Tag: Words

It was a common term in house when Jackson was growing up. He had no interest in food whatsoever. When we started him on farex, he spat it out. Cucumber, tomato, strawberry, bits of apple, toast with vegemite, peanut butter, or honey, he spat it all out. Eventually he spat so much, he choked and vomited. His eating has kept my stress levels humming along at a not so nice pace for the last 23 years.

To put it in perspective, when he was four and we took him on his first cruise, he attended the kids club. One day, with forty-three kids in total, they went for ice-cream. He was the only, and I mean only kid that refused to eat the ice-cream.

We found a few trusted dishes over the years. My spag bolognese if I cooked it the same every single time worked. Change the recipe slightly, i.e. add in a bit more mushrooms and he was onto us and spat it out. Take him out to dinner, order spag bol, forget about it, one mouthful and he was out.

Up until he was eight, I cooked massive batches of food. It was good stuff – beef, chicken, or fish, with about nine different vegetables in stock. Portioned, stored and frozen in one heck of a lot of Tupperware containers. My cupboard was full of plastics.

This worked a treat, IF and only IF Simon mashed the living daylights out of it. One tiny lump and we were doomed. Jackson would gag, choke, and spat it out.

Simon would mash, I would inspect, Simon would mash, I would inspect, eventually we declared it ready for Jackson consumption.

As he got a bit older, we turned to hotchpotch. Jackson got excited about hotchpotch dinner. So, we ran with this for many years, even today it can work.

What is hotchpotch in our house? True to the meaning of hotchpotch, it was a motley assortment of things, none of which made sense. Not a meal, but a mish-mash, mingle-mangle, odds and ends of assorted food.

Jumbled and disorganized, with no structure. It was no steak and three veg, lamb shanks with mash, or roast meat with roast veges. Whilst it made no sense to us, to Jackson it made perfect sense. We were happy, as he was getting food into his little belly.

The winner was one chicken strip, two chicken nuggets, half a dozen chips with barbecue sauce (tomato sauce didn’t cut the mustard). Sometimes we could add a fish finger.

We got brave and added in five peas and two bits of carrot. They remained on his plate, but we kept trying. Mashed potato worked, but only if it were 150% lump free and it had to have the right mixture of butter, milk, seasoning and would you believe a squeeze of mayo.

Today, hotchpotch might be two party pies, three sausage rolls, two chicken nuggets and a few chips.

To be honest, we didn’t have a lot of combinations, we would run with what worked until it didn’t.

If we ran out of options, Maccas nuggets and chips was a good filler that worked.

Once for a bit, we were desperate. His school lunch came home every day. We bought a stack of cheeseburgers from Maccas and froze them. He would take one to the canteen at lunch time and ask them to heat it up…………it worked. We didn’t like it, but it was better than him going for days without food.

We were told he would grow out of it, at 23 this hasn’t happened, we were told not to worry, no kid in Australia starved, we still worried. So, hotchpotch remains a staple.

There was no logic schmogic to it, but there was no denying that hotchpotch worked.

After a bad hip injury left me limping, in pain and debilitated for three and half years, surgery spat me out the other end, a mess. Those years of dragging my left leg around, unable to walk down the street, well, it took a toll on me, not only mentally, but physically.

Being awake at 1am, from the pain, meant I was up late most nights, avoiding going to bed and snacking. The scales and the mirror were not my friends during this period.

My fat scared me.

My health was in a constant state of decline. I didn’t know how to get off the merry-go-round.

I wished most nights – tried hard – to conjure up a fat thief. They looked like a fat cat genie in Aladdin’s bottle. If only they would grant me one wish – I wasn’t greedy – and steal my fat away.

I wanted to be burgled, and I wanted to report to the police that it was a fat theft, and the thief had stolen my fat. Of course, I didn’t want to press charges, but perhaps if we could find them, we could bottle them up and they could steal fat from others that desperately needed their help.

Struggling to sleep from pain, I though this was reasonable. I just wanted my fat gone, stolen, taken, removed, thieved by the thief. They could have it, I would never ask for it back. Please come in by the stealth of night, and without force, steal my fat.

I yo-yoed through every diet and eating plan, you name it, I tried it. Yes, I lost weight, yes, I put it all back on.

Eventually, I came to realise this dastardly thief was never gonna come and it was going to be all up to me to organise the theft of my own fat.

Next stop – counselling – to get to the bottom of why. It goes back to my childhood. My displaced mum, being Greek, her love language was food and to be honest the only time I felt her love, was when I ate the food.

Bingo! I had all the answers, so I thought. Seems having the answers can make you feel better, but how to stop years of food abuse every time I hit an emotional barrier?

Now that I knew why, I thought I knew how to fix it. So back onto yo-yoing through every diet because this time it would be different, this time I knew what I knew, and it was all gonna work. Yes, I lost weight, yes, I put it all back on.

After much soul searching, I ended up sitting down with a weight loss surgeon and July last year, had gastric sleeve surgery. I had done a lot of work mentally to prepare and was hopeful and positive.

I knew this was a tool only and that for the rest of my life, I would need to be kind to myself and understand that I ate the food, because I felt Mum’s love. Only now, I couldn’t fit it in anymore. I loved this new arsenal in my toolbox.

I still get emotional, but instead of food, I do something personal, read, write, massage, go to the gym – something that gives me – me time – which in turn lets the emotions settle.

12 months in and 30kg down, the fat thief has been and gone, they’re now in my past, a figment of my imagination and one that I am hopeful will never return.

Dad was an avid stamp and coin collector. Back in 1991, just after the Communist rule ended in the Czech Republic, he was excited to go home for the first time in 42 years. Before escaping Czechoslovakia in 1949, he gave one of his friends his prized stamp collection and told him to look after it for him, which he did, and Dad brought it home with him on that trip. Those stamps are with his grandson Jack in Adelaide.

On this trip, he travelled all over the Czech countryside with old friends and had a good visit with his Mum, who was not well. He asked his Mum if she wanted anything and she told him – a colour TV – Dad bought her the biggest one he could find. Sadly, one week after Dad returned home, she passed from a blood disease.

I have met my gentle grandma Marie, she visited Australia a few times over the years, I remember those times with a heart full of joy. She couldn’t speak English, but her eyes shone with love for our family. You could feel it deep in your heart.

I remember thinking of grandma with a sense of profound admiration. She had barely seen her son for the last 42 years, she hung on until he came home to visit and then, I believe, thought to herself, I’ve seen my son, that’s enough and passed quietly. That’s kismet – meant to be.

My sister, Ang and I also had mini stamp albums, Dad was always giving us stamps off letters from the Czech Republic or Greece, plus he would buy us stamps. I don’t know where those stamp albums are today, I wish I’d taken more care of mine.

Along with the stamps, coins were a big thing for Dad. He collected as many unusual coins that he could. In later years, as money was tight and he was trying to pay tuition on three private school fees and bills were mounting up, he made the monumental decision to sell his stamp and coin collection. It was a selfless act that must have broken his heart.

After that, he collected one dollar coins and fifty cent pieces. He was always looking for the ones that were different, such as commemorative coins.

Late last year while holidaying with my family on Hamilton Island, in the Whitsundays, I was walking through a bar and was shocked to see a 50 cent piece on the floor. We’ve become a cashless society since Covid and as I picked up the coin, I looked over my shoulder, I’m certain my dad was there. It was a sign.

A few months ago, whilst going through a stressful time, I hopped in my car and noticed something wedged at the back of the passenger seat. I pried it out. I was gobsmacked to find a commemorative fifty cent piece. I mean, the only person that sits in the passenger seat is me, when Simon drives my car and I don’t carry cash!

Same day, I went into my son Jackson’s bedroom, on top of his desk sat two fifty cent coins – no other money – just the two coins.

I felt calm, I knew Dad was telling me he was around and that I was on the right track. I’ve always felt his support, in life and in death. Love you Dad.

What’s in a surname, you ask? Well, I’m glad you did, apparently when it comes to ours, plenty of misspelt versions, creating many nicknames.

Firstly, my birth name was a Czech name – Zaludek (Zal-oo-deck) – can I start by saying, no-one spelt this wrong, probably because uttering this surname, always had people staring at me expectantly, waiting for me to spell it.

I always thought I was a bit lucky not having Mum’s surname, Dionisopoulous. I’ve seen on Mum’s documentation, the misspellings over the years. Her citizenship document, passport, my birth certificate have her listed as many different nicknames – Dionisopoulov, Dionisopoulou, Dionosopoulou, Dionyssopoulou.

Her first name is Christina, on a lot of important documents, she’s listed as Christine, but heck, even my dad called her Christine. The only place her name is spelt correctly is on Dad’s death certificate. If you’re confused, welcome to the club. Her proper name is Christina Dionisopoulous. I think.

Kirkham, different ball game. I’ve lost track of the number of nicknames created by others. I’m a neat writer and nowadays, completing everything by keyboard, rather than by handwriting, I feel there’s no excuse, yet, still it happens, all the time.

The big one, is Krichman, which in our family, has now become the favourite nickname for Roxy, the beagle. So many letters have arrived with this variation, that hey, even we’re using it!

Other popular choices for people out there, who apparently struggle to read the typed version KIRKHAM, are Kirkman, Krikman, Krickman, Kirchman, Krickham, Krikham, Krivham, Kirkhan, Cirkham and once Kvitman.

At the emergency department a few months ago, the nurse came out and called out Helen Kyman, when I didn’t respond, she tried again calling out Helen Kiman (ki as in kick). Now, if she’d called out Helen Krich something, I would have responded. On a positive, whilst being in ED for hours, Simon and I were pissing ourselves laughing over our ‘new surname.’

Even standing in front of someone and spelling it, can take three of four goes for them to get it right. KI, can have them writing CI. RK, has them pausing, what did she say? RK? That doesn’t make sense, let’s change it to something else, such as just K. And then to finish with HAM as in h-a-m, wow, it’s a toughie, another pause and sometimes MAN, HAN, sometimes we get asked to spell ham………and with a sweep of the pen, our surname becomes a whole new language in itself. It’s incredible how often the K becomes a C, but there you go.

On a recent trip to Tasmania, a restaurant booking was made and my surname given. We arrived at the restaurant and were told, no booking, they found it eventually……..under Perkins……that was a new one!

I mean, you can’t make this stuff up. There’s no logic schmogic to it. Simon and I used to get so annoyed, now we just laugh about it, after all, we are the king and queen of nicknames in our house! You know what they say about payback!

I mean the word says it all…….nick – to steal, take, pinch, snaffle – a name.

We’re born with proper names, but throughout the years, we continue to substitute with informal, slang names, which have no business being in the English language.

Something catches in our minds, and we come out with a word list of names, usually to express affection. It’s cute, it’s playful and it makes absolutely no sense.

When I met Simon, eventually he became Simee, then from there Simeekins and for years Meekins, Meeky Meek, now shortened to Meek. Go figure.

My nickname made far more sense, Simon said I was always a little bit rude, not as in nasty rude, but cheeky rude. So, Helen became Rudy (Roo-dee) and then to not make sense, later pronounce as ‘Ruddy.’ H and Hells are also common along with Hells Bells.

When Jackson was born, the first time he fell, we uttered the word, oops-koops, of course he became Koopster. Other favourites for Jackson were Tige (tie-g), naturally short for Tiger and Jacksony.

For years it was Vin, no clue where this came from (perhaps we had watched too many Fast & Furious movies) and then somewhere in a moment of madness we came up with Plixter, which he still answers to today. Once, in a text, instead of Plixter, Simon typed Plaster, this (pardon the pun) cracked us up for days.

He asked us once, where all these names came from, our explanation – terms of endearment, that only made sense to us. He took that as gospel.

Even his proper name, where did that come from? When we talked about baby names, there was only ever one – Jackson – but it came from somewhere right? Years earlier we had watched an action-comedy movie, yep, it was called Action Jackson, what can I say, it stuck.

Mostly, nowadays, it’s simply JK, Jacko or Prince. To his friends he’s Smacko or Kurt. Apparently, Kurt makes perfect sense when your surname is Kirkham?

On a side note, Jackson has a friend called Kobane. Kobane lived with us for a while, so it was common for me to be calling out Kurt! Kobane! Funny to me, but the reality of it, they don’t really know who Kurt Cobain is.

Kristoferrson, the cat. When he goes to the Vet, they always have a laugh when he arrives, but once he’s in there, they’re terrified of him. He wants to kill the lot of them and let me tell you they’re scared. I asked them one day, what where they laughing about and they told me, on his file, it says ‘goes by his full name Kristofferson.’

He’s nearly 14 years old now, and I’ve been asked many times, did we name him after Kris Kristofferson, but no, Jackson named him and doesn’t know who Kris Kristofferson the singer/actor is.

What we do know, is that at the time Kristofferson arrived, Jackson was obsessed with the animated movie Fantastic Mr Fox, starring the silver fox George Clooney. Mr Fox’s nephew was called Kristofferson Silverfox. Hence, Kristofferson. Nicknames for him come in the form of Kristoffer Malistoffer and the offshoot Malkemich, Prince from Mince and to add a Greek flair every now and again, Krisopoulous and Kris Kook. Lately, contrary to the vet’s popular belief, it can be Kris or Kristoffer.

Roxy, the beagle, many nicknames there. RK (Roxy Kirkham), PR (Princess Roxy), Spatchcock, shortened to Spatch/Spatches – a favourite of mine when I arrive home from work and that little face is waiting for me – Principessa, shortened to Pessa, Roxy Rocketson, Roxstar, Boogers, a variation on Kirkham of Krichman, which over time has shortened to our favourite Krich, but when texting, can be spelt as the Czech derivative of Krijc (silent j, c pronounced as ch). To bring in the Greek, it’s Roxy Kook, or Krichman Kook, short for Koukla, which is doll in Greek, further nicknamed to Kouklaki-moo.

The top overall term of affection that Simon and I use for lots of cute, dear things is Novina, (not to be confused with novena), no clue where this came from, but it’s stuck and ‘little novina’ is used a lot to describe cute things.

I could see myself writing a bestseller book – I have plenty of content – it would be called a dictionary.

No matter what the nickname, one thing is clear, we answer to all of them and to our family they all make perfect, proper sense!

Words go round in circles in my brain. At school I was the spelling bee champion. I loved acing a spelling test, but most of all, I loved understanding words, the meaning of words and the power of words.

My teachers told me my comprehension writing was excellent and told me I should be a writer. They said I was a good storyteller. Well, ignored that and went off and did many other things.

Now, so many years later, I want to share stories with people I don’t know and have never met. Why? I guess to gain some satisfaction that harks back to my primary school years, but mostly because for a while now, something inside of me will not leave me alone until I write it down. There’s no logic to it.

It’s logic schmogic. I looked it up, it’s Yiddish! Historically spoken by Jews. Yiddishism, which for me, translates to Yiddish slang. I Yiddish a lot through life.

What’s not to like about making fun of words. It’s supposed to be funny! It lightens the mood. ‘You have to be concerned about weather when you travel,’ changes to ‘Weather, schmeather, I go wherever I want.’ ‘I’m so tired, I could snooze.’ ‘Snooze schmooze, I’m gonna have a nap.’

It comes from when I was working at a local Casino in Reservations. A group of Hungarian Jews would come and stay three times a year. The ladies were glamorous, and the men were suave. I would catch up with all of them for dinner and the way they spoke was, well, catchy to say the least!

Throughout the years, logic schmogic is a phrase and memory that sticks in my mind, from those times. Conversations with them all trying to talk over the top of each other, peppered with mazel tov, they always told me I was mensch and had chutzpah.

So, mensch schmensch, mazel schmazel, chutzpah schmutzpah and logic schmogic, they always made me laugh and always dazzled me with their words.

The Rubik’s Cube, the logical, illogical puzzle. For some, my son Jackson included, it’s done easily, for others including myself, not easy. It’s intriguing, but there is definitely a logic when it comes to solving this puzzle critter. Use logic they say to solve it, I say ilogiccal schmogical.

My first goal in blogging is to become modern and drop the two spaces between sentences to one only. It’s rubbish schmubbish, but I’m going to give it a go.

‘If you hurt my daughter again, I’ll get a shotgun, stick it up your backside, and blow you from here to kingdom come.’

Yep, it’s fair to say that Dad did not mince words. His command of the English language was something else and that Czech accent, rrreally let the words come out. So well-rounded that even spitting venom, he sounded clear, concise and compelling.

So convincing, he scared the absolute shit out of my boyfriend, who had come crawling back for a second chance, after dumping me for a showgirl dancer. He complained bitterly about Dad’s words and of course, being full of teenage bravado, I complained bitterly to Mum. I cried – why – because I knew Dad meant it.

I was embarrassed, mortified, angry and so pissed off that he had dared to say what he said. It wasn’t until many years later, when I thought about Dad’s words, I felt different words – pride, love, admiration, protection – those words highlighted to me the unwavering support from Dad.

I realised when the chips were down, he would always have my back, no questions asked. That day, I saw, heard, and felt the depth of his love for me and his need to make sure I was never hurt again, by this dickhead (his words, not mine).

Maybe I was the dickhead? After granting said second chance, I contracted a bad case of crabs, but what did I do, I stayed, got engaged, moved interstate, fought so hard to keep the relationship going, only for it to end. Shoulda, woulda, coulda, would have been helpful back then, but my teenage self was in love and had to learn the hard way – not once, but twice.

Dad used lots of colourful words in his vocabulary. Colourful and interesting and engaging. He was always easy to understand.

He used lots of synonyms. I think that’s why he was so good at crosswords. He was an adjectives person – desperate, yearning, advantageous, delirious, enthusiastic, solicitous – his words always conveyed great depth.

When Czech friends visited, the conversation was always peppered with a combination of English and Czech.

He described my Mum’s words at times as venomous. People he didn’t like were snakes. He swore like nobody’s business, but always in Czech and most of the time swearing on the cross.

He could make you laugh with his words, a born storyteller. I could sit and listen to him speak for hours.

I miss his words, the sound of his voice and our banter the most.

Dobrý den Táta – Hello Dad.

Na zdraví – Cheers and God bless you.

My dad spoke perfect English with his Czech accent. What was different about his accent? For me, he spoke quietly, but at times forcefully, a pleasant lilt, with well-rounded words and I love how the Czechs pronounce their r’s, with a real roll of the tongue. Dad was always clear when he spoke. Simply, I loved his words.

Now to the part of my story that explains my passion on why write words.

Back to 1977. I was 11 years old. Dad was a devoted reader. He would read, yes literally read atlases. He would take a volume of the World Book Encyclopedia and, well, read it. He paid a lot of money for this brand-new set of encyclopedias that he purchased from a door-to-door salesperson. I remember him paying off this set of books for a long time, with new volumes being delivered every month, as payments were made.

I used these books to scroll through, read, learn, look at images and help me through my school projects. I think it’s safe to say that dad and I knew words well.

I was an avid reader, still am. Back then, my favourites were Beatrix Potter, Anne of Green Gables, Little Women, Enid Blyton, Lewis Carroll, Roald Dahl, Dr Seuss, and my all-time favourite Trixie Belden – girl detective mysteries.

Last year, I managed to get my hands on a full set of Trixie Belden books 1 – 39, it wasn’t cheap, they’re classed as vintage (definitely showing my age here). They’re a bit worn, a bit tatty and have that musty old room smell, which comes from time-worn books that have lived too much of their life on the shelf.

Dad sat every day, without fail and completed the daily newspaper crossword. It wasn’t easy, but his love of words and completing the crossword gave him a real sense of achievement. How did I know this? I  would sit beside him and help. My ‘help’, I could sense was a bit annoying for him, it was after all, HIS crossword puzzle.

I was having none of that, I had inherited his love of words, and nothing, not even my dad’s annoyance was going to stop me. In the early days, it was hard, he was too quick for me. When I think back, this time was really about bonding with dad.

As the years went on, I managed to work out more solutions to clues. Gosh, I thought, I was smart, but I suspect dad already knew the answer and let me have it.

In later years, he would start the crossword and hand it to me to finish, as he didn’t know the last few answers. He was always delighted when I came up with the right word, which had stumped him for hours.

He was sharp as a tack until the end. Even though he growled and threw his pen down in disgust at times, he probably would have ‘got it’ in the end, without my ‘help’.

When he passed away and I packed up his room with my little sister, Ang, the bottom of his cupboard and desk was full of atlases and interesting books, such as Isaac Asimov, Readers Digest Condensed Books and the Bible.

My inspiration – my dad, my passion – reading and crosswords with my dad.

I asked myself this before I wrote my first blog. The answer was simple—my dad. I’m inspired by dad. Will my blogs be unique? Well, yes, because they come from my dad and my passion for words.

History you ask? Okay. My dad was born in the Czech Republic and escaped during the Communist Rule in 1949, when he was 19 years old. With his good friend Louie, they came up with a daring and brave plan to escape the communist rule and get out of Czechoslovakia.

Between his house and the Austrian border was 3km of forest leading into the border which was an actual river.  In the middle of the night, under the cover of darkness, they crossed the river on an inflatable lifeboat. 

They did not dare tell their families, otherwise they risked them being badly hurt or they feared, killed.  A rogue Czech guide assisted them in getting into Austria with no documents or identification.

In Austria, Dad and Louie slept in a village overnight and in the morning they caught a train to Vienna where they stayed three days.

Vienna was divided into 4 parts – the English zone, the American zone, the Russian zone and the French zone.  They had to cross from the Russian zone into the safety of the American zone, which involved getting over a bridge, but the danger was that someone might ask for identification papers and they had none.

They got ready to cross the bridge.  The Czech guide told them to keep on walking and if asked for identification, just tell the Russian Communist guards, that they were sorry and in a rush.  He wished them the best of luck and left them to it.

Dad said as they started to cross the bridge, he felt nervous and his body was shaking so much that he couldn’t say a word and he had sweat pouring down his forehead.  They finally crossed the bridge into the American zone and amazingly, nobody asked any questions, the guards were too busy having a cigarette. 

Another guide took Dad and Louie by train to the city Linz which was part of the American zone.  When they arrived in Linz they decided to live in the American camp for a few weeks, where they were processed as refugees. 

Next stop a youth resettlement centre, then onto Italy, where the United Nations Refugee Organisation organised passage on a ship to Melbourne, Australia.

My dad – my inspiration.

Fast forward to 1977 and the next part of my story explains my passion on why write words.

So 3-2-1, take-off, my first blog has been launched.