Sydney – LA – Montreal : May 6, 2024
I wanted a typewriter to write my memoirs. A bright red Olivetti to be precise. Mum took the mission very seriously, adding to her list of seekers at the auction houses, sending me countless pics from deceased estate fire sales. All of them were beautiful of course, but not necessarily functional. And sadly none of them made sense for a globetrotting lady with no fixed address.
Typewriter aside, I think it’s time I started to spill a few more beans. On a more regular bean-spilling basis. And if that means clacking away on a MacBook Pro that manages to make almost as much noise as a typewriter when I get my hands on it, then so be it.
I’m up in the clouds. It’s always a place where creativity hits and major inspo bursts ensue.
I used to love travelling the world as an artist manager, producer and journo. I felt like the rock stars I represented. I was living the dream. I had epiphenettes on a regular basis and I drafted budgets, wrote grant applications and waxed lyrical about exotic travel destinations from Norfolk Island to Beaver Creek ski resort.
High up in the clouds you’re in your very own bubble, a metal tube of isolation where no phones can ring, and emails can’t touch you. These days you can still be connected if you must, but on a long-haul flight from the homeland, 13 hours across the seas to LA, I choose very much not to plug in.
On this particular flight, I’m no manager, no festival programmer, no lucky lady travel writer extraordinaire. I’m a mama.
Sitting to my left is the little prince with his shoes and socks off and his sweet ankles crossed on top of “other mummy’s” armrest. His tiny toes are all crinkled and I think he’s watched the Paw Patrol movie six times in full, coupled with a handful of repeats of the opening “Truck! Truck!” sequence. I’m not entirely sure how we’ll manage to get him off the plane to make the transfer from LAX to Montreal. But that’s a problem for future Clack. Right now, I’m happiest just to click clack on.
[currently rewinding Paw Patrol to the opening sequence for at least the tenth time on demand]
We’re still not sure whether she coined the phrase personally, or read someone’s enlightened perspective, either way, our wonderful compadre Liz, has found the words to articulate our very predicament. We are the sandwich generation. As our parents age and we have our very own wee people much later in life, we are “sandwiched” by the necessary hand-holding on both sides. As we sift through our parents’ dusty boxes while simultaneously peeling a banana or changing a nappy, the squish is real.
Homecomings after a long period of absence are notoriously difficult. We were away for more than two years, the longest period away from Aussie family and friends, and we felt it. Two papas whose spirits have slightly shifted as they enter a new phase in their twilight years.
My Italiano Papso often reverts to his native tongue in moments of frustration or passion. A pencil, matita. A tree, albero. He knows his grasp of English vocabulary is fading and his only wish is to be left alone to live his life the way he and mum choose. Fifty two years together and they are leaning in now more than ever.
I wanted to stay. To take walks around the small Southern Highlands village, to pat the dogs and greet the joggers at dusk. To meet the locals for a schooner in the front bar and kick a soccer ball through the crumpled autumns with my burgeoning Socceroo. Above all I wanted to make sure the community is there to bolster my parentals when we siblings drift back to our various distant corners.
But it’s the budding Socceroo who makes staying any longer a challenge. Our very own famiglia trio have another life to live, a life that takes us blasting across the oceans to the epicentre of circus magic, as we return to our carnie posse and set up le grand chapiteau in Montreal for the next few months.
I will call more often. I will write email tales of our adventures and playground explorations. I will dig deep to find patience, tolerance and pure unconditional love as the baton is passed and we step into a greater responsibility, a role reversal of sorts and a chance to repay all the care and tenderness showered upon us throughout our 40-plus years.
I write to make sense of it all. To share a twisted tale or two, but most importantly to revel in the beauty and sensitivity of ageing, to celebrate the robustness of life in all its guises, choices and pathways. Let there be tenderness, joy and compassion.
And Paw Patrol.
PS: The little prince crawls onto my lap, whimpering. He’s been watching screens for 12 hours straight, skipping from my lap to Zoe’s and back to his own seat with all three screens running various incarnations of Pixar goodness and PP madness. He melts into my body with an incandescent warmth, his soft hand clutching my index finger tightly. And then, like clockwork, the truck topples over the bridge and Paw Patroller Chase rescues the driver as Ziggy explodes into a fit of giggles, a gentle rumble that builds into a raucous guffaw, a sound so innocent as to wipe all melancholy away.
burrawang, australia : april 2024