Reflections on Mothers Day

Cold and windy in Jindabyne this morning for Mothers Day 2016. Looking
around me, there is not a family member in sight. Lou has left for Canberra
to play soccer. My son aka Mun is over past the next hollow to the north of
here and probably sleeping off a late night expended in the  kitchens as
chefs often do. Congratulations to him as he achieved his aspiration to the
position that he has been struggling toward as a recognised Rydges
executive. Unfortunately, as it often does, the position that he has
struggled so hard for, is not fully realised by others around him. The
achievement isn’t even important enough for us to acknowledge the road to,
and sacrifices to, achieve his understated goals. So he is forced to accept
our misgivings.

Somehow i hope he does not follow in my footsteps because he craves the need
to be amicable, amiable and affable. Yes all of those descriptive traits of
one who finds it difficult to burn bridges. Good for him too, for it is a
hard road to travel, being left with the responsibility of accepting
situations when enough is definitely enough.

Now in my late sixties, i fittingly reflect on past events that my mother
had endured in keeping me alive during my youth and finally arriving on this
day in 2016 surrounded by my, seldom mentioned, memories of the past in the
company of my dog “JOK“.

I will sidestep my intolerances of some of my mothers opinions and beliefs
but focus on her attributes for today. After all, as all mothers do, she did
try to bring me up the right way. I just chose to question some of those
controversial ways which branded me as the black sheep of the family and now
set in my ways.

I saw a photograph in the newspaper winch sent me back to a time in Indonesia
remembering when i was something just short of petrified. Hanging on to mum’s
skirt for comfort and security, i watched her carefully negotiate with a
very serious looking boy who was probably barely nineteen years old. he was
in khaki, helmeted, pointing a fixed bayoneted rifle at mums face. I
remember. This was “the year of living dangerously“. “kita Australian tidak
Dutch” was her repeated plee. It must have been very confusing for him but
detrimental for us, had he not searched his life’s limited experience for his
next move.

Yes, not good to be white or Dutch that day. We were ushered away by a
superior officer and allowed to continue our journey on the bus that was
force-ably emptied of passengers for random interrogations. I looked out of
the window and saw that the Dutchman that was travelling with us had
perished by the very bayonet which, minuets ago, was pointed at mum.

It is a mothers nightmare to be placed in these situations and it would bare
a toll on her future standpoints. I will have you know that i did not
question any request that she put forward to me that day. There were many
similar incidents that i was still to encounter where mum was the heroin that saved the day.

For all that it is worth now….. Happy Mothers Day mum.