Bob Wells once said “Your true value depends entirely on what your compared with”.

I’ve just buried my dad to be exact, on the 25th of January. He was truly agreat man, top dad and granddad. You might recall, I wrote my blog about Fathers Day and it was a bit of a tribute to my “Old Man”. It was about getting in touch, calling your dad and just saying ” I love You Dad”.

I used that blog to form the basis of my eulogy at his funeral…

I want to share a little of Dad with you all. Over the past few days, I have reflected on his life and his achievements… Ronald Leslie Portland, less than ordinary really…or was he? He moved to Taumarunui, in the middle of  New Zealand’s North Island, a cold wet and drab place in the Winter, Hot and dry in the Summer. As a youngster, he grew up in the lush Waikato farming community of Matamata, known for it’s Thoroughbreds & Dairy farms. His dad, was awarded a ballot farm after WW I ended. His mother, our “Nana” hailed from the Australian state of Victoria, the daughter of a trucking magnate, hence my dads fascination with trucks. He was in the Fire Brigade and whilst there forged lasting friendships. Friendships that have lasted a lifetime. Met, wooed and courted my Mother, Ila, who no doubt was waiting with open arms to greet him. Probably telling him off for giving St Peter a hard time on the way through. He was a handsome bugger in his day, no wonder my Mother fell for him hook, line and sinker. She was a bit of a looker too (as most of you will remember)!

I recall, in those early days, he also drove a taxi and I remember some of the stories he told reluctantly about that time… The Tangiwai Train disaster, befriending a very young Trevor Rupe, better known to you as Carmen. No doubt they are reminiscing right now!!

Ron…as he was fondly known ran the Rangatira Service Station and became an institution, pumping petrol, dressed immaculately in his peak cap, green shirt and black bow-tie, White coat on special occasions, like the time the NZ film Commission filmed “Don’t let it Get You” with Lew Prime and Kiri Te Kawana. I helped out at the service station, hosing down the forecourt. He made me feel important! Helped myself to the takings too. He knew, and covered it up.

Then one day, in came this Jag…filled it up and off they sped. None other than the famous Gilles Ave bank robbers… He dined on that one for some time.  The tyre bay was his bar, flagons of beer consumed with the local police and Catholic Priest. He would buy Fr King the “truth” every week and they have a chuckle over a flagon or two and so life went on, just an ordinary bloke.

Then, it happened. Caltex flew him and his tanker driver mate, Bob Cooper to Sydney. Unbeknown, they went seeking permission to open a little canteen on the refurbished Service Station. This was basically the first food outlet in the country attached to a Servo and it put me through college. Not that I knew it at the time. Bonici Motors took a bus to the  Chateau every weekend during the skiing season and Mum & Dad cashed in on this. They would call ahead from Te Kuiti with an approximate time of arrival and whilst refuelling with diesel, the passenger’s would fill up on home made pies and soup. Something that became legendary over the years. They were the best of times, or so I thought, I was completely unaware of the hardships they were enduring, but never once did I see my dad loose it in front of any of us boys.

Oh, he knew some pretty important people too - Politicians, Film Stars and a whole bunch of other folk. Some I came to know later in life - Sir Michael Fowler, Sir Basil Arthur  Roy Jack, the Meads Bothers, those famous Kiwi All Blacks, police inspectors. And the list goes on. One of my fondest memories was the time we spent with McLaren & Brabam, those racing greats. Of course, I cannot leave out Tuesday Weld, a beautiful actress that I got to know in those formative years.

He loved to go camping and some of the fondest memories are of those times in the bush. Every Sunday we would go for a drive, an adventure really, drive for miles and miles in the Mark 2 Zephyr, then the Mark 3 and that famous Jowett Javelin… German precision, he would delight in saying. His dream was to own a Mercedes. I think he did get to drive one. Then there was the “Shop Truck” a 40’s something Ford, we loved those trips to the dump.

In the mid 60’s Dad decided on a career change. Right out of left field he became the Bailiff. A job he absolutely loved. There are so so many stories of that time, but a couple that stand out are the day he and Phil Van Duschoeten, a local policeman went bush. To this day, I don’t think any one really knows what happened but they had a hell of an adventure. That I do know. The other that stands out, is the day the two of them went to seize some live stock from the infamous Huti Barratt. They arrived at the Taringamoutu Farm, told Huti they were going to seize the livestock, painted a blue cross on the stock to be taken. Got a call around 5:30am from one very irate Ongarue Transport driver. You see, cunning Huti and his boys had painted a blue cross on every living animal in site, including the dogs. That put paid to the stock being carted off but he locked Huti up anyway! There are many many more stories that I’m sure will be told, some here, some there…where ever that may be.

Dad, one things for sure…you will never be forgotten. So while I was pondering my weekly column, it dawned on me that Fathers Day was upon us and vivid in my mind was the journey that my son Phil, and you and I took.

I’d like to read that column… It went like this….

Bartrand Hubbard said– “I’ve had a hard life, but my hardships are nothing against the hardships that my father went through in order to get me to where I started.”

My dad is in his mid 80’s now.  His body is telling him it’s nearly time, but his mind remains as sharp as the day. He grew up in a small rural community, riding a horse 10 miles to school every day.

A couple of years ago, I took my youngest son on a journey, to visit and spend time with his granddad. I wanted him to know about those early days. He remarked that my son was a walking magnet, with all the steel in his body, and that he had more ink on him than in the classroom he learned in (he has a couple of tattoo’s and at the time, two or three piercings).

So I wanted him to open up to my son… I asked him about those informative years. “Hard years” he said and started to open up. I learned as much as my son that day. You see, I thought I knew my old man. Turns out I only knew what he decided I should know.

I never knew about the beatings he regularly got from his ‘old man’, my grandfather. I did know about his brother chopping off his toe, whilst they were making Shang eyes. But not about being chained to the chopping block because of it.  I had always wondered about the truth of this, but when he started reminiscing with my son, I began to believe in the reality of life during the depression and those years that shaped my dad into the man he became.

He would over the years say to me on more than one occasion, “Your grandfather was a hard bastard…but a fair one!”

Somehow, that cliché ‘Like father. Like son’ rings in my mind. My old man was hard, but fair! I never really saw him show true affection to me or my five brothers all that often.. But then, I was not really around most of their growing years.

He did love us… unconditionally, protected us and kept us safe. Many times he covered my arse, I just did not know it! Not then at least.

I do now, but it was to be many years later that I learned the truth. We never came to blows, but there were many harsh words. He was, after all just trying to instil the values he had been taught by his father, into me. I really didn’t want to listen.. At 16 I knew it all and it was the dawning of ‘The Age of Aquarius’ and I had an adventure to begin.

Some years later, when he got the call that no father wants to hear “Your son has had a very serious accident and may not make it through the night…you best get here quick” he just downed tools and come hell or high water was going to be at my bedside. No questions asked.

He was there and remained until I was out of immediate danger. He cared not for his business or any other matter, apart from getting to the hospital to be at the side of his eldest son.

As we drove that August morning some 2 years ago, my own son began to learn more and more about this kind, loving and compassionate man…my father, his Granddad.

We stopped at a little country café for lunch and all my old man wanted was a cold beer and a plate of seafood chowder.

I have never seen that smile since.. He was in old man’s heaven.

We got back into the car and he proceeded to ramble on about his lunch for what seemed hours.. Issuing directions with military precision on how to get to the family homestead.. After an hour, my son and I looked at each other bewildered, as we were so certain we were just plain lost!!

Next thing, we are right outside the gate to the family farm.. He had let us to this gate with pinpoint accuracy.

It was about this time that he demanded we stop for lunch because he had not eaten since breakfast and he was hungry.

My son told him he had lunch an hour ago and couldn’t understand why he was getting so agitated.

My dad now lives in a very comfortable retirement home.. He has all his wants & needs met and is surrounded by loving family.

I hope the good lord allows me one more visit.

I for one will be calling my old man this Fathers Day, to tell him how much I love him.

Yes…he did teach me well. I hope through him, I have taught my boys well.

Dad…I love you. Ya old bugger… Rest in eternal peace.. I know you’ll be talking the hind leg of a donkey. And just don’t you ever stop mate.. Safe travels Dad… Lord knows you’ll be doing plenty of it!!

Only recently a fairly big deal of a person asked me why I started blogging. And I really didn’t have a good answer. Such is my reputation for being woefully unprepared, I hoped she’d think my answer of “I was sick of playing spider solitaire” was cute instead of lazy but her face gave her away. Wrong answer. So I decided to think about it in case there was a next time.

So Now What? was born from reading a blog from a lady I knew in real life. Her posts illustrated a seemingly perfect life. Her as a regular Holly Homemaker with perfect offspring. According to her regular updates, she was spending her days reading poetry to her children upon rising, making gluten free goulash for lunch then spinning organic cotton on her multi-spool spinning frame while her perfect offspring napped for at least two hours. She of course set aside this free time to write to her many African Sponsor children about her quest for world peace.

Meanwhile, in reality, she was setting her children up in front of ABC2 with a big bowl of Cocoa Pops and flopping back into bed to watch a Jersey Shore marathon. It was hypocrisy at its finest. And it bugged me. So I started my own blog, perhaps almost in retaliation.

It also felt like I had a lot of stories to tell at the time. A lot of shit was going down in my life. Not always good stuff, but with 3 children, a money pit, life as a working mother, good friends, bad friends, sickness and a husband who – although sweet – was often somewhat unpredictable, the words practically wrote themselves.

And when you look at it, there are over 250 posts on here now, averaging 800 words a post. That’s wait, I have to pull out the mad technology that is my computer calculator, 200,000 words. That’s two books! Although I’m not sure there is a market for a book about Cheese Toast, Bedazzlers and geriatric blow up dolls. But I’m happy to be proven wrong.

Why did you start writing blogs or reading them for that matter?

So can a pair of shoes determine what kind of day you are going to have?  What about what kind of season you will be living through?

I am not a hippy, so normally; I would say a definitive – NO.

Why was it then, after wearing my new, lovely red wedges that I adore, I ended up in the Emergency Department at our local hospital, not once, but twice?

Now, these aren’t expensive shoes, nor are they are brand labelled.  In fact, these imitation leather, I believe the word is synthetic upper, high wedges were purchased at Target.
They were $8.92 in one of those, had to be there at the right time, 40% off the lowest marked price clearance sales.

I had first seen these shoes about two months before and had immediately loved them.  But red shoes, I thought, were for zany people.  Ones that wore bright green spectacles and were the brightest beacon in the room at any social event.  I just straight up passed them over for a similar pair of black ones.  Same cut, same design, just black.

And I wear a lot of black.  Particularly for two reasons:  a)  It trims down the appearance of my particularly large arse and b) I spill stuff on myself.  A lot.  Black is always going to be my new black.

But then one day, for no particular reason,  I wandered into Target, and there sitting in the clearance bin, discarded along with 2 pairs of gold lame’ slip on sandals that would make Demis Roussos proud,  were my red wedges.  Size 9.  I tried them on with my black work pants.   Great news, they fit.  Extra great news, they were comfortable. Fucking excellent news:  They were less than ten bucks!  SOLD.

The very next day, I went to work wearing my new Red Shoes.  Along with black skirt, a black top and a little black cardigan.  And I loved myself sick.  Compliments flowed.  Well, I work with 3 other people, so they I guess, they leaked, rather than flowed, but they were forthcoming none the less.

Just after lunch an unknown number flashed up on my mobile.   I ignored it with some flippant remark like “If they want me bad enough, they will call me at work or stop blocking their number”.     Turns out they did want me badly.  Very badly.  My eight year old son had fallen from the monkey bars at school.  Standard schoolyard folly one would think.  Except this wasn’t standard.  Basically not much connected his elbow anymore to the rest of his arm.

So after sitting in the ER, having being told his break was “as bad as it could possibly get” and being told they couldn’t guarantee he would ever use his arm again”, I put my head down, focused on my stupid red shoes and cried into my knees.

Good news:  his operation was successful.  An overnight stay. Yet, my red high wedges had one more appearance to make during this particular hospital stay.  See, my dear husband, stressed to his eyeballs, went home, grabbed me a tracksuit to sleep in, but no other shoes.  No shoes, no walk in a hospital ward, so if you happened to see a dishevelled lunatic wandering around the kids ward on the Gold Coast, wearing a mismatched tracksuit with high red wedges, you would have been looking at me.

Not one week later, I got ready for work, but knew something wasn’t right.  I put on my work outfit, yep black and my red shoes, first time since the last time.    Sam was lethargic.  And hot.  And well, just scaring the living shit out of me with his pale listlessness.  I think every parent knows this particular feeling.

I still went out that morning appearing to go about my business as normal, yet inside I just knew it would be anything but.  Sam and I went directly to the ER.  See, his arm had a 5% chance of getting an infection.  Highly unlikely the doctor informed me.  Well, you know what doc, after the year I’ve just had, highly and unlikely are just two words that I have heard bandied about one too many times.

So after a full day of having Sam assessed in the ER, we were admitted.  Likely infection in the arm.  Bad if it gets in the bones apparently. Sam, eight, small, the light of my life, just lying there, whilst I looked down at those god damned red shoes again and commenced my best impression of a prayer.

The next week was not pretty.  Countless cannulas, enough antibiotics to kill a hippo and equal amount of tears to break the outback drought.

Within two months, my mother had died.  My two sons had ended up in hospital with various degrees of broken bones.  My own mortality was tested.  Those shoes went to the back of the closet.

So, have I worn them again?  Have I tempted fate?  You betcha.

They are shoes, not the precursor to seven shades of shit that seem to have previously accompanied them.   Of course I always knew this; it’s just hard when you associate shite times with an inanimate object.

They now are starting to look a little dog eared.  They have scuffs and the weather is getting cooler and I want to wear boots.  But they will remain in my cupboard until next summer.

Next summer which can’t be as bad as the last.  I refuse to believe that.