E is for Emigrant

E is for Emigrant.

Before the turn of the twentieth century my grandfather, Cosmas Papagiorgiou, was born on a hilly outcrop in the village of Palechori in the region of Pitsilia, Cyprus.  Not a lot would grow there – except rocks and disgruntled sons.

 

Palechori, Pitsilia, Cyprus.

He was driven away by a sociopathic older brother and the ambivalence of his bitch of a mother, Madeleine, when he was thirteen (he was away from home, alone in Larnaca for a year!) and he left Cyprus permanently in his early 20s, seeking a life off the barren land and away from all the misery.  

Cosmas' father and older brothers,
all dressed up and smiling for the photo.

His options were Russia or Australia.  He chose the latter (warm and sunny) over the former (bleak and grey). Apparently he was impressed by the Australians he'd met while he was in Egypt who he'd found to be aristocratic and refined... 

Although Papou (for that is what we call "Grandpa" in Greek) and his family hadn't had a great time under British occupation (we had cousins who were terrorists/freedom fighters – depending on which side of the conflict you stood) I would've thought coming to a former British colony might've put him off, but the time he spent in Egypt amongst the European colonials  ­­– "upper class" and pretentious – I suspect made going with devil you know a more attractive proposition.

Papou in 1921 on arrival in Australia.  Seriously.

Anyway.  Papou eventually arrived in Australia in 1921.  He worked tirelessly building trainlines and down saltmines to provide security to bring out his brothers  in 1925 (no one spoke a word to him for the first six months, not one word) and in 1928 he crossed over to New Zealand and with the purchase of Kilburnie Fish Supply began to build what would become an empire of sorts designed to support and sustain himself and his brothers and their families into the future.

He travelled back to Athens, Greece to find a wife in 1929.  Sophia (nee Maheras), turned 18 as she disembarked from the boat at Wellington Harbour.  She was sweet and fun loving, educated and refined and blessed with a moral compass of unshakable strength.  Where Papou was hard edged and unyielding she was loving and kind.  They complemented one another completely.

In 1935 a mysterious* family feud caused Papou to pack up his wife and two small children and leave everything he had built in Wellington.  He started again in Melbourne and in the mid 1950s he even formally ditched the family name:  Cosmas Papagiorgiou became by deed poll John Cosmas. 

And thus his emigration was complete.

*All the parties who were alive at the time of the feud are now deceased, so we're unlikely to ever know what happened.  What we do know is that when my brother was born and it was suggested he be named after Papou's younger brother, Peter, my grandmother shut down that suggestion very promptly saying that Cosmas would not approve at all.  And nothing more was to be said about it!  Perhaps the key lies there.

D is for Dolly

from Edward Gorey's Gashleycrumb Tinies

I am the second child of two.  But the first girl.  So from the moment I was born I was adoringly, affectionately addressed by my mother as her "real, live Dolly".  I think it goes without saying that my parents were really happy to have a girl: to make up the pair, to have one of each, to finish the set.

So what does a person usually do with one's Dolly? 

At this juncture I should declare that I'm probably not the best person to ask.  I always loathed dolls.  Give me some pencils and paper and I could entertain myself for hours, nay, days.  A doll however, was only fun for as long as it took for me to:

1. dismember it,
2. render it Yul Brynner bald, and then be freaked out by those giant, creepy hair follicles, or
3. invent some horrible disease to justify my total rejection of it for all eternity.

So to return to the question, what to do when it comes to playing with dolls (and I'm casting my mind back to Mum with me) there was a lot of being dressed up with ribbons and frills and other extreme manifestations of prettiness.  Which for me was utter torture because I was the child least likely to want to be preened and fussed over.  Pathologically practical and desirous of invisibility, the very idea of a frock with adornments was pure hell and culturally something I simply had to wordlessly endure.
Same went for my unruly curls.  There was a lot of combing and controlling and attempting to smooth stray strands into place with spittle.

"Don't worry," my father would taunt. "It's only her dribble."

Me aged 7, 1975

Then there was an uncharacteristic optimism on Mum's part that Dolly (for that was my nickname, too) would like to play dress ups with her own little dollies.  So when I was given dolls for gifts (not by Mum) she would lovingly spend hours sewing miniatures of the handmade clothes she'd made me, so I'd have outfits for my babies in case I ever changed my mind about them.  Which sadly I never did.  

Ironically the last dolls I were ever given I love and cherish.  They were given to me in 1993.  

I arrived home to the home phone ringing. (It was before the days of mobile phones.)  It was my brother.  VERY EXCITED.  

"Are you home?"
"Yes."
"Have you been in the garage?"
"No."
"Go. Go. Go and look!"
"Why?"
"Go and look!  And come back!"  

 (I don't think we had a cordless phone either.)  
The garage was the domain of my housemate who was restoring a 1961 Volvo P1800 so when I opened the door I was greeted with sight of the gleaming, red icon with a complete set of Beatles dolls carefully arranged atop the boot.  I nearly peed my pants.  It was the nicest thing anyone had ever done.  And it wasn't even my birthday or anything.   

My Beatles dolls are just like these. 
Hec bought them on a whim and brought them to my place but I wasn't home
so he set them up in the garage and went home and started phoning until I answered.

So there you have it.  Despite my antipathy I have come to terms with dolls.  Pencils and paper are still my friends, but I remain to this day and for ever and always my Mum's real live Dolly.  And I wouldn't have it any other way.  

And at least she doesn't try and pull off my arms and legs.  (Or she hasn't yet.)

C is for Castration

from Edward Gorey's Gashleycrumb Tinies

Yesterday we took out dear, bolschie, bursting with personality puppy, Pluto, to the vet for "the snip". That is, not to put too fine a point on it, to be castrated.  

Pluto (28 March 2015)

He's only 13 and a half weeks, but from all my research* I found early age desexing (EAD) has a reduced recovery time, is less traumatic and also offers some other significant positive longer term health outcomes.  

So it was with heavy hearts we dropped our littlest family member off at the RSPCA for his procedure.  It was horrible leaving him. I'm bad at being brave with animals. But at least we'd organised for Milo to go to a gym for the day so he wouldn't spend the day at home fretting. And I looked forward to filling the void with the sound of vacuum cleaner, a noise that has been somewhat absent since it became apparent that Pluto has serious issues with it (and the broom, and the dishwasher, and the dustpan and brush, and the cheese grater, and his reflection in the windows, and the hairdryer  – although I hasten to add we don't avoid using everything just because of the quirks of the pup).

Anyway, the surgery all went well.  And on discharge we were advised:

"He might be sleepy for the next few days, and off his food.  But that's ok.  Just keep him warm and let him rest."

So.  We gingerly wrapped him up and brought him home, expecting a quiet convalescence...

Shhhh.

But since he lost his nuts, Pluto's gone stark raving bonkers.  He's not supposed to run or jump.  But I don't think he got that memo because he's tearing about like a thing possessed.  He just won't settle.  When in a relatively quieter state he's rolling about making guinea pig noises and when he's being loud he's shouting Shouting SHOUTING!  

When I tried to put him to bed last night he went crackers and threw Truffles (his companion piggie) out of the pen and then demolished the whole set up with a vigour and relish I've not previously witnessed.  In the end, all I could do was cuddle him to try and restrain and stop the crazy.  We slept for about three hours.

I hope it's not because he's in some really bad pain.  I hope he finds today a little easier.  This morning was berserk again.  I fed him early and adminstered the pain relief that supposed to last for 24 hours. and he's resting now.  So I hope that continues for a little bit at least.  Poor little man.  Doesn't know just now if he's Arthur or Martha.

With the sleep deprivation and the tinge of worry I feel a bit that way too.


*RSPCA Research Report on Early Age Desexing

B is for Beatles

from Edward Gorey's The Gashlycrumb Tinies

On the morning of 9 December 1980, a school day, I was walking down the stairs towards the kitchen. The ABC news was wafting up to meet me as I descended.  I could hear the newscaster begin to cry as "Imagine" began and I wondered why on earth someone would shoot Jack Lemmon dead.  I was 12.

From that day, for weeks, there was wall-to-wall media coverage about John Lennon and his assassination. And an unplanned retrospective began about the Beatles that was impossible to miss.  It was the first second-wave of Beatlemania. And where the first Beatlemania had ended with disbelief and broken hearts, the revival began in that same vein.

I'd been exposed to The Beatles in the years before 1980 as my violinist brother and guitar strumming cousin had listened to and played along with all the Beatles albums, deconstructing the songs, and marveling at the genius.  I'd been in the same room doing my own thing at the time, and by osmosis the germ had taken hold.  

So by the time I realised it was John Lennon and not Jack Lemmon and there was a whole tidal wave of grief and loss being played out in the press and across the universe, the time was right for me to set out on my own Beatle odyssey:  an adventure that would become my decades long obsession; a safe haven; a raison d'etre; a focus for my art and writing; and a style guide for clothing, hair and speech.  

Oh, not to mention the most amazing SOUNDTRACK TO MY LIFE!

When you have those three incredible songwriters and four wonderful musicians collaborating and channeling the spirit, I can't help but think, when someone says they don't like the Beatles, that there's something terribly wrong with them.  Or maybe they just don't like music at all.  How, with such diversity, a song for every mood, a stanza for every moment, how can a person not find genius in there?  Somewhere?  I just can't fathom the thinking, or the lack of it.  Or maybe they just haven't had exposure. Or maybe they're being contrary.  Whatever.  Something's Not Quite Right.

I listen to other music too, nowadays.  I have diversified.  But I do default to the lads more often than you'd think and I don't think I've made a mixed CD (yes, I still make them) that doesn't include a track or two...).  And thank heavens my beloveds still remember me with presents of Beatley things, memorabilia from second hand shops and books and the like.  I can and will, never tire.  There will always be space in the shrine and in my heart...

* * *

My brother died suddenly when he was 45. That night he visited me in a dream with the Sgt Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band album.  He didn't say anything.  I pondered that dream intensely.  He was so earnest.  He wanted to communicate something.  

After a while I decided this is what Hec wanted.  I call it Sgt Heckers.

In My Life

There are places I'll remember
All my life, though some have changed
Some forever, not for better
Some have gone and some remain
All these places have their moments
With lovers and friends I still can recall
Some are dead and some are living
In my life, I've loved them all

But of all these friends and lovers
There is no one compares with you
And these memories lose their meaning
When I think of love as something new
Though I know I'll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know I'll often stop and think about them
In my life, I love you more

Though I know I'll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know I'll often stop and think about them
In my life, I love you more

* * * 

  Dedicated to the memory of Cynthia Lennon 1939 – 2015

A is for Apple

from Edward Gorey Gashlycrumb Tinies for whom this month's posts are dedicated.

"A is for Apple which is the beginning of all things", or so said John Lennon in 1968 when The Beatles launched their multimedia baby, Apple Corp.  Then in 1976 Steve Jobs started Apple Computers and so began a decades long trademark war between two of the most iconic brands in all of Christendom.

There was somewhat less enthusiasm when Gwyneth Paltrow named her baby daughter Apple Blythe in  2004, although maybe that was because it was a human baby and not a business, or perhaps it was the new millennium and the populace had discovered fructose malabsorption...  either way, there was unarguably a degree of cynicism attached to naming a child after fruit such that nobody (on record at least) subsequently tried calling their progeny Banana or Pear.

As a life-long Beatles devotee (yes, I have a shrine in my bedroom), also a Mac-user and utterly ambivalent about Gwyneth, I didn't have any of that on my mind when I decided without hesitation, to name my son Apple (μήλο) in Greek, Milo, although all sorts of links and parallels could quite legitimately be drawn. Lovely as all that is, Milo was named for the protagonist in Norton Juster's 1961 literary masterpiece The Phantom Tollbooth.   A book I first read when I was nine. (Synopsis: Phantom Tollbooth Wiki)


The adventures of Milo have resonated with me for most of my life in so far as when I discovered the baby I was carrying was a boy, I knew immediately who he would be and I began to dare to hope that just like his literary namesake, his life would be a trippy trip full of quirky, fascinating folk and he would be sweet and kind and engaged by all things.  Because that's what perspective can do for a person who follows that path and not the other...

That's what I hoped for him, anyway.

The Map of the Lands Beyond from The Phantom Tollbooth (1961)
by Norton Juster, illustrations by Jules Feiffer

You can't imagine how pleased I was when one day in October 2o1o I heard that Norton Juster was alive and kicking in Massachusetts. Particularly considering that for some reason up until that very moment, I had imagined he was Norwegian and long dead.  

The moment I got home that day I did the stalker uber-fan thing and googled him to find his address (surprisingly easy), google-mapped his house, and then without any further hesitation took a deep breath and handwrote him a letter and sent a photo (see below).

Dear Mr Juster

I read The Phantom Tollbooth when a mere dot, and was enchanted by every bit of it.

At age 38, when presented with my first child, a boy, I knew instantly he would be Milo and so he is.

Now he is almost four and is the best thing in the world: loving and warm and interested in all things.

Your wonderful Milo has stayed with me for my whole life.  Thank you, thank you for introducing us.  Now I have my own Milo and I am repaying the favour by introducing him to you.

Dear Mr Juster, you are a wonderful, evocative teller of tales and we are so grateful you have shared.

With every best wish, and our love.

And then, in one of the correspondence highlights of my life, I received an email response.

Dear Sophia:

What a lovely letter.  It made my day.  You're right, of course, Milo is the best thing in the world - but, since you named him for the character in my book I own 10% - I'll settle for the smile and the sparkling eyes.

When The Phantom Tollbooth was published in 1961 (next year is the 50th anniversary) the general consensus of the experts was that:

1.It wasn't a children's book

2.The ideas were too complex

3.The vocabulary was too difficult

4.The kids would be put off by all the puns and word play.

Over the years it has been a source of great pleasure for me that they were so wrong.

Letters like yours are a joy. 

I hope your Milo has a wonderful trip to The Lands Beyond!

Best,

Norton Juster

I cannot describe the thrill.

So there you have it.  That is the reason my boy is called Milo.  His formal name is longer.  I had to find a historic or mythical character containing "Milo" (Romilo) to satisfy the Hellenic questioning Milo would inevitably encounter, because I knew just how tedious it would be for him to try and explain for all of eternity that he is named for a fictitious literary character when Greeks just don't do that.  He will have enough on his plate trying to explain why he isn't christened.  And that's a whole other story.

Kicking goals and High fives all over the shop

Homework: 18 Feb 2015 - The Final
All his own work (but I did help a bit with the spelling when he asked.)

It was 20th October, when Milo was headed towards finishing Grade 2, and I'd spent pretty much two hours of every Monday during the school year in the classroom helping out with literacy and numeracy learning centres (but not working directly with Milo), I realised, looking at some of Milo's work on display in the classroom that everything wasn't quite right.  His presentation was more than just sloppy.  It was a trainwreck.  Careless.  Unfinished.  Shabby.  Terrible.  It showed a lack of thought.  A lack of effort and endeavour.  Honestly, it was ghastly and I was truly speechless. 

So knowing how incredibly bright and capable Milo is, but also what a difficult time he has had at school with some social issues (for that read ongoing bullying), I asked his teacher if it would be okay if Milo redid the task at home so we could replace the dog's dinner with something a little more complete and polished.

Sadly that afternoon we lost Poppy and the world stopped for a week or so while we mourned her passing.

Poppy watching Milo watching telly (June 2014)

Poppy loved her boy and her boy loved her and things were very sad for a bit.  But life marched on, as it does, and the time for us to tackle the task of the piece of work from school arrived.

We discussed the piece, what it involved, what he had to do, what tools he needed, etc.  And then, instead of me standing over him like I usually would, micro-managing the process ("Tall Ts." "Ps hang below the line." "Leave spaces between words." "Is that an R or a V?"), I just sat back on the other side of the room and observed and let him do his thing. 

It was horrible and terrifying and the most awfully painful thing I'd seen when it came to Milo and schoolwork.

This child, who could talk the weatherboards off a building, was completely stumped about how to even begin. My heart crumpled as he became distressed and stressed and increasingly frantic as he battled to make the ideas in his head materialise on the blank page in front of him.  And after 30 minutes of anguish and scribbling and rubbing out and hair tearing, I approached the table to see what he'd produced and it was the same dog's dinner he'd created at school.  All chaos and mess and confused catastrophe.

And it dawned that my assumption that the work messiness, incompleteness and incomprehensibility being due to a lack of effort and endeavour couldn't have been more wrong.  This kid had sweated blood to put ANYTHING down. I'd been accusing him of not trying, of being slack.  And I couldn't have been more wrong.

So I swept him up into my arms and carried him over to the sofa and I apologised profusely.  And we hugged each other for a really long time. And I told him that we were going to find a way to make this work bizzo a whole lot easier because none of it was supposed to be like this.  None of it was supposed to be hard and confusing and difficult.  There was a way through.  We would find the way together.

We had a break went outside, sat in the grass, played with Bongo for a bit and then came inside spent the next three hours, THREE HOURS, producing a finished piece together. Me guiding.  Him following.  Step. By. Step.  Torturous.

The finished piece took three hours to produce.

It quickly became apparent that the challenges for Milo were on a few levels: the handwriting itself, something he has always resisted;  dumbing down the information so he doesn't have to write; and lastly, but definitely not leastly, not knowing how to divide up the page to organise where and how the information should go.

When we sat back at the end of the exercise, both exhausted, I was confronted with the reality that it had taken three hours (and not calm, enjoyable hours either) to produce one heading, four pictures, fours sub-headings and four short sentences. 

The next day I spoke to Milo's teacher and told him we needed to get Milo assessed because there was clearly something wrong.  Something cognitive going on.  I didn't know what it was, but there was obviously something not quite right.  What was the school going to do?  What were the steps?  What happens?

I was advised at that point, given that we are in the State system, that there isn't funding for assessments, and that I was going to have to seek out assistance myself.  And they pretty much left me with that.

Now if you don't know Milo, you don't know that we're not talking about an average little kid.  We're talking about someone who's presentation to his Prep peers was about Blackholes and Wormholes. He's all about crystals and molten rocks and all sorts of stuff to do with building.  He's developed theories about multiple dimensions  he'll tell you about and he isn't intimidated intellectually by anything.  He's interested in anything and everything as long as there's people who are involved and engaged, because he's a people person and he just wants to be part of what's going on...

So I walked away, shattered.  Not knowing what to do.  I mean, how the heck in a first world country can a school not have the means to assess a kid with special needs?  Or not even give a parent a hint of a clue about where to go or what to do?  Seriously? If there's money for chaplains, and I'm constantly being asked to put my hand in my pocket to fundraise...  Who is setting the priorities?  And why isn't something like this on somebody's list? 

Anyway, I went home and rang Parentline Victoria (ph: 13 22 89) and they advised me to contact the Royal Children's Hospital Child and Family Psychology Clinic.

I managed to secure an appointment within 10 days (unheard of, I found out later, as the average wait time is eight to 10 months), and received a truly comprehensive 19 page report with 10 pages of recommendations four weeks later. 

It wasn't until we started answering questions that we realised that things we'd been managing weren't necessarily the way things needed to be or indeed the way things should be.  And what's more, we had the power to change them and make things better.  So much better.

So armed with this report we've managed to get Milo started on a truly intense regime of treatment with specialists and therapies to help make his experience at school and in the world generally a whole lot better.

The biggest thing for me has been to learn that although I'd never thought of Milo as being "of me", per se (I'd always thought of him as being completely his own person) I'd still, to a degree, assumed he'd interact with the world through the prism of paper and pens and words and pictures in the same way I did/do, when that isn't the case at all.  He has his own means and methods of interacting with the world that is purely his own and I can't presume to even understand it.  All I can do is respect that it is him.  He truly is just Milo.

So back to the the goals he kicked yesterday.  Oh my goodness.  He did his homework, albeit with some help.  But he didn't get all shirty and he didn't fight me every step of the way.  He took on my advice.  He did a plan with dot points and didn't resent the extra writing the dot points required (and yes, he enjoyed ticking them off when he wrote the final copy - very gratifying).  He wrote in sentences.  He even cracked a little joke.  It all took about 40 minutes and in the end I asked how painful it was out of 10 and he told me it was naught out of 10 because it wasn't painful at all.

Now I know we have a long way to go.  I know this isn't masterful A+ genius Einstein work.  But if you saw where we were just a few months ago, and you saw what he did just yesterday you would be tripping and twirling just like I am.  The progress he's made is unbelievable. UNBELIEVABLE!  And he starts Occupational Therapy tomorrow.  Can't wait. 

And then Pluto the Puppy comes in seven sleeps and the world will turn on its ear in the best possible way.  Good times are a-foot.  I can feel it in my waters.*

*At this point I'm not even going to go into the costs of the reports and specialists. Suffice to say that by February we have exceeded the Medicare threshold for the year.

Milo's Best Friend. Coming soon.

And (at the time of writing) he shall be known as Pluto.

 
Since we unveiled the image of our newest family member and revealed the timeline for his imminent arrival, I posed the question:  "Is he Pluto or is he Astro?  Suggestions most welcome." 

We all do know that a rose by any other name would smell as sweet, and whether he is Ernie or Barney, Gough or Miguel, Comet or Neon, Scruffy or Plato, it's really neither here nor there, since the naming of this little chap is the dominion of Milo.  And this fluffy nosed little critter is set to turn the House at Porter Street on its ear in a fortnight, no matter what.

Milo had decided on Pluto but did want to know what other names people liked.  And what a cavalcade of suggestions have been put forth. He became a little overwhelmed by the breadth of options, so that his eyes began to roll back in his head as I lobbed them, not only, I suspect from not having a clue about the significance of many, but also just from the sheer exhaustion of having to repeatedly respond whilst simultaneously keeping a lid on his excitement by making and exploding fireworks in Minecraft.

Multitasking is difficult for the eight year old brain at the best of times.

Anyway, we'll see which way the wind blows us in a couple of weeks.  We have a couple of weeks...  14 days...  Roll on.