Saturday afternoon footy, or Australian Rules Football for the uninitiated, has turned into a bit of a tradition.  As earlier stated, my first game of local league play was a lesson in passion and good play.  With my traditional Saturday morning breakfast (aka ‘brekky’) done, for the second week in a row, I was planning on attending a game - the weather was perfect for footy (think mid October in Northern Minnesota, cool, windy, intermittent sun).

I drove up to Balwyn North, north of the city center, and showed up fashionably late.

Driving up, it was curious to see the spectators and the teams all congregated on one side of the field.  Getting out of my car was pretty clear why - the wind was blowing, strong.  And while noticeable in the city, in the suburbs, it was darn near gale force.  Footy, with the ball kicked into the air through the goal posts, was influenced pretty strongly by the wind…so was clear was going to be a game played on one side of the field this weekend.

It was another good game overall with my friend Tom’s team making some valiant attempts, but though there were some great plays and some great attempts, the visitors this week were a little behind on the score board.

After the game, Tom waved for me to stay.  Waiting around, I met two other Aussie’s, who I found out later where the president and treasurer of the club.  Each footy club has to pay their own way, and it isn’t cheap, these two blokes make sure that the supporters are in line and the club is in the black.

When Tom came out of the lockers, we hit the visitor’s club house.  We don’t have this in the states.  Here was the visiting team, the people that had just fought for almost three hours on the field against the other team, the passion sometimes coming to blows and certainly a far amount of pushing and shoving, walking into the visiting player’s sanctum, where they eat and drink, celebrate the wins and mourn the losses.

“Is it typical to walk into the visitor’s club house after a game?” I asked.

“Aw mate, we leave it on the field.  In the end, we try to make it to visitor’s clubhouse and have a stubby.  We all need the money and it just shows we support each other.” He said.

Over a stubby of VB, Tom proceeded to give me the run down on the clubs and the interworkings, as well as a fair amount of information on farming in Australia, obviously a topic of great interest to me given my background.

The president of the local club then got up to announce some of the game results, congratulate the home team on the win, and thank the visitors for a game well played.  Then handed out a six pack to the best player on each team for the day. 

Tom got the six pack for his team and promptly replaced the empty in my hand.  And it was true - while I’m no expert, the third quarter was a good one for Tom, with some pretty good kicks, catches, and hand balls.

“Tom, this round was on me!” I protested.

“Aw mate.  Free beer is free beer.” Tom said.  Which I translated as ‘cheers mate.’

 I’m a good old fashioned American that likes his cars big and fast.  That is why I drive a sport utility vehicle.  A Chevy Trailblazer can not only get you to where you are going, but with four wheel drive, spacious back seat and cargo area, all leather interior, and a v-6 under the hood, is more than adequate for weekend either on the farm, or trekking my way through the wilds of rural North Dakota.

In Australia, I will admit, I had some expectations about what to expect in vehicles.  I expected that there would be four wheel drive vehicles.  I expected that I’d see sport utility vehicles.  I expected to see the classic American pickup truck.

My expectations were wrong.

Nothing shocked me more on my first day in Melbourne then seeing something that I hadn’t seen on the roads of America in ages.  Something that has been pillared in American society for decades.  A seemingly bad idea from the 1970’s…and supposedly left there…

Yes, that first day in Melbourne, I cried out in shock when I saw - the El Camino.

Half car, half pickup truck, it is the in between vehicle that defies proper classification in America. 

Surely, surely I thought, this must just be relic of a bye gone era.  Then I saw another one.  Then a third.  But what was more shocking, they didn’t look like a vehicle from the 1970’s…They looked, well, brand new.

But more then brand new, they were not just Fords.  They were Toyota’s and Holden’s.  The Fords, the Fords weren’t labeled as El Camino’s either, they were the Ford Falcons.

And here, they certainly didn’t call them El Caminos; they are ‘Utes’ - which is short of Utility Vehicle.

As an American, I must admit, I enjoy most things about Australia.  The people.  The food.  The climate.  But the ute, and its appeal, was something that just escaped me.  When Americans gathered, we quietly and stealthily mocked the ute.  Not the pickup trucks - true American style pickup trucks that were also called utes, but the El Camino styled utes.

With this in mind, I chuckled a bit to myself when I heard that one of my Australian friends bought a ute.  A Holden.

Looking it over, I smiled.

“I could have gotten a front of a Pontiac.” My friend said casually.

“Wait.  A Pontiac?  Like a Grand Am? These things are made by GM? I asked.

“Yeah.” He said, “Want to go for a ride?”

“Sure!” I said.

We got in and he started her up - this half car, half pickup - and the engine roared.  He peeled out of the parking lot of his work and made his way through the streets of Sydney.  The thing had power.  It had zip.  It had had a great start off the block.

“What does this thing have?” I asked as he shot around a corner.

“A V-8.” He said.

I will admit, stepping out of the ute, I had a new respect for this strange mix of car and pick up, this concoction laughed out of the states decades ago has grew and evolved into a respected machine.

In short, the El Camino has grown up.

 I should stop ironing cloths.  It is only when I iron, or I guess fold cloths lately, that I’ve noticed the growing problem….my clothes are wearing out.

Anyone that knows me can attest that I’m not a fashion guru.  I’d still be wearing corduroy or zubas if it wasn’t for some fashion advice from caring friends in high school and college.  One thing that I hate more than fashion is shopping.  I hate shopping.  Put them together, and it means that I hate shopping for clothes.

More than once, I’ve gone shopping for a new shirt, only to discover that the one that I hurriedly pick off the rack is the same as one that I already have at home (can you ever have too many blue polo shirts?).

That leads me to my current conundrum…I’m running out of clothes again.

Just this weekend, I was going to iron a pair of pants while traveling…as surprising as it may sound, I do know how to work an iron…I’ve never owned one, but thanks to hotels and my lack of folding and packing abilities, I have learned how to iron…I digress…  So just this last weekend I was ironing while traveling in Sydney, and I noticed that my one remaining pair of Dockers had worn out.  And I mean had completely worn out - in the crotch.  Verdict - unrepairable.

Just last week one of my good pair of dress pants met the same fate.  The issue is, the fewer clothes you have, the more that you have to wear the ones that you do have…which means that they wear out all the faster.

It is a viscous cycle.

My last trip home in May, I restocked my shelves with almost every piece of clothing left in my closet.  There are no more reinforcements coming from the States.  I’m on my own.

I’m down two pair of pants, a couple of t-shirts, a couple of pair of underwear, and about half a dozen pair of socks.  Every week, there are a few more casualties.

Either they aren’t making clothes like they used to, or I’m just really hard on them.  Should pants wear out that fast?  Should a foot go through the end of a sock after only a few years of use?  How long can a t-shirt last?

It also means more work.  I used to be able to go almost three weeks without washing clothes.  Now I’m down to about two weeks, and it seems like every week, I’m losing another article to good old fashioned wear and tear.

At this point, I’m not entirely sure what I should do.  I figure I’ve got another couple of months before it really gets critical, when my strategic sock or undershirt supplies get down to an unsustainable level.  Where I may need to make the choice about going commando or not.  Where one pair of pants is going to have to be worn for a week or more in order to get the most bang for my buck.  Where fabreeze might have to become my best friend.

I know, short of getting the fabled emperors tailors, one of these days, I might just have to break down and, (gulp) go clothes shopping….

Driving through Sidney, a sign struck me that immediately brought back memories: “Illinois Hotel.”

Immediately, my mind brought me back to my university days as a masters student in Champaign, Illinois.  The fields of corn and beans that stretched as far as the eye could see.  The small towns and villages scattered throughout the countryside, revolving around the football and basketball teams.

Then there was the university itself.  The proud institution in the middle of the fields.  The big old stone buildings.  The quad with the Illini Student Union at one end and the classic auditorium on the other end - and a crisscross pattern of sidewalks that served as the heart of campus.

My memories of Illinois came flooding back through the football games, the basketball games, and the good times with friends cheering on my Fighting Illini as they took on any one of their Big Ten rivals.

Then there were the people - the professors, the fellow students, the community members that became, and remain friends.  The other alumni, like Jim Woerner, who though a little older than me, is always willing to share the latest news on the program and celebrate the latest victory…or mourn the latest loss.

Ah yes, the memories.

Then I realize that the Illinois Hotel is more than just a recreation of one of my favorite Champaign watering holes, the Illini Inn…it is, ah, significantly more than the Illini Inn, or Kams (Home of the ‘Drinking Illini’) or even Murphy’s - the dive on Green Street.  No, the Illinois Hotel has a big sign that advertises its favorite beer on tap (Toohey’s - a good New South Wales Beer), and the ‘dancing girls’ (this seems more like Peoria then Champaign). 

It was then that one of the locals in the car point at the Illinois Hotel and causally says, “One of our brothels…and not a high class one…”

Maybe it’s not as much like the Illinois that I remember back home after all…

 For one of the first times in my life, I missed being home for my Dad’s birthday.  I know that Dad understood - he too took some time in his younger days to see the world, though his was with the army and not with a company.

I want to say that I really enjoy my Australian experience - I’ve seen sights, met people, and enjoyed things that I didn’t realized existed.  But what can I say, I love my Dad and miss him.

Some co-workers overheard me wishing him a happy birthday over the phone and it prompted some questions, you know the usual - how is he doing?  Does he miss you?  Is he coming out to visit?

I have to say, I’m proud of my Dad.  He has done some pretty amazing things in his life, and have made some decisions that most men wouldn’t.  Back in northern Minnesota, where the winter’s get deathly cold and the summers are racked with heat and humidity, it takes a special type of person to stick it out, so a great badge of honor is being called ornery.

To most of the world, ornery takes on some different meanings - ill tempered, bad humored, irritable, and perhaps my favorite - cantankerous.

My father is none of these.  He is stubborn for sure, but not ill tempered or bad humored.  But you have to be a little ornery and stubborn to live the life that my father has.

As I was walking around the office, some of the co-workers asked how old Dad was.

“He is 81 today!” I remarked with some pride.

“Really?  They asked.  How is?” They replied politely.

“As ornery as ever!” I said proudly.

I was met with some uncomfortable stares and some shifting of feet.

“I don’t mean that in a bad way.” I replied. “Where I come from, it is a badge of honor!”

Their eyes opened wide.

I repeated that conversation a little later on in the day with some other co-workers…and got the exact same response.

That night, dining at a friend’s house, I repeated the conversation for the third time of the day.

“What did you say your 81 year old father is?” Came the question.

“Ornery.  You know, stubborn.  But not in a bad way, it is a good thing.” I replied.

“Oh, geez, I thought you said he was a little, well amorous, you know.  It sure sounds like….” He replied trailing off….

“You mean everyone thought that my Dad was a little….you know, after the ladies?” I replied.

“Yeah.  Which, hey, for an 81 year old man, I’d wear as a badge of honor too.” He replied.

Somehow, I don’t think that my father would see it that way….

 Located in the northwestern corner of what is commonly referred to as “Buffalo Commons,” New Rockford, ND serves as the center of the bison (aka ‘American buffalo) processing industry in America.

And I was there, overlooking the kill floor from my desk for one whole summer.

Well, actually, only five days a week from eight in the morning until five at night, then the rest of the time was mine.  Or rather, for my second weekend job.

That first week in the office, the CEO of the company casually asked me what I had going on over the weekends.  Telling him a quick list of things on my to do list for the summer (weddings, a few weekends home), he asked if I thought I could work on his ranch on the weekends.

For a guy driving an old Pontiac Le Mons (whose heater wouldn’t shut off…or when he did, the car would overheat…which leads me to ask, Le Mons, or lemons….) and trying to pay his way through university, extra money always perked my ears up.

Any free weekend, I was more than welcome to make the trek seventy miles to the north and work on the ranch, just north of Leeds.  The jobs would vary, but for a farm kid living in a big city like New Rockford (population 1,400), any chance to make it out of the city and back onto a farm was a good one.

The pay was better than the office job too!

But this wasn’t just any ranch, this was a bison ranch.  On the rolling lands of central North Dakota, in an era of depressed wheat prices, what better way to make a marginal farm pay for itself then through a specialty product like bison.  It tasted better then beef, was healthier, and people paid a lot more money.

I wasn’t quite sure what to expect. On the one hand, I knew that most ranches, the work was pretty ordinary farm stuff, things that I had grown up with.  Making hay, fixing fences, feeding the cattle in the yards, and occasionally working cattle.

On a bison ranch, I didn’t know quite what to expect.  How do you rope a bison?  What type of a fence would you need?  What type of hay do they eat?  What do you feed them?  How in the heck would you work them?

The first Saturday, I showed up in my farm gear - jeans, pocket-tee, leather belt, and my steel toed work boots about 7:30am, getting geared up for the 8:00am start.

The boss, my weekday bosses partner showed up about 8:15am, moving pretty slow.

“Is it just us two today?” I asked.

“Naw, the rest will be along in a bit.” He said.

Sure enough, about 9am, the group of high school and college students came rolling in, not all too excited to start work on a nice Saturday…when they could be sleeping off the Friday night…

But start work we did.  Like back home, we were going to make fence.  But not exactly like back home.

Walking back to where we were going to build a corral, I was met by a stack of hacked off telephone poles, one inch solid steel sucker rod, and pails of metal clips.

One thing was very obvious, bison required a little sturdier fence then cattle.  My experience of setting fence posts (though never this deep) and putting up rails (though never of solid steel) came in pretty handy that weekend as we slowly bolted, screwed, and manhandled the corral into being.

 Melvin’s time is wrapping up in Australia, his project almost done, so he is preparing to head back to wife, home, hunting, and his dogs.  That means prioritizing the long list of things that he wanted to do while he was in Australia.

And there were some things that he wanted to get done.  Barossa Valley and Kangaroo Island outside of Adelaide, Bundeburg and their famous rum factory, Gold Coast and their famous beaches - in short, there was a host of places that were on both our lists that we just had not quite gotten too yet.

And one of the few remaining weekends, Melvin was going to spend hunting.  So that left only two precious weekends to spend in Australia.

“So what do you want to do?” I asked one on Thursday night, with only three weekends remaining.

“You know, I just got back from touring with my wife.  I’d be game for a weekend in Melbourne.” Melvin said.

Not one to disagree, and looking forward to a weekend in town, I relented.

That Friday night, after a grueling week at work, we celebrated.  Enjoying the company of co-workers and the joy of a week’s work under our belt.  And a few belts of Australia’s finest beer to boot.

Waking with a bit of a headache the next morning, I made it to my breakfast appointment darn near on time.  There was a small group of us that met each Saturday we were in town at a place called Don Camillo’s in Melbourne, right down from the Victoria’s Market.

How often do we go there?  The waitresses come out with our coffee without us ordering.  She goes around the table and tells us what we are going to have (Don Camillo breakfast, eggs over easy, multi-grain toast, no mushrooms, sausage instead with orange juice), the dog - even the dog gets special treatment (one of the regular attendee’s brings their lab) with a special order of Vegemite toast!

After discussing politics, weather, sports, and the latest news from our families, we head down to the market.

On this particular Saturday, one of regulars asked Melvin and I if we wanted to go and visit wine country in the Pyrenees Mountains.

How could we say no, so we were set to head out on Sunday morning to the wine region outside of Ballarat.

As we parted ways, I did my shopping, then heading back to my apartment, left for my next appointment of the day - a local footy match.

 My mother was a Mason.  Not a stone cutter or brick layer, she was a Mason by birth.  My grandfather was Walter Mason, and she was his oldest daughter.

But like any good Mason, my grandfather built things, and in this case, it was a big family.  My mother was the second child, the oldest daughter out of a brood that would grow to ten, count them ten, children.

Like any family, there are stories of fights, of sadness, of joy, of pain, of deaths and births.  But through it all, they remained a family, the Mason family, stuck together with the mortar of not just common heritage, but of love.

I will admit, the family is a motley bunch, especially when you start including the in-laws.  They consist of homemakers, construction workers, college educated social workers, factory workers, and painters.  When you start including the kids and grandkids, it gets even more diverse.

It was always a little intimidating to get together with them as kids - and even now as adults - we were the quiet country cousins, uncouth in the ways of the city.  Mom was one of the few kids to move outside of her hometown. Of the ten kids in Grandpa Mason’s motley crew, seven of them ended up either back in South St. Paul or one of the surrounding suburbs, eight of them still live in St. Paul metro area, nine of them live in a city or town.

In short, we were a bit of the odd kids out it seemed.

But it didn’t matter - Uncle Dick, Uncle Lawrence, Aunt Lois, Aunt Ruthie, Uncle Tony, Uncle Ted, Aunt Beanie, Aunt Helen and Aunt Generose would love us regardless if we were in the country or out of the country, because in the end, we are family, and more than that, we are Mason’s, and Mason’s may be late to everything and Mason’s may not talk for a year or two, but when you need them, the Mason’s are there for you.

For the last decade or so, the Mason’s have gathered at my Aunt Beanie’s cabin up in the Northwoods of Minnesota.  This was the first year in a while that I didn’t make it up there, and I missed it.

It is always a good time - seeing the aunts and uncles, hearing the latest gossip, meeting the newest cousin and second cousins.  Retelling stories of the past.

But part of it too is that sense of belonging, knowing that regardless how right or how wrong things go, regardless how far up or how far down you go in live, there are people there willing to love you simply because you are Mary’s boy, and she was their sister, and you are expected to take them for who they are for those same simple reasons.

It might be a little awkward for a backwards country boy to fit in with his big city cousins, but for that feeling, it is definitely with it.

Grandpa Mason might not have been a brick layer or a stone cutter by trade, but he sure knew how to build things to last.

 Mason Family - Its Hard to Get them All in the Picture!

Mason Family (9 of the 10 kids…sorry Uncle Ted!)

 There needs to be a few final comments about New Zealand.

First, the country is beautiful.  The sea, the mountains, the fields and the cities are pristine.  The scenes of massive herds of sheep grazing serenely in the distance with snow capped mountains with hardly a soul around is unbelievable.  It is like no other place I’ve been on earth.  But there is beauty in the flatness of the fields back home.  There is beauty in the Rocky Mountains.  There beauty in the faces of family and friends.

Second, the people are fantastic.  They are friendly, they are outgoing, they are welcoming, they are proud of their heritage and they are proud of who they are.  Much as people I’ve met in Malaysia, or England, or France, or Italy, or Korea, or Colorado, or North Dakota.  At heart, there are good people everywhere.  At heart, people are good.

Third, it is all about the experience.  New Zealand was a terrific experience for me.  But with any place, anywhere, any culture - it is all about how you approach it.  You can choose to see the good or the bad.  They are both their everywhere, and often what we call good or bad aren’t either, they might just be different.

Finally, even in my advancing years, I can still push and challenge myself, that might be jumping off a bridge, or it might be climbing a mountain, but one way or another, I did things that I didn’t think I was capable of doing.  Things that six months, or nine months ago, I would have said a resounding no way.  And I also know that it doesn’t take moving half way around the world to get that done - some of the wisest people that I know, some of the most courageous people that I know rarely traveled beyond one hundred miles.  Most of it lies in attitude and our capacity to push ourselves, to see beyond what is in front of us, and like jumping off a bridge, just taking that one big step.

 The story of New Zealand from a native’s perspective (ok, even the Polynesians came in from overseas), isn’t that unique.  The island is an overturned ship that held the sons of the Earth and the Heaven, in a storm, their canoe hit a reef, and they huddled on the canoe until they froze.  One half of the canoe is the north island, the other half is the south island, the sons are the mighty mountains - the boys frozen in place for eternity by the south winds.

But the scenery - shot in 3D from airplane, hiking, and skiing, was outstanding.  Almost made you want to climb the mountain.

But we had to be in Christchurch by nightfall.

We made our way away from Mount Cook and around Lake Pukaki, past the dam, and sped along the road past Lake Takepo (yes, I know how it sounds when you say it outload…no, Melvin wouldn’t stop the car so that I could go to the bathroom, just so that I could say, “I took a poo at Lake Takepo!).

We were in a hurry…we had to pay our speeding ticket in Fairlie by five pm.  I’ve promised that I would not include the event in this narrative…so I won’t, but I will say, that the police officer was extremely friendly and assured us that it wouldn’t count against our US drivers liscense, so all it would be was an $80 New Zealand dollar fine…and if we ever came back, he was always parked in the same spot….

Through the hills and mountains, we made it finally to Fairlie, paid our fine, got a rush from eating some honey comb bought earlier in the day, and made our way back across the Canterbury Plain.

With the sun setting and rain moving it, the scenery was still impressive, sheep covered, small farms nestled between the hills, small villages and one lane bridges made the trip a visual delight for travelers.

All too soon, with the sun down and sheets of rain hitting the car, we were back in Christchurch, the trip almost ended.  We checked into a hotel close to the airport and made our way back to downtown for one last good meal.

The rest of the trip past uneventfully.  We had a $20 steak at the same place I dined the first night in Christchurch, the steak was still good, the service still poor.  There was a table full of beautiful women next to us, and one man that I swear was the hobbit, Bilbo Baggins from Lord of Rings movies (that hobbit has apparently done fairly well for himself…and I never heard him call one of them his precious…not even once…).  I fought some battles with our GPS system (The ‘Navman’ is like a real man, can’t find his way and refuses to ask for, or give, directions) and trying to return it (Me to the rental car counter: “how do you return this thing in the morning if the desk is going to closed?”  Them: “Good question, let me think about that and get back to you…tomorrow morning…”), and with a camera (cost to overnight a camera from Christchurch to Melbourne, $25 Australian Dollars, faith in your fellowman not to keep the camera?  Priceless).

The next morning, we were winging our way back to Melbourne.

We only had one more scare on the way home.  Both Melvin and I needed to make it into the office for meetings, so we were on a strict timeline.  Jetstar got our plane in thirty minutes early, but as we were walking to customs, a big sign said, “Warning: Filming of the television show, “Border Security” taking place today.”

Immediately, thoughts went through our head as to what we might have that could cause a delay - I had two bottles of New Zealand wine….

We weren’t even stopped.

One of the agents asked if I had anything to declare, I said, “Two bottles of wine.” Their reply: “Enjoy!”

 Mountain Majesty - Driving back to Christchurch from Queenstown

One of the streams that we crossed…on a one lane bridge

 Sheep grazing on a flat paddock

 Sheep grazing on a non flat paddock

New Zealand sunset (white specs are sheep)

Sheep