Category: Memories

A Lost Diary

I have kept a diary since I set off backpacking in March 1987. In the early years, I only recorded occasional highlights. However, as I wrote in 32 Years of Diaries (Jan 2018), I made a New Year’s Resolution in 2005 to write up every day. Hence, a lost diary is a disaster—it’s happened to me twice.

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Kurd Friends in the Mountains

My wife and I visited Turkey in 1988. We had endured our first English winter and spent two-weeks hugging the coastal sites and sunny beaches. We returned in 1990, venturing far from the coast, to the mountains of eastern-Turkey, where Kurds befriended us, and we learned a little of Kurdish culture.

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My Marxist Philosophy Class

In 1998 I started an eight-week evening college course, Introduction to Philosophy. I was in my mid-thirties and was aware of philosophers, of course. But I hadn’t read their works and knew nothing about critical thinking. Our text was Sophie’s World by Jostein Gaarder. And our tutor was a Marxist.

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Tweet to Five-Year-Old Self

When I was a five-year-old, and my younger brother was only two, our parents separated. My father gained custody of us and to help him look after two young boys, we lived with his parents, my Nan and Pop. I have vivid memories of those days, which is why the #5YearOldSelfie challenge caught my eye.

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Writing From My Travel Journal

What could be easier than writing a piece based on travel journal entries from seven nights my wife and I spent in Moscow and St. Petersburg? Well, for a start, it was way back in 1993, and I was still finding my “writer’s voice”. Many of the entries are inconsistent, and some downright embarrassing.

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Sixteen Xmas Memories

Unlike my son, born in the era of digital cameras and phones, there are few photos of me from my childhood years, and even less of me as a teenager. I do have one with my mother and two of my brothers, taken on Xmas Day 1976 when I was a surly sixteen-year-old. *Gulp*, my son is sixteen this Xmas!

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Memories of my Pop

When I was five-years-old, my parents separated, and my younger brother and I moved in to live with our grandparents. While our Nan embraced her two young grandsons with warm grandmotherly arms, our Pop could be standoffish and a little scary, especially when angry with a couple of “naughty boys”.

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My Week in Politics

Since 2007, I’ve sat and watched Australian politics stumble from one self-obsessed stuff-up to the next, resulting in the revolving door prime ministerships of Rudd-Gillard-Rudd and Abbott-Turnbull-Morrison, and the rise of crackpot fringe politicians. In the past week, I stood up and took action.

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My First Buddhist Lesson

It was my younger brother’s idea to attend the Buddhist lesson. He said it was being held in the back room of a pub, a short walk from my flat, which was handy because we were running late and my bladder felt full as we headed out the door. But I had decided to hold on until we got to the pub.

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Wimbledon lost in translation

My girlfriend and I had travelled all day to reach the small farming town of Nijemardum, in the northern Netherlands state of Friesland, to visit the parents of a former housemate. “My mother will be pleased to see you,” Jan had assured me. The bewildered look on Mrs B’s face indicated otherwise.

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Can I Pat That Dog?

When my son was a five-year-old, I gave a talk at his child care centre called, Can I Pat That Dog? I based it on a book of the same title written by Susan McLaine. And though it’s over ten years since that visit and my “little boy” now towers over me, I still highly recommend the book.

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