Josephine Moon's Blog, page 22

My son has autism; hear me weep/roar depending on the day

Someone wise once said, write from the scars, not the wounds. The theory goes that the wounds are too raw, too much, and people will turn away. And all year I’ve been waiting until I’m okay enough, until I have a grip on it enough, until I have some kind of ‘great wisdom in hindsight’ to write or talk about it. But I just don’t yet. So here I am, ignoring good advice and writing from the wounds. Turn away now if it’s too much.

Early this year, our son was diagnosed as ASD (that is, he’s on the autism spectrum). Truly, this knocked me sideways for months. I cried and lay awake at night for months. Tears lay just below the surface, ready to spring like a leaky hose, for months.

But I have felt like I’m not supposed to say any of that.

I feel like what people want to hear me say is: “oh, that’s okay, he’s still him; nothing’s changed; it’s just a spectrum that we’re all on; he’ll be fine; he’ll find his own way in the world; gosh, it’s not like it’s cancer or anything!; plenty of ASD geniuses in the world; in fact, he’ll probably find a cure for cancer, ha ha!; hey, it’s practically trendy these days!; everyone’s got issues; everyone is different.’

But despite all the logical understanding I have, this is what I felt: SHOCK. Deep, deep, shock. (Even though, ironically, I’d suspected it from not long after birth.) This shock was followed by FEAR–paralysing, gripping fear for his happiness, his future, and his ability to “be normal” (which is completely counter-intuitive because statistically speaking he isn’t by definition normal; he’s exceptional.) Will he ever have friends? What if he’s picked on and bullied? What if he can’t go to school? We’d already had to pull him from daycare because his sensitivities meant he wasn’t coping. It wasn’t too far a leap to realise that kindergarten/prep/year 1 might not go well either.

Again, none of this worry is logically helpful. Just take one day at a time and all that.

But when someone tells you that your child is different and will struggle in the mainstream world, then every primal, mother lion instinct you have will well and truly rise above any kind of logic and roar the the flaming house down.

I have tried to talk. And these are some of the things others said to me:

I don’t believe there’s anything wrong with him.
He’s four years old; he should be able to go to the toilet properly/get dressed/feed himself by now.
Are you still going to continue to vaccinate? 
Oh, that, yes my child does that [behaviour] too.
All men are like that aren’t they?!
I don’t believe autism is real. 
Have you taken him off gluten? 
Do you worry it’s something you did while you were pregnant?

At times, when I’ve tried to talk to others, I’ve had them change the subject, shift uncomfortably in their seat, look away. I’m not sure if they’re turning away from the topic of autism, or they’re turning away from me, my pain, my tears, my fear. Or maybe it’s their own.

Do you know what I’ve felt most this year? ALONE.

Dreadfully, painfully, frighteningly alone.

Other people’s denial of the diagnosis has shocked me to the core, carved deep wounds and made me afraid to reach out further. I’ve also been afraid to reveal my son’s diagnosis because he’s a person and maybe he wouldn’t want this information to go out to the world?

But then Hubby and I talked about it and decided that hiding and keeping quiet was akin to shame.

There is nothing wrong with our son. But he is different and he does need help and he is, by government definition, disabled. (And you know how much the government would like to get out of handing over monetary assistance for therapies, so perhaps this whole autism thing is real, yeah?) None of this is something to be ashamed of; it just is what it is. But so often in life, anyone who is different in any way is pushed into the shadows. Difference makes us uncomfortable.

Flynn’s paediatrician, who did his final diagnosis, said emphatically: “Let me very clear–there is nothing wrong with your child. He just happens to fall into a very small percentage of people whose brains are wired differently. The problem, though, is that we put them in a situation (such as school) where the majority rules and expects them to just get over it and cope.”

Our early psychologist, who did most of Flynn’s testing, has three children on the spectrum herself and has raised them to be loud and proud about it; to see it as a marvellous stroke of luck that they are truly gifted; to talk openly about it to others and really own it deep inside. Her children can’t even imagine being neurotypical let alone want to be anything other than autistic, so strongly has she instilled in them a sense of pride in who they are.

That’s the kind of mum I want to be for my son. Until then, I’ll just keep taking it a day at a time, loving him to pieces, laughing at his jokes, marvelling at his mind, and gently quietening the fears as they loom, and encouraging hope and pride instead.

The Castle on the Hill

Dear readers, 

Today I have something different for you. A non-fiction piece I wrote several years ago for the now ended ‘One Book Many Brisbanes’ short story competition. It was an investigation into my family history to see if I could prove the folklore of Sir James Blair’s bloodline to my Schoenwald family. 

The Castle on the Hill

By Joanne Schoenwald / Josephine Moon

Official records are supposed to be just that — official, final and, most of all, true.

Truth is of the highest importance to me and I would sooner divorce my husband for lying than having an affair. Even a small white lie will make my internal workings seize in discomfort and keep me awake at night. I’m a terrible liar anyway. I have one of those faces that shows every emotion that I’m feeling and every thought that I’m thinking. People see through me in a second. So I opt for truth. It bothers me when others don’t tell the truth and it especially bothers me when I know that part of Queensland and Brisbane’s history is not exactly as the official records would have you believe. Because I know that Sir James William Blair, former Lieutenant Governor of Queensland, once-President of Tattersalls Club, former Chancellor of the University of Queensland and Chief Justice, despite what the records say, had at least one child.

And I’m going to prove it.

 

The Folklore

In the generations preceding me, no one talked about it much. Isadore was ashamed. Gerard was distracted. Brian was quietly intrigued. The folklore was handed down from generation to generation with a reverent word and a wistful look at Government House in Paddington as the car whizzed down Fernberg Road. I used to look at its huge white columns that were so big they seemed to take up most of the sky, the tall palm trees, the Queensland flag and the rose gardens and think of my great-great-grandfather, James Blair, as a king living in the castle on the hill.

I know now that he didn’t actually live there. But he certainly passed through its halls and my fascination with this notable person, and the folklore he left behind, continues. I want to set the record straight. It irritates away at the back of my mind like a mouse inside the house that I haven’t quite gotten around to doing something about. Or my taxes, which still aren’t done for the year. I want to be able to claim the truth.

An email pops into my inbox, as if psychically prompting me to do something. It is from my uncle, originally, sent to my dad and then forwarded to me. Attached is a picture from the State Library of Queensland’s collection. It is of James Blair in the later years of his life, dressed in full Chancellor robes.

The message simply says, ‘This can’t be all bullshit can it?’

I can see what my uncle means. The genetic similarity to my grandfather, Gerard, and, even more so, to my father, Brian, is staggering. The fairly square head. The mouth that tilts ever so slightly to one side. The soft flesh at the neck. The way the eyes are set. The skin of the hands. It’s all there.

I show my husband.

‘That looks just like your dad. Who is that?’

I recount what I know of the folklore.

‘James Blair fathered a son sometime in the late 1800s, before he was a barrister. He was young at the time, somewhere in his early twenties. The mother was a housekeeper, or maybe a governess. Her name was Molly MacNamara. Money exchanged hands and the child was adopted into a German family, hence my German surname. But he never went on to have any more children, even though he did get married twenty years later.’

The need to prove this once and for all has me hooked. My grandfather and great-grandfather may not have had the wonders of the Internet but with just a couple of clicks through the State Library’s online collection I am in James Blair’s world.

I find several photos of him. I print one out so that I can study it at leisure. He is quite young in this photo and, at first glance, it seems a standard black-and-white snap of a gentlemen from another era in Brisbane, before the turn of the century. But on closer inspection I notice that, although this is a posed, professional photograph, he appears surprisingly unkempt. His hair is a little fluffy at the front, unruly curls and cowlicks refusing to be seated in neat lines. One side of the collar of his starched white shirt juts upwards while the other is folded neatly over. His spotted tie is clearly askew as though he was just about to pull it off over his head when the photographer surprised him. His appearance is finished with a waistcoat, jacket and moustache, but his eyes have a definite glint that I’ve seen in people who have come back to the office after a particularly good luncheon at a local pub. The formal attire and pose blended with the hint of mischief is what really intrigues me and I want to know more about this man.

The online biography says he had no children. But, according to the folklore, this isn’t true. I look again. Actually, it says they had no children, referring to James and his wife. Could the writer have known of the illegitimate child? It’s a subtle difference, but one that opens a window of possibility into the truth. I wonder how many others have looked for these small concessions in the records while they attempted to complete the missing pieces in their heritage. I send the report to my printer, the paper whirs through the spool and I begin to piece together the life of Jimmy Blair. But it’s only a start and I know I need to go to the State Library if I want to finish the story.

 

The man

I have never been to the State Library. I check the map at the beginning of the Refidex, the one that has the CBD in magnified detail, and see that the library is next to the museum and art gallery. I drive across William Jolly Bridge but miss the turn into the Cultural Centre car park, finding myself stuck in heavy traffic down Grey Street. I don’t get to turn around until I have passed the South Bank cinema. I try to imagine this street in the late 1800s, with dirt roads, market stalls, horses and small wooden houses, rather than the multi-storey granite buildings that are here now. What did this look like when James Blair wandered the streets and pubs at night? Were there even streets here, or was it all just farmland?

I turn into the Cultural Centre and wind my way through the orange-lit underground car park and find a space.

Nerves twitter as I head up the stairs to the entrance level.

What if it isn’t true?

From the outside, the library appears quite modern — a block structure that is painted green and interspersed with a significant amount of glass. It is set around an atrium inside. The centre of the ground floor is bustling with mothers and prams and groups of school children and their frantic teachers, their voices bouncing off the tiled floor, reminding me of my days as a teacher.

I check my bag downstairs, am handed a plastic disc in return, and carry my notebook and pen with me, the rules forbidding me to take either my bag or water to the fourth level.

 

 

Once out of the elevator, I teeter around the perimeter of the atrium, unsure of where to go. Eventually, I advance through the dark hallway of the Indigenous Collection and the Australian Library of Art and enter the John Oxley library where I know the heritage collections are stored.

I hand my list of items to a woman with bright red hair.

‘You can find these ones here on the open shelves,’ she says, gesturing to long rows of bookcases. ‘These ones,’ she points to my list, ‘I will have to order for you.’

‘Thank you.’ I am just about to turn around when I hesitate. I want to ask about ways to research my great-grandfather’s adoption, but I imagine that the staff members here are bored silly with repetitive requests from people trying to trace long lost relatives.

‘I know you probably hate hearing this question,’ I begin. She smiles and looks genuinely interested in helping me, so I ask her where I can find more information.

‘Have you been down to Level 3 to see the staff in the family history section?’

‘No.’ I didn’t even know that there was a whole section and staff and dedicated to such activities. I assure her I will head down there after I have looked at my items from the heritage collection.

First thing’s first. I want to know about the man: James William Blair.

I track softly along the khaki-coloured carpet, which is embellished with a light floral pattern, down rows of chest-high white bookshelves, searching the catalogue numbers. I find my first prize — a thin, red vinyl book with old-style typeface, words that have been punched out by an arthritic typewriter. Its absence of desktop publishing thrills me, as if I have taken the first step back in time towards James. It is A Brief Account of the Life and Times of Sir James William Blair. I carry it to a desk positioned next to the tall windows that overlook the ramps on and off the South-East Freeway and the ambling Brisbane River, which is almost identical in colour to the carpet at my feet. The pages crackle within the supremely quiet surrounds.

Inside the foolscap-sized pages, I learn that James Blair’s birth was never actually recorded, but that it was assumed he was either born in 1870 or 1871. He was born to Julia Blair (nee Droughton), an immigrant from West Meath in Ireland, who arrived in Brisbane in 1860, and Gordon Blair, an immigrant from Glasgow in Scotland, who arrived in Brisbane in 1864. James had an older brother, Henry Gordon Blair, and a younger sister, Isabella. He was reportedly a very active member of his school community, well known for getting along with the other boys at Ipswich Grammar School and for writing stories, essays and poems that appeared in school publications. James had a reputation for being wonderful with words and being a moving and charismatic speaker, yet his Senior report card lists average results for all subjects, with the exception of a ‘B’ for English. Despite this, he was known for his higher than average intelligence. It’s intriguing.

A librarian brings me an armful of pieces from the heritage collection, along with some white cotton gloves and a list of instructions.

‘And we don’t allow pens here,’ she says, staring meaningfully at the blue pen wedged in my fingers with which I’ve been scribbling notes. She doesn’t have nearly as much humour in her voice as the woman with the red hair.

‘Really?’

‘The materials are too old and valuable. You’ll need to come up to the counter and get a pencil.’

Armed with my pencil and gloves, I pull out a soft, tattered booklet from inside its plastic covers. Life of the Honourable James William Blair. It is dated 1915. Inside, I find several cartoons from early 1900 depicting Jimmy Blair confidently in the centre of public discussion. Clearly, his ability to persuade people with the spoken word was a commonly accepted phenomenon. This booklet suggests that his lack of academic enthusiasm at school may actually have been a reflection of how much further advanced he was than other students. He was bored, simply.

From the Australian Dictionary of Biography, I learn that he was admitted to the Queensland Bar in 1894. The date jumps out at me. It had to have been roughly around the time that my great-grandfather, Isadore, was born. I make a note to myself to go back and check this. I go on reading. James attended court as junior counsel for the Crown and as counsel in criminal proceedings. He developed a reputation that ‘if the need arose, Jimmy Blair could make a jury weep’. During his first general election as an independent candidate, he distributed heart-shaped cards around Ipswich with two slogans: ‘In the hearts of the people’ and ‘Give Jimmy a vote’.

My earlier observation about the photo of the young James might just have latched on to an unusual split between his personal and professional reputation. On the one hand, here was a man playing by all the rules. His parliamentary policy was conservative. He was opposed to pubs opening on a Sunday and in favour of other trading restrictions. He wanted further enforcement of the Gambling Act, the reduction of Sunday labour and trading, and to prohibit tobacco sales to children. But, despite his strong views in parliament, I find small, almost invisible whispers of his pleasure-seeking ways. He was a bon viveur and a dandy, never seen without a carnation in his breast pocket. One reference in A Brief Account of the Life and Times of Sir James William Blair is not so subtle. On page nineteen, I find that one Frank Hardy refers to James as ‘a fat, jovial whisky-drinking fellow who had married a barmaid’.

I read through pages and pages of accounts of James’ dealings in parliament and the courtroom, but the specifics are lost on me. My brain feels fat and heavy. I lean back in my chair, stretching, and looking out at the changing light across the surface of the river as the sun sinks lower, taking deep breaths to break up the lists of facts and figures in my head.

I prefer to read of his human-interest activities. For instance, he created the Children’s Court and raised the age of consent from fourteen to seventeen. These things I understand and can relate to more than the lists of lawsuits and Acts and political wheeling and dealing.

As a former teacher, I glow with pride at the effort he put into reforming education, in particular his passion to extend the availability of scholarships to all who qualified. I even find reference from Montessori educators who claim that James Blair spoke of many education developments in glowing terms and that his role as Minister for Education (1912 to 1915) ‘ranks as one of the most innovative and progressive… in any of the Australian States, his period in office… marking dramatic changes in education in Queensland’.

These were also the years that James was a newly wed. Interestingly, when James married May Gibson in 1912, he was forty years old, while she was just 21, and there is barely any official reference to her in the papers. Once again, his private life seemed to have been overlooked in favour of his productive official life.

I rub my eyes. I am getting hungry and thirsty but the John Oxley library will be closing at five o’clock and I want to read everything that I can. It is Thursday and the lower levels of the library are open until eight o’clock so I know that I will be able to skip downstairs for a bite to eat before heading to the family history section on Level 3. I ignore my dry mouth and rumbling tummy and read on.

James became Chief Justice in 1925, was knighted in 1930 and acted as Deputy Governor in snippets from that year on, served as Administrator in 1932 and was finally officially appointed Lieutenant Governor on 23 May 1933. It was during these appointments that he would have found himself, at times, in the castle on the hill. I smile, thinking of my childhood fantasy of him living there as a king.

I reach pages that discuss James’ role in the University of Queensland. I know that I have driven along Blair Drive, which is part of the St Lucia campus, running past the playing fields, beach volley ball area and tennis and basketball courts. I am pleased yet again to read that he argued for the waiving of all fees, his passion for education continuing through his years. He became a member of the university senate and was elected as its Chancellor in 1927, a position he held for the next seventeen years. After accepting the gift of two hundred acres of land at St Lucia from Dr J Mayne, James led the upgrade and relocation of the university from its location in old government house at the end of George Street. I can almost feel his fervent passion for the project rising from the pages. Sadly, World War II interrupted the progress and he did not get to see its completion before he died in 1944. I think back to the castle on the hill. Like so many kings throughout history, James started something wonderful, believing that it would one day be great, eager to leave behind something for future generations in his kingdom.

James retired from the bench in 1940 but remained Lieutenant Governor and Chancellor of University of Queensland until he died. One of the reasons James was remembered so fondly was because he was one of the first of the young Australians to be born in this country and achieve significant public and official success, taking over from the British forefathers and birthing a new Queensland.

I open my last plastic envelope with my white-gloved hands. Inside is the original letter from Premier William Forgan Smith, addressed to James at his retirement from the bench. It has long vertical creases, as though it had been folded and placed in the back of a drawer in his house for safekeeping. The letter offers James glowing praise for his service his ‘brilliant career’. He tells James of the many ‘gifts which won for [him] a distinguished place in Parliament.’ He goes on to say that James did his ‘duty faithfully and well’ and ‘retained the esteem and confidence of the community’.

I am proud. Truly proud. And I want to stand up in this perfectly quiet library and shout to the people silently clicking away at computers that my great-great-grandfather was a very good and clever man.

James died on 18 November 1944 at the Mater Misericordiae Hospital in South Brisbane from cerebro-vascular disease, only four years before the birth of my father, his great-grandson. I wonder if he thought about his lost son, Isadore, as he lay dying, and regretted his decision to let him go. The world had changed dramatically since the 1890s. Would he make the same decision again, knowing that he would have no other children? I believe he regretted the decision to give Isadore away and I believe this is evidenced in the efforts he put into child protection and education services throughout his career.

In Hansard, there is record of James saying, ‘The test of slavery, to my mind, is the price paid, and whenever a man pays a price for anything, whether it is to gratify ambition, whether it is to get a seat in parliament… then for the time being he is the slave of that ambition.’ James had been a young man with clear ambition and his child was not part of that future vision. Perhaps he did spend the rest of his life paying the price, a slave to the silence.

 

The chase

I’m fired up now and I want the proof that James is my relation. I head downstairs again, punching at the silver number in the elevator, desperate to refresh myself with food and water, which I do at the café on the ground floor before leaping once more into the elevator, up to Level 3. It’s four o’clock and it’s the middle of winter, the sky’s light changing fast with every minute.

There is dim chatter on the third floor. Despite the quiet, the vibe here is energetic. There are dozens of young, international students logged onto computers, making use of the free Internet. There is red carpet on this level but with the same pattern imprinted on it as the fourth level. There are odd, egg-shaped seats that look like space pods, reminding me of Mork and Mindy and the egg-shaped vessel that brought Robin Williams’ character to Earth.

A library assistant shows me to the family history section, a square in the back corner, sectioned off from the rest of the floor. Here, the feeling is patient, older and one of solidarity. Us against them. Everyone with a purpose — to find their past, to find the proof, to fill in the blanks — and everyone helpful. I make connections instantly. Malcolm is searching for a long lost uncle, a drover from Julia Creek. Cindy, like me, is trying to find the missing pieces left from an adoption. And George, with his impeccable suit, huge glasses and thinning grey hair scraped hopefully to the side, comes every day, on a mission to complete a mammoth family history.

I start by trying to find evidence of the adoption. I’m convinced that, since James Blair lived in Ipswich and Brisbane, the S family, who adopted his child, must also live in the area. The Internet is a maze of immigration records out of which I extract exactly nothing. Possibly, the surname has been anglicised, and the variations are too numerous to contemplate. As well, the online database requires me to search in categories of years of immigration and states in which they landed. There are too many variables. If I was a mathematician, I might be able to work out the formula for possibility times possibility times possibility. I’m not a mathematician, but I know the answer here is a big fat dead end.

I seek help from a librarian. She is patient, despite the pressure of the constant stream of people to her desk. She points me toward the hard copy records of immigration, conveniently broken down into states, shipping ports and year groupings. This is better. I would prefer hard copy books over electronic guesswork any day. At least I don’t have to spell everything perfectly to search the lists.

I pick up an old musty index of immigrants into Brisbane ports in the era that I believe the Schoenwalds must have arrived. The pages are yellowed, the cover mouldy at the edges, the damp smell tickling my nose. I sit on the floor between the shelves, cross-legged, and flick through thousands of pages of lists of people who came to Australia. Book after book passes through my hands, the pile of discarded ones rising higher and higher beside me. I have not found the Schoenwalds, nor any name that even slightly resembles them, but I do have an appreciation of just how many immigrants came to this country at the end of the 1800s. My mind plays with the images of weary travellers walking shakily down the ramps to the wharves, shading their eyes from the sun and carrying their suitcases — everything they own — on their way to find a new life.

Finally, I reach the last of the books, but I’ve found nothing. I am just about back to the computers when I pass the end of the bookcase. There is a lone index sitting on top. Someone has left it there. It should have been in the carrel with the rest of the indexes but instead it’s as though it is sitting there, just for me. I read the title. Immigration through the Port of Maryborough (Queensland). I hear my heart quicken its pace even before I feel it in my chest. The Schoenwalds could have come through Maryborough. Easily. I place everything in my hands down, carefully. This could be it. A gift. A parcel of serendipity just for me. I flick to the S directory, holding my breath, expecting to see their name, my mouth ajar in concentration.

But it’s not there.

It’s dark outside now but I’m desperate to find something, anything, that can confirm the folklore. I search through electoral records, the data scrolling in front of my eyes on the big television-like viewing screens. Perhaps they weren’t in Brisbane after all. The pixels zoom quickly across pages and my eyes water with the strain of focusing. I try variations of spelling but can find nothing. I try searching the first three letters of their surname, but still get nothing even close. The German father’s name was Frederick so I search for that, finding hundreds of them from that era. But none that match the Schoenwalds. Perhaps, as immigrants, they weren’t yet Australian citizens and therefore not entitled to vote. Instead, I search for the birth mother, last name MacNamara. After several minutes, I realise that there are no women on the roll. Of course! Women didn’t even have the vote then, something my modern mind finds almost impossible to believe. My next stop is the postal directory for Queensland. Reams of purple coloured transparencies pass through the glass viewer and across the screen, but still there is no evidence of the Schoenwald family.

I sigh and dig through my conversations with Dad.

‘Grandfather grew up around Augathella. He rode his bike once from Charleville to Augathella.’

Augathella?

Adrenalin shoots me like an arrow. I remember reading that James Blair took a road trip with a few other young men through central Queensland in an early model Panhard. Maybe it was on this boys’ trip that he met Molly MacNamara and that was when Isadore was conceived. I rush back through my notes to check the dates. It was a remarkable trip, travelling over five and a half thousand kilometres through the red dust of Queensland in one of the first cars in Australia. No air conditioning, CD players, mobile phones, RACQ or satellite navigation systems.

But the date was 1905. Too late for Isadore to have been conceived.

Frustrated, I approach the help desk. There has to be a way in.

‘Let’s start from the beginning,’ the woman says. She is small and delicate and has an air of someone who is very quiet and very gentle, or possibly someone who is recovering from a long illness. She shakes her head at me. ‘There are no official adoption records for that era. Many were handled privately through a lawyer.’

James certainly would have had plenty of access to lawyers.

‘What else do you know?’ she asks.

I tell her that the mother’s name is Molly MacNamara. She searches the database, just as I have done. Again, nothing comes up. I am suddenly very tired. This is hopeless.

She turns her huge monitor around so that I can see what she is doing. She taps her finger lightly on the edge of the keyboard, a thinking gesture. Then, she changes the spelling to McNamara. Spelling has never been my strong point. Instantly, many names fill the screen but, again, there is no Molly.

‘Molly,’ she says quietly.

I thump my forehead with the palm of my hand. ‘Of course! Molly is probably a nickname of some sort. Everyone in my dad’s family went by something other than their real name.’

‘Yes,’ she agrees. ‘Molly is an Irish name and often a pet name in a family.’

My moment of triumph is quickly dashed. ‘Then how do we find her?’

‘What’s the child’s name?’

‘Isadore.’

She searches the birth records for any Isadores born between 1860 and 1899. Nothing. Then, she changes the spelling to Isidore and hits the search button. My muscles tighten. I am tired now. My eyes are shockingly fatigued from the hours of searching through records of tiny, tight typeface. The library will be closing soon and I have found nothing at all that confirms the folklore. Yet I know. I know in my heart, in my gut, in my genes, that the folklore is true.

The computer takes an age processing the data. A small circle on the screen moves around and around indicating that it is still searching. I think about James’ son, Isadore, my great-grandfather who, at fifteen, jumped on his bicycle and cycled from Charleville to Augathella, some eighty-four kilometres. He came to Brisbane and lived at Herston, only a few suburbs from the Brisbane home of James Blair. He married Margaret Fingleton of the well-known Brisbane Fingletons — Magistrate, Diane, and swimmers Tony and John whose stories appear on film in Swimming Upstream. He was a man who lost his wife in childbirth as she brought Gerard, my grandfather, into the world as a bloodied squawking baby, and then raised nine children on his own. A man who carried the shame of being an ‘illegitimate’ child of a prominent public figure, knowing where he came from but never being able to do anything about it and never asking his birth father for anything. A man who, in his final years of life, lost his lower leg to diabetes but refused to use crutches, instant stomping terrifyingly around the house using a stool as leverage under the stump. A man who could not hold back the bitter anger that had broiled throughout his life, frightening his grandchildren as it seeped out in growls and sharp words.

I think about him — and, then, there his is.

On the screen in front of me. I had been spelling his name incorrectly. Isidore McNamara. Born to Agnes McNamara on 8th September 1892. He is the only record for that time and those parameters. Isidore. McNamara. The dates fit perfectly. The associated code says that he was born in Ipswich, which also fits perfectly. The father is ‘unknown’, his anonymity bought with cash. All the pieces slot into place. Proof. It is him. My great-grandfather.

The folklore is true.

The records show that Isidore McNamara was married to Margaret Fingleton in 1914 as Isidore S. Somewhere after his birth, the adoption occurred, his name was changed and he was taken to Augathella, only to return to Brisbane, walking distance from his father.

I am wildly impressed that the oral folklore in my family was passed on so successfully, with only a few minor bumps along the way, and that I am finally able to set the truth free. Some say that Molly McNamara was a governess on theSchoenwalds sheep station. Some say she was a housekeeper in the employ of the Blairs. We don’t know. But I feel sadness in her story. Sad that she suffered such disgrace and pressure as a single woman. Sad that she had to give up her precious child. Sad that she died young and unmarried not long after. My family tree is a family forest and one that I’m not sure that I will ever fully explore. But I do feel connected to these people and I feel that their truth needs to be told.

I drive home past Government House, gazing through the gates at its enormity and whiteness, glowing in the frosty moonlight. The castle on the hill holds the spoken words and unspoken thoughts of James Blair in its walls. It is a silent observer of the characters that have passed through its halls. It has been there since 1864, watching. Listening to those who have argued for a better future, to those who have made love in darkened corners, to those who have danced in the dining room, to those who have cried tears of frustration, and to those who have made decisions that have changed Queensland’s history. So many stories woven into the fabric of the castle. Now, I can claim one of the stories for myself, as truth.

_______________

References

[1] Gill, J.C.H., ‘Blair, Sir James William (1870-1944)’, Australian Dictionary of Biography, Volume 7, Melbourne University Press, 1979, pp 317-321

2 Gill, J.C.H., ‘Blair, Sir James William (1870-1944)’, Australian Dictionary of Biography, Volume 7, Melbourne University Press, 1979, pp 317-321

3 Gill, J.C.H., ‘Blair, Sir James William (1870-1944)’, Australian Dictionary of Biography, Volume 7, Melbourne University Press, 1979, pp 317-321

4 Gill, J.C.H, 1977, A brief account of the life and times of the Honourable Sir James William Blair, K.G.M.G., Chief Justice of Queensland, paper read to a general meeting of the Royal Historical Society of Queensland, 28 July 1977, Brisbane

5 Australian Association for Research in Education, Montessori Education in Australia and New Zealand — The Queensland Experience, http://www.aare.edu.au/96pap/odond96009.tx, accessed 31/7/2008

 

 

Bibliography

Australian Association for Research in Education, Montessori Education in Australia and New Zealand — The Queensland Experience, http://www.aare.edu.au/96pap/odond96009.tx, accessed 31/7/2008

 

Gill, J.C.H, 1977, A brief account of the life and times of the Honourable Sir James William Blair, K.G.M.G., Chief Justice of Queensland, paper read to a general meeting of the Royal Historical Society of Queensland, 28 July 1977, Brisbane

 

Gill, J.C.H., ‘Blair, Sir James William (1870-1944)’ in Australian Dictionary of Biography, Volume 7, Melbourne University Press, 1979, pp 317-321

 

Johnson, Eileen B. (compiler), 2002, Immigration through the Port of Maryborough (Queensland), Maryborough

 

Smith, William Forgan, personal communication to James William Blair, 1940

Theodore, E.G. and Filhelly, J., 1915, Life of the Honorable James William Blair, Campaign Committee of the Queensland Labour Party

Gill, J.C.H., ‘Blair, Sir James William (1870-1944)’, Australian Dictionary of Biography, Volume 7, Melbourne University Press, 1979, pp 317-321

Gill, J.C.H., ‘Blair, Sir James William (1870-1944)’, Australian Dictionary of Biography, Volume 7, Melbourne University Press, 1979, pp 317-321

Gill, J.C.H., ‘Blair, Sir James William (1870-1944)’, Australian Dictionary of Biography, Volume 7, Melbourne University Press, 1979, pp 317-321

Gill, J.C.H, 1977, A brief account of the life and times of the Honourable Sir James William Blair, K.G.M.G., Chief Justice of Queensland, Paper read to a general meeting of the Royal Historical Society of Queensland, 28 July 1977, Brisbane

Australian Association for Research in Education, Montessori Education in Australia and New Zealand — The Queensland Experience, http://www.aare.edu.au/96pap/odond96009.tx, accessed 31/7/2008

Literary Events for July

Hello!

I have two exciting literary events this month:

one (with lunch and wine) at the Bayside in Brisbane at the Grand View Hotel,
and the other at the Burdekin Readers & Writers Festival in North Queensland (with a smashing lineup of authors!).

Read on…

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So first off, come join me for a literary lunch at the Grand View Hotel–Queensland’s oldest licensed hotel. Here’s the spiel:

Josephine Moon, Australia’s first foodie fiction author, describes her novels as ‘books like chocolate brownies’– rich, inviting and a treat for soul, but with chunky nuts to chew on. She is the author of The Tea Chest, The Chocolate Promise and The Beekeeper’s Secret, all published internationally. Enjoy a two-course lunch with wine while Josephine entertains you with the delightful stories behind her books and readings that will make your mouth water.

Sound good? You can book tickets here.

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Next up is the Burdekin Readers & Writers Festival, 15-17 July in North Queensland.

Three days of wonderful programming and a ripper lineup of Australian authors, including:

Kimberley Freeman, Frances Whiting, Nick Earls, Graeme Simsion, Susan Johnson, Morris Gleitzman, Katherine Howell, Matthew Condon, Annie Buist, Lesley & Tammy Williams, David Metzenthen, and one of my all-time heroes, John Marsden.

I’ll be there for:

Beer & Bubbles on the lawn

Dinner with the Authors (Greek banquet… oh yeah!)

High Tea with Josephine Moon (who could resist??)

Happy Hour with the Awesome Foursome (in conversation with Susan Johnson, Kimberley Freeman and Frances Whiting… and apparently we’re going to share our secrets on how we get that whole work-life-parenting balance thing happening)

In conversation with Lynne Butterworth 

Lunch with the Authors

Wow! There’s a lot of food in this program, which sounds right up my alley! This looks like a really rich program so if you can escape the cold and head north for the weekend, why not come along? Book tickets here!

 

 

Should I quit writing?

I am distressed.

Right now I feel like never writing another book. And I’ll try to explain why as simply as I can, trying to untangle the messy political drama that is about to change the entire Australian publishing industry and how it affects me personally.

The government has proposed and recommended that Australia does two things:

Introduce parallel importation
Drastically reduce copyright protection to just 15 years.

(You can sign the petition to tell the government you don’t want this to happen right here.)

How does parallel importation affect me and you?

The first point I want to make sure you know is that our contemporaries, the USA and the UK do not have parallel importation. We would be going against them. (Which doesn’t make sense, right?)
The next point I want to make is that New Zealand lifted their parallel importation laws and rather than seeing cheaper books their book prices have risen to approximately $37 a book.

When I was offered my first publishing deal (after a long battle of 12 years to crack into my dream career), I was lucky enough to have three publishers offer to buy The Tea Chest. The two biggest offers came from Allen & Unwin and from Penguin (now Penguin Random House). This was a painful decision. Who in their right mind wouldn’t want to be with either of these stellar publishing houses? In the end, I chose Allen & Unwin, in part because it is Australia’s largest wholly Australian owned publishing house, and because I was a total newbie to the scene and I had seen the merger of Penguin and Random House in Canada not long before, and I wasn’t sure what would happen if the same thing happened in Australia. (An aside, I have also published with Penguin Random House since then and still consider them a stellar publishing house.)

As it turns out, my very choice to choose Australian owned may come to hurt me after all.

Parallel importation of books is exceptionally complicated, but let me give you one example of how this might affect my publisher. Books are published by ‘territories’. Australia/New Zealand is one; the UK/Ireland is another; and the USA is another. What this means is that books sell into those territories, giving publishers the chance to make their money in their own territory, without having to compete with the whole world. It also means that they can acquire the rights to publish books from other territories. So Allen & Unwin, for example, has the rights to publish Harry Potter here in Australia. As you can imagine, that gives the company good cashflow. That cashflow and security is exactly what they use to reinvest in their Australian authors, and gives them the change to invest in (and take a financial chance on) new and emerging authors here in this country. With that guaranteed cashflow taken away? Well, let’s say that if I was an aspiring career author I would be losing a lot of hope of being published at all.

For me? I am lucky that I have a foot in the door, a good sales record and publishing track record. Still, my publisher is wholly Australian owned. It doesn’t have the backing of the multi-billion dollar publishing houses that are internationally owned to help it through the choppy waters of parallel importation.

Cheaper book prices for you? Not if New Zealand is any example to go by.
The market flooded with cheaper overseas books at the exclusion of our more costly Australian-written books? Highly likely.
A destruction of Australian literature? Highly likely.

How do changes to copyright affect me?

 

Right now, copyright laws in Australia are in alignment with the UK and USA, giving authors full rights over their work for the term of their life plus 50 years, which ensures that any royalties owing to their estate will go to the next generation.

The government has proposed and recommended reducing copyright laws to just 15 years, giving us the lowest copyright protection in the world.

The government claims that a book’s commercial life rarely extends past 5 years. They also claim that most authors aren’t motivated to write by making money, and those that do make money earn such an insubstantial amount that protecting their commercial rights is ridiculous.

Okay, firstly, I can name many Australian authors who are making good money from their writing–enough money to support themselves as a full time job, myself included. (And, dear government, we’re paying a lot of tax to you too.)

Secondly, even if we take that as a valid point (which it isn’t, just to be clear), what about our rights in intellectual property? What about our right as an artist to have ownership over the piece of art we created (generally spending years at a time to create)? What about our right to have our name attributed to our work 15 years after it was made?

What about my right to NOT have to stand by and watch someone take The Tea Chest and reprint it as their own work, make money from it AND put their own name to it?

What about my son’s right NOT to have to watch the same? Or to read his mother’s book at school with someone else’s name on it? How in any way, shape or form is this logical, ethical or fair?

What about my right not to have my heart broken by this insane treachery?

Does this all sound far fetched? It’s not. Do I sound panicked? I am.

So, yeah. This makes me not want to write anything again. Because I would far rather quit writing than to see my work end up in anyone’s hands to be done with as they please and have to sit by and watch helplessly while it’s torn apart.

Or perhaps, I should leave this beautiful country I call home to reside somewhere else that will give me intellectual property rights. And maybe all of our artists and thinkers will do the same, leaving Australia duller and with a shrinking identity because its voices have been stolen.

Please, Australia. Don’t let this happen.

Please, at least, sign this petition.

Thank you.

 

Feel the Love at Goodness Gracious Cafe

LOVE. This is the first word that comes to mind when I think of Goodness Gracious Gluten Free & Organic Cafe in Yandina on the Sunshine Coast. The women who run this charming abode (Jill and Nicky) radiate love.

But I’ll get back to this. For now, I’m going to sidestep a little to a time in my life when I was really sick. Stay with me…

About thirteen years ago, my health was in a terrible mess, diagnosed with chronic fatigue syndrome (CFS), Hashimoto’s Disease, hypothyroidism, a host of rheumatological issues and more. It was an intensely frightening time, unable to work to make the money I needed for the many treatments that doctors and natural therapists claimed would help. Unable to afford them, I had to make Big Life Decisions. But one of the easiest decisions I made was that I needed to invest the little amount of money I had into FOOD. It was clear to me that high quality food would be the basis of everything after that.

I started going to the Northey Street City Farm organic markets each week. And then for whatever reason, I found myself drawn to eating at Govinda’s (Hare Krishna) cafe in Brisbane city. Something that deeply impressed me about the Hare Krishna lifestyle was how important food was in their service and spirituality. So much so, I was told, that to be a person elevated to a food prep position was something of an honour, something that had to be earned. To prepare food in a Hare Krishna kitchen included loving and blessing the food before it was eaten.

Call me crazy if you like, but I felt some deep healing on those Sunday evenings spent at Govinda’s.

And this takes me back to Goodness Gracious Cafe. From the moment you pull up on the footpath you are surrounded by love–in the welcoming chalkboard signs; in the organic garden that’s lovingly tended by these women; in the heart-shaped art pieces hanging from the ceiling; in the locally-made handmade artworks for sale; in the groups of women knitting at the tables, with their rows of stitches becoming blankets for the homeless in the local area; and most certainly, most definitely, in the food.

Everything here is baked on site inside this post-war home on stumps–a home that has a fascinating history including being a railway station master’s home and having had a resident spirit called ‘Alfred’ walking the rooms (who was later ‘released’ when his daughter, who’d also lived in the home, happened upon the cafe and took him home with her).

Jill and Nicky and their friendly staff are always there with a warm smile, knowing many of their customers by name. Their gratitude for living their dream is evident, with the cafe and its customers supporting more than half a dozen different charities, both local and overseas. And their gastronomic creations never let you down.

My favourites include the Turkish delight hot chocolate (with real rose water); the chocolate, blueberry and lavender mud cake (seriously, you MUST try this!); the banana pancakes with homemade caramel sauce and banana ‘nice cream’ (dairy free); the chicken crepes and salad; the paleo lemon bar; and, well, pretty much everything else on the menu too.

There is some kind of deep wisdom that tells us that to provide food with love, and to eat food with love, is one of the most powerful things we can do. That’s why so many of our memories involve food with loved ones. That’s why we say ‘you are what you eat’. That’s why we go home for a ‘home cooked meal’. That’s why we make our loved ones soup when they’re ill.

Hippocrates is reported to have said, “Let food be thy medicine.”

Whether it’s intentional or not, the love and care that comes from these women’s hands infuses every mouthful. Just like my time at Govinda’s all those years ago, I come away from Goodness Gracious every time feeling blessed, nurtured and a little bit healed. And I walk away feeling that the world is a good place after all.

 

Goodness Gracious Cafe: 3 Conn St, Yandina. 

Opening Hours

Mon – Fri  8:00am – 4:00pm

Saturday  7:00am – 2:00pm & Sunday  7:00am – 1:00pm

(This post is part of a series of fortnightly reviews by Josephine Moon and Ashley Jubinville of healthy places to eat on the Sunshine Coast.)

 

Husk & Honey (Food Tour of the Sunshine Coast)

(A guest post today from my friend and tour partner, Ashley Jubinville, Kitchen Coach.)

Like the quiet little bees that go about their service of pollinating flowers so we can exist – without question or many thanks from us, this little café has been diligently going about “business as usual” in quiet little Nambour for over 4 years! The difference though is that their “business as usual” is really quite extraordinary and so refreshingly authentic.

If the reference was suiting enough already, the café’s name happens to be Husk & Honey AND my café-touring friend Josephine Moon has most recently released her wonderful foodie-fiction book called The Beekeeper’s Secret too (lovingly set on the Sunshine coast)!!! How fitting?! …you probably think I planned that one…. Haha

For those of you diligent foodies out there who are looking for a refreshing break from the stress of finding somewhere that you can eat without concern, the short drive out to the very funky Queen St. in Nambour is highly worth your while. There is not an ounce of gluten to be found anywhere in their kitchen, nor any other grains for that matter, and they make everything from scratch!!! – like everything! Even their tea blends, non-dairy milks, and hot chocolates! I LOVE YOU!

Next time you go, please pass on an extra bit of gratitude on my behalf to the lovely Johnny, Tashi, Sam, & Sarah for me – for their dedication to healthy, homemade goodness, authenticity, and happy service! And for anyone wanting a copy of any of your Josephine Moon books signed by the lovely Jo herself, you MAY just find her writing her next book in the cosy corner of Husk & Honey one day too!

Keep up the great work, smiles, and AWESOME food Husk & Honey – we need more like you to lead the way and help inspire people with what is possible. For all you Sunshine Coasters, lets ‘vote’ wisely with where we choose to spend our dollars – for the future of our food supply like the good bees we can bee!

The Bees Behind the Book

 

‘You could come and see my bees if you like. I’d be happy to show you around the hives.’

The beekeeper was standing at my local market stall, his pyramids of honey for sale around him. We’d been talking for about a minute and a half when he made his offer, one I think he actually regretted the moment it came out of his mouth. But all I could think was it’s a sign!

When I begin research on a book, I look for signs. Signs that I’m going the right way. Signs that the universe/muse/creative spirit (whatever you like to call it) is onboard with what I’m doing and will support the direction my work is going.

I’d previously been researching coffee for my third foodie fiction novel, but although I was really intellectually interested in the history of coffee, particularly, I knew I didn’t have enough fire in the belly to sustain it over the course of a couple of years to get a whole novel out. So I let it go and started looking for something else, and everywhere I went I saw bees. I started reading about them in books and online and watching loads of YouTube videos on bee handling. And then I met the beekeeper and he offered to take me to his hives, which was so random that I knew I was definitely on the right path.

I took the beekeeper’s number but later thought, hmm, as nice as that offer was, maybe I shouldn’t actually be heading out into the bush with a complete stranger!

But the universe wasn’t done with me yet. I continued my research and went to the Ginger Factory’s Super Bee Show here on the Sunshine Coast. Gayle Currie, head beekeeper, conducted the show and her knowledge and enthusiasm was addictive. We got talking over a number of weeks and then she too invited me to see her bees.

What I learned while researching and writing this book is that there is no ‘one’ way to handle and keep bees. Beekeepers all do things differently (much like horse people or dog people do, I suppose). And there’s a huge range of humane, ethical and holistic ways to do this (or not). Something I loved so much about Gayle was her very obvious and real love for her bees, her exceptional reverence and respect for them, and her very ‘feminine’ way of handling them. Those values and details carried through to Maria, my main character, who treats her bees as family.

Until I started researching bees, I didn’t even realise that we had an array of native bees in Australia. I always thought bees were great, but I had no idea just how outstanding they are and how much humans depend on them and how much we need to be urgently acting to save them right now. I do hope my book inspires others to love bees, just as I fell in love with them when researching.

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This post is currently featured as a guest post on ‘Love That Book’, a blog by Melissa Sargent.

Pic credit “Autan” from Flickr.

 

Kunara — a health foodie’s dream

Dear friends,

As Australia’s first foodie fiction author, I take my position seriously and therefore I have decided to make the ultimate sacrifice for you and eat my way around the Sunshine Coast in order to let you know what’s out there. No, please, no need to thank me. It’s my service to you

The Beekeeper’s Secret has taken flight!

I am so very proud to let you know that my third foodie fiction novel, The Beekeeper’s Secret, has taken flight and is now out on the shelves around Australia and New Zealand (and will be out in the UK/Ireland in July).

I had a great time down in Sydney last week launching this book and was thrilled to be invited to Booktopia to sign a couple of hundred books (which you can order your signed copy here). And I was very blessed to have my friend, Ashley Jubinville, to accompany me, spending an extraordinary number of hours creating a stunning beehive cake for the morning tea spectacular with my publishers.

Thank you to everyone who has bought the book so far and for those who’ve sent me great feedback and/or taken the time to write reviews online. It is much appreciated.

Fly free, little book xx

Clara, the no-longer-unsung-hero

Dear readers

 

 
(Okay, it’s not actually Clara; but it could be. Image copyright ‘minoir’, Flickr)

 

This is Clara Finlay, who shall forever henceforth no longer be an unsung hero. Clara is one of the very rare breeds of professionals who work under completely unrealistic timeframes with nearly always unreasonable demands, with a near-zero error rate, who isn’t paid nearly enough and almost never gets any credit. What’s worse, it’s really difficult for these people to argue for a pay rise because when they do their work at their absolute best… No. One. Can. Tell. They leave no trace; they leave no calling card. They are the ninjas of the publishing industry. They are our editors.

How do I know this? Because I used to be an editor. A good editor, yes, one, worth her weight in salt. But Clara here is a great editor, worth her weight in saffron. I specifically asked (okay, begged) my publisher if I could work with Clara again after working with her on The Chocolate Promise and said, “She will make me work like a sled dog and eat kilos of chocolate but my book will be so much better for it.” And I’m confident to say that during the edit for The Beekeeper’s Secret, both the former and latter came true, and my book is a much, much better novel because of Clara’s nimble ninja fingers.

I’m not talking about picking up typos, spelling mistakes and punctuation errors. This is not what editors do. (Well, yes they do but it’s only a tiny portion of what they do. There is also a proofreader who comes after that who takes a last sweep for those things.) No, what a great editor does is to get inside your mind as an author and somehow know what it is you were trying to say and then help you say it better; get inside your character’s mind and help your character say it better; provide you summaries of reflection, analysing your characters and plots and then showing you what it looks like to a reader (which might be probably is totally different to what it looks like to you as a writer).

A great editor will ask literally hundreds of questions of you. Questions like:

Did you realise that you used the word ‘disquiet’ on page 86, 134, 257 and 301? Did you mean to do that?
On page 33, Alice shrugs. Why? Is she annoyed, bored, or rude? To which as an author I might think, actually I have no idea why! And then I have to have a conversation with Alice to find out why she is shrugging. And Alice might tell me she is bored, or she might tell me that she is remembering when she was five years old and … a new scene is born that gives an entirely different depth to Alice and infinitesimally more satisfaction to the reader.
This here, where you reference legal document XYZ and you say it means ABC… I looked it up and to me it meant XXX. Which is it? To which, I need to go and research the document again and find clarity, or I might decide to remove it altogether and rewrite the paragraph around it.
I think you have a timeline problem. In 1975 Mary was 6, but on page X in 1984 she is 23, and then a decade later on page XX she is 35 and her sister, who was 8 in 1974 is now… Could you check throughout? OMG, I hate these questions! There is a lot of chocolate eating over these ones as I pull out my calculator to start all over again and search the ENTIRE bloomin’ document to find EVERY instance where this could be wrong! (Cocktails may also ensue.)
I’m not sure you can say this? I think it might be copyright. Oops! Lucky!
Do you think George would say this? He seems a bit more conservative to me.
Do you think Marcia would think this? She seems a bit more enlightened to me.
And my favourite: NQR?.. which is editor shorthand for politely saying, “not quite right” or sometimes written more bluntly as, “recast?”. For a blunt interpretation, it means: I think you’ve been a bit lazy and could work a bit harder here and make this a better sentence. Having a bad day, were we? Would you like to try again?

A great editor lets you, the author, solve all the problems yourself, and be in charge of your words and intentions at every step, and yet you would never have gotten there if they hadn’t probed you and asked the difficult questions in the first place.

And on and on we go, for 100,000 words, or around 320 pages. If your editor has worked on hard copy, by the time you’ve gone through and accepted/ rejected/ changed/ added/ expanded/ explained your way through with your red pen, your pages look like a murder scene.

If it’s been done in Word with ‘track changes’, it will be so colourful you’ll think mardi gras has arrived in your document and you’ll barely be able to read the words for the highlighting, colour and added notes.

But when it’s all cleaned up and it’s sparkling white and shiny again, there will be no sign of the ninja whose swift, sharp knife had cut up those pages.

She will have done her job and disappeared once more into the night.

But I want you to know, Clara (and all editors whose diligence graces my books’ pages), that I see you. To me, you are heroes.

I know how hard you work.

I know that you are almost always the last person to touch a manuscript before it goes to print and therefore countless others before you have missed their deadline and pushed the timeframe further and further behind until someone slaps it on your desk and tells you that you can have two days to do two weeks worth of work and it has to be your best work ever, despite the fact that it might take you two days just to read the blasted manuscript, let alone touch it with a pencil!

I know that you’re financially undervalued. I know that it’s near impossible to argue for your worth when the only time someone notices you is when you’ve missed a typo on page 98 and a reader phones the publisher to complain. They didn’t see the four thousand and sixteen things you did; they just saw the one thing you missed.

I know that most people have no idea how skilled you are, how much breadth of general knowledge you need, how sensitive you are, what a great sense of humour you have, or what value you actually add other than picking up spelling mistakes.

I know that when a book does well that you might miss out on the awards and the travel and the publicity and cocktails.

But you will never miss out on my gratitude and deep love for the great work you do. Plus actual gifts. If no one else gives you gifts, I will!

From the bottom of my heart, thank you!