What it tastes like

If you want to know what horse feed tastes like or perhaps shredded cardboard with bits of dried sour apricots mixed in it...Buy this box, if you are lucky you'll find a semi-sweet raisin. Good news is its 98% fat free and currently on sale. Bad news is it was no Delite to eat. You'll have jaws so muscular after just one bowl that even Arnold will be jealous.

We are petitioning the company to change their name from 'Sunreal' to 'Sureal'. Or just to simply omit their product off the market entirely...it really wouldn't be that much of a loss. Eating competition athletes have been banned from eating this because it gives them an unfair advantage, its like steroids for your cheeks.

Sounds of my daily commute

Paul usually leaves for the university, or 'Uni' as the peeps refer to it here, 20-30 minutes before i leave for work. I putter around our dime sized apartment, finishing my breakfast, watching the morning news with Paul and Pippa and count out my train fare for my pocket. Then, its out the door to Bear Park, learning center for little ones with small legs and arms and in the process of graduating from nappies to knickers.

The glass door slides shut and a key locks it.
My rubber soled sandals squeak on the slate bridge echoing between the glass sides.
The exit security door beeps its release and i use my entire body weight to push it open.
It slams behind me and re-beeps the lock.
The gravel crunches as i cut across the parking lot.
My soles slap on the stairs as i descend below Britomart and the tunnels and the trains beneath.
The train screeches and clicks on the tracks as it pulls up.
The brakes groan as it stops.
Clinking, moaning, grating of the train as the cars pull and resist one another.
The beep beep beep of the door alarm sounds the ok to open.
The clatter and squeak of the temporary footpath scaffolding as all the pieces groan under the weight of the busy crowd heading off in a myriad of directions.

The espresso machine whirs and steams and i listen for the clink of the ceramic on the wooden table surface as i pass Organic Nutmeg.
The rev of the car engines accelerate up the hill.

The crosswalk chimes the go ahead to go.

The woman with the hula skirt purse and bubblegum pink lipstick's high heels rhythmically click clack on the cement we pass each other.
The miniature button springs squeeze as i push the code to get into the school.
Door hinges noisily protest on rusty hinges.
As i enter, a wave of cries, playful screams, talking, laughing and quietly in the distance, Jack Johnson sings from the cd player in the far corner of the toddler classroom.

My day has begun.

Yeah, that's right, these little kiwis listen to surfer music...

Bear Park

As some of you may have heard, I finally got a teaching job. 'Officially' they have offered me a job as an early childhood educator for the process of my work permit. 'Unofficially' i've been hanging out with little kiddos for a little over 5 weeks now. I work with a team of three other teachers in our classroom since we have the highest count of little persons. We have anywhere from 14-18 kids depending on the amount of time and day of the week the parent wishes their tyke to the come. The way the early level schools work here is the child is transitioned into the classroom at the time of his or her birthday. It has its pluses and minuses. Say you have a couple 5 year olds who have birthdays in January, they'd all start together. Then you have a kid that doesn't turn 5 till March or even April, they wouldn't transition into that class until then. So, while they are now closer to being developmentally equal, they could possibly be socially behind since those kids have already formed relationships with each other. For the most part though i really appreciate their teaching philosophy here and this place, like a good number of European countries, is more family orientated and they take their vacation days religiously. One week, maybe 2 kids are 'on holiday' with their families and the next week another kid is, regardless of actual holiday days. One little girl has been gone with her family the entire time i've been at the learning centre but we get updates from their trip to South Africa that we share with the kids who squeal with delight when they see pictures of her and who fight over who gets to wear her sun hat in the playground.

We apparently have a sister school in Boulder, CO that we have a teacher exchange program with. One of my co-teachers will be heading up there soon for the rest of the year pending her US work visa. I'm not sure how strict they stick to the 'exchange' aspect since i haven't heard news of them sending one down here but small world anyway, huh?

And now that you probably learned more about the education system of a small school on the under, yet beautiful, side of this planet than you ever wanted to know, over and out.

Names omitted to protect the guilty

We now resume our anecdotes of our life down under, but will forever miss the faithful comments of '-just dad'.

Part of the process of working legally down here includes going in to a doctor for that all important 'seal of health' so the government can verify that i'm not going to cause widespread panic with some communicable disease. An appointment was set and my schedule was cleared. Paul had already gotten his pat on the back for good health by a university doctor and returned with a glowing report of how pleasant the experience was. I could only hope mine would be the same.

Its a two day process. The first day you get evaluated, weighed, measured, x-rayed, and blood drawn. The second day you go back for your report of findings with the doc. I sat in the waiting room till my name was called. I was so engrossed in the book i was reading that Paul had to nudge me to remind me my name was Jessica when the doctor came out. I quickly followed her to the exam room. She lead the way into her room looking over her shoulder briefly to tell me A: she was the doctor and B: take off my shirt. I paused for a second thinking i hadn't heard her correctly. I thought she was just going to hand me my medical certificate and say i was good to go. She got to her desk and then turned abruptly toward me, her face expectant and tone demanding. She repeated herself. Where did this doctor train? Possibly back in Germany when black swastikas flew on red flags? I quickly peeled off my sweaty t-shirt. She had me go through a series of reflex tests and muscle measurements all the while barking at me about my health and immediate family history. She asked if i'd ever had anything major happen to me. I paused for a second thinking she could already read my thoughts and since i fault too often on the side of honesty, and by this point i was scared shirtless i blurted out that i had broken my neck back in '04, then immediately regretted it. I began backtracking. I told her i got the seal of approval from a spine and neurological doctor. The damage was already done and she now even more intensely interrogated and added i needed to take off my pants. I did so while asking if this would affect my visa status and she said she didn't think so but as she banged my knee with the knee knocker my left knee didn't jump as far as my right. It felt like she wasn't hitting it in the correct spot but this new discovery sent her into a tizzy and she wrote down that my left lower extremity reflex was inconsistent. She moved the knocker closer to the center and my leg flew out nearly kicking her in the kneecap. I sighed with relief. Maybe now she'd cross out or change what she wrote...clearly i was ok. Nope. The damage was already done. I was defective.

I'll find out if i'm immigration worthy in a couple more weeks.

PS. since this took so long to post due to lack of internet connection i have now found out that my visa request has now been sent to the medical assessor due to possibly having un-immigratable defects.

A Son's Last Words

My father was a huge man, a giant in both stature and intellect. His 6'4", three hundred pound frame dominated any room and his intelligence was evident in even the most casual of conversations. My grandmother told me he read an entire set of encyclopedias, cover to cover, as a sophomore in high school. Most people knew him as Doctor Taylor, a professional at the top of a lucrative medical career, respected by patients and colleagues alike. I knew him as dad.

He was a master chess player and an amateur astronomer with a fascination for the sky and the great beyond. He was a SCUBA diver, a competitive shooter, and a pilot. He was an outdoors man, a Civil War buff, and a Star Trek-y. He was a man who enjoyed life in all its aspects and lived every moment to the fullest. He had a deep, full belly laugh that was infectious and matched his build and personality perfectly. At night I would hear him laugh from my bedroom as he talked with my mother or watched late night TV. For me, those laughs were reassuring. They acted as a warm security blanket against the doubts of darkness and the cold of night. My mother speaks fondly of his rich singing voice and tells me I would kick in her womb to the rhythm of his songs. Their marriage wasn't easy or perfect, but they stayed together and loved each other to the end. Despite a world set against marriage and the vows of matrimony.

If I sound like a son with an inadequacy complex, then you are probably getting an accurate picture. My father presented an image and lived a life that is hard to live up to. He never meant to pressure me or measure me against his accomplishments, but the self-created pressure was there and still is in many ways. As a teenager and young adult, I resented it to the point of irrational and often undirected anger. I had a hard time finding myself or my place in life; very little fit and what did wasn't good enough (in my eyes) or didn't fully remove me from my father's massive shadow. This inner conflict, which erupted into explosive arguments with my dad, came to an apex when I graduated from high school. He wanted me to go to college and I wanted to do things myself, so I joined the Navy and left with little more than a good-bye. I was gone for four years. When I left, my father was a healthy middle-aged man in the prime of his physical and professional life. When I returned, he was in the ravages of a disease that physically destroyed him.

His illness came as a complicated collage of problems as precise and methodical as the man they attacked. Slowly it stripped him of everything that had surrounded the man I knew as my dad. His physical presence, his hobbies and his career were all taken from him over a very short period of time. Even his beautiful singing voice was reduced to a gravelly whisper. But my dad remained. The loving and doting father he had always been shown even brighter in the face of his daunting illness. For over a decade he struggled through ups and downs, never fully recovering but always getting back up. My father fought for more time with his family and lived to see all of his children married and the arrival of three grandchildren. A few months ago, he told me his illness had been a blessing and that he had fallen in love with our mom all over again.

I didn't get to say good-bye to my dad the night he died. But, if I had been afforded that opportunity, I would have put my arms around him and held him the way he used to hold me when I skinned my knees. I would have said, "I love you dad and in many ways I am you. Your voice, your laugh, and your love will always be with me. If I could take your place, if I could take your illness from you, I would, but God hasn't answered that prayer. So, I will do everything I can to make you proud and live up to your expectations, both expressed and unexpressed. You are my role model and hero. Anything I become or am able to accomplish in this life, I owe to you. By no means were you a perfect father and by no means am I a perfect son; but for all your flaws and for all of mine, you are my best friend and a man of whom I am proud to be called son."

I Love You Dad