We spent all day yesterday packing and all day today moving into our new house. Our new house that we own*. The first house we’ve ever owned. And if all goes well, the last we ever own.
It’s a big old rambling 1940s home on a good sized block in the hills about 10 km from the Adelaide city centre. There’s lots of room and it is laid out so that even when the boys get older there will be plenty of space for all of us. We’re secluded from our neighbours, surrounded by trees and the moon and stars are clear and bright.
Now it isn’t perfect. Far from it. There’s a leaky faucet. The fence needs finishing. The shower is either hot or cold but never warm. The garden needs some serious work. I can’t figure out where all our stuff is going to go. The trains are frequent and close.
But it is ours. In all its glory and all its problems.
It is ours.
I’m sitting here on the couch, surrounded by boxes with the bloody farting dog at my feet trying to summon enough energy to get up and go to bed and watching that tired Christmas classic “It’s a Wonderful Life”.
And tonight it kind of is.
I think I have to stop fooling myself. At some point every day I decide that I’m going to take some time and, damn it, blog. But it just doesn’t happen. I’ve spent three days planning to write this little snippet of a post. Life is full. And priorities change. And time is spent, better or not, in other endeavours.
But this space nags at me like a sore tooth. I feel obliged to update, obliged to put myself out there. But I want to be somewhere else.
So this post is punctuation. An official recognition of a pause. But more a semicolon than a period. I’m not saying goodbye, just see you later. A little holiday in the real world.
“Well that is that and this is this.”
I don’t really have time to write – it’s exam marking time – but I can’t stand seeing that beanie wearing, budgie smuggling, buffoon every time I open Safari anymore. So here’s a photo of Boy Z putting the moves on a cute blonde at a wedding we went to last night.
Because nothing brings that paternal pride cascading to the surface like watching one of your sons successfully executing the lady killing skills that you’ve been so carefully teaching him.
Don’t wait up, Dad.
I was feeding Not Max his dinner last night listening to some music, as you do, when the inimitable opening chords of “Free Bird” came on the iPod stereo. “Free Bird” is currently on my iPod because I’ve been watching the outstanding, if slightly raunchy, ‘Californication‘ lately on my commute to work. The song plays a pretty pivotal role in one of the episodes in the second season and since then I’ve had a hankering for some Skynyrd.
But when it came on last night I was reaching to skip the track, thinking that Not Max would probably not consider it the best dining music. But as Gary Rossington’s slide guitar chimed in with Roosevelt Gook’s mellotron, Not Max looked up, cocked his head, smiled and started beating on the table in apparent ecstasy.
I said to Not Max, “Really, Not Max? ‘Free Bird‘? Why?”
To which Not Max replied with more vigorous table smacking. And the longer that very long song went on, the more fervent the table beating became.
“Well, Not Max”, I said, “I guess we’ll turn it up.”
And really, the better question is: Why not ‘Free Bird’?
Fly on, Not Max.