Reminiscing and Resonating with Doctor Blake and A Place to Call Home

I am hooked on the Doctor Blake Mysteries and A Place to Call Home. Both series are set in Australia in the 1950s where I grew up.

One of the Doctor Blake episodes is about a murdered Aussie pop icon. There’s a scene where the doc and his housemates are watching Six O’Clock Rock on the telly, hosted by Johnny O’Keefe. Oh, my! That brought back memories, for our family used to watch him every Saturday night at – you guessed it – six o’clock. The show was similar to Dick Clark’s American Bandstand. In fact, we had a knock off Australian Bandstand, ours hosted by Brian Henderson who also anchored the local news broadcast.

One of the themes of A Place to Call Home is the relationship and friction between Italian immigrants and the English descendant Australian gentry. The rich daughter falls in love with the neighboring Italian farm boy. The discrimination is overt and startling – the name calling “Whop,” “Dago,” – the belief amongst the privileged that it was okay to beat up and belittle at any opportunity. The bigotry in Australia included not only Italians – it spread to other immigrant populations: Poles, Greeks, and my Hungarian compatriots. The blanket slur was “bloody new Australians,” and I, at a young age, fully felt the impact of that ignominious title.

It occurred in 1955, on my first day of kindergarten when some girls cornered me in the schoolyard lifted my skirts, and taunted, “let’s see if bloody new Australians wear underpants like we do.” The horror of that moment was forever etched into my psyche.

The nationalities didn’t mix. My parents didn’t get invited to Australian homes. On occasion, when they asked Aussies over, they didn’t have their invitation reciprocated. Us kids did go to Aussie classmates houses – mostly later when we were older, and usually to birthday parties.

A Place Called Home also delves into the religious divide: between Jews and Christians, but even more subtly between Church of Englanders and Catholics. The Italian family in the series is, of course, Catholic, and the upper-class family is, of course, Church of England. The jabs and put-downs occur in the series at several levels.

My older sister went to a public grade school, and the after-school religious instruction for the Church of Englanders took place in a lovely classroom. My sister, along with the handful of other Catholics slinked to a rundown shack in the corner of the schoolyard.

These are just a smattering of the issues that resonate with my experiences growing up.

I honor how the series deal honestly and sensitively with issues of Asian and Aboriginal racism, sexism, socialism, fascism, homosexuality, and war traumatization.

I am appreciating the beautifully created, produced, directed and acted series.

I am delighting in the nostalgia of the fifties and all things Aussie.

At the same time, I am integrating what I experienced growing up in that complex society. I have confirmation that the discrimination and isolation that I experienced and wrote about in my memoir Lonely Refugee did actually happen. 

It wasn’t a figment of my imagination.

                                 Hungarian roots. Folk dancing in Sydney at age 8.

Still Jogging After All These Years

I’m still jogging after all these years. Am I still crazy after all these years?

It came to me on my latest lope around Seward Park that I have been jogging on and off for well over forty years. Over forty years!

Most recently, I’ve been doing the three-mile jaunt around the park on an occasional Sunday when my gym is closed.

I don’t consider myself an athlete, and I certainly don’t have an athlete’s body. I marvel at runners that whiz by me with their sinewy gastrocs, hams, and quads tightening and tensing with glorious anatomic precision. I have none of that.

Years ago, I met a woman in her fifties who reported that she was an avid jogger and that she ran regular 10Ks. Her legs were flabby, without definition, and I thought – a jogger, really?

O ye of little faith, for that is how my body is today, despite regular gym workouts – and despite having a long running history. Five years ago I ran a half marathon, for heaven’s sake!

Anymore, my goals are tempered and conditional. I begin a run by telling myself I’ll only go as far as I feel comfortable. I reassure myself that I can stop whenever I want to.

I marvel at the half-mile point that I don’t feel winded and that my legs and back are holding up without major aches, throbs, stings or twinges. So far, so good.

I’m astonished when I hit the two-mile mark that I’m still going strong. I am plodding, but I feel no dismay that I am the slowest jogger in the park. Every other runner sprints by me. I pass no one – except for walkers, and that doesn’t count, right?

At three miles, I pump my fist in the air and chuckle at my achievement. Yes!!!

I am 67 years old and I am still jogging after all these years – and it feels crazy good!

                                            1985, with my kids after a 10K run

           2012, with my daughter, Stephanie, after finishing a half marathon

Whoa Sangria!

I like to take part in cultural festivals. Every March 17^th I celebrate St. Patrick’s day at an Irish pub. I drink a pint of Guinness and eat corned beef and cabbage – my best yet was at McGilvras in Madison Park (Seattle) this past March. Scrumptious!

And every year I celebrate Cinco de Mayo. Last night was no exception. I feasted on some delicious sopas with chorizo and a heady glass of sangria at Fonda La Catrina in Georgetown (also in Seattle.)

I came home with a slight, pleasant buzz, and I had to – I just had to party. I’ve been thinking about dancing for some time, and now was the time. I loaded my Jango station and kicked up my heels with abandon first to Maroon Five, then to Ray Charles, Stevie Wonder and to rock songs from the fifties and sixties about which most of you will have no clue – way before your time!

Images of Hugh Grant cavorting in Love Actually, and Kirstie Alley dancing by the refrigerator in Look Who’s Talking swirled in my mind as I bounced and gyrated around my kitchen.

I turned up the music – sorry neighbors! Your usually sedate and perennially quiet next-door resident was having a delicious fit of craziness. I was rocking and stomping, shaking and twisting to the blaring beat. My, but it felt grand!

I hope I’ll never get too old to jiggle my booty!

The photo shows a more sedate version of me as a thirteen-year-old dancing the twist with my younger brother, Tom, at my older brother Paul’s 21^st birthday party. The year was 1963. I write about the party in my memoir, Lonely Refugee.