Building resilience – Santa style

500 Words: Cringe

https://open.abc.net.au/explore/66017

In the corner stood the aluminum Christmas tree, silver foil needles looking both menacing and mesmerising.

Colourful electric lights were strung through the metal branches, no heed paid to the possibility of an electrical short circuit and a family tragedy.

We all gathered there every Christmas Eve, at my aunt’s semi in an inner suburb of Sydney.

My aunt’s children were much older than us and had families of their own, so her tiny house was full of adults and kids, girlfriends and boyfriends, extended family and a friend or two.

We were a cosmopolitan bunch and the trestle tables and bench tops covered with food reflected our varied ethnicities. Maltese, Italian, English, Greek and Australian dishes were paraded and shared by all with great enthusiasm.

The space age tree, laden with glittery baubles and tinsel, took pride of place in the lounge room. Around its base, exquisitely wrapped parcels and decorated boxes were piled high, Christmas presents for my aunt’s side of the family.

Later in the evening, before we all started on dessert, Santa Claus arrived. Heralded by the tinkling of bells and much cheering and shouting from the adults, one of my older cousins would stuff a pillow into the waist band of his trousers, don a jolly red suit complete with white beard and black boots, and become the centre of attention.

My brother, sister and I, together with our 6 cousins, were required to sit and watch as Santa handed out presents to everyone else, except us, over the course of an hour or more.

I cringe now as I remember how hard it was to sit quietly and watch everyone else getting presents. We weren’t allowed to leave the room and the house was so small that there wasn’t anywhere else to go, so we sat with our parents watching Santa call name after name and hand over gift after gift.

This gift giving was my aunt’s family’s actual Christmas Day – celebrated on Christmas Eve – but as a child I couldn’t get my head around that – and I kept wishing we might get a present, too.

A couple of of years ago at a family reunion I spoke to my cousin who, with his siblings, had to endure this Christmas gift giving with me. I told him how much I had hated it and how I cringed now remembering it. I told him I felt it was cruel to do that to young kids.

He matter-of-factly told me it helped to make us strong and resilient. He didn’t think much of it all these years later. It was what it was.

I came away wondering if I was a total wimp and whether I had got it wrong all those years ago.

In this age of helicopter parenting and participation awards, I now realise that those many Christmas Eve encounters, which I found so cringe-worthy and almost unbearable, did help to make me a stronger person, just like my cousin had said.

Whether I would want to go through that type of resilience building experience again with my own children…well, that’s another matter.

Black beauties of the Bega Valley

https://open.abc.net.au/explore/65025

It’s midday and I’ve just counted 12 crows in the dried out paddock nearest to my washing line. I’m out here hanging another load and I can see and hear the crows right next to me. They are unperturbed by my proximity and keep going about their business without a single ruffle of their shiny black feathers.I’ve been admiring the crows a lot over the past few months. We’ve lived in Lochiel in the Bega Valley for over 15 years and we’ve never had that many crows here, especially not the juveniles. We get the occasional older lone specimen, advising us of its presence by its long and mournful caw. But lately, our few acres seem to have become the meeting place for the large numbers of teenage crows in our local area.These black beauties have been amusing us with their antics. They seem to take great delight in banding together as a flock and flying over us, very low. Our pear tree that produces gnarled old pears that never make it to the ripe stage has become a perfect party spot for them. Recently the pear tree was full of beautiful sleek black bodies, the boughs were rocking and the music was loud!Today, the delightful dozen are on the ground, picking over the dirt, systematically and thoroughly. As they work together, pecking at the dead grass, turning over the dusty earth, throwing up bits of dried cow pats, they’re continually communicating with one another.  They have their own language of chirps, chirrups and other strange sounds which they use while they labour, like a group of kids prattling on while they do their outside chores.And there’s body language at work here, too. The swivel of a head, the angle of a wing, the hop and run – all used by the birds on the ground to communicate to the others information about the current state of play, which includes me, it seems.They’ve been keeping an eye on me, a very wary eye, or should I say eyes.  These highly intelligent birds are not slouches when it comes to looking after each other and keeping a lookout for danger. When I was trying to find out more about these interesting creatures, I stumbled upon a study from the US where researchers had captured a number of crows around a college campus, tagged them and then let them go. The researchers deliberately wore creepy masks as they tagged the birds, as they were trying to find out whether crows recognised human faces. Turns out that these birds could! The researchers found that whenever they walked around the campus with the masks on, the crows would dive-bomb them and caw at them and generally make their lives a misery.After I read this I started to wonder whether it was wise for me to have gotten so physically close to the crows on my property. Perhaps, my face will now be recognised by the Lochiel crows – if so, I could be in trouble, though I’ve been nothing more than a keen observer of their daily activities.I’ve been calling these birds crows but it’s quite likely that they could be Australian ravens. The bird books tell me how to identify them. If I could just get that little bit closer to check them out, really inspect their feathers and features, get really up close and personal but, in light of what I’ve learnt of their ability to identify humans and attack them, I think I’ll dust off the old binoculars and look for clues from afar instead!

The reality of rural road rage

500 Words: Cringe

https://open.abc.net.au/explore/65625

A school day morning. An appointment I have to get to. Running late…again.

I drive towards town quickly, edging the car just over the speed limit. I’m close now, the main road’s up ahead and there’s no traffic. I approach the corner, my blinker on to turn left.

I slow down but don’t stop, I keep rolling as I turn my head and look hurriedly to the right to see if I can make the left-hand turn.

Okay…so there’s a car there, coming straight,but it’s a fair way away. If I get around the corner fast I’ll be right. And so I do. I put my foot down, and speed (just a little bit) as I make my left-hand turn.

The next thing I know, that car which I thought was a fair way away, is right on top of me. Bugger, I think to myself. The driver is gesticulating wildly at me while, at the same time, honking the horn long and loud.

I cringe.

Bugger, I think to myself, again. Where did she come from? The gesticulating has morphed into rude finger signs and mouthed obscenities, which I can see quite clearly now as the driver has edged her vehicle right up my car’s backside.

When I spy the cracked, green P-plate lopsided on her car, I snap. I’m angry. I slow right down. I’m well under the speed limit. This makes mad P-plate lady even angrier but I don’t care.

Yes, I probably shouldn’t have made that left-hand turn, but I’m sure she sped up after I made it and now she thinks it’s funny to tail-gate me and abuse me in front of her car-load of teenage passengers.

Stupidly, I start waving “hello” into my rear view mirror. Of course, this only serves to inflame the situation. We get to the bottom of the main road, and I need to turn left to start skirting around the town. I’m pretty sure she’s going to keeping straight. But she doesn’t. She keeps following me, horn blasting, and now with her window rolled down she continues to yell abuse at me.

I cringe again. This really is getting out of hand. Sure, I probably did make an error of judgement but her behaviour is completely over the top. How far is she going to follow me? Should I stop my car and try to sort this out? Is she likely to try to hit me or my car any time soon?

I approach the roundabout. I have to take the second exit. She’s still behind me.

I’m feeling scared now. My hand-waving bravado has deserted me. People walking along the street can hear her horn and they can see her shouting…at me. I feel so ashamed – what will the locals who recognise me and my car think?

I take the second exit whilst holding my breath. The mad green P-plater honks staccato-style and hurls abuse whilst hanging out of her window. In a blur of expletives and honking , she takes the first exit and speeds off.

I exhale. I’m safe. I feel like a total idiot and I cringe as I remember what I’ve just done, but I’m safe.

My teenage son puts his book away and unplugs his ears from his music as we pull up outside school.He is totally oblivious to the cringe-worthy road rage incident I have just contributed to.

Thank goodness for small mercies!

Who belongs to this?

500 Words: Cringe

https://open.abc.net.au/explore/65461

I always hated school camps

Travelling for hours on hot, sticky buses to some godforsaken outpost that no amount of Education Department spin-doctoring could ever make look good.

Teenage girls far from home and gone feral.

Worn out teachers with too many kids to look after and not enough control.

A nightmare that just had to be endured.

Using the amenities block was the worst. The disgusting smells, the ancient taps and leaky shower heads, the grey cement floors and mouldy broken tiles, the cracked mirrors and tiny, cramped stalls.

At the end of the camp day, shower time was always an ordeal.

Trying to get a shower cubicle. Trying to get a shower cubicle with a door that actually locked. Hoping there would be enough hot water left. Praying that the bullies would pick on someone else tonight. Praying that the bullies wouldn’t kick the door in or perve over it, or throw something under it while the shower was on.

My friends and I soon learnt to wait till last so that the troublemakers would be long gone to suck on that last forbidden fag before lights out.

By the time we had showered and made our way back to the dorm, most of the other girls were sitting on beds, gossiping, playing cards, just hanging around.

I made my way to my bunk, clutching my toiletries bag and my day’s clothes to my chest. I just wanted to get to my bed quickly and safely and pray that lights out would be soon. As I packed my stuff away, I heard laughter and sniggering. It was growing louder.

The camp bully was clearing her throat, demanding everyone’s attention. She clapped her hands together. All the girls turned to look. She was waving a beige bra high above her head.

“Who belongs to this?” she yelled as she scanned all the faces in the dorm.

I suddenly felt sick. I scrabbled through the clothes I had just dumped on my bed. I cringed. Something was missing and I now knew where it was.

If I’d been smart, I wouldn’t have owned up. But in those days, clothes and underwear cost money and you weren’t allowed to lose them or let other people take them. And another thing …underwear was exactly that…under wear – there was no way you’d ever let it be on show, and never in front of feral teenage girl bullies!

So, as the dorm of girls cackled like crazed hyenas, I walked the walk of shame right up to the bully and snatched back my undergarment. The soundtrack of cringe, inadequacy and embarrassment played loudly in the background as I stopped myself from bolting back to my bunk.

I always hated school camps.

Never trust a teenager

500 Words: Cringe

https://open.abc.net.au/explore/65187

When
the talk turns to pets and, in particular, the joy of guinea pigs, I
cringe. I know exactly the direction this conversation is
headed.”We had guinea pigs,” one of my children will
offer. “Lots.””Really?””Yes. We had
Mambo and Cupcake.””Lovely.”“And Rocket and Flash
and Bambi.”“Goodness!”“And Marshmallow and Misty and
Oreo.”“That’s a lot of guinea pigs.”“And Jellybean and
Clover and Lulu and…”“Hang on, how many guinea pigs did you
actually have?”And here I can feel a full-blown cringe coming
on because I know the answer to that question.I feel my face
tingling with beetroot blush and my breathing getting quicker.“About thirty,” one of my other children will volunteer innocently.“Thirty!”
I feel the veil of shame descend. I
feel the stare of judgement. I am an irresponsible parent and
cruel pet owner.  I mentally bat the cringe away as best I can and
let survival mode kick in. And I know that, once again, I’ll have to
launch into an explanation as to how our family ended up with thirty guinea pigs.My daughter’s boyfriend’s brother kept snakes and
bred guinea pigs to feed to them. So, when my children wanted guinea
pigs, the boyfriend offered to give us two from his brother’s stock –
free of charge.After ensuring that this would be okay with the
snake wrangler, daughter and boyfriend went off to get the guinea
pigs, with the strict instruction that we only wanted either
two females or two males.Soon enough, the two guinea pigs
arrived. The kids were beside themselves with excitement. The
boyfriend assured me they were both girls and all would be well.All
was well, until about a week later, when our female guinea pig Mambo (my children chose the name) presented us with four tiny
babies. Squeals of delight turned to shrieks of terror when our
other female (named Flash) started ‘attacking’ Mambo. Flash was nothing more than a big, oversexed male guinea pig. We
separated the males and females and spent time adoring the growing
babies.The kids felt sorry for the male, so at regular
intervals, unbeknown to me, they let Flash visit his family. Flash,
of course, took full advantage, whipping Mambo and then his daughters
off into the deep dark recesses of the guinea pig cage to have his
way with them.More squeals of delight when more babies
arrived.Flash also became a wonderful escape artist in his own
right and was able to get out of his cage and into the girls’ cage in
a ‘flash’. His sons followed in dad’s footsteps and more
incestuous liaisons took place.Things were getting out of
control. No sooner had one mother delivered babies than another
mother was pregnant.  I wanted to give some of the guinea pigs away
but the kids wouldn’t hear of it. Their patient father built a
bigger cage for the boys and the kids were told under no
circumstances to allow visiting rights between the sexes.They
didn’t listen.More guinea pigs arrived and life with these
sex-crazed creatures was becoming ugly. I arranged to give away
some of the guinea pigs. The children were sad but understood that
enough was enough. Before we were able to give them away, big winds hit
the Bega Valley while we weren’t home. The guinea pig cages were
upended and their occupants escaped into the countryside. The
kids were devastated. My husband and I were relieved.When I
quizzed my eldest daughter on whether she and the boyfriend had
really checked the gender of the two original guinea pigs, she
admitted they hadn’t.Running late to get to our place, they had
grabbed the first two guinea pigs they could capture.

As I say, never trust a teenager.