Magne Olasen Rön; aka 'Mikael Roen'
68.Violet Road. Mount Victoria. 2786.
New South Wales. Australia.

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UNDERSTANDING.

"Those who Matter, dont Mind
Those who Mind, dont Matter"

This is a safe clause for those to whom I can say:
"We Know each other"

Introduction.

I am Magne Olasen Rön of Mount Victoria in the Australian 'Blue Mountains'.
It is today the 25th. day of December, in the year 2000.
I have this to say, - and I have six days in which to say it.
Then I will have deserved a rest..

Now in my 67th. year I have lived the past 48 of these years in what to me will always be a 'foreign land'. Maybe my original roots were too deep? But I have always had a sense of 'disorientation'.
In Norway I was a 'part of the country'. Is "owning land" an inherited genetic qualification?
Australia can be enticing and wild, enchanting and dear, but a feeling will persevere that it is not My land. Another people, of an earlier nation, have a greater claim to it than I could ever have. My forefathers name has graced a pretty valley in Norway, - not for the thousands of years that this land has been called home by native races, but for more than the recorded 500 years since a church was built on the main road next to our farm.
I find no evidence in family records that they were overly charitable. It has always been a hard land, breeding hard people. But it still seems that they donated land for the church and surrounding graveyard. I have pondered this anomaly for some time, as the early church was not reputed to be very liberal with their cash either. I arrived at the solution that the good parson must have convinced my progenitors that they were not losing any land,
they were gaining "RØN CHURCH". The clergy has usually been good diplomats.
Whatever the answer, getting back to my theme: I would be most hostile towards anyone trying to rub my name off that church or map now, - which is just another way of saying: "You are rubbing out my past, my sense of inheritance, my sense of being". And yes, I no longer even live there! Had I done so I probably would have been even more hostile. But now, after my roaming the world, I'm not so sure, become philosophical perhaps
- in the long run we are all but "temporary" visitors anyhow, aren't we?
Australia has been my home, and after 48 years it has been 'home' to me for a longer spell than it has for most other people living here. I look back upon my life here; yes, this brocade of colours, knots and highlights that we call 'life', and reflect upon the failures and fortunes that were alloted me. It has been a journey burning with friction but also blessed with joy. It has been a journey pregnant with troubles that were, more often than not, ignored or aborted - but at my own peril. It has been here that I learned, and learned Thoroughly,
that whenever I pointed an accusing finger at another - the thumb would point at Me!
And at this point I must add that just because I feel this way about Australia it doesn't mean that it is compulsory; No, not by a long shot!! Those whose families have been here for generations, those who were born her, even those brought here as children and grew up here should feel 'a part of the country'. Indeed, Australia is theirs! This is a Continent, and a very sparsely populated Continent. If any country on earth has land and livingspace to share, - it is Australia, so there is no reason to be mean spirited about that.
In other words; as everywhere else we must learn to Live - and Let Live.
And as 'an intruder' - the journey was never tedious to me.
It was never tedious because it was always something new to grapple with, to understand.
I know full well that it would be easier for me to make a young, and often not so young, person sit on a fire than it would be to make him understand what I am saying, and what I at tmes try to reveal.
I have a "thing' about some words; "Understanding" is one of them. It is a word enormous in scope and consequence. A deep and lasting understanding can be achieved through experience only. Yet, to the intelligent mind its use in analogy may be a blueprint of what might happen or is happening in a person's life,
- and as such a guide to potential rewards and traps that life invariable has in store for us.
Always conditional to the action taken by the person "the thumb points at".
I have sailed the seven seas and know the value of a map of the waters ahead. While such a map doesn't spare or deny anyone the experience, it arms with foreknowledge. Many are those of us, alas, who must feel the searing pain that comes with a wrongly reasoned action, - again and again, before the proper learning is manifest. The "learning from a mistake" is a fallacy. The "easy way" will be attempted, sometimes ad infinitum whithout learning penetrating. Yet learning is only the first, uncertain step towards 'Understanding'. Mistakes, which should leave a deep, emphatic mark, are so often unnecessary, and the price is always too high. I have found in life that in relating something 'Relevance' is more important than 'Chronology' to the end result.
I have decided that in this essay I will let relevance take precedence. However,
I hope to maintain an overall chronological structure as well, while the mind, where relevant, may make leaps through time in order to emphasise and validate a point in question.
So you may know a little more about me before I continue the story, I have added.......

Some details about me.

(from publisher's note to a poetry collection)

M.(Magne) O.RØN, grew up in Norway during the German occupation in World War 2.
In June, 1949 he left home to join the Norwegian Merchant Navy.
In June, 1952 he was shipwrecked in the Atlantic, fished out of the sea and taken the 100 miles ashore to New York by the "USS.Macinnack" of the American Coast Guard.

He now lives in semi retirement in a timber cottage he built himself
on the escarpmemt in Mt. Victoria, N.S.W. (Aust.)
The western boundary path of his land was named "Henry Lawson Walk"
after the poet's stay there in the 1880's.

A Wartime Christmas.

Let us continue, and I might as well begin with some hindsights to an era that most people here and today will have scarse knowledge of. Above is mentioned some education, - and my 'discovery' of poetry through Henry Lawson. But my 'Education' was much more extensive than that. And it was gleaned from Reality, from the sombre grays and charcoal hues of a life in turmoil.

But really, it Is Christmas day. I aught to begin with a sweet crissy-story... hmmmmm. from childhood?
Yes, Christmas is one of the many things I miss from Norway; There they take the festivities with some 'attitude' - and the climate, unlike here, amplifies the 'cozyness' inside - and permits the rich food. And as children we really "believed" in Santa - well, the first 5 years anyhow ;-)
There it is traditional to "gå julebukk" -(with masks) and get cakes and goodies;
(like Halloween which we do not have).

3pm. on the 24th. churchbells ring in Christmas - and we all troop off to church. As we walk home in the darkening afternoon/evening we expect light snow to sprinkle down. Then we sit down, and one, - usually mum, reads the 'evangelium', and we tuck in to the traditional fare for that part of the country. With us it was "Ribbe & Pölse" (Pork Ribs and Sausage) etc.etc.
Then, as soon as dad, mum or uncle can think of an excuse to get away... we begin an anxious wait for Santa. When 'he' comes in, dragging a bursting doonacover full of presents, the anxiety (of Santa) and anticipation (of presents) reaches a peak - tears and laughter.......
Then we link up, hand in hand, and sing carols as we walk around the tree.
The 25th. is a day of peace and quiet, enjoying the food and the newness of the presents. Then follows 3-4 weeks of parties. New years eve we often visited relatives in Oslo where we listened to the ships in the harbour competing for the noisiest 'tooting' at midnight.
The Christmas cards we have are of an almost infinite variety and they gave us kids a chance to earn some money for presents. In the weeks before Christmas we would sell them all over town. - When I was a boy they cost from 5 to 25 öre each. (100 öre = 1 krone; kr.7.14 was one US.$).
I would pester mother for the initial investment at the end of November; then I would set a margin of profit - and off to work. Nobody was safe from the scourge of child merchants. During the war I even talked my way past the German guards and flogged cards to the thousands of troops in the army camp. Yes, I think this memory is from 1943, - when I was all of 10 years old, and I already spoke German - Somewhat.. hahaha..
We had to learn to be 'crafty' at an early age. You'd be surprised at how much, in the 'restrained' atmosphere of an enemy occupation, - a child could take in - and recognise the importance of, as without the elders noticing, we were avid listeners to their talk.
Not many of the kids had the gumption to talk their way into the camp, because the sense of fear and apprehension absorbed from their elders. So for me it was very profitable. At the age of 10 nobody would think me a "Profiteer"; and it had another advantage as well. Any of us who got in could use our ears and eyes. I was often able to answer 'innocent' questions by trusted family friends about layout and locations. Children behaving innocently, - and I became a great 'actor', could get away with things that could get an adult shot.
In the camp we could find cigarette bumpers as well, which were very scarce in town. I know this might sound outlandish to parents in a free country, but they can probably not imagine a father who'd forbid the family to urinate in the lavatory during the night either, as he needed the 'product' as fertiliser for his tobacco plants in the garden. (Pot collection at 7am.) - So gathering hard to find bumpers was a worthy pasttime. I could usually fill a machbox of 'nicely blended' tobacco for dad's present. (The highest prized present of the evening).
One evening, it was snowing, I followed a German Major who was smoking a big cigar, hoping to get the butt. For almost 2 hours I followed him - it was a BIG cigar, - then he marched in at his residence, still smoking -- oh well, - sans cigar -
It was very disappointing!!! - Yes the war could be terrible - hahaha. - We still had a sense of humour left.
But not much else.
Oh well friends, now we have had a childrens Christmas together in Norway. Was it anything like the Christmasses that you remember?

While I am remenissing.......... During the war we used to keep a pig in the cellar during the autumn months. We had to first get a permission of course; Then, when it was butchered it was weighed, and the weight taken off our ration cards. But the advantage was that there was nothing worth buying in the shops anyhow. This way we secured meat for the winter. But feeding it was often a problem. As in those days there was no oil, butter or fat; - mother fried herrings ungutted - so they could fry 'in their own' fat. So it was little leftover for the pig. It became one of the family as we all scrounged to feed it during the weeks leading up to Christmas.
The week before Christmas, when the butcher came, was a time of sorrow for the whole family. - Oh well.......
Back to Australia - and Reality?

Sydney 1965/6.

I left the Snowy Mountains in the mid 1960ies. I did not consciously leave - I just did not return. After 10 odd years in the mountains I left with roughly the same as I had when I came, but of a different content, of course.
I am tempted to write "disillusioned" but that would not be correct. I had no illusions to lose when I first went to the mountains as then, from Melbourne, I had gone to earn enough to repay a £500 debt from a failed business venture. But even that was not fully aquitted in the end, so I had little reason to feel like an Honourable Person.
But after these years of hard work and hard living I think I had gained some satisfaction that I could "line up with the others" - that I was a man! A feeling I had not received with my mother's milk; neither through the often cruel steps up the first rungs at sea. I had not found, however, what I had been looking for during my young years.
"What I had been looking for", - of course I had not found that. How could I? I didn't even know myself what it was that I was 'looking for'.
But I had found a measure of Self Respect; - At least for the time my money and my good physical conditioning lasted.
Ever since I was a child, right from my experiences throughout my upbringing, I had come to detest violence in any shape or form. And I was as familiar with the emotional as with the physical variety. This repugnance had not made life at sea any easier, there a 'show of strength' is admired. In the Snowy Mountains however, as my seniority grew, it gained some currency.
But at Sydney's 'Kings Cross', - after my money had been squanderd, it was back to the Survival of the Fittest; - and I did not remain the 'Fittest' for long.
It takes some people longer to grow up than it takes others; and I found that I was one of those who needed more time to find his way through life. It is in retrospect only one may see the progress made, as progress there Must have been; otherwise we should not reach the vantage point of observation. But once there, one is also able to see all one's mistakes and forays in the wrong directions.
I say "wrong" directions; - not because they were necessarily wrong, but that they were wrong only in the context of my aim. It did not serve my immediate purpose, and by that the diversion made my search more streneous and time consuming.
The lesson to be learnt from this is that many peple get no further as they lack the perseverance to continue. Here is the great danger, and the good reason to obtain the help of a guide who knows the way, - in this search.
I was fortunate however. I felt it as if my life depended on the outcome. In that situation one tends to persevere...... or go under.
I persevered. In retrospect I might also say "How I wish I had a wise guide" - but I won't say that. And here is why: With a guide I would not have made all those mistakes; and whatever may be said about negative learning, it was very dearly paid for, with my blood at times; - and while dangerous, - because so many succumb, there is an immense lot of knowledge to be harvested from personal struggles.
But again I must warn against the obstacles that might be too great for our strength to overcome. Search for a guide as even with a guide the road to understanding is hasd enough for us 'mere mortals'. (The search is indeed a"search for perfection", - and as such, probably eternal).
But this is merely a preamble to prepare you for the many apparent inconsistencies that follows. And upon reflection; they were 'inconsistencies', Not merely 'apparent'. As Nature seems to move from chaos to order, we seem to progress through inconsistency to consistency. Is this an observation that you feel comfortable with?

Well, my friends, time flies. In a few hours the time I stipulated at the beginning is over, but will my task be over? - No; that is not likely. From the few who have seen this I have already had a number of comments as to content. I have in fact found it necessary to go back and modify the introduction somewhat. It would seem that I was, if not 'one-eyed' I was at least ambigous about the individual rights of the earlier immigrants to Australia. Some parochialism is found in every country, not least in the one I came from. There, as here, the parochial attitude is displayed mainly by the less mentally endowed citizens. But I hope that my additional qualifications have put that issue to rest.
And, as I was saying, the time for rest seems further away than when I began. Expositions produce more questions than answers, it seems.

The "Piccadilly Hotel".

One of the reasons I did not return that last time was most probably (read "undoubtedly") because on this 'sabbatical leave' I really got caught on the slippery slopes of life.
Firstly it was this girl I had fallen for on my previous LONG weekend to Sydney. She was the most beautiful damsel I had ever seen!!
When I first met her she had gone to her sister's place of work for a chat and together they had gone to the roofgarden at a nearby hotel for an afternoon beer in the spring sun. The 'nearby hotel' was Piccadilly; - my hotel. Oh cruel fate.
It was one of THOSE things. Those things we say 'never happen'. Like hell they don't!! It's a wonder she took any notice of me at all. I had been in Sydney for a couple of days and already sported a black eye and a swollen lip.
(Two good friends of mine got drunk and started fighting - I, of course, had to get between them to stop it - I 'copped it' from both sides. - the same old story).
Anyhow, that didn't seem to matter. I think she got the same glazed look in her eyes as I had in mine. It was quite a hurried meeting. They had accepted the beer I sent over and I joined them at their table for a quick "how are you" - then they had to leave. Leaving the roofgarden the sister went first, then 'Babs', with me trailing between the tables. In my mind I can still clearly see the back of her shoulders in her spackled green cloth coat and her honeyblond hair in waves over the collar. They had already bid me goodbye, but somehow I could not 'let go'. As we trailed out the door I, speaking softly, said to her back: "I'll see you here at 8pm. tomorrow, Babs"; then I turned and went back inside. I had no way of knowing if she had heard me as she didn't even turn her head. In fact, I was quite sure she hadn't, and by the next evening I had almost managed to forget the whole thing when a friend came looking for me in the saloon bar to tell me that a girl was asking about me in the roofgarden.
Holy Smoke!!! I thought all my christmasses had come at once!!
But all this took place on my previous trip to Sydney, the year before. Since then we had spoken for hours on the telephone, which was far from cheap in those days, 30 years before today's 'free market' competition.
I might mention it later, in glimpses, what took place directly after we met, as it becomes relevant to this story.
Circumstances after my last return........... No, I'll take a raincheck on the beginning, - still a bit upsetting. I will deal with it in one consecutive story later.

We ended up having quite a wild time in Sydney. I cannot remember all (read "much") of it, but Piccadilly and the surrounding area became my 'home' for quite a while.
When my money run out I developed a habit of leaving my suitcase behind the counter in various delicatessen shops in the area. But in the end I forgot where I last had left it so I ended up "travelling light". I had a toothbrush in my top breast pocket and brushed my teeth in the beer. Fortunately I had been able to hold on to my fur lined jacket which was a godsend during the nights.
To make sure I wouldn't look too scrappy I still had the Remington razor I had paid a chap at Kings Cross Hotel £5. ($10) for. That's right - it was still in the "£,Sh,d" days. a million years ago.
I still had my small backpack stashed somewhere..... and I think I still had the idea that I would get a lift back to the mountains again - one day.
But that "one day" kept slipping away.
The hardest part was (1). To find a place where I could close my eyes for a while without getting arrested. And (2). As it got colder, a place where I wouldn't risk waking up dead. I had 'found' a blanket somewhere which I kept stashed in the 'meterbox' at an old residential down in Victoria Street just for emergencies.
(A funny thing, - about 30 years later Ingvald (Eddie) and I had gone for a drive and stopped at "The Cross" just for the memories. Walking down the street we came past that old place and I said: "Just a minute, Ingvald", walked in the gate and opened the rotting meterbox. There, atop the gasmeter lay the old blanket, rotten and mouldy, but still seemingly undisturbed since I had left it there!! We both walked away - a little thoughtful, after that).
So it hadn't all been a nightmare.
There are still stories being told by the oldtimers around Victoria Street. Like te one about the tree.
Victoria Street is lined with huge bigleafed and bigbranched trees. Right outside the Saloon bar door there is such a tree on the edge of the footpath. In those days the bar would close for a couple of hours in the evening. Presumably to make people go home for dinner.
There was this fellow they called "The Gentleman Bum" who had no dinner to worry about. All he wanted was for the pub to open its doors again. Sitting on the doorstep was risking being 'collected' by the ever vigilant Police Patrol, so he had this brilliant idea. "Don't ask me how he did it" the oldtimer said. There are about 3 metres to the lowest branches but he managed to get a foothold in just the bumps on the trunk and pull himself up. After a few trial climbs he had it down to an art.
When the doors closed for dinner he had provisioned himself with a bottle of Sherry, a glass and a packet of cigarettes - and up he went. Half way up the tree he had found a cleft in the main trunk, with two solid branches sloping out in a comfortable angle. There he sat himself. A couple of thinner branches offered comfortable armleans, and he broke off a few branches which he used to pleat a nice stand for his bottle, glass and cigarettes. It would take an earthquake to shift him. Safe as houses!!!
He invited friends to join him but none of them could master the 'bumps on the trunk' for a foothold. As time went by he was left pretty much to himself. To spare himself coming down for more supplies he had found a nylon line which he'd lower the empties down with, while 'sympathisers' would attach a refill bottle.
Until one night when he was betrayed.
At 10pm. - closing time, it was customary for two police constables to walk past to check that the licencing laws were being respected. Although against the law, in the warmer months it was customary for the patrons to stand in the doorway, even on the pootpath, with their drinks. The constables would try to herd them inside to leave their glasses at the bar. This was routine with the regulars and normally no cause of problems. But this evening some young people, tourists probably, had become aware of the figure up the tree. Perhaps when he hoisted up some more refreshments, or just when he exchanged some words with a friend perhaps.
In any case, with the police there, these dumbells had to keep glancing up in the tree, and giggling amongst themselves. It didn't take long before one of the policemen realised that something was going on. He followed the glances of the traitors, - and then: "Come down, Mikael"; "Come down at once"!!! - They were old aquaintances it seemed.
The fellow in the tree topped up his glass and lifted it in a toast to the officer and replied: "Why? I am quite comfortable here, why don't you come up and join me"? The policeman shook his head and left him there. "He is never any trouble to anybody else but to himself", he said as he left.
The oldtimer had more stories, and I'm sure they were true, - but I had to leave..
.

This page has been revised once.

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