Two Small Memories

It has been raining here for a week, but today the sun came out, and we had one of those beautiful festivals of tropical nature, when the air is clean, the birds go nuts, the flowers seem brighter, the grass strains up towards the sun, and everything comes alive like spring. Something about the light reminded me of another day, when I was young. I was at Manly Beach. I can’t remember the exact year, but you I’m sure I could work it out. I remember, on the back page of the paper that morning, there was an article about Darren Lehmann abusing a Sri Lankan cricketer for running him out, the title of which was just the quote “F#*king Black C*^t”. Now, I knew ‘fucking’. For a few months in my childhood I lived on a worksite, when my parents were rennovating our house. ‘Fucking’ was old hat to me. But what was C$%t?

Nitwit that I was, I asked my mother. Mum has sworn once in her life, and that was by accident, when she tried to order dinner in Japanese in Tokyo and gravely offended the waiter’s honour. Even if she had been of a mind to tell me what the word was, I don’t know if she would have been able to bring herself to say it. “Do you promise not to say it?” she said to me.
”I do,” I said nobly.
”Promise?” she said again.
I bowed my head solemnly.
It occurs to me, in hindsight, that she was stalling for time.
”Chid,” she said at last.
”Chid?” I said. It had the ring of an insult. “Chid.”

For the rest of that afternoon, my brother and I called each other chids, loudly, on public thoroughfares, in front of other parents. I remember it was a sunny day after rain, and it felt warm though it wasn’t, so it must have been spring or early summer. I was in the midst of my annual cricket frenzy. We walked around the beaches of Manly, mum throwing me a tennis ball so I could dive and catch it over the sand, and every time I dropped it, I called someone a “chid.” And my mum never let on. She was probably mortified just by the sound of it.

Another story, from the same place, occurs to me now: we are in a restaurant in Manly, I am a few years younger. This must have been in my pre-sports pages days. My dad has just paid the bill, he and mum are discussing how we will get home.
”F-E-R-R-Y?” my dad spells out. “Or is Alistair too T-I-R-E-D?”
”Ferry!” I squeal from between them. “Tired!”
”Do you think he can S-P-E-L-L?” my mum says.
”Spell!” I squeal.
”I think he C-A-N,” says dad.
I do not even deign to decipher such a simple puzzle.
”Does he deserve an I-C-E C-R-E-A-M for this?” says mum.
”Yes!” I say.
”D-E-F-I-N-I-T-E-L-Y,” says dad.
”Daffodils!” I say. It’s the only D-and-F word I know that long.

Pride is a natural thing. It’s a kind of grateful delight at our own ability to do things. Real pride is rather close to humility, which gives it freshness. It’s only when pride becomes a defence against the world, something rigid and assertive, that it starts to feel sickly and ungainly. Real pride is innocent. We are scared away from being proud of ourselves, but it’s really a very healthy thing. It’s like self-love.

Another thing that occurs to me now is how young my parents once were. Almost as young as me. One day, they will be younger.

Beach Painting - Beach Bliss
Jan Matson
Jan Matson, Artist of beach paintings, coastal decor, flowers and animal prints