Recall

If there’s one thing cabbies have, it’s plenty of time to reminisce. A couple of encounters last night took me back to the time my son, Aaron was born.

Early in the evening a fella boarded at the Airport, having just flown back from Wagga. Or, as he called it, "Wagga Wagga." He reported the weather had been bitterly cold, wet and windy..."too windy to even use an umbrella." Thirty years ago I’d spent a winter in the district and thought, yep, that’s about as bad as it gets down there in Wagga.

Much later in Bondi a young fella hailed me for a local brothel. "It’s my birthday," he drunkenly announced, "so I’m shouting myself a root." As you do. "How much ?" I asked, keen to compare prices to that of inner City brothels. "Aww, I dunno," he said. After telling him it was around $300 per hour in town, he laughed, "Well, I’ll just be going the half-hour, that’s if I can get it up after all the piss I’ve drunk."

The young bloke was 25 years old today, a minor milestone of sorts. Which, once again, had me thinking of my son’s milestone: 30 years old this week. Such an occasion gives a parent pause for thought and I spent the next few hours recalling the circumstances of the occasion.

At the time I was surveying cables for Telecom down in the Hume district, east of Wagga, an easy hours drive away. Due to the transient nature of the job my wife elected to relocate from our Bondi home to her home town of Wagga for the impending birth. This allowed me to travel back to Wagga each night, breaking land speed records gunnin’ an F100 V8 along the deserted back roads from Tumbarumba.

Aaron arrived on time in the picaninny dawn with a minimum of fuss. Though in trying to be all ‘new agey’ about the event, I got jelly legs at the crucial moment and had to be helped to the waiting room. Sheesh. Whilst I have no problem responding to horror road accidents, clearing away blood to locate a victim’s pulse, put me in a birth theatre with gleaming scalpels and calculated incisions and I go all flaky. Hopeless.

Anyway, these memories triggered by my passenger encounters were predominant during last night’s shift. Distant memories vividly restored by the magic of birth. Though, of course, the real magic belongs to Aaron’s mother who did all the hard work in giving life to our truly wonderful son. Thanks Mum; happy birthday, mate.

A related emotion last night invoked some of the music of the era and the radio hits I listened to on those long commutes back to Wagga. And thanks to YouTube I’ve found an old favourite from 1977, weirdly updated to 2007 (sorry Sid).

Comments

[Gerogery]

Don't call Wagga Wagga Wagga.
http://www.gregchampion.com.au/lyrics/DontCallWagga.html

[Terri]

Lovely sentimental post. The 70s were my 'coming of age' decade - was that really thirty-odd years ago? Dayum I'm getting old.... Some of the best music was produced in those years. But looking at that list for '77 reminded me there was a lot of crap also. I mean, Abba? Debby Boone? Although I have to admit that even the worst pop songs of the 70s are still better than anything passing for pop today. And let us not forget the horror of disco! My boys are teens today, and their iPods are filled with ACDC, Zeppelin, Ramones, etc. They tell me that rock ceased to exist sometime around 1990. I don't know, because I don't keep up with it anymore. Seems all so 'corporate' or something.

On another note - I never in my life dreamed I would pay for radio. But in the US, satellite radio is incredible! Pick a decade and enjoy commercial-free music. I don't think I could live without it now.

[PQ]

I ived in Wagga in the 70's, a terrific place, and loved my time there.
Who can ever forget the mighty footy exploits of Wagga's near neighbours, Mangoplah Cookadinia United and Grong Grong Matong? Teams full of great strapping farm boys who may have lacked a little in the skills department, but never took a backward step, and win or lose, always partied hard after the game.

Best trout fishing in Australia in the Tumut river and surrounds just out of Tumbarumba, too.

Dammit, reminiscing here, the grass is starting to look pretty green on the other side of the fence over there in the Riverina.