Explain this karma to me. How can people be born in such very different conditions. How can they be happy in theirs. How can I not in mine?
I went to that school for seven years and I can’t remember a single lunch that my mother packed for me. Who knows what that means.
The tuckshop lunches though… Everyone wanted those. Looking back the food was shite so what was the attraction? Our first shopping experience? Being all grown up and ordering and collecting on your own? Or just having a choice, eating something you wouldn’t get otherwise.
Countless devon on white bread sandwiches. Oh my health! Meat pies with tomato sauce and the proof was in the first bite – if not hot enough a very low on the scale lunchbreak. Some kind of soup – also risky. And that’s about my repertoire – give me a choice and I repeat myself apparently ;-)
I can picture the little building housing the other mothers who’s lunches I do remember. The lines of regulars. The brown paper bags we importantly inscribed – name, class, culinary desire. Hand over the coins and move away from the counter.
Peer around the corner of the library as the second bell goes and there’s Tony, from the year below me, heading my way with an ice cream. Nice to be someone’s crush. Didn’t occur to me at the time to wonder where he got the money. Tony from the housing estate – thanks for the confidence boost, and what became of you?
Segregated playgrounds. Girls in the shady front of the school, sitting in chat circles on clumps of green. Boys at the back of the library building – between the sewing room and the remedial classrooms, near where the milk crates lie, where assembly, and the marching takes place.
Boys games too dangerous for us – warning. balls flying. high risk zone. If you had to go to the library or office for any reason – slide along the building, ducking and dodging. Keep your head. Boys and their ballgames are for much older girls. Keeping us apart only increased curiosity and awkwardness though.
Did you love your first school? Did you have a favourite class/year? Is there a teacher that stands out in your memory?
I don’t remember the first three teachers. Vague recollections of a dismal embarrassing start to school so we won’t go there…but then in primary so much fun, such a happy place. I can see all four teachers – two stand out for being authoritarian and fairly dull but the second, and last…inspirational men. Reading the news from the locker room; the art of marbling!; being read to each day – the magic pudding and more great Australian children’s works; such unusual musical instruments and the opportunity to ‘be in the band’; introduction to philosophy – our inquisitive minds cranked up and celebrated; just feeling important and cherished – each and every individual in the room.
Think back and how many teachers made a significant impact on you in some way? And/or…is it the lunchtimes you remember? :-)
devon on white bread
a taste of freedom
latchkey lunch order
Screamed like a banshee
Builders blocking the back lane
Renovate or die
Seems like, since I moved here 20 years ago (that’s right TWENTY omg), someone in earshot has been renovating continuously. It’s the Paddington affliction apparently. Buy an old house rip out it’s gizzards. There surely can’t be many left needing a hammer and drill?
In the past year, four in the back lane have been ‘done’. And we’ve all survived. But this last one, current one…hey renovate all you like but don’t block my driveway, don’t mess with me.
I made an ugly phone call to the wrong person to express my displeasure without listening – the receiver’s expressed innocence just background rhubarb to my fumes.
you ask if I’m a poet – can a poet tell?
you want me to write a poem for you – then read this
all thought is poetry
you won’t find rhymes here, spelling is challenge, thoughts on loop
never explain, never complain – mother’s words
do as I say, not as I do – father’s
will my children quote me?
I think I’ve said little enough
an autumn haiku
the wind sweeps the poet’s brain
and the thoughts move on
I love the rain.
A curtain of goodness cleanses my soul, and the footpath. Then, as quickly as it started, it’s done.
I was looking forward to dreaming to that sound, drifting off.
Sleep is not far away anyway – insomnia has moved on to another house.
Huge changes afoot for the rest of this year. Life will never be the same.
I can hardly believe I get to escape to the beach house again soon. I can feel that peace in advance.
I can hardly believe I am going to Ireland! Several thatched cottages of potato eating ancestors are pulling me home.
I can hardly believe I’ll be parent of the bride this year. Son in law will officially be son in law.
I can’t believe the little one is moving to America. Taking her uncooperative bowel and a truckload of meds with her. Pray with me that she stays well, and that she doesn’t stay long.
A lot of changes for one little old mum.
May all beings be well and happy.
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