and the lack of real finances definitely placed a real strain on the family.

What other people had, and what we didn’t have, was sometimes a hard lesson to deal with (more on that in a later blog). It was not something that should have caused such separation in the relationships between our father and his children. Our mother, with whom we had a closer relationship, was also very generous. Not with finances, but with her children’s time. There were many instances when our mother decided that, “Oh, no, one of my boys can mow your lawns for you Mrs Cambridge (an elderly lady who lived behind us on castle street) or Mr …..(insert name of another older person who lived near us in at another address), No charge. They’ll be happy to do it”.

Of course, this was done without consulting which ever of we young children would be the pusher of the mower (and I am referring to a push mower. Not a motor mower).

(Continued tomorrow)

Shape of the Holiday

“But, what about?” we began almost as one, and gesturing to the partially uncovered bone. “It’s going to be buried again after the tide has come in.” Our father said. “Can we try to get it uncovered tomorrow?” We asked. “No!” he said flatly, “You wasted all day on it already”. We must have looked a little appalled. I guess the lady must have been a little surprised as well. “I’ll take a photograph”. He offered.

We quickly gathered ourselves in a group around the hole with the bone to the foreground. And smiling broadly our father took the photograph. Some years later, I saw some photographs of the beach and the bay. One shot of the fishing boats tied up to the small jetty across the inlet. But of the bone photograph, I don’t recall ever seeing it. Whether it failed to develop, or was over exposed or what, I don’t know. I also never heard if the university ever went back to the location to find the bone we had happily tried to dig up. We didn’t think we had wasted our day trying regardless of our fathers understanding.

The rest of the holiday past very quickly. More walks on the beach, and an occasional swim in the freezing Arctic like waters, and the discovery of a small creek at the other end near the small cliff point. Which had also led to further explorations of the natural world. On the morning of the sixth day, we packed our belongings and left the beach cottage. Travelling back by bus to Dunedin (the whole 30 Kilometres to the south). It was to be the only holiday trip away most of us ever actually had as children. And, the only one we had with our father. Every other holiday after that, was usually spent running pet feeding jobs (for people who did go away for their holidays), lawn mowing or other part time jobs so we could have some form of pocket/spending money. But the experience of trying to uncover that unknown bone in the sand was something we children shared. Even, if our father hadn’t.

Such experiences have led me to believe, my father did not fully understand what he could have had, if he had engaged with the many children in his family. And this not only impacted on our childhood, and how we relate as adults, but it must also have impacted on the relationship he had with our mother. I asked him once as a young adult, when I was visiting my parents home, after many years of various conflict between himself and the family, why he would not give my mother a divorce. His first response, which surprised me, was, “I can’t afford it!” There was no statement of his love for her, or the children, or the like. He related it immediately to finances above everything else. And remember, we were not a family with any wealth. There was nothing to be ‘divided’ up. The family home still had a mortgage. Both my parents were still working. Most of the children were long gone and making their own way in the world. But he could not relate to the relationships, just the finances.

(Continued tomorrow)

Shapes of the Past

And then, a woman came past. Wrapped in a thick jacket and a bright red beanie (woolly cap) striding strongly against the slight breeze from offshore, which had again strengthened. She was, as it turned out, a marine biologist, a specialist, who lived in the community across the bay (what were the chances of that do you think?). She was simply out walking ‘her beach’ (as she called it). She stopped to view what we were up to. And upon seeing it, excitedly explained it all to us. It definitely wasn’t a dinosaur. Immediate disappointment for the children as, tired from the digging and plans on a newsworthy outcome evaporated. They felt fame disappear as quickly as the rain had earlier in the day. It was however, an enormous whale’s vertebra. Curiously just the one? She was a little surprised herself to see it alone, as, by then, we had cleared the sand in a wider deep hole and the central part was fully exposed, and only the side flanges from the main bone continued out and down into the sand below.

She did explain how it had probably come to be there and, importantly, how long it had probably been buried. Certainly not one thousand or even the one million years ago we had imagined. In fact by geological standards it was a very fresh deposit.

It seems there had been a whale beached on this stretch of sand earlier in the last century (1900’s), But, she believed that that had in fact, been entirely removed to Dunedin. She then suggested, since it was buried in such a way, it was likely something to do with the whaling past of the New Zealand coast (1791 – 1964). It was not unknown for whalers, having harpooned a whale at sea, to sometimes tow the captured dying mammal to a beach around high tide, dragging it up the beach where it would be cut up. The blubber would be cut away from the whale carcass and was melted down in large cooking pots before being loaded into barrels. Apparently, once stripped of all usable blubber, these large segments were ‘sometimes’ buried where they had been processed on the beaches. However, the biologist suggested that the carcass would have been in a trench and that the sailors and whalers would have just left it to be buried naturally.

It was then we saw, the tide was already racing back in and even we could see we were not going to succeed in uncovering the entire bone before it again was swallowed by the surf. Around that time our father arrived back and observed how much we had uncovered. He spoke with the lady briefly. She suggested that she would advise the local university, in case they were interested in it. I recall she made certain to mark the spot by lining up a couple of trees and tying a handkerchief to the spot. “Right-o, you lot lets get going then”. Our father said. We were looked at him. All a little stunned.

(Continued tomorrow)

Shape of Things Long Dead and Gone

As we arrived at the shape, the sun came out in strength. It shone, causing the wet sand to gleam with a glass-like sheen. The shape stood out against such a background, like a prominent tower in a desert landscape or a mesa rising up from the plain. We were very excited, and immediately, in a totally uncoordinated method, began digging away at the sand around the shape. We had of course not thought this through. First, the sand was still heavy with the water from the receding tide and, secondly, children have a limited strength once enthusiasm fades. It took a while to fade, but eventually, as we dug down into the heavy sand, under a day that was rapidly warming, it did. Then it became work. After what seemed to be an hour or so, we had cleared an area about seven feet around the shape and about two feet down and there was still more of the shape buried below.

It must be a dinosaur bone. We children became positive. Which added to the drive, if not the actual physical ability. Our father had wandered off down the beach to take some photographs. This was at a time when he was still painting, so he was looking to take photographs that he could be later paint. We continued to dig. We had not brought any water with us to drink (in those days hydration was not really considered necessary unless you were running a marathon or such), and so were soon panting heavily, as we struggled with the heavy deeper sand. And still we had only uncovered part of the object. It was porous, it was also enormous and, it was definitely a bone. It was also a little brittle in parts, with the occasional piece breaking off as we dug. Which added to our belief as to the possible age of the bone (not being Palaeontologists of course, we were only guessing). “It has to be at least a thousand years old” said my brother (not being to good at that age with history of the earth either).

It had started to become a very visible, identifiable shape. The main part was a large round central section with blunt ends. It appeared to be a bit like a huge barrel about three feet long. Then, there was a large vane section up off the centre sticking up around two and a half feet. Which was what we seen sticking up out of the sand. Then off the central ‘drum’, around halfway round and on opposite sides, two big sloping ‘wings’ which ran down into the sand, and which, we had not been able to fully uncover yet. We were sure it was bone.. It was appearing to be a little familiar. But we still didn’t know what it was. Of course, we had not fully appreciated the scale of what we were looking at. We took a break to sit beside the hole, somewhat exhausted.

 (Continued tomorrow)

Shapes and Surf

The second day at the holiday cottage began with another rainstorm. We were told by our father that we would not be going out, unless the rain stopped. We sat at the window after breakfast, willing the sky to clear. The merest patch of sunlight breaking through the rain clouds, as they scudded (love that word) across the dreary coloured, windy, skies, drew excited intakes of breath from those of us sitting and waiting. And when the sky finally cleared, midway through the morning, we were even more excited to see the surf was only then, dropping away towards the low tide mark. There was an excited push to get outside. “Coats” our father called. These were needed in the event of further rain, which our father was sure was going to eventuate explaining the trip may need to be called off. We disagreed (in our heads anyway). We obliged, wrapping the oilskins (a great all weather traditional raincoat, well suited to New Zealand’s cold and wet conditions) over our arms and heading off like eager hounds at the front of a hunt. The difference being, we also had to carry shovels and spades as well as a few buckets, which we thought would be needed to dig out whatever the object was.

Our animated conversations during the previous evenings meal had focused on us becoming famous, by the discovery of the first major dinosaur skeleton on New Zealand’s islands.  We knew there had been giant moa’s in New Zealand. This was a very large ground ratite, similar looking to an emu, only standing around six feet tall at its back and around 10 feet tall to the head. Also considered the tallest bird ever in the world. So in the minds of the children, enthused with the spirit of a holiday, it wasn’t a far leap to think we may have discovered a brachiosaurus, or perhaps, as all children even educated a little in the knowledge of dinosaurs, A Tyrannosaurus Rex!  So of course we were very excited as we made our way along the windy beach.

The smell and sound of the ocean is a scent I have never forgotten. The pure amount of energy in the air when walking beside rolling surf is an event I think all people should feel. Yet, I have travelled to places around the world where, some people, even in their later years, have never seen the ocean, or felt any desire to. The difference one feels, of raging, rolling, surf, compared to the boring calm holiday resort beaches is summed up in one word. Stimulation! You cannot help but feel stimulated with the noise and power of surf, booming along the sands, even when the temperature of the water is near freezing. Well, we children were stimulated. Our father followed casually at the rear, ambling it appears, rather than briskly walking and running as we were attempting to encourage. Then in the distance ahead, we could see the shape, rising out of the sand. Bulbous and isolated as the tide withdrew.

 (Continued tomorrow)

Shape in the Sand

We did eventually reach the end of the beach to discover, as mentioned, the inlet to the lagoon and harbour area, …. across the lagoon. To find, we could not just walk to the community, unless we walked as far again around the bay. It curved to end where the houses were built on ….‘the far side’ (What a great name for a cartoon series). Then there was the return trip to consider. Apparently our father hadn’t. Some of the smaller ones were already feeling the effects of the long windy walk along the loud and active beach. Watching seagulls practically flying backwards due to the head wind. But it certainly was refreshing.

Our father took a few photographs of the bay area and then, we turned around to head back. The wind’s pressure, driving us, short legs and all, back along the beach a little faster than we had walked along it in the first direction. As we got around two thirds of the way back to the cottage, we observed a short way off, along the beach, that the tide had receded somewhat, and the full expanse of the beach was revealed. And there, about halfway down the beach, was something significant protruding from the sand, which had previously been covered by the surf, on our way past. We ran up to it curious as to what it may be. It was in fact a porous lump. We ran various suggestions as we waited for our father to come and observe. Then enthusiastically we started to try and uncover what ever it was. Digging quickly in the soft and damp sand with the small pools of water forming in the base of every scoop. The object’s shape dropped away into the hole we were rapidly digging, in a widening slope and when about a foot down the size of the hole was around three feet across.

“It’s a dinosaur bone!” was the enthusiastic cry from my younger brother. My father then suggested, quite logically, “Its probably not”. “It may just be a porous rock. Maybe pumice?”. There was a certain deflation amongst we children gathered around it, as we stood with the dark soggy sand dripping from our fingers. “It might be a bone?” We suggested hopefully. “Maybe we could try and find out what it is by digging it up tomorrow when we have more time?” Our father looked at our eager faces. “You want to come back and try and dig this up?” He looked unsure of what we were suggesting. “That’s how you want to spend your time?” We nodded eagerly. “Yes, please. It might be a really important discovery” We answered. “It could be a dinosaur?” Was suggested hopefully by my brother. “Or a rock.” My father suggested. “But if that’s what you want.” “Whoo Hoo!”. We shouted excitedly and ran down the beach, imitating the seagulls racing in the wind overhead. Major plans running as quickly through our heads as were the flying birds being driven by the Southerly Arctic wind.

(Continued tomorrow)

Shape of the Bay

Eventually, something gave. We were sent from the main room to ‘go and read in your room’. It seems there was a television in the cottage and father decided he wanted to watch some sports, without being annoyed by the children. At home our father’s chair was well forward of the sofa (see blog June 19^th 2012) where the children sat, so we wouldn’t annoy his viewing with our constant knee jiggling or shuffling around (as children will tend to do). Here in the three-room cottage (two bedrooms and the centre room, kitchen, dining and lounge area) there wasn’t a place to put us behind his viewing, so, it was easier to send us to the other room. I was then reading Daniel Defoe’s ‘Robinson Crusoe’ and remember lying on the bunk bed imaging the storm outside to be the tropical one which wrecked his ship. The next morning, as the rain and storm had stopped I suggested a beach combing walk for debris of any shipwrecks, which may have occurred during the previous days storm. It was readily agreed to, and, after breakfast we set out into the overcast, cold day brimming with excitement.

The beach curved into the distance to the south, to a high rounded point where we could see small houses on the sides of the hill. This was across a small inlet, we discovered, when we tried to walk there. There was a tidal lagoon and small fishing boat dock at the end of the beach. And across the water was the community of Waikouaiti. There was a small hospital there, and if I remember rightly, the hospital’s training produced nurses with an enviable reputation in New Zealand, or it may be that they were in-home care nurses, I can’t be sure. As kids we just knew of them. The ‘Waikouaiti nurses’ were well known. I believe it was also because they received much of their training at a nearby mental health institution called ‘Cherry Farm’. This may not be actual fact of course (as I said, it is my history, as I remember it). Being children, we called it a ‘mental hospital’ as people did back then. Not just because we didn’t know better, but political correctness was not such an issue. Even as children we ‘knew’ a ‘trip’ to Cherry Farm was to enter the ‘cuckoo’s nest’, not just to fly over it (some will know the reference there). Was that the hospital my mother was at while we had this break with our father (disregard, a momentary thought only)?

It took us some time to walk the beach towards the inlet, with the various aged children and the mixed lengths of strides we covered. We made our way along the windy beach, passing through a few brief rain squalls, but we wanted to get to the end. Unfortunately, there were “no shipwrecks and nobody drown’ded, fact nothing to laugh at all” *

(Continued tomorrow)

*(ref. Albert and the Lion, a music hall monologue poem by Marriott Edgar (1880-1951), I learnt when young, recounted many times as a performer, and still recall easily, many years later)

Shaped on a holiday

Again it is not surprising that it is the harsher memories that one tends more easily to recall. They obviously have left a deeper trench in the furrows of the mind and body (literally). There were some wonderful moments growing up with my brothers and sisters, and several terrible moments (as would be attested by my younger brother who, as this current blog thread unfolds, was lying in a hospital with a serious head wound). But engagement by my father with the children was isolated to few of those actual moments. I mentioned earlier that we did not have a vehicle so, we tended not to travel anywhere as a family, particularly for any holidays. Nothing more than a day trip to the beach across town on the bus, or later we kids would make the 12km ride on our bikes. We did have one holiday with our father and some of the younger children. When we were in Dunedin itself, where my father was Postmaster at the main post office. We had the opportunity for a weeks holiday at a post office holiday home at Waikouaiti, up the coast from Dunedin, about 30kms out of the town. I believe my mother wasn’t with us, as she had to go in to hospital, so the opportunity was taken for a week away with our father.

We had to travel up on the daily Christchurch-bound main highway bus, travelling north and late in the afternoon we walked from the bus stop to the small cottage near the beach. A long sandy beach stretching north and south with a strong sea breeze buffeting us as we stood at the top of the dunes. Of course, like any excited holiday children we wanted to go for a swim straight away. No. That may happen tomorrow we were told. There were bunk beds in the room and after a simple dinner, whose preparation was supervised by our father, we eventually went to bed, where after several threats to be quiet from our father in the adjoining room, to finally fall sleep full of excitement at the prospect of the week ahead.

We woke the next morning to the sound of rain smashing against the windows. A serious storm had driven in from the sea and was crashing against the cottage. The temperature was cold (not that unusual for the south of New Zealand) and we were going to be stuck inside as the storm was going to remain for the entire day. Banging against the side of the cottage, which creaked and shook somewhat in the gusting winds. There were a few board games which we soon had out after breakfast and began playing and by the early afternoon there was a certain rise in the ‘tension in the air’ as our father, never a fan of being alone with the children was forced to endure the usual arguments over dice rolls, cards collected or moves made. Tensions were rising, as children’s tend to do, over minor decisions. Our father’s over forced enclosure.

(Continued tomorrow)

Shaping Experiences

In many ways my father was not very progressive. He practiced some of the worst of the traditional traits (not just when dealing punishment to children) of the patriarchal societies. It appeared to me, that he considered the fact that he earned the main income, as the greater part of the role he had to fulfil. He depended on my mother (and eventually we siblings) to look after the children. Yet, if my mother had not worked as well, the finances would no doubt have been dire I am sure (for one reason or another). I owe a lot to the work by my three older sisters, in helping my mother with all of us. They also had school-work, and later, one of them, university work to do, while having to help with we younger ones. But we all contributed in various ways, as we grew up to the household’s needs and tasks. What I learned in those formative years (don’t ask exactly what form I consider was formative), has stood me in good stead as I became an adult. Building a capable base on which to build the necessary life skills.

I know that I believe many of my father’s ideas on family came from his own family experiences. Particularly, where we had sidetracked (yet again! I hear you cry) from the tale of the anticipated punishment, I was awaiting in my room. Just before we return to that, I will first finish the current thread. It was his idea of family that was probably out of step with his situation. He could have embraced the experiences of his children and engaged with them. Sadly, in some circumstances he appeared to feel threatened and challenged, even when no actual threat existed. And then he would step back from that experience.

By way of example I look at the circumstance of his art. (see blog 5^th of June 2012) He had an interest, as we saw and had evidence of in the house, of painting pictures. While admittedly he was no great artist, it was obviously an interest he possessed. My next older sister showed early signs of artistic potential, particularly, in the field of painting. My father suddenly stopped. I do not know the entire reason why, but he did not pick up a brush again until many years later, when he retired and was living alone. He did not appear to see the engagement he could have had, and the potential pleasure in watching and assisting in her development. My sister is a very brilliant artist. Yet he separated himself from that joy of growth and connection. Did he not know how to respond? It would appear so. I have a family who between them can be described as creative in a wide variety of fields. He could have been a part of any of them (Our mother certainly engaged more with each of us and our interests). But for the greater part sadly, he seemed not to have truly engaged in either the opportunity, or the available experiences.

(Continued tomorrow)

Shaped by Grand..... parents

Yet, those uncles and aunts I remember meeting, appeared, on the whole, to be fairly happy people. One was even a magician, and to kids, that was a fantastic experience (and no, that wasn’t why I got into performing myself). A visit to his house always gave us a thrill as he would demonstrate some act, or slight of hand he had been working on. Unfortunately, as we had to move a lot, and never got to travel around (no car and no finances – eight kids remember), we soon were distant from any of our other family members. My father’s parents did however visit us once, while we lived in Dunedin. An incident occurred which I clearly recall, resulting in all of us being dismissed from the table, and my fathers parents, after some heated words from my mother (fortunately slightly muffled, as we had been sent to our rooms and told to close the doors), departed the next morning, to never return. It was the last time I saw my grandparents (my only grandparents). There did not seem to be a lot of connection with my father, and, I don’t recall him ever going to visit them by himself. They were, and had always been referred to by us as ‘Nana and ‘Numpy’ (why Numpy? I don’t even know), but, quickly became called ‘Nana’ and ‘Grumpy’. Disparaging I know, for people we knew so little about.

It is disappointing to hear (and wonderful as well) that many people had wonderful, warm, involved grandparents. Yet it is also amusing to hear adults comment how many find those same people, their parents, the very same people they grew up influenced by, so different in how they communicate with the grandchildren.

My father was obviously influenced by his parents, whether their feelings were suppressed over time, or from particular incidents I do not know. But it seems, while he felt emotionally closer to some of his brothers (He did visit them once or twice, by himself, or said that was where he was going?), he never appeared to encourage close contact with them. Perhaps this could be explained another way. It may be that he failed to communicate well with us, because he felt disassociated with the concept of 'the family'. Perhaps his lack of closeness could be for another reason? Did he feel isolated? Perhaps he experienced a sense of isolation with his work, family, even his leisure? I have myself, over time, through choice and for other health reasons, chosen a type of ‘isolation’.  I have chosen it to cope with my own work, social circumstances, and, in some ways, my family. I understand the reasons for it, and have explained it to my family. Yet my father never did. He did recognise the good relationship I have with my son, when, on one of his only visits to us in Australia, he commented to me, how close we were. I said, “ Yes, I have had to work at it.” I don’t know if he understood what I meant.

 (continued tomorrow)

Shaped by War

As I tried to learn a little about my father and my father’s background I came to understand it must have been a somewhat hard upbringing. Yes, there had been the war, and his parents had been through it. However, as I understood it, New Zealand was never a ‘war zone’. Most of the country was involved in ‘supplying’ the mother country (England) with soldiers, sailors and air men, not to forget, factory manufacturing and of course food supplies. The Allies used the country as a base on occasion, but the Second World War was never actually fought on New Zealand shores (Unlike my mothers childhood and suffering in England). There were internment camps (Matiu / Somes Island in Wellington Harbour) where Italians, Germans and Japanese were held during the war, and a serious incident at Featherston Prisoner of War camp (North East of the Capital City Wellington), which through cultural and language problems had resulted in the death of 31 prisoners (with a further 17 dying of their injuries later) and over 74 injured, on 25^th of February 1943.

However, although New Zealand was somewhat isolated from much of the ‘horror’ of the war, it was definitely affected by it. There was the tragic loss of life in all the various ‘theatres’ of the war (Don’t you think that is a terrible use of the word? I have always associated the word theatre with entertainment, and there can be nothing entertaining about war.) Rationing however, was a major part of the wars impact on the country, and I understood from this, it was obviously a part of the forming of my father’s parents and thus, in turn my father. The saying I often heard about my father’s mother for example (from my mother) was, “She could put half a pound of butter on a slice of bread, and scrape off a pound”. ‘Frugal’, was another word that was thrown about a lot. The idea of going without was a major part of my fathers upbringing, by, what it appears were very staid parents. I spent limited time with them when we were younger, and obviously my mother, and my father’s parents, did not like each other much.

On the few occasions we visited (that I recall, I could count them on one hand), We seldom ever spent longer than a few days at our grandparents (our only grandparents unfortunately due to my mother’s being killed, in a bombing of her house in England). Apart from one period, where our father’s job required a transfer, and we had to stay with them for nearly two weeks (or at least eight days… it just seemed like two weeks) They were not friendly people. They were strict and very reserved. I never saw a lot of emotion from them. So I could imagine this impacting on the development of any child. We had several Uncles and a few others we called Aunts, but I couldn’t tell you who was actually directly in line as a relative.

 (continued tomorrow)

Shaping The Man (Part 3)

Our confused birthdays (and incorrect dates) aside, what appeared to be of interest to my father, tended not to be shared with the young members of his family. So we never really got to know his interests first hand. He went to his lawn bowls and lost a lot, and won a few, which he cherished (I think he got on the committee there). He went to the horse races (when they were on), or followed them on the radio. Years later, my mother discovered a little black book which showed how much interest he had in ‘horse racing’. In the winter he went to his rugby football club (he also became treasurer, or secretary there later on). He went to the local hotel nightly (and didn’t get on any committee’s but he went there a lot for meetings, cough cough)….. we remained at home.

We saw him at the end of his work-day, sometimes, briefly tending to the garden before going over the road for his evening drink. We saw him if he was home on a Saturday morning (before bowls in the summer and, before the rugby club if winter). We did see him if he gave us tasks to do. And we saw him wallpaper various rooms, in the different houses we lived in as we moved around. We saw him on Sunday, after we got back from church, although he did occasionally attend, mainly Easter and Christmas (if there was no bowls on). Or we saw him on Sunday if there was a rugby game on the television and some motor sports. Which is strange when you think about it, as we didn’t own a car, and there never seemed to be any motor interest apart from that. He did like to cook his own Sunday lunch (see blog 19^th June 2012) but that was for him. He never cooked it for everybody. If these were his interests before he became my father, then he apparently kept them up after he became my father as well.

Yet he kept them to himself. I don’t recall ever being invited or even going to watch him compete in Lawn Bowls or to watch the football club play (Even when he was secretary or treasurer). He did take me to a soccer game once, after I had been playing for the club Northern United and he had come to watch. His only comment after that game was ‘That other boy was fast, wasn’t he?” referring to our winger (Who was fast.) But that was little encouragement or support. As we didn’t have a car, we relied on other parents and the coach to get us to the games and therefore, maybe my father was embarrassed to ask for a ride to watch me play? These incidents in our relationship (which we both struggled with) are clearly understood by me now as an adult. They contributed to the divide and lack of appreciation of each other. It was, where my father had come from that created this man.

(continued tomorrow)

Shaping The Man (part 2)

While he stood there in our back yard, during the early evening, with the hose, quietly watering ‘his’ vegetable garden (and admittedly he did do most of the work). It would probably have been a useful time to have sat and listened to him. If I had thought he wanted to say something. I never really had that feeling with my father. There was never a ‘closeness’. And, given there was a certain amount of respectful fear, earned primarily through several ‘confrontations’, there was a difficult personal relationship between myself and him, and other members of the family. And regretfully, the few times we did talk, it was usually to discuss what had been wrong between us and it seemed he could never see what I was referring to. So, I ask myself, now, and even before he passed away, what had created my father, the man I knew? What had made him behave and respond to his children the way he did?

In those few conversations I had with him as an adult, I learnt several things. One, he had never wanted so many children. That was an interesting position for a man who had eight. There were never any real religious convictions to have pressured him, which would have stopped him from taking certain steps. I never saw him as a devout man or even seriously dedicated, except to lawn bowls and the horse racing. In fact he was so dedicated that, it appears, according to my mother, on the day I was born, he arrived at the hospital. He took one look at my mother, who had (according to her), been through a very fast delivery with me. She said, I was in a rush to come into this world and have been in a rush ever since (personally, I just think I set out to do a lot and in many ways I have). However, looking at my mother and then looking at me, his first son after three daughters (you would think a cause for celebration. He definitely was not of European decent), he stated simply, “Well, you look alright, he seems fine, I’m off to a bowls tournament in Palmerston North (a couple of hours to the north) for the weekend”.

This is probably another reason for the total confusion over my place and date of birth. It was after all, a long weekend as it was Easter (only 3 days back then, again, unlike the holidays we have to endure now). In fact it was Easter Friday, the 13^th of April. However, my father didn’t register my birth until his return on the Monday after the weekend, 16^th of April, and he forgot which hospital. Hence I have two birth certificates, one for the 16^th April in one place and one for.. the 16^th of April in another. Does this make me feel special? I don’t think so. The fact that when my brother was born two years later our birthdays again got mixed up and for the next 14 years we celebrated his birthday on mine and mine on his (or usually combined).

(Continued tomorrow)

Shaping the Man (Part1)

When I was looking at the role of being a father myself, I found a book called ‘Manhood’ by Steve Biddulph. This also led to a book (amongst many others) called ‘Iron John’ by Robert Bly. One of the major parts of fatherhood discussed in the books is not actually what the father does, but, is about who the father is. This question is to be understood when viewed by the child. It asks the question, ‘Who is your father?’ Not, who is your father, now? It refers to the part of your father that many children do not know or unfortunately ever ask about. The simple, ‘life story’ about your father. Where did he come from? Where did he grow up? What did he do as a child, teenager, adult? What were, or are, his histories. These appear to be simple questions, but, when asked in the context of how they shaped the attitudes and ideas of the person your father became, to you, they are incredibly significant. I recall the passages, which simply mention that many men (this is true, particularly in Australia and New Zealand) follow their true interests after work, in a shed. Where they ‘potter’ with their hobby. While this is happening less, in today’s more electronic age, the idea, that father’s had other interests apart from the actual job they did to earn money, was seldom considered by the children.

For us, our father seemed to enjoy vegetable gardening. Yes, we moaned (and sweated) when we had to help with the digging over of the old vegetable garden. We were actually more delighted when father managed to borrow the mechanical ‘rotary hoe’ from another neighbour. And then there was the weeding, and sometimes watering of the vegetable garden. Though the watering of the vegetables was something our father preferred to do. Perhaps it was the simple act of standing listening to the swishing of the water as he manipulated the hose head over the growing vegetables, that was his only quiet moment of the day, and he must have appreciated it. Understandable, when you think he had been surrounded by people most of the day at his workplace (although he did have his own office), and then to go over to the crowded hotel, where he usually had a nightly drink or two after work, before having to return to a noisy household of eight children. Those quiet moments with the hose, must have been very special to him.

(Continued tomorrow)

Shaping the Child

And continuing where I briefly went to yesterday, while laws are made to protect the general population (which unfortunately, with what I have seen of it, is necessary) as usual, much of the information is based upon ‘reported’ (for reported read in a lot of the focus as ‘media’) not necessarily the actual situations or sources.   Because of the often shocking, and disturbing incidents, the reactive sources of law making create ‘blanket’ interpretations. This is one of the problems in dealing with societies as a whole and not having the ability to separate the problem individuals and develop better skills with them to manage their problems. My father tended not to need to know what others had done, but, as mentioned, based it upon what he had been shown. What his upbringing had been. Regardless of how misguided and ill informed it would appear to have been by today’s standards. We did learn very many moral skills. And that in itself, means, we have fairly high moral standards. Would there have been a better way to have learnt them? My butt, legs, arms, hands and head thinks there would have been. But, what did we have to compare it too?

It is not until today, when I talk with people about their childhoods, I hear how different many of them were, and, in some cases, how much worse were the experiences they went through as children, than my own experiences. Yet, many of those of whom I have spoken with, even those who went through far worse experiences, have turned out to be good, moral and personable people. While many younger people whose lives have been far more privileged and ‘easy’, struggle with the very day to day moral decision making (and in many cases fail it) which we all face. Should they have been more harshly dealt with. Should they have had to ‘earn’ what they appear to treat as a right. The very concept of not being permitted by law to smack or reprimand a child is already creating an arrogance in many young people. The influence of foreign television (American particularly) has created a myth in many young people that they can ‘sue’ any one who upsets their privileged existence. The idea that they will benefit financially, if corrected in anyway by any adult or other persons is contributing to this attitude and behaviour. These misconceptions are of course fed, in an ‘urban myth’ type philosophy across the country and like many ill informed politicians, so too are the young misunderstanding their concepts and attitudes are being altered in an unfounded manner.

Today (2^nd Sept 2012) is the day for recognition of the Father. ‘Father’s day’ as they call it. A time when people celebrate their connection with their father (or disconnection), the moments they recognise their father’s contribution, and, in many cases (as we all age), mine included, reflect on the memory of that father. The who, the what, the why. The big questions which are the basis of where we came from most recently.

(Continued tomorrow)

Shaping the Scale

Trying to work out the list of expected potential punishments wasn’t easy. First of all you have to identify the form the list will take. Do you grade it from the size of the offence, the size of the punishment, the embarrassment level of the punishment? Do you work it out on the psychological effect, the post-traumatic indices, or, do you simple count how many strikes formed the punishment. On a scale of one to ten, with one being a general smack, or a simple slap up to ten being… well, perhaps for legal reasons we had better not go into the specifics, but it wasn’t pleasant (no, that wasn’t a mistake of tense or person, it wasn’t pleasant to get what as I child I would today call a ten). Then there were other ways to scale punishments of course, and the primary one would be how effective or not the punishment was.

I am sure everyone has their own memories of what they may or may not have ‘got away with’ when a child. Could you help yourself to a biscuit from the kitchen and when discovered, received a quick slap on the hand and a ‘telling off’ from your mother (I say mother, only because in our house she was in charge of the shopping and stores)? Was the balance of the taste of the pilfered biscuit, and the pain of the slap a suitable trade off? And how many times could you get away with one slap per biscuit, before the price went up to two slaps, or, to a smack on the hand, or leg, with the wooden spoon. At what point did you deem the pain wasn’t worth the biscuit? Or did you take it one step further and steal more than one biscuit? To ‘equate’ the extra cost of the inflicted punishment you received. Before you think to yourself, that’s only fair, let’s briefly look at the reason for the punishment. You were taking something, which you were not entitled to. So, fair reason for the punishment. You were in fact stealing. Not yours to take, so, not allowed, therefore punishment deserved. Your parents were simply attempting to teach you a moral law. I stress moral law, rather than illegal, but it is the start of the ‘slippery slope’.

So often today I hear the complaints that, when children behave badly it was the fault of the parent, for not teaching the child good moral rules to abide by. In many cases I have to agree, however, good guidance has also become restricted by civil libertarians and these ‘do-gooder’s misguided sense of duty to the young, based mainly on the extreme cases of a few. Once again we are legislated against because of a few knee-jerk responses to what could be, better considered and informed decision making for the masses. There are definitely some serious issues to be addressed, but not every situation is the same.

(Continued tomorrow)