taxi bus donkey

Like many men of my age, generation and background I could quite easily count on my available appendages the number of times I have shared poignant or deep moments with my father. In fact even if i was to suffer some form of horrific appendage decrementing industrial accident I could still safely keep a running tally even if forced to rely on the stumps of my hands and feet. The cunning linguists amongst you will have noted that I failed to use the more predictable word “intimate” to describe the sorts of moments I am referring to, but as the intimacy meter betwixt the old man and I has never suffered even the most minor tremble I can safely use the more less eye-opening word “poignant”.

It isn’t impossible to share a poignant moment with any object irrespective of its degree of animation; accountants, travelling sales-persons, tram passengers, puppies or doorknobs are all quite common co-participants in intimate moments. In fact if my Father was an accountant it would help clarify the depth of our understanding. After all comes a time every July when you have to tell your accountant some pretty private stuff; hopes, dreams and off shore tax schemes. (more…)

Conversations at the kitchen table, mothers day 2006.

I sit at the kitchen table after the mothers day lunch clutter has been cleared, mum is as per usual busying herself in the kitchen, Dad is also comfortable in his particular role of being sprawled out on the couch in some state of sleep. Mum produces a platter, a large cake considering there are only four of us and several small meringues.

“What did you get your mother for mothers day?” My father asks,
“Chocolates..” i reply after a slightly too long pause.
“Chocolates..” he says with a well prepared tone of disappointment “chocolates, she gave birth to you, grew you into a man and you get her chocolates? you should be ashamed of yourself”.

My dad is right I should be, but not because of the mothers day gift, more likely due to the fact that I spent as much on a bag of chocolate coated raspberries to eat on the tram ride over to mum’s as i did on the gift i gave her. And please dont think i was buying provisions for a long train ride, i caught the tram from camberwell junction to warrigal road… it’s about 12 stops. I thought it best to conceal my shame by making something up. (more…)

In the 25 years since I last dined there my cousin’s taverna has changed, but I returned to find many echoes of what once was.

His Father Yianni opened the tavern in 1975 serving small snacks for the townfolk to munch upon during their eveining promenades. The tavern was small with about 5 tables inside, a small delicatessen style freezer behind which were the heavy cast iron grills on which my uncle would place the number of souvlakia i felt capable of eating. (more…)

Having settled into village life, I found my way to Kastoria and even located comfortable albeit not super economical Internet access I was silly enough to think that I could switch off the parts of my brain that i had become accustomed to using to absorb and analyse events, people, places spaces etc and just relax for a while. But the big guy who pulls the levers of life figured one more “point of interest” on the calendar of my travels wouldn’t be inappropriate as it would make me realise that even in relatively small towns, shit doth happen and it happens fast. (more…)

25 years since I last walked her streets, chatted with her locals and rubbed shoulders with my family who live there I found myself as I had on my first day in the village 25 years earlier, standing in the centre of Ambelokipi’s town square early in the morning watching the town wake. (more…)

I called her name so as not to shock her, or to at least minimise the shock, or prepare her a little for a moment of happiness.

I had been warned that she was weak, hard of hearing and needed lots of help around the house, in the moments I had to myself in her personal space i didn’t see any real sign of that. There was the general clutter that accumulates within a lifetime, several objects that she uses regularly within reach, the fly swatter next to the fruit bowl, her pills in a small bowl with a photo of me and my first cousins at my cousin Paul’s 12th birthday, her oil lamp and small collection of religious icons kept between the sponges and the television set, but the house was clean and cared for, lived. (more…)