Two Families, Two Deaths, Two Women

View of Shelly Beach from Manly Beach, Sydney

My beautiful friend Julie joined me this week in an activity I’ve previously done only with my son or by myself.

On a bright autumn afternoon in Sydney, we walked from Manly Beach to Shelly Beach, and scattered red rose petals in memory of my first husband Gary and Julie’s son, Martin.

Two Families
Something magic happens when two families connect at every level — wives, husbands, children, values, and interests. I read a recent post by ‘Wandering Sheila’ and instantly thought of Julie and her family, with whom my family of three shared so much in Australia.

I could write a book about our two families’ interactions, but for this post suffice it to say everything began when, within a few days of our moving to Sydney, my son returned from primary school and said, ‘I have a new friend. His name is Martin. He and his family just got back from a trip to Finland.’ Thus began a priceless friendship.

I loved watching Martin and his older sister interact; their closeness reminded me of mine with my brother when we were kids. Among our families’ seemingly endless shared interests were the boys’ baseball (my son the pitcher, Martin the shortstop, the dads involved in coaching and umpiring); family bushwalks, beach outings, and countless barbeques; a passion for travel and reading (our best Aussie book recommendations came from Julie and her husband); special holiday meals; and parents who loved spending time with their children and getting together as a family. The two dads were both experts at DIY, did a lot of the family cooking, and could talk at length on subjects ranging from the local real estate market to international politics. Julie and I could talk at length about anything.

Two Deaths
In November 2002, with virtually no warning, Gary was diagnosed with advanced, inoperable gastric cancer. Julie and her family were with us at the hospital in the last weeks of Gary’s life. On the afternoon before Gary died, Martin spent time visiting him, then walked into the hallway and wept in his mother’s arms. He went home and made a pizza for his father to bring back to the hospital that evening for me, my son, and my stepson. Gary died late that same night.

In the months that followed, Julie regularly visited me on a Sunday afternoon. She would bring her knitting along and sit with me, letting me ramble on or be silent — a supportive, companionable presence.

In July 2005, two years after Gary’s death, Julie came over on one of those Sunday afternoons. Early Monday morning, she left an unusually short ‘call me’ message on my answering machine, but I’d already left for work and didn’t check it when I returned late that night. Tuesday morning, she rang again when I was in the shower. I noticed the blinking light as I was leaving and played back both messages, the second one a distraught, ‘Please call me.’ With rising fear I rang their home. Another close friend answered and I knew instantly something was terribly wrong. ‘What happened?’ I asked.

‘Some of the boys went fishing on Sunday, from the cliffs at Middle Head,’ she said. Martin grew up near those steep rocks, had played there all his life, and knew it well. Sunday had been a beautiful, clear day.

‘There was an accident. A fall,’ said the friend. Her voice cracked and she paused to breathe. ‘Martin died.’

Aftermath
In the terrible aftermath of that tragedy, I did what I could to comfort my friends and their daughter — which, as I knew from my brother Rob’s death — was sadly very little. My son had his 20th birthday and returned to university in the US, a courageous young man who had lost his father and then one of his closest friends in the space of less than two years.

Often, after a long work day, I visited Julie, her husband, and daughter, and sat with them at their kitchen table, all of us mourning and morose. I remember vividly one night when their daughter was out and I left Julie sitting between her husband and her brother. I drove home to my lonely house, weeping with sadness and frustration at the finality of death and the desperate, hopeless knowledge that in what seemed like the blink of an eye, two happy families were gone forever.

Two Women
Time passed, as it does. Days, weeks, and months turned into years. Julie’s daughter, with her degree in archaeology, worked for a time in Western Australia and is now in London. My son finished university and settled in Washington, DC. I was blessed to meet and then marry Clive, and we moved to the UK. Julie and her husband, still in Sydney, are in that pre-retirement transition stage, talking about what’s next with work, travel, and life in general. The only thing that’s stayed the same over the years is that after the two deaths, nothing for either family was ever the same.

As with most priceless friends, when Julie and I meet – usually over long lunches of champagne and dim sum — time and distance melt away and we pick up right where we left off. I adore my life in Felixstowe, but through no fault of our wonderful friends there, they never knew Gary — so it’s lovely for me to spend time with someone who knew him well, as Julie did. I knew Martin well, too, and we talk freely of them both — no holding back, no ‘you should be over it now’, no reservations.

This week, on a sunny autumn day in Sydney, we were just two women, standing and looking out to sea at Shelly Beach. Maybe others wondered why the women were scattering red rose petals into the water. Then they sat on a bench — sharing their history, marvelling at how they’d survived, remembering those they loved. A passing observer might have noted them turning their faces into the Australian sunshine, chatting and smiling, just enjoying a simple afternoon together.

I’m thankful every day for my blessings, which include my son and family and my wonderful second husband Clive. I give thanks to God and the Universe for my beautiful friend Julie, for her son Martin, for my first husband Gary, for Julie’s husband and daughter, and for two families who connected and had so many happy times together.

In love and remembrance.

Walkway from Manly Beach to Shelly Beach, Sydney

Steps Removed: Reflections on Being a Step-Grandparent

With Clive and his grandchildren, Australia

As our time for this trip in Australia draws to a close, I’ve been reflecting on my role as a step-grandmother to six children — my late husband Gary’s grandsons (ages 11, 9, and 5) in the US, and Clive’s grandsons (age 9 and 6) and granddaughter (2-1/2) in Australia.

How to Be a Good Grandparent

Numerous books and articles I’ve read describe and recommend two crucial aspects of grandparent-hood.

Firstly, being a grandparent is by most accounts a wonderful experience, not least because one can savour all the joys of young children at one step removed from parenting and its endless, engulfing, exhausting responsibilities. Secondly, most experts advise grandparents to focus on the positive, keep one’s mouth firmly shut regarding unsolicited ‘suggestions’ or advice, and let the parents be the parents.

Families – Blended and Global

Blended families are nothing new, nor are global families – blended or otherwise — with multiple generations scattered across the globe.

If being a grandparent is one step removed from direct parenting, being a step-grandparent is two steps removed. In my case, geographic distance adds yet another dimension to the step-grandparenting experience.

All step-families and global families face ongoing challenges, and I don’t have biological grandchildren to make a direct comparison. But based on my experience of recent years, I’ve found that being a step-grandparent offers unique gifts and opportunities.

(Lack of) Family History and Emotional Baggage

In my two main ‘step’ experiences, I came into the life of my stepchildren long after their parents had divorced and settled into their post-divorce single lives. I wasn’t around, or involved, in most of my stepchildren’s early family history, neither the happy times nor the traumas and dramas.   

The downside of carrying minimal family history baggage is that I can’t regale the grandkids with stories of ‘what your daddy did when he was a little boy’. But as a relative newcomer, I feel I can be a more neutral observer, an objective presence without the possible expectations, disappointments, or projections a biological grandparent might intentionally or unintentionally bestow. I can relax and focus on the young people, marvel at their developing personalities and character, and appreciate the present moments with them.

Roles Shaped by Individual Experience

Clive and me with Gary’s grandsons in the US

Like every biological family relationship, every step-relationship has its own dynamics. In the past decade, I’ve had to figure out my role as a step-grandparent in two distinct situations. I’ve had to learn how much to get involved (answer: mostly not much at all) and how much to hold back (answer: mostly a lot, with occasional lapses).

For me and Clive, it’s helpful that we each have adult children. We can ‘reverse the situation’ and think: if this were my child/grandchild, what would I want from my spouse in this instance? We value each other’s opinion, and often say, ‘Tell me what you think. What would you do?’ But many times we’ve found, as textbooks advise, the best approach for the ‘step’ side of the couple is to say and do very little and instead simply listen, provide a sounding board, and support.

As a step-grandparent, I’ve come to see my role as the traditional one of grandparent support but with certain twists.

With Gary’s grandsons in the US, I can share memories of the grandfather they never knew. The untimely death of a loving grandparent is surely one of life’s greatest sadnesses — nearly ten years after Gary’s death, I still feel the pain of his never knowing his grandchildren (the oldest was only 21 months-old at his death), and of them never knowing the man who would have adored them. Helping to keep Gary’s memory alive with his grandsons is a blessing for me and I hope will contribute in some small way to his grandsons’ knowledge of their grandfather.

In Australia, I can share experiences with Clive and his grandchildren, two of whom were born after Clive and I became a couple. I can take pleasure in watching their interactions, and perhaps give the youngest generation an enhanced appreciation of their grandfather. And in both countries, I can establish my own relationships with each child, as he or she grows and develops.

If and When …

As for my own son, if and when he has children, I can’t say I’ll be quite as objective in my grandparent role — as much as I know I must try. Like my mother, and her mother before her, I’m afraid I’ll be inclined to pipe up and speak my mind, even when I know that’s not the best idea. What can I say, other than it’s a mother’s perogative — at least in my family of origin.

I’ll try not to butt in too often, and in the meantime, will continue to enjoy my step-grandparent time with six little people in the US and Australia.

Bedtime – with my youngest step-grandchild, Australia

Cheers for now and more soon.

Australia April: Life, Love, and a Haircut

Clive and the Aussie gang in Felixstowe last Sept.

We’re Australia-bound this week, to spend time with Clive’s family: his daughter, son, daughter-in-law, and three gorgeous grandchildren (ages 9, 6, and 2-1/2).  We’ll also visit his mum, though, sadly, she no longer recognises us, and reconnect with a few close friends.

It seems that without us realising it, a page of life was turned and suddenly we’re watching Clive’s grandchildren grow up. Wasn’t it only yesterday our own children were in primary school?

Australia holds so many memories for me, such a big piece of my heart. It’s where I went in 1995 with my first husband, Gary, and our ten year-old son, for what was to be a two year assignment for my job. It’s where we fell in love with Sydney, and stayed. It’s where my son spent his formative years, where we learned what it meant to be a global family, to live with the ceaseless ache of missing loved ones in other places, the physical inability to be in more than one place — one city, one country, one continent — at one time.

For all the joy I felt in Sydney, it is also the place where Gary was diagnosed with advanced gastric cancer in 2002. It’s where he died in 2003, halfway into our son’s senior year in Aussie high school, just before the Australia and U.S. college application process began. It’s where I wept and grieved and stumbled and fell as a widow, more times than I care to remember.

And then, Sydney is where I met Clive, a music-loving Brit who has had his own past family sadness, and who made me smile with his self-proclaimed ‘warped’ sense of humour, his courage and determination and unique outlook on life. It’s where, early in our dating days, he invited me to join him for his birthday get-together with his family. That evening seems long ago now; his first grandchild was not yet two and is now nine. Clive’s children are now my step-children, and in addition to my three step-grandsons in Connecticut, I am blessed with three step-grandchildren in Australia. In a few short days, we’ll be reunited with them.

As always, we can’t wait to see and hug and spend time with everyone in person. Sometime in the midst of our busy days with Clive’s family, I’ll find a few quiet hours to visit the place where Gary loved to scuba dive and my son and I scattered his ashes in 2003. And on my very last afternoon in Sydney, I’ve booked a haircut and blow-dry at my favourite hairdresser. I’ve found a great replacement in Felixstowe, but as others may understand, sometimes there’s nothing better than having that long-time trusted person do your hair.

Shelly Beach, Gary’s favourite place, Manly Australia

Cheers soon and more from Australia.

Dear Dad: Two Years On, Missing You at Balmoral Beach

Balmoral Beach, Sydney

Dear Dad,

Two years ago, you took your last breath in this life.

I miss you every day, but isn’t it funny that on this day that marks your two-year death date, I find myself in the same city and the same hotel in which I received the dreaded phone call telling me you were gone.

What else to do, but return with Clive to Balmoral Beach, where I have those precious memories of playing whiffleball with you and your grandson.

I scattered red rose petals for you today, Dad. Did you see me there? In my mind’s eye I saw you — giving it a go, swinging the bat, calling ‘good pitch, GR.’ I felt the softness of the roses and inhaled their sweet fragrance and pictured you giving me your little combined shrug/scowl  and saying ‘waste of money’.

Not a waste for me, Dad! Red roses mean love.

Thanks for the love you gave me, Dad. I miss you, and I love you.

Rose petals for my father at Balmoral Beach, Sydney

An Aussie Evening in Paris

Eiffel Tower and Australian Embassy, Paris

The Australian Embassy in Paris occupies what must be one of the best locations in the city, just a few steps from the Eiffel Tower.

Last night, we joined 150 other Aussies and guests in the Embassy’s Matilda (as in Waltzing) Bar for a barbecue, quiz night, and all-around fun get-together for a great cause, the charity The Flying Frog.

If the giant Australia poster on the side of the Embassy wasn’t enough, we knew we were in the right place when we heard familiar Aussie accents at the entry gate and saw one of the ID checkers drinking a bottle of my favourite Aussie beer.

A favourite Aussie beer

With our hands duly stamped and raffle tickets collected, we followed a typically-friendly Aussie who seemed to know his way around. We could also have followed the aroma of a true Aussie barbie:  sizzling grilled meat and piles of sautéed onions, accompanied by bread rolls and fresh salad. For a moment we felt as if we had walked back into a school or sporting event in Sydney.

The quiz — my first ever pub quiz — was both challenging and entertaining, three rounds of questions on all subjects imaginable. Clive captained our team, the Kuddly Koalas.

Clive and the Kuddly Koalas

Though the KK’s didn’t win, everyone seemed to have a terrific time with a bit of learning and a lot of laughs. I also enjoyed talking with fellow bloggers Rosemary of AussieinFrance and Andrea of destinationeu.

Carolyn, Rosemary, Andrea

We left after five hours (among the first to depart — Aussies know how to party!). After saying good-bye to new friends, we strolled across the Bir-Hakeim bridge in Paris’s unseasonably warm weather. The Eiffel Tower, lit up on a perfectly clear night, provided a magical end to the evening.

Eiffel Tower from Pont Bir-Hakeim, Paris

Cheers to all the Aussies in Paris. More soon.

A Walk of Hope, from the Bush to the Beach

Start of Walk of Hope in 'The Shire', Sydney

Sydney

Our time in Australia has flown by.

One of the highlights of these family-filled weeks was joining Clive’s daughter K for a fund-raising walk to support her upcoming trip to Africa.  For the third consecutive July, she will volunteer her time and skills in the delivery of education development programs to local teachers in Rwanda.

Two years have passed since I wrote about K’s first trip to Rwanda, in Family Globalisation:  A Journey of Hope. Since then, the Australia-based sponsoring organisation’s name has changed from Hope Rwanda to Hope Education, to reflect its preschool teacher training and English teacher training programs having expanded to Cambodia, Uganda, and Kenya.

Pays des Milles Collines – Land of a Thousand Hills

According to Wikipedia, Rwanda’s population in 2010 was 11.1 million (in my 2009 post, it was 10.1 million), the densest in Africa.  The motto of Rwanda’s official tourism site is ‘Discover a New African Dawn’ – and ‘more than just gorillas’, though gorilla trekking remains a popular tourist activity.

Hope Education reports that all 50,000 teachers in Rwanda are currently shifting from French to English as the language of instruction, creating the need for teachers to learn and teach in a new language within a three-year timeframe.  The organisation delivers teacher development training in partnership with the country’s national Ministry of Education.

Start Your Feet

So, on a warm and sunny Saturday Down Under, K collected us from our accommodation in Cronulla at 7am.  We drove to Innaburra Primary School, the walk’s registration and starting point at Bangor, New South Wales, in the western part of Sydney’s Sutherland Shire, locally referred to as simply ‘The Shire’.

There we joined an enthusiastic group of 199 participants, whose shared objective was to raise awareness and funding for Hope Education’s teacher development programs.  I didn’t expect the walk to be slow and ambling, but still I was surprised at the fast pace at which everyone set out on the quiet early-morning streets.

A quiet Saturday morning in The Shire

Our route took us from west to east across the width of the Shire, 18.6 km (or 11.5 miles) from Bangor to Cronulla Beach.  There were two pitstops, at which no-one actually sat down but simply accepted a cool drink and kept moving along.  Yikes!

Most of the walk was along the road; unlike England’s brilliant cross-country network of public footpaths.

A bittersweet surge of memory occurred when we walked across a bridge over the Woronora River, from which I could see a leafy park and athletic fields near Bonnet Bay, New South Wales.  In years past, my late husband Gary and I watched our son pitch his baseball teams to several victories at Bonnet Bay – sweet memories of a time of life I will always cherish.  Clive and K kindly pointed out the baseball field to me as we walked across the bridge.

Bridge over the Woronora River, Sydney

The most gruelling part of the walk for me was a lengthy stretch alongside a golf course, during which time I silently counted my steps (one to one hundred over and over again) as I contemplated the final killer hill K had warned us was yet to come.

Finally, with the golf course behind us, we rounded a corner and began the final climb. A family on bicycles passed us though they were also moving rather slowly, and eventually they had to dismount and walk their bikes the rest of the way.

At the top of the hill, we were rewarded with a view of Wanda Beach, part of Cronulla’s chain of well-known surfing beaches.

Clive and K at the top of the hill

The home stretch was all downhill – hooray! – and despite a strong southerly wind, we managed to make our way past enticing glimpses of the beach toward the walk’s end point.  I would have loved to have quietly slipped away to sit on the warm sand and rest my aching feet, but must admit thoughts of the sausage sandwich awaiting me – nothing is more Australian than a sausage sizzle – kept me trekking along behind Clive and K.

Path to the beach, Cronulla

Eventually we reached the end, about three hours after we started, somewhat behind the walk’s first place finisher who completed the 11.5 miles in two hours.  We were proud to have completed the walk, which raised $6000 for Hope Education projects, and we thoroughly enjoyed our sausage sandwiches and cold drinks while sitting on the grass.

Finally off our feet -- K, Clive and others relaxing at the end

I’m so impressed by the volunteers we met this day.  Some, like K, have tertiary qualifications but their full-time jobs do not involve direct classroom teaching; others are teachers here in Australia.  All of them dedicate their precious vacation time to volunteer in Hope Education’s projects in Africa and Cambodia.

Hope’s next event is a Mega Trivia Night to be held at multiple locations later this month.  It would have been fun to join one of them, too, but we’ll be with my mother in the U.S. that weekend.

While K stayed on with her colleagues at the beach.  Clive and I staggered back onto the esplanade along the coast, found a simple café, and enjoyed a coffee overlooking the sea.

A very welcome coffee

Cheers for now and more soon.

Manic March, from Felixstowe to Sydney

Cronulla Beach, Sydney

Sydney

Greetings from autumn Down Under.

From England to Australia, life has recently been a whirlwind. Thank you to all who commented on my previous post about our goal to become more settled this year. That’s still our intention, and we spent the first half of March on the path to our new reality.

On the first of the month, we celebrated final settlement on our new place in Felixstowe and delivery of our belongings from Sydney, both completed before noon.  These momentous events required a quick walk to ‘the shops’ – first to Edinburgh Woollen Mill, to purchase a 50%-off picnic blanket we’d noticed the day before, and then to Marks & Spencer for egg and watercress sandwiches, chocolate eclairs, a bottle of champagne, and the most wonderful discovery of all:  parsnip crisps.

Yum.

After nearly two months in the Rental Palace, Clive was beyond ready to tackle a few early projects we wanted to complete before we moved in.  Fortified by our indoor picnic, he set to work that same afternoon and dismantled a bizarre, twelve-foot long, coffin-like wooden structure that stretched across  the ceiling between two rooms. 

Two hours after settlement, Clive at work

In addition to being carpenter’s assistant, I roamed around the apartment noting how much cleaning needed to be done (let’s just say the kitchen alone was quite scary) and darted on and off the balcony taking pictures.

Looking toward Landguard Point and Felixstowe Docks

Over the following eight days, we scrubbed our new home from top to bottom (though hired a professional to first steam clean the carpets) and Clive continued work on various projects so we could relocate from the Rental Palace as soon as possible.  These included moving many of our Aussie boxes into the bedroom, where sixteen book boxes currently serve as a base for the borrowed air mattresses that constitute our bed (thanks, R&L!).  Two larger boxes (all still unopened, until we buy proper furniture and/or complete various renovations) are our bedside tables.

In what will eventually become the dining area, Clive used remnants of the wooden ceiling structure, several borrowed pieces of wood, and more unopened shipping boxes to build our temporary desks.  Aaahhhh, a work space of one’s own, shelves, a connected laptop, and an evening glass of wine – what more does a person need?

A perfect present from Clive

Australia in Mind

Always on our mind was the knowledge we’d depart for Australia at the month’s midpoint.  After cleaning the Rental Palace (leaving it the way we wish we’d found it as opposed to the way we actually found it — arrrgh), we managed to move everything into our new home with six days – and six lovely, remarkably comfortable nights of sleeping on top of the book boxes — to spare.  We did unpack a few boxes including kitchen essentials, and I continued my role as carpenter’s assistant and in-house photographer, even before morning coffee.

Morning coffee and the North Sea

During these days in England, we also spent time with Clive’s father and other close relatives and friends.  Before we left for Sydney, we were treated to a memorable evening that was without doubt a major highlight of our first few months in Felixstowe.  A group of Clive’s ‘old’ friends (well, most of them have known each other for approximately fifty – and in some cases, more — years) treated us to a fantastic gathering of friendship, fellowship, and fun at a local Suffolk pub.  I consider myself lucky that, through Clive, I too can now call these wonderful individuals my friends.  This treasured evening was organised by Clive’s friend David and family (thank you all once again!).  For a rather cute photo (actually I think it’s adorable) of Clive and David at the Felixstowe 1959 Bible Quiz, please see my post A Felixstowe Sydney Darien Circle.

New residents (seated) with a group of very special people

We left England on the 15th of March and arrived in Australia on the 17th, four weeks ago today.  In an attempt to minimise moving around too much, we spent the first eleven days at our former home base at Manly, followed by twelve days at Cronulla, near Clive’s daughter in ‘The (Sutherland) Shire’ south of Sydney, during which time we joined her on a 12-mile fund-raising walk.  We’re now near his son and mother on the Central Coast of New South Wales, north of Sydney, where beautiful baby Ebonie is almost six months old.

The path of life is often unpredictable, with unexpected twists and turns.  During our time here in Australia, Clive’s stepfather was hospitalised and we’ve been juggling that particular family emergency with our other family commitments.  Wherever we are in the world, it seems the adage ‘one day at a time’ retains its wisdom.

Winding path by the sea, South Cronulla, New South Wales

Cheers for now and more about our Aussie adventures soon.

A Special Aussie Couple

Table for signing wedding registry at Ian and Lesley's

Paris

As our honeymoon sojourn in Paris comes to an end, I realise I haven’t yet posted a little more about our wedding, or our friends who helped make the day so special.

I couldn’t move on to the U.S. without posting a few words about this special Aussie couple. Their names are Ian and Lesley, and they were the first friends Clive and I met as a couple. We were doubly blessed in that they were our next-door neighbours in Sydney, so we were able to get to know each other in a casual, day-to-day way.

Ian and Lesley are true blue, fair dinkum Aussies. They’ve been married for over thirty-seven years and stand as a role model to me and Clive in the way they care about their family — their children are grown, as ours are — the way they travel together throughout Australia and around the world, and the way they live and treat each other and everyone else: with kindness, generosity, and, to use a favourite French expression, ‘joie de vivre,’ joy of life.

with Ian and Lesley on our wedding day

Ian and Lesley, you brought joy to us in so many ways: the great times we shared together (we did put away a few bottles of good Australian and New Zealand wines, didn’t we?), your intelligence and humour, no matter what the subject matter, and your graciousness in offering your home as the setting for our wedding day. I’ll never forget how magical it felt when we walked through the door that afternoon. We thank you for the day and everything you did for us, and we thank you for the priceless gift of your friendship.

Cheers to good friends everywhere. No matter how far away we may be geographically, the flame of friendship burns strong and bright, keeping us all connected.

Candles on our wedding day

A Different July 4 – Then (Paris) and Now (Sydney)

My son, Paris, July 4, 1992

Sydney

Having left h-o-t Paris, travelled through hotter Hong Kong (even inside the airport it was stifling), and arrived home last night to crisp winter weather in Australia, we were awakened from our jet-lagged sleep early this morning by a U.S. caller who wished us a happy Fourth of July.

Since it’s been less than 48 hours since we were in Paris, I couldn’t help remembering another July 4, nearly twenty years ago. I had recently been through an intense period of pressure and stress at work and took extra time off for an extended holiday with the family.

So here is a little story of our different July 4.

A Different July 4 – A Paris Story

It was and is a national holiday in America, a day for families to be together, at small-town parades or at the beach or having a backyard barbeque, followed by fireworks after dark at the local football field.

I was in Paris with our six year-old son. My husband and stepson were still in the U.S.; they’d be joining us a few days later.

In the morning, my son said, ‘Mom, let’s take the metro somewhere.’ (This was during his metro mania stage and thus one of our frequent ‘outings’ in Paris.) We decided on the Tuileries Gardens, where I thought we could have a nice walk and there was room for him to run and play on the wide pathways and in the area around the fountains.

When we came above ground at Tuileries metro, we found the open space between rue de Rivoli and the garden’s trees and footpaths taken up with an enormous Ferris wheel turning slowly in the morning sun; a big spinning ride turning very fast; small rides with music boxes playing; and food and game stalls lining the edge of the square.

A sign said Tuileries FETE D’ETE, Tuileries summer celebration. My son grabbed my hand and said, ‘Let’s go on the Ferris wheel, please, please.’ He pulled me through the gate and we hustled down the steps to the temporary amusement park.

From our seats high above Paris, we could see the Eiffel Tower silhouetted against the morning clouds, then the beautiful glass pyramid at the Louvre. Rooftops stretched for miles in the distance and the Tuileries treetops were thick with summer foliage.

Eiffel Tower from Tuileries Ferris wheel, 1992

After the Ferris wheel, we did a spinning ride (which we nicknamed ‘sick spin’ as it was rather too fast for both of us); then my son drove a yellow racecar, then a red motorcycle on the Autoroute à Péage, the toll road ride.

I watched from a spectator seat in a little row of white plastic chairs thoughtfully placed alongside the rides. After the cars, my son rode on a helicopter ride, then found another driving ride, this one a bit faster, with a tunnel and two tracks winding around each other.

Racecar driver, Paris, July 4, 1992

My son pretended to steer his little blue car, leaning to the right and left as he went around corners, beeping the horn when he passed my chair. Then someone shouted ‘Allez, allez,’ let’s go, let’s go. I realised it was a little red-headed boy in a red car going around the track in the opposite direction. My son’s eyes lit up. He beeped his horn at the red-headed boy and called, ‘Look out, look out’ as their cars passed. The red-headed boy’s eyes lit up in return and he beeped his horn back. They both laughed with delight.

In a few seconds, the boys saw each other again, beeped their horns, and shouted at each other, one in English, one in French. I lost count of how many times they each waited for the other to emerge from the tunnel and come around the curve so they could do it again.

Boys and cars, Paris, July 4, 1992

There was only one other adult sitting in the little row of chairs, a plump middle-aged woman in a sleeveless red blouse, short black skirt, and flat black shoes. She had frizzy red hair and I thought she must have been the boy’s mother, or maybe his grandmother. I tried to catch her eye to exchange a smile of ‘isn’t it cute how our boys are getting along even though they don’t understand each other’s language?’ – but she was reading a paperback and didn’t look up.

Mum on the sidelines, Paris 1992

After the autoroute, my son spottted the giant flume ride. I looked up at the slide and, behind it, the tops of the grand buildings with tall windows and wrought-iron balconies lining the rue de Rivoli. I must confess the thought crossed my mind that I might rather be across the street at WH Smith or Galignani bookshops than getting soaked on a water slide. But we climbed the steps and went down the flume three times, my son sitting in front of me as I held him close and we flew down, with water fully drenching our clothes and shoes by the time we finished.

Tuileries giant flume ride, Paris, July 4, 1992

At food stalls with blue and white-striped awnings, we got a croque monsieur, baguette jambon et fromage, Orangina, and Evian. I knew that our family in Connecticut would later have hotdogs and hamburgers, potato salad, and corn on the cob on the deck in our quiet backyard. In the middle of Paris, we had our feast on a wooden bench in the shade, serenaded by organ music from the kiddy carousel.

As we finished lunch, the little red-headed boy ran over to my son and pointed to another vehicle ride, this one with busses going around in a circle. The boys shared the front seat and rode around, each beeping the horn then looking at the other for a reaction and laughing at the sillly noises. When the ride finished, they jumped off without so much as a backward glance at the ride or each other.

Boys in the bus, Paris, July 4, 1992

The sky began to get cloudy, and the sweets stand beckoned with neon signs for gaufres, beignets, nougats — waffles, dougnuts, nougat – toffee caramel and crepes chocolat or sucre. My son chose Barbe à Papa, the perfectly named Papa’s beard, a mass of pink fairy floss (cotton candy) on a stick. He ate it as we walked back to the metro.

Parisian sweets, Tuileries, 1992

That night at bedtime when we were having our chat, he said, ‘That was a good day, Mom.’ I put my arms around him and hugged him tight.

‘It was a wonderful day,’ I said, ‘and a perfect July 4.’

Time Passes

That was eighteen years ago. The idea of our having our own place in Paris was still but a dream, albeit a longstanding, serious one, and the thought that we might live overseas someday was also focused on Paris. We knew we wanted to visit Australia but couldn’t have imagined the path that would take us there to live, or the extent to which we would also fall in love with Sydney.

My little boy is an adult now and I can no longer kiss him goodnight every night.  We’ve been through a lot together and remain close despite the geographic distance between us. Today  he’ll spend his July 4 in his hometown of Washington, D.C., enjoying a three-day weekend.  Maybe he’ll go to a baseball game, as we did with him a few weeks ago when Clive and I visited there.

Almost 18 years later, American baseball, June 2010

Here in Sydney, Clive and I awoke to a peaceful July 4 on the Harbour.

Sydney Harbour morning, 4 July 2010

By afternoon, Sydneysiders were out on their yachts. Darkness falls early this time of year and it may not be a holiday here, but Aussies know how to enjoy themselves and make the most of a beautiful day.

July 4 afternoon, Sydney Harbour 2010

Cheers and for those of you celebrating the holiday, enjoy those hamburgers and hotdogs!

I wish you a safe and happy July 4, wherever you may be.

Aussie Pillow Talk

Aussie air pillows

Sydney

In just over twelve hours, volcanic ash permitting, we depart for Paris via Hong Kong.

As much international travel as we’ve done, neither Clive nor I has ever used any kind of neck pillow on our travels. I always thought people carrying them looked a bit silly, and wondered about the space the pillows take up in one’s carry-on baggage, even if they’re deflatable. But I noticed quite a few young people carry real bed pillows on long-haul flights, and as I lay awake in Economy class with a stiff neck, I thought those poofy carry-on pillows might be worth a try.

Okay, they were an impulse purchase. I’m not sure we would have bought them if we hadn’t been in a shopping centre and passed a chemist who, for some strange reason, had neck pillows with Autralian place names displayed in the window.

Aussie place names

So here we are, with his and hers. If they give us any measure of comfort, I’ll add them to my ‘Top Ten In-Flight Insights’.

Cheers and if all goes well, my next post will be from our short interval in Paris.