Naming

The cistern in the back of our Bulli (Bull-eye) house turns out to be ingenious. Through a system of gutters, any rain coming off the roof is collected in the green tank for use in the garden. The antennae is something cute, once you know what it is, like the shadow of a tree that changes from a monster to a friendly shape in the light of dawn. It measures the height of the water in the tank.

Ah, a full tank of water. And the recent rain, drizzly, warm rain, has helped our thirsty yard.

Just up Bulli Road from our house, there's a little Old Constitution village centre...there were three fresh bakeries, a Pizza Piece Place, a post office, and a library. Australians love their libraries; it isn't just Angela; a library for Australians seems to hold an important cultural name that I as of yet do not know or understand.

After we'd got back to the house today, Maddison (nine-year-old realtor with make-up) came over to help me answer questions like the one about the cistern. She seems competent, always in a bit of a hurry, poor thing, and was very kind. She was dressed in the Hooker outfit (I'm really starting to think that they do have a sort of outfit): black and white professional clothes, with a waterfall necklace of white enamel; a Chanel purse, black of course, and a wonderfully multi-colored blonde and dark brown dye on her hair. She still looked nine, for all that, though.

She went around looking for places where screens aren't, and said she'd propose a solution to the owners. After she left, we started unpacking. I've never had the experience of unpacking most stuff out of new boxes; there was plastic and paper litter strewn like confetti all over the polished wood floor. In the midst of it, I put furniture together. My favorite is the outdoor teak table and benches, with the early spring grass-green cushions. We are using it inside, because it was 50% off. It looks awesome, so outdoorsy indoors. We can picnic in our kitchen. I placed a blue silk Indian cloth on it; there are many Indians here, and so you'll find stores full of beautifully embroidered silk and organza-type cloth. It feels nice to be able to say "Indian" without all the Columbus confusion about whether you should even say that. These people are simply Indians, and that's it. I think now we should do the native Americans the service of calling them by their true nationalities--either "Arapahoe" or "Shoshoni" or "Navajo"--or just Americans. When you are around real Indians from India, you realize how little sense it makes to say "American Indians." A name of ignorance perpetuated.

The kids were roaming around the house and the neighborhood, and as I used the Allen wrench, twisting (and I was wondering if even that is backwards here--as if the Australian mind, like the water in the toilet, runs consistently the other way--but maybe I'm just still a little stressed), I listened to them running around upstairs, organizing the red couch, I realized that they were happy.

Once, when we lived in the little dollhouse in Chappaqua (seriously..a wealthy friend of mine had a playhouse that wasn't much smaller), I came back from our Mommy Group in the evening. Ana was five, Sophie three, and TJ a little baby. The windows of that house were across the front, so that at night, if the lights were on, you could see all the different rooms like little aquariums. I stood outside, in the darkening day, and watched the kids like one watches fish. Ana and Sophie were toddling back and forth...living room to kitchen, to dining room...dining room to kitchen to living room. They were very busy toddling, and talking in animated voices; like a reverse Charlie Brown, I could only hear the burbling sounds of their happy little voices. I could see TJ bouncing with excitement in that thing that hung from the doorjamb between the living room and kitchen. I wondered, laughing, how many times he'd been spun around and thought it was a game. Maybe that was the game. I treasured that five minutes, in the dark, in my heart.

No family is always safe; ours is not, nor has happiness been ours without a large measure of sadness and human frailty, but as my mom always said, "Your kids know they are loved. That's all that matters." All parents need a parent to tell them that from time to time. I think this basic need for love in the midst of frailty follows for any community of human beings, whether a college institution or a church, a business, or a discussion group.

I heard those same reverse Charlie Brown sounds upstairs as I put furniture together. They were 'naming' the places, beginning to create memories. They roamed around the neighborhood, looking at Council Chuck-Out piles (you would be amazed at the nice stuff Australians are chucking!) and came home with the find of the century, according to them: White leather hydraulic bar stools,  of a style that reminded me of South African Craig from the Super-Deal Bed Store, who seems to have a liking for cushioned rhinestone bed-heads and yes-oh yes-white leather dressers. I think Craig's time in New Jersey rubbed off on him.

The kids came in the with the stools for their 'bar' in the rumpus room upstairs. I just stared blankly, then remembered that they were beginning to name our life here, and just smiled as the stools were placed ceremoniously, and with animated discussion, upstairs.

Thaddeus, meanwhile, was in meetings at Campion; he is beginning to learn the art of Deanship--I'm not even sure what that is, but perhaps the art of providing a structure so that the faculty and students 'name' the place, and to help them know their value as 'facilitators' of the education and formation of another human being, of the future in some measure. How to help continue the growth here, in a large city marked by "No worries" (which means, I think, "Whatever" on a rather deep level), where many people commute in, including students, of a community of learners, a community of faith? To me, and from just my inexperienced thoughts, Academic Deanship seems the art of a farmer: knowing enough about a lot of things (soil, weather, plant types, which plants can be next to each other to ward off pests, which plants will take from each other) to bring out the value of each person's gifts, to help people know they are valued, loved. Then, I think, community just happens, just like in a family. Just like the human body is made to default into balance and goodness, so communities will grow in love if the things that kill it, the weeds, the frailties, are managed. It sounds hard.

Thaddeus and I talked of the simple things that seemed to work well at WCC--one was the lunchtime community between students and professors. It seems simple in a way--make the lunches attractive by making them free for professors. Free food, like a gift, does indeed help grow community: the Passover was a meal, which Our Lord used as a deep sign of unity. Feasting together is essential, and it is more than the human interest in food.

We heard from the kids' schools. They gave us 70% off. Whoa. That's a clearance sale price. So now I can rejoice in the cute uniforms.

We were so tired after a day unpacking that we gave in and went to Hungry Jack's (Burger King). The man at the counter, Vfinradowner Shifani, took my order. He has a thick Indian accent (when I hear it, I have to almost physically kick Bart Simpson out of my brain). I have a thick American accent. It became an Indo-American war of "vhut?" "whaaht?" "vhut?" "Whaaht?"

After finally calling a truce with Mr. Shifani (we both just slowed down), I was happy to find the the Double Cheeseburger Stunner meal was only about $6, in American dollars about $5, and it comes with a somewhat flattened, beat-up double patty (but has that wonderful msg taste), fries, soda, and sundae. TJ said, "Wouldn't it be bad for us if we ate here every day?" which, in TJ language, means that he knows it wouldn't be good for him, but would like to think about doing it everyday anyway. He may end up a great ethicist, unless he does eat at Hungry Jack's everyday, which would destroy too many brain cells.

Australia Day is coming. I don't know what that means; I have no place in my cultural memory for it, because it isn't quite a 4th (rockets were not being shot in 1901; it was a more reserved,  less mythologized affair, I think...like many things Australian, just a straightforward federation, a step away, as in a dance, from Britain). There was no need, really, here, for a Thomas Jefferson bending beautiful and powerful rhetoric to its breaking point. There are cars around with Australian flags flying, like in the US in the days after 9-11... the Australian flag has a little British flag and the stars to the right are the Southern Cross constellation; the large star on the bottom left is the unity of Australia, the seven points on it being the seven territories united. More Australia Day fun: The Mean Fiddler pub in Kellyville is having an Australia Day concert; the stores are carrying chocolate cakes with little blue, red, and white Australia continents on the top...Australians also do love chocolate--oh yes, maybe something close to the Swiss or Belgians. There are 'chocolate lounges' all over. I'm dying to go in, and afraid to go in.