The Light Between Oceans, M. L. Stedman

My review of this novel follows...

The Light Between Oceans by M.L. Stedman
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

This debut novel by expat Australian M. L. Stedman introduces the intriguing moral dilemma facing lighthouse keeper Tom Sherbourne and wife Isabel who find a dead man and his live baby washed ashore on their very remote patch of land off the remote (yes that repetition was intentional…it was really remote) West Australian coast. Having experienced the pain and loss of miscarriage and still birth, Tom and Isabel need to make a decision about whether to report the find (not an easy or quick process), or say nothing and raise the child as their own (both emotionally and logistically appealing).

As an expat West Australian, who knows this part of the coast reasonably well, and who is missing home terribly, I was really excited to pick up this book (actually it was my recommendation for book club). Now that I've completed it, I've gone on to read some of the reviews floating around about it.

Let me begin by saying that in the main, I enjoyed the writing. The shifting tenses didn't trouble me and it seemed to me that Stedman employed this particular device to enhance the moral ambiguity within the plot. The language was mostly in keeping with the era (with a few exceptions of turn of phrase that were a little jarring) and the dialogue, while stilted, felt appropriate to the buttoned-up, tight-laced social milieu of 1920s, small-town, remote Western Australia.

I thought the characterisation of Tom Sherbourne was pretty much in keeping with men from Australia of that era. Actually his stoicism, devotion to his wife and moral ambivalence reminded me remarkably of my father-in-law (a West Australian, born at the end of WWII who grew up commuting between remote Western Australia and the city, and who spent time in the Defence forces). However, I found it immensely difficult to even empathise with the other characters in the novel and did at times become frustrated with Tom's spinelessness also.

While Tom's deep flaws could be explained by his back story (a troubled childhood full of secrets and lies, followed by unreconciled traumatic experiences through WWI and combined with the machismo expected of good, strong Australian men of the time), similar excuses could not be made for Isabel or some of the other characters. Isabel's poor luck with producing a child (something that would have been duly expected of a married woman of that time, and the lack of which would be viewed socially with a mix of pity and mistrust) clearly led to her becoming unhinged. This is the only way I can explain both her behaviours throughout the rest of the novel and Tom's acceptance of her behaviours. Much was made of the erratic and socially unacceptable behaviour of Hannah, the biological mother of the child, but nobody seemed to question Isabel's state of mind.

Though it was in keeping with his character that Tom bore the brunt of the consequences of their decision with a stiff upper lip, it didn't make sense that he didn't stand up to Isabel more. He had ample opportunity to right the wrongs once he'd learned who the biological mother was, and that she was still alive. I had, in fact, expected him to return the child largely because of his own childhood experiences, and it baffled me that this man, who had seen the horrors of death and injury through the Great War, did not appear to have the moral fortitude to deny his wife her whim and support her through her grief.

Although the anomalies in the characters' behaviours excited and engaged me as a reader, I found the place names troubling. While Janus Rock exists, it's not off the coast of Western Australia, but I do understand why Stedman used the name - two faced Roman god Janus, god of beginnings and transitions, of doors, gates, passages, endings and time, looking both to the future and to the past, encapsulates the main theme of this novel. The descriptions of the lighthouse (which were lyrical and clearly well researched) felt like they were based on the lighthouse at Cape Leeuwin (though Cape Leeuwin lighthouse is on a headland and not a separate island). However, the tiny town on the coast named Partaguese doesn't sit well. While the descriptions of the town (probably based on Augusta), the claustrophobia of small communities, the bigotry and the community support are all well written, the name itself doesn't roll easily off the tongue. Again, Stedman's choice of name because of its linguistic significance (to share, to be divided into or to be divided between) took precedence over the ease of readability - really I found myself being distracted by exactly how to pronounce this cumbersome name, instead of it being a natural part of the story.

The postscript was a nice touch. It rounded off the story without making a judgement about the decisions made by the characters or their outcomes. And as far as the plot is concerned, there are stranger stories in my own and in my husband's family histories

This novel covered a lot of territory; moral ambiguities, small-town small-mindedness, racism and bigotry, the issues of childlessness and social expectations, motherhood and what makes a good mother, the complexity of marriages, the keeping of secrets, greed and the yawning chasm between wealth and poverty, the lack of psychological support for veterans of that war, isolation, loneliness, mental health and acceptance (I'm sure there are some I've missed). And they were all meaty, well-covered issues. They kept me turning the page and made what could easily have been a too-soppy, overly-emotional novel truly intriguing.

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Magic and Faerie Dust

Pirates and Princes

This week was punctuated with "Tell a Fairy Tale Day" and it had me reflecting on childhood memories, faery rings, magical creatures and a love for stories and reading. My love affair with stories began before my memories did. My father was an avid story teller. He told long, detailed tales of far away places and long distant times. He told stories of his own childhood, the adventures and the mischief. Tales of squirrels being captured and trained, tales of skipping school and snake temples, of paddy fields and stealing eggs. He wove worlds with his words and peopled them in my imagination. My fondest memories are of dragging mattresses out onto the verandah on a hot Summer's night, the whole family sandwiched together, laughing banter flying easily between us, a dark sky dotted with twinkling stars, the night air still and choking, and my father's sonorous voice intertwining threads to weave tales that played like movies inside our heads.

But my father's stories were not confined to only tales of his and his brothers' adventures. He told stories that appeared unbidden into his head. He retold stories he'd read or heard long ago. He remade stories from Shakespeare and Aesop to fit our lives, our world, our experience. Did you know Hamlet was an Indian prince? Or that Aesop's lion, king of his jungle, wore a turban and licked his paws after a meal? He conjured magical worlds like some verbose fakir, and sparked in me a love for narrative.

Cowboys and Indians

Once ignited, my imagination knew no bounds. Imaginary friends followed me everywhere. I talked to myself (if I were completely honest, I'd admit that I still do), creating scenes and singing songs. I was never lonely. My world was always peopled and too often, I would be lost in that world. I laugh now as I remember walking home from school, down dirt lanes, lost in my own world, singing or talking to myself, completely unaware of my surroundings. More than once I was caught mid-song or mid-story by strangers, who had the great good heartedness to simply smile and shake their heads as they walked by. More than once, I was caught unaware by dogs, who were more intrusive and would bale me up against rickety fences, barking and slavering till their owners arrived to rescue me. More than once, my daydreaming ended in someone shouting at, or for me.

Highwaymen and Pirates

The magic didn't end in Australia though. Holiday trips to India were inevitably boring for me. This was the 70s and adults didn't care particularly if children weren't having an exciting time, and they certainly didn't feel responsible for entertaining them. The adults all went off into their own worlds, cousins were still at school and I was often left to my own devices. I was surrounded by readers and writers. A grandmother who read in many languages, uncles who were authors, aunts who loved to tell tales, even a great uncle who captured my romantic imagination at a very early age and taught me Alfred Noyes' The Highwayman.

Even the scary stories are fun

This magical wonderland was amplified by my sister. Eleven years older than me, and doing a degree in Literature at the time, she fed my hunger for poetry and prose. Witches, dragons, and rabbits and small girls in wondrous worlds were my regular bed time diet. I had vivid dreams and talked in my sleep. I wrote stories and poetry. I made up games to play by myself and with friends. I made up stories of my own and entertained my friends with them. So much so that I have wonderful friends who still remember the telling of those tales, more than 30 years on. It was easy. Telling stories was not effortful, it was second nature because I lived those stories in my head. They felt vivid and real to the listener because they were vivid and real for me. I told all kinds of stories and made up all kinds of games. Bunnies, spaceships and evil blue dolls all inhabited my world. I still remember, to my chagrin, the telling of one particular horror tale of vampires that caused my dear dear friend such torment that she wouldn't even let her mother kiss her goodnight for many weeks (in my story, the mother had suddenly and surprisingly turned into a vampire at that crucial moment when she was leaning in to kiss her daughter goodnight). Boy, did I get into trouble for that one! We all laugh at the story now, but I can only imagine how her mother felt at the time. Now that I have children of my own, I can imagine the shock and confusion. I'm sorry Aunty Janet!

Run run as fast as you can...

When I had children of my own, it was no surprise that they were fed on a steady diet of fairy tales and imaginary creatures. We went to great lengths to keep alive Santa and his elves, the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny and Bilby (we're Australian after all) and other fantastical creatures. When the Tooth Fairy missed HIS rounds and forgot to leave money, his helper (me) would write long, detailed letters explaining the terrible wars against the ogres in the Fairy kingdom, detailing how he had been waylaid by invading forces, but that now, more than ever, each tooth would play an important part in rebuilding the realm. My own children have grown up sharing my fantastical world. And I'm grateful that my, to-all-appearances-straight-laced LomL has the heart and soul of a poet. This man, who is eminently practical and pragmatic, is the same one who proposed to me with poetry, wrote lyrical letters and still occasionally sketches when he thinks no-one is looking. Had it not been for his indulgence and encouragement, I suspect our world would have been a lot less colourful. To new parents, or to those who just like spending time with small people, making their world more exciting, my advice is to let go of your embarrassment and self-consciousness, indulge your inner child and live wondrous, fantastical worlds. Start by sharing a fairy tale. Go on. What are you waiting for?

Clicking my Ruby Slippers

Funny Go Home Welcome Mat (Photo credits: www.xpressmats.com)

Recently, I've read a few posts on home sickness and the malaise that seems to afflict more and more of us these days as we negotiate an increasingly smaller world and greater itinerancy. It seems serendipitous as I begin my own journey into new lands that these posts have popped up in such a timely fashion… but perhaps there was more design in their appearance than I'm allowing credit for. Or maybe it's like when you buy a new car - just before you buy it, you don't see a single one of the same make or model, but the second you drive your brand-spanking-new cool-mobile out of the dealership, the exact same make and model and colour are EVERYWHERE. Maybe seeing posts about home sickness and a sense of place/home has more to do with my own sensitivity to those feelings at the moment.

It's true that I'm struggling this week. The last few weeks haven't been as bad because there have been other distractions. Initially, we had just arrived and the shiny-newness of everything was charming. We approached everything with wide-eyed wonder and childish awe. LomL had leave and we traipsed about in a fog of jet-lag, insulated by a cloak of holiday-ness (that's the one you only wear on special occasions, the one that lets you feel like you can completely relax and let your guard down). We did holiday things, went to holiday places and LomL was excited about showing us all the attractions. Then he went back to work, and the boys and I were still in holiday mode. We didn't stress about school work, or even getting into a school, we didn't fight the fact that there was no routine, no plan for the day, we hadn't yet begun to flounder.

Towards the end of last week, it finally hit. That empty feeling in the pit of your stomach. The feeling that you're hovering, suspended, in limbo. You can't go back, and forward doesn't seem to have a clearly visible path.

Now you have to remember that I grew up in a migrant community in Australia. My parents arrived in Australia in their 40s and it was their fourth "permanent home". They'd spent the majority of their early years in India (yes, my mother was born in Burma and spent her early childhood there, but for the most part, she was in India and it's the place she still holds in her heart as home). They'd married in India, then set up house and had children in Singapore. Then there was the big move to Brunei, where they'd stayed for 15 years, where I was born, where they'd seen my siblings off to boarding school. That really had been the place, I think, that they'd settled in. I've never asked them, but I suspect that Brunei had been the place they had come to believe they would always stay. They had spent so many years making a home and a community there, they had become involved in community life and had strong friendships. So the move to Australia, after being so well established, to start home, hearth and community again in their 40s, was not easy. I lived that life in full Technicolour, Dolby Digital surround sound. Their sense of never fully settling permeating everything. Their longing for "home" but never really knowing where that might be, seeping into every aspect of our daily lives. I still maintain that's what gave me the itchy feet, the longing to travel that I have to this day.

The only time I ever saw them completely relaxed, completely "at home" was when they were in their own mothers' homes or their siblings' homes. There, when everyone reverted to the roles they had established in childhood, my parents became themselves. My father was the eldest brother, waited on by his sisters, teasing and laughing with his brothers. My mother, the respected sister-in-law in my father's family, was quickly dragged into the kitchen or asked for advice. In my maternal grandmother's home, the roles were similar. My mother reverted to the child she had been and I caught glimpses of her as a teenage girl, giggling and sharing secrets with her sister, adoring her mother. My father in that house, became the man of the house. He was the one my grandmother insisted be consulted over every decision, usually to the exasperation of my Aunt, who was the primary bread-winner of the household and was used to making all the decisions during the remainder of the year. Her nose would get regularly out of joint when my father arrived on holidays. It must have been so frustrating and demeaning for her. She earned the money to keep the house running, she made all the decisions when we weren't there, she had to deal with all the things that went wrong on a daily basis, yet my father would sweep in and my grandmother would turn to him for advice. He didn't do it purposefully or to slight her. It was just the way those relationships worked. They could all have been more graceful and gracious in hindsight. But hindsight is blindingly clear and free of emotions that plague the moment being lived.

So having experienced a childhood in a migrant community, where all around me were adults coming to terms with their feelings of displacement, their changing worlds, you'd think it would be easier for me as I go through a similar transition. I suppose the one advantage I have is that I know with unwavering certainty that the "home" I long for no longer exists. It has changed. Even in this short time, it has become a different landscape. I saw it with my parents. They would travel annually to India, expecting the idealised place of their childhoods, expecting that people would be the same, have the same reactions, speak in the same ways, offer the same respect. They would be annually disappointed, and strangely, a little surprised. They would return to Australia, griping about the changes, the way people spoke, the way the young dressed, the changes they couldn't reconcile, but still feeling out-of-place in Perth.

They became a cornerstone of their migrant community in Perth, more displaced people looking for a sense of belonging, a sense of family and community. This community I grew up in left me confused about identity. I didn't feel the same sense of displacement as they did. I didn't feel the same loyalties to India or an idealised life there, as they did (I suspect no-one of my generation felt that either). But equally, I didn't feel truly Australian either. I just felt different. Different to the first generation migrants I was surrounded by, and different to my Australian friends. I believe that nobody feels that sense of national identity in the core of their being until they have left the country. I know that the times when I have felt most Australian, most like I belonged, are the times when I have been away from Australia, on holidays, or now in establishing a new home. Those are the times when I have reverted to familiar stereotypes of Australian-ness, my accent growing stronger, my use of idioms growing more frequent.

But knowing that everything has changed in the place I once called home, doesn't make it easier to separate myself from it. It does spur me on to create a new sense of home here and that's a promising start. In the interim, however, it's still a matter of dealing with feelings of being adrift, harbourless and a little tossed about on unfamiliar waters, no land in sight yet, forging forward, heart in mouth and resolve firmly in hand.

Weighing In to the Gun Debate

So let me start with a disclaimer: this is a portion of what I think and feel. It is by no means the entirety of my thoughts nor have I come to any firm conclusions about gun control and my mind remains open to being convinced by sensible, reasonable and reasoned arguments.

English: A man holding a blunderbuss. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I've tried not to enter the fray when it comes to the debate on gun laws in the US. As a new resident and a foreigner, I am keenly aware that my perspective is skewed and largely uninformed. Today, I came across this particular snippet of news and it has been the catalyst that has motivated me to break my silence on this issue.

Firstly, let me say that I have grown up in Australia. A land colonised in the name of a reigning monarch, where tracts of land were claimed and the indigenous population were fought in the name of the King (of England and Australia - King George III was the reigning monarch of the day in 1788). It was colonised in the same way as many other nations at the time. Indigenous people were considered no differently to local fauna (in fact in Australia, Indigenous people weren't even recognised officially in the constitution as a people until 1967 - a disgraceful and shameful fact). However, the point of difference with the colonisation of the US, is that the first colonisers to land in Australia were not fleeing the motherland. Rather, they were expelled. Australia was initially a penal colony and later took the overflow from the rapidly growing population subsequent to the Industrial Revolutions in England.

America was not the same. The founders of this nation were not expelled from England. They escaped. They escaped religious persecution from a reforming church that saw no place for their particular brand of orthodox and conservative religious practice. This nation was not claimed in the name of a reigning monarch. It was claimed as a sanctuary, a refuge - and yes that does make me think of a boat load of hunchbacks of Notre Dame sailing into Plymouth harbour.

Forays were made into the interior of this nation by colonists claiming portions of land for themselves and their families, not for King and country. This is obvious when you look at the names of states, counties, cities and towns in the US. They're generally not named after kings and queens of England as they are in other nations. Here, places are named after the individuals that claimed the land - Crockett, Texas is actually named after the infamous Davy Crockett (those of you who grew up in the 1970s can probably still remember the theme song for the TV show…sing with me now, King of the wild frontier). States and towns are named after local indigenous groups depending on their ability to stave off invading colonisers - Texas for example comes from the Caddo Indian word tehas (meaning "friend" and applied to the coalition of Caddo tribes that lived around the Nacogdoches region, the word was later adopted by the Spanish [spelt tejas in Spanish] and used to refer to both the Indians and to the region in which they lived). I think this shows the ferocity and independence of the Indians who lived here. This land was not easily acquired, and in a very macho fashion, respect for the Indigenous population was won on the basis of their warrior-like nature.

But I digress. My point here is that the difference in the basis of colonisation has led to a difference in attitudes towards land and how to defend it. Remember, in Australia the land was claimed in the name of the King of England. It was largely defended by soldiers and militia and was quickly governed locally by a proxy for the trusted King. In America, land was claimed by individuals, defended by individuals for themselves and their families and largely governed locally for individual and family needs because of a lack of trust in a government's ability to treat individuals fairly. Heck, the US constitution begins "We the people". Not "we the government", but "we the people"

They have elected sheriffs here. Let me just say that again. Elected sheriffs. So the local constabulary is elected by the people in the community in which they live. In Australia (as in many other nations), the local constabulary is appointed and administered by a centralised government (usually a State government) and is a public service. So here, they chose who they wanted to defend the town, or city, or state, but they didn't leave them on their own (largely because they don't entirely trust any level of government ). Here, the attitude was always that it was an individual responsibility to defend the home and family, and that sheriffs defending a local population were supported by an armed populace - think about all those cheesy westerns we've all watched, where the sheriff deputised members of the local population who all had guns.

So in this nation of fiercely independent individuals, mistrusting of the government of England (and any other government) who essentially made them pariahs, who have generations of a cultural milieu that supports gun ownership by the populace (men, women and children), it should be no surprise that gun ownership is considered an inalienable right. So what happens when this nation is then forced by events to confront some of the ugly consequences of gun ownership? A debate ensues. A hotly contested, often polarised debate.

As a foreigner parachuting into the middle of this, I've tried very hard to not form an opinion based on my own prejudices. I've tried very hard to see as many perspectives as possible and to exercise a little cultural relativism. I've tried very hard to rationalise some of the inflammatory public statements put out by the NRA and understand the membership that they represent. I've tried very hard to listen with intelligence to the equally inflammatory arguments of those demanding gun restrictions. But this latest video advertisement by the NRA has tipped the scales for me. I no longer feel the responsibility to make sense of the thinking behind this "need" to own automatic or semi-automatic weaponry. I no longer care to hear the arguments against strict gun controls, mental health tests or regulation of guns. I will admit that gun deaths in states where there is an open gun culture, appear to be fewer and I think there needs to be more investigation of why this is so. I await with bated breath and a hopeful heart the cessation of these highly emotive arguments and a more reasoned debate. And in the meantime, I hope ardently for every person in this nation to be able to walk this land, to be able to send their kids to school, to be able to go to midnight screenings of movies, without feeling fear for their lives.

First Impressions: Food Labelling and Ingredients

It's our second day in Houston and I'm trying to be vigilant about making observations about our new home. My love for food and all things foodie is well known by now. Ok, so it borders on obsession, but hey, everybody's gotta have a hobby. So it's no surprise that one of the first points of difference I notice between Houston and Perth is the food.

Yes, it's true that food is generally cheaper in Houston; both restaurant food and fresh food/provisions. If you think about it, that's not surprising. Perth is isolated. Remote even by Australian standards. The capital city of a state that's 3.63 times the size of Texas, but containing a population of just less than 2.5 million people (with about 1.8 million of those people living in Perth and its surrounding suburbs). It's big in terms of land mass, but teeny tiny by world population statistics. And it's far far away. There's a distance of 3301km (2051mi) between Perth and Sydney. That's a long way to transport goods. Add on the comparatively high labour costs in Australia (I'm not griping about the wonderful wage structure negotiated over time by unions, or the taxation system that allows those in need to continue to subsist in something approximating adequacy, but it's a fact that it adds to the general costs of living), and you have high prices generally, with particularly high prices in Perth. But I digress. This isn't meant to be a comparison of the socio-economic structures of Houston and Perth. It's about food.

We hear media reports on a reasonably regular basis about the quantity of additives and preservatives in food in the US, and of the rates of morbid obesity. Watch Dr Oz or The Doctors for more than 5 minutes and there's bound to be some discussion on the unnaturally high levels of chemicals in food, the increasing weight of the populace and how Americans should all be turning towards whole foods or raw foods. It's easy to sit in Australia and think we have it better, our food is higher quality, with fewer additives. It's easy also to assume that if you move to the US, you will have limited (or no) choices about what kind of food you can buy. This impression is exacerbated by shows like Jamie Oliver's Food Revolution. And I'm certainly guilty of thinking all of those things: the US population is generally fatter, the food choices are limited and there's little or no access to good quality, organic fresh foods. So imagine my surprise (and delight) when I discovered that that's simply not true... well, not true in Houston anyway.

There are plenty of good food alternatives. There are large (warehouse sized) stores that house fresh food markets - Central Markets, Whole Foods Markets, HEB and Trader Joe's for a start. There are also plenty of what we in Australia would consider supermarkets - Kroger's and Randall's come to mind. Yesterday I stopped in at a Kroger's for some ingredients for dinner. This is a store that's about the size of a Woolies or a Coles, but it's the Houston equivalent of a small suburban IGA. Even here, the choices were astonishing. There must have been 25 different varieties of plain/all purpose flour on the shelf. And here's the important part. Each one of those packets of flour was clearly labelled with the ingredients and processing of that flour. You know immediately what grain the flour is made from, what other ingredients have been added to the flour and whether or not the flour has been bleached. You know from the labelling on the packet. That's not so in Australia. Some packages have labelling, others don't. Most have labelling that requires you to spend 40 minutes reading packages before making a choice and some require a higher degree in chemistry to decipher the baffling ingredients.

So, this is what I've found. Yes, there's a lot of talk in the US about the ingredients in food. Yes, there's a problem with increasing weight and morbidity as a result. Yes, we all need to be more attentive to what we're shovelling in our mouths. No, things are not better in Australia; food labelling is not clearer (actually it's more obfuscated and confusing) and choices are actually more limited. If carbon miles are something you consider when buying food (as I do), then you're more able to make informed decisions in Houston than in Perth. Not all supermarkets in Perth label where food is sourced from, or whether it's organic (as confusing as that term is - I mean really, the debate that rages over what constitutes organic is migraine-inducing).

Perhaps there is more to be concerned about in the US. Or perhaps there's more concern because there's more information already available from which to make a comparison. I'm not sure yet, but it does bring another perspective to the argument.

I knew him

Penny (Australian) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Old Harry lived in a house near the end of the car park of the doctor’s surgery two doors up from our house. I don’t remember anymore what his surname was. But he was old. We moved to the suburb when I was 7, and Old Harry was already a shuffling old man, perpetually in his chequered house coat and slippers, suffused with the smell of old age. You know that smell. Dead skin cells and unwashed hair. It defines old age. As a child, my nose seemed particularly attuned to it. Like a bloodhound, I could smell when Old Harry was near. My nostrils would prickle and I would curl my nose and top lip with the pungency of it. Recently, I noticed my own hair has begun to emit the same odour. But I digress.

Harry was a friendly and lonely man. His only son had attained some prominence as a minor politician and was busy making a life for himself with his own family. I know so little about Harry. Children are rarely privy to the mysteries of old age, and it had never occurred to me to ask him what had happened to his wife. The egocentric world of childhood doesn't encourage that kind of curiosity about people. Those questions are for the socially aware and curious middle-aged. They are the questions I would ask him now.

Back then, I was content to know that Old Harry was the friendly old man who would periodically shuffle across the blistering heat of the bitumen car park to our back door. That was enough for me. That and the fact that he called the neighbour who lived behind us “Girl Gallagher”, despite the fact that she must have been well into her 50s or 60s by that stage. Mrs Gallagher was also on her own and had spent most of her life in that suburb. She may well have spent most of it in that house. I don’t remember any more. Old Harry remembered her as the child she must once have been and insisted on referring to her as a girl. I recall hearing him talk for the first time of “Girl Gallagher” and the sense of shock as I realised who he was talking about. For a 7 year old, a woman in her 50s or 60s is as far removed from girlhood as the Earth from the Sun.

Harry would wrap his dirty chenille housecoat around him, slip his house slippers on his feet and amble painfully over to our back door step. He would wait at the bottom of the steps that led to our back door till he could see someone moving around inside. Our back door would invariably be open. This was in the days before home invasions and burglaries. It was a more innocent time when doors were rarely closed, let alone locked, cars were never locked and you knew everyone in the street. It was a time when children played in the dirt lane way till they were tired and hungry, then landed at any one of the houses in the neighbourhood for a glass of milk and some afternoon tea. It was a time when the two old ladies who shared a house at the end of the lane way, whose children were married to each other, would take in playing children to feed them cake, teach them a little piano and send them home with armfuls of silver beet.

Old Harry would wait patiently at the bottom step, regardless of the weather, until he saw or sensed movement from the dark, cool recesses of our home. Then shyly, quietly he would call out till one of us came to the door to chat with him. He would keep us talking until politeness kicked in and we invited him in for tea. He would drink his tea with relish, but it was never the tea he came for. Harry was seeking company. I imagine now, though I couldn't then, that he had reached the age when partners die, children move on with their own lives, friends of the same age have moved away or shuffled off this mortal coil and the neighbourhood he knew had changed so radically that it was no longer recognisable.

Looking back on that time, I see how remarkable Harry was. A man who had lived his life in the same suburb, who had seen the deprivations and loss of war, who had known only a white, middle-class society would seek out our company. How strange we must have seemed to him. The smells of unfamiliar spices emanating from our house, the flavours of foreign sweetmeats and savoury treats served with tea, the sounds of ghazals and hindi movie music pouring from the record player, the sight of my mother swathed in her sari or my father pottering around in a lungi. All so removed from anything he could previously have experienced. Yet Harry would settle himself into a seat at our kitchen table, nurse his tea and seem content with simply being surrounded by the noise and bustle of our family. I am grateful to have known him. I am grateful to have had the opportunity to reflect on Old Harry and his quirkiness.

First Encounters

So here we are on our orientation trip to Houston, preparing for the big move over at the end of the year. We have a one week orientation to the city and surrounds and it's our opportunity to see if this is really something we could do.

We had always talked about living outside of Australia at some point in our lives, preferably while the children were still young and able to make the transition relatively easily. Over the last 10 years or so, we have considered and rejected many possibilities for overseas postings. LomL works in the petroleum industry and that pretty much limits the number of fun places we're ever likely to live in the world through his work.

A few job offers have come up for Mauritania. Ones we did seriously consider for a minute, but the thought of living 24/7 in a gated, barbed-wire, electric-fenced community and taking the kids to school with an armed driver, really did very little for my peace of mind.

There were job offers for Qatar and Saudi Arabia. Both involved living in gated compounds and, for me, living a very restricted life. Singapore came up once or twice, but we couldn't see that the life would be better for us than what we had.

Eventually, we got to the point where we began to resign ourselves to a life lived in the same place. This may not seem a big deal to most people, in fact, I can see how it would be a comforting thought to many. The familiarity and comfort of all you know, all you have ever known surrounding you. The problem for us, however, is that we're essentially restless and adventurous souls. LomL came to the realisation the other day that this is the longest we've ever lived in one place since we've been married; 9 years. Recently, I had a very dear friend tell me I'd done a lot of brave things in my life. It has never felt like that. We've always just faced the challenges and lived our lives without consideration for how hard things were - without ever really considering that things were hard. I think that because of that, we've managed to have fun and make wonderful friends in some of the most unlikely places.

Still, after 9 years in the same place, doing pretty much the same things (with a little overseas travel thrown in), one does tend to become rooted to the spot. I don't know whether familiarity breeds contempt, but in my case, it has certainly bred complacency. One does tend to give greater importance to petty worries and irritations than they deserve, because life is overwhelmingly carefree. What that parent said at the last school event suddenly gains far more importance and weighting than it should in my mind. I worry over what this person thinks, how that one was affected by my words or actions, I worry about whether I'm advocating enough or too much for the children at school. I worry about minor, silly things that deserve no time or space in my consciousness, because, frankly there are no big worries. We are surrounded by family, by friends, by support systems and by unnervingly familiar ways of working and living. I find myself growing roots out of my toes to the place we live, the places we shop, the places we visit. I appreciate less what's around me, and take for granted more all the advantages we have. I complain more. I become more scared of doing things and going places. And I become lazy about fighting those parts of my personality that I don't particularly like. There's no need. I have family that love me. I am surrounded by a wonderful network of friends that love me. Why change? Why even be pleasant or make an effort?

While my initial reaction to the prospect of moving permanently to another country was fright and anxiety, it really didn't take much thinking to know it was the right thing to do for us. The children are both young enough not to be adversely affected by the change and old enough to be excited by the prospects of a new adventure. LomL is going to a new, more exciting job that has effectively been created with him in mind. And I, I am going to a new place. A new house, a new community, a new way of living. I don't have to worry about learning a new language or be super cautious of cultural sensitivities. I do have to learn a new way of thinking about distances and temperatures and other measurements. All in all, there's some new stuff to learn, but quite a lot of what awaits is familiar. But the best bit of all? It's a huge opportunity to reawaken my adventurous spirit, dust off some cobwebs and push myself to be less introverted and more social. That excites me.

Day 2: Lest We Forget

What I wore today

Well, I've made it to day 2 of the project. Day 2 is about what I'm wearing. For once, it's not my usual uniform of jeans and a cotton shirt, which is pretty handy really as it's ANZAC day here in Australia.

We have a family tradition of going to an ANZAC service every year. One of the boys wears the Love of my Life's grandfather's medals, and the other wears my grandfather's epaulette. Both of us had grandfathers that saw active service in different countries in WWII (mine saw active service in WWI and some of the Indo-China conflicts too), so ANZAC day is significant and moving for us.

We've made it to a few dawn services, but more often than not, we go for the services that are a bit later in the morning. The services are always moving, current and ex-servicemen and women will tell of their experiences or the experiences of some member of their family. It's hard, when you have boys, not to think of those grieving mothers and wives, those very young men and women who gave so bravely of their own lives in order to preserve the freedoms that we enjoy. It's a wonderful reminder that our lives, the things we take for granted, the freedoms we enjoy were paid for with the ultimate sacrifice of many. And it's an opportunity to honour that and give thanks to those who sacrificed so much.

As a migrant to this country, I find the meaning of the day is in no way diminished. Instead, it has become for me, a day of reflection, of understanding what it is my parents sought when they came here, and of appreciating the liberties and choices that I and my children now have.

Without fail, every year, as the Last Post plays on the bugle, I dissolve into a wash of tears. This year was no different. I managed to hold my emotions in check through the heart-rending stories, through the calls to remember those who had died and those still engaged in conflicts around the world, through the reminders of the luxuries we enjoy and the rebuilding and good works our service people conduct throughout the world. But the first tremulous notes of the Last Post begin and I find great, fat, warm, wet tears snaking their way down my cheeks.

To all of those who sacrificed their lives so that Australia could afford us the freedoms we enjoy, and to all of those who continue to heed the call of duty of our nation, I thank you.

Ode of Remembrance (stanza 4):

They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old:

Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

At the going down of the sun and in the morning,

We will remember them.

Lest We Forget

The M-word

There seems to be a growing phenomenon where I live, of random salespeople calling women they don't know "Mum" as long as they're accompanied by a child. Inevitably, these people are trying to ply their wares. They're snake-oil salesmen in different guises.

Today, a young woman who works for a children's photography company approached me with a chirpy "Hello Mum! Would you like to get some photos of the kids?". I'm sure that this was part of her training; a way to familiarise the target market and an attempt at a psychological inducement, emotional guilt, to capture those precious moments of your child's life before it's too late. I'm fairly certain this chipper greeting resulted from the machinations of a locked room, replete with degrees in psychology and marketing, working on the perfect pitch to guilt-trip parents into the investment of a photo package. No doubt it's part of the corporate training when you join up with the company.

Sadly, all it did was get my gander up. So here's where I need to back-track a little. When I got married, I didn't change my last name. There was a variety of reasons for this, but one was certainly that my name was as much a part of my identity as anything else about me. I have degrees in my name, I had gained employment in my name, I had learned to live with my name (there was a shaky moment when I was 8, but that's a story for another day) and, despite having to spell my name every time I said it, I had learned to love my name. When I stopped working full time, I felt like I had lost an enormous chunk of my identity. It was the first time since I was 15 that I felt an obligation to explain my expenditures. Not that LomL ever required that of me, it is simply what I felt.

When I became a mother for the first time, I was thrilled beyond measure. But the Damocles sword was that I instantly stopped being who I had been before. I became a milk factory, a nurse, a teacher, a guide, a maid... a mother. While a very very small part of me pined for the loss of my old identity, a much larger part thrilled in the prospect of the future to come. When I became a mother for the second time, I was more ready for the the way in which my identity would be subsumed by a child and I think I coped with it better. My children never called me "Mum". That was another stubborn strike for my own identity. I figured that in a playground or shopping centre in Australia, a child calls out "Muuuu-uum" and fifty women turn around. I didn't want to be one of them. So instead, I opted for "Amma" (mother in Malayalam); a nod to my cultural heritage and an opportunity to emphasise my difference in a world of sameness.

Up until the time my boys went to school, it felt like my identity had been hijacked by my role as mother. It has been a long, slow, continuing journey, punctuated by extraordinary friendships that has led me to where I am now; more comfortable with my multiple roles and multiple identities, fulfilled by motherhood, loving the work I do, seeking my more creative, artistic self that has been too long neglected for more pragmatic concerns, being the complex whole that I am.

So when all that I am, all that I hold dear, is reduced to an unimaginative, connotative, reductive "Mum" said by a stranger, my hackles inevitably go up. I don't doubt that it never crossed the mind of the young woman spruiking her company's wares in the shopping centre that she was, by her simple utterance, homogenising me. It is what I rage so hard against, and what I suspect we all rage against... losing individuality.

This is Australia

I drove around the corner on my way to pick up B2 from school when a large collection of animals in the paddock caught my attention. It was sufficiently unusual for me to slow down and pull off the road. I'm pretty used to seeing various animals in paddocks around where I live. There are sheep, horses, dogs, birds, small groups of kangaroos and even a couple of alpacas. But the sheer number of creatures is what stopped me in my tracks.

I drove up a lane that skirts the boundary of said paddock and there they were - masses of kangaroos. There must have been nearly 30 of them, lounging in the sun, munching on the grass and generally doing what kangaroos do best.

It's nice to be reminded that nature still abounds despite the creep of development. There's certainly very little that's more pan-Australian than a mob of kangaroos.

There has been plentiful rainfall and it's heartening to see the local wildlife flourishing. There are birds aplenty visiting the garden (including some finches I've not seen this far north before) and we continue to have breeding pairs of bobtail lizards around the house. All in all, it's shaping up to be a glorious Spring.

My "Like Water for Chocolate" Moment

It was Father's Day today here in Australia. A difficult day for me. My father died 14 years ago and every year since, Father's Day and his birthday have been days on which I fall into a terrible funk. I remember him and miss him always, but these two days are the ones I set aside for truly indulging myself. I allow myself to feel completely sad and bereft, only pulling myself together on Father's Day for LomL's sake. My darling, long-suffering and patient husband knows how I am on these days. He allows me the latitude to miss my father, to feel sorry for myself and wish for what might have been. He understands, he checks on me and he leaves me alone to weep at the sink.

Usually, I skip the Father's Day gathering with the in-laws. It's more than I can handle. The blatant reminder that my father isn't here. This year, I found myself there and offering to make food for the occasion. I woke early, helped B1 and B2 to make LomL's Father's Day breakfast in bed, then got on with making pies for lunch. I was washing spinach when it happened. I made the mistake of thinking about the fact that I was making these pies for LomL's father, but would never again have the opportunity to do this for my own father. It occurred to me that I had only one year with my own father after I married. The pain was visceral. A tear escaped my eye. That one tear seemed to give permission to all the others waiting just behind. I couldn't stop. I found myself weeping uncontrollably into a sink full of English spinach.

Ironically, in the middle of my weeping, I couldn't help thinking about the Laura Esquivel novel, Like Water for Chocolate. The image of Tita, grief-stricken and weeping through the preparation for Rosaura and Pedro's wedding feast, and the magical effect of her sadness transported through the food, leapt to my mind. In the midst of my sorrow, I couldn't help but wonder if my emotions would be contained in the food.

I was too tired and caught in my own thoughts to really notice whether that was so today. I wonder still.

The Chicken Thief - Author Interview

Today I'm taking a bit of a departure from my usual topics. I'm talking to author and blogger, Fiona Leonard about her first novel, The Chicken Thief published to Kindle. Fiona's self-confessed gypsy soul has taken her from a career as an Australian diplomat to foreign and trade policy consultant to freelance writer, blogger, home schooler and author living and writing in Ghana.

Your first novel is an extraordinary ride of emotions, quirky characters and wonderful telling. I found that the voice of the protagonist, Alois, was so strong that I often forgot that it was a white Australian woman who was the author.

How did you find the voice of this young, black African man – a bureaucrat who left his job to be a chicken thief?

Ironically, in many ways Alois (pr: Al-o-is) is a very autobiographical character. I drew on a lot of personal experiences to make his emotions ring true. For example I confess to mining many of my own feelings about being a bureaucrat to help Alois articulate his desire to leap out the window and run away! (I should note I never considered turning to a life of crime though!) To give him an African voice I drew inspiration from African proverbs. Alois uses a lot of proverbs about chickens to explain what’s going on in his life. That language and sentiment gave me a starting point to find my way into his head.

I notice that while the protagonist is a young man, he is surrounded by a group of strong women.

Why did you choose to make the protagonist male? And then surround this young man with so many women?

For a long time I thought about this book as a very male story. And I think when I first started writing it, it was. But then over the years more and more women have appeared in the story. Rose, the love of Alois’ life, stepped out of the shadows very late in the piece, and demanded to have more of a say! I liked being able to use all of the women as a mirror to different aspects of his life.

I tend to come to stories through characters, rather than having a plot I need to fit people into. I had Alois as a character and I had Gabriel, and I was really drawn to both of them. The more I got to know them the more the other characters and the plot grew up around them.

While your novel is set in an unnamed African country, the political machinations are broad enough to for readers to find parallels in other nations.

Where did you find the inspiration for the political events of the novel?

Some of the events are drawn from specific events in southern African history, going back to the Independence struggles. Some were more current, drawn from events that occurred while I was living in Zimbabwe in the late 90s and more recently.

There’s even some Australian political history in there – when I was developing the relationship between the President and his Finance Minister, I often looked to the Howard and Costello machinations for inspiration!

The novel is littered with wonderful images of Africa and Africans that ring true, and contains some terrific metaphors that seem entirely African in their nature.

Do you think there is an international market for such specifically African content?

When you are writing about one country/continent and then marketing it internationally you need to strike a balance between making it true to the setting and also making it accessible to the reader. I like to think that if a reader picks up a book set somewhere unfamiliar then they already have a sense of adventure and curiosity that makes them receptive to exploring somewhere new.

It’s an exciting time to be writing about Africa. With the events unfolding in northern Africa, there is considerable media attention focused on the continent and a genuine interest in the hopes and aspirations of the region

Self-publishing has been around for as long as the publishing industry itself, yet it has been slow to gain mainstream popularity. Despite authors like Oscar Wilde, Irma Rombauer and Christopher Paolini choosing to self-publish, many authors today seem to prefer to duke it out for limited places with large publishing houses.

Why did you choose to go down the self-publication route?

Cold calling has never been my strong suit. I would rather establish a relationship and see what evolves, instead of the first words out of my mouth being ‘please publish my book!’ So I’ve never felt comfortable with pitching to agencies (and have not been particularly good at it to date!). On the other hand, I really believe in this book and wanted to find a way to get it into readers’ hands. E-publishing felt like the right way to achieve that goal.

With so many options for self-publishing available, why have you chosen to e-publish with Kindle?

Quite simply - location, location, location.

Plus, Kindle Direct Publishing makes the mechanics of actually getting your book into the marketplace incredibly easy. There is also a very strong author community behind the scenes at Amazon where authors can exchange ideas and information. That’s an attractive support mechanism when you’re starting out.

Are you planning to publish through other means in the future?

I intend to publish in hard copy later in the year, but that will take a bit more time as it will involve sending proof copies around the world. One of the things I like about Amazon is that they offer print-on-demand, which is great for self-publishing because it means you don’t have to carry your own inventory.

What do you think are the advantages for aspiring authors in e-publishing?

I think pricing is a huge factor. Because you don’t have the overheads that publishing houses have, you can keep the price of your book right down. Many first time authors are e-publishing at $2.99 or lower. This puts you into an accessible price bracket where readers are more willing to take a risk on an unknown author because they can buy a book for the price of a cup of coffee!

I also think being forced to do your own marketing is a fantastic experience. Being your own publicist means you have to be clear about what you are selling and who you are selling to. It’s a steep learning curve but helps you to develop incredibly valuable skills whether you stick to self-publishing or approach publishing houses.

How do you think e-publishing, specifically, is useful to aspiring authors from countries in Africa, Asia and so on – countries outside of what would be considered the western world?

E-publishing, especially through a platform like Amazon, gives you the opportunity to put your writing on a shelf alongside everyone else. You don’t have to wait to be discovered, you can discover yourself! And as long as you have an internet connection, you can do it from anywhere in the world.

Social media also offers an unprecedented marketing opportunity for new authors. Apparently 70% of Facebook users and 60% of Twitter users are outside the US so these really are global platforms that are there to be capitalised on.

If you could go back six years, what advice would you give yourself with regard to writing and publishing?

It’s funny, on one hand I would like to go back and shake myself and say ‘Stop worrying and just write already!’ (with a few expletives thrown in for good measure!) There’s a part of me that is frustrated that I took so long about it. But on the other hand, I think I needed to take six years to write this story. My plot and characters needed time to evolve, I needed to grow as a writer, and I needed to find the burning desire to write.

So perhaps I would say ‘Relax, go live a bit and come back when you’re really ready to enjoy it.’

So what’s next for you? Can we expect to see another novel from you in the near future?

One of the people I had reading drafts of my novel, asked early on in the piece whether there would be a sequel. At the time I had no intention of writing a sequel, but when it came time to write the ending, I specifically left a door open just for her! I will be sitting down to start writing again in a month or so, but whether it’s a sequel, or whether I finish one of the many half written novels I have lying around, I’m not sure yet! Either way, my aim is to have another novel ready to publish by the end of the year.

I’m looking forward to starting on a new novel though. Plotting and writing is the part I really love doing, and I’m itching to get back to it.

I can't wait to see what comes next from this clever author and wish Fiona all the best luck with her current novel. I urge you to head over to Amazon and have a look at The Chicken Thief - with a free sample and at only $2.99, it's a bargain!