Feel The Status

It was strange that partly because of our family ‘not’ owning a motor vehicle, it sometimes affected our school ‘status’. Car-less was seen as labelling us directly into the ‘poor people’ category. Yet I was always amused when we could jump straight onto our bikes (when we had them) at the end of the school day, and start making our way home (even if in the winter it was cold on the bike, very cold in winter), while the special ‘rich’ kids had to wait until their mothers came to collect them (waiting outside the school gates in the winter as well). Perhaps pointing this out to them on several occasions, led to finding the bicycle tyres regularly being let down at the end of a school day? I began, even then, as that young child to equate ‘rich’ with the word ‘mean’ (this has changed a little, but has never been diss-proven entirely)

This was just one of my objections to the Capitalist format. It taught the dreadful maxim (which was later encouraged by government unfortunately) that ‘Greed is Good’. That if you had money it automatically made you better. Many children from ‘rich’ families appeared to automatically believe this. They ‘lauded’ over the other, less significant of us. They often paraded what they saw as their ‘wealth’, sometimes a special set of clothes (Not all schools had a school uniform), or a fancy or very current new toy (one of the reasons schools put a ban on toys being brought to school?), some form of game equipment (a football, new sports shoes, etc,- no electronic games invented then), or would loudly and constantly go on about some trip away (they were always ready to ‘rub’ that one in to those of us who never got a trip away). Or worse the way they spent any cash they had. Making the point that you didn’t have any. Even worse, proving to other children that you didn’t have any money. Ever (which is getting to the Robin Hood side of the story)!

Children, if not guided decently can be seriously unkind. It was their way to say how much better than you they were. One thing I have learnt in all my life lessons. You can’t buy morals, or good behaviour. I know some may argue, ‘but you can bribe people to behave well and get them to do what you want (As proven time and time again in local, state and Federal elections to this day!)? Which is true, but if the people’s morals were of a high enough standard, then they wouldn’t accept a bribe would they? Good behaviour and moral behaviour should be learnt early. So while I have occasionally done the wrong thing I had developed a serious moral code, which has stood me in good stead, even if at times it has isolated me from a group. It was from one of these lessons, which involved Robin Hood and the excellent teacher Mr Walsh, rather than one of my father’s punishments that gave me the real direction (nearly there). (Continued tomorrow)

Feeling The Separation

The sad thing about the Capitalist format, is, it is usually the most influential because of the time it is presented to the various children and students, they are heading towards finishing school, about to enter the workforce (Not many had had to find part time work to get things), and what is foremost in their thinking? Capitalism. Not the feudal, nor the socialist ideology. The ‘haves’ and the ‘have nots’ are especially noticeable at that high school and teen age. There are the factions, splits, and the ‘in crowd’. This is an effective, ‘divisiveness’ when added to the turmoil of, teen angst, peer pressure and the generation gap, which is experienced by all youths (don’t believe you were the only one, I know it felt like it, but apparently it felt like it for most people at high school). Consequently, even the most minor of differences between students, can be blown out of all proportion, because of that emotional period of the ‘world of the teenager’. When not only the bodies are changing, with the hormones crashing about those bodies, but there is also massive upheaval in the minds (in themselves chemically altering). And any mention of divisions at that time, can cause enormous grief, pain and anxiety. Even the ‘in crowd’ experience their own forms of segregation and seclusion. But, it would have been better (for me anyway) if it could have been experienced by everyone, equally.

Sometimes, these various ‘experiences’ did teach us something about the nature of the beast of the teenagers. This in itself was a difficult lesson to learn, and one, which I learnt again, and again, at every school I went to. I spent more time as the new kid, or the younger brother of…. (three older, very clever sisters). …There was a lot of isolation for me personally. I found a certain solace in my own company, eventually.  But many of those growing up, even in the same neighbourhood, also created their own divisions and applied it in the schoolyards. It may not have been a strictly financial division, but even, saying (or rather being told in no uncertain terms) you came from a ‘poorer’ area of town, created a definite stigma. And regardless of your home life, that illusion created by the other students, would stick like a fluorescent sign to you, because other children in the ‘clicky’ group said it was so. Even the fact that you came from one end of a particular street, could cause divisions. And there were moments, I will admit, even as young as five or six, when the financial ‘standover’ tactic was practiced by some very skilled young entrepreneurs at one or two of the schools I went to. They knew if you were ever getting to buy your lunch (a rarity in our house) they knew when to hold you up (once or twice quite literally hold you up) before class, to negotiate the relinquishing of any meagre funds you possessed. And, being segregated, by others, meant there was no support network to prevent such activity. This was feudal, but it was driven by capitalism.

(continued tomorrow)

Feel The Money

And the third format I have observed as school ideology, was the Capitalist format, where those with the best finances, got the best education (supposedly). I generally considered this format applied at high school, but, unfortunately, today, in some suburbs of Australia (and like western cultures), the Capitalist format is already starting to overtake the other formats in even the pre-school sector. (the rich – and they know who they are-  want the best for their children ‘only’). The sad thing about the capitalist format is often the children have done nothing to be involved in the wealth their parent possess, so they tend to have been spoiled, rather than developed a sense of value for the position held. They seem to ‘expect’ whatever they are handed. There is little grace in their behaviour, demeanour or expectations. There are of course exceptions in this. I have observed children, in the same family, for whom the wealth has come during their lifetime, react differently. Some who started without, and have grown accustomed to the wealth, have that necessary ability of value. Others in that same family, who have arrived, as the wealth existed, expect everything (and usually get it).

There has often been a sacrifice on the part of one or both parents to have this wealth, and it is here, there has been a trade off in other areas. ‘Money can’t buy happiness’ is the oft used phrase, which sometimes had the added tag “but it sure helps’ when looking at the family cost in acquiring such wealth. I recall giving some presentations many years ago, to several ‘executive’ groups, of lawyers, doctors and dentists (yes, dentists usually earn a bit of high end finances as well). The common theme expressed by them was, they were working long hours to earn the big bucks for their children to have a good life. Meanwhile, as I pointed out, their children were growing up without their necessary involvement. Was that a good trade off?

This Capitalist format is particularly noticed in the high schools, for where there is status in ‘material possessions’. Most private schools (for those reading this blog from overseas (yes I have certainly noticed you all, thank you) in Australia, State run schools are ‘public’ school and ‘private’ schools are usually religious denomination based (and State) supported and the private schools have the excellent buildings, equipment, smaller class sizes and resources. State run schools usually struggle financially, are burdened with large class sizes and lack genuine resources. Sadly, many of the students in the private schools do not seem to value the opportunity presented by such quality (again there are exceptions). The teaching standard appears higher, but is it necessarily better? In some cases, yes it can be. But, in others, it is still the quality of the actual teacher, not what they have available, that crafts the better student. There are many teachers in public schools (I was generally in the public school sector, apart from a few where run-ins with nuns and such were involved) who influence their students despite the difficult circumstances.

(continued tomorrow)

Feel The Divisions

Be it young or old, whether a mind carries a lifetime of experiences and thoughts or, whether it is innocent and naïve (that’s not to say an experienced person can’t also be naïve), it is essential, to get the best possible future from anyone, they must at some stage be ‘inspired’. Any teacher, has the wonderful prospect, and the potential, to do just that. ‘If’ they are truly serious about their teaching? If, it is their true vocation? It will be apparent very quickly. I have met some, who consider it enough to simply turn up to class each day, every year, with a preset lesson (from previous years, and even the same schedule of days). Boy, were they (and are they still), the first to complain when the curriculum is changed, usually for one political decision or another (Never mind the education, look at the curriculum). They miss the real opportunity to engage with the inquiring mind before them. For every mind must inquire at some stage. I cannot believe that a person can go to school and not have at least one question they are wanting to ask. How, that question is answered by the teacher before them, may well guide much of their future approach to learning.

Those who are simply turning up, will usually produce students who will do the same. Simply turn up. Their level of interest in the information that is being ‘told’ to them (certainly not involving ‘learning’) may lose interest in any other teacher, simply because of the response to this type of teacher. When you consider most children spend their first year or two with one teacher (often thought of fondly as they get older). And in most cases they are delightful and engaging about a lot of ‘interaction’ but not necessarily education. They do the basics, and encourage the students, but it is more the older classes, that begin to exert any real influence the level of engagement.

I once suggested that there are three ideological versions of general education existing in this country, Socialist, Feudalist and Capitalist. As very young students, in our preschool and first primary school levels, we engaged in a Socialist format. Controlled by the benevolent dictator (the teacher).  Everyone got the same of everything. Everyone did the same thing, at the same time and, we all ate the same foods. Then, in the next level of schooling, it became the Feudal system. There, the bigger the noise by a student, then the more the attention (both in class, and in the playground particularly). This is where the old saying ‘King of the castle’ proved to be not just a playground game. This was the ‘King of the castle’ who knocked you down, and, pushed you aside to get what they wanted. There was no fairness or real negotiations. This is also where real divisions start in schools. The forming of the ‘clicky’ groups (the ‘in’ crowd), the process of selection (or mainly rejection in my case.... it's okay. I coped. Sort of) for class games, playground games, and even study groups.

(Continued tomorrow)

Feel The Responsiblity

Before I continue with the explanation of the connection with Robin Hood, Mr Walsh, and myself, I will continue for a blog, or two…. (okay possibly a few more than two, but maybe not) with what I believe is the essential argument for the necessary high standard and strong abilities for a person to be a successful teacher. It is not good enough for a person to simply ‘teach’. A merely ‘capable’ teacher is a real disappointment. They neither affect nor excite the students, and therefore what is their contribution? Little more than childminding. There is no doubt that a ‘good’ teacher will definitely influence their students, but a ‘great’ teacher can influence a mind, which can influence hundreds for life,

A phrase I have heard many times is

“Those who can, do, Those who can’t, teach.”

I disagree. If you can’t do, and you teach, and, you’re a lousy teacher, isn’t that even worse? I prefer the phrase,

“Teaching, without it, all other trades are impossible”

That says a lot more. Yet it is still assuming that the person imparting the necessary knowledge, is qualified to do so, or, is going to do it in such a way as to encourage the person being taught. Think about this. Why do some people become captivated by a chosen field? And in many cases, go on to great achievement in that field. Most often, it is likely because of an actual physical experience or an ‘engaged moment’, where their curiosity was piqued, or they experienced a strong emotional experience, which formed the connection between the subject and their future involvement. Often it is by being introduced to the subject, by someone who themselves is engaged, through full time occupational association or, through strong hobbyist emphasis. In his book on manhood, Steve Biddulph (See blog October 3^rd 2012) mentions the garages around the country where, in the evenings, many men (and women) can be found engaging in their hobby, which is put to one side in their responsibility to simply provide income. But how many could possibly have done their hobby as a job, if, they had been engaged by the right teacher.

I have experienced the entire gamut of teaching standards, as I have attended a large number and wide variety of schools, some colleges, a university or two (as a student and as a teacher) and more importantly, Life, over the many years I have moved around. I have witnessed the methods from those driven by religious zeal (potentially misguided when it comes to imparting other real knowledge), Immoral headmasters, and self promoting idiots (actually that was the same person), those driven to the very edges of psychotic breakdowns (and, one or two that literally went over the edge while teaching us), to the most engaging and enthralling teachers who raised your interest beyond the simple words and curriculum. Yet the balance of the great teachers, is the far more minor percentage of that list. Is that why, when I finally encountered one, they were so influential to me?

(Continued tomorrow)

Feel The Lesson

So, Robin Hood. There he was. A wronged, but, generous character in my young, impressionable mind. From England, my mother’s birthplace, so he held a certain extra raised status in his value (apparently). He obviously possessed a strong sense of honour and loyalty, as the stories would have us believe. Seeing that greed of the rich was not good, that greed of the church was even worse and loved by the poor masses. Of course I would be impressed. So I mention him only because of the thing I did wrong next. Wrong, but for all the best of intentions and more importantly, the lesson I learnt from someone, which involved no physical punishment, no mental punishment and generously, no financial punishment to me. But it left a much more lasting, and sincere impression on me.

I had a teacher when I was around nine years of age. A Mr Walsh. He taught me in my last two years of primary school. For those of you in foreign countries, primary school went from about 5 years of age, to around 11 years of age. Depending on your skills, you may have been sent up an extra level of learning, or not. Since we could read before we went to school, we jumped the first few levels much quicker than others. So by the time we got to the last two years of primary school we were younger than other children in the class.

Mr Walsh was a gentle spoken man, with a wonderful sense of the love of learning. He understood that questions needed to be answered and would take the time to do just that. He also understood that one question should lead to another. This was the underlying nature of true learning. Many of the teachers I had had, prior to Mr Walsh, and unfortunately many after him, had simply taught. There is a real difference. The nuns, for example, had especially their own way of getting you to learn. Basically, drumming it into you. Not encouraging you to learn, but drumming the same things they were taught, into you, the way they had been shown. Repetition of information, without actual learning of the facts, or, understanding of the lessons. Stifling the inquiring mind. Yes, I could parrot most of what they had shown me. But I also learnt a lot about bad behaviour (by them) and I still question the true moral behaviour of what some of them put me through in the name of their religion. There were teachers who thought it important to talk down to children. That was also frightening. Then there were the teachers who couldn’t communicate, but just insisted that you copied the lesson from the board as they wrote it. Word for word, verbatim, and ……..pointless. No engagement with the pupils, no engagement with the subject they were meant to teach. And so they taught, but didn’t seem to care about the outcome. I am sure we have all had such teachers.

(Continued tomorrow)

Feeling The Myth

Now, there have been many tales told of robbers, thieves, highwaymen and bush-rangers which have, despite the actual subject (the illegal behaviour) have had their names fall into the categories of ‘Legends’, ‘Myths’ and folklore, essential to the many societies they were a part of. Or more accurately, not a part of. Yet there often was a certain dominant theme with those that survived into lore. Their back ground and personal histories. Some, such as Ned Kelly (here in Australia), the armour wearing robber (what he became most famous for) were victims of social situation and prejudice. There is no denying that he and his family did wrong, but much of what they were blamed for at the time appears to have been false, and so his persecution was up to a point, unjust. What he decided to do after that however, and where he passes into dominant status in folklore of Australia, was his choice. Some names, while romanticised by writers of the times or later, portrayed as highwaymen cannot claim the same privilege of social poverty and unfair treatment. Dick Turpin of England being a classic example. Choices made to pursue the life of crime. There seems very few societies, that have not at some stage raised actually criminal and bad persons to great status, despite their illegal doings. At the time many feared them, but later they are almost regarded with fondness.

One such classic name, whether he did actually exist as portrayed or not, has survived because of the enduring theme he raises in the conscious minds of societies. Robin Hood. I grew up with the versions of a betrayed nobleman, returning to his homeland after many years imprisonment, to find the ‘spirit’ of the country devastated by years of Feudal mistreatment and unfair royal demands by both State and Church. The reason for his imprisonment in itself should be questioned, as he had gone on a crusade, at the command of his king, to challenge the power of another religion, in another country (boy, does this sound current or what?). However, on his return home, he discovers his father has been murdered by jealous lords and his property taken. He turns his back on both the royal order and takes sides with the average suffering citizen. Now here is where the folklore takes power. He then, according to popular myth) ‘Steals from the rich…. To give to the poor’.

What a guy! What a great tale to unite the masses. This poor de-possessed Lord, is able to win favour with the masses, by stealing the riches of the few, and supposedly distributing it to the poor masses. Wouldn’t that be noticed? I mean if someone suddenly was given gold and coins, they couldn’t account for…. Wouldn’t that draw attention and probably punishment from the ruling classes? And speaking of myths and legends, think back further (and given the time of year), wouldn’t it have been difficult for Joseph and Mary to have got rid of the gold given by the three wise men, without the Romans asking a few questions about where they got it? Just asking.

(Continued tomorrow)

Feel the Division

So since I have already related the incident of the door handle (see blog March 28^th 2012) I don’t need to continue with the rest of the recovery story. I had only brought up this incident because of what the bike reminded me of. It was definitely significant in my life, and as a freedom. So the punishment from my father, a combination of physical, mental and then financial (the taking away of the bike) was pretty extreme. But, I had lied to my mother, and as was pointed out to me, stolen from my family. Regardless of the amount being so small (five cents). It was still stealing, and deprived my family of…… maybe…the ability to buy…. a single carrot? My father never seemed to view the amount he spent nightly ‘over the road’ at the ‘pub’ as ‘stealing from the family’, nor the money spent on the horses, bowls, rugby or other events. He never lied about it…. (except what he really spent on the horses) and he never actually ‘said’ how much he spent at the pub, nor on any of the other events, so I guess that was the main difference. He was after all (he told me), the ‘breadwinner’ a very traditional sense of roles displayed and as described by my father. So he felt entitled to spend some of ‘his’ money (as he also described it). The fact that our mother had to work as well to make ends meet, and to actually put food on the table and clothes on our backs, made me often wonder why he never cut back on all of the spending of ‘his’ money? Don’t get me wrong, he was entitled to a little bit of leisure for his work, but there never seemed to be an equitable division of the money from him towards the family expenses.

I don’t recall him ‘not’ going to a bowls game (particularly when trips away were involved) because one of ‘his’ children needed new shoes. I don’t ever recall him not going over the road for ‘a beer’ after work because one of ‘his’ children needed new school books. Even on Sundays, when the hotels used to be closed (unlike today), he always ensured he had bought a few bottles to consume. There seemed to be a lot of ‘him’ spending ‘his’ money and the children often going without, or sometimes missing out on something a little better than they could have had, because we did not have any spare finances. But seriously, it wasn’t because of me stealing five cents. That was still wrong, no argument.

I had done the wrong thing again and been caught for it. Did it make me sorry? Did it make me change my behaviour? I think where I have been going with all of these blog entries, is looking at whether I learnt from the punishments I received from my father (and occasionally my mother). Did it make me stop doing the wrong thing? Even when I knew, that if I was caught, I would receive a punishment of one form or another. Or did it just make me more aware of hiding what I did, if I did something wrong?

(Continued tomorrow)

Feel The Pieces

I had the feeling the doctor was a little distracted as he was examining the x-rays and hadn’t immediately realised what he had said aloud. But my mother had heard it. “What?” she somewhat erupted. “Oh!” the doctor must have been taken by surprise. I know I had jumped, even while lying on the bed. “Oh, he hasn’t” he answered very quickly. “He has a few fractures to the side of the head, and the forehead and face, but its…. sort of ….all remained intact.” He quickly explained. ‘Bit like looking at a completed jigsaw.” He added. Then realised that wasn’t any better as a comforting explanation. ‘But all the fractures I am looking at, are very fine. Very, very fine. I don’t think any have even gone through to make a complete break…. Through the bones of his face, that is.” He finished hopefully.

I was lying there listening keenly. Shattered face? Like a jigsaw? I was off on a quick daydream. Touring the world as a special act. What a great title. The ringmaster/ master of ceremonies enters the ring, and loudly announces, “Ladies and gentlemen, (dramatic pause) I present …. The man of a face, of a thousand pieces. ‘The Jigsaw Man,” Then my mother broke the spell.

“So nothing serious to worry about then?” She brought me back to earth. “No,” The doctor assured her. “There’ll be some swelling for a few days and we will have to make sure the swelling goes down and doesn’t develop any infections” The doctor continued positively, “But, I can’t imagine it even leaving any permanent marks or changes.” I was rapidly losing interest in what this doctor had to say. I was going from ‘severely smashed face’ to ‘a bit of swelling’. “So will he be right for school?” My mother immediately added.

What? She had gone from worrying about permanent damage and even possibly impending death of her son, to (in two seconds flat), ‘will he be right for school?’ Obviously demonstrating that enormous flexibility of her mothering instinct. Or, was it because she had to work, and couldn’t have me lying around the house, requiring specialised care…. (Probably the latter). I was lying there on a hospital bed, temporarily ‘blinded’ and likely to require a certain amount of care for a few days, and my mother was not only strapping my schoolbag on my back but basically motioning (if not pushing) me out the door and back to school, where now, the status as hatching spider bringer, nor accident injury victim were even on the horizon as far as raising my school profile. How was I to cope? I couldn’t do much, and probably just lying in bed listening to a radio (since I couldn’t see, the Television was out), would be the total amount of action from me for a few days, until the swelling goes down. Then the doctor would be able to examine the potential gravel (and the ‘etc’) that was under my lids.

(Continued tomorrow)

Feel The Cracks

This thread came of course, from recalling an incident where the bike, which was about to be taken from me, because of something I had done (stealing five cents for a chocolate marshmallow fish – see blog November 7^th 2012), had reminded me of a time when I had been in a bike accident. I had been struck, probably accidentally, by a car (which I remind you had not stopped) and now I lay in the hospital awaiting the results of those x-rays. My mother was asking if I could see any better. But with my eyes (one more than the other) still somewhat welded shut with blood and other matter, despite the gentle soaking cloths that had been applied by the nurse, while I lay there, the answer was a definite, “No”. The doctor had commented that there ‘may’ be residual gravel etc, (it was the etc touch that really made me wonder) trapped under the lids. And while it was difficult to get a look at that time, as the eyes had also started to puff up considerably, he had tried. I flinched several times as he had attempted to lift the lids.  “Perhaps it’s better to cover the eyes to reduce eye movement, and when the swelling goes down we’ll get a better look at them.” He had said.

The x-rays then apparently arrived. No doubt the doctor did the very recognisable action of walking over to a light panel and sliding them up under the top clips. I had seen it often enough previously that I didn’t need to have my eyes open to see what was going on. These were the thick Acetate sheets types (which were great in later years to use for cutting out stencils for spray painting). I heard my mother ask, suddenly slightly more concerned. “Is everything alright?” “Ahhhhh” was the doctor’s first comment. Pause while he must have examined the image “Hmmmmm?” was his second. He was obviously changing his pre x-ray opinion “Well…. Its not too bad.” Was his third hesitant comment.

My mother was not the sort to pussy foot around when it came to health issues of her children, well, depending on the actual injury (more on that in a later blog). “Well? What is it?” “Oh”, the doctor responded somewhat surprised. “Well, it’s fractures, definitely fractures, but very small”. He sounded fairly casual. “Fractures(ssss)” My mother responded, emphasising the ‘S’s. “Yes,” The doctor answered. “Multiple fractures, but they are all very fine, around the face and side of the head.” I lay there. Multiple fractures? My face was ….. shattered? Wow. I felt pretty impressed, despite the pain. “Are they serious?” my mother asked, definitely raising her level of concern. “Well, they could have been” The doctor answered in what sounded a little absentmindedly, “In fact the ones to his temple are very serious. Well, could have been” He corrected himself. “The temple is a very fragile area. Smash that in and it can kill you.”

(Continued tomorrow)

Feel The Power

The technician manipulated the arm of the x-ray machine around me. He was wearing one of those lead aprons, which, apparently protected certain parts (don’t ask me what, at my age then), from radiation. The apron gave protection from all that random, dangerous radiation, flying around in every burst, at least for him, but not for me? Did that ever concern you? I know I had a lot of breaks and injuries, and I probably had more than my fair share of x-rays, but, was I being constantly bombarded in an unprotected burst of radioactive exposure? Of course I was. But I was a child. I’ll probably grow out of it. Or grow maybe. Doesn’t radiation create massive city destroying monsters? I know that it was always because of the radiation the creatures mutated. Could I mutate in the future?

The x-ray technicians would position everything, while wearing these heavy stiff aprons. Then, once they had moved the sights, inserted the photographic plates, focusing the cross hairs (on my face this particular time), they would step back behind a wall with a small window in it, saying, “Hold still”. Then the click, clunk, Whirr and after a short pause, they would step out again. Supposedly after the radiation had stopped flying around. It was obvious they knew the machine was not perfect. They could focus it roughly in the direction of the injury, but there was still a chance it wouldn’t be quite right. Hence they hid behind the wall. It always seemed strange to me that there was a window in that wall. Obviously it must have been made of special glass, which stopped the radiation from leaking through? Why didn’t they build the whole room like that then. Why did they have to go and stand behind a wall? Why was I left lying under the arm of the machine like a modern day sacrifice to the greater power? Something special about the glass? Or, so you would think. I was told some years later, when older and curious about the actual mechanics of what they were doing, that there was nothing special about the glass at all. It was one of those arguments, that, the radiation was flying around from the machine, the ‘chances’ of it actually passing through the window space was pretty huge.

Chance? I was always told you don’t take chances, particularly with radiation. The chance of radiation bouncing through the gap where the window was, was very, very high, but it was possible? People (particularly the technicians) have to ask themselves about the risk? If it is like throwing a ping pong ball through a small window on the third floor, Then that should be fine. Very little chance of succeeding. Until you got it? Then it wouldn’t be too hard to keep hitting that same spot again and again. They call that ‘getting your eye in” and if you were talking radiation, then the idea that the random radiation could follow a specific movement and since it’s the same head in the window, the technician could be getting it in his eye!

(Continued tomorrow)

Feel The Drive

To drive a car means much more than driving to pass a test. Understanding how a car works, does not mean simply understanding the actual mechanics of an engine (although that does help), but more importantly it is understanding the physical rules a vehicle must obey. The rules of mass, the laws of acceleration, the effect of gravity. (Doesn't that sound a lot like physics again? I keep saying we should have been taught it day one of school), When really driving a car, driving a car correctly, efficiently and legally, you need to comprehend what is actually happening to the vehicle itself. What is the effect of the road conditions, the weather, the weight of persons in a vehicle. What do all these forces do to the vehicle. What is the driver's actual knowledge? How capable are their reaction skills and how well is their cognitive ability, reasoning and physical responses (definitely different to reaction times)? What experience do they have which can be applied to any situation.

Living in Australia as I do at present, very few drivers have ever encountered 'black ice'. Trust me, you don't, as a driver really want to. But when I did, I didn't find it disturbing in the least. Scary yes, but manageable. I was the only one who thought so. Driving a vehicle on diesel and water on a sealed road can be scary as well, but is manageable. The secret lies in understanding the physical mechanics of a vehicle. This can be obtained with training, application of rules, and especially experience. It is pointless to take someone with less than a year of driving on a Four wheel drive course, or advanced driving training program. They have nothing to apply to the experience. Neither knowledge of vehicle movement sufficient for the application of what they would be taught, nor understanding of events being explained by the instructors. They can attend, listen and nod. That is pretty much it.

Actual driving does require a significant background of driving experiences if it is to be successful. Should we change the age that children learn to drive. Introduce them to the fundamentals earlier. So by the time they are of age to drive to 'pass the test', they actually understand sufficiently the actions of a vehicle, and the responsibility of moving a half tonne or more of metal and alloys about the streets. How many children growing up on farms and in remote locations in most western societies, are able to drive a vehicle, be it a quad, motorbike, tractor or farm vehicle (or all of them) by the age of ten or twelve? Often able to better handle any vehicle at that age, than many much older drivers in urban locations? Then, there are the 'hoons' and rev heads of immature age and experience, who can unfortunately bring disaster and death to communities, partly due to their lack of skills, and, their mistaken belief in their own hormonal driven abilities. I don't know if the driver who knocked me from my bike, failed to remain as he was under aged, or just lacked true driving skills. But now I lay beneath the large arm and sights of the X-ray machine.

(Continued tomorrow)

Feeling Brave?

The technician leaned in and asked, "Been in the wars then?" What is it with these doctors, nurses and technicians? Are their days filled with war casualty victims and soldiers passing through their hospital? No, I have simply been in a car accident, I thought. I have not been in a war, and I doubt you have either. There are some who may have been. Seriously faced life and received injuries in a real theatre of war. I was not one of those. I was simply injured in an accident. A moment of low concentration, and since the vehicle didn't stop, perhaps a moment of low concentration from both the driver and cyclist. The driver thinking they were in error obviously did not want to stay around to find out. How can anyone actually do that? Leaving a child on the ground after hitting them with their car? It is of course an offence to leave the scene of any accident, without checking on the welfare of all involved. There is also some requirement to exchange details should anything happen in the near future. But in the 'real world', fear can be a strange motivator. Fear that something more serious has occurred, or that something unexpected may happen. Then again there is a person's personal history. Some driver's may have issues with driving, some may have issues with the road rules, others simply lack the necessary skills. 

I completed a specialised driver training program some years ago, during which the instructor ripped apart my driving faults, trying to undo in two weeks the poor driving skills I had acquired in over twenty years of actual driving. One of the things he had mentioned at the start of the course was a simple statement. "You were taught how to drive, so you could pass a driving test, I will teach you differently. I will teach you how to drive a car" He looked at those of us gathered before him, "Trust me, by the end of the first day, you will start to understand the difference". I have to admit, by the end of the first day he was right. The difference between the two is most pronounced. To drive to pass the test is actually quite simple. The combined information in the basic driving test, is, to say the least, shallow. The rules required and the knowledge are strictly about reading signage, knowing the basic principals of the internal combustion engine and how to make it start, go, speed up, slow down and stop. To know a few of the laws and rules makes you better at the vehicle control parts. But, there is no challenge in the basic rules (apart from overcoming your own personal nervousness). The entire process is brief, and purely based on conjecture and recognition. The instructor cannot see into your head. So if there is any reason why you make a decision to take a particular action, if it works safely, within the rules, and effectively, why would you not be passed?  The entire process to pass your licence is based on learning a sequence. To drive a car however is a totally different set of skills and understanding.
(Continued tomorrow)

Feel Familiar?

That intake of breath was a potentially hopeful sound for me. It may be that I would now be told some 'tragic' (yet schoolyard attention-getting) news (as I had hoped, since losing the spiders for my presentation), about the real depth of my injuries. Something more insightful than "... A few scratches and bruises", as my mother (and the laughing nurse) had inferred. I lay there keenly listening in quiet sufferance. Then, the doctor uttered a sad comment of, "Oh dear." Followed by a slightly drawn out pause. It's okay I thought doctor. I can take it. My mother leaned in slightly, I felt her presence. "What is it?" She asked. Concern had edged it's way into her voice. Ha! I thought...... And you were laughing at me. The doctor's voice sounded full of concern as he waved the torch light back and forth across my face. "It looks like.... ", He began slowly. "My torch is going flat." He finished.

Now I exhaled, having been holding my breath. "Oh, is that all." My mother exclaimed as she took a step back. "I thought you were going to say you could see some serious damage", She continued. "Oh, no". The doctor exclaimed. "Don't  be ridiculous (yes, great bedside manner here), he only appears to have a few cuts and scrapes, is all?" My edge disappeared as well. "But we had best get him x-rayed. Just to make sure." The doctor continued. I meanwhile, in pain and physically affected from the crash, was filled with a certain amount of mental doubt for this doctor and his skills. I knew where I hurt. He had simply waved a low powered, and battery-flattened torch, over my features and passed what he thought was a viable opinion. No wonder people always suggested second opinions. I was sure there was more to the injuries than he was saying. No doubt as soon as I was trundled off to the X-Ray department, he would converse in a more serious and in very real terms with my mother. About the genuine nature and the true extent of my injuries. Perhaps his bedside manner was so good, he didn't wish to concern or upset the young patient. After all low stress is very important to the healing properties of a victims physical body.

So I was trundled down to the X-ray section, which was in the central area of the building. The large darkened and dimly lit room with the space like appearance of a giant microscope and table, upon which I would lain, or under which the bed I was on would be positioned. The large white oversized arm with the targeting sight would be moved to the areas of concern. I had been here before and was well aware of the process. This time I lay on the bed. Unmoved by the doctors analysis and waiting to be moved by the technician. I must have actually been here for the same technician before, or at least they recognised me, as they put the bed into position and he commented, "Oh, it's him".

(Continued tomorrow)

Feel the 'A' Roll

What!!!!? I was a young child. What possible person would consider I was old enough to have fought in a war? Given my background, a young Caucasian child, raised in a country somewhat isolated from the rest of the world, which at that time was not involved in any major conflict. I was seriously starting to doubt this doctor's abilities. The closest I had ever been to a war was sitting in the very front row at the Regency cinema, watching that wonderful boys own version of the battle of 'Rorkes Drift' in the film 'Zulu' (starring Stanley Baker, Michael Cain, and an ensemble cast of some of Britain's greatest). And admittedly sitting in the front row of a cinema with 5000 rushing Zulu warriors tearing towards you was terrifying to a young child, but not something that would result in this sort of injury. The worst injury I could have received was from being struck by a swinging arm from one of my brothers as in their excitement, they may have suddenly offered to point out one warrior deserving of the attention of one the the gallant British riflemen. I still rate this film as a terrific example of A: The classic period of Post War English film production (Yes, I know it was made in 1964.... That was still post war) B: The massive faults of the British Empire, yet, most of all, C: The great example of the type of English fortitude and courage, we had grown up hearing about from our Mother.

As far as historical accuracy goes, it is as accurate as any other true story made into film. Someone made a story about something and someone made it into a film. If, as they say history is written by the winners.... Then alternative versions may simply take a few years to be given a fair hearing. Imagine the short time in the future, when someone wants to write a true story about something? Given today's apparent inexhaustible recording of every moment of people's lives, they will have more information to go through than ever before. Imagine sorting through that information to locate the exact comments and phrases that people uttered. It may just be easier to edit the actual footage into a more viewer friendly format, than to re-film it with actors, if anyone ever considers true story films.

But I was still pinning a lot of hope on the diagnosis of the doctor in relation to my injuries. Would he see the potential life scarring I was to be faced with. Would he at least with his greater medical skills explain to my casually worried mother and her cohort, the laughing nurse, the true level of crucial information of the actual physical damage my body had suffered in this latest of accidents. I lay back, the eyes closed in weariness. My limbs slack with the weight of the pain. The doctor's voice settled as he moved a torch (I could see the change in light through my closed eyelids) across my damaged visage. I heard him intake through slightly clenched teeth as he obviously observed the real injuries I was suffering.
(Continued tomorrow)

Feel The 'B' Roll

My ineptitude has nothing to do with the doctor, but I was going to have to rely on his sympathy, now that the nurse and my mother were over the effects of my pitiful considerations. Okay. I certainly possessed a few injuries, but, they didn't consider any were going to cause permanent injury. Thereby not really achieving any great school status or notoriety. The worse thing apparently about me being brought into the hospital, was the release of an unknown quantity of unidentified baby spiders. What do you call a baby spider? Spidette? Cubs?  No. They are actually called Spiderlings (I just checked). My spiderlings were to have propelled me into social awe and wonder at school, but instead of hatching out and terrorising a classroom, they had been accidentally released in the Accident and Emergency department. Who knows, no doubt the hospital sprays against insect infestations, but perhaps it was possible for a single spider or two to have survived their crashing impact with the floor. To have then escaped from the sweeping sucking of the vacuum cleaner, operated by the bored hospital staff cleaner (can you imagine what they must have to clean up occasionally? Wow. Talk about put a little colour in your life! - advertisement catch cry) and to then miraculously avoid detection, or being squashed by feet, trolley wheels, mobile trays, urgently moving nurses or slightly less frantic doctors and other items. 

Having successfully avoided injury or death. These spiderlings then find a warm, moist corner of the hospital complex and over time, feed, and potentially breed. Or to grow, larger and larger. To secretly leave their hiding places and between the nurses patrols and patient treatments, to find their prey. Imagine the potential food sources that would have been available. Patients unable to move. Some actually drugged into a motionless state (for their own benefit, not the spiderlings). Easy prey. To be further bitten into and depending on their size, to be wrapped for feeding. I wonder for a moment if the food chain could be affected by any drugs which had been administered to the patients, their food source? Could this affect the spiderlings growth and development? Could it create a super spider? Increasing intelligence. The spiders may have eventually been forced out from hiding due to their voracious appetites, and take over a room or corridor of the hospital. Undetected by other staff.... Eventually... Taking over a floor of unwary patients and staff. Yes, as a child my imagination was never in doubt. My grasp on reality however, you may wonder about. (And anyone reading this who can see a film script..... I'm sure it's already been done.) 

And back to reality. Not winning me over completely with his bedside manner or apparent  knowledge of biology, there was the doctor. Standing looking down at me. A frown on his face as he replaced the board at the end of the bed. Looking back towards me in a concerned manner (and remember I was peering carefully through the matted blood eyelids of one eye, so my view was a little constricted) he said the next worst thing. "Been in the wars then?"
(Continued tomorrow)

Feeling Sarcastic?

I asked plaintively. I peered towards her. One eyed and forlorn. She looked down at me. Her eyes focused on my face. Then she leaned in and the door of social acceptance slammed loudly shut. Hard! As my mother said, "Don't  be ridiculous, you have a few cuts and scrapes. Don't be so melodramatic. Scars indeed!". She laughed with the nurse. Loudly. That hurt. That hurt a lot. Fortunately it was then the doctor decided to turn up and show his mettle and bedside manner. All professional and business like. He did that classic 'television' recognised gesture, of picking up the clipboard and peering at the small section of the filled in form. Let's face it, I was a youngish child and was lying in a hospital bed. I was still partially covered in blood around my head. My eye(s) were practically sealed shut. My mother standing at the side of my bed, and he says, quite vociferously, "So. What do we have here?"

Oh, I don't know Doc. What about a Galapagos Marine Iguana with a skin problem? Or perhaps a Lamborghini 'Gull-wing' incorrectly parked in the hospital bed. But since you are the doctor (with the required stethoscope slung expertly over your shoulder) I would think you could recognise, or at the very least, identify an injured child. 

I am sure I didn't actually think of any of those responses at the time, but what is the point of even saying that? There was a skit in the Monty Python which I recall, where one man's speciality is "Stating the bleeding obvious" and there are many, many people like that. Standing outside on a a fine hot and sunny day and, someone, for the sake of social interaction says, "Hot today, isn't it?" This was the sort of comment that such a person makes. I have often felt the desire when such a pointless phrase is uttered, to (and I know this would be sarcastic, so I don't,....... always), respond with that challenging question.... "Compared to what?" This would immediately create a thought pause. Where the person who stated the original comment would be momentarily forced to explain their obvious statement, and there would be a slight problem.  There would be the usual grasping at air as their mouth moved to say what the brain had not even considered as either information or purposeful comment. In those circumstances the brain was probably not even considering what it had said, but had moved onto thinking about something else equally irrelevant in the conversation field. Then the person realises that I am the sort of person who is prepared to debate meteorological issues (with supporting historical and relevant data), and as they prepare a response, they can nervously observe my anticipation of any following comments. The art of conversation is not dead. It has simply fallen ill with a malaise at the insistence of banal and irrelevant comments placed randomly into social situations by unthinking people. It lies in bed, suffering the effects of the abuse of considered thought by the socially inept. My social ineptitude however, stems from a very different purpose of thought.. 

Feel The Need

Those of you regularly following the blog are of course aware of the answer to the second question. Once again.... Caught out for doing something without permission. From the look on my mother's face I  guess it was a good thing I was in a hospital already (just kidding). However there was no doubt that she had lost a good preserving jar. One of the large ones too. In our family the use of such jars were fairly crucial to the winter food supply. Not in any extreme mountain winter survival way, but generally in having options when it came to the range of foodstuffs available to our somewhat limited palate and purchasing options during the non-bounteous months. The preserves of summer peaches for a winter pudding or pickled onions for the delightful crunchy treat. Or, as mentioned the various jams we were provided throughout the winter months. We couldn't have done without the preserving jars that were recycled each year. Now we were one short. Thanks to me.

In the meantime my patients property bag was closed up and the top folded over and taped closed, securely, by the attending nurse. Others were laughing a little, which did nothing for my mothers dislike of public embarrassment. I have already mentioned this was one of her great dislikes (see blog ............). once again I had successfully created the situation again. This time, completely unintentionally. That still wouldn't stop her comments, once I was away from the hospital. I am sure I would hear all about it again. The event would have to be relayed to the other family members. For me, it was the nurses reaction that was the important part. No doubt my mother's version would focus more on the smashed preserving jar. See what I was referring to about witnesses (see blog 10th December 2012), they all view events with their perspective in mind.

With the outer bag well and truly sealed, any spiders currently climbing around inside my school bag or inside the paper bag were well and truly trapped inside, with the broken glass and all. I was in no position to argue about their containment and felt my school presentation was gone, crushed, finished. The great and terrifying, girl scaring, boy pleasing, school talk was a wash out. I would have to focus on something else. Then it occurred to me. Was I badly disfigured? Did I have an awesome scar from the crash. That might work in my favour. While a bicycle crash may not be the most glamorous of incidents, the fact it was a hit and run added a certain 'mystic' to the event, and, if I was left with any impressive injuries...(nothing too horrifying of course, just romantically dashing). The door to school social recognition and peers acceptance was opening a crack. I tried to see my mother through my partially opened eye. "Mum." I croaked sympathetically. She leaned in towards me. "Yes?" She enquired. I tried to muster a brave and sympathetic response from her. "Am I badly........... scarred?"
(Continued tomorrow)

Feel the Blame

While I myself could not see the spiders on the floor, there was obviously a lot of them. The poor surprised nurse, quickly regained her composure. Even if her scream had aroused the recently departed, lying in the morgue, behind the accident and emergency department (was that by design I wonder?). I could barely see through my partial eye lidded vision of one eye. and, while attempting to remain at arms length from the horrendous multitudes, the nurse gathered the neck of the patients property bag closed again. Have you ever noticed that people often try to keep something unpleasant at arms length. Generally, also trying to avert their faces, or at least their eyes and sometimes their nose. Even if they have to actually touch it. I know I can handle just about anything ( and in my current employment generally do), but if there is one thing that has made me seriously gag in the last few years, it was, bizarrely of all things, the collecting of soft dog faeces from a shag pile carpet. Trust me, trying not to look at it, while experiencing the warm and soggy sensation, and the sharp smell that came with it. I gagged a little.

Brushing off her hands in the process. I think there must have been quite a lot of spiders escaping. The jar had, as I had expected, smashed during the collision, and the nest, which was obviously well and truly ready, had broken open. Imagine how great that would have been during the talk. Just as I was presenting the information about the masses of spider babies, they would have broken out inside the jar. The boys would have loved it. The girls would most likely have screamed and some would probably have run from the room. The other boys would have really loved that. I must say that probably could have changed my entire school year and school career. It would have been talked about and probably even made special mention at the end of the year. As I didn't make it to the school, I was the only student to hear (can't swear exactly what I saw, given how poor my vision was) the nurses horror at the contents of this particular patients property.

I'm not saying that my entire school experience and success was due to the failure of this presentation not happening, but there can be no denying, had I made it to school, and the event as expected, had occurred......? Who can say how I may have been treated for the rest of the school year. Instead. I was shown ( very quickly) the mass of small spiders inside my patients property bag. A glance only, as the bag was rapidly shut. All the while my mother had become quite excited and demanding to know one or two things. One: What was I doing with a spiders nest in a jar in my school bag? And of course the other question.... Where did the jar come from? 

(Continued tomorrow)

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Feel the Reason

I didn't wear glasses. My mother was correct about that (she remembered me). Why would I have mentioned glasses to the people at the accident? "I don't know", I slurred. "They started looking for another child, in case he had glasses." She continued. I don't think she heard me. "They couldn't find anyone, but you insisted on checking if your glasses were broken." I strained to try and open the eye through which a little light was shining and saw my mother talking to the nurse, who was trying to sort out the blanket. Even in the hospital, Dunedin could be fairly cold. Then, slowly through the haze of my consciousness, I thought of what she had just said and repeated. "My glasses? Broken?" Light dawned, not just through the partial view of my damaged eye, but also in my thoughts. "Broken glass", I slurred. "No." The nurse responded. It's all right, there doesn't appear to be any broken glass in your eyes. Just some gravel and the blood has dried, so it's probably scratchy." "Noooo." I insisted slurring even more. Is the broken glass in my schoolbag?"

It probably would have been helpful if I had mentioned that the broken glass was actually a jar, that had been intact, prior to the accident. But which, in my injured state, I was concerned had become broken. It would no doubt have been more useful, if I had realised that I had not told any of the attending nurses, staff, or other people gathered, that the jar had a nest in it. That the jar had a nest full of hundreds of digestive fluid, ingesting, liquefied remains sucking spiders (see blog 26th November 2012) in it. That this, was the broken glass I was so concerned about, and in my delirium, I felt was still a major issue. You can tell, I was caring for the survival of the spiders. The talk I was hoping to give was still running around in my sub-conscious. My mother listened to what I had said and scoffed. "Why would you have broken glass in your schoolbag?" She sounded annoyed and perturbed. "I didn't have 'broken glass' in the bag, I had a jar." I began. My mother turned to the nurse and asked, "Is his bag here?" The nurse obligingly offered to check. She left for a moment and my mother came a little closer. "Honestly why would you have a jar in your bag?" "For the ....... I had barely begun when the nurse, returning with a large paper sack, on which I could almost make out the words, 'Patient's Property'. I recognised it rather than read it, because I had seen them before. The nurse was opening the bag to check on the contents as I started to say "Spi...."
"SPIDERS!!!!!!!! SCREAMED THE NURSE (sorry, screamed the nurse). She dropped the bag with a bang on the floor, as a small horde of spiders appeared to materialise over the rim.
(Continued tomorrow)

Small note, but since this is posted every day and I am travelling.... do know how hard it was to get to a connected computer? No wi-fi available, no shops selling sims for the ipad.. but thanks to Silicon tree Computers... we got it to you.

Feeling Without Seeing

Then someone said, “Here’s his schoolbag.” And then I heard them make the comment. “Oh, its one of the Dwyer children.” All I heard then, was the “Ahh”, in unison, from those gathered. Obviously, no further surprises about the incident. We had a small local reputation for accidents (as mentioned in ‘many’ previous blog entries), but obviously, not due to any specific intentional behaviour. We were simply a large family, so accidents were probable. It was also the consequence of the accidents that many people came to know who we were. So once again, there had been a incident and a member of the Dwyer family was down. Bleeding. There I lay, a victim of an accident, this time because of my bicycle (That is the link to what I was talking about, before I went off on this tangent, in case you had forgotten). My father as a further part of the punishment for ‘stealing’ the chocolate marshmallow fish (see blog 7^th November 2012), had taken my bicycle from me, and I was relating an incident about the freedom it gave me. The spiders. So now we are back to where the tangent had gone. The spider’s nest in my school bag, which had been gathered up by a concerned member of the public, after the accident (the school bag, not the spider’s nest). I was obviously still somewhat concussed and tried to ask several other questions or at least to try and tell them something, but apparently I wasn’t making a lot of sense to some people.

The ambulance arrived and the attending medics went about their work professionally. I was still unable to see and as I lay there, passed in and out of consciousness still. The next thing I really recall was lying on the bed in the hospital emergency. There were the sounds of several nurses or doctors moving about the bed. That buzz one hears in a hospital. Swishing of curtains, trundling of carts and trolleys. The walking of soft soled shoes. And, most especially, the soft library like, calm, voices of those attending to the various patients.  I lay there, apparently not urgent. The lack of vision was explained. A nurse arrived a short time later and with a soft sponge and water began to wash my face and to see if my eyes were simply caked with blood. As she softened the dried matter that covered my face, I could feel bits of grit and chips of stone, moving around under my eyelids. I managed to get her to stop. A doctor turned up a short time later and discussed what might be required. Then I heard my mother arrive. The word ‘bustling’ comes to mind. She bustled in and with vocal concerns arrived at the bed. I could see a little out of one eye thanks to the administrations of the nurse. Then my mother asked a question which caused some confusion for all of us. “What are they asking about glasses for? You don’t wear glasses?”

(Continued tomorrow)

Feel The Variations

This is why it takes several eye-witnesses to reconstruct any incident, and then you are faced with their interpretation of what they think they have seen, rather than what they may have seen, especially if their version has been affected by conversation with others. One of the first things to do, whether dealing with serious matters or even children (in our case our mother didn’t learn this till much later), is to separate the witnesses, so they have to at least stick to one version. Theirs. A classic urban myth is of the two physics students who went partying out of town for the weekend before their exam. They awoke much later than planned on the Monday, and rushed back to find they were too late to take the exam. They immediately concocted a story, that their vehicle had had a flat tyre and this was the reason they were too late. The professor listened to their story sympathetically and then told them they could sit the test the next morning, providing they arrived on time. They did. Enthusiastically they presented themselves to the professor who took each of them to a different room. He returned a short time later and put the test paper face down on their respective desks. He explained they could turn the test paper over at 9am and begin. 9am arrived and the two students turned over the papers and read the first question.

1:  Explain the principal of Thermo-dynamics at sea level. (20 percent mark).

The students quickly began. Easy enough question. Then, they turned the page to the next question.

2:  Which tyre was flat? (80 percent mark).

Even if they were lucky and guessed correctly, they had a one in four chance of being wrong. Including if they had simply tried to nominate a side, even if not a specific tyre. Had they thought the story through, they would have realised this was one time, they (as witnesses), needed to talk to each other to ensure their created version made sense. This is an example when such indicators prove a version is concocted. Some witnesses stories are so perfectly correct they ring alarm bells.

For me, that wasn’t the issue. I was lying there, bleeding from my head wounds, pained all over. Stunned from impacting with the wall and feeling somewhat nauseous from all the motion I had been through (including in and out of consciousness). I was unable to see, and yet hearing a multitude of versions already. Then I believe I asked about my bike. And again, there was a series of differing versions and opinions. “it’s a write off” was one voice. “The front wheel is wrecked, but the frame seems okay?” was another opinion. “Did he have a bike?” was another voice. Everyone was apparently involved, yet some didn’t even seem to know what had actually happened. But they were there. Involved. That was the important part. They would be a part of the days ‘excitement’ and chat that would be the talk of the valley that morning and afternoon.

(Continued tomorrow)

Feel The Attention

The voices continued. I still couldn’t understand why I could not open my eyes. “There, there. Just lie still” A woman said. I heard the door to the butcher’s shop ring, the spring mounted bell, and another voice proudly announced to those gathered around the prone and injured child. “Ambulance is on the way!” “Oh, good”, another voice added. The incident had obviously caused a bit of a local stir and a crowd of several had congregated. Several adults, stopped on their way to work to observe the injured. Anything of interest, to act as a delay. I could hear other school students, some who knew who I was. None who actually seemed interested in anything other than I was bleeding from the head and face. Then the comment that was probably most important. “Did anyone see the car that hit him?” Silence. This was followed by what I have in the last twelve years come to recognise as a problem with all witnesses. “Yes, it was a big white sedan” Said one. ‘No it was yellow” said another. “When I looked up I saw the red car driving off.” Said a third. Eye witnesses. They can be helpful, but are never the most reliable of information sources.

There are so many variations in what people see, and more in what they think they see. Even worse in what they hear and think they hear. My least favourite line in ‘Eye Witness’ news reports are comments such as, ‘It was like a bomb going off’ or ‘It was like a war zone.” If these were eye witnesses, my very first question to them would be, “and when have you heard a bomb going off?’ or “When were you in a war zone?” With some of the many returned servicemen and also the international refugees we are now seeing in our local society of course, these phrases may indeed be recognisable, but generally the people saying these phrases have very likely never been anywhere more dangerous than the local theme park or carnival.

Eye-witness. It actually means they saw the event. In many cases, particularly in traffic matters, the eye-witnesses have only become so, after the actual crash. Occasionally they react to the sound of the tyre squealing on the road surface, or the blaring of a horn. Even with the fastest reaction time, an incident can be over before the eye witnesses have turned in the direction of the sound. Rather than turning in time to see the incident take place. In all the years of driving, working and living, I myself have been an actual eye witness to only about four serious events. I have observed and heard the incident prior to, during and as it occurred. I have seen dozens of partially observed incidents, and hundreds of post incidents. But the only ones I would consider myself as an actual eye witness to, in which I could tell the entire story from start to finish, you can count on one hand.

(Continued tomorrow)

Feel The Presence

So, when the wheel hit the curb, the laws of motion transfers through the front twenty inch wheel, and everything else (bike, rider, schoolbag) climbs over it as the motion carries them forward in that arc caused by the wheel size. The rider flies over the handlebars, hits rough cast wall upside down and as he grazes along it, gravity pulls him back to the surface, also face first. Things crashed around me. I remember the sounds. My bike hitting the ground, my face hitting the footpath, my satchel striking the bitumen and my body crashing on top of my face, before landing horizontally. The sound of the car driving off. What? Yep, the sound of the car driving off. I heard it, but couldn’t do anything about it. I was definitely hurt. In fact I passed out.

It was not that long before I came to again and was very disorientated. In a lot of pain. And I couldn’t see. Could not open my eyes to see. I heard quite a few voices. One or two I had heard before. They were saying ‘Lie still, it’s alright we’ll get them.” I wondered what they were going to get. I tried lying still but even that hurt. Then a really strange feeling came over me. I was not where I had been when I passed out. I tried to sit up, but apart from sending massive pain to my head, it seems someone was holding something on my head. Ah, that made sense. That would be why I couldn’t see. They were covering my eyes so I wouldn’t see…… see what?

No. I was confused. I had been on my way to school to present the talk, and I got knocked off my bike. On the side of the road where the church wall was. But now I was outside the butchers shop, on the other side. How on earth did I know that if I couldn’t see. Maybe I had. Maybe this was one of those ‘out of body experiences’ that people had talked about when they sometimes talked about my mothers powers (see blog 12^th July 2012). Maybe I had died and gone out of my body for a moment and seen…. What? Of course. People had simply carried me over to the the butchers shop. Think about it. There were no mobile phones and very few phone boxes. But someone had realised there was a telephone at the butchers shop. Logically, it was easier to pick up the injured child and carry him over beside the shop, so they wouldn’t have to shout out across the road different questions about my injuries and such when they called the ambulance. Don’t worry about moving a victim hit by a car, who may be suffering neck damage. What’s the spinal cord? What’s paralysis? The child was knocked unconscious after being knocked off his bike and thrown off the road and collided face first with a brick wall. He’ll be right. Might need a band aid plaster.

(Continued tomorrow)

Feel The Forces

Yes, that famous temple region, which, if hit just right, can kill you. Fortunately it didn’t. It did however, meet the side of my face and temple, and introduced the rough cast plaster and gravel wall surface with all of that negative force  discussed yesterday.

At speed, the impact probably would have looked very interesting. Even more interesting if it had been filmed with one of those ‘slow motion high-speed capture cameras’. Yes. The multitude of expressions as my face approached the wall. The fear factor, as I was airborne from the bike. Recognition, as I saw I was going to collide with something. Surprise as I recognised it was to be the wall. Panic as I realised I would not be able to prevent this from happening. Realisation, that it was in fact a hard brick wall. Shock as I saw the roughcast cement (with added gravel) was broken in places, and then, the actual impact. A spilt second or two, and an entire gamut and a variety of thoughts and expressions flashed across my terrified features. Someone said to me recently, “You must expend half of your energy in the use of your facial expressions”. I inquired what they were referring to. They likened it to the classic Italian character who talks with their hands as well as their voices. That day I probably would have used a lot of energy on my facial expressions as well.

So the face met the wall and the rest of the body followed. You may recall how I mentioned in the earlier blog of the kite, the stilt, my brother and his injury, (see blog 5^th April 2012 ) head wounds tend to bleed very quickly and, a lot. Mine did as well. My face had mashed into the wall at speed, I believe the rest of my body had tried to catch up with my face and achieved a higher point of contact with the wall. I was upside as I hit the wall in full contact. Gravity of course (another set of Laws which Newton wrote down), would not allow me to remain there for long, as the formulae demonstrates.

                               Fg= m1Xm2 /r2 *

 

So of course my body didn’t. There was a moment when all of my face had been as mashed as was possible in the circumstance. Before my body lost its horizontal trajectory and achieved a point of motionlessness. Then the weight and gravity, forced the parts of me, which were lower than my body, towards the ground and bitumen footpath also at a calculable speed. So. We have crash, the bike bounces from travelling car, to parked car and back to the travelling car. Is struck again and flung off towards the footpath. The bike stops at the cement curb, at least the front wheel does. The small wheel size of the Raleigh twenty was an issue here. They only had a 20 inch front wheel. That was part of the attraction, but also a contributing factor to the incident. The cement curbs were about 6 inches in height.

(Continued tomorrow)

*(doesn't layout like that but typing it in is the best I can get) 

Feel the Cement Finish

So having proven yet again that Newton was right, or at least his laws of motion confirmed what had been happening since the dawn of time, and he was just one of the people to write it down. And that he was smart enough to tell others about it. I proceeded into the rest of the crash.  There was little happening from here on in, except I was being flung away from the point of contact, knocked in a trajectory that took me away from the forward travelling (though braking) vehicle, and straight towards the raised cement curb. Striking the curb front on (the third law again), I flew not only over the handlebars, and the curb, but through the air (the first law again) and met with Newtons ‘Third Law of Motion’ once again.

Across the bitumen footpath was a light purple/mauve painted brick wall (as I remember it. Though why anyone would paint a wall mauve, particularly a church?) This was the retaining wall of the Anglican church in the valley). A ‘rough cast’ brick wall. You may remember me mentioning this type of wall previously (see blog 5^th August, 2012)? Not just made of bricks, but also covered in a cement plaster mix with small gravel added for texture. Added. The gravel must have been added to increase grazing injury when people scraped against it. I can’t imagine I was the only one. Added to increase complications even though the small stones are supposed to be smooth. The plaster was not that fresh and was already breaking apart in places. It was this wall, which applied the third Law of Motion, to my body again.

When one object applies force on another, the second object exerts an equal and opposite force on the first.

So let’s just examine that again. One object (in this case, my body), applies force (my body flying at speed, so that’s velocity x mass), on another (for this we are using a stationary brick wall). The second object (the wall), exerts an equal (that’s mass of my body) and opposite (that’s mass of my body x velocity….. to the negative) force, on the first (I get stopped). That’s, my mass x velocity = (-ve) my mass x velocity, which unfortunately do not just cancel each other out so nothing happens. But it means the moving object is stopped with the same force it was moving with. You can observe what can happen if you take a lump of plasticine and throw it at a hard surface. It keeps its shape until it meets the wall. The idea of phase particle physics flashes briefly through my travelling mind… not that specific title, but the idea that; if I could increase the resonance of my mass I may have been able to have passed through the wall entirely, but since I don’t possess that particular super power… I just met the wall at speed, and primarily with my face and side of my head.

(Continued tomorrow)

See The Laws In Motion

The third auditory requirement of ‘KLRUMP’ is the ‘Doppler effect’. The apparent effect, in relation to sound (or light), between the source, and the receiver. This can be demonstrated by the effect of the sound of an approaching train at speed and the person standing on the platform as the train passes and fades into the distance. It appears the speed of the frequency changes in relation to proximity and builds slowly before becoming solid and passes. In this case, the sound of the incident doesn’t pass and fade as it should. ‘KLRUMP’ is the approach and the solid contact with the vehicle. KLRUMP has the beginning of the Doppler effect before coming to a sudden stop. The rest of the effect is not so reliant of audio, but physical.

The solid contact, which produced the sound, was just the start. Then a sequence of events and a chain of physical reactions, all confirmation of Newtons laws of physics (he would have been so pleased). Firstly the collision was proof of the First Law:

An object will remain at rest or continue travelling at a uniform velocity, unless a force acts on it.

I was travelling at a uniform velocity as I had swung out around the parked car. And no doubt I would have continued to do so had not the force of the car (even in braking) acted on my motion. Then there was the Second Law:

Acceleration of the object is equal to the force acting on it, divided by the objects mass

My motion on the bicycle did not continue uniformly. I was definitely propelled at speed (Accelerated) from the car that hit myself, and my bike. Not a lot of mass there, particularly considering the mass of the car that hit me. So that would be (quick calculation) the Mass of the car, divided by the mass of my bike and myself….. and given that cars were much heavier back then and tended to be made of steel, not the light thing alloys of todays vehicles, it would look something like …. v = ut +10s (am) or something along those lines. But given the Third Law:

When one object applies force on another, the second object exerts an equal and opposite force on the first.

All I know is, I bounced at speed, from the vehicle that hit my bike and myself (oh yeah, equal and opposite force, until the difference in the two masses were involved), onto the front of the parked car I was passing. I must have maintained a grip on the bike’s brake and handle bar. I remember the speed wobble as I tried to regain control. Where one leg slammed my foot down onto the roadway as I slammed back into the braking, tyre squealing car, which managed to get a second shot at me with the side of the vehicle colliding and sending me even faster careering towards the side bitumen footpath. It was unfortunate, but there was a cement curbside in the way.

(Continued tomorrow)

See The Structure of Sound

Simply put, to, ‘drive without due care and attention’. It is exactly what it says. Driving (in control of a vehicle – yes, it can be a bicycle) without (paying) due care and attention (to the road and surrounds about you. Including; other vehicles, persons, animals and property). That was me. On my bicycle. Racing to school and, as I went to swing out to pass a vehicle parked beside the curb, I swung out a little wide and, without glancing behind first to ensure all was safe to do so (no such thing as bike lanes in those days), it happened. With a blaring of a car horn, a definite squeal of brakes, a car’s, not mine unfortunately, as all I had were the old back brake and a minor frontal grip below the left handle of the bike. To use the hand brake you had to let go of any grip you had on the handle bar extend your fingers straight down and grab the small bar below the handle. That back brake was faster. That was where you had to reverse the direction of the pedal, and stand down on it. I remember practicing the reverse brake and slide on the gravel tracks in the area. Trying to create that classic sideways drift stop at right angles to your direction. However in this instance, the muscle memory did not kick in. All I recall is the horn, the squeal of brakes and the sound of ‘KLRUMP’.

‘KLRUMP’ is a very special sound. It involves three aspects of audio effects. The first is that combination of specific matter being collided together at speed (eg:the bike, the car and the child) Not all materials produce the same ‘KLRUMP’ sound. It must involve not only hard matter travelling at speed (eg: Car, motorbike, truck etc), but logically a certain amount of soft matter as well (eg: a child or animal……. Did you just react at the mention of an animal? But not at the mention of a child? Mmmm?).The second requirement is the auditory exclusion effect. Where despite all the noises around you, as the adrenaline (that primitive possibly life-saving chemical which your body produces) is dumped into your system, sound is instantly muted. Some sounds will get through to the auditory receptors, others you cannot even recall hearing.

I have heard and seen many examples of this over the years. As people’s attention in a critical instance, is focused on one sound and, despite screamed warnings etc, the focus is so great all other sounds fail to register. You have probably experienced this yourself, without being aware at the time. Another reason listening to witnesses after an event can be confusing. So many people hear different things yet often they are all hearing the same thing. It depends on how their body reacts to the effect. It is often determined by stress and the person’s reaction to it. It takes a lot of practice to avoid auditory exclusion from occurring. A lot of training and self-control. Which as a child in the middle of an occurring traffic accident, I didn’t possess at the time.

(Continued tomorrow)