The Belts Snaking Out

"APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers."

TS Elliot


Out of the dead past struggled many images; and always the most vivid of those, throughout life, were the belts snaking out towards me as I ran sobbing around the house, my parents, both of them at times but usually my father the cruelest, belting and belting and belting. I was a different child, my head perpetually buried in a book, and the belts, I guess, were a way of making me more normal, or a way of punishing me for being different, or smarter. My father rarely read anyting and my mother was buried in the bible. At fifteen I would come home on a Friday, change out of my school uniform and disappear into town, taking that long long bus ride from the isolated beach suburb where we lived into a world where at least I was wanted, jail bait. Often I would come home at three or four on a Monday morning before school; and there would be my father with the belt laid out on the kitchen table, waiting for me, the sadist, and I would be belted once again, with all the tears and distress. And my mother silent in the background; because he was boss. How I hated that man, how I wished him dead.

The worst of it was one day when they demanded that I say sorry over something or other that I had done. I think they wanted me to say sorry for being out without permission on the weekend. I wasn't sorry, and I wasn't going to lie for them, and I wasn't going to stand still for a belting, not this time. And so they chased me around with their belts, both my mother and father, trying to hit me, the belts snaking out as I ducked and weaved, and ran around the house, I'm not sorry, I'm not sorry, the belts flailing at me, until they cornered me, and they hit me and hit me and hit me, as I tried to cover my face and the belts rained down. And It went on and on and on, as they hit me and hit me and hit me, until I finally surrendered, desperate for it to stop, and said, alright, I'm, sorry, but I'm not really. And then the belting really started. And finally they were done; and I sobbed quietly in the corner. And that was it for me. I never trusted them again. I was never naive enough to love them again.

And throughout life, I never ever wanted to feel anything, because to feel something was to be hurt. And thus began the cruel road that was my destiny. I built in my mind the many walls that would protect me; shielded behind barriers so that no one, absolutely no one, could get to me. The minute I turned 16 and could legally leave, I was gone from that horrible house where I had been so dismally unhappy and been so badly treated. The school, being a public school, didn't even ask why one of their top students was leaving. I walked down that road which had wound around the hillside into my worst fears, crying, that day, distressed and sad and afraid, ignorant of how I would survive. Although as I soon discovered, 16-year-old boys can always survive.

The other day, early Saturday afternoon, I was running around doing a a few odd jobs, and thought I would duck back in via my house to pick up some sunglasses, and to incidentally check on my own 16-year-old son, who was having some friends over. They were sitting around the lounge room, playing Monopoly, laughing. And I looked at them, startled by the innocence of it all. They seemed so happy, so innocent; and so young; and yet that's the same age when I was already out of home; and by 1.30 on a Saturday afternoon, I was always drunk in the Rex Hotel in Kings Cross; drunk and sometimes maudlin, but always drunk.

THE BIGGER STORY:

http://www.news.com.au/couriermail/story/0,23739,23094705-952,00.html?from=mostpop

EMERALD'S Nogoa River was yesterday a swirling, churning inland sea hundreds of metres wide, with dozens of low-lying businesses and homes flooded in the Central Highlands town.
The river, which is swollen with the spillover from the Fairbairn Dam 16km away, did not quite reach the 15.5m peak expected, instead fluctuating between 15.2m and 15.4m.

Water continued flowing over the dam spillway at record heights, hitting 4.4m late in the afternoon, well above the previous record of 2.82m in 1984.

http://www.theage.com.au/news/world/an-ordinary-new-zealander-who-did-extraordinary-things/2008/01/22/1200764265337.html

IT WAS sombre, but not cripplingly sad. There were a few tears, but laughter as well.

Dignitaries sat shoulder to shoulder with monks, hearing about a national hero and a loved grandfather.

Sir Edmund Hillary's funeral in Auckland yesterday managed to span the breadth of who he was.

"An ordinary New Zealander who did extraordinary things" was how Dean of Christchurch Peter Beck described the perception of Hillary.

It neatly captured the spirit of a service that was a celebration of 88 years of a life lived to the full....

It was funny seeing Peter Hillary, his son, who I met in the Himalayas by coincidents more than 30 years ago, up on the television screens, now a middle aged man:


Peter Hillary talked of the "compulsory curriculum" of adventure that came with growing up in the Hillary clan, where pending school holidays meant "a growing apprehension — even fear — about where Dad was going to take us".

The grandchildren and step-grandchildren told of "Grandpa Ed", with 20-year-old Sam Mulgrew talking eloquently about the shared fun even up to the last few weeks, when Hillary was booked into hospital under the name of Vincent Stardust.

"Ed, it was an honour and a privilege to have known you so well. The many hours that we have spent together will remain with me for the rest of time," he said, his voice breaking with emotion.

Long-time friend Jim Wilson said that for Hillary life and adventure were effectively indivisible and he retained his "little boy enthusiasm" throughout his adult years.

The service also focused on Hillary's legacy. Miss Clark said few could emulate his strength but all could strive to match his humanity.

Peter Hillary said the death of his father was the moment to "keep the commitment and love alive" and fulfil his work for the Sherpa people.

Hillary's coffin was placed in a hearse, which was driven onto the streets of Parnell, where thousands had gathered to farewell Hillary. Quietly and then steadily, applause broke out among the crowd as Hillary made his final journey.

THE PRESS