Ode to immigrants

[bombaybill]

Great story Rob, thanks for sharing it with us. My sincere hope is younger generations appreciate and understand the sacrifices made by those who came before them.

[Fuzz AI]

Screw that Fuzz, just get them to unload a 40 footer filled with charcoal in summer. That will sort them out real quick.

Yeah, you guys collapsed after that! That's just another weekend for me!!

[davidl]

Thanks for sharing that Rob. Seems like you know to appreciate what is important in life. You are luck. I am going to print out your story and read it to my Family.

[dicko]

Yeah, you guys collapsed after that! That's just another weekend for me!!

I am not keen on either of those suggestions

[laficion]

Great story Rob

It shows how proud you are of your father and rightly so. Bravo!!

[Rogers72]

Great story and certainly one to be proud of! Even as a half-drunk American, Waltzing Matilda was playing in my head by the time I was done reading! Amazing what our forebearers went through.

[El Presidente]

Hola Rob, my mom is from Spain also, from Galicia, and their story is more or less the same as yours, but they came from spain to Mexico. well not to bore you with details but you just let a tear run down my cheek

hope everything is well with you and your family always

My mum is also from Galicia! Small world indeed!

Her mum died when she was 14. Single child. She tried hard to get into the nunnery but didn't have the money. Hence the reason she did a sabbatical to Australia in the 60's. She had a choce of Venezuela or Australia but chose Australia because she got the forms confused thinking it was Austria

When I was about 7 my father agreed to bring her father (my grandfather out) for a 12 week holiday. Grandad was a tough bloke who enjoyed a drink, chainsmoking cigs and a fight. He stayed he best part of 20 years before passing away. He is the one who taught me Spanish given he thought English was a language going nowhere

I loved my Grandad. He taught me to shoot. Both parents working he would pull out the 22 when I got home from school and we would target pigeons around the house. It was full Suburbia. He could never understand the fuss when the police would eventually arrive.

[Rehman]

Rob, your moving reminiscence put me in my mind of one of my last published pieces...

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Seeking second chances somewhere else

New Straits Times, Feb 26, 2010 | by Rehman Rashid

EARLY on a chilly winter's morning some years ago in a quiet suburb of Melbourne, west of the Yarra River in Victoria, Australia, a traveller strolled the still-empty streets looking for something to eat. He chanced upon a small streetside bakery and cafe that had just opened for the day, its fragrant warmth and light spilling out as he opened the door and stepped through.

A kindly old man stepped forth from behind the counter, smiling a welcome. "Good morning," he said, gesturing the traveller to a seat at one of three small tables arranged along one wall. "Would you like some breakfast?" His accent was not quite Australian; European inflections remained distinct.

The visitor asked for scrambled eggs on wholewheat toast and a cup of coffee. The old man smiled and looked up at a portly and cheerful middle-aged woman at the cooking range (his daughter, as it turned out), who had already drawn a steaming mug of coffee and was reaching for two eggs to break into a bowl.

"Where are you from?" the old man asked. The traveller told him. "Ah," said the old man, pulling up a chair to sit with his visitor as his daughter served up what turned out to be the best scrambled eggs the traveller had ever tasted. "I didn't think you were from here. You don't sound Australian."

"Neither do you," said the visitor.

"That's right," smiled the old man. "Except for the Native Australians" - the exact phrase he used - "no Australian is from Australia."

"Except those born here," said the woman, with all her father's good humour but no trace of his accent.

"That's why they called it the Lucky Country," said the old man. "A lot of people found second chances here."

"Or third!" chortled his daughter, turning to attend to a customer stepping through the door to purchase a loaf of bread.

"Or thirtieth," the old man whispered conspiratorially to his guest, the smile never leaving his age-lined face with its kind blue eyes beneath a thinning sweep of silver hair. "Are you here visiting friends?"

"Not really, though I do know Malaysians who live here now."

"More Asians here now than before," said the old man, matter-of- factly, and apparently entirely without malice. "When I first came here it was Italians and Greeks. Now it's Vietnamese and Asians. They'll all call Australia home," he chuckled (it was a line from one of the country's tourism promotions at the time).

"Why do people need to find new homes in other countries," the traveller asked, making conversation, "for second, third or thirtieth chances?"

The old man looked at him for a heartbeat longer than was comfortable. "Sometimes, because things did not work out for them where they were," he said. "Sometimes, because the people they love are somewhere else and they want to be with them.

"And sometimes, they're running away from something. Maybe a lot of times, they're escaping from places they don't feel they belong any more."

"But if you go to another country," the traveller said, "you still won't belong."

"Not for a while," admitted the old man. "But when that country is like this one, where everyone is from somewhere else, you don't feel it so much. We were all from somewhere else."

"It doesn't seem so easy for the newer ones," the traveller said.

The old man nodded, gravely. "That's true. I've seen it before. It's like that everywhere. After a generation or two, it won't be the same for new arrivals. They're coming into someone else's country now, not everybody's country any more. They'll have to adjust in different ways.

"But we still shouldn't forget what it's like to make this journey. This is a big country, a lucky country. There's plenty of room here. We shouldn't be making it difficult for people looking for a second chance."

"Or a thirtieth."

"Or a thirtieth!"

The rising sun had cleared the tops of the trees over the Yarra River, brightening the sky and dissipating the chill of the morning. Traffic had begun to rise on the Toorak Road; pedestrians bustled to and fro; other breakfasters had come to the cafe.

The traveller wiped his plate clean with the last of the bread and drained his coffee - rich, dark and delicious -- with a satisfied sigh. "Set right for the day now, are we?" said the old man. The traveller assured him they were, extracting his wallet to pay the few dollars his breakfast had cost. "Enjoy the rest of your stay," the old man said. "Drop in again if ever you're in South Yarra." The traveller assured him he would.

The old man reached across the table to gather the dishes, the sleeve of his shirt riding up his forearm to reveal the six faded green digits tattooed there at Auschwitz in Poland 60 years before.

***

[Wil]

Thanks Rob, a very nice read.

[thechenman]

Rob, your moving reminiscence put me in my mind of one of my last published pieces...

-----------------------------------------------

Seeking second chances somewhere else

New Straits Times, Feb 26, 2010 | by Rehman Rashid

EARLY on a chilly winter's morning some years ago in a quiet suburb of Melbourne, west of the Yarra River in Victoria, Australia, a traveller strolled the still-empty streets looking for something to eat. He chanced upon a small streetside bakery and cafe that had just opened for the day, its fragrant warmth and light spilling out as he opened the door and stepped through.

A kindly old man stepped forth from behind the counter, smiling a welcome. "Good morning," he said, gesturing the traveller to a seat at one of three small tables arranged along one wall. "Would you like some breakfast?" His accent was not quite Australian; European inflections remained distinct.

The visitor asked for scrambled eggs on wholewheat toast and a cup of coffee. The old man smiled and looked up at a portly and cheerful middle-aged woman at the cooking range (his daughter, as it turned out), who had already drawn a steaming mug of coffee and was reaching for two eggs to break into a bowl.

"Where are you from?" the old man asked. The traveller told him. "Ah," said the old man, pulling up a chair to sit with his visitor as his daughter served up what turned out to be the best scrambled eggs the traveller had ever tasted. "I didn't think you were from here. You don't sound Australian."

"Neither do you," said the visitor.

"That's right," smiled the old man. "Except for the Native Australians" - the exact phrase he used - "no Australian is from Australia."

"Except those born here," said the woman, with all her father's good humour but no trace of his accent.

"That's why they called it the Lucky Country," said the old man. "A lot of people found second chances here."

"Or third!" chortled his daughter, turning to attend to a customer stepping through the door to purchase a loaf of bread.

"Or thirtieth," the old man whispered conspiratorially to his guest, the smile never leaving his age-lined face with its kind blue eyes beneath a thinning sweep of silver hair. "Are you here visiting friends?"

"Not really, though I do know Malaysians who live here now."

"More Asians here now than before," said the old man, matter-of- factly, and apparently entirely without malice. "When I first came here it was Italians and Greeks. Now it's Vietnamese and Asians. They'll all call Australia home," he chuckled (it was a line from one of the country's tourism promotions at the time).

"Why do people need to find new homes in other countries," the traveller asked, making conversation, "for second, third or thirtieth chances?"

The old man looked at him for a heartbeat longer than was comfortable. "Sometimes, because things did not work out for them where they were," he said. "Sometimes, because the people they love are somewhere else and they want to be with them.

"And sometimes, they're running away from something. Maybe a lot of times, they're escaping from places they don't feel they belong any more."

"But if you go to another country," the traveller said, "you still won't belong."

"Not for a while," admitted the old man. "But when that country is like this one, where everyone is from somewhere else, you don't feel it so much. We were all from somewhere else."

"It doesn't seem so easy for the newer ones," the traveller said.

The old man nodded, gravely. "That's true. I've seen it before. It's like that everywhere. After a generation or two, it won't be the same for new arrivals. They're coming into someone else's country now, not everybody's country any more. They'll have to adjust in different ways.

"But we still shouldn't forget what it's like to make this journey. This is a big country, a lucky country. There's plenty of room here. We shouldn't be making it difficult for people looking for a second chance."

"Or a thirtieth."

"Or a thirtieth!"

The rising sun had cleared the tops of the trees over the Yarra River, brightening the sky and dissipating the chill of the morning. Traffic had begun to rise on the Toorak Road; pedestrians bustled to and fro; other breakfasters had come to the cafe.

The traveller wiped his plate clean with the last of the bread and drained his coffee - rich, dark and delicious -- with a satisfied sigh. "Set right for the day now, are we?" said the old man. The traveller assured him they were, extracting his wallet to pay the few dollars his breakfast had cost. "Enjoy the rest of your stay," the old man said. "Drop in again if ever you're in South Yarra." The traveller assured him he would.

The old man reached across the table to gather the dishes, the sleeve of his shirt riding up his forearm to reveal the six faded green digits tattooed there at Auschwitz in Poland 60 years before.

***

Nice piece Rehman...enjoyed it. Brief, but with a clear and solid message to it.