We were Catholics. We only had girls in our family. We were drinkers, but not like those other boozers. This was most definitely the best case scenario! I wasn't boastful or proud about it, but I knew for sure that Catholics were better than non-catholics. It was better to have girls than boys. And drinkers were definitely better than non drinkers. For sure.
Drinkers were fun, good sorts, 'up for it' -- whatever that meant. Drinkers could take a joke! I can only think of one person in the family's regular social circles who was a non-drinker and a good sort. Mum's cousin Pauline. She was a happy, bubbly party animal, and she didn't drink. The interesting thing about this snippet is that I thought something was wrong with her -- because she didn't drink. I am now full of admiration that she functioned so well in such a boozy environment without drinking! I know now how hard that is.
And we were definitely not Kate and Bill kinds of drinkers, starting in the morning and conking out at 6pm. Definitely not. We were normal drinkers...
She: why have you stopped?
Me: Why am I saying "we" were drinkers? I'm only 7 or 8 years old. I wasn't drinking then. But I was acutely aware of belonging to a drinking family, a drinking community. It was an identity. People were catholic or non-catholic. Drinkers or non-drinkers. Identity. Later, when I try to quit drinking, I feel it as an attack on my identity -- my right, my choice, my identity under attack. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
Anyway, we sure weren't as bad as Kate and Bill. Or were we? I can't talk about this any longer without moving to my dad's generation, and dad specifically. Dad was a drinker. He was a regular, happy, non-drunk, high-achieveing, high-functioning drinker. He worked really hard and diligently to provide for us. He was at home a lot. He took holidays with use. He was reliable and solid. And he was a boozer.
You know how some people obsess about having a spare tire and an emergency beacon in the boot of the car at all times? We had to have a crate of beer.
You know how some people go to the liquor store and come home with some bags or a box of booze? We took a trailer to Wilson Neils to buy our booze supplies. (My sister Maria remembers thinking we were very special Wilson Neil customers because they sent us a huge box of El Dorado chocolates every Christmas!)
You know how some people have a bottle recycling bin? We had a bottle recycling shed!
You know how some people only drink at Christmas or on special occasions? I didn't know that was an option. In our house people drank every day. At 5 when dad got home, at dinner time, after dinner. Earlier on the weekends. Christmas and special occasions were when you let it rip!
Dad was not a drunk. He was fun, hospitable, funny (if you like his caustic humour) and sharp witted. He was a fun drinker. I was never afraid of him because of drinking. He was a laughing relaxed drinker. A joker. He'd sometimes do radical things when he was drinking. He'd give us a dollar (a whole dollar) and tell us to go and buy wine gums at the dairy -- you got 10 wine gums for a cent those day, and he laughed about the shop keeper having to count out so many lollies. Once he cut one of Polly's pigtails off at a party -- only because Polly was desperate to have short hair and mum wouldn't let her... Dad got some scissors, cut off one lovely wavy pigtail, and said "Go and ask your mother what side she likes the best!" Roaring with laughter. Haha Hilarious.
I guess that wasn't all fun and games. That ended up being a terrible weekend, with mum sleeping downstairs and refusing to go to mass with the family. We were mortified, terrified, thrilled. Dad did something so bad that mum wouldn't speak to him.
I only remember dad being obviously drunk once. I was 21, and I was drunk too. And I think that's why I remember this so vividly. A New Year's Eve in Arrowtown, well after midnight, leaving the party at the house down by the river "I'm going home!" said Dad. "Me too!" and off we headed, up through the camping ground shortcut, in the dark, running into a wire fence. Shit! Laughing. "We'll have to climb over it." We both fell, swearing and laughing, over the wire into the long grass. "I'm drunk!" I said. " Me too." This was one of a handful of memories when it was just me and dad, together, happy. It still makes me chuckle.
A few days before dad died (of liver and other cancers, at the age of 54) he was in hospital for a few days. I was sitting alone with him about 6pm, and the duty nurse -- popped her head into the cubicle, picked up the dinner tray, and said "Would you like a beer Peter? We've got Steinlarger in the fridge."
"Don't you know I'm dying of liver cancer?" Dad laughed.
"Yes, of course! A beer's not going to do any more harm now!"
And then dad said, rather sadly, "You know, this is the first time in my life I really don't feel like drinking beer."
Later I stood outside the hospital, waiting to be picked up, big hot tears splashing onto my new suede boots and staining them with dark splotches. I was sad because dad was going to die any day now. I wasn't crying about the beer. Did the beer kill him? No. Not on its own.
She: You OK?
Me: My shoulders keep crunching up! I'm feeling worried about where this might go. To be really honest, I'm worried about what other people might say if they read this. Relatives particularly.
I'm honestly not trying to diss dad or my family. I just want to get out what I remember, what I thought. And there's that voice saying "Don't say that about family. You'll hurt people. You don't know the real truth. Don't go there."
She: And "who do you think you are?"
Me: Yes! Who do I think I am, writing all this about other people when I don't know anything!Who do I think I am writing anything at all? Exactly.
___________________
I've loved reading and writing from the time I could hold a pencil and form words.
This was a mystery to mum, who felt compelled to stop me indulging in this reclusive and unnatural interest. One of my angriest memories of early adolescence, still plagues me to this day when I write.
I'm about 14, in my bedroom, alone, writing in my journal. It is evening. Everyone else is downstairs. I'm happy. Absorbed. A knock on the door. A little sister peeks in. "Mum says you have to come downstairs and be part of the family." "No, I'm busy writing." She went back down to the family. Foot tread on the stairs, the squeak on the third step from the top. Mum throws open my bedroom door. "What are you doing up here? Come downstairs and be part of the family!" "I'm writing." "Come downstairs right now. Writing alone in your room is unnatural at your age!"
I had no choice. I went down stairs. No point being unnatural at my age.
I feel burning in my hands!! But it's good to tell that story. I can see, from this distance, mum was terrified of loosing us. She was terrified we might think and do and know and discover things she didn't know about. She didn't understand that her children were separate people, full of potential and creativity and life and promise. She was terribly threatened by us growing up. She hung on as hard as she could.
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First memory of writing
I am either five or six. Definitely not seven. The long summer holidays are over and we’re back at school, writing the inevitable “what I did in the school holidays” essay. Except this time the teacher says to write about “my favourite thing about the holidays”. And so I set out to write about the smell of freshly cut grass, which was, without a doubt, my favourite thing about the holidays. And summer in general. And my favourite thing about Dad too, who mowed the grass, and collected it in a massive cardboard box so we could jump from high up in the gum tree, and land safely... in that smell. At five or six, I probably didn’t have the vocabulary or the skill to describe that smell. It’s a challenge even now. But then, leaning over my new exercise book, which was probably covered in hideous pink floral wallpaper, I was remembering hard, just waiting for the right words to come out of the end of my sharp new pencil...
Teacher was doing her rounds. She stopped at my desk and asked me what my essay was about. “The smell of the grass when Dad cuts it.”
“You can’t write about THAT! Write about something you DID!”
I don’t know what happened next. I probably just made up a story about going to stay on a farm and helping feed the lambs or getting a new trampoline for Christmas (which we certainly did not get – a box of grass was as close to a trampoline as we could afford!) Whatever I wrote that day, it was probably my first case of revenge writing. Even at that tender age I was appalled at the teacher’s limited view of what could be expressed in writing, and I feel sure I wrote a 100% grammar- and spelling-perfect boring little story just to get her back!
I am yet to describe the smell of the grass when Dad cut it. He hasn’t cut grass for 20-odd years now, but every time I smell that smell, I smell him.
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