Slightly burnt

My dad was a bit of a pyromaniac. Perhaps not in the true meaning of the word, but he wouldn’t need much of an excuse to set something on fire. His idea of tending the fairway he was responsible for at the golf course was to set it alight and then spend days raking honky nuts up into little volcanoes. I have inherited the pyromania gene, and although there has been some dilution I still love a cheery fire. He knew it too. When he had his flower farm he would stack the dead bushes up into a big heap and wait until I came to visit before setting it alight so we could share it together. I was thinking about how much he would have enjoyed this fire as I raked the coals over this morning, separating the coals from the ash and piling them high in the middle so they would keep burning throughout the day. Noah loved the fire last night too – good memories for kids. He has a special bonfire whacking stick that he uses to… well, whack bonfires with, sending sparks up into the air. We had jaffles for breakfast, baked beans and cheese – hot, stringy and slightly burnt.


I’m getting the straight razor that Em bought me professionally honed by a guy in Sydney. He takes extreme close-up photos of the blade and sends them to me, explaining the work that needs to be done. At one stage he wrote describing how it is one of the few vintage razors he’s cleaned up that didn’t chip, finishing with “Judging by the steel's behaviour I'm expecting quite a shaver to result.” Mmmmm. It’s on its way now.


To maintain the razor's edge I’m getting a strop made by a guy in Queensland. He was recommended by the guy doing the honing, and I’ve been really enjoying the exchange of emails between us determining price, materials, time. I’m getting a basic strop made from roo hide which is apparently more delicate than cow hide giving a finer, smoother edge but also easier to damage. I’m really happy that I’m getting something made especially for me using local materials, by a craftsman who knows what he’s doing.


Tonight being the first Friday of the month we went to Happy Hour at the local hall. Noah disappeared into the night, absorbed into the large tribe of kids running around, reappearing later with a glow stick, disappearing again. Our valley is getting bigger, and more engaging. We stay late talking and drinking, having fun until Noah appears again and begs us to go home, the last kid left standing and ready for bed.

Get on board

I’m still on a high from choir on Monday night, loving the song we sang together, each of us singing such simple parts yet when combined making such complex, layered beauty. It reminded me of Jean-Jacques Rousseau, about how he believed that the best chance of achieving personal freedom is by surrendering individual rights for the collective common good. The paradoxical concept of less is more. A similar idea applies to how we raise Noah, teaching him painful lessons like not always getting what he wants, having to share, to be polite and considerate – curtailing his natural instinct and immediate advantage in exchange for getting along, fitting in, being liked. Making his life easier. The challenge for Em and me is to feel confident about which freedoms need curtailing, but in many ways it is easy – we just repeat the lessons we learnt from our parents. Like cultural memes they wouldn’t have lasted so long unless they were important and ultimately effective.


Em introduced me to Stir-up Sunday the other day, the day when Christmas puddings are traditionally made. She’s put the date in the calendar, 20th November this year, and she’s planning to get on board and make hers too. As 21st century atheists we don’t have many traditions in our life and we’d like to have more – opportunities to get together with friends and family, share a meal or do something together, create positive memories and reinforce our sense of belonging. Thinking these thoughts we decided to have a bonfire tonight to celebrate the end of winter and the start of spring. With one eye on creating family traditions we borrowed the idea of burning something that symbolises something you’d like to leave behind. So the morning of the first day of spring on our little farm was spent collecting wood and piling it high for our bonfire.


When we came to set it alight after dinner it had been raining and the dark hills would suddenly be backlit by lightning, while distant rumbles of thunder were upstaged by the old, mouldy bamboo poles on the pile which heated up and exploded like gunshots echoing up the valley. Em and I tossed our objects on the fire and welcomed the coming of spring.


“I’m grateful that we made the bonfire and had a nice day.”
(Confused? Look)