Certified Legendary Thread Grizzlym's Dad is a Freakin Legend - From 'bum soap' to 'lawnmower larceny' & more - Story Archive

[grizzlym]

Urghhh.... against my better judgment I have caved in and started a thread about my legend of an ol' man.




The guy is a legend. And a god damn freak. But more importantly, the guy is out there with decades of these exploits behind him.

He's currently living in a quiet suburb of Melbourne, in a quiet street, in a nice home. He's a doting grandfather, who's started to smell kind of old, but make no mistake, he's dangerous. I believe his best work lies in front of him still.

I'm not sure how many of these I'm going to write. Maybe only a few, maybe more. It depends how long the drugs last before I go to pieces like a leper in a wind tunnel.

So here's the short list of exploits in no particular order. There's more too.

It's like a list that a somber international prosecutor reads out at the Hague.


The Legendary Exploits of Grizzlym's Dad

1. The pot of soup
2. The sewerage
3. Hammer meets toilet seat
4. Locked out
5. Speaker wires
6. Stereo cabinet
7. Burning house down
8. Shoepolish on floor
9. Spaghetti disaster
10. Tools in ivy
11. Chisel
12. Compost bin
13. Mud bricks
14. Cheap things – newspaper etc
15. Broom stick
16. Smoking car
17. Grandma washing his car
18. Driving 140 KM to get a cheap service
19. Fishing
20. Bike helmet
21. ‘Bush’ tent pegs
22. Culinary delights:
> Water melon soup
> Cabbage
23. Going to Bali
24. Picking up bridesmaid
25. Pizza with extra cheese
26. The copper and the washing machine
27. Grandma chopping wood
28. Essendon grog squad
29. Pub floor money
30. Neighbours pool
31. Putty and water tank
32. Bed bugs
33. Tao of love and sex
34. Funerals
35. Rolling in dog s**t
36. Dodgy dental work
37. Ferreting
38. Scabby old BBQ expedition
39. Shoes
40. Taking small planes through turbulence
41. Hypochondriac
42. New Age sex manuals.
43. Renovations
44. India
45. Rayon silk
46. Love potion number nine
47. Truffle oil Xmas
48. Loofah brush
49. Nudist Beach
50. Bum Soap
51. Lilo
52. Canapes
53. Grizzlym's Dad vs Beast
54. DIY
55. Razor
56. Fire, fire
57. Pension bending master class
58. Lawnmower
59. Redback Decking
60. Tennis balls or lemons?
61. Mashed Potato
62. Vaccinations
63. Judy Moran and friends
64. Choppin' grandma
65. Divorce books
66. Relief siatsu
67. Paper Round
68. Berlin Umbrella
69. Scary Movie
70. Lion Park
71. Coupon
72. Skeleton
73. The cousin's wedding
74. Easy Street

My dad is a freakin' legend, and these are his stories.

Oh yeah, feel free to post stuff, because, who knows, the more I talk about it, the more I might remember. Bit like suffering a head injury or other major trauma

Those is red are stories I've written, those in black are threats.

 

[grizzlym]

Re: Embarrassing moments caused by your parents

49. Nudist beach

My father, soon after breaking up with my mother, took my brother and I to a nudist beach. I would have been about 8 or 9. Dad wore the big service station purchased mirror sunglasses, a determined grin and nothing else. I remember hiding in the car in utter embarrassment.

 

[grizzlym]

Re: Embarrassing moments caused by your parents

58. Lawnmower

Our story begins many moons ago in the leafy eastern suburbs of Melbourne.

It was that special time of year, the modern day equivalent of the summer solstice festival, a time of spiritual significance for my father and many like him.

On this special day, like many before it, Dad bundled me - and on this occasion a couple of my mates - into his car and we headed off to perform the important ritual that guaranteed us a bountiful year ahead.

Hard rubbish collection.

My Dad loved hard rubbish collection. He saw it as the universe's way to readdress the karmic and material balance that existed between the social classes. He also saw it is as a way to save a few Roubles.

My first serious cricket bat was a Grey Nicholas 4-scoop my old man had spotted on a nature strip in Logan St. Sure the handle was a bit wobbly, but nothing a screw, some gaffer tape and piece of dowel wouldn't fix.

"Right as rain, son," he said bursting with pride, "Don Bradman used to play with a cricket stump."

As an aside, many years later he found a Duncan Fernley bat washed up on a beach. It was encrusted in small marine creatures, a quarter of the bottom was eaten away by the extended exposure to the sea and elements, and it had no string let alone rubber on the handle, but that didn't bother dad. "What a beaut bat, Grizzlym, just like what Ian Botham uses," he uttered.

Another year Dad purloined an old telephone and set about re-engineering it as our extension line. He had that glint in his eye that said 'screw Telstra, I'm not paying for another phone'. The phone sort of worked, but you had flick a big toggle switch that he installed on the front of the phone to get it going Eventually, he swapped it with my grandmother's phone (my mum's mum) when he was over mowing her lawn one day. Her eyesight wasn't good and his line of bullshit was impeccable: "It's a special seniors phone, Edie, the switch is so you can save money on your electricity bill," he shamelessly spun.

Another time he loaded the car with a bunch of old floorboards for firewood - we had open fires at home. But that turned into a disaster of biblical proportions when it was discovered that the timber was infested with termites who, soon after moving into our house, started munching on the floorboards in the loungeroom. Dad, in his own style, did the pest extermination himself with copious amounts of mineral turps.

But what happened on this day made all of these 'triumphs' seem like small change.

We were cruising down a street looking at people's discarded hard rubbish, when Dad stopped the car suddenly. He then spoke in an excited and urgent manner. "Guys, get out quick, Grizzlym, over there, see, it's a lawn mower."

And sure enough across the road was an almost new lawnmower, complete with grass catcher sitting on a naturestrip. "Grizzlym, you get the lawnmower... Steve you open the boot... I'll keep the car running 'cause you know how people feel about their rubbish"

So I tentatively set off across the road towards the lawnmower. And it was a beauty. "C'mon son, we don't have all day," he hissed in a low tone.

I tentatively touched the lawnmower to find it was still warm.

"Dad, it's warm," I called out.

"Shhhhh son," he replied in the same urgent low tone, "the sun's out that's why."

So with Dad urging me on in an increasingly urgent tone while softly gunning the engine, I wheeled the mower to the car, where Steve was waiting. We somehow bundled the mower into the boot and just got back into the car as Dad took off.

And as we took off a guy emerged from the driveway of the house brandishing a leaf rake, waving it furiously, he started chasing us down the street. Dad took a look in the rear vision mirror and said with disgust, as he sped off, "gee people are mighty precious about their hard rubbish around here".

When we got home, he put the mower in the shed and said, "not a word to your mother now, I have a surprise planned for her."

And sure enough, 2 months later he proudly gave mum the mower for her birthday.

True story.

To this day I'm convinced he knew he was getting his kid to steal the dude's lawn mower. The poor guy had obviously gone out the back for something or other after mowing his lawn and my father had pounced under the tenuous cover of hard rubbish scavenging.

 

[grizzlym]

Re: Embarrassing moments caused by your parents

I was at the ol' man's house yesterday and I noted something in the bathoom that had me scratching my head and remembering the old days and his antics. Note the plastic jug in the foreground filled with a slurry of soapy water, and, possibly more disturbing, the funnel in the background.

What's going on here? I was too scared to ask but if I had to hazard a guess I'd say his bum soap (see earlier story on another thread) has now taken a liquid form.

Also note the plastic bucket to the left of shot and other containers of varying sizes. He's got some sort of washing system devised using buckets, funnels and that bucket of soap slurry.

 

[grizzlym]

Re: Embarrassing moments caused by your parents

Okay, what's all this about bum soap?



Poor Grizz.

Here tis.

50. Bum Soap

I could actually start an entire thread on the cheap, dodgy, tight-arse and plain weird antics the ol' man is famous for. But I'll dish out just one that falls under the umbrella of this thread.

About 10 years ago I was staying at the old man's house before heading overseas. Actually, it was like a week and I hadn't spent a night in his home since I was like 16.

My father and his new wife have a lovely house. It's in a nice part of Melbourne. It has way too many bedrooms for their needs, lots of period features and most people kind of say, 'cool house'.

So I'm staying there, kind of enjoying it to be honest, until I venture into the bathroom for the first time to have a shower. So I'm doing a reccy, as we all do when encountering a new bathroom. I put my toothbrush down, my razor and shaving foam in the mirror cabinet, then I get into the shower. And it was/is a nice shower. Plenty of pressure. A skylight above my head. Nice big tank. All the good stuff.

Then, amongst all of the good taste and fine fittings, I spy something that, on first glance appears innocuous, on inspection is disgusting, and in retrospect, I still shudder in disgust when I think about it. Like now. I wish if I had never looked across and seen a Yahtzee dice tumbler on top of the cedar cabinet within easy reach of the shower.

'Look at that,' I said to myself completely unaware of the horror I was about to unlock, 'that's one of them Yahtzee dice containers, i wonder what that's doing up there?'

So like the idiot from school who pissed on electric fences for a dare, I reached across and grabbed the Yahtzee container. Bad idea.

On opening the lid, I saw a kind of soapy slurry. "What's this?" I thought. "It looks like the ends of soap, but in a bit of water, kind of like fetta cheese... Yep, there are some of those metallic stickers from Imperial lather soap in there.... and what are those.... pubes.... oh god, they are..."

At this point I put the lid back on very quickly, scrubbed myself like a compulsive obsessive on speed, and shed a tear. Some hours later, after consuming a massive amount of piss I broached the subject with my father. "What's with the Yahtzee container, Dad?" I said uneasily.

And then, like a fat man dancing in a see-through wet-suit, the full horror unfurled with a depravity that I didn't know existed.

"That's our bum soap container," he said completely normally. "Soap's expensive, especially if you're surviving on retirement income (this is from the dude who's house is worth millions, has stacks in the bank, lucrative investments, no debts, and who's wife works full-time) so we save the ends, and put them in the Yahtzee container."

"And then," I replied feeling the sick well up in my stomach.

"It's our bum soap... you scoop a bit out and use it on your privates," the freak said.

He continued as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

"When we finish having a shower we scoop up whatever soap scum there is and put it in the Yahtzee container. Even from the hand basin. Would appreciate it if you did the same"

And that is bum soap. Cheap arse, weird and just plain wrong.

One day, I'll post the story about the Back Scrub Brush.

 

[grizzlym]

Re: Grizzlym's Dad is a Freakin Legend - From 'bum soap' to 'lawnmower larceny' and much more

4. Locked Out

My dad likes to be organised and prepared. Always has. But he's not organised with the everyday things mere mortals trouble themselves with - like having enough milk or making sure his underpants keep a regular appointment with the washing machine. Nay, my ol’ man tends to let those sort of trivial things slip, even the concept of time is one he doesn’t unduly concern himself with.

He has always been notorious for turning up to everything late. Even, much to our shame, he rocked up to the airport 3 hours late to pick-up an elderly, wheelchair-bound relative who had flown in from America. Flashing his cheesy grin he merely greeted this poor woman who he’d never met before with, “thought I’d give you some time to play with the beagles from Customs, Margie, they’re affectionate little buggers.” And as he said this, his eyes came to rest on the giant Toblerone in her Duty Free bag and said, “I’m going to have to confiscate this as Customs are clearly not doing their job”. Shudder.

And, if I remember correctly, as we left the terminal Dad was munching on the Toblerone and pulling wheelies on the wheelchair to cheer the less-than- impressed woman up. Needless to say, we were never invited to visit Paynesville, Ohio for Xmas.

But I digress. The ol’ man regards attending to everyday matters as a nuisance – being on time, hygiene, cleaning, keeping the fridge stocked – ‘cause he’s got far bigger fish to fry like picking up chicks (before his second marriage), footy, and, rather oddly, being prepared for ‘in the event of an emergency or death’ and a general fascination for making preparations for the life hereafter. Them the big themes.

He’s got stashes of money hidden all over the house in various crafty spots - like a senile squirrel he hides it, then forgets where he hid it. Same with spare keys, lists of bank accounts and investments, his will, medical information, which he stuffs in brown envelopes. I remember as a kid, and on the various times I stayed with him over the years, the ol’ man tearing apart the house when he thought everyone was sleeping to find his lost stashes of stuff. Furniture would get moved, books taken off shelves and shaken, and on one memorable occasion, the roof of the laundry was removed late one night. He did all of this in secret least we discover his secrets before the time was right. Sadly, I don’t think Dad found many of the things he hid.

Whenever he goes away – whether it’s overseas for 3-months or just down to Barwon Heads for the weekend – he always rings me up in a grave tone a couple of days before and says, ‘Grizzlym, I’m going away and I have an envelope for you just in case’. So we meet up for coffee, which I pay for, and he silently pushes an envelope across the table. “Everything you need is in here,” he says. ‘In there’ are pages and pages of lined paper covered with his spidery scrawl cataloging every detail of his life – from library card number to life insurance policies. I have about a hundred of these identical envelopes at home…

In reality, he’s got the same preoccupations as what I imagine an Egyptian Pharoah had. And like Ramesses before him, it’s all about the kingdom, scoring chicks, the treasure, funerary preparations and the freakin’ palace. Ramesses never got locked out of the palace and neither would my ol’ man. That’s why, amongst his other eccentricities, my ol’ man has always been careful to have spare keys to his Casa distributed around town just in case.

Some years ago, and we’re going back maybe even 15 years, I was staying at Dad’s house between overseas trips. He hadn’t remarried yet, and was basically holding auditions for the future wife 24/7. You’d know when he was having a big night out because he’d actually take care of the small things for a change, and wash his Pierre Cardin g-string. Yes, it shames me to type that because it’s the god honest truth, but since I’m behind a wall of anonymity and Tor, I feel I can.

So the sight of the g-string on the washing line, and a bottle of Cointreau on the kitchen table was usually a sign that the ol’ man was going out to prove, once again, he “went to the best vasectomy doctor in town when your mother had had enough”.

And, my god, it must be said the ol’ man scored some pretty amazing women. On one occasion, a beautiful tv star, another, a woman old enough to be my sister. He was prodigious, but I rarely glimpsed his conquests because he preferred to stay over at their place. I’m sure it was because he got a free breakfast thrown in and would save on power and other utility bills by not being home.

So on this particular night, Dad snapped his G-string on, put the Cointreau under his arm, and marched out saying, “don’t wait up, I’m off to Jim’s Creek Tavern with a ladyfriend. Don’t worry, Grizzlym, there’ll be no more brothers and sisters, I’ve had a vasectomy”. And with a chuckle he slammed the front door and, moments later, I heard his Subaru fire up and he was off.

As for me, I went out that night and got outrageously drunk. Like completely smashed, which was my way back then. The night was a bit of safari going from place to place, and on a couple of occasions when I lobbed somewhere, someone would say, “your ol’ man is trying to find you, he’s locked out”. Now, I didn't pay much heed to these messages because Dad had that many spare keys around the joint, and besides he was out with a lady friend. Or so I thought.

At about 2am I staggered into my brother’s bar for a few to tip me over the edge. Me and him basically drank the beer lines dry. My brother also said the same thing, “bloody Dad called to see if I had a spare key, which I don’t, and he’s been trying to track you down all night too.”

“He’ll be right,” I said, “he’s always prepared for that sort of thing.” Thinking no more about it, I drank myself to the point of speaking fluent Klingon before leaving for the short stagger home. It was a freezing night, but I was wearing the Boris Yeltsin approved fur-lined beer coat, so I was toasty warm.

Approaching the ol’ man’s home I readied my keys, because in the state I was in it was akin to brain surgery inserting the key in the lock. With grim determination I made my way up the path to the front door, I noted that his Subaru was indeed parked in the driveway. ‘So he’s home,’ I thought, ‘wonder what happened… but at least he got in'.

I closed in on the lock, and a second later there was a frantic honking of the car horn, a strange figure leapt out of the car brandishing a Dolphin torch and cried, “thank god you’re home, I’m freezing my nuts off”.

It was me dad. And when he lowered the torch and my eyes adjusted to the light, I gasped in horror. He was standing there naked except for his g-string (and it was like 3 degrees or something). He was wearing the old checkered rug from the back of the car around his shivering shoulders. The torn and grimy rug had lived in his car for more than a decade and was covered in wood chips, hair from long-dead dogs and other bits of rubbish. I cast my eyes around and saw his clothes neatly folded on the passenger seat, a bottle of half-empty Cointreau next to them.

In a tone somewhere between great mirth, disgust and bemusement, I managed to say something like, “but, why are you almost naked, Dad?”

“Why? I was locked out… been trying to phone you drunkards all night, but couldn't get hold of you so I decided to sleep in my car… you didn’t think I was going to sleep in my clothes did you?”

In a second the full horror dawned on me. Like a good mummy’s boy, he had neatly folded his clothes before bed. But wearing a g-string on this freezing night didn’t exactly cut it, so he had wrapped himself in the old rug. And slept most of the night shivering in his car.

Taking in this hilarious yet disturbing scene in with a drunken chuckle, I turned to Dad and said, “but don’t you have one of those magnetic key hiding things under your car with a spare front door key”.

And thus the greatest penny-drop moment I have had the fortune of witnessing transpired.

With the loudest cry of ***** you’ve ever heard, he tossed the rug off his shoulders, strode to the front of the car, reached underneath and pulled out the key thing he’d put there just for that very purpose. He then marched to the front door, opened it with a flourish, and said indignantly while standing shivering in his g-string, “lucky I’m here to let you in, you’re in no fit state to try to get that key in the lock”.

I wandered into the house with Dad slamming the door behind me.

“So what happened to the date, Dad?” I slyly inquired.

“Bloody Lesbian, son,” he replied storming off to bed in his g-string.

*With apologies, will edit it back and correct the typos. All in haste.

 

[grizzlym]

Re: Grizzlym's Dad is a Freakin Legend - From 'bum soap' to 'lawnmower larceny' and much more

31 Water Tank.

For a completely nonreligious, almost atheist family, we observed a regular ritual on Good Friday. Indeed, the only time god was ever mentioned in our house is when the Ol’ Man was describing the bearded one engaging in an act of creation.

Every Good Friday, much to my mother's disgust, Dad used to load the family into the green Cortina, which still had the remnants of the plastic covering the interior upholstery, and make the journey from our inner Eastern suburban home to Mt Dandenong. On route we would pick up dad’s mother, who would sit between me and my brother in the back seat with a beach towel draped over her because she got car sick. The towel was known as grandma’s spew rag.

(The time Dad conveniently forgot that little fact and took my grandma up the Great Ocean Road for her 80th birthday is a whole story in its own right, "keep your eyes on the horizon... fix them there... you can conquer this… don’t throw up there, you’ll damage the upholstery". But once again, I’m drunkenly wandering down lanes strewn with memories like twisted old car bodies and I keep bumping into stuff I don’t expect.)

So, we'd make this holy trek up the mountain on Good Friday to see Dad’s freakish Uncle Graham and his wife, Auntie Doris. Grandma would usually spew by about Vermont, take a pill before the foothills, and be moaning like a banshee once we hit the winding roads of Mt Dandenong. After what seemed like an eternity, even though Dad drove the road like Ayton Senna, we would arrive at Uncle Graham’s hacienda and stagger out of the car in a cloud of vomit/ Kool Mint stench.

Uncle Graham owned half of Mount Dandenong, or so it seemed to me as a kid. His house was perched on the side of the mountain and commanded amazing views, right down the hill into the nurseries and market gardens he owned.

Inside, the ranch was decorated with an assortment of kitsch that beggared belief – the ballerina toilet roll cover, wall-mounted commemorative tea-spoon racks and royal family embossed doilies draped over every couch and armchair. Glass cabinets housed collections of Toby jugs, glassware and other priceless treasures purchased from the mail-order houses advertising in the Woman’s Weekly. But the crowning glory was Uncle Graham’s poolroom. It was a magnificent affair complete with the billiard playing dog paintings. There was also some sort of semi-suggestive print on one of the walls, which was always wrapped in paper for our visit least the children were corrupted by it. (I visited many years later and noted it was a print of Chloe.)

You entered the hacienda through the billiard room and were immediately struck by two things. Firstly, the billiard table was covered in a veritable feast, well there was a lot of food. Platters and platters of fish fingers covered the table. A whale had died and been airlifted straight up the mountain. Interspersed between the fish fingers were little bowls of gherkins, bowls of glace cherries and assorted mummified candied fruit. And then there were platters of buttered white bread.

The other thing that struck you was the environment. It was like they were rehearsing for the nursing home that they would move into 20 years later – it was 40 degrees, and smelt, not surprisingly, of fish, liberally mixed in with the pot pourrie air freshener that Auntie Doris carried around like a can of mace.

But Good Friday was all about combat. Well, snooker. Once the meal was dispensed with, cues would be wielded while us kids would watch on.

Completing this picture was the weird assortment of my Ol’ Man’s relatives. There was the right-wing great aunt and uncle who used to tell darkie jokes. Then there were my dad’s cousins, including his intellectually disabled middle-aged cousin, Barbara, who had the mental age of about six.

On this Good Friday, like all Good Friday’s before them, Dad started making excuses because Uncle Graham was whipping his arse at snooker. “I took one of mum’s car sick pills and it’s made me woozy… seriously, I’m seeing 3 white balls on the table… can’t keep playing in this state it wouldn't be fair to you “ he pathetically whimpered. “Come on kid’s, we’re going for a walk,” he barked “ grab Cousin Barbara and we’ll get some fresh air it might clear me head”.

As we walked down the path towards the nursery, Dad kept muttering, “he practises all year, it’s not fair, he just wants to beat me… we’ll get a table and I’ll teach him a lesson next year.” This little rant continued as we strolled down the hill.

“He’s got that special straight cue he uses too… notice the one he gives me? It’s got a wobbly tip and a kink in it like a violin,” he continued. Dad had picked up a stick from the path and was playing air billiard shots, adjusting his bridge and the like.

“It’s like asking Don Bradman to face up to Holding using a chopstick. He knows it too. Only way he can beat me is to cheat. What a small man. And his comb-over makes him look even smaller.”

Soon we entered the nursery where all of the green houses and seedling plantings were. By this point my brother and I had tuned out of Dad’s rant, and he had latched onto Cousin Barbara as a willing listener. “You’ve got a couple of eyes Barb, you can see his little game even if these two can’t.” Cousin Barbara replied with a happy grunt and some bizarre non sequitur about rabbits, which Dad took to be proof of his billiard conspiracy theory.

We wandered around the empty nursery for a bit. Dad, now seemingly calm, was focussed on Uncle Graham’s business. “Who would have thought that growing all of these little plants would make him so wealthy. Quite a business this one… boys, listen up, not you Barb, but the future is in growing stuff. Uncle Graham’s not too bright and if he can make a quid from turning on a hose, you can too.”

Dad’s words of wisdom petered out as his gaze caught sight of a large, old water tank sitting in the middle of the nursery era. “This tank’s been here since I was a boy… it’s bloody ancient… that’s the other business lesson boys, never buy anything new, recycle, re-use, repair…”

By this point the Ol’ Man had started prodding the water tank. “Still as good as gold, but what are these?” he muttered as his eyes roamed the tank, “little bits of red putty stuck all over it.” He wasn’t wrong; the tank was peppered with probably hundreds of little bits of red putty.

And then, what transpired was another of those moments where everything unfolded in slow motion and I was powerless – or unwilling – to stop what the cosmos had preordained. It was as if the gods had hit the slow motion button, and were sitting back in their jocks with brews and popcorn in eager anticipation of the latest episode of ‘Grizzlmy’s Ol’ Man’s Greatest Bloopers’.

In one horrid, yet wonderful moment the Ol’ Man reached out and plucked one of the bits of putty from the water tank. Instantly a stream of water shot out from the tank. “What’s this,” said the Ol’ Man, “the bits of putty are plugging holes or something.”

As Cousin Barbara clapped her middle-aged hands in childlike delight, another bit of putty popped out of the tank. All the while, the Ol’ Man was furiously trying to re-insert the first bit. “It’s raining, it’s pouring,” sang Cousin Barbara.

I don’t know how physics work, beyond if you drop a stubby it’ll usually break, so the following is purely speculation. When the Ol’ Man pulled the first bit of putty out it altered the internal pressure of the tank thus popping out more of the plugs. Once it got beyond a few, it was spitting ‘em out like a cheap hooker at a rodeo.

The Ol’ Man was quickly realising the gravity of situation as water streamed from this massive tank and started flowing down the path to the nursery. His pathetic attempts to shove the first bit of putty back in just seemed to anger the vengeful water tank even more. In no time, it resembled a massive showerhead.

“Help me guys, this is serious,” yelled the Ol’ Man, “take your shirts off, rip ‘em into little strips and plug the holes.” But my brother and I were too paralysed with laughter to even give his ridiculous command a second thought.

Faced with our unrestrained hysterics and the wall of water that was now shooting from the tank, even the obstinate Ol’ Man gave up. Gazing desperately down on the river that was now flowing freely through the nursery’s greenhouses taking plants and all that lay before it, the Ol' Man’ barked an order, “it’s all your fault guys, go back to the house, get Uncle Graham and bring him down here. Cousin Barbara, you’re staying with me.”

Still laughing hysterically, we made our way back to the house and brought Uncle Graham down to ground zero. A scene of utter devastation greeted us – the flood had wiped out the contents of one of the green houses, destroyed the path and was flowing down the mountain. And, just to top it off, Cousin Barbara was still clapping and singing, ‘it’s raining, it’s pouring’.

Uncle Graham’s mouth dropped open at the sight. After about 10 seconds, he managed to stammer, “what in god’s name happened here?”

My Ol’ Man grabbed his uncle by the arm, steering him off to the side and said softly, “I need a quiet word with you Graham, it’s a sensitive matter.” Uncle Graham nodded dumbfounded. “Boys, get over here with me. Cousin Barbara you stay there,” he hissed over his shoulder.

“Graham, I don’t need to tell you that Cousin Barbara is challenged. She’s a lovely girl, but, well, she’s not really responsible for her actions,” the Ol’ Man said in an utterly convincing tone. Seeing where he was going with his great weasel act snapped me out of my hysteria, and I listened in ever-increasing amazement.

“Barby was attracted by the bright bits of red putty, you know, like a magpie. I blame myself because I tried to stop her, but I couldn’t. By the time I reached her she’d already pulled a couple of bits out and there was no turning back the tide,” he said with complete sincerity.

“Isn’t that right boys,” he said turning to face us with a look of ‘don’t frack with me on his face’.

We nodded silently.

“I tried my hardest to limit the damage... you see how wet I am?” he purred.

“This is obviously a terrible accident, and for the sake of Cousin Barbara, I beg you not to punish here, or to say a word to her about it. She wouldn’t understand and she could have another turn,” the Ol’ Man’s patter was now inspired

“I’ll even have a quiet word to her about it for you. Leave it to me, it’s no trouble, I’ll make sure she understands,” he continued. Uncle Graham nodded in bewildered agreement before moaning, “my plants, all my plants”.

We all traipsed back to the house led by a shattered Uncle Graham. And while my brother and I had degenerated back into a mass of uncontrollable hysteria, I distinctly heard my Ol’ Man say softly to Cousin Barbara, “now, it’s just our little secret, I’ll buy you a paddle pop, when I see you next….got it?”

A moment later the Ol’ Man cheerfully yelled out to Uncle Graham, “how about that revenge game of snooker now, Graham? Up for it?”

 

[grizzlym]

Re: Grizzlym's Dad is a Freakin Legend - From 'bum soap' to 'lawnmower larceny' and much more

60. Tennis Balls or Lemons?

Someone posted earlier that the acorn doesn’t fall from the tree. I’ve reflected on this question like a stoned person analysing a late night informercial. And I’ve been ruminating upon the Ol’ Man’s idiosyncrasies - which have been hurtling around my head like Meerkats on speed – and I’ve realised, as Freud has preached all along, that it all stems from the tree. In this case, that tree is my father’s mother, or for those who aren’t quite following, my grandmother.

So, here’s a bit of vital background on the Ol’ Man’s mum. The horrible aunts out of James & The Giant Peach could have been modelled on my grandmother – angular in appearance, lived in a depressing house, and locked her kids outside at night. Yep, in all truthfulness, my Ol’ Man and his 2 brothers slept in a boarded up veranda out the back of the house until they left home – three beds lined up with half a foot of space between them. The walls were a shade of nicotine brown from years of confined farting and hidden cigarettes. A tattered curtain, with a pattern of orange flowers, was nailed above a rattly louvered window and provided the only light into this dingy room. I reckon if you levered up a floorboard you would have found a 1950s girly mag and a fossilised DNA-enriched naughty rag.

It was the type of room you see on a doco about serial killers, ‘this is where Ted Bundy lived as a teenager with his aunt… where he learned to kill squirrels for pleasure before graduating to people…’ It was a seriously depressing space. I hesitate to call it a room, although an estate agent would, which incidentally, was what my grandfather did for a crust. (Now, I never knew my grandfather, my grandmother barely did either because he took off many years earlier and used to send wads of cash to her in an envelope labelled, ‘housekeeping’.

Years later, Dad was oddly nostalgic about his ‘bedroom/barn’ upbringing. “Cold? What do you guys know about cold?” he would say with a half-crazed look on his face. “When I went out to the sleep-out at night (even the most hardened sadist would say the word bedroom, so it was always known as the sleep-out), it was so cold some nights my nuts would snap back up like a hungry rat scuttling up a drain pipe.”

It wasn’t like my grandparents were poor or short of space. It was the typical suburban 3-bedroom home, in a nice eastern suburb of Melbourne, with a nice big backyard that backed onto a tennis court and a prolific lemon tree. Tennis balls would get whacked over the fence and lay scattered amongst the lemons under the tree. There was even a depression in the backyard that my Ol’ Man said was the bombshelter that grandpa built when the Japs were massing in Ashburton. Sure dad…

The whole scene was right out of one of John Howard’s ideological wet dreams sans a latex-clad Bronwyn Bishop with a paddle. It was so damn ordinary and average that strangeness, a David Lynch inspired menace, lurked behind every manicured hedge, every frilly curtain, every boarded up veranda.

The disturbing bottom line was my grandmother didn’t want her three boys sleeping in the house. Ever. And they never did

Years later, we were often asked to stay over at Grandma’s. “Go on guys,” Dad would implore, “you can bunk down in Grandma’s beaut sleep out. You’ll be perfectly safe - she’ll lock you in.” It was like being asked if to sell one of your healthy kidneys to keep Richard Wilkins alive for a packet of Burger Rings. We always refused. Point blank. Even his bribes of paying us money failed miserably.

We knew that the Ol’ Mans motivations were more than just his sons getting some quality time with grandma. No, he wanted us out of the house for some unknown reason. One time, when confronted with our extreme resistance, he muttered to himself as he stormed off, “you’re preventing fat Elvis from making a triumphant all states comeback tour”. Confused? I was back then too. But years later I worked out that Elvis was his pet name for his penis. And presumably ‘all states’ meant my mother. Paging Dr Freud, Paging Dr Freud…

Yep, the lemon didn’t fall far from the tree with my father - extreme frugality being the main crime. My grandmother liked to save money, Band-Aid stuff, generally do without and to economise where possible. She never turned on lights during the day. She boiled water for tea in a thin aluminium saucepan instead of a kettle, which necessitated using an industrial-style oven mitt to get the white-hot saucepan off the stove. As for heating, well, that was for those less hardy, because grandma used to sit (just her lower torso) in a sleeping bag on the couch.

She also used to pick-up yesterday’s newspaper from the local milkbar, ‘what’s a day? It’s still the news’ she’d say indignantly. The other thing about my grandma, which thankfully my father didn’t adopt, was her fervent belief in a vengeful god. She never drank, swore, and if she didn’t have kids, you’d swear she never had sex. Her fervent sense of Protestant goodliness was so great she could never bring herself to say the word ‘fart’, instead drawing her breath in, composing her self, and uttering in all seriousness the barely palatable ‘TRAF’ i.e. You’d better take that dog of yours to the vet, it’s gone and TRAFed’. Of course, TRAF was the word ‘fart’ backwards.

Once, when my brother was about seven or eight he received a school award for an illustrated assignment he did on the Greek Gods. My father took it over to show his mother, and when he returned, the assignment had a big red cross on it, and the words scrawled in her spidery script, ‘there is only one god, not 20’. Happy memories just keep come flooding back.

The final thing I’ll say on my grandmother is that while every other grandmother baked nice cakes with icing and stuff on them, she kiln-fired a brick of a fruitcake packed with glace fruit, it contained about as much moisture as a 2000-year-old mummified cat. It looked like something that had been unearthed at an archaeological dig in the Gobi desert. But my Ol’ Man loved it, “no one makes fruit cake like you, mum” as he dislocated his jaw trying to tear a hunk off.

So we rewind to a Saturday afternoon back when I was about 12, around that age, in my grandmother’s backyard. Us kids were all playing cricket while Dad butchered plants and kicked the lawnmower all in the name of gardening. It was the one good thing about going to my grandmother’s house – tennis balls, and heaps of ‘em. She’d leave ‘em under the lemon tree mixed in with all of the lemons, and we’d play cricket, smashing these balls to our heart’s content. On this day I was batting and planting ‘em all over the place. Dad looks up from his gardening, a look of obvious annoyance on his face that the mower won’t start and we’re enjoying ourselves, and says, “I’m bowling next”.

He wanders over to the lemon tree, comes in off the long run, over steps the crease by about 9 feet and lets one fly. Somehow I connected with the ball and smashed it back over his head, over the tennis court behind the house and way into the distance. Grandmother was looking on and piped up, “he’s beating you son, you’ve lost a yard or three” and disappeared back into the house.

Dad’s eyes narrowed as he stormed back to his mark, picking up another tennis ball from under the lemon tree on his way back. He came in off the long run again, overstepped by probably 12 feet this time, and let fly with a distinctively bent arm. But he didn’t release a tennis ball, he let fly with a beamer of a lemon that sailed over the edge of my bat, my head, and smashed the louvre window of the sleep-out. With a loud crash the glass panels smashed to the ground. We all froze, fearing Grandmother’s sudden reappearance. We waited but she didn’t emerge. Waited some more. Finally my father piped up with a hiss, “I told you not to play the hook shot… you just top edge them… don’t play the hook shot”

‘But Dad,” I responded with amazement, ‘”it missed my bat by like miles.”

“Shut your mouth, son,” he replied, “a good batsman and man always takes responsibilities for his mistakes… you just didn’t think you hit it because I bowled so fast, but you did.”

I looked around baffled, because like the shortest man in the world who wakes up one morning to discover he’s now the tallest, I was used to weird stuff, but even by my Ol’ Man’s standards this was freaky. My brother turned his eyes away and pretended to be interested in a spider eating an old cicada shell. I was trapped, pinned like a butterfly to a board.

“But Dad, I didn’t,” I replied, “and what’s with chucking a lemon instead of a tennis ball.”

“I’m disappointed son,” he said in a whiny sanctimonious voice, “you’re complaining about facing lemons when our batsmen are facing hand grenades from the West Indian pacemen. A good tradesman never blames his tools, son.”

Like an illiterate faced with a bowl of alphabet soup, I just stared blankly at the unfolding confusing horror in front of me, not knowing what to do. Meanwhile, Dad got busy examining the smashed louvre windows. He then peered over the side fence into the neighbour’s house. For a few moments he said and did nothing, but then he sprung into action, obviously having had a Eureka moment.

“Grizzlym, get over the fence into Mr Herrings house, now,” the Ol’ Man commanded.

Mr Herring was an old, old man. He didn’t have birthdays; rather he was carbon dated at approximately the same time each year. He also, somewhat amazingly, still drove a car. Admittedly, he drove slower than walking pace, and he would set up witches hats in the street when he reversed out of his driveway. Not to mention he was half-blind and deaf to boot. The Ol’ Man on a few occasions had tail-gated Mr Herring, got up right behind him, flashed the headlights, and turned the radio up, which was usually on a classical station, really loud. “Silly old coot,” dad would exclaim, “he shouldn’t be on the road. Got no idea… don't worry kids, he can’t see far enough to know who we are.”

I reluctantly climbed the fence under my father’s urgent direction.

“If we act fast we can get this fixed before grandma knows… you busted it, so you’ve got to fix it,” he was now talking like he fully believed the crap he’d woven just minutes before. It was, without doubt, a Persian rug of bullshit woven by a master craftsman.

“Now, make your way to the back of his yard and the shed,” he called out as I inched my way back. “Yeah right there, now go to his shed…. See if the door’s unlocked,” he called out.

It was. And I entered.

“Now go and remove the louvres of glass from his shed window,” he urged.

“But dad,” I stuttered in a state of moral confusion, “that’s stealing.”

“No it’s not son,” the Ol’ Man said with supreme conviction, “he doesn’t use the shed. He can’t even see the glass, so what does it matter? Besides your grandmother would be much more upset if she knew you’d broken her window. That’s right, the only crime here is you trying to hook.”

Faced with the logic of a short-circuiting robot, I just gave up. I slid the glass out. Passed it back over the fence to my Ol’ Man and quickly made my exit. A few moments later the Ol’ Man had replaced the broken glass and was prouder than a leper with a cosmetic contract.

Soon after, we left to go home. As I was about to get into the car the Ol’ Man said, “whooh there hooker, you don’t think you’re going to break your grandmother’s window like that and not be punished in some sort of way?”

“But, but, but,” I muttered softly.

“No, you’re going to walk home to learn your lesson,” said the Ol’ Man as he flicked his sunglasses down and gunned his Cortina into life. “I’ll follow behind you or wait ahead, just so no pervs come near you, but you have to learn your lesson about respecting other people’s property and not to hook.”

So I started walking. I walked 3.2 Km home with the Ol’ Man crawling behind me in the car, classical music blaring from the speakers. Sometimes he’d sped ahead, smoke pouring from his tires and he’d wait up the road for me to catch up.

Finally we arrived home, and the Ol’ Man jumped cheerfully out of the car. My mum was standing there incredulous. “Why’s Grizzlym walking home… he looks exhausted. What happened?” she demanded.

“Nothing. It’s part of his cricket training. Cricket is more than a sport, it teaches you about life and your limitations,” said the Ol’ Man.

Yep, the freakin lemon didn’t fall far from the freakin’ tree. I learned that the hard way.

 

[grizzlym]

Re: Grizzlym's Dad is a Freakin Legend - From 'bum soap' to 'lawnmower larceny' and much more

39. Shoes - Part 1.

The Ol’ Man has always been very particular about his footware. Oh yeah. Citing a veritable catalogue of podiatry disorders as the reasons why he had to have the latest or special or expensive shoes and why he owned more shoes than Imelda Marcos in her heyday. I.e. “I’ve got narrow feet like the Merovingian kings … one of my arches is slightly collapsed too… And don’t forget this, son, shoes reveal the man… “

This meant, of course, purchasing the optimum shoe for the task at hand. And manifested itself in a range of idiosyncrasies peculiar to my Ol Man. Least of all talking about his foot problems incessantly. True to form, the real or imagined foot ailments, caused by ill-fitting, inferior or by simply wearing the wrong shoe, were only something that could possibly affect himself. You see, it was quite fine that the rest of the family were shod in shoes that looked like they were sourced from a UN Humanitarian Drop, but not for him.

From memory, my father’s purchase criteria for shoes was similar to buying us kids bicycles – get it bigger and they’ll grow into it.

“He’s growing that fast anyway, his feet will touch the ground in a year or so … until then, he’ll have to make sure he stops at gutters… no big deal. Remember, remember those Penny Farthing bikes? People managed to ride those quite successfully. Know one ot hung up whether it was too big, they were just happy to have a bike to ride. You’re overthinking this.”

Translate that mentality to shoes and you’ve got the idea.

Luckily mum managed to do most of the shoe buying for us kids. But on the few occasions dad did, we came away looking like we’d escaped from the clown enclosure at Silvers Circus or that we’d rolled a Big Issue seller for his freakin’ shoes.

One time, the Ol’ Man gave my brother a pair of Dunlop KT26s for Xmas. Imagine the joy on his 6-year old face when he tore open the paper on Christmas morning to be greeted by a pair of bland shoes suitable for geeky Mormon teenagers.

“That’s premium Australian made shoe technology right there… all the athletes wear them… gee, Santa knew exactly what you wanted,” the Ol’ Man gushed to my clearly disappointed younger brother.

Everyone knows the worst thing to give kids for presents are clothes, specifically shoes. But to give ‘em someone the daggiest shoes in this galactic quadrant that wouldn’t fit them until they were old enough to vote, was evil genius personified. And then to wrap it all up in ‘what athletes wear’ was bordering on sociopathic. (Sure, the middle-aged toothless ‘athletes’ down at the Balaclava TAB perhaps wore them but you get my drift.) It’s no exaggeration to say it was the Christmas gift that truly kept giving as my brother’s foot grew over the years.

But now, we’ve consumed the literary equivalent of a prawn cocktail, and now it’s onto the main course from my Ol’ Man’s footlocker of horrors.

Thongs

The annual beach holiday was an epic worthy of the ancient Greeks - that will be the subject of another story or two. But it basically went like this: we’d head off to Port Campbell just after Xmas for 6 weeks. Every square inch of the car was artfully packed by the Ol’ Man, so much so that there wasn’t enough room to fit even a shadow between the boxes of food, unnecessary appliances, enough books to fill a library and the 60 kilogram family Labrador that was wedged at mum’s feet in the passenger seat.

It was a painful 4-hour drive as we roared up the Great Ocean Rd in the Cortina, the dog drooling and farting all over mum. And us kids had a prime view as the bedding was piled up on the back seat elevating us so our heads touched the roof of the car. Dad took a sadistic delight in making a detour down a certain street in East Hawthorn that had a long sequence of speed humps.

He’d speed up, then brake suddenly just before the speed hump, sending us smashing into the roof of the car, “did you say something kids?” <Bump> “What was that noise?” he’d tease. <Bump> “there it is again, must be a possum”. <Bump> And in roars of laughter, he’d bunny-hop down the street.

In the days preceding our departure for the beach, an important, almost pagan, ritual took place. It involved, of course, my father, in a quest I now call the ‘the hunting of the thong’. We’d head out to the Kmart in Burwood to buy this thongs for the summer holiday ahead - the type you wear on your feet, not the buttock-separating thongs of his later, glorious era. It was one of the more important events of the year for the Ol’ Man, bordering on the spiritual. Up there with the arrival of the annual Pickering calendar, beating Carlton or test-driving a car he had no intention of buying.

While dad bought a new set of thongs every year, sadly it didn’t extend to other critical parts of his beach wardrobe, like, well, bathers. Because he wore the same light-blue Speedos every summer I can remember. Each year, this pair of ‘lolly bags’ would get baggier, acquire more stains and the draw cord became more knotted. And as they became more ill fitting, they provided more escape routes for testicles wanting freedom. Yep, the Ol’ Man wouldn’t have looked out of place in some downmarket Russian seaside resort in his Speedos. You know, those towns that have banned glass vodka bottles for public health reasons, and opted for the 2-litre tetra bottle instead, which also happens to deliver a much larger payload much more safely. That’s the sort of place my Ol’ Man could prance around in his pilled Speedos like a king. Not Port Campbell.

Once he had carefully selected this summer’s chosen thongs, I’d quietly say a little prayer for their foamy soul because I knew the indignity that lay in front of them was indescribable, even for disposal low-value items, that even liberal Buddhists would hold to be worthless, soul-less, empty vessels without a hint of life force. But that’s a measure of my Ol’ Man’s greatness, that he could make you feel sorry for a pair of thongs. Ready people? Are we sitting down, strapped in, and not suffering from high blood pressure?

It goes like this, and this is no exaggeration, the Ol’ Man had an old dog leash from the long-dead kelpie (the dog died just before I was born, so the closest I came to meeting ‘Josh’ was every Spring when the ‘new’ Labrador, dug up ‘Josh’s’ carcass’) which he’d couple with the new thongs. He’d loop them together with an old dog leash - like a noose where you pulled the end through the handle - so they couldn’t be lost, misplaced or otherwise separated. And, the dog leash also performed another important function as he could clip it to his belt or wherever, ensuring he could carry his thongs completely hands-free when he wasn’t wearing them. In retrospect, it was rather odd.

His standard response usually went something like this, “Laugh away guys, but this way my thongs are always where they should be… and one thong is about as useful as a treadmill to Stephen Hawking.”

I must digress here and note that my father developed quite the series of beach idiosyncrasies for managing his stuff – the car keys knotted to a snooty handkerchief; the homemade waterproof bookmark; the old toothpaste tube filled with zinc cream. As I sit here and type this on the Glen Waverley train, the zinc-cream sand encrusted memories start to irritate me in all the wrong places… But one leaps out at me, like no other: my father walking along the Port Campbell main street with the dog leash clipped to his belt, the thongs trailing behind him, bouncing away, us kids following at a discrete distance pretending to be adopted.

Once the annual beach holiday was over he’d jettison his thongs in a touching ceremony, which I now call ‘the sacrificing of the thong.’ One year, he stopped the car on the West Gate Bridge and hurled them over the side. Another year he tossed them into the Blow Hole at Loch Arde Gorge. To this day I’m imagining them killing marine life or fatally fouling the propeller of a fishing boat. He’d then roll the dog leash back up and tuck it into the glovebox ready for next year.

Kosher Leather Boots

The Ol’ Man spared no expense when it came to his black, ankle-height boots. He went to some expensive store in Hawthorn and had them ordered in from Italy.

For a vegetarian and otherwise intelligent man, the Ol’ Man had no qualms about virgin animals being harvested for his “get a gander at these beaut, soft leather boots.” And with an expression on his face like Hannibal Lecter before he went the guard in the cage, he’d say, “Go on, rub them against your face, smell them, they fit like a second skin’. ‘Wow, what a surprise… that’s because they are dad’.

And he’d religiously polish his precious leather boots on Wednesday, which was the night the bins were put out. The Ol’ Man would sit there in front of the telly with an old copy of the Sun over his knees to catch the shower of polish flying off the boots like black sparks under his vigorous polishing.

Like most left-leaning intellectuals and anyone of a sound mind, my Ol’ Man, hated the Sun with a passion. Never bought it. So before he’d settled down to a night of polishing, he’d go through the neighbours bin and triumphantly fish out a copy of the Sun, brush off whatever food might be stuck to it and mutter something like, “I can’t believe Phil reads this rubbish. The journalism is like a monkey banging away at a typewriter, it’s only good for one thing…” Around this point his voice would trail off because he’d have flipped to the sport section and be engrossed in 3-day old footy news.

On one memorable occasion, he didn’t brush the newspaper off so well and a belt-size length of ant-encrusted bacon fat got a free ride into the house. A little later, as he sat there polishing his boots with the fervour of a teenager with a porno, the bacon fat dislodged from underneath the newspaper and fell to the floor with a thwooook. My father’s response was the same as when he unexpectedly encountered a tarantula in the kitchen one wintery morning: he screamed. Loudly.

Then he jumped from the chair yelling hysterically, “what the hell is that… it’s, itsa, itsa a tape worm, a bloody tape worm… it has to be a metre long… I thought the kids got vaccinations at school… quick, squash it someone.”

When he calmed down a bit, and realised it wasn’t a mutant intestinal worm but what it looked like all along – bacon - he prodded it gingerly with a piece of my brother’s Meccano just to make sure.

“Don’t worry everyone, no need to panic, it’s not what you thought it was,” he commanded with all of the authority of a career-eunuch talking about his bedroom conquests.

His answer, though, for de-baconing our living room was inspiring. Quick as a flash he whistled for the canine hoover aka the family Labrador.

“Nosferatu, Nosferatu, here doggy, got some yummmmy food for you, c’mon boy” he yelled. Now, this dog would eat anything – Lego, acorns, sometimes the Ol’ Man’s cooking – but on this occasion, Nosferatu turned up his nose at the rancid bacon fat and waddled away. “Oh, c’mon, whoever heard of a fussy Labrador,” dad exploded, “that’s perfectly good bacon”.

Now, much to mum’s terror because she knew his weird ways, Dad suddenly disappeared, only to swiftly reappear moments later wearing the dishwashing gloves. And before anyone could say anything, he picked the bacon up and marched outside. We watched through the window as he tossed it over the fence into the neighbours yard.

“Next time dispose of your filthy meat bi-products properly. It’s disgusting,” he yelled out, pink-gloved hands planted on his hips. “Imagine if I came and dumped all of my garbage in your livingroom.”

Then, dad stormed back in, threw the dishwashing gloves in the sink, sat down and resumed polishing his boots. Some minutes later he grumpily said to the dog, “don’t look at me for food, you. I bought you a perfectly good piece of bacon and you got all fussy on me… never again you ungrateful hound.”

And that’s the story about the Ol’ Man’s leather boots. More on his shoes real soon.

 

[grizzlym]

Re: Grizzlym's Dad is a Freakin Legend - From 'bum soap' to 'lawnmower larceny' and much more

Shoes - Part 2


Adidas Romes

Dad’s Adidas Romes were like a fling, compared to the long-standing relationship he had with his thongs and leather boots. The Romes came into his life unexpectedly, seduced him completely and everything burned bright and passionate for a short time, then, just like that, they were gone.

The Ol’ Man changed when he bought his Romes – he actually grew a moustache. And it was a disgusting, ‘I’m a retired scout leader and drive a fake, soundproof gelati truck’. But for a brief period the glamour of the Romes seduced the Ol’ Man. They made him change, act younger, throw caution to the wind. And grow hair.

I can’t remember the footy players that wore them back in the late 70s or early 80s – Richmond Players maybe - but Dad was certainly captivated by them, and more importantly by their Adidas Romes. He had to have them, not one but two pairs. “As a back-up,” he said, “if one pair gets wet, I can rotate them with these while the other ones dry out. Can’t have wet footwear… it’s dangerous.”

When the Ol’ Man first bought the Romes, true to form, he made out he only bought them because he was being selfless. Just like getting a tattoo, it was all about pleasing other people. You see, I had just started playing club footy, maybe I was 7 or 8, and I needed footy boots. The Ol’ Man was keen for me to play footy, “your uncle is a VFL star, makes great money,” he’d say, “he’s even bought himself a Laundromat for when his playing days are over. But you have to learn to kick with your left foot first. Kick left foot then Laundromat.” But Dad was even keener on getting him some new white pornstar Romes.
Soon, Dad’s plan was becoming abundantly clear. “I’ll even do special practice sessions with you,” he’d say magnanimously, “but first I need to get you some footy boots and me some Romes… they’re specially designed to fit my narrow foot… then we can play. Leave it with me Chief.”

A couple of weekends after his not-so-subtle campaign started up, the Ol’ Man came striding into the kitchen wearing a pair of dazzling white Adidas Romes – they were almost as incandescent as Shane Warne’s current teeth. He nonchalantly put a foot on a chair and bit into an apple. God he was smug and happier than a mosquito at a fat farm.

Ignoring our stares, he tossed a pair of hand-me-down footy boots onto the table and said, “these are for you, son, I got them specially for you… get ‘em on we’ll have a kick.”

I picked them up and studied them carefully. To say they were second hand was being charitable; they’d seen more action than a towelboy at a cheap brothel. Plus they weren’t a brand I recognised. They looked odd too; like they were an Eastern European soccer boot. And they were small, way too small and kind of narrow too.

“Great, aren’t they?” said the Ol’ Man, “get ‘em on, sport, and we’ll have ourselves a coaching clinic.”

My mother chimed in clearly not impressed, “where did you get those from Grizzlym Snr? They look far too small for him.”

“Yeah, where Dad,” I piped up, “these don’t even look like footy boots.”

“Of course, they’re footy boots… I specially went down to the shop just near the Chocolate Box that sells sporting equipment,” said the Ol’ Man defensively.

“What sporting goods store would that be?” continued mum. “Can’t think of one down there. But you obviously went to one because you’re wearing those new shoes. Must have cost a fortune”

“These shoes… no, got ‘em on special… had to anyway so I could give Grizzlym some special footy lessons,” said the Ol’ Man through gritted teeth, realising his master plan was being exposed for the sham it was.

My mum, detecting a fatal flaw in his armour, was zeroing in for the kill shot. “Can’t think of a sporting store down there at all… there’s the Chocolate Box, Evans Hardware store, The Toy Shop…” As mum methodically went through the possibilities, the Ol’ Man was quietly ushering me outside. A moment later I heard mum shout, “and the bloody Salvos… you bought him those boots from the Salvos but you got yourself some new shoes… un-bloody-believable.”

“Your mum is tired, son” the Ol’ Man said as we walked up to the park, “you’ve go to help her more. What would she know about footy boots, hey? ”

The Ol’ Man had to help me into those boots because they were so damn tight - he used a stick as an improvised shoehorn Eventually we got there, but my god, I could barely walk, let alone kick. And as Dad moved magnificently around the park, nay glided over the grass in his dazzling Romes, kicking with both feet, baulking and blind-turning kids. As for me, I hobbled around like a Chinese bride with bound feet, going slower than a stoned snail coupled with the uncertainty of a drunk in a wind tunnel. ‘C’mon on, son, you need to move with a bit more purpose than that,” the Ol’ Man yelled out, “ and you won’t get that Laundromat if you can’t kick both bloody feet.”

‘Thunk’ a laser-guided stab pass rocketed into my solar plexus knocking me over. “Mark it son, couldn’t get a more perfect pass than that,” said dad jogging on the spot, his Romes flashing in the sunlight. That was the first and last ‘special training session’ we had.

And soon after his love affair with the Romes ended. There were a few reasons, I think. Firstly, Mum gave him grief over the boots. Then, one night, he wore the Romes to a fancy Chinese restaurant paired with his green corduroy suit. And the owner of the restaurant, who the Ol’ Man had tangled with some years earlier over a wonton, took exception to his ‘larish garb’ and he said something like, ‘I’ll serve a savage once, they come back again, I serve them to the police.” Dad was incensed. But mostly, the Romes were cast away because footy season finished. Last I saw them he’d relegated them to the shoes he wore when he chopped wood. So, like a groupie who hung out at Bombay Rock, they were given the flick as soon as the job was done.

Running Shoes


The Ol’ Man has gone through two phases of running in my life. In his early forties, it was all about vanity and some delusion that he was going to, “unlock an athletic performance that would rock our world.” The second phase was about 5 years later on doctor’s orders because he really didn’t keep at jogging for very long the first time around. “I love running, it’s like zen, just you and the road… but the bloody shoes killed me… so had to give it away for my own health.”

In his first running phase, Dad went through more pairs of running shoes than an out-of-form and over-rated West Indian batsmen went through bats desperately trying to get the mojo back. “My times have dropped generally, I’m feeling good, it’s just the shoes that are letting me down,” the Ol’ Man would mutter, “these ones are actually adding time.”

And then he’d discard another almost brand new pair of expensive running shoes, for another marginally newer pair of expensive running shoes. He’d do his research, tire-kick at various sports stores before buying the next brand that was supposed to fit his ‘temperamental feet’ and deliver the athletic promise he told everyone he possessed.

The funny thing was the only running the Ol’ Man did was laps of one of the ovals at Wattle Park. He was never a member of a running club or group. Indeed, I never knew him to run with anyone else. Ever. He didn’t even wear a watch. So the thought of him knowing his times, let alone comparing them, is absurd. But like a card-carrying member of the Flat Earth Society, the Ol’ Man ‘just knew’. He had his own faith and that made his absurd belief gospel. “I don't need a watch to tell me I ran slower today… I listen to my body, it tells me all I need to know… And what my body told me today,” he’d say gesturing at the almost new shoes, “that these shoes are letting me down big time.”

It must be said that the dad’s obsession kept the local economy afloat and gave the nascent Asian sweatshop industry a kick-start. Salespeople got to know the Ol’ Man and their eyes would light up when he came into store. I’m convinced his running shoe obsession sent a number of children through private schools, paid for luxurious overseas holidays and supplied otherwise underpaid sales assistants with high-end audio equipment via massive commissions.

The Revenge of Nike


Five years or so later, under Doctor’s orders, the Ol’ Man started running again. Or, as I should put it, buying running shoes. By now running shoe technology had come on in leaps and bounds and dad was enthralled, “look at these Nike shoes, I wish if they’d been around in my day, they would have cut minutes off my best time.” So with great excitement, he spent a lot of time selecting and purchasing his new shoes. He finally settled on some top end Nike runners – back in the day they were like Space Shuttle technology. Amazing shoes.

He wore them for about a week, before throwing them aside and complaining about how they, “sent excruciating pains shooting up my leg… it starts in the sole and just runs through me like electricity. They don't make running shoes how they used to. I mean, these are all flash wiz-bang, but the basics of orthotics have been thrown out the window.” And with that the Ol’ Man banished them to the back of his wardrobe.

Fast forward another five years and I’m searching through his wardrobe for his coin jar, when I stumble across the Nikes. “Mmm, I remember these,” I thought, “wonder if they fit me?” And sure enough they did, I stood up and started to walk across the room when I felt a shooting pain in the bottom of one of my feet. “Frack,” I yelled out, pulling the shoe off and examining it closely. “He was right after all,” I thought, “but that feels too sharp.” Peering closer I made out a huge nail embedded into the soul of the shoe and sticking right through and into the shoe itself, but only protruding through enough so it only implaed you when you stepped down on the innersole. It was, for all intents and purposes, fiendish. And the obvious deliverer of the ‘shooting pain’.

Some weeks later the Ol’ Man notices me wearing the Nikes. “Be careful of those shoes, they’ll cripple you. They completely threw my posture out of alignment and caused by arches so many problems,” the Ol’ Man sermonised. “I wouldn’t wear those in a blue fit. Go get yourself some Birkenstocks or massage sandals, they’re much better for your feet.”

“Give ‘em to me son,” he demanded, “I’ll show you how they buggered my feet up.” Naturally, I was hesitant to let him because I’d long since removed the nail and was really enjoying wearing the Nikes. “You sure that’s a good idea, dad,” I said, “I remember the pain you went through last time.”

“Of course, son,” he replied holding his hands out for the shoes, “this isn’t about me, I’m concerned about you.” So reluctantly I handed them over and the Ol’ Man laced up and took a few tentative steps across the room. A puzzled look appeared on his face. “Damn it,” I thought, “he’s twigged that the shoes are actually fine.” But I needn’t have worried because I was dealing with my Ol’ Man and not some sane individual who didn’t mind not being right.

Then, just like he’d stepped on a Stonefish, the Ol’ Man let out a cry and recoiled violently.

“Bloody hell, these shoes are like something out of the Spanish Acquisition,” he yelled.

“Inquisition, dad, Spanish Inquisition not acquisition,” I offered up.

“Bloody hell, you and your semantics, you know what I mean, “ he yelled hopping around and yelping in pain. “These shoes are positively lethal. No wonder I could never run again after wearing them. I should sue Nike for what they’ve done to me. Flippin’ torture having to put up with them all of these years.”

And on and on he went, hopping around the room, stopping periodically to glare at the shoes. Finally, he unlaced them, disdainfully stepped out of them and uttered, “It’s your body, you’re old enough to make your own decisions, but those shoes will cause you permanent damage like they’ve caused me.”

I wore those shoes for years. Very comfortable. The Ol’ Man would make a regular point of looking at them and shake his head as if to say, “spose you’re freebasing too.”

 

[grizzlym]

Re: Grizzlym's Dad is a Freakin Legend - From 'bum soap' to 'lawnmower larceny' and much more

Apologies for the long delay between drinks. This story is a canapé of sorts, as while I have made a start on my father’s tangles with a fearsome beast, this ‘aint it. No, this is merely a filler until I can steal the time to write something proper.

It may surprise many of you but my Ol’ Man is actually quite cultured and learned. And not just in the fine art of being ‘unique’. For a time, he read my brother and I Shakespeare for bedtime stories – we were probably around 6 or 7. While normal children were read normal books, the Ol’ Man would act out the characters from the bard’s darker, more existentential plays – King Lear, Hamlet, Macbeth – much to our bewilderment. “Can’t you just read us Tintin,” we’d implore. “Rubbish, King Lear is much more interesting than any cartoon,” he’d grandly state before launching into a soliloquy remembered from his days treading the boards at Melbourne Uni.

The Ol' Man loves books. Consumes them endlessly too. Never throws them out. Sill does. Indeed, if you’re granted a reception at his house today you’ll see freakin’ books everywhere. Every room is lined with bookshelves groaning under the weight of his persona of being a virile, wise, New Age man. It' And you know the 'virile new age' bit because of the alphabetically arranged row of ‘how-to’ tantric sex books standing proudly on display in the lounge-room. Yes, it’s icky, even thinking of him scuttling over his new wife like an mass of Polynesian crabs energetically scrambling up a beach, is bad enough. But to think he gets out the patchouli oil, aligns his shakas and roots like Sting is horrendous. And this is from the man who, before he discovered the pulling power (no pun intended) of being a new age love guru, called his penis Elvis and, famously, once picked up the bridesmaid at his ex-girlfriend’s wedding.

My father also has a hidden book-life, those books that he doesn’t want people to know he reads, unlike the tantric sex manuals and New Age manifestos.

And to compound this shame, hidden away in many of the spare rooms of my Ol man’s Chateau are bookshelves bursting with detective novels and other borderline pulp that he refuses to admit to reading. That he doesn't deem to be main-house worthy. You see, It’s fine to prominently display the classics and a bunch of quack new age love manuals, but anything by John Grisham or the like, is something he doesn’t want people knowing about.

“They were your grandma’s… haven’t got around to dropping them off at the Salvos yet,” he once said. “But dad,” I remember repyling, “if you’re going to drop them at the Salvos, why have you had bookshelves built into most of this room?” The Ol’ Man thought for a moment, that furtive ‘damn you’ look on his face before replying, “because the garage is leaking.. I can’t give them soggy books, can’t sell them”.

Books are also subject to his legendary frugalness too. For years my Xmas present was always the third book in the Borders ‘buy two get a third book for free deal. Oh yes, I have quite a collection of horrible novels across all of the genres, including a magic realist frolic where the main protagonist is a talking donkey. The Xmas routine was always the same: he’d hand the book across, the front cover still slighty tacky from the glue that held the ‘third free book sticker’, and grandly pronounce, “don’t know if you’ve read this… it got a good review in somewhere or other… looks an interesting read.”

Then there are the liberated library books. Books from the Melbourne Uni library that were ‘borrowed’ 50 years ago. Books from Camberwell Library where the due date is stamped on the bit of paper glued to the inside back cover. Books from hotels, youth hostels, bed and breakfasts and even, shamefully, a novel from the nursing home library where my grandmother was incarcerated.

“Don’t know how that got here,” he’d reply turning it over in his hands. “In any case, no one read it where it was… it would just rot on the shelves… people don’t read books anymore… “

And when he was invariable pushed by my brother, myself or any other horrified person who took him to task over 'why', the same sort of response would be forthcoming. “Fair go, as if I would steal a book, in any case, I constantly refer to this book, books exist to impart knowledge and that’s what it does here. Call it providence. But books seek out those who want to learn”. Sure Dad.

My mum loves books too. So when my parents were still married and shared the big house out in the Eastern burbs, we had a huge library of books. In all seriousness, it was great.

By now you get the idea the Ol’ Man loves his books. Moreover, that he acquires them by any means possible. And it probably comes as no surprise that, like a dog marking his territory, the Ol’ Man writes his name in every book that comes into his hands, even the ‘borrowed’ ones. Always has, always will.

So on that fateful day when my parents got married Dad saw it as much more than consummating a relationship with a soul mate and building a life together. He also saw it as a way to expand his library. My mother, however, also had/has a habit of writing her name in her books too. So her books were all inscribed with her maiden name.

For example:

Clare Smith

And soon after they married - poetic licence would dictate I wrote on their wedding night, but to be truthful I’d be making that up, but it was soon after the fateful day - the Ol’ Man changed the inscription in all of mum’s books. He must have loved her back, or she must have had him terrified, because he didn’t do a palimpsest and scrub her name out and replace it with his, nay, like the thoughtful New Age guru he would become, he merely adapted it.

So, he altered the inscription by adding a couple of words, scrubbing out another, in all of mum’s books so it read.

Lucky Clare S̶m̶i̶t̶h̶ ̶ Jones


Jones being her new married name; lucky because he had exchanged her hand for 3 goats and a water pump.

But the book saga has one final chapter. My parents were divorced 20 years later. And when the divorce came through and the property, house, children and pets were divvied up, so were the books. Mum insisted, probably to spite the Ol’ Man, and I don't blame her one bit, to getting all her books back. Dad fought hard and won custody for the books they bought together, but he reluctantly agreed after his lawyer suggested in no uncertain terms that he should give up his rights to books purchased pre-marriage.

And this is where it all goes downhill faster than a fat man in a barrel, Dad had to have the final word.

Before returning them to mum, he went through and altered the inscriptions in all the books he had changed 20 years earlier.

They now read:



Unlucky Clare S̶m̶i̶t̶h̶ ̶J̶o̶n̶e̶s̶ Whatever


He then boxed them up and put them on his front verandah for mum to collect one weekend. The Ol’ Man then made sure he was away that weekend because it would have broken his heart to be around for the handover.

There is one final karmic chapter though. Mum told me years later she found hundreds of dollars in a few of the books. You see the Ol’ Man had/has a habit of hiding money around the house just in case and forgetting where he puts it. But that’s all another story.

Next one will be Ol’ Man vs Beast. Promise.

 

[grizzlym]

Re: Pets Grizzlym's Dad is a Freakin Legend - From 'bum soap' to 'lawnmower larceny' and much more

So I survived. And true to form there is a new story to tell from the day's festivities. But first, here's an update on the bathroom/water catchment/home-made irrigation system.

Note the funnel tied over the showerhead in the main bathroom. No idea why. Seriously weird.

I'll post the story in the next hour or so.

 

[grizzlym]

Re: Pets Grizzlym's Dad is a Freakin Legend - From 'bum soap' to 'lawnmower larceny' and much more

Just as I thought, my Ol' Man presented me with another priceless present today.

I haven't really written about it in much depth yet, but I'm sure I've mentioned it though, my Ol' Man is responsible for some horrific culinary crimes. He's got better over the years, but he can still knock out some truly bewildering concoctions that either are badly cooked or the strangest combination of ingredients. (The cold strawberry soup with mint and coriander that he ladled up for Xmas back in the early 90s is a case in point.) But I'll post separate stories down the track about some of the more memorable events.

First off, I have to say that my Ol’ Man goes to a lot of trouble cooking for us. He genuinely spends much time and money constructing a feast. However, his ambition often overtakes his ability. As does his desire to try something new or, and this is where he really gets into quicksand, starts improvising something new. It always baffles me because he finally vaguely masters something, but then he goes and gets all radical and experimental on us. If this was sex, it’s tantamount to a gimp suit, a tub of Ghee and an ambidextrous dwarf being introduced to the action after years of the missionary position.

I'm happy to report that up until the maincourse, everything was largely normal.

When I say 'largely normal' I have to mention the abomination that was the undercooked gnocchi with 5 mushroom, blue cheese and cream sauce, which was studded with grossly overcooked scallops... oh yes, accompanying the dish really should have been a defibrillator and a bucket. The Ol' Man's wife was trying to eat the gnocchi, and like the rest of us - except my vegetarian wife and kids who were chowing down on a very nice gnocchi Napoli - really freakin' struggling. If you served me up a jumbo jet, I would have been able to eat more of its fuselage than the starchy, rich undercooked/overcooked rubbery quivering mass than was on my plate.

Anyway, as we timidly toyed with the food in front of us the Ol' Man was eating with great gusto. Indeed, I wouldn't be surprised if he was armed with twin Splades such was the devastation he was wracking. Bits of food were flying out in all directions like a misfiring tree-shredding machine. His arms were a blur. And such was his speed of consumption I swear you could see six limbs – like Fred Flinstone’s feet when he runs really fast.

“This is a beaut recipe,” he loudly proclaimed as he shovelled food into his mouth.

“Well, it’s actually three recipes in one. And everyone of them, is a favourite of mine,” he said stuffing the clag into his mouth

I was honestly struggling, as was everyone around the table, with this hideous signature dish. I remember reading somewhere that Chinese food aims to encompass five different qualities: bitter, sweet, sour, salty and hot. Whereas my Ol’ Man culinary Holy Grail seeks to synergise undercooked, overcooked, rubbery, stodgy and rich as all frack. And this dish achieved it. Spectacularly.

Somehow we got through this dish. Actually, to create a diversion, I used the old ‘did you read what Tony Abbott said’ and my Ol’ Man went off his nut. He started banging the table and saying things like, “I’m a pacifist but I tell ya, these political leaders are corrupt, self-serving bufoons, and the only way we’re going to rid ourselves of them is armed revolution. Put ‘em all up against the wall, and start again.” During this outburst I managed to escape to the kitchen with my plate of mush.

So there we were, a few minutes later, sitting there, leaning back, when the Ol’ Man brought out the homemade chocolate cookies. “These are beaut, totally handmade and studded with chocolate chips and other yummy things,” he extolled. My kids dived in like locusts. Absolutely swarmed. But very soon their enthusiasm turned to tears. My daughter, soon after stuffing a cookie into her mouth teared-up, made a hideous contorted face and spat it out again. “Yucky, holibel,” she screamed. My elder son was no less animated. “That’s disgusting, it’s so salty, mumma I need some water quick,” he screamed.

My Ol’ Man, surveying the scene of devastation, leaned back with a glint in his eye that I recognised so well, shifted in his chair, folded his arms and said, “so, I see, they’re not a fan of the olive and chocolate chip cookies.”

He then took a large bite out of one of the cookies, chewed thoughtfully, and said rather grandly, “it’s a recipe I’ve been working on… balancing the sweetness of the chocolate with the saltiness of the olive…. Like ying and yang.”

Yep, another Xmas day, another memorable story.

 

[grizzlym]

Man vs Beast

Yes, it’s been a while. I’ve made promises, dangled carrots, but, apart from the odd – and they were decidedly odd – drawings that the Ol’ Man terrorised my daughter with, words have been as scarce as shadows inside a blazing halogen light.

It’s little consolation to those souls who have been hanging out for the next instalment of my Ol’ Man’s misadventures, that I have been using my time productively and whittling cheese sticks out of blocks of Gouda the size of house bricks. Now I am recharged, reinvigorated and ready for the next circuit of the emotional ghost train that are the stories of my Ol’ Man.

It would have been apt if this particular chapter of the misadventures of my Ol’ Man, started with Melville’s immortal line, ‘Call me Ishmael’, because this chapter is about the epic, almost feverish pursuit, of a mighty beast.

Literature and the Arts are filled with such beastly adversaries – the whale in Moby Dick, the gopher in Caddyshack – where a man is driven spare on a diabolical obsessive pursuit. And in the life of the ‘grand, ungodly, godlike man’ that is my Ol’ Man, that beastly adversary was a possum.

But not just any possum, rather a supernatural beast of rare intelligence, longevity, abnormal size, and blessed with extraordinary powers of evasion and self-denial that would have done a nude Ricky Nixon proud. Indeed, this possum was something akin to the Hound of the Baskervilles for my Ol’ Man – a cursed, phantom of a creature who brought havoc and despair into the family home. In a Freudian, almost Norman Bates kind of way, the Ol’ Man used to call the possum ‘that beastly mother’. (Or in a possible parallel reading he appended ‘fornicator’ in his own head and was actually projecting himself onto the possum out of either self-loathing or self-loving – not sure which.)

I grew up in a huge Edwardian house in Melbourne’s inner eastern suburbs – ‘beware the Labor voter’ appeared on the weekly Neighbourhood Watch bulletin; Laura Ashley never went out of style; the perfume of freshly-mown Labrador poo hung-heavy in the air on Saturday mornings; and the ‘prohibition act that rendered the eastern side of Burke Rd a dry area was seen as vital to keeping the riff-raff out (it was considered fine, mind you, to venture into the hinterland and drink with the savages).

It was all very upper middle-class, safe, decidedly WASPY and very, very boring. Everyone played cricket in the summer and hockey in the winter. Our next-door neighbours (and there’s a couple of upcoming stories about these blood-sucking, money-whoring lawyer types with flexible, down-sizable ethics) were like pillars of the Liberal Party. My Ol’ Man, for all his eccentricities and some would say faults, was a left-leaning intellectual who found himself living in his idea of social hell. But it wasn’t the lawyers, the politicians, all the school kids in their various private school blazers, the lack of booze, the conservatism or the flippin’ Plain Trees that triggered his 9-months of the year Hay Fever that tormented him. They were merely the background flavours that meshed with the Laura Ashley patterned wallpaper to give the whole area a certain bland, hellish feel. But, it was the possums, or, more accurately ‘the beastly mother’ that were the devils in my Ol’ Man’s Dante-esq version of hell.

Possums were (probably still are) everywhere in the Eastern suburbs. They’d stomp across the 100-year old tiles of our home like a drunken man with his Blunderstones on the wrong feet. Every now and then, they’d lose their footing, and slide down a section of roof sending tiles hurtling into the darkness like slate Ninja Stars. (Luckily, no one ever went out after dark anywhere in the inner east or they might have been decapitated.)

And my Ol’ Man hated possums with a passion. He hated having to get on the roof and fix stuff. He hated the sound of them, especially when they ‘made love’, famously yelling out one night, “FFS do her gently I’ve got impressionable kids down here”. But mostly, he hated that he was pretty much powerless to do anything about them. They were, after all, protected by local council bi-laws. And they had big nasty claws and, besides, the Ol’ Man never hurt anything.

At this points, I’m guessing many of you are thinking, ‘Why, Grizzlym, didn’t he just rent one of those traps off the council, catch the possums and release them?’ Well he did. For many years. Indeed he extracted a sort of manly pride out of the whole thing. ‘I could do this professionally, it’s about the apple you use to bait the trap… trick is to wear gloves so they don’t smell the scent…’ Until the day ‘That Beastly Mother’ entered our idyllic existence and changed everything forever.

It all started, one winter, when a particularly large horny possum started using our roof as his love palace. “That possum is getting more action than a proctologist’s rubber gloves,” the old man would exclaim with barely disguised envy. “It’s disgusting, the noises they’re making are quite distressing… one of them isn’t enjoying it I can guarantee you right now.” And on and on he’d go.

One night he ran outside, grabbed the hose and sprayed in the direction of the noise, only to run back into the house seconds later screaming and slamming the door behind him. ‘That Beastly Mother’ came at me… started heading down the slates at break-neck speed with its claws beared,’ the Ol’ Man panted. And thus, the obsession was seeded which was to grow into a weird, twisted plant in the coming years.

Towards the end of that Spring my Ol’ Man managed to finally capture “That Beastly Mother”. He rushed inside one morning wearing elbow length chem-lab gloves, welding goggles and exclaimed, “I have captured the beast, and without a doubt, it’s the largest alpha-male possum I’ve ever seen. Not so much a nuisance, but a threat to people’s safety.”

We followed him outside, and there, sitting on the lawn was a cage with, admittedly, a rather large possum peering out from between the bars. “Load him up into the car,” bellowed the Ol’ Man being careful to stay well clear of the cage. “But, Dad,” I stammered, “you’ve got the gear on… you do it.” The Ol’ Man didn't take too kindly to my request, “rubbish, there’s a cage between you and it… I’ve done all the hard work and captured it… least you can do is to stow in the Subaru.” So I did.

Then we drove down to Studley Park and let the possum out of the cage. It ran down the hill, only looking back once for a second but fatally capturing my father’s gaze and planting a fatal seed. “Did you see the look on its face?” the Ol’ Man muttered. “It’s not going to take no for an answer… it’ll be back, I can feel it in me bones.” So we drove home, the Ol’ Man deep in thought for the entire trip.

About a week later, late one night, the all too familiar crashing of a possum started on the roof. A few seconds later I heard the Ol’ Man yell from his upstairs study, “It’s back, ‘That Beastly Mother’ has found it’s way back to my house.” Then I heard him scrambling around, cupboards banging and stuff. “This is war you hairy little Rod Ashman like beast,” he yelled. And for the next week or so he would sit at the attic window just watching for the possum to return.

One morning I came out for breakfast to find my parents deep in discussion at the kitchen table. My father was in existential funk previously only reserved for when the Liberal Party won an election or Carlton beat Hawthorn. “It’s war,” my father muttered, “that possum has come back to torment this family and I won't sit back and let it.” My mother, barely able to stifle a laugh responded,” “but how can it be the same possum? You released it 5 kms away.”

My father, never one to be dissuaded by the weight of logic or the truth staring at him in the face, merely responded with complete conviction, “they’ve done studies on animals’ abilities to find their way home… it’s inbuilt… and this possum is damn smart.” My mother just shook her head as he went on. “I’ve been watching it, I recognise the stripe on its tail, no two possums are the same… It’s a bit like Chinese people: they might look the same to the untrained eye, but when you know what to look for, they’re as different and individual as you and I.” Mum just shook her head knowing full well the futility of it all; she’d have more luck trying to exert mind control over Warwick Capper.

Sometime later, the Ol’ Man managed to catch the possum, although he insisted it was ‘That Beastly Mother’ none of us had any doubt that it was just a regular possum, possibly even the neighbour’s cat. And at what cost too. He’d spent hours trying to spot the rogue possum; consulted various people, including a professor type at Melbourne Uni and a feral dude at the Harp Junction firewood joint who “had considerable experience neutralising them in the wild.”

The Ol’ Man had become a trifle obsessive, like when Bo Derrick jogged up the beach and into my father’s life at the Rivoli – he knew only one thing and it became all-consuming. “I respect Bo as an artist,” I remember my Ol’ Man saying to my mother, “she’s stripping her performance back to the bare essentials and connecting on an emotional level.” Yeah, sure.

Back to possums though: he bought boxes of exotic apples, to find “exactly the right bait.” He wore a boiler suit, those chem-lab gloves, goggles and a hairnet thing every time he changed the apple in the trap least his scent notified ‘That Beastly Mother’ of his presence. And for months on end he didn’t snare a thing - which was not at all surprising - and each day he’d carefully inspect the piece of apple before shrugging and changing it for a fresh apple. And each day, ‘cause he didn’t want to waste good fruit, he’d use the discarded pieces of apple in his daily juice.

Eventually he caught it though, by some sheer fluke the beast wandered into the trap and was snared. A photo exists somewhere of my father standing proudly in front of the cage in his possum outfit, one foot on the edge of the cage, staring proudly at the camera. Like a colonial photo of a tiger hunt in India, my Ol’ Man had conquered all that the animal kingdom could throw at him and he was proud. Now, if you think things were weird up until now, you ‘aint seen nothing yet, because stuff started to get really really bent.

“C’mon kids, load Mother into the car, we’re heading off to Eltham,” commanded my Ol’ Man in his best Rommel voice pulling the welding goggles over his eyes. And for a brief second he looked like Rommel in a Middle eastern desert about to go into battle in one of his tanks rather than a crazy middle-aged man with a possum fetish. Actually, forget the Rommel bit, he did just look like a crazy old guy in rubber gloves

“Why on earth are you going to Eltham?” demanded by mother, “We’ve got cousin Steven’s wedding in a couple of hours and you’ll never make it back.” My father replied in a majestic, confident tone, “my love, I have caught the beast that has ruined our lives… and if we don’t learn off history we’re bound to repeat our earlier failings, hence why I’m going to Eltham to deliver this possum into exile.”

“Are you insane?” stated my mother. My father, not without a hint of babying her replied, “The possum, dearest, found it’s way back here after I last released it and I’m not going to put my family in that danger again... we’re going to drop it a long way from home.”

As my mother stared on incredulously, Dad loaded us into the Subaru stationwagon, the possum between us in the back seat with a towel over the cage so it couldn’t see where we were going. He then threw our wedding clothes into the back of the car, “we’ll go straight to the reception… see you there,” he yelled as he started the car. Mum just shook her head as the Ol’ Man drove off. So we took the most circuitous route imaginable to Eltham – and it was quite a way away even as the crow flies – but the Ol’ Man kept telling us how abnormally smart this possum was, how it had a built in radar, and we had to ‘make sure’. We eventually let the possum go down by the Yarra in Eltham. Then, after changing into our best clothes in the bush, we headed to the wedding. We missed the ceremony on account of the Eltham detour, but made it for the ceremony where the Ol’ Man was particularly chirpy recounting his efforts at beating back the ‘Mongol vermin hordes’.

Now, normally, this story would now be done but my Ol’ Man is involved so it ‘aint. One night the following year there was a huge crash on the roof, a scramble, and a loud hissing noise, unmistakeably the sounds of a possum. Moments later I heard my father yell out, “It’s back, ‘That Beastly Mother’ is back!” I then heard my mother yell out, “Not again.” There was a huge scramble as my Ol’ Man rushed out to the shed to get his possum gear back into action.

So, like a broken record in the hands of a rainman monkey, the same old possum routine played out over and over: my Ol’ Man became even more weird and obsessive, he waited and watched, he set the trap, he ranted and raved about ‘That Beastly Mother’ convinced it was our very own Hound of the Baskervilles possum. And as each day went by the Ol’ Man got more and more intense and withdrawn and, let’s face it damn strange, as he got around in his possum gear muttering stuff.

Some days later I overheard the Ol’ Man and my mother having an intense conversation while he set the possum trap. “But you’re a vegetarian… a pacifist… how could you even think about that.” Mt father replied, his eyes cold, his voice curiously dispassionate, “This is different… primal… I have to make an exception to protect my family… but I will respect my adversary and I will not let his death be in vain… we will honour his death by respecting the nutritional benefits it brings… it’s what man has done for millennia… ”

Now, as absurd as all of this sounds you have to remember this is from the man who impelled his children to steal a still-warm lawn mower under the flimsy pretence of hard rubbish so, scarily, anything was possible. He was obsessed. My mother just stared at him blankly for a moment or too before saying, “well, you can do whatever you’re going to do outside... I don't want to know about it, and I don't want the kids involved.” She stared at him for a long time before continuing,” the thought that that possum is the same one is just absurd. Frankly, it’s impossible.”


My father looked at my mother with a combination of pity and sheer madness and responded, “I grant you, it might not be the exact same possum, but it’s from the same family at the very least,” the Ol’ Man ranted. “It has the same demonic lineage, I grant you it could possibly be the son… and it’s carrying on the grudge that was started many years ago… how on earth do you think it found it’s way here if it didn’t mean to torment us? Can't answer that can you? I’m convinced it’s the same possum.” Mum just stared at this lunatic in his boiler suit, rubber gloves and welding goggles, and slowly shook her head.

The possum continued to torment the Ol’ Man over the coming months, avoiding all of his attempts to capture it. Even worse, it managed to continually snatch the apple from the trap without being caught, leading my father to the conclusion that the possum was that large that when the gate fell the possum’s arse was halfway through the gate, thus preventing it from locking shut. “It’s a mutant possum kids, it’s probably bred with a dog to get that sort of size,” the Ol’ Man proclaimed.

The months ticked into years, the Ol’ Man never caught another possum, and, after a while, he gave up. The possums still sent tiles flying off the roof, and kept rooting away. And in a normal situation, this would have been the end of the matter, but my Ol’ Man is anything but ordinary.

Many years later, long after the possum had first snarled into our lives, I was home from school with the flu. I was tucked into bed falling in and out of a semi-fever when my Ol’ Man burst into my room all excited. “Get out of bed,” he yelled, “the time has come, after all of these years, and I need your help right now.” So reluctantly I staggered out of bed and followed my Ol’ Man to out the front of the house. He was in a highly excited state, talking as quickly as a Tourette’s inflicted man on speed. “Right, I was pulling into the house see, when I saw the bloody possum, that possum, remember it?” the Ol’ Man was spitting words out quicker than a hard-working hooker, “I saw it run across the roof, it looked at me, then it darted under the eaves there.” The Ol’ Man pointed at the eaves at the front of the house and, sure enough, hanging out from under them was a long tail. “Yeah, I see it, so what?” I said.

“So what? So what?” spat out the Ol’ Man, “I have been waiting silently for years for this moment. I have the vermin cornered and now it’s going to pay. Stay here, watch it, I’ve got to get some stuff.” And with that he vanished to the rear of the house. I stood there in my pyjamas, half delirious, staring at this monstrous tail hanging out from under the eave.

The Ol’ Man returned a few minutes later wearing his boiler suit, the welding goggles and carrying a ladder. He leaned the ladder against the house, right next to the possum’s tail, and commanded me to climb, “get up there and have a look.”

“What?” I replied, “I’m not going up there… I’m sick… I’m wearing my pyjamas… you’ve got the gear on, you get up there”

The Ol’ Man instantly assumed the sulky look I knew so well, “I’ve done everything for you over the years, protected you, fed you, catered to all your whims, and now I’m only asking you to take a tiny a look so I can formulate a plan.” And for some unknown reason, I climbed the ladder. When I was almost adjacent to it, I could see it’s hulking, snarling form under the eaves, and it was big. Like real big. “Ok,” the Ol’ Man called out, “grab hold of its tail and start pulling.” “What?” I yelled out, “you have to be kidding, it’s huge.” Next moment a pair of pink rubber gloves were tossed up to me. “Stop blooding sooking and put these on,” he yelled out. “It can’t hurt you it’s not very big and besides it’s more scared of you than you are of him.”

Once again, for some unknown reason I grabbed its thick, hairy tail. “Great,” yelled the Ol’ Man, “now pull…. Pull harder…. Great now keep him there I’ll be back in a minute.” And with that he raced off leaving me up the top of a ladder, half delirious, wearing my PJs and pink rubber gloves, and holding a possum’s tale. I was caught, paralysed between holding on tight and letting go, the ladder swaying slightly.

Now, we lived across the road from one of Melbourne’s more prestigious private schools. And my antics were causing quite the crowd to assemble, including the school’s ground keeper. He observed the situation with some alarm, planted his foot against the base of the ladder and said, “mate, you’re game, I was attacked by one half the size of this one, he almost took my eye out.” Minutes ticked by as if they were years. The possum was snarling and letting off a horrible sweaty smell. The gardener was shaking his head and imploring me to be careful. And the assembled throng of school kids were laughing at the ridiculous sight.

A moment later, my Ol’ Man reappeared from inside the house brandishing a camera. “Ok, well done son, now give it a yank on the count of three and I’ll shoot it… One… Two… now pull.” Once again, I did what I was told and gave the beast’s tail a mighty yank. At exactly the same moment, the camera’s flash went off, the ladder toppled sending me flying into a bush and releasing my hold on the beast’s tail. It scurried off up the roof and disappeared. My father stood there in his boilersuit, goggles over his eyes, with a huge grin on his face. “I’ve got it, finally proof for your mother that it is the same possum. And to think you all doubted me.” The gardener turned to my father and said, “you ought to be ashamed, mate.” But the Ol’ Man didn't care, "get into the car son, we need to get this film developed.”

And that’s it. He got the film developed which perfectly captured the moment the ladder toppled sending me flying and the possum scurrying off across the roof. “See those markings,” my father would say, “there’s proof it’s the same possum, and you thought I was crazy. Shame on you all."

Ironically enough, we were bedeviled by possums for years to come but the Ol’ Man no longer cared because he felt he had proved his point about the possum being the one and only 'That Beastly Mother'.​

 

[Cruyff14]

Wow, that was a long one!

The end was a bit anti-climatic I thought, funny though. Poor grizz

 

[Chief]

Re: Pets Grizzlym's Dad is a Freakin Legend - From 'bum soap' to 'lawnmower larceny' and much more

So I survived. And true to form there is a new story to tell from the day's festivities. But first, here's an update on the bathroom/water catchment/home-made irrigation system.

Note the funnel tied over the showerhead in the main bathroom. No idea why. Seriously weird.

I'll post the story in the next hour or so.

The brown rag balances the unsullied nature visible through the window. Truly this is art.

 

[grizzlym]

That's not a rag; that's his shroud.

 

[Chief]

That's not a rag; that's his shroud.

He's waterboarding himself??