I’d like for this blog to work in a timeline fashion, starting with the early years at the top (just as you’d start at the front of a book), but that’s not how blogs work, so I’ll have to deal with it.

Where shall we begin? Why not the beginning? Does every autobiography try to shy away from the standard “I was born on this date and time, roughly this long, weighed this much, and so forth”? If a life is to be talked about, that seems a pretty significant detail. So here goes.

I was born April 6, 1966, at St. Anne’s Hospital in Perth, Western Australia, right there on the banks of the Swan River (in 1996, St. Anne’s was renamed Mercy Hospital). I was 7 lbs., 7 ounces. I arrived around 4 in the afternoon, according to my mother who, on one occasion a few years ago, waited until then to call me to wish Happy Birthday. That’s when she told me the specific time, and so it made sense then. Through the day up until that moment and explanation I was thinking that she’d forgotten. I’ll admit, I like birthdays, I enjoy the moment, and I’m a bit of a grump if someone forgets. That often is the case at work, wherever I’ve worked, but I suppose it would only seem reasonable for people to wish a happy birthday if they first knew when it was. That’s my problem. I like the greeting, but I’m not comfortable about advertising it, although I’m doing one heck of a job right now. Facebook has taken over and now advertises for all of us (if desired), and the flood of well-wishes coming in April 6 is quite nice.

Yours truly, around 1967. The next photos of me will appear around age 10.
I have none from the years between.

In 1978, when I was 12, it was announced that I would not be having a birthday that year, in response to some naughty stuff I did earlier. The day came and went and no one said a word. It goes without saying that I was devastated. Who does that to a kid? Well, my stepmother and dad, specifically, and they had a reason: aside from me being naughty (which I’ll get to eventually), there was my half-sister (AJ) who was born April 18. They decided to combine our birthdays a week later somewhere between our birthdates, but didn’t mention it until that day. AJ was turning 2, for Pete’s sake. Would she even know the significance? This only added to a growing irritation towards her birthday, established when she was born Easter Sunday (1976). Rather than celebrate hers on April 18, it was done instead on Easter Sunday, which jumped about all over the calendar each year, sometimes before April 6. It irritated me to no end that it wasn’t celebrated on April 18—THAT was her birthdate! Unfortunately, my insistence and irritation was perceived as resentment and jealousy. My stepmother already didn’t care for me much, and this fight surrounding her little baby girl didn’t help my popularity with her one bit. AJ and I got along for the most part, at least in the early days when we were in the same vicinity; that would all go to heck much later, and had nothing to do with birthdays.

When I initially began the idea of writing a book, I was hoping to keep the reader in suspense along with me for the first number of years; when I discovered the “big reveal,” I would write about it and have you discover that reveal along with me, somewhere about a third of the way in. In thinking about it, it became difficult to write without giving clues to situations and events that needed the “reveal” explanation.

So I will provide the reveal here. I grew up with my mother, father, brother and sister (me being the oldest of the kids). Then one day I was informed that my mother was not in fact my mother. My parents split when I was about 2 or so, and Dad remarried. I knew nothing of this until I was 12. This meant that my siblings were in fact half-siblings, and the kid living with my grandparents who I thought was my uncle, was in fact my brother. My stepmother was a redhead like me, so it made sense to me (and apparently everyone around us) that I was her child. Admittedly, as a curious 8 year old, I pondered her age and figured she’d have been about 17 when I was born, which raised a question in my mind as to whether that was possible, because I didn’t know any better.

I was told all this by my father while we took a quick road trip from Brisbane to Noosa in Queensland to see my “aunt.” I was to stay with her and start high school while Dad and the rest of the family moved about and settled somewhere. The “aunt” turned out to be my real mother, of course. It was an awkward experience hearing all that, and it raised a million questions that have only partially been answered. I’ll gladly discuss the specifics in greater detail as we venture into this “autoblogography.”

It also made sense of a lot of things. It explained the animosity felt towards me by my stepmother, especially after her own kids were born. It explained the birthday thing clearly; AJ was her child, I was not, and it made no difference to my stepmother, FR, when mine was or how I’d feel about missing it.

I was ecstatic to learn that my “uncle,” Dean, was in fact my brother. The main reason that it never occurred to me earlier is because we look NOTHING alike. I apparently picked up the English/Scottish side of the family, and he got the Maltese side, with the darker hair and different complexion. He definitely got Dad’s side, and I got my mother’s.

Dean (left) and me, Perth, 1986. This was the last time I’ve seen him in person; I last spoke to him by phone in 1996. He still lives in Perth, and wants nothing to do with anyone in the family. We’ll get to that eventually.

The news meant that certain beliefs I had were not true. My stepmother, for example, was Dutch, arriving in Australia with her brother and parents in the early 1950s. All along I thought I had Dutch ancestry. I don’t. I knew about the Maltese and Welsh already, and there was talk of English and Irish thrown in for good measure. It was only a couple of years ago (through Ancestry.com and other relatives) that I found that were was no Irish, but in fact most of the lineage goes back to Scotland, and there’s even a far-flung ancestor entombed in Westminster Abbey. There’s a Russian woman in the lineup as well, early 1800s, but I have no information about her.

So now that the “reveal” is out of the way, I can get to the story in context, and not confuse anyone along the way. Least of all me.

Next, we’ll go into the early years. I’ll discuss ghost towns, gold and nickel mining, Herbert Hoover, and growing up amongst it all.