Inspiration from small beginnings

 As part of #BlogJune, I am posting my answers to #JuneQuestions. 

I picked today's question out of the list of potentially easier options. Because - inspiration struck. 

Who inspires you?

I hesitated choosing this question to answer. 

Who would I pick? 

A work mate (past or present)?

A mentor?

A friend?

A family member?

A role model? 

Then - I saw them. My inspiration.

The little girl in that photo. In a baby's bath. Smiling. With a book! 

Me at three (ish). 

My past-self. 

The me before. 

Before Dad's nearly fatal accident.

Before Mum's (complete) breakdown.

Before the separation.

Before the divorce.

Before *waves hands* all this. 

That little one kept going and growing. She kept a sense of joy and childlike wonder and enthusiasm (and a love of books). Yes, this was balanced with a sense of adult-like cynicism - even at three. 

This deeply embedded attitude has kept me going - as life moved be on from that little one, to the 50-year-old me. 

Each day is another day that little inner me lives, and inspires me to keep hold of her. 

Inspires me to connect with others - to find other peoples' inner child (whether they're wearing a child body, or an adult one). 

Dearest Little Me

You kept your sense of joy all through that. 

You couldn't contain that joy when your parents reunited. 

You couldn't contain it when you became an adult, only a few short four years later. 

I'm working my way back to you. To your joy.

Dad's death, 20 years ago last week, dampened it down. 

But, the real nail in the coffin has been the rupture of the family. The family that allowed that little one to be so joyful. 

Now, I find joy elsewhere.

At work - in the smiles and giggles and friendships with current little ones (and their grown-ups). 

In being an auntie, while at work. You know, responsible adult that's not a parent, but quite close. Yeah, that. 

Keep shining Little Ones. Everywhere.

I hope that, someday and some way, I can be an inspiration to others. 

(Maybe typing this up at work wasn't a good idea. Glad I'm alone in the office.)

What do you currently do for a living? 

Arrange playdates between toys and a T. Rex 😉. (Seriously! It's happening in July!)

Being an auntie.  

I'm a Senior Librarian - Children and Youth; and 2iC (second in charge). 

 What three words would you use to describe your role? 

Tedium. Chaos. Smiles

What is your biggest achievement to date - personal or professional? 

Surviving working three part-time jobs, over six days a week, while studying for my MA full-time (and achieving Honours). It make working fulltime, while studying (part time and by distance) for my MLIS a doddle. 

 

 

 

A St Patrick's Day Tale.

Picture the scene: St Pat's Day, 1955. The Mayfair Theatre, Sandringham, Auckland. A 22 year old guy & his mate. Looking a bit scruffy, stubble, a leather aviator jacket...

An 18 year old young woman with her younger sister. An 18 year old who had adopted out an illegitimate child. But, still incredibly innocent. (Her now-grown daughters wonder how much consent was involved.)

Anyway, the guys are friends with the owner's son, and ask if they can be seated by the nice looking young ladies.

At the end of the movie, young man asks young lady if they would like a lift home. She's a bit concerned (see stubble & leather jacket). Then he says 'I have my Mum's car'.

Some judicious questions were asked as the women were in green. It *was* St Pat's, after all. It didn't mean anything to them. He, however, had a mother in the Orange Lodge, and sectarianism was a thing for him. She didn't know the why behind the questions.


(I'm not sure when he found out her mother been taught to spit at nuns. Yeah, seriously Protestant. Years later, he'd ask me 'have they got you yet?' when I worked in a Catholic school.)


They sit innocently, shyly, in the front, not talking. Meanwhile younger sister & friend are 'getting to know each other' in the back seat.


The dating started. It was all going well. The word 'floating' has been used to describe her feelings after some days. Then, she told him about the baby. Her mother thought she was mad, ruining this relationship.


That night, he turned up for their date, with flowers. They were engaged. He never really asked for permission. He couldn't talk, he was so nervous. Future FiL said 'I believe you have something to ask me'.


They were married in December, as they didn't want to spend Christmas apart. Unbeknownst to them, they were 2 months pregnant. Yep, had sex twice. Got pregnant twice.

Their groomsman (on left below) told a gossipy old lady to leave his store, when she came in commenting on the short time between wedding (Dec 11) and birth (Jul 5). (Speaking of gossip: bridesmaid on left is the sister. Groomsman on right was the friend in the car).



Anyway, by their 5th wedding anniversary, they were expecting baby 4 (having lost a couple along the way). Then... no babies for nearly 11 years! Then, me... 

Then, separation. Divorce, finalised 11 November 1978. By Christmas 1979, they were together again. With a grandson.

And they stayed that way until his death in May 2002. He was always loyal. He was always a one-woman man.

My Dad

The 13th was the 88th anniversary of my Dad's birth. He died in May 2002. I just cried when I realised more of his direct descendants never met him, compared to those who did. I find that sad. But, I am so very glad he isn't here to see the division in the family.





I'm glad he isn't here so I don't have to face which side / stance he would take.


He was my dad.
My rock.
My world.


He changed EVERYTHING to be a solo Dad to a 5 year old & 4 traumatised teens.











Dad stopped working stupid hours. He was a self-employed tradie. 

He did my hair in the morning (my ears still remember being brushed). 

He drove me school, sometimes with the cat, Raz, in the car. He worked from home in the weekends, so I was looked after. He brought in housekeepers to help. They didn't.

Everything. He welcomed in an unmarried, pregnant teen - who had a completely shite life. She lived with us. He drove her to hospital to give birth - alone (Dad didn't do hospitals / blood / vomit / sickness in general). She and her baby had Christmas with us. The Santa photo was taken the next year - so it wasn't a one-time thing. 





His childhood name was Sunny, because he had such a sunny personality. Sister3 has it as a tattoo, with his mum's favourite violets, and rain for our sadness.




He didn't really read, although he spent a lot of time living above the bookshop. He did the read comics very carefully so they could be sold as new.





He had a large family of cousins, aunts, and s few uncles, but just the one big sister. (Not all cousins represented.) So many aunts, his name for his grandmother was Auntie Mum. All women were Aunties, and his mum called this one Mum, Auntie Mum. (Funny how her hair got darker)



He loved his big sister. I overheard him on the phone the morning after their mum died "we're orphans, Gwen".
They were both grandparents by that time, but...







His parents weren't demonstrative, but they were solid in their support.
The snowball photo above? My aunt's marriage wasn't great, so her parents took her away for a family holiday with her daughter. There was snow on the Desert Rd, so they stopped for a snowball fight.



Nana and Grandad would come on holiday with us. Grandad is in hardly any photos as he was behind the camera.
That Rotorua photo? 1978.
Nana had been diagnosed with cancer, & she wanted a last family holiday before she died.
Grandad died in 1981.
Nana in 1990.




My dad was sexy. Seriously. He was wearing a leather bomber jacket & had stubble when he met Mum on St Patrick's Day 1955. He offered to drive her & her sister home, in his Mum's car. Yes, Nana drove as Grandad couldn't (missing an eye).




And a reluctant compulsory military trainee... hungover, too. One camp, Dad was in charge of starting the kitchen fires, so he laid a line of gunpowder between them. 1st thing in the morning, he lit the end & went back to bed. He never liked mornings.




He always said he was uncomfortable around babies... But they weren't uncomfortable around him. I had to get in at least one photo of a flipping toweling hat!




He was a hard worker. The kitchen with We Love This on the pelmet? Photo taken at sister2's engagement. House decorated by wedding. 2am the day of the wedding, the final wallpaper was put up. We hosted the reception. Fire surround at Waitakere Estate as made by Dad.



He had a silly side and didn't like photos much. He was a photographer (he hand painted his and Mum's wedding photo, above).




He was proud and supportive. The night before my 1st graduation, Sister1 tried on my mortar board and said, you have a big head. Me: because I have a degree & you don't. Dad: rub it in. He also said: it's not *just* a BA. You worked hard for that.

Sister1's wedding. There was this great moment when the celebrant did the thing about cellphones, and Dad reached into his inner jacket pocket for Sister1's phone... then had to hand it over to her to deal with. Yeah, he didn't talk on the phone.





When my serious relationship ended and I phoned the parents - Dad answered it (that would be because Mum wasn't ANY WHERE near the phone - ie, in the house). He said:
"I need you to know that you and X are both great people. You're just not great together."
Followed swiftly by: "there's your mother." And handed the phone over.



He wasn't perfect. We had holes in doors, from where he'd kicked them. Walls from where he'd punched them. We were a family falling apart. Teen tantrums. Mum, severe mental health issues & PTSD. Dad had nearly died a couple of years earlier.

His near-death: a steel carborundum blade on the skillsaw shattered, pieces went through his face. Pieces of his dentures stayed in the roof of his mouth. Mum was at home & found him dripping blood in the bath. Sister2 cleaned the blood up, so Sister3 & I didn't see it.


Dad had ongoing head injury issues, rages, forgetfulness. In hindsight, it was the last straw for Mum's mental health. When she left, we pulled together. The message I got was: thank goodness we had you, we had something to focus on. Which makes things really hard now, as I've been programmed to keep the family together - to be the peacemaker, the glue. And I can't. There isn't anything anyone can do, now. The pain, the hurt, the trauma, the distrust, is too deep. 

Mum and Dad separated ~1976. I had just started school. Sistet1 had moved out. Sister2 was engaged (she and her fiancé lived with us). Sister3 was suicidal. Brother was oblivious. I don't remember. 

Mum made herself into the baddy, which made her return in 1979 so hard for some. Not me. I had my Mum back!

They were together longer unmarried, than they were married.
Mum and Dad's relationship was solid and deep and caring when he died.
They ran away from home a couple of years after I moved out. At that point, family demands were putting too much strain on Dad and his health. So, they escaped together - to spend time together. 


I hope he is resting peacefully, with the ashes of my Molly cat on his lap. He liked her as 'she has a personality.' I hope the lambs in spring make him smile. You can hear them from his graveside.






My Dad. My oak. I miss him. And I always will.



And, I'll stop now. Thank you pocket listeners. Thank you for 'listening'.