Picture this. It’s 4pm on a Thursday afternoon. Crazy after school traffic fills the streets, and the kids and I are off to swimming lessons.

 My car, packed to the ceiling with swimming gear and schools bags, dodges in and out of traffic.  A feat in itself considering it’s a two and half ton 4wd and does zero to sixty in  three quarters of an hour.

 Silence has descended on the car after a heated discussion between myself and my three boys regarding the lyrics of Britney’s latest song “If you seek Amy” and why it’s inappropriate for them to be singing it.

 ”Just because!”  seems to  be sufficient enough answer…for now. 

I sigh, relieved and enjoy a moments silence as we wait for the lights to change.

  From the back seat I hear,  “Muuuuuum?” 

I reply “Yes matey?”

  “Is there such a thing as a quandong?” 

“Yes mate” I answer. 

 ”A quandong is a fruit native to Australia.  The Aborigines refer to it as Bush tucker and tastes a bit like a mango.” 

 I feel a bit like super mum with all the answers, and a bit proud of oldest boy for asking such an interesting and diverse question (of course he gets his natural curiosity from his mother) 

 Another moment of silence ensues, then Master Nine turns to his little brothers and says “Boys…..always wear a quandong.” 

Frikkin’ heck,  I think I just heard my sanity slam the car door and walk off!

 

 

The scent of smoke on the air, nudged us swiftly on as we buckled ourselves into the back of Mum and Dad’s old station wagon. My parents in the front.  Silent as  time weighed heavily upon them.  My sister chattering like an oblivious gnat while I also kept a silent vigil.  The odour of diesel mingled with heat filled the car, as two hundred litres of fuel journeyed with us.   On a mercy run, back into the fires.  There was no one to call for help.  No authority figures to tell of our plight.  Just a motley crew of hobby farmers and the nicest kind of societal drop outs.  Ready to protect theirs and ours.  A truck with the words  “Rural Fire Service”  in faded stencil across the side standing  as a wheeled beacon, waiting.

And so we travelled, the truck our destination, the fuel our charge.  The fires remained on the horizon for a time, but as we entered that final stretch home, it stalked us at every turn.  The road, now dirt, narrowed, and within three minutes we would enter the clearing where others waited anxiously for us.  Driving tentatively so as not to dislodge our incendiary cargo, my Dad remained silent.   We tried to ignore the flames now within metres of our car, but very quickly it became apparent that we are no longer driving into safety.  Dad hit the brakes and put the car into reverse.  Head  turned, his arm reaching across to Mums seat, his eyes never left the road behind us.  “Dad!  What are you doing?”  my sister asks.  Through gritted teeth he replies “The back of the car is full of bloody fuel!” In reverse, the journey is even longer, and it seems the flames had followed us down.  Silently I sat  as my sister wept for her potentially burnt toys at home.  I think the words “I don’t give a bloody shit about your toys”, may have been muttered, however to acknowledge her distress would have meant acknowledging that we were in a lot of trouble.

As harrowing as this sounds, clearly we survived, Dad having found an alternate track down to the truck.  Later after the sun had set, I was able to walk the top road.  The scorched earth glowed and smouldered.  Off in the distance, people continued to shovel dirt onto hot spots.  What sticks in my mind most from that day however, isn’t the heat, or the smoke, or the fear.  It was a realisation.  The realisation that my father was the bravest man in the world, and that he would never let anything happen to us.   As time stood still for that moment, as he stared straight passed me I  saw the truth.  The truth of who he was.

Today, in a tragic and devastating chain of events, more then seventy six Australians died.  Many more are unaccounted for, feared dead. Whole families, just like ours, gone!   I weep at their loss, as I have empathised with their fear.  I hope tonight brings some reprieve to those who have toiled arduously.  Paid or voluntary, truly they have shown the truth of who they are.

Life in Australia in the 1970s and 80s was a very different time to the one we are raising our kids in now.  As kids we were left to roam the streets in harmless little gangs, pulling pranks, doing stunts on our bikes, wandering in and out of each others houses.  School holidays were a time when we barely saw our parents, except to ask for fifty cents to buy an iceblock at the shop.  My parents were extremely comfortable with leaving me at home, in fact my younger sister and I were commonly known as “latchkey kids.”  When we got up in the morning, and when we got home from school, we were unsupervised.  We stayed out of any obvious trouble, but we ate alot!

Now, I wasn’t a naughty child, but I was curious, and an enormous snoop.  My Gran was apowerful influence at that stage.  If she told me I could “eat” that flower, I would.  Thankfully the only strife I ended up in, left only myself emotionally battered, and embarressed. 

Ok, so I can see you’re starting to get upset..”poor little neglected child.”  But I think you’ll see that I always got what I deserved..and what was that?  Well it’s the same thing I get coming here everyday…attention!

                                           Incident number one:  my Dad advised me NOT to stick a fork in the power point!  He was very clear- “no forks” or “powerpoints!”  Right!  Got it!  The instant his butt was in the car, backing down the drive way I was in the utensil draw.  Spoon?  No good!  It had to be a fork, he was very specific!  A spoon might work, but I couldn’t risk it.  Scene cuts to me standing on a chair jamming the fork into the socket.  By some miracle I wasn’t killed, but a bolt of electricity travelled up my hand so hard and fast, that it left me with an aching arm for the next three days.  My Dad never twigged.  I dropped a few hints, but he’s a man and subltletly was never his strong point.

                                        Incident two:  Dad (again), pointed out a specific plant in a friends garden.  “Whatever you do, don’t eat that, it’ll give you lockjaw.”  Now, I’m no biologist, and even at nine I knew you could’nt just eat random weeds, but I could see that this sucker was particularly unappealing.  Keeping  in mind I was at a  birthday party.  Pretty sure I was gonna eat the fairy bread and lollies over some hideous looking Triffid.  But, the challenged had been laid.  So, I took a piece and I ate.  I wasn’t sure what lockjaw was ( in hindsight I think he meant rabies! ), but suddenly my jaw started to tingle.  My friends started to gather round.  Next thing my Dad was there, bundling me into the car as I rubbed my jaw!  There’s a tale similar to this one, but it involves me, Dad and a warning about some chillies!  There’s a lot more swearing in that one!

So, I guess you’re wondering how I ever survived my childhood.   When you embarrass and humiliate yourself enough times you become reslilient.  And while I am cautious about how I phrase things to my children, experience has taught me one thing.   There is no substitute for experience

 

 If you have made mistakes, even serious ones, there is always another chance for you. What we call failure is not the falling down but the staying down.
– Mary Pickford