Well welcome to my Blog, this is a first for me. Apart from becoming reasonably proficient with Facebook this is my first endeavour into any sort of online publishing.
I decided upon this format, as trying to write any sort of written biography became tedious at best and boring at worst. So hopefully this will be an adventure to share that hopefully doesn’t bore the begeezuz out of the reader.
Where to begin? Well I guess near the beginning is always a sensible choice even though making sensible choices is not exactly my forte.
Lets get all the tedious facts over and done with.
I was born in Angeles City, Pampanga in the Philippines in mid-April 1964. The fourth son and sixth-born within the sibling pecking order.
My Father was an Australian born in September 1911. The second eldest of 9 children. According to some old Military Transport Documents I inherited when he passed; it appears he arrived in the Philippines before they achieved Independence in 26/04/1946 as part of a transfer of the US Military Forces 405th Combat Support Group. I’m assuming he must have met my mother prior to 1950 as my eldest brother was born in September 1951.
From what I can figure out from the paperwork, Father and the eldest 4 moved to Brisbane Australia from Clark Air-Base in June 1965, as Father had to retire due to disability. My Mother, the next sister up from me and I came out in October 1965.
I really don’t know a lot from that period apart from the fact that my mother had to return to the Philippines. The exact reason is shrouded in mystery. My eldest female sibling used to come out with various conflicting stories as to why. Anyone else that would have been able to clarify the facts have since passed on.
She must have loved me as she arranged for my eldest sister to take me down to live with some close family friends that lived nearby if my Father showed signs of not being able to cope with me. Apparently I cried myself to sleep every night after my mother left and it used to annoy my Father immensely. Having 3 children myself, I can understand how constant crying would drive you over the edge, especially if you have five other children to deal with as well.
I’m assuming he must have loved me in his own way as he let me go, or perhaps he was just glad of the peace and quiet.
I’ll never know.
From all accounts he was not an easy person to get to know, I’ve heard various stories from my siblings over the years and the picture painted was rather bleak. However they were all were fed and clothed and put through school so at least he covered the basics. I’ve had a year of solo parenting with my three and that was no picnic, so managing five would have been next level.
I guess my only regret was never being able to get to actually know him as a person. Not being able to know what his childhood was like, what he wanted to be when he grew up. What his hopes and dreams were. I never even got to meet my grandparents from either side of the family and there is a whole bunch of cousins out there I’ve never met???
As a child my foster parents used to take me over on visits to see him but there was never any sense of connection. My older brothers used to scare me as they were loud and noisy and seemed so much bigger than I was. I was a very tiny, quiet and introverted child. The only sibling I ever felt safe with at a young age was the next sister up from me who was 4 years older. I remember a time in my teens when I was walking through town with her in Brisbane and I walked right past him without even knowing. It was only when my sister called out Dad that I stopped and turned around in shock.
When I reached adulthood I made a few half-assed efforts to go and visit. The last attempt was in my twenties and I drove about an hour to see him not long after one of my brothers had married. He muttered something unintelligible at the door and tried closing it, however I’d stuck my foot in the door jamb. It seemed kind of obvious that he probably had no idea who the hell I was, which tempted me to introduce myself as No 6. (I’m sooo Umbrella Academy right now – *eyeroll*). After a few useless attempts at communication he muttered that my brother was on his honeymoon and I should come back later even as the door thudded shut in my face.
I kinda gave up after that.
The next time I was to be anywhere near him was when he was hospitalised after being beaten up by my eldest brother. Holding his unconscious hand made me aware of our obvious physical differences. His hands were massive. It was hard looking at his face as it reminded me of Darth Vader’s death scene, the part when he finally takes off the helmet and we get to see his face. It’s a scene that’s always haunted me as I tried to fathom what circumstances caused that to occur. I’ll never know and honestly I don’t think I want to. I did cry at his funeral, although perhaps from a sense of lost opportunities combined with a sense of guilt for not having tried harder to connect.
I vowed never to make the same mistake with my son. I’ve always let him know how much I love him, am proud of him and how valued he is, possibly to the point it drives him to distraction. However he will never have any doubts about how much he means to me.
My Mother will be an eternal mystery to me. The biggest being the real reason as to why she left. My foster mother told me that she had been called back to care for a family member who was ill. She was only supposed to be away for a few months or so.
She never came back.
I’ll always be thankful that she had made alternate arrangements for my care in the event that something untoward should happen, which obviously did as I haven’t seen her since. I asked one of my brothers how old they were when she left and he said about eight or nine, which would have made me three or four at the time. I’m leaning towards four as that is the age I was in the earliest photos that I still have. So its been over half a century.
My foster mother kept her memory alive though, she would tell me stories about her that warmed my heart. From what I can gather she was a kind and gentle soul, quietly elegant, loved music and played piano. She was also an astute business woman and owned several business back in the Philippines. I often wondered what attracted her to my father as they seemed polar opposites. I’ve seen some photos of my father when he was younger and he wasn’t a bad looking bloke. So if she was anything like me she was a sucker for the “hot looking bad boy”. *rolls eyes upwards*.
I assume she has passed, as my eldest sister once sent me a photo of her gravestone.
My foster parents were an interesting couple. They were never married but had lived together for 20 years before they took me in. Dad was 54 and Mum was 52. They were older and white and I was tiny and very dark skinned. With this being back in the 1960’s I’m sure there would have been a few raised eyebrows around the neighbourhood, especially as we all had differing surnames.
Dad was a Fitter and Turner by trade with the Brisbane City Council. I’ve never really understood what that actually meant. All I remember was that he had masses of different tools on his workbench out in the garage. He was able to do welding and stuff, often he had to work late because he’d be called out to go and fix the Moggill Ferry. One strong memory of his skills was that whenever he bought a new trailer he’d always extend the draw-bar to make reversing the trailer much easier.
He made many attempts to try and get me interested in learning practical skills like welding and knowing how to use tools correctly, unfortunately I was more of a dreamy, artistically oriented child who preferred to wander around lost within my own imagination. He never disparaged me for that though which is something I’ve always appreciated.
Mum was your classic 1950’s Australian Housewife. House was immaculate, as was her appearance, hair was always groomed with never a strand out of place. Dinners were Meat and 3 vege. We ate meals at the table, Dad sat at the Head with Mum and me flanking him either side. Breakfast was always in the alcove off the kitchen and Dinner was always in the Dining Room.
As a child I was always immaculately dressed. If we were headed to Town I was clothed in a button-down shirt with clip-on bowtie, dressy shorts with knee-high white socks in bone coloured leather shoes that had a wooden heel. We would catch a train, and then a tram (with uncomfortable hard wooden seats) to the City. The big department stores back then were an adventure especially if we ever went to David Jones or Myers. Sometimes we’d even head up to the Cafeteria and have lunch, not eating a home-cooked meal was an amazing adventure back then unlike nowadays.
Looking back I had a pretty magical childhood, Mum was a gardener so I had beautiful spaces within which to lose myself and create my own little worlds. Dad even made the girl next door and me a set of “magical rings” so we could summon a genie like the characters did in the Saturday cartoon called Shazzan. Our other favourite was playing Prince Turhan and Princess Nida from Arabian Knights, one of the animated segments from The Banana Splits Adventure Hour.
Even though I was born into a large family growing up as a single foster-child meant that the girl next door was like a sister to me. We definitely had a sibling-like relationship with all the love and drama that it entails. She was the boss and pretty much everything was conducted on her terms. I’ve just realised that this is a behavioural pattern that I’ve repeated with all my relationships my whole life. However we’re still close, even to this day and my kids refer to her as Aunty. She now lives in South Australia so she could be close to her grandchildren so we’re unable to catch up like we used to do.
I was fairly introverted as a child, I was like a 50’s kid growing up in the 60’s/70’s I didn’t really look or act like the other kids so didn’t really have a lot of friends as I found it difficult to relate to my peers. Was always more comfortable in the company of animals or older folk. Nothing much has changed really. Still prefer solitude and the company of animals.
My dad got me into gymnastics when I was eight. I’m guessing in an attempt to help me socialise within a peer group. I was cartwheeling as a 4 year old so probably shouldn’t have been a surprise. I really wanted to do ballet but that wasn’t an option for boys in the 70’s, so gymnastics was the acceptable compromise. Dad was a coach so that meant that I was also part of the Display Team that used to perform at different public events. At 14 I started to help as a coach’s assistant eventually training to become a Level 1 Coach. I taught general gymnastics on Monday and Friday nights and was an assistant Women’s Artistic Gymnastics coach on Tuesday and Thursdays. Overall I used to love coaching especially the youngsters as they were so keen to try anything new. The teenage girls in my WAG classes were another story. The only way I eventually earned their respect was by learning their routines and demonstrating that I was as good as them. Floor and Vault weren’t an issue. Balance Beam was a nightmare because my body’s weight distribution wasn’t helpful, but I managed better than I thought I would. The Assymetric Bars were my favourite. Back in the day one of the standard elements was having to do a hip-wrap around the lower bar whilst still holding on to the higher bar. Let’s just say that as a guy I had to be really conscientious in making sure that the bars were the correct distance apart.
At 17 I joined the Army Reserves. It was an interesting 3 years, I surprised myself with just how much I was able to physically endure. I wanted to be a Medic but because I was part of an Artillery Corps I ended up as a Gunner. Fortunately I didn’t stay as a Gunner for very long as most of the guys were like 5’10’ – 6 foot and I’m 5’5″ on a good day. Any gun I was assigned to looked like it had a limp. So my mate Paul and I managed to get transferred to the Catering Corps. The best part of which was getting pretty regular meals and being able to have a shower regularly. I learned basic cooking but also discovered that I loved baking and making pastries. The money I earned from being in the Reserves also allowed me to save up and buy my first car. I wanted a Datsun 280Z which was the closest I’d ever get to having a Porsche. I ended up with a rather generic Datsun instead. But it gave me independence so it was a win whichever way you looked at it.
When I was 19, Dad’s sister sold our house so we moved to Hattonvale in the Lockyer Valley. We had friends there that we’d known since I was 14 whose kids were also like surrogate siblings to me, so we ended up living with them. Dad and I started volunteer coaching at a small gymnastics club in Gatton. I also used to work where ever I could on various farms around the district picking assorted crops. The least fun was picking potatoes, it was a back-breaking job where you are just bent over all day trying to keep up. Also the damn bags had a habit of falling over at inconvenient times. The most fun was picking oranges. Scooting up and down ladders like a monkey and swinging amongst the branches. The most life-changing was cutting broccoli. It was at some ungodly hour one winter morning when I met my future wife. I was wearing a fetching outfit of bright yellow rain-pants, gumboots, a ratty flannelette shirt and wide brimmed hat cos you know that’s the ideal outfit to impress the ladies. *eyeroll*
Part of my courting ritual was to cut a piece of broccoli with an extra-long stem. Cut off the excess and shape it into a faceted jewel-like object and send it up the conveyor belt to her as a token of my esteem. Something must have worked as I managed to score an invitation to her 21st Birthday party.
I got on fine with her mum as I used to help clear the table and tidy up in the kitchen whenever we went over for a visit. Her step-father wasn’t all that impressed with me, probably because I was unable to consume my body-weight in beer. We dated for a year, engaged for a year. Moved to Ipswich in search of a better career and a full-time job as I wasn’t allowed to marry her until I was gainfully employed. Scored an assistant manager role at Robinson’s Sports Store in Brissie and then in May 1988 we were wed. December 1989 I started work with NAB as a PT Teller. After a lot of drama and heartbreak trying to start a family, finally in June 1991 our eldest Sophie was born.
We really weren’t your typical suburban couple, so as a social outlet we joined the Society for Creative Anachronism (a Medieval Recreation Group) in 1995. These people had a profound effect on us and became an important part of our lives, especially for Lavinia in the coming years. We earned our Titles of Lord Dante and Lady Ysolde through our work, Ysolde with Arts and Sciences and Dante with Archery and Music.
1997 was a tumultuous year, our second child Maddison was born that February, also discovered Lavinia was pregnant with our youngest Jack. Then October 27th @ 5:40pm I was forced to OUT myself amidst a plethora of rumours, self-denial and self-hatred. Things didn’t really start to settle down until approx. 7 years later when Lavinia underwent a similar epiphany.
I won’t pretend that it was all sweet and rosy, but we managed to make it workable because we made the well-being of our children our primary focus. We both had new partners and so we were trying to make the blended family thing work with varying degrees of success.
2008 came along and it all went to shite. Lavinia finally crumbled after 11 years of trying to keep it all together. My partner at the time was unable to handle the reality of me and my kids full-time so we parted ways. I left him and a friend of ours renting my Townhouse in Wishart and I went and bought another nearer to a school in Rochedale South for the kids.
That was the year I experienced what it was like to be a full-time Single Dad, juggling 3 kids and a career. Developed a whole new understanding and appreciation for what Lavinia had experienced for the past 11 years. It was an insane year, was also the year that I wrote off my beloved Mazda 2 (the kids had christened ZoomZoom) in an accident in which I should have died, but didn’t. Lavinia decided she was taking back custody of the kids as of January 2009, so I put the Rochedale townhouse on the market, left my Ex and friend in the Wishart Townhouse and moved into a share rental apartment in Toowing with an American gentleman from the Deep South so I could be closer to work.
“He” entered my life in January 2009, by May we were a “Couple”, June was our first trip to Tenterfield. Home loan approved July 1st. Settlement Day October 19th. December 4th I retired after 20 years at NAB. December 5th moved to Mt Welcome Homestead Bolivia NSW 2372. The only Bolivia I knew of at that stage was a tiny country somewhere in South America. Looking back I now realise just how insanely fast it all happened and why my friends and family were questioning the wisdom of my life choices.
Life as I knew it had come to an end.
I had bought a 5 Bedroom Farmhouse set on, what I thought of at the time: a sprawling 5 acres. After being raised in suburban Brisbane and also spending my early 20’s on a similar sized block this seemed like a nice manageable amount of land. Dazzled by visions of living in rural splendour and promises of a pony I believed the dream had finally become real.
It was the beginning of the darkest, most psychologically tortuous period of my life.
It all started off innocuously enough. Retired from NAB after 20 years where I’d worked my way up to a branch Manager. Packed up my little Mazda 2 with as much as possible, met and loaded up one of the new rescue dogs we’d just adopted. His name was Conan and during the 4 hour trip southward we got to know each other. “He” drove down with our other new dog named Cilla. The rest of our stuff, ie enough furniture to fill a 5 Bedroom house was being transported down later in a removalist truck.
Was so relieved when we finally arrived, excited and ready to start this new adventure living a life of relaxed semi-retirement. Unpacked the car and went to get the dogs some bowls of water, turned on the kitchen tap and then nothing came out.
Had a bit of a Green Acres – Lisa Douglas moment. (For those that don’t know – it was a sitcom that ran from 1965 to 1971 about a Upper Manhattan New York Socialite and her husband who then moved to the countryside.) I called out “Honey, ummm there’s no water coming out of the taps.” whilst slightly freaking out that we were all going to perish and die of dehydration. (Yes I know it was a bit of a dramatic response but you have to remember, for city folk water just magically appears when one turns on the tap). Had also just spent 4 hours driving with a dog I didn’t know off to a place I’d never previously heard of before.
The following months were a rapid learning curve for me as we settled into countrylife and tried to assimilate into the local community. Old Mate had a job at one of the local Nursing Homes and I was going to be a Housewife/ Lady of Luxury.
After the fast-paced whirlwind and bright lights of the City, adjustment to the much slower pace of countrylife took a bit of getting used to. Back then Tenterfield (the closest town) moved at a pace reminiscent of Brisbane in the 70’s. Being the New Boys in Town, the locals apparently knew who we were. When we first arrived to collect the keys to the Farmhouse from the Real Estate we didn’t even have to say who we were and what we wanted. After the cold anonymity of citylife this was an unexpected and rather pleasant surprise.
Another pleasant surprise was to learn that we weren’t the only gay couple in the district. A gay couple owned the local Pizza shop and another couple used to run the Bald Rock Cafe. Also we discovered that everything apart from Coles just shut down at 12pm on a Saturday. That took a bit of getting used to after the convenience of the city. As we lived 30kms south of town it meant planning shopping trips as one couldn’t just duck down to the corner store.
The next challenge came when Old Mate decided he didn’t like working at the Nursing Home – it had been barely 3 weeks in to my new life and we suddenly had to come up with a new viable source of income.
And that boys and girls is how I became the proud Owner of the Bluebelle Cafe in Deepwater, a little town 20 kms south of the Farm along the New England Highway.
Thus began my journey into the world of Hospitality.
The Ex. had previous experience in running his own cafe/business with his previous partner. I figured my banking background would be enough for me to be able to handle the administrative/financial side of the business. So we organised a time to meet up again and talk figures etc and work out if it would be a viable option. The ladies, who were actually twins; and their husbands sat down with us and we negotiated a deal. Since it was an existing business and zoned as a Commercial Property I was able to use my Superannuation to purchase the property. Settlement went through and suddenly I was the very nervous new owner of a cafe.
I altered the name slightly to put our own stamp on the business so “The Cafe Blue Belle” was born. It was similar enough for the locals to know where we were located. Minor renovations and a new paint job later we were nearly ready to go.
It was during the painting process that we met one of our first locals. I’d taken the horsefloat in to carry painting supplies and materials as we didn’t have a Ute at that stage but Old Mate’s commodore had a tow bar and god knows my little Mazda had a snowballs chance in hell of doing the job. The neighbour across the road from us noticed the horsefloat and decided to come across and ask us if we wanted some free livestock as they’d heard on the grapevine that we’d bought a small farm and they needed a new home. Mind you this was around 10pm at night as we were frantically trying to get the painting finished prior to opening. I was like sure – what the hell, why not?
I didn’t realise that she meant that very night.
About 10 minutes later, my youngest who was 11 at the time, comes down the driveway looking for me saying that there is this lady out the front with some sheep. I was like what the? I follow him up to investigate. Sure enough, there she is. The lady from earlier stepped out of the shadows with 4 sheep in tow.
Old Mate came out to investigate and obligingly began helping me herd them down the driveway towards the horsefloat parked in the back yard. I lowered down the tailgate and proceeded to try and convince them to walk up the ramp. To make things interesting, the weather decided it was time to start raining. So the next 10 mins was spent with Old Mate and me chasing sheep around and around the horsefloat. They would avoid the ramp, circle the float, jump the towbar and circle around the float again. I nearly turned towards the kids and asked Who Can Guess How Many Times Sheep can Circle and Jump Over The Towbar. By this time Old Mate was creatively swearing in Dutch. My youngest two were standing in the driveway looking on in stunned amazement. The sheep then decided enough was enough and made a break for freedom up the driveway. I yelled at the kids to block them off as we didn’t have gates on the driveway at that stage. My kids being city kids naturally freaked out and flattened themselves against the building wall allowing the sheep to gleefully escape and head up the highway towards home.
I’m off in hot pursuit in the pouring rain thinking to myself – How is This Even My Life?
I can’t even remember how we did it but we eventually managed to round them up and direct them back down the driveway get them loaded into the Float. We also inherited a Jersey bull/cow and a billygoat from the same lady. That was the start to our ever-increasing menagerie.
Welcome to Deepwater!
We opened Deepwater Race Day in 2010. Figured it would be a good jump off point as there would be a lot of visitors in town. Old Mate was in charge of the kitchen and I was to handle customer service and learn how to make the coffee. We inherited an old single grouphead, self contained coffee machine. Old Mate showed me the basics and I was left to cope as best I could learning on the job as I went.
Those early days were a constant blur. Me, slowly learning how to cook our Menu, making interesting caffeine based creations with mixed results to stunned patrons who tactfully kept their verbal responses to themselves. However the raised eyebrows should have been a clue. In those days our cappuccinos had their own signature look – the foam rose formed into a mostly conical shape perched precariously above the lip-edge of the cup or mug. We used to proudly declare The Higher the Foam: The Closer To God.
Yes, I was completely clueless.
The local farmers were kind to me however and never mentioned that wasn’t quite the way a cappuccino should be presented. Old Mate, despite his faults, was an amazing cook being able to churn out super yummy food in an insanely short time. Our hamburgers were made using his own secret recipe and we had our rolls especially made by the bakery in Glen Innes. Our reputation steadily grew on the strength of our Hamburgers, reasonable prices and fast service.
Made friends with some locals who became loyal customers. Tenterfield locals even heard about us and would travel the 50kms down the highway for a feed. We knew we were finally doing something right when the Truckies also started to become regulars whenever they happened to be passing through. Business was taking off and things were going well. The 13 hour days were a killer but you do what you have to do to make it happen. Custom kept improving to the point where our Tenterfield friends would ask When Were We Going To Open Another Cafe Blue Belle in their town?
Blinded by the success happening in Deepwater and deluded by visions of creating our own chain of successful cafes we did just that.
That was our first mistake.
Hiring our own staff was a new experience for me. Our poor Barista nearly had a heart attack the first time she watched me make a cappuccino and I finally learned how to make an acceptable coffee. We leased a proper commercial coffee machine that had two groupheads. From the sales rep I learned a lot about the art having the correct grind needed to create the perfect crema. I also learnt what crema was. It also clarified the response from a particularly snooty customer I’d once served in Deepwater. I’d made him a short black. He took one look and disdainfully declared that he couldn’t possibly drink that as the crema was broken. I had no idea what the hell he was talking about at the time. I still cringe when I think back on what I used to make back in Deepwater in those early days. I guess it’s all just a part of life’s learning curve.
We’d spent money we really didn’t have to renovate/revamp the new premises. The rent we had to cover (as we didn’t own this building) plus the staff we needed to hire to actually manage running two businesses ate away at any profit we made. Oh and by that stage we’d also accrued an insane amount of livestock at the Farm that needed extra feed as well.
The stress, both emotional and financial from trying to run two businesses and manage an insanely overstocked farm slowly took its toll.
Our relationship, as it was, took a complete nose dive, crashed and burned.
At first we tried co-habitating amicably, eventually he took the main part of the house with 3 bedrooms with ensuite, the front yard containing all the gardens and also the best views. I was relegated to the back of the house which had 2 bedrooms a small enclosed verandah which became my office space/library and a separate open-plan room that I converted into the kitchen, lounge and dining space.
This also the period where he started collecting “housemates” to work the property doing repairs or working at either of the cafes.
Honestly if I’d put in cameras in his half of the house and sold the footage as a Reality Show – The Boys of Bolivia. We would have made a killing, blitzing the Kardashians off the planet. The Kardashians may have been wealthy but when it came to Drama they’ve got nothing on what used to happen within the walls on his side of the house. If nothing else at least the mortgage could’ve been paid off.
In the years that followed my sense of self-worth and identity was slowly reduced to the point where I would just do as I was told and scurry around head down, performing errands as directed. It’s such an insidious process that one day you can look into a mirror and have no idea who the person is that’s blindly staring back at you. I think what makes it worse is that there are no physical scars or readily visible signs to indicate to others that all is not as it should be.
People who knew the old me, friends that would have noticed the slowly dulling gaze, lack of vitality, who would’ve been horrified by the permanently hunched-over creature that wore a permanently worried look over my barely recognisable face, all lived over 3 hours away.
It all came to a head in 2015. The bank came chasing for the overdue mortgage payments.
In a last ditch attempt to try and catch up, the Homestead was advertised for rent. The old hayshed which had previously housed all livestock, poultry and pigeons etc had the best third of it converted into a 2 bedroom dwelling, Old mate, his current future meal ticket and I moved up there.
The Tenant moved into the Homestead in blah of 2015. The locals gave her 4 months to see if she could figure out what Old Mate was really like. She twigged on in 3.
Highland Dreamer 