Childhood Memories – For my Sisters

Terri wrote a marvellous post recently about her childhood so please check it out if you haven’t already done so.  She had been tagged by Trisha from Rolling who responded to my comment by tagging me as well.  At least I think she did.

So I thought I’d respond by telling you a little more about where and, almost as importantly, when I grew up.  I was a child of the 60’s but relate more with the 70’s.  Australia was the lucky country and in 1958 when I was 18 months old and my new sister only a few weeks, Mum and Dad took the big step of moving from the northern suburbs of Melbourne with their bluestone gutters and crowded houses out to the new orchard subdivisions in the east.

It was a major decision because their brothers and sisters had tended to stay close to home, but land was cheap out in the sticks and the estates were sprining up with new strip shopping centres and schools.   We lived at 10 Richardson Street, Box Hill South and I can still remember our first phone number, 283928, and that old black bakelite phone copped a hammering because that was how Mum kept in touch with her family all those miles away.

 There were no made roads or footpaths and in spring the grass grew high in the open drains that ran alongside the roads.    Dad used to poor a few gallons of petrol into the drains each weekend then throw in a match and we’d watch the fire run along the water surface.  He used to tell me it was to get rid of the rats, and they certainly did run as the flames burnt the grass, but I think the real reason was because he was a bit of a pyromaniac.

The first photo is of me and my oldest sister Karen with our dog Noddy.   She died when she was around 8 or 9 years old after being poisoned.  In those days dogs were allowed to roam free in the neighbourhood and she lived most of her life under our house,  I still remember how she used to do laps of the house when we got home after being out because she was so excited to see us.

We had an outside toilet and the nightcart man would come once a week to take the full pan away and leave an empty one.  It stunk of crap and phenyl but was normal across the estate until the sewerage was connected in the early 60’s .   The pile of dirt we are standing on was from the ditch that the sewerage pipes were laid in and it was a wonderful day when the potty no longer needed to be used at night time and when the blowflies didn’t muster around your bum when you sat down for a crap.  It also meant an end to worrying about red back spiders which were known to nest under toilet seats.

It was a modest house but it was home and I had my own bedroom complete with vintage car wallpaper and a map of the world on the wall.  My bed lay beneath the window and I used to lie in there in the morning and watch the dust motes dance on air.

We had a hills hoist in the backyard that we hung from and swung each other around in circles.   One Christmas we got a pool and Dad never quite found the right spot for it, at various times it lived in the front and back yards and summers were spent making whirlpools and floating on our backs around in circles.  That was when we weren’t sunbaking on the footpaths when they were made and the roads sealed in the mid 60’s.   Summers seemed longer and hotter back then and they were marked by Dad’s barbecues in the back yard with charcoaled snags [sausages] and the best chips you’ve ever tasted covered in salt.

That backyard had visits from cowboys and indians and superheroes, Robin Hood and his merry men, and the small bushes in the front yard became an obstacle course for make believe horses and a parade of bikes and other wheeled toys like the go-kart my Godfather gave me one year.

And there were the smells – the fermenting apples that fell from the trees in the front yard in summer, Mum’s Sunday roast dinners and Dad’s BBQ’s, my Nana’s scones, the petrichor of summer rain, and the smell of fresh cut grass, all evoke wonderful memories for me.

At night time I could hear the trains on the Box Hill line in the distance and the steam from the Bowater Scott paper factory not far away.  In the early hours of the morning I often heard the clip clop of the milkmans horse as it trotted down the road, the milkman grabbing pint bottles from the cart and collecting the emptys left out in the milk boxes in the front of each yard.   The postman came twice each day and blew his whistle when he put something in the letterbox.   There were the songs of crickets in summer and the laughter of kookaburras and warbles of Magpies. 

I will write more because there  is way too much to put in this simple snapshot.

Childhood Memories – For my Sisters

Terri wrote a marvellous post recently about her childhood so please check it out if you haven’t already done so.  She had been tagged by Trisha from Rolling who responded to my comment by tagging me as well.  At least I think she did.

So I thought I’d respond by telling you a little more about where and, almost as importantly, when I grew up.  I was a child of the 60’s but relate more with the 70’s.  Australia was the lucky country and in 1958 when I was 18 months old and my new sister only a few weeks, Mum and Dad took the big step of moving from the northern suburbs of Melbourne with their bluestone gutters and crowded houses out to the new orchard subdivisions in the east.

It was a major decision because their brothers and sisters had tended to stay close to home, but land was cheap out in the sticks and the estates were sprining up with new strip shopping centres and schools.   We lived at 10 Richardson Street, Box Hill South and I can still remember our first phone number, 283928, and that old black bakelite phone copped a hammering because that was how Mum kept in touch with her family all those miles away.

 There were no made roads or footpaths and in spring the grass grew high in the open drains that ran alongside the roads.    Dad used to poor a few gallons of petrol into the drains each weekend then throw in a match and we’d watch the fire run along the water surface.  He used to tell me it was to get rid of the rats, and they certainly did run as the flames burnt the grass, but I think the real reason was because he was a bit of a pyromaniac.

The first photo is of me and my oldest sister Karen with our dog Noddy.   She died when she was around 8 or 9 years old after being poisoned.  In those days dogs were allowed to roam free in the neighbourhood and she lived most of her life under our house,  I still remember how she used to do laps of the house when we got home after being out because she was so excited to see us.

We had an outside toilet and the nightcart man would come once a week to take the full pan away and leave an empty one.  It stunk of crap and phenyl but was normal across the estate until the sewerage was connected in the early 60’s .   The pile of dirt we are standing on was from the ditch that the sewerage pipes were laid in and it was a wonderful day when the potty no longer needed to be used at night time and when the blowflies didn’t muster around your bum when you sat down for a crap.  It also meant an end to worrying about red back spiders which were known to nest under toilet seats.

It was a modest house but it was home and I had my own bedroom complete with vintage car wallpaper and a map of the world on the wall.  My bed lay beneath the window and I used to lie in there in the morning and watch the dust motes dance on air.

We had a hills hoist in the backyard that we hung from and swung each other around in circles.   One Christmas we got a pool and Dad never quite found the right spot for it, at various times it lived in the front and back yards and summers were spent making whirlpools and floating on our backs around in circles.  That was when we weren’t sunbaking on the footpaths when they were made and the roads sealed in the mid 60’s.   Summers seemed longer and hotter back then and they were marked by Dad’s barbecues in the back yard with charcoaled snags [sausages] and the best chips you’ve ever tasted covered in salt.

That backyard had visits from cowboys and indians and superheroes, Robin Hood and his merry men, and the small bushes in the front yard became an obstacle course for make believe horses and a parade of bikes and other wheeled toys like the go-kart my Godfather gave me one year.

And there were the smells – the fermenting apples that fell from the trees in the front yard in summer, Mum’s Sunday roast dinners and Dad’s BBQ’s, my Nana’s scones, the petrichor of summer rain, and the smell of fresh cut grass, all evoke wonderful memories for me.

At night time I could hear the trains on the Box Hill line in the distance and the steam from the Bowater Scott paper factory not far away.  In the early hours of the morning I often heard the clip clop of the milkmans horse as it trotted down the road, the milkman grabbing pint bottles from the cart and collecting the emptys left out in the milk boxes in the front of each yard.   The postman came twice each day and blew his whistle when he put something in the letterbox.   There were the songs of crickets in summer and the laughter of kookaburras and warbles of Magpies. 

I will write more because there  is way too much to put in this simple snapshot.

Childhood Memories – For my Sisters

Terri wrote a marvellous post recently about her childhood so please check it out if you haven’t already done so.  She had been tagged by Trisha from Rolling who responded to my comment by tagging me as well.  At least I think she did.

So I thought I’d respond by telling you a little more about where and, almost as importantly, when I grew up.  I was a child of the 60’s but relate more with the 70’s.  Australia was the lucky country and in 1958 when I was 18 months old and my new sister only a few weeks, Mum and Dad took the big step of moving from the northern suburbs of Melbourne with their bluestone gutters and crowded houses out to the new orchard subdivisions in the east.

It was a major decision because their brothers and sisters had tended to stay close to home, but land was cheap out in the sticks and the estates were sprining up with new strip shopping centres and schools.   We lived at 10 Richardson Street, Box Hill South and I can still remember our first phone number, 283928, and that old black bakelite phone copped a hammering because that was how Mum kept in touch with her family all those miles away.

 There were no made roads or footpaths and in spring the grass grew high in the open drains that ran alongside the roads.    Dad used to poor a few gallons of petrol into the drains each weekend then throw in a match and we’d watch the fire run along the water surface.  He used to tell me it was to get rid of the rats, and they certainly did run as the flames burnt the grass, but I think the real reason was because he was a bit of a pyromaniac.

The first photo is of me and my oldest sister Karen with our dog Noddy.   She died when she was around 8 or 9 years old after being poisoned.  In those days dogs were allowed to roam free in the neighbourhood and she lived most of her life under our house,  I still remember how she used to do laps of the house when we got home after being out because she was so excited to see us.

We had an outside toilet and the nightcart man would come once a week to take the full pan away and leave an empty one.  It stunk of crap and phenyl but was normal across the estate until the sewerage was connected in the early 60’s .   The pile of dirt we are standing on was from the ditch that the sewerage pipes were laid in and it was a wonderful day when the potty no longer needed to be used at night time and when the blowflies didn’t muster around your bum when you sat down for a crap.  It also meant an end to worrying about red back spiders which were known to nest under toilet seats.

It was a modest house but it was home and I had my own bedroom complete with vintage car wallpaper and a map of the world on the wall.  My bed lay beneath the window and I used to lie in there in the morning and watch the dust motes dance on air.

We had a hills hoist in the backyard that we hung from and swung each other around in circles.   One Christmas we got a pool and Dad never quite found the right spot for it, at various times it lived in the front and back yards and summers were spent making whirlpools and floating on our backs around in circles.  That was when we weren’t sunbaking on the footpaths when they were made and the roads sealed in the mid 60’s.   Summers seemed longer and hotter back then and they were marked by Dad’s barbecues in the back yard with charcoaled snags [sausages] and the best chips you’ve ever tasted covered in salt.

That backyard had visits from cowboys and indians and superheroes, Robin Hood and his merry men, and the small bushes in the front yard became an obstacle course for make believe horses and a parade of bikes and other wheeled toys like the go-kart my Godfather gave me one year.

And there were the smells – the fermenting apples that fell from the trees in the front yard in summer, Mum’s Sunday roast dinners and Dad’s BBQ’s, my Nana’s scones, the petrichor of summer rain, and the smell of fresh cut grass, all evoke wonderful memories for me.

At night time I could hear the trains on the Box Hill line in the distance and the steam from the Bowater Scott paper factory not far away.  In the early hours of the morning I often heard the clip clop of the milkmans horse as it trotted down the road, the milkman grabbing pint bottles from the cart and collecting the emptys left out in the milk boxes in the front of each yard.   The postman came twice each day and blew his whistle when he put something in the letterbox.   There were the songs of crickets in summer and the laughter of kookaburras and warbles of Magpies. 

I will write more because there  is way too much to put in this simple snapshot.

Not sweating the small stuff

Richard Carlson wrote Don’t sweat the small stuff in 1997 and it was one of the books that I read to help me through the dark days that have now passed.  Richard passed away in December 1997 but the lessons from his books will continue to point the way for those of us who need some guidance.

As with many self help books it is worth re-visiting from time to time so that you can remind yourself of some of the lessons and I thought that I’d pick out a few and talk about the lessons I’ve learnt in applying them to my journey.

“Learn to Live in the present moment.”

I spent a lot of time pondering the past and worrying about what the future held.    The problem with that was that time passed without anything meaningful happening for me.  More than a year went by in my separation without any decisions being made – should I go back, should I move on – I carried a lot of guilt and spent a lot of time wondering what if.   Will I find forgiveness, how will any of us survive financally, is that a reason to go back?   Why did these things happen to me?  Will my relationships with my kids improve?

I was unable to find joy in the every day – if I saw my kids I walked on egg shells, I put on a front of false bravado, I avoided friends, which wasn’t hard because they avoided me too.  But it made withdrawal easy.  I was never depressed, but looking back I don’t think I was functioning as a fully emotional human being.  Maybe I never had been one because I’d spent a lot of my life hiding emotion and running from confrontation.

As each and every question was asked over and over again, the fear built and I withdrew more and more from making any decisions that would allow me to move forward.  And in that unknown selfishness also made it difficult for other people to move forward to.

Carlson says that if we learn to live for the moment the fear goes away.  But often that can only be done after the situation is analysed and pondered, at least that was the case for me.  When I finally felt I had come to know myself better than I ever had before, I was able to let the worry go and just start to exist again.  In that chapter Carlson quotes Mark Twain – “I have been through some terrible things in my life, some of which actually happened.”

Not sweating the small stuff

Richard Carlson wrote Don’t sweat the small stuff in 1997 and it was one of the books that I read to help me through the dark days that have now passed.  Richard passed away in December 1997 but the lessons from his books will continue to point the way for those of us who need some guidance.

As with many self help books it is worth re-visiting from time to time so that you can remind yourself of some of the lessons and I thought that I’d pick out a few and talk about the lessons I’ve learnt in applying them to my journey.

“Learn to Live in the present moment.”

I spent a lot of time pondering the past and worrying about what the future held.    The problem with that was that time passed without anything meaningful happening for me.  More than a year went by in my separation without any decisions being made – should I go back, should I move on – I carried a lot of guilt and spent a lot of time wondering what if.   Will I find forgiveness, how will any of us survive financally, is that a reason to go back?   Why did these things happen to me?  Will my relationships with my kids improve?

I was unable to find joy in the every day – if I saw my kids I walked on egg shells, I put on a front of false bravado, I avoided friends, which wasn’t hard because they avoided me too.  But it made withdrawal easy.  I was never depressed, but looking back I don’t think I was functioning as a fully emotional human being.  Maybe I never had been one because I’d spent a lot of my life hiding emotion and running from confrontation.

As each and every question was asked over and over again, the fear built and I withdrew more and more from making any decisions that would allow me to move forward.  And in that unknown selfishness also made it difficult for other people to move forward to.

Carlson says that if we learn to live for the moment the fear goes away.  But often that can only be done after the situation is analysed and pondered, at least that was the case for me.  When I finally felt I had come to know myself better than I ever had before, I was able to let the worry go and just start to exist again.  In that chapter Carlson quotes Mark Twain – “I have been through some terrible things in my life, some of which actually happened.”

Not sweating the small stuff

Richard Carlson wrote Don’t sweat the small stuff in 1997 and it was one of the books that I read to help me through the dark days that have now passed.  Richard passed away in December 1997 but the lessons from his books will continue to point the way for those of us who need some guidance.

As with many self help books it is worth re-visiting from time to time so that you can remind yourself of some of the lessons and I thought that I’d pick out a few and talk about the lessons I’ve learnt in applying them to my journey.

“Learn to Live in the present moment.”

I spent a lot of time pondering the past and worrying about what the future held.    The problem with that was that time passed without anything meaningful happening for me.  More than a year went by in my separation without any decisions being made – should I go back, should I move on – I carried a lot of guilt and spent a lot of time wondering what if.   Will I find forgiveness, how will any of us survive financally, is that a reason to go back?   Why did these things happen to me?  Will my relationships with my kids improve?

I was unable to find joy in the every day – if I saw my kids I walked on egg shells, I put on a front of false bravado, I avoided friends, which wasn’t hard because they avoided me too.  But it made withdrawal easy.  I was never depressed, but looking back I don’t think I was functioning as a fully emotional human being.  Maybe I never had been one because I’d spent a lot of my life hiding emotion and running from confrontation.

As each and every question was asked over and over again, the fear built and I withdrew more and more from making any decisions that would allow me to move forward.  And in that unknown selfishness also made it difficult for other people to move forward to.

Carlson says that if we learn to live for the moment the fear goes away.  But often that can only be done after the situation is analysed and pondered, at least that was the case for me.  When I finally felt I had come to know myself better than I ever had before, I was able to let the worry go and just start to exist again.  In that chapter Carlson quotes Mark Twain – “I have been through some terrible things in my life, some of which actually happened.”

Octomom receives porn offer

Don’t you love the way people get labelled.  I’m sure most of you who haven’t been hibernating for the past few months have heard the story of Nadya Suleman who recently gave birth to octuplets despite the fact that she is a single Mum who already had six children.    I won’t get into ethics here, of the doctor who implanted the embryos, or of the woman who had them, because it somehow doesn’t seem fair to the kids.   It’s not their fault their mother seems a few sheep short in the top paddock.

Now we have reports that Vivid Entertainment have made an offer to her to star in a series of porn films.  This of course has lead to a wealth of amusing comments around the world.

Perez Hilton said that “we already know that the Octopussy’s vagina doubles as a clown car with room to spare”.

On the Huffington Post we are told that OctoMom is used to having multiple people inside her.

Now these may all be cheap shots but I guess that can happen when the world learns the truth.  It’s a very quick fall from grace as the mother of octuplets to a lady who is living on welfare and who in lots of ways has come to epitomise the 15 minute of fame celebrity.   I’m not sure whether she deserves to be reviled, pitied, giggled at, loathed or just plain forgotten.  What I do know is that kids don’t chose their parents and I hope they can escape their mothers stigma.

And what about their father.   There seems to me to be something ethically wrong with not giving him a choice about what happened to those embryos.   Now a bloke has come out saying that he used to date her and that he donated sperm at the time because she told him she had ovarian cancer.  

And apparently the other six kids were also produced through IVF.  Now I would have thought that IVF should be reserved for women who have genuine problems conceiving and again you have to question the ethics of a doctor who would implant eight embryos into someone who already had six kids.  Bloody Hell, I’d question the ethics of the previous four doctors as well.  What were they thinking?

No word yet on whether Nadya will take up the offer of the million dollars but it reminds me of the story about the boy who asks his dad to explain the difference between Hypothetically and Realistically .

One day a boy comes home from school and says, “Dad I need to know the meaning of hypothetically and realistically for school.”

So the father replies, “Go ask your mother if she would sleep with a man for 1 million dollars.”

Off the little boy goes and asks and sure enough she says yes.

His dad says “Ok now go ask your sister if she would sleep with a man for a million dollars”. So he does and like her mother she says yes.”

Now his the father says, “Go and ask your brother.”

When he comes back saying that his brother said that he too would take the million dollars the Dad says  “You see son hypothetically we three millionaires in this house,  realistically we have two whores and a poofta.”

Octomom receives porn offer

Don’t you love the way people get labelled.  I’m sure most of you who haven’t been hibernating for the past few months have heard the story of Nadya Suleman who recently gave birth to octuplets despite the fact that she is a single Mum who already had six children.    I won’t get into ethics here, of the doctor who implanted the embryos, or of the woman who had them, because it somehow doesn’t seem fair to the kids.   It’s not their fault their mother seems a few sheep short in the top paddock.

Now we have reports that Vivid Entertainment have made an offer to her to star in a series of porn films.  This of course has lead to a wealth of amusing comments around the world.

Perez Hilton said that “we already know that the Octopussy’s vagina doubles as a clown car with room to spare”.

On the Huffington Post we are told that OctoMom is used to having multiple people inside her.

Now these may all be cheap shots but I guess that can happen when the world learns the truth.  It’s a very quick fall from grace as the mother of octuplets to a lady who is living on welfare and who in lots of ways has come to epitomise the 15 minute of fame celebrity.   I’m not sure whether she deserves to be reviled, pitied, giggled at, loathed or just plain forgotten.  What I do know is that kids don’t chose their parents and I hope they can escape their mothers stigma.

And what about their father.   There seems to me to be something ethically wrong with not giving him a choice about what happened to those embryos.   Now a bloke has come out saying that he used to date her and that he donated sperm at the time because she told him she had ovarian cancer.  

And apparently the other six kids were also produced through IVF.  Now I would have thought that IVF should be reserved for women who have genuine problems conceiving and again you have to question the ethics of a doctor who would implant eight embryos into someone who already had six kids.  Bloody Hell, I’d question the ethics of the previous four doctors as well.  What were they thinking?

No word yet on whether Nadya will take up the offer of the million dollars but it reminds me of the story about the boy who asks his dad to explain the difference between Hypothetically and Realistically .

One day a boy comes home from school and says, “Dad I need to know the meaning of hypothetically and realistically for school.”

So the father replies, “Go ask your mother if she would sleep with a man for 1 million dollars.”

Off the little boy goes and asks and sure enough she says yes.

His dad says “Ok now go ask your sister if she would sleep with a man for a million dollars”. So he does and like her mother she says yes.”

Now his the father says, “Go and ask your brother.”

When he comes back saying that his brother said that he too would take the million dollars the Dad says  “You see son hypothetically we three millionaires in this house,  realistically we have two whores and a poofta.”

Octomom receives porn offer

Don’t you love the way people get labelled.  I’m sure most of you who haven’t been hibernating for the past few months have heard the story of Nadya Suleman who recently gave birth to octuplets despite the fact that she is a single Mum who already had six children.    I won’t get into ethics here, of the doctor who implanted the embryos, or of the woman who had them, because it somehow doesn’t seem fair to the kids.   It’s not their fault their mother seems a few sheep short in the top paddock.

Now we have reports that Vivid Entertainment have made an offer to her to star in a series of porn films.  This of course has lead to a wealth of amusing comments around the world.

Perez Hilton said that “we already know that the Octopussy’s vagina doubles as a clown car with room to spare”.

On the Huffington Post we are told that OctoMom is used to having multiple people inside her.

Now these may all be cheap shots but I guess that can happen when the world learns the truth.  It’s a very quick fall from grace as the mother of octuplets to a lady who is living on welfare and who in lots of ways has come to epitomise the 15 minute of fame celebrity.   I’m not sure whether she deserves to be reviled, pitied, giggled at, loathed or just plain forgotten.  What I do know is that kids don’t chose their parents and I hope they can escape their mothers stigma.

And what about their father.   There seems to me to be something ethically wrong with not giving him a choice about what happened to those embryos.   Now a bloke has come out saying that he used to date her and that he donated sperm at the time because she told him she had ovarian cancer.  

And apparently the other six kids were also produced through IVF.  Now I would have thought that IVF should be reserved for women who have genuine problems conceiving and again you have to question the ethics of a doctor who would implant eight embryos into someone who already had six kids.  Bloody Hell, I’d question the ethics of the previous four doctors as well.  What were they thinking?

No word yet on whether Nadya will take up the offer of the million dollars but it reminds me of the story about the boy who asks his dad to explain the difference between Hypothetically and Realistically .

One day a boy comes home from school and says, “Dad I need to know the meaning of hypothetically and realistically for school.”

So the father replies, “Go ask your mother if she would sleep with a man for 1 million dollars.”

Off the little boy goes and asks and sure enough she says yes.

His dad says “Ok now go ask your sister if she would sleep with a man for a million dollars”. So he does and like her mother she says yes.”

Now his the father says, “Go and ask your brother.”

When he comes back saying that his brother said that he too would take the million dollars the Dad says  “You see son hypothetically we three millionaires in this house,  realistically we have two whores and a poofta.”

Lost Generation

This has been garnering a lot of attention and I will let it speak for itself.

All I can tell you about the author is that there nic on youtube is metroamv and that they are a 27 year old student from Chicago.   As of this date the video has been viewed Views: 3,354,504 times and had 2,755 left.

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