For better and for worse, till infidelity do us part - Part One
For years, and despite all the drama and calamities of his union with my mother, Rae, my father would not be drawn into the subject of their relationship, or her nature, in front of me. He was also not one to relive the past while those wounds were still raw. By contrast, my mother never spared us a nasty detail about our father, and if I were not so incredulous, I might to this day believe him to be a very wicked man.
In 1998, worn down by my dogged questioning, and licking his wounds after being left by his second wife, he illuminated the subject of the end of his first marriage. “I married her after knowing her for eight weeks,” he told me, “and it took me eight weeks to realise that I had made a terrible mistake. Unfortunately, it took me fourteen years to end it.”
My father was raised, the middle of three children, in a working class catholic family in Panmure, a post-war suburb nestled in between Auckland’s wealthy Eastern beach suburbs and the Tamaki Estuary. Following a shot-gun wedding, his parents lived for a time with my father’s maternal grandmother before they spent a year living in a cramped two room home in an army camp bordering Auckland Domain. Fortune smiled upon them when one of the new state houses in Panmure was finally offered to the growing family in the mid 1940s, a home shared by my grandmother and uncle to this day.
My grandparents were both factory workers, my grandmother never schooled beyond second form. She sewed their clothes, cleaned, and made the small amount they earned stretch to feed a five-person family. My father remembers his father as a stern man who once stubbed his cigarette out in his mashed potato, ordering him to eat it after the young boy had complained about the smoke blanketing the family dinner. Granddad could also be terrifying when he rolled home drunk from the pub in a mood for intimidation. But it could have been worse. My grandmother recalls a neighbour who was often brutalised by her husband, according to the screams she regularly heard coming from her house. When I asked if Granny ever called the police, she said that it broke her heart, but in those days people did not involve themselves in the marital problems of others. I don’t think that in practice there is absolute equality between the sexes today, but nonetheless, I am grateful that I was not born 50 years earlier.
My gentle and sensitive Grandmother, alive today, was a good catholic who must have found refuge from the drudgery and hardship of everyday life in the ritualistic rites of the church, and its seductive promise of eternal paradise in the next life. She held the church and its leaders in very high regard. It is no wonder then, when she asked Dad one day what he wanted to be, and he said “maybe a Priest”, that he found himself sitting across the kitchen table from the leader of their congregation the very next day. Not wanting to disappoint, my father entered a seminary in Christchurch at 17 years old, and spent the next five years trying to figure out whether the priesthood was his vocation. His quest ended during a weeklong catholic retreat, which Dad used for meditation on the conumdrum. With the end of the week approaching, and frustrated that he could not come to a conclusion using logic or philosophy, he sat in a field and made a plea to God. “Father”, he prayed, “if this is my true vocation, make this dandelion bend over”.
“But for a gust of wind,” he says today, “I would be a catholic priest.”
After leaving the seminary, he enrolled at the University of Auckland in a Bachelor of Commerce. Nearing the end of his study, he planned an OE with two friends, and was in the process of booking tickets for a six week boat trip to the United Kingdom when he locked eyes with heartache and trouble at the pub. My mother was pretty, petite, had curves in the right places, a short skirt and long red hair. With little experience of women, and some years to make up for, my father fell easily for this more experienced vixen, fully possessed of her sexual power. A friend of his once told me that his enduring memory of that night was of my parents spending much of the night getting hot and heavy in the stairwell.
A few weeks into their relationship, my brother, then five, asked Dad if he could call him “Daddy”. Enamoured of my mother, and feeling responsibility for my brother, he changed his travel plans for wedding plans, even as he wondered whether Rhys had been put up to the “Daddy” line. Recently, when Dad was questioning the hasty nature of their union, I asked, “Do you think, perhaps, you were…er…blinded by the sexual nature of your relationship?” He stole my true thoughts when he muttered “I think they call it cunt-struck. Yeah, probably.”
His parents were bitterly disappointed that he chose to marry a woman he barely knew who had a child in tow, but Dad was disinclined to heed the advice of his father. The marriage was a low-key affair, held at the home of my maternal grandmother. My mother wore a tight mini dress in black, lime green and orange. It laced up the front, ended just below her bottom and was paired with knee-high boots. We know this not from photos, the photographer was drunk and forgot to put film in the camera, but because the items of clothing remained in her closet years later. After the ceremony and a small bite to eat, my parents spent the ride home in the wedding car making the most of their updated marital status, to the amusement of the people riding up front.
Embarking upon the marriage was relatively easy compared to the decision to divorce. It must have been hard in those more religious and socially conservative times to face its stigma, even if by then my father was a lapsed catholic anyway. But there came a time when marriage dissolution went from tantalising possibility to unavoidable reality.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Writing that last post was like opening a window to the past and memories have been blowing in ever since. But the memory that has intrigued me most in the past few days comes from my sister, Mel.
I have probably already mentioned my mother's close relationship with alcohol. As the men have come and gone, and the children have over time slipped out of her sphere of influence, the booze has remained a loyal, if punishing mate. Sometime in the late 80's, tired of the drunken ranting, Mel, who was perhaps 14 or 15, and my brother, Rhys, 6 years Mel's senior, thought they would try their hand at a bit of drunken hypnosis, mixed up with some mischief. While Rae was out drinking somewhere (in those days most likely the Sports Bar at the Windsor in Mairangi Bay) they placed a cassette tape in a battery powered stereo which they in turn placed in her wardrobe. When they heard her arriving home, they ran in and turned it on. She stumbled into her room, and into bed. I don't know whether she heard any of the tape, but it was entertaining enough stuff for us at the time. After thirty minutes of silence, Rhys had recorded, in a small high pitched voice, a plea:
"Help me ...... help me.... I'm in here.....can't you see me....get me outta here.....help me!"
After some minutes more silence, he adopted a deeper, more soothing voice:
"Raaaae, Raaaae, this is your cooonscience speaking. Stooop the drinking Raaae. Stooop the driiinking. Your children neeeed you."
While I don't remember any fall-out on that occasion, Mel does recall the reaction they got to another cassette tape escapade. We had tried many times to explain to Rae how distressed we were by her drunken rants and erratic behaviour. She never took to this information kindly. If we were game enough to bring it up, we would be subjected to a vehement tirade of insults. We were told we were vermin, that we drove her to drinking, that it was her only luxury, that we never wanted her to have fun. Writing it down makes it seem almost innocuous, but the snarl in her mouth, her beady eyes, the slow drawl winding up to a screech, the spittle coming out of her mouth, the finger pointing - I remember it as terrible and terrifying. So, one day, Mel and Rhys recorded her drunken ravings, and the next day, they took the "ghetto blaster" down to her room and hit "play". Mel recalls that Rae emerged from her room hung-over, and bewildered. But, as the penny dropped that it was in fact her own voice from the previous night, she bared her teeth and claws. When Rae was angry, the violence in her words, her tone, her manner, could be vivid, and scorching. It would feel like she was holding a torch to my skin, was blowing a horn in my ears and was slowly squeezing my heart with her gnarled fingers. Mel says that on this occasion, she had never seen Rae so livid.
Mel and Rhys left the tape recorder alone after that.
I have probably already mentioned my mother's close relationship with alcohol. As the men have come and gone, and the children have over time slipped out of her sphere of influence, the booze has remained a loyal, if punishing mate. Sometime in the late 80's, tired of the drunken ranting, Mel, who was perhaps 14 or 15, and my brother, Rhys, 6 years Mel's senior, thought they would try their hand at a bit of drunken hypnosis, mixed up with some mischief. While Rae was out drinking somewhere (in those days most likely the Sports Bar at the Windsor in Mairangi Bay) they placed a cassette tape in a battery powered stereo which they in turn placed in her wardrobe. When they heard her arriving home, they ran in and turned it on. She stumbled into her room, and into bed. I don't know whether she heard any of the tape, but it was entertaining enough stuff for us at the time. After thirty minutes of silence, Rhys had recorded, in a small high pitched voice, a plea:
"Help me ...... help me.... I'm in here.....can't you see me....get me outta here.....help me!"
After some minutes more silence, he adopted a deeper, more soothing voice:
"Raaaae, Raaaae, this is your cooonscience speaking. Stooop the drinking Raaae. Stooop the driiinking. Your children neeeed you."
While I don't remember any fall-out on that occasion, Mel does recall the reaction they got to another cassette tape escapade. We had tried many times to explain to Rae how distressed we were by her drunken rants and erratic behaviour. She never took to this information kindly. If we were game enough to bring it up, we would be subjected to a vehement tirade of insults. We were told we were vermin, that we drove her to drinking, that it was her only luxury, that we never wanted her to have fun. Writing it down makes it seem almost innocuous, but the snarl in her mouth, her beady eyes, the slow drawl winding up to a screech, the spittle coming out of her mouth, the finger pointing - I remember it as terrible and terrifying. So, one day, Mel and Rhys recorded her drunken ravings, and the next day, they took the "ghetto blaster" down to her room and hit "play". Mel recalls that Rae emerged from her room hung-over, and bewildered. But, as the penny dropped that it was in fact her own voice from the previous night, she bared her teeth and claws. When Rae was angry, the violence in her words, her tone, her manner, could be vivid, and scorching. It would feel like she was holding a torch to my skin, was blowing a horn in my ears and was slowly squeezing my heart with her gnarled fingers. Mel says that on this occasion, she had never seen Rae so livid.
Mel and Rhys left the tape recorder alone after that.
Wednesday, June 04, 2008
I am fascinated with how dysfunction is passed down - a legacy of genetics and poor parenting could stretch back generations.
It's probably the case in my family. Finger and toes are crossed that I arrest the process.
As I get older I realise that I have a past full of very funny, and very sad tales. On occasion they burn in my chest, but as time passes the colours fade and I am left with tatty little memories that are losing their emotional punch. So it is time to start remembering the good and the bad taste. I have enlisted my sister to help me along. Hopefully between us we can preserve in technicolour some of those moments that shaped us.
Our recorded memories may help our kids understand us in time, the way the patchy stories of my mother's bitter childhood in part explain the woman she is, and in a way, the women we are. (I say patchy as she has a casual relationship with the truth.)
I am thinking that I would like the narrative arc of this episodic life story to be comedic - happy, sad, happy - because despite all the past crap, life is pretty bloody marvellous now. So why not get started with a funny tale...
Around 1986 my mother, Rae, hooked up with a 27 stone maori guy called Arnie. I first met him one night outside a pub in Auckland, where my mother had been imbibing and socialising. My 2 year old sister, Jane, and I (10) had suffered an evening in a cold, old Corolla, scanning the dark car park, willing each shifting shape to be her. Eventually, two shadows approached. One of the shadows was immense, and as the person hulked into view, I was surprised to see that second shadow was not a child, but was in fact my diminutive mother. When Rae introduced Arnie, he seemed genuinely concerned that we had been left to our own devices for so long. Rae told us that on hearing that she had two bairns outside, he had insisted on moving their party of two to the car. That night, Arnie came home, for what I think was Rae's first "stranger sleep-over" following the marriage break-up (although other vague acquaintances had shared her bed previously). Arnie went rapidly from one night stand to live-in boyfriend. This jarred for us, the children, but as years passed we became accustomed to virtual strangers becoming sudden housemates. And Arnie proved to be a generous man with a big heart and an appetite to match.
At this time, Cheryl lived next door. She was, a sad, small, pale and bedraggled mother of two who bore a passing resemblance to Jimmy Barnes. She appeared to have suffered through a hard life of drinking, smoking, and poor treatment. Luckily, she had found an angel in her new partner, Terry, who treated her like a princess, and protected her in a way I am sure no man had ever done before. Terry was a robust, large and jovial woman with a florid complexion who drove a forklift at a local timber yard. Terry and Cheryl's relationship was a source of fascination for our family, not just because lesbianism was a novel concept to us, but also because they were physically and emotionally an odd pairing.
Obesity wasn't all that common in 1980s North Shore and Arnie's capacity to eat was a talking point for the family, and the neighbours, even though Terry was, herself, no waif. One day, this reputation came in handy. Around the time of Arnie's stay, we had a problem with a local dog shitting at the top of our driveway. We suspected it was Terry and Cheryl's dog, but they denied it. Rae, ever the mischievous plotter, hatched a plan with Arnie. The next time a dog left a brown present, Arnie took the usual step of transferring it to Terry and Cheryl's driveway. As was her usual response, Terry sent it back. Arnie crept it over again, and over the course of a Saturday, this poo to'd and fro'd between the two properties. Rae then concocted a faux poo from cocoa, flour and butter, and deposited it at the top of the their driveway, while Arnie disposed of the original offender. When Terry returned the cocoa poo to our driveway, Arnie called out to her, and asked her what she thought she was doing. "You know bloody well what I am doing, keep your shit away from my house!", she fumed. Arnie strolled up to her, and said, "I can do better than that". He casually leaned over, retrieved the poo, and slowly, deliberately, chewed his way through it. "Jesus, Cheryl," she called out in alarm, "he's eating shit!"
It's probably the case in my family. Finger and toes are crossed that I arrest the process.
As I get older I realise that I have a past full of very funny, and very sad tales. On occasion they burn in my chest, but as time passes the colours fade and I am left with tatty little memories that are losing their emotional punch. So it is time to start remembering the good and the bad taste. I have enlisted my sister to help me along. Hopefully between us we can preserve in technicolour some of those moments that shaped us.
Our recorded memories may help our kids understand us in time, the way the patchy stories of my mother's bitter childhood in part explain the woman she is, and in a way, the women we are. (I say patchy as she has a casual relationship with the truth.)
I am thinking that I would like the narrative arc of this episodic life story to be comedic - happy, sad, happy - because despite all the past crap, life is pretty bloody marvellous now. So why not get started with a funny tale...
Around 1986 my mother, Rae, hooked up with a 27 stone maori guy called Arnie. I first met him one night outside a pub in Auckland, where my mother had been imbibing and socialising. My 2 year old sister, Jane, and I (10) had suffered an evening in a cold, old Corolla, scanning the dark car park, willing each shifting shape to be her. Eventually, two shadows approached. One of the shadows was immense, and as the person hulked into view, I was surprised to see that second shadow was not a child, but was in fact my diminutive mother. When Rae introduced Arnie, he seemed genuinely concerned that we had been left to our own devices for so long. Rae told us that on hearing that she had two bairns outside, he had insisted on moving their party of two to the car. That night, Arnie came home, for what I think was Rae's first "stranger sleep-over" following the marriage break-up (although other vague acquaintances had shared her bed previously). Arnie went rapidly from one night stand to live-in boyfriend. This jarred for us, the children, but as years passed we became accustomed to virtual strangers becoming sudden housemates. And Arnie proved to be a generous man with a big heart and an appetite to match.
At this time, Cheryl lived next door. She was, a sad, small, pale and bedraggled mother of two who bore a passing resemblance to Jimmy Barnes. She appeared to have suffered through a hard life of drinking, smoking, and poor treatment. Luckily, she had found an angel in her new partner, Terry, who treated her like a princess, and protected her in a way I am sure no man had ever done before. Terry was a robust, large and jovial woman with a florid complexion who drove a forklift at a local timber yard. Terry and Cheryl's relationship was a source of fascination for our family, not just because lesbianism was a novel concept to us, but also because they were physically and emotionally an odd pairing.
Obesity wasn't all that common in 1980s North Shore and Arnie's capacity to eat was a talking point for the family, and the neighbours, even though Terry was, herself, no waif. One day, this reputation came in handy. Around the time of Arnie's stay, we had a problem with a local dog shitting at the top of our driveway. We suspected it was Terry and Cheryl's dog, but they denied it. Rae, ever the mischievous plotter, hatched a plan with Arnie. The next time a dog left a brown present, Arnie took the usual step of transferring it to Terry and Cheryl's driveway. As was her usual response, Terry sent it back. Arnie crept it over again, and over the course of a Saturday, this poo to'd and fro'd between the two properties. Rae then concocted a faux poo from cocoa, flour and butter, and deposited it at the top of the their driveway, while Arnie disposed of the original offender. When Terry returned the cocoa poo to our driveway, Arnie called out to her, and asked her what she thought she was doing. "You know bloody well what I am doing, keep your shit away from my house!", she fumed. Arnie strolled up to her, and said, "I can do better than that". He casually leaned over, retrieved the poo, and slowly, deliberately, chewed his way through it. "Jesus, Cheryl," she called out in alarm, "he's eating shit!"
In my last post I had a short list of the things that are most important to me. After much procrastination, it is time to think about how I will live my life according to these priorities.
My two beautiful, gorgeous, fun, loving boys:
Get up earlier, get the necessary chores out of the way, and then play my boys, take them out, have fun with them. Listen to them properly, make them feel like they matter.
My hard working husband:
Get up earlier so that I have more time with him. Go to bed earlier for the same reason. Consider what is important to him and how I can support that.
Good relationships with my extended family and friends:
Invite them around more.
Sleep:
Go to bed earlier
A sharp mind:
More books, less TV
A healthy body:
Start running again. Eat less junk and more fruit and veg. Go meat free two nights a week.
Our precious environment:
Introduce a new habit every month, aimed at reducing my carbon footprint.
Our precious freedoms:
Vote, be vocal about what I believe in, keep in touch with what is going on in NZ and the world.
A healthy, happy community:
I might leave this one for when the kids are at school, but by living according to the plans above should go some way towards contributing to a healthy and happy community.
My two beautiful, gorgeous, fun, loving boys:
Get up earlier, get the necessary chores out of the way, and then play my boys, take them out, have fun with them. Listen to them properly, make them feel like they matter.
My hard working husband:
Get up earlier so that I have more time with him. Go to bed earlier for the same reason. Consider what is important to him and how I can support that.
Good relationships with my extended family and friends:
Invite them around more.
Sleep:
Go to bed earlier
A sharp mind:
More books, less TV
A healthy body:
Start running again. Eat less junk and more fruit and veg. Go meat free two nights a week.
Our precious environment:
Introduce a new habit every month, aimed at reducing my carbon footprint.
Our precious freedoms:
Vote, be vocal about what I believe in, keep in touch with what is going on in NZ and the world.
A healthy, happy community:
I might leave this one for when the kids are at school, but by living according to the plans above should go some way towards contributing to a healthy and happy community.
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