My 2nd decade shaped my character.
For the first two years we still lived on the farm. Mum and dad were working more than ever. All three of us kids did what we needed to do to contribute. Dad was a classic farmer – worked tirelessly from pre-dawn to post-dusk, and had a terrible temper. Mum a classic farmer’s wife – worked tirelessly from pre-dawn to beyond when the last person went to sleep, and silently absorbed every obscenity thrown at her along the way. I stayed in my lane. I ran the rows, keeping my head down when I went too far past the end, or unravelled the wire or rope too fast. It was here that I learnt to focus.
Being a farm child is a double-edged sword. You work hard. But you play hard too. We made go-karts and shanghais from scratch. We made shanghai ammunition from melted tractor battery lead. Our cubby houses would be something from Grand Designs Cubby Houses (if such thing existed). We rode motorbikes and dragged each other around on go-karts attached to our motorbikes. One day my brother and I were shooting lead into a milo can we’d strategically positioned high in a tree. I started shooting whilst Jay was placing it in the tree. I didn’t miss… the can. I always backed my ability. Still do.
School came naturally. My grades were excellent, my behaviour too. I was a natural sportsperson – in every sport. I started to thrive on my achievements. My grades had to be perfect. I had to win. This wasn’t a pressure put on me from anyone, other than me. I loved the feeling these achievements brought. I started to train harder. Most days on the way home from school I was dropped at the bottom of Nixon’s Hill. My siblings waved to me in the rear window as I commenced the very hilly 2km run to home. Dad made me a harness out of blue irrigation (flat) piping, with a front tractor tyre attached. I’d put it on and run around the farm. I developed the character – to get better, you work harder.
At 12 we sold the farm. With mixed feelings we moved to a cane farm on the other side of town. Only this time, dad worked for someone else. We rented. Dad mellowed slightly. Mum worked less. Us kids too. We continued to ride motorbikes and added 22 Calibre shooting to our recreational activities.
We’d been visiting Woodgate Beach for years. My father’s mother lived there. We’d bought a holiday house at Woodgate and our visits were increasing to every weekend. I used the beach to train harder. Nana lived 1.5km away from our house, and I did soft sand sprints to and from. Nana and I clashed a little, especially over playing cards… so I studied more.
I was becoming a challenging teen. By 15 I was sick of running and decided to stop. No-one battered an eyelid. I was often making mum cry. I’d feel terrible. Really terrible. It was mum’s tears that shaped my character the most. I decided it better to be kind and generous and behave in a manner that makes people feel good. I’ve proactively strived for this ever since.
At 14 I got drunk for the first time. The smell of white wine still makes me gag. Mum and dad had trusted me for an overnight stay with friends in town for the movies. I took that liberty a little too literally. My brother drove me home holding my head in a bucket and freaking out that I’d die. All I remember is waking naked on a mattress on the kitchen floor. I saw mum doing laundry and contemplated my escape. Instead I decided to face the music. What I heard was my greatest lesson as a mother. The gentle words from mum and dad taught me trust and sensibility. Despite the headache, it was a pivotal moment.
High school was tough. I worked hard, excelled, and struggled amongst my peers. I maintained my determination to excel. My grades not only had to be great, they had to be the best. I studied non-stop and achieved my goals. I took out Junior and Senior Dux.
Sport took an increasing role too, and my objectives were no different. I remember so clearly crying to the head of the wide-bay team when I won the state cross-country “my mum would be so proud”. And looking at mum’s face when I run second at nationals. I thrived on making mum and dad proud. It drove me. I excelled at any sport I threw myself into; distance running, touch football, soccer and certain athletics. I had the privilege of representing both state and country. I took out both Junior and Senior Sportsperson at school, every year for five years.
Tall poppy syndrome (TPS) is real, and it does real damage. Sometimes I gave as good as I got. I carry that guilt. I also carry the scars of TPS. Today they are worn proudly, as in their own way they helped shape the person I am.
Overshadowing TPS are the teachers and boys that really supported me. The Tracey Andersons, Meagan Wills', the Hammers (Craig Hammermeister and Netty), and John Joses of the world that not only taught me so well, but gave unconditional support when I needed it most. My boys from high school and Farnsfield, you know who you are, and I love you.
To the second boy I fell in love with – Jarrad Hunter Bayliss. He walked into the classroom in year seven with as much confidence as he conducts a celebrity wedding today. He owned the entire room. It may have taken me a few years to succumb to his charm, but Jarrad secured my unconditional love for a lifetime. To this day I cherish him and our friendship, and now equally his wife and his family.
I continued to work through high school. I tried the service station, and in all honesty couldn’t master the till. Watermelon picking was more my thing. I’d watch as the backpackers dropped like flies, especially the fair-haired Scandinavians. At 17 I was put in charge of the crew when my boss had to leave early for a family commitment. We were running behind and I was starting to stress. The back-packer bus arrived. I stood up, stared them all down, and told them they’d all miss happy hour if the block wasn’t finished. We got it done. I developed the character – to get better, you work smarter.
I finished high school receiving a four-year national scholarship based on sporting and academic excellence. I was one of four, which validated my work ethic. It also meant I could go to university on my own two feet financially. When I received the call to notify me of my achievement, I was picking watermelons. They knew they’d chosen well.
I left home at 17. The rest of my decade is a little downhill. I ate too much white bread and struggled to adapt to the concept of lectures. I put on weight. I slept more. I took casual jobs to make more money. It seemed more important than sleeping through lectures. Still I did well, better than good. But not great, and certainly not the best.
I was finding my feet, for the next decade...
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