A Sunkist day with Jack, Jim and the Solo man

Humans have fears which spring from the very nature of being human.  Apart from the regular ones like death, starvation, rejection and pain which make sense, there are some that don’t when considered in context.
     There’s the fear of God although there’s a lack of evidence about the immediate relationship between sin and God’s wrath.  
     There’s the fear parents have that their children will be violated by strangers yet there is overwhelming evidence that perpetrators of child sexual abuse are often known to the family, if not family members.  Of course, there is the recent fear of Muslims acting out IS ideologies and taking ‘Australians’ hostage although ‘white Australian’ hostage situations are more common than most would imagine (there was one in Bunbury on Friday).  We fear being murdered by a stranger - an ice addict, a thief, a predator of women - yet half of homicides in Australia result from domestic violence (almost two women per week).  

Just like the Torres Strait only inland.

     Humans are fearful creatures, but their fear is often misplaced because they have, either through ignorance or denial, identified the wrong enemy ... thereby allowing the real enemy to approach.

     I thought I came close to the enemy yesterday when Tony, the kids and I drove out to Lake Tinaroo with the dogs. We planned to meander along the fjords while the dogs splashed in the shallows.  

     Lake Tinaroo is a reservoir, 15 km from Atherton, constructed between 1953 and 1958 when the Barron River was dammed.  Adjacent to the Danbulla National Park, the lake lures fisherfolk chasing the massive, DPI-stocked barramundi that have no natural predators, watersport lovers, residents, campers and families, like ours wanting to spend some time in nature. 

Underwater wonder ... just like the reef of TI

     We found a little cove which appeared not to have been touched by man, apart from the great body of water that submerged huge tracts of rainforest, the only remainder being thousands of trunks that protrude from the water’s edge.  Seffy and Tony reclined on a great granite boulder and Kibby and I set off with the dogs. 

     The warmth from the sun was intoxicating as we traipsed along the marshy shore.  Cormorants sunned themselves on the boughs of the dead trees and families of ducks glided on the azure waters, which resembled to my surprise, the solwata of the Torres Strait (when the wind is below 20 knots!).  Apart from the hum of traffic along the road and the drone of speedboats, it was just Kibby and me and the dogs, enjoying nature.  I found myself in a walking meditation.

     Then I found the litter.  In all its hideousness.  There were plastic bags in various states of decomposition, too far gone for me to use to collect the other crap.  

     The insole of a child’s shoe.  A piece of pale blue plastic, possibly an old icecream container, bleached by the sun.  The plastic handle from a bucket.  A barramundi lure.  Scrunched toilet paper, complete with brown stains.  Crumpled plastic bottles, sun-bleached to the colour of tripe. The porous remains of an adult thong, Kustom I think, the kind with a textured surface that were popular about five years ago.  

     A tyre.  An endless supply of soft drink, beer and UDL cans, the labels faded, but the aluminium living on and on.  Stubbies, both clear glass and brown and millions of shards of stubbies.  
     A packet of Doritos floating rhythmically against a rock as if banging its head into oblivion, something I was tempted to do to the person who had left it behind.    

     What sort of people litter?  Filth?  Scum?  People who don’t care about public space and other users? If anything pisses me off, it’s litter.  If I see rubbish in the street, I pick it up.  If I go for a walk in the bush, I don’t want to see shit people have dropped because they are, are what?  Lazy?  Selfish?  Lots of people are lazy and selfish and don’t litter.  So what sort of people litter?  I don’t know.

     But who are they?  What do they look like?  I know they like Jim Beam, Jack Daniels, Sunkist, Solo and Doritos, but so do lots of people who dispose of their rubbish responsibly.  
     I fear the littering enemy because they don't have a face.  Nothing can be done to stop them.  They are up there with bigots and racists, moving through all levels of society, but not conforming to a stereotype. The thought of them makes my skin crawl.  I want to avoid them and keep my children and pets away from them.  I just don’t know who they are.

I gritted my teeth during the walk while Gina Rose got hers into something!

A secret weapon; eggs on toast

Sick of eggs on toast? Have eggs on bread.

I am in the process of convincing Tony not to become a professional prospector because I have no desire to be a single parent.  This week I am a single parent because Tony is working in Weipa. It gets worse; it’s the school holidays and it’s been raining most days bar the last two.  This week has hardened my resolve to convince Tony to stay home and I have a secret weapon – eggs on toast.

     Late last year when Tony was spending time with his mum who was terminally ill and then heading to TK in Townsville to help him through his exams, I stayed here with Seffy and Kibby.  After working with children during the day, I was mentally exhausted and not interested in making anything flash for dinner except eggs on toast which we had most nights .  The kids were not happy.

     So with Tony in Weipa, we’ve been eating a lot of eggs on toast (we have 9 chooks and 2 ducks).

"Or eggs on dahl on toast."

"Or eggs on leftover steamed vegies."

     However, my secret weapon hasn't been as effective as I had intended.  Since it is school holidays and the kids know their friends’ have nicer dinners, they’ve escaped eggs on toast by going for sleepovers.

     Naturally, I have banned sleepovers for the remainder of the holidays.  And, after two days of moderate sunshine, the rain has returned. 

Americans are crazy!

Singer-songwriter Joni Mitchell loses speech after aneurysm, David Crosby says

I read this headline on the ABC website and rolled my eyes.  Honestly, I thought, only the Americans would hold a speech and then, after a speaker suffers an aneurysm and becomes mute, go on to declare the other participant the winner.  Seriously, what is the problem with Americans?  They take things to the limits.  Surely, they should have called off the speech as soon as poor Joni Mitchell grabbed her head and screamed in pain.  But no, whatever was being debated was perceived to be so important that the speech needed to continue.  And such an occurrence would only happen in America. 

     And why, I continued to think in the nanosecond after I read the headline above, would an aged, legendary singer be participating in a speech?  Perhaps she was running for president (it's all on now) and this was a pre-polling debate such as the one Tony Abbott and Kevin Rudd in August, 2013 (the same thing must take place in America). 

     Sonny Bono was a singer-songwriter before he ran for government, Ronald Reagan was an actor before becoming US president and Sarah Palin was a beauty queen before becoming the governor of Alaska and then running for vice-president.  America is truly a fertile land of opportunities and Americans are crazy for calling a speech when a speaker has a near-death experience!  These thoughts ran through my mind before my eyes read the following: 

 
Folk legend Joni Mitchell has lost her ability to speak after suffering a brain aneurysm, fellow artist and former boyfriend David Crosby says.

     Then I realised I have been taking my role as a literacy teacher too seriously.  But I still think Americans are crazy.

Bad luck!

On wet winter days, it's bad luck when you're a chook who has been adopted by ducks!  Poor, devoted Billie circles her mother and aunty while they sleep in the rain.

Marital Status

As my 20^th wedding anniversary approaches, 21 July, I’ve been reflecting on how much of my married life has been spent as a single person.  Many times I’ve filled out a form and come to the Marital Status section.  My pen has hovered over the Single box although I’ve always placed my tick in the little square next to Married.

     Tony and I made a deal as new parents that we’d always share work so one of us could remain at home with the children, a deal Tony admits he broke early on to establish the first Gadin Ninja grass cutting business.

     “I have to work,” he said.  “If you want to work, put the kids in childcare.”

     I understood Tony’s predicament.  He loves working.  I wanted him to be happy.  I had an education, an opportunity he didn’t have.  It was only fair I supported him.  I could return to work anytime.

     I stopped work, became a full-time mother to a baby and toddler and also the admin chick.  I began to paint to combat the frustration of parenting alone for Tony was cutting grass during the week and driving taxis for a mate on the weekends. 

     After two years, we worked out it was better to lease a taxi and buy a licence.  So, Tony became owner of Strait Taxis (Be strait there!) with a brand new Toyota Camry sedan he called Lady Cathrine.  Again, I did the admin.  Tony worked late and left early.  Often, too often, I went to bed alone and woke alone.  The only evidence of Tony slipping in and out of bed was his side of the bedding turned down.  On Sunday night, Tony regaled me with stories of going to parties or catching up with people between midnight and the home rush in the early hours of Saturday and Sunday mornings.  Many people were surprised when he mentioned he had a wife.

     “I didn’t know you were married,” he reckons they said.  I know because some of them told me when I eventually met them.

     I recall the only night we got a babysitter and I went to the Boat Club and met Tony on one of his taxi breaks.  One woman in the throng commented, “so you’re the imaginary wife.” 

     Tony had a dream to establish Torres Strait’s first Islander-owned fishing charter.  It was my job to support him achieve that dream.  We sold the first Gadin Ninja business three weeks before #3 was born to establish Tony’s Island Adventures.  The fishing charter wasn’t as lucrative as the grass cutting so I stopped painting and went back to work just after I learned I was pregnant with #4.  I had a skill and I needed to support my husband to enable him to continue working.

     When I was 35 weeks pregnant, working point eight, doing admin for the fishing charter and the taxi as Tony worked long hours,  I decided something had to give.

     When Tony returned for a meal break, I rushed down the stairs, holding my swollen belly to keep  balance.

     “I’ve had enough,” I said.  “It’s me or the Lady Cathrine.”

     He didn’t say anything for a few moments and I contemplated life as a single mother. 

     “Okay,” he said very quietly, the closest he’s ever been to tears.  “I’ll sell the Lady Cathrine.”

     I went back to work shortly after the birth and Tony looked after the children.  We engaged babysitters on the days Tony had fishing charters.  Within a year, Tony was frustrated and wanted to work longer hours.  I stopped work again.  When the young ones slept, I painted and wrote, worried that if I didn't do something mentally stimulating, I'd lose the ability to think and speak intelligibly. 

     The fishing charter income and my painting wasn’t enough to support a family so we started Gadin Ninja, mark 2.  This time Tony added tree lopping to the service and we built up a nice little operation.  Tony worked long hours on Gadin Ninja and Tony’s Island Adventures.  I managed the businesses and the kids and in spare time (mostly in the dead of night), I painted and wrote.       

     Fast forward to Atherton.  We established a grass cutting business, The Yard Ninja, but things are quiet, competition is tough and we are not bothering to promote it.  After months of job searching, Tony found work on a casual contract basis and is often ‘under-employed.’ Anyway, his contract ends on 30 June.  I have loved that he’s been playing more of a role of house husband as I work, but he’s found a new interest – prospecting.   

     He’s bought a metal detector, has done a few trips and is now obsessive.  Each night he pours over books about prospecting or he’s sitting at the computer, the screen glowing with the patchy green/grey terrain of Google Earth.  He’s wants to become a professional prospector.  He’ll deck out the Prado, hit the road and be gone for weeks, months at a time.

     I’ve been plagued by old fears; will I have to stop work to enable him to pursue his new interest?  Will I ever be able to spend time finishing that book?  Will we have to struggle financially again?  Will Tony ever want to work and support me and my dream to write?  Why can't we have stability in our lives for once?

     I’ve had it.  I wonder if it’s time to tick that box next to Single. 

Why I keep this blog

Lately I’ve begun to wonder why I keep a blog.   It started out as a record of life on a tiny island, Ilan Life, where I was a visitor, albeit a long-term one.  I had a foot in both camps, the Islander one and the European one, not belonging to either.  

     Life was more interesting in the Torres Strait and a hell of a lot more unpredictable, something I relished including the rabid dogs, politics and supermarket debacles.  Everyday occurrences were worthy of recording as anecdotes. And it was great writing practice.

     Life here has routine, something I am not comfortable with.  The kids do tennis on Monday and Thursday.  I work at school on Monday, Wednesday and Thursday.  Tony works on Monday and Tuesday.  The routine is hard to take. Even the checkouts in supermarkets have routinely correct prices!  I have both feet firmly in the white majority camp yet don't feel I fully belong.   Life here is normal.  It's reality.  It’s taking me a long time to adjust, so long I wonder if I ever will.

     Lately I’ve also thought about giving up writing.  I don’t have the time and when I steal a few moments that should be devoted to something like doing the 2011 Payroll Advice for the ATO (that I should be doing write now), I don’t write very well.

     But at the moment, the only writing I do is for the blog and somehow it keeps me sane, partially filling that biological urge to write.  

     Of course, the blog is a visual record of our lives.  Recently, Kibby wanted to find the blog post about camping on Goodes Island two years ago and bow hunting pigs.  Together we trawled through the archives of posts, checking out long-forgotten events that must have happened because I’d recorded them and there were photos as proof.  We laughed and laughed at some of the entries.

     I’d like to change the name of the blog to Big Ilan Life, but I don’t think I can. And I don't have the time to work out how to do it or set up a new blog.

     In the meantime, I’ll keep plugging away at Ilan Life trying to come to terms with life on the big island, reality, and keeping up writing practice for when I finally get to use it.  

The perpetual quest for the perfect job

Looking back over the not too distant past, it seemed I was on the perpetual quest for the perfect job.  I thought I had found it; a proof reader/editor position.  This job was perfect for me for I would be immersed in writing and the English language and I could work from home in my pyjamas. Actually Tony found the advertisement when I away from Cairns.  I told him I’d look at it when I got home.  

     He gave me the torn square of newsprint when I returned at midnight after nine hours of travelling by car, train then plane.  I was exhausted and quickly scanned the ad for the submission-of-applications date, 16^th February.  If tonight was Sunday, 8th February, the 16th was Monday week.  

     This was perfect because I could work all week and not have to think about addressing the selection criteria until the weekend. 

     Saturday arrived and I noticed, in the clear light of a summer’s morning and after a full nine hours of sleep, the submission date was actually Friday, 16^th February. Friday was in fact the 13^th. I panicked.  Was it Friday, 13^th or Monday, 16^th?

     I’d missed the Black Friday deadline so went with the Monday. When my brother dropped in a few hours later I showed him the ad.

     Stephen knows about interviews and applications. I asked him whether it was Friday 13^th or Monday 16^th?’

     He laughed.  ‘Cathy, it’s a trick question.’  I was perplexed.  ‘The job is for a proof reader/editor and you’ve missed the contradiction.  But go for it anyway.’

     So on Monday I emailed my application and within an hour I received a call to attend an interview at 3 pm the next day.  I could barely hear the woman speaking because there was a fire drill and the siren was sounding.

     ‘What time?’ I yelled.  ‘Three?’

     ‘Yes.  Three o’clock.’

     ‘Please email a confirmation and address,’ I said over the din.  ‘I can’t hear properly.’

     When I checked my emails that night, sure enough there was a confirmation for an interview at 2 pm on Tuesday.  Naturally I assumed I had heard the time incorrectly.

     I was excited.  I wanted this job and I arrived for the interview 20 minutes early at 1.40 pm.

     I met the two directors, friendly women and we chatted about writing and the Torres Strait for a few minutes.  They led me to a conference room and I sat opposite them at a large, polished wooden table. Each woman held two sheets of paper unfamiliar to me.  Interview questions, I assumed.

     ‘So I bet it’s cooler on the Tablelands?’ said the dark haired one.

     I wondered if this was another trick question.  ‘Apparently it is a few degrees cooler up there.  Five or six.’  

     ‘Aren’t you from Millaa Millaa?’ said the blonde with tense brows.

     ‘No, Cairns. Smithfield, actually.’

     ‘Aren’t you Jennifer?’ said the brunette.  Her chin had dropped a little.

     ‘No, Catherine.’

     They both gasped to me then turned to each other and gasped again.  They stood and rushed from the room.  Muffled conversation wafted from the adjoining office then silence.

     They appeared at the door.

     ‘Let’s start again,’ said the brunette.

     ‘Hi, I’m Catherine.’  I stood and extended my hand.

     They sat down and I noticed they were each holding a copy of my resume.  They talked about their company, their vision, my role and responsibility.  They asked some questions and I asked some questions.  The brunette's words became rushed as she advised the hours and the rate of pay.  The blonde, running her words together, asked if I could start on Friday.

     ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I am working-‘ 

     ‘Monday?’ said the brunette.

     ‘Possibly, but-‘

     ‘We’lltalkaboutthatlater,’ said the blonde.

     ‘Doyouhaveanymorequestions?’ said the brunette.

     ‘Um.’

     ‘Okay,’ said the blonde as they both stood and thanked me for coming in.  

     The brunette gestured towards the door the blonde had opened.  At the door, the brunette began to steer me with one arm, the other raised and holding the sheets of my resume, as if she was shielding me from something unpleasant.  The blonde appeared to be a human shield from whatever I wasn’t supposed to see. 

     I was pushed through the reception area to the exit … but not before I saw a woman seated next to the magazine table with a folder on her lap.  This must have been Jennifer from Millaa Millaa, probably wondering why her 2pm interview was fifteen minutes late.

     I laughed quietly to myself on the way home thinking about the comedy of errors; the application date confusion, the altered interview time, the wrong resume, the wrong town, the wrong woman.  I had more than enough chaos from my family. I didn't need more in my working life.

     I waited the appropriate few hours and then sent a polite email asking for my application (for the perfect job, dammit!) to be withdrawn.

     I would re-embark on the perpetual quest for the perfect job.