The Sunshine State Without the Crazy

Parenting without an anti-tank weapon, and how it makes me better!

Every now and then, I bring my daughters to stay at their grandmother’s house in Redcliffe. I do this so my wife can get a rest, even though this is the parenting equivalent of throwing oneself on a grenade.

You see, I have married one of the most introverted people you will never meet. Meaning, you’ll never meet her because, like all properly introverted people, she’s very good at hiding.

Our progeny, Hattie and Boudica, meanwhile exist in carefree splendor at the very opposite end of the social spectrum. They are chirpy little birds with much to say and sing about. Their mother hides in her office, wearing noise-canceling headphones and soft fabrics, and claims to be working, though I personally... well, I have no choice but to be trusting.

I just... look after them and, when they let me, I write books. Sometimes, there are sudden noises, and I shout things like, “Please let me write books!” and they call back things like, “Don’t worry, it wasn’t expensive,” which is their idea of humor.

Hattie, who is aged 9, seems to prowl the house in search of intellectual debate. Boudica, now 11, is more interested in persuading me to do things, like buy her dresses or ice cream, and for some reason, recently, luxury apartments. I’ll admit I have not yet equipped her with a solid grasp of economics. What I can say about both these children is that they have keen legalistic minds. Hattie enjoys correcting people, while Boudica merely prefers to persuade people of things—like, how much she deserves ice cream or luxury apartments, for instance. And by “people” you may, through a process of elimination, realize I’m referring to myself. I dwell near the center of their various plots and debates.

I should also mention that technically I do not even seem to have an office. I write from the couch—a location they find quite convenient when they’re in the mood for a debate or a conversation about ice cream.

And yet, although I have no office, it is I who volunteered to take the children away to their grandmother’s house in Redcliffe, so that their mother may rest. Then, here in Redcliffe, I sit with a stunned expression on my face, wondering how it all came to be.

I don’t have vices the way most people do—you know, cigarettes or alcohol or therapy or any other expensive hobby. No, whenever I find myself feeling cross or exasperated with my children, I simply go out for a nice walk. Actually, I go looking for people with dogs. Not to be immodest, but dogs almost always approve of me. They see me and strain at their leashes and positively insist on making my acquaintance. So, after an hour or so out there befriending other people’s dogs, I return home in the proper state of mind to speak calmly with my children, who then fling themselves into my arms and vow never, ever, ever to transgress again, or words to that effect. It’s a good system because, as you know, I’m so fond of dogs.

But I can’t go out befriending other people’s animals for too long, in case Boudica and Hattie decide to invade their mama’s sanctum. It happens from time to time. I return from my walk, reeking of mud and puppy saliva, and find my wife braced against her office door, with Hattie and Boudica singing at her from the outside.

In such moments, I’m vulnerable. In such moments, I feel an excess of pity for my wife and then it happens; I take it into my head to pack up the children and take them to Redcliffe, leaving their mother to bask in solitude—and, I hope, gratitude for having married the most selfless God-damn idiot alive.

So, now we’re in Redcliffe. This is in Queensland, just north of Brisbane—a slightly rougher place, but not particularly dangerous or anything.

There are a few good fish ‘n’ chip shops by the water. I see other dads—fathers with face tattoos, often enough—out getting coffee with their kids. There’s a jetty and some nice beaches, but not much surf because Redcliffe is set within a bay. There’s an alley off the waterfront devoted to a ‘60s band called the Bee Gees, who apparently grew up here. There’s also a resort-like lagoon on the waterfront where the public can swim for free.

What is Redcliffe like? Well, apart from the lack of guns, alligators, Jewish retirees, Home Owner Associations, giant pythons, Cuban immigrants, golf courses, or white supremacist sheriffs, it’s quite a lot like Florida.

Of course, much of what I know of Florida seems to have come to me from Carl Hiaasen novels, but I did visit the Sunshine State on two occasions and—oh, I should mention that Queensland has also adopted that very same slogan for itself. Isn’t it comforting that the world has two Sunshine States? I did a little research and apparently Queensland adopted the slogan before Florida did, back in the late 1950s. I also learned that Queensland changed its slogan to “The Smart State” in 2005, which I feel was somewhat optimistic. I was not shocked to learn that Queensland abandoned the new slogan in 2012 and simply went back to calling itself the Sunshine State. All the same, I think it was a nice try.

Anyway, the shoreline around the Redcliffe Peninsula is composed of well-maintained public spaces. Lots of parks and bicycle paths, and that public swimming lagoon I mentioned earlier, where I sometimes take my girls. Public spaces are better-funded in Australia than the United States, so areas like Redcliffe seem more affluent than the socioeconomic data would suggest. Clearly, the country was overrun with social democrats for many decades, but never fear—the neoliberals are stamping it out. It’s probably only a matter of time before that free public swimming lagoon is a for-profit business. Perhaps it’ll be donated to a private school.

It does feel strange for me to be back here. I remember Redcliffe being much rougher when I was a kid. I suppose you can still find several good-natured individuals here who’ll want to fight you. They’re not weighed down by animosity for their fellow man, however; they’re just bored.

I should mention at this juncture that I don’t have any tattoos. My mother dislikes them, you see, and she made me promise never to get one. No, let me be clear about this—she promised she would beat me to death if I ever got a tattoo, so I have, in the course of my life, been concerned that I might become accidentally blackout drunk and wake up with a tattoo. And, you know, die not long after of a fatal beating administered by my mother.

Perhaps, one day, after she dies, I will get a tattoo. But such is the forcefulness of her personality that I don’t think I would feel safe, even then. Because if anyone has the capacity to turn up in my kitchen at 3am in the form of a poltergeist, it is my mother.

But as I was saying, Redcliffe, along with much of South East Queensland, would seem similar to Florida residents, with one subtle difference: it is not stark raving mad. Redcliffe doesn’t make you wonder if some evil genius is dumping methamphetamines into the water supply. You can exist here, somehow, for years without experiencing a sudden inclination to buy yourself a firearm. I think I was in Florida for four hours before I wanted to buy a gun.

Here’s a curious thing. Whenever I get interested in gun-ownership, I start thinking about bazookas, and then I don’t want to own a gun because they just seem ridiculous and trivial when compared to a World War II anti-tank weapon. So, I spent half an hour researching the legalities of purchasing bazookas, then I became discouraged and got bored of the whole thing. And I really don’t understand why more men don’t feel the same way.

Now I think about it, if I lived in Florida, I would inevitably end up owning a bazooka. It’s just the way I am. Which means that, eventually, I would be incarcerated for shooting that same bazooka at somebody riding a jet-ski. Even worse, I suspect I’d have difficulty even pretending to be innocent about it during the subsequent court hearing.

“Yes, Your Honor, it was me, and it was a beautiful moment in my life, as I will now relate to you. You see, jet-skis bring out the devil in me, and...”

People say phrases like “responsible gun owner” and I look at them and think “I wouldn’t even be a responsible bazooka owner,” and this is probably just another reason I should never reside in Florida.

Then there’s the other matter. I go for all these walks, you see—meeting dogs, remember—and so far, not once have I happened upon a man dragging what appears to be a body into a swamp. Were I in Florida, I feel that would become an almost bi-weekly occurrence in my life. I am simply one of those people to whom such things happen. It hasn’t happened so far, it’s true, but—and this is my main point—I have spent most of my life nowhere near Florida swamps.

What I can say is that I definitely enjoyed visiting Florida when I went there. In fact, during one particularly tricky Boston winter, I almost decided to move to St. Augustine. Then what happened was—well, what always happens after a long Boston winter. Spring arrives and makes you forget the awful months of January, February, and March.

In Boston, you develop a sort of seasonal amnesia. Spring is wonderful, and so is summer. Autumn is lovely, the leaves turn and now the romantic part of you is looking forward to seeing snow. It’s only after Christmas that you realize Boston has tricked you yet again. Boston tricked me like that for something like sixteen years in a row.

But now I’m in Redcliffe. It’s nice, but there’s something about it that makes me miss Boston’s winter. What I can say about Redcliffe is that it doesn’t inspire too much anxiety in a man. You may feel at times vaguely menaced by a wayward pelican. Now and then, you might receive a scornful look from a magpie. When this happens, simply walk away. In Australia, one learns to side-step all magpie-related drama. Do not engage and, for God’s sake, do not irk them! Magpies are generally more intelligent than the local electorate, and much more liable to take offense. Frankly, these birds can and do attack people—you know, just for wearing a hat that offends their sensibilities. They also nurse lifelong grudges. The last thing you want to do anywhere in Australia is enter a decades-long dispute with your local magpies.

As I was saying, I experience these terrible fits of selfless generosity towards my wife, which prompts me to take my children to Redcliffe. Then, after she’s supped full of silence and costume dramas (courtesy of the British Broadcasting Corporation), she eventually finds it in her heart to come and rescue me. She wafts in, regal and serene and looking thoroughly refreshed, only to find me gibbering in the corner of my mother’s living room, looking a perfect picture of restless despair. Then we immediately set about arguing about how long I’ve been here. She’ll claim it’s been two nights and I’ll point out that it’s actually been fourteen weeks. Then she pulls out documentary evidence and I become mute and confused. I stumble outside, clutching my head, repeating “how?!” softly, over and over.

I suppose it’s hard to be a good man. One time, I read a book about Buddhism and there was nothing in there about buying bazookas off the black market and firing them at jet-skis. Perhaps, even Eastern Philosophy has its limits. On the other hand, perhaps my time in Redcliffe might best be explained as a fulfillment of my karmic obligations.

In conclusion, all I have to say for myself is that when I started writing this true account, there was a point to it all, I swear!

With chaste affection,

Kris St.Gabriel