A moment of pause

Yesterday, the 28th, would have been Dad's 59'th birthday.

Several things happened yesterday, most of them trivial and none of lasting consequence, but like most days I am kept busy with the small. There were few moments of pause. In the one in which I now sit, at 2am on the following day, I am thinking of the void left with Dad's passing many years ago.

Mum is visiting, and she is the only other person in this house who knew him. He had passed a few years before I met my wife, and long before children stopped seeming (to me) like something that happened to other (much older) people. We have some photographs. No recorded films, no recorded sound. The works he did, in building the farms we lived on, the houses we lived in, have been sold whole or subdivided. The physicality of the time we knew him has largely been absorbed.

What remains? There are some small pieces - a clock that I helped build from an old red-cedar stump we dug out, tools, some clothes. But in a sort of parody of memory, they don't do anything. My memory of Dad is one of constant, nay, frenetic activity. He moves through the still-life, slow-motion memories I have as a child with speed. Almost all my memories seem to be about getting out of bed at some ungodly hour of the morning, with Dad fully awake, radio on, rushing breakfast and zapping off to fix fences, chase cattle, spread fertilizer, do something.

It can't really have been that early, I mean the sun is usually already up in those memories, so it must have been more my perception than reality. And to have Fate tweak my nose, nowadays I seem to be dragging Lilly from bed, forcing toast into her and zapping her off to pre-school whilst she is still closer to sleep than wake. I guess she will grow up thinking that I must have been awake forever each morning since I now wake her up and already have the radio on....

As I write this, I am having many happy memories, but it is not my intent to recount them here. My thinking is more toward a simple question: How will I introduce my own children to their Grandfather?

For them, he would seem to be not much more than four celluloid pictures living on the breakfast bar, in a world which doesn't really value a few still images. Gabriel's second name is Warwick in memory of him, and I tell Lilly stories about things he and I used to do when I was her age. But I remember that Dad also used to tell me stories of the things he and his father did -- and to that small me, listening at that time, the only real character of those stories was Dad. Some not-quite-law-abiding child-version of himself, for whom the father and brothers were more props in the stories than actual characters. I don't know, if I had never met them all many times in real life, if I had not spent Christmasses with all the characters in those stories many years later, I don't know that they would have been very memorable to me.

And perhaps, perhaps, if we'd had tape-cassette recordings or if we'd video-taped a conversation, then perhaps we'd have something more real. But I don't think so. Nowadays, with movies by the thousands, and all the vision and sound and documentaries we have to distract us, I think a few moving- or audio- snap-shots would not be so much more than the few still-frames we've got.

If, as the cliche says, a picture is worth a thousand words, what price are memories? For I think that is my ultimate desire - to allow Lilly and Gabriel to see what I have seen, and hear what I have heard. Not on some crackling, fading, stretched 180minute VHS or audio-cassette, not sitting in an armchair in the lounge room, but being there, actually there, then.

To know Dad as I did, which surely would be nearly as good as meeting him for themselves.

Good coffee

It is somewhat inevitable that a blog tinged with espresso ought to at least once advocate a coffee.

My drink of choice is a 4-shot espresso. With a drip of milk. You might shout "Machiato" at me, but really, the objective of the milk is to curdle and hence, with it's sacrifice, show that the coffee is indeed of a strength to be walked across. In this sense, I'm not so much asking for milk, rather I'm asking for a sacrificial latte-canary to send down the caffeine mine-shaft.

My coffee demands:

• strong. I enter your shop in the "I haven't slept for three days, and am not sure which way is up" state. I want to get to "I'm ready to roll and sign contracts" state, and I do not wish to spend time passing through the "ye gods, is that me in the mirror?" phase.
  
• fast. I care not for banter (witty or otherwise)
  
• excellent taste. I may asleep for the first shot, but I can still taste it.
• smiles. I am bleary. Make my day better. Do you know my name? Good. Remind me. But for God's sake, don't try to engage me in conversation. By definition, I haven't had my coffee yet!
  

I have found the best coffee producing shop ever, by my standards (poorly defined as they may be), called Group 7, on London circuit. It helps a lot that I work in the building directly above them, but frankly I'd walk a fair way to get to them. They use their own coffee, rather than a mass-consumer brand. Obviously the coffee wasn't grown here.

The staff (which seem to change a lot - do they burn out after a while, or are they on rotation?) are friendly, and know me by name. Not completely unexpected since I'm there 2-3 times per day, asking for a four shot espresso. The barrista, who I have been told is also the owner doesn't waste time discussing the finer points of where he bought his coffee - he looks up at the list of coffees to create, makes mine, and gets on with it. He may deign to nod at me. I nod back. He knows what he's got. Enough said.

My typical coffee purchase: I enter at about 8:30 or so. The sun outside is a pasty white egg, and the wind-chill 50 gale is trying to shred me. Welcome to Canberra winter. I get in. The shop is warm. There are two coffee machines running full tilt and about 25 people waiting for coffee. I look at the cashier, she nods, writes my name and four crosses on the A4 page of all the coffees awaiting order. I wander aimlessly away or perhaps I stare haplessly out the windows.

A few minutes later I have my cup, holding it in both hands, I sip, and I am alive.

No more whining fantasy twits

This week Robin & I began a trial separation period.

I've been reading Robin Hobb [Margaret Ogden] since the Farseer trilogy. A long friendship, I diligently collected each book from the nearest second hand store. Someone told me that Robin Hobb was also a pseudonym of Megan Lindholm, and so I collected every Lindholm book I could find, until finally buying a new copy of Wizard of the Pigeons and from that point on bought each new Hobb book as it came out. The liveships, the fools, and then the soldier-son's.

Let's be frank. The lead character -- Fitz -- of the Farseers is a twit. But we tolerate him because at least there is hope that he'll redeem himself. The liveships gave us Andrea, who whined floated out to sea and eventually had some aspect of redemption, maybe. I think. Maybe the trilogy just ended. Burvelle (of the soldier-son trilogy) was one of those characters that you want to scrape off the page, hang in the sunshine and then, once he's finally pulled himself together, punch him in the mouth. A few times.

The fool's were good books, Flavia points out. I concede this - it's like agreeing that there must have been some good points in the old relationship. Yes, the fools were good. Even Fitz couldn't hurt them too much.

Flavia said she couldn't finish the second book of the soldier-son series -- she didn't open the third one: I refused is all she will say on the topic. But I tolerated him, because he couldn't help it. And now, now we have a book with a half dozen whining twits none of whom seem capable of just getting the hell on with life.

I was on a plane, flying over the Pacific, stuck in the middle of the centre row. I couldn't even get out to go to the toilet and even then, when there was no other option, I could not finish this book. I just couldn't. Is it this bad? Flavia asks me. Yes, yes it is.

Robin, I'm sorry we had to break up in a blog, but I'm now with Oscar Wilde, and we'll see where it goes from there.

Steam train

We've been waiting for this for weeks. Today, we caught a steam train from Canberra railway station to Bungendore.

The train is maintained and run by the Australian Railway Historical Society (ACT), who are entirely volunteers. Flavia (the organised) booked tickets for us all some time ago, so Lilly, my Mum, Flavia Gabriel and I would have a train trip. It's Lilly's first train ride. (and its also Gabriel's - but at 10 weeks everything is his first, and so it gets a bit monotonous observing firsts)

I make the observation that I'm just (yesterday) back from San Francisco, and so slightly faded after several hours of United Airlines.

So we arrived 45minutes before the train was due to depart - giving Lilly a chance to wander around the station platform and the train. The staff were extremely friendly, and let the kids go up on the locomotive. Lilly was keen, right up to the point of being there, and then I think the fire and the surrounds were a bit much. We got on the train (having had our tickets checked on the platform) walked to our seat and ta-da! double booked. Some grandparents and their little one sitting in the seat. After much too-ing and fro-ing ("that carriage" "no seats here" "that one..." ) we walked the length of the train. Were placed on some temporary chairs near a window.

Lilly thought it was amazing. Gabriel slept.

As I write this it is 12 hours after the train ride, and Lilly (who has only just gone to bed) has been shouting "Toot-toot, all aboard" for about 6 of those hours. Interestingly, no-one actually shouted all aboard, except for Lilly.... The ride was brilliant - staff were helpful and friendly and although it was teeth-shatteringly freezing walking between carriages, we did so to find snacks and coffee.

Three tunnels, much smoke, half a pack of tiny-teddies, and an hour later, we arrived in Bungendore. Which is damn cold at the best of times. We walked from the station to the Cafe Woodworkers, had a decent lunch. They burned the pancakes. I mean, how hard is it to cook a pancake?!? I think the staff got overwhelmed by a marauding group of steam-trained up pensioners.... We finished our lunch, and walked back to the station and little Miss 3 fell asleep in Nanna's arms.

Gabriel is at the stage of saying "wooooh" and so (since he was awake all the way home) he responded to the train's whistle every time. Train-whistle, Gabriel "wooh-woooh" and so on. I'm not sure if he ever got the answer he was looking for.

So now we are home, and Miss 3 and Small dude are fully flaked - a good day had by all.

Party

Little Miss 3 has arrived.

We wrapped the presents last night, and placed them out in the room for Lilly to find this morning when she woke up. Which she did, at 8am, to squeals of "Santa brought presents!" after all, who else shows up in the dark to deliver presents?

We had our usual pancakes for breakfast, followed by watching two Barbie DVD's and a Disney princesses movie. As part of the preparation, Flavia made brigadeiros - Milo + Condensed milk rolled in chocolate sprinkles. We tried a recipe she'd found which was skim milk and sugar with some coconut, but too much coconut milk sent it into soup world. We modified the recipe, and I record it here for posterity.

Coconut balls 1 cup (skim) milk powder; 3/4 cup sugar; 1 tin coconut cream; milk (to make it like a soup); icing sugar; 2 to 3 cups desiccated coconut; zest of 1 lemon. Put in liquid ingredients with sugar, make a soup. Add solids until mix becomes thick enough to roll balls. Roll in desiccated coconut.

Flavia felt it was one of the worst concoctions made, but I enjoyed them a lot.

The hall that was rented for the party was in Melba - an old pre-school apparently, that had become a community hall. One whole wall of the building was mirrored - which resulted in lots of running in circles by 3 year olds -- with slow stretches as they observed themselves careening past in the mirror.

The fairies were excellent - providing cupcakes, pink lemonade and a birthday cake, as well as pass-the-parcel, treasure hunt and various other activities. Lilly loved it, and the other kids seemed to enjoy themselves immensely.

So little Miss 3 returned home, and since 7:45pm has been sound asleep after her party.

Birthdays & busy-ness

This Sunday (5th July) is Lilly's 3rd birthday.

We've gone for the do-it-by-someone-else option this year. Mostly because with a ten-week old in residence; setting up the house for guests and then de-setting up the house for us living in it again is just too much like hard work. They say money can't buy happiness, but I say it sure does buy plenty of laziness, and that's almost as good.

Lilly's first party was under-the-sea: Flavia and Mum mostly set everything up while I was at work, and then the night before we decorated the entire lounge-room with fishing nets over the ceiling and jangly fishes everywhere. Second party was in Brazil with the other half of the family, and that was mostly done by others. A bunch of people showed up with crepe streamers, boxes of stuff and turned the ground-floor of Vovo's (grandma's) house into a jungle. I am advised it was a garden actually. Big garden, trees and vines....

This year, it's fairies and pirates. We are quietly eating all those pre-parenting slogans such as "We're not going to do all that pink and Barbie stuff, she's unique" Well, she's unique, but she likes pink, princesses, Barbie, fairies and frilly dresses. She likes boots, mud, painting, and running around the house semi-clothed shouting "I'm not naked", jumping (on the wooden floor) whilst holding a finger to her lips to indicate that she's well aware that the small-dude is asleep and is only jumping, rather than jumping-and-shouting and therefore, doing everyone an immense favour at great cost to herself.

Makes me realise how completely naive I was when I thought some sort of coloured clothing might limit her.

We're looking forward to seeing the results of sugar, cordial, an adult fairy and a dozen other 2-4 year olds placed in a room. And then, at the allotted time, we're also looking forward to coming back home with Nanna, Mum, Mr Small & Little Miss 3.

New students, swim tests

This week we took on four "winter scholars", based on a competition run at the University of Canberra. They are between 2nd and 3rd year students working toward various health-related degrees; coaching, nutrition, sports-coaching. At the moment they are working on annotation of video taken pool-side, to test out a machine-learning approach to automatic training-log generation.