My Word

Heart Burn

Kate Mildenhall returns to a special summer place and finds it – and herself – forever changed.

I’ve camped at the same place on Bidwell and Gunai Kurnai land – East Gippsland – with my family every summer for more than 30 years. Best friends, first kisses in the dunes, driving lessons, bringing in the new millennium from the top of the lighthouse, a marriage proposal, my first-born turning around the wrong way in my belly weeks before she came out.

Is it wrong to worship a place? In her book Beyond Climate Grief, science writer Jonica Newby calls them “heartplaces” – places we fall in love with, in part so we might better protect them. And summer places are especially sacred, as much about all that happens there as the landscape: the friendships, the laughter, that slow summertime. We pay attention more, stay in the moment even before we know that is a thing we are supposed to do. We go at the speed of the tide, of cooking on a campfire, of a three-year-old learning to ride a two-wheeler.

I’d already had 30 summers there when it took a fire to make me realise I couldn’t take this time or this heartplace for granted.

We had only 15 minutes to evacuate our campsite when the fire roared down the coast towards us in December 2019. We left all our stuff but got everyone out. Weeks later we gasped at the pictures Parks Vic sent us for insurance: the kids’ bikes melted, the axle of our burnt-out camper trailer in a blackened landscape. The bridge into the campsite burned and split in two. The bridge that had always been the portal into summer.

Living on the bushy outskirts of Melbourne, I’ve grown up in the shadow of fire, but I’m one of the lucky ones. Towns that are only a stone’s throw from my own still reel from the physical and mental aftermath of Black Saturday 13 years on; fortunately, I’ve not had to bear witness to my home turning to ash. I have not had to shelter my children on a beach under a woollen blanket like my friend did during Black Summer, while trying to work out whether it would be safer in the pounding surf or facing the heat on the sand.

My heartplace that burned during those terrible Black Summer fires isn’t where I live. I can’t even claim that I hail from East Gippsland. My connection to it is fleeting (and problematic) when compared to the connection of Gunai Kurnai, Bidwell and other First Nations people to this place.

So where do I put my grief on the scale of loss?

This summer, we went back to our beloved, burned place. From the new camping spot we were lucky to find not far away, our group travelled to where fire destroyed the campsite. We drove through luminous green regrowth on black trunks and thrilled at the spots where the tree ferns have sprouted. We cried at the broken bridge and hugged each other hard as we recognised a melted kayak, a charred coffee pot, the skeletons of camper trailers and bikes. We reminded each other through tears, “We got out. We got out.”

And slowly, we saw the beauty: vines tangled through the incinerated remains of campsites, fat purple berries of the dianella, wild raspberries glowing pink in the undergrowth. On the beach at the sheltered bay at the end of the track, the sea was as it always has been. The orange lichened rocks, the grey-black driftwood that marks high tide, a pair of hooded plovers skittering along the shore. And the river, the river. The newest of our clan had her first swim in its waters – a baptism.

Fire has drastically altered this place. So too have huge tides, gouging out sections of the fragile dunes that have held up the road to the lighthouse for so many years. Even if they can rebuild the bridge, the amenities and reroute the road, the place we knew has gone. Here, for the first time for me, solastalgia – that painful feeling about an environment changing – became visceral.

Driving back down the highway at the end of our summer, we joined the throng of campers heading home. We have thong marks, new freckles, muscles sore with bodysurfing, hearts full with where we have been. Maybe our collective love for the places we camp will stand us in good stead for what is to come. Maybe our losses will galvanise us to fight harder to protect them.

As I write this still filled with summer bliss – sand between my toes, shush of the waves in my ears and piles of unpacking littering the house – I wonder how to hold the lingering grief for the land. Grief is the price we pay for loving, and I found somewhere to put my grief this summer, diving under a breaking wave and nestling it into the river sand.

Letter to My Younger Self

I’M GONNA BE IN A ROCK BAND”

Rock god Jon Bon Jovi says it’s the hard times that have made him appreciate success – and his parents who made it all possible.

by Jane Graham The Big Issue UK

@janeannie

Ihad single-minded focus when I was 16. By the time I was 17 I had my first band [Atlantic City Expressway] in New Jersey and I was determined I’d be making records and singing in a band and making my living doing that. When I was 16, and in the place where I lived, there was a lot of optimism. It was 1978 then, and 1980 when I graduated from high school. New Jersey was a wonderful, hard-working blue-collar place to grow up in. Both of my parents worked five or six days a week – there was never a lack of food or clothing or school, we were given the great gifts of that comfort. I was born during the John Kennedy administration. So my parents married under that kind of hope and aspiration and they instilled it in their kids. It was brimming with optimism and belief in the opportunity that you could, in fact, achieve your dreams.

There was no Plan B for me, ever. I can remember walking the two-mile walk to school with the guy who became my first band’s bass player. And I would just conspire as to how I was going to get a band together, how I was going to play in bars and eventually make it. Which to me at that time just meant keep on playing in a bar – the measurements of success change throughout the course of your life. My three best friends, including that bass player, they joined the navy. When I got the call from the recruiting office my answer was, does the uniform come in different colours? Can I take the pants in around the ankle? I’m not sure about that haircut. My buddies joined the service because they thought, okay, this is the best way out for me. But I said, nah, this is what I’m going to do. I’m gonna be in a rock band.

We would have magazines in the States.

Circus magazine, Creem magazine. And inside you had these posters of the biggest bands in the world you would tear out and hang on your wall – Led Zeppelin and Aerosmith and Alice Cooper. But on top of that, and maybe more important, 25 miles away from where I grew up was Asbury Park. And there were guys there singing songs from whence I came. Playing their own music. And although they were not in those magazines, and they weren’t big by definition, it was them who made the impossible possible. Although all those guys were much older than I was, they were singing songs about where I was from, and performing in places where I could see them and meet them. And that was a big part of the inspiration for me, it made my dream tangible.

I think regarding my parents, I am a combination of both the good, the bad

and the indifferent. As I think we all are, but it takes a while for you to be able to see that. And it takes a longer while before you can say that. It’s really helped to shape who I am now as a man and as a father. Because you have your two halves, and you meet your wife or your significant other and they bring their two halves so you’re four quarters and all of those inspire your kids. What I got from my parents was the ability to make the dream reality. They always instilled that confidence in their kids which, in retrospect, I realise was so incredibly valuable. Because even if you truly weren’t any good at your craft, if you believed you were, you could work on it. As I got older I realised that was a great gift that I got from my folks. They truly believed in the John Kennedy mantra of going to the moon. “Yeah, of course you can go to the moon. Just go Johnny.” And there I went.

The first talent show my parents came to see me play I was so terrible

they wanted to crawl under their seats with embarrassment. But they saw my passion and my commitment. So when I was just 17 they let me play in bars till closing time and they always said, well, at least we knew where you were. They were always supportive of me, which in retrospect, was incredible. Because I could get home at one or two in the morning, and have to still be in school by eight o’clock. They just said, show up on time for school, you know that is your responsibility, but pursue your dream. They never once said you can’t go to the bar. They knew I wasn’t going there to fuck around. I was going there to do the job. And I didn’t have the responsibility of a young family or paying the rent or anything like that. So all those things worked out. Though of course, it wasn’t like I was 30 and still going to the bar. By the time I was 20 I had written ‘Runaway’ and it was on the radio and by the time I was 21 I had a record deal. So there wasn’t the need for my parents to have a sit down with their 35-year-old son who was still playing in a bar in Santa Barbara saying “I’m gonna make it”.

I think the beautiful thing about being naive and being a kid is thinking that

you know a lot, even if you don’t. There’s a certain grace in naivety. And it’s beautiful, because it allows you to constantly put

There were times it was deeply dark, and deeply hurtful… But it’s a part of life. You come through it.

“IT’S GONNA HAVE UPS AND DOWNS BUT KEEP THE FAITH,” SAYS JBJ

yourself out there and every step of the way dare to say what you want, and dare to do what you want. Because that is the greatest gift of all, to not be regretting decisions you could’ve, should’ve, would’ve made, had you had the courage. Each step along the way, I was cocky and confident and single-minded.

I couldn’t choose just one moment in my life to go back and encourage my

teenage self with. I could take a time-lapse, 60-second warp-speed video of the whole thing and then at the end of it just have it go “pop” and look at that kid and say, it happens. But that would be too much for any kid to handle. Half of the fun is the rollercoaster of a real career, and a real career for me doesn’t come into play until you’ve done it for 20 years. It’s about the ebb and the flow. You have to have successes, and you have to have doubt, and you have to have failure, and you have to have tears that you shed so that when you come through it you can honestly say, now I understand. If it all happens early and quickly there’s probably not the same appreciation. You could be like a firecracker, just have a big quick pop and it’s over. Or the ebb and flow of a real honest-to-god career with all of its pain and joy. I’d rather have that.

The biggest mistake I made in my life is that I didn’t take enough time to stop

and look around and enjoy it. I was always so focussed on the next step, then the next and the next, that it cost me a lot of great memories. And it caused a lot of sleepless nights that weren’t warranted. It’s my biggest regret. The one thing I would tell the younger self is, enjoy it more, relax. It’s gonna have ups and downs but keep the faith.

When I hit that dark period a couple of

times throughout my career [long periods of non-stop touring drove him to depression], losing people along the way [long-time band member Richie Sambora left the band in 2013; Jon has said there’s not a day when he doesn’t wish “Richie had his life together and was still in the band”]. There were times it was deeply dark, and deeply hurtful and I wouldn’t wish that on myself, ever. But it’s a part of life. You come through it. It doesn’t make you feel good. But it makes sense. You know, there’s reasons why people get off the ride. And it’s probably so that you can continue on that journey. When you’re in the middle of it you don’t believe anyone who tells you you’re gonna come through it. But when you do, the scars are there and you can look at them and justify them and look back on that darkness from the light. And then you can say, okay, I got through it. And in essence, I have to admit, it was worth it. I wish it was all pretty, but maybe if it was all pretty I wouldn’t have gotten this wisdom or this deep appreciation for who and what I am today.

I had closure with everyone important in my life who’s gone

now. I was very lucky in that sense. But I wish I could have time, as a man, with my grandmother and my grandfather, who died when I was 13. And a guy called Jerry Edelstein who was technically called my attorney but was way, way deeper than that. He’s the godfather of my daughter and was my closest confidant in the world. I miss him terribly every day.

If I could go back and re-live any moment in my life the first thing that comes to mind is the birth of

my kids. Because that was such a miracle. The birth of a human that you’ve helped create – that’s probably the biggest, most unbelievable thing that I could ever want. To touch the hand of God, that’s as close as you ever come to that.

I remember coming home with Stephanie, our first, and thinking

I have a daughter? I never even had a sister. That was daunting. We were in uncharted territory to say the least. Everyone comes to the hospital to visit and they bring flowers and balloons, and they drop your bag off and the mommies lay down in the bed with the baby, and then you’re like, oh my God, now what? And driving the first baby home you’re scared stiff, you’re like, everybody get away from this car! Just move away. And then we came home and it was like, where’s the manual? How do we work this thing? There’s just the two of us alone in the room going, holy shit. We were so grateful that she was healthy but we were scared shitless. Of course by the time you get to the fourth baby, you’re dragging it into the parking lot by its arm, saying, “Whatever. Strap yourself in, you’ll be fine.”

The greatest joy that I get, when I’m not in the midst of being Jon Bon Jovi on

some stage, is when we spend a day at one of the Soul Kitchens [providing affordable meals, which Bon Jovi founded]. Because you leave there and you know that you’ve really truly done good. You leave feeling a sense of accomplishment on the day. And it’s really, really satisfying. It’s just glorious.

TOP: WITH THE BAND, IN 1985 MIDDLE: WITH MUM AND DAD BONGIOVI BOTTOM: WITH WIFE DOROTHEA AND THE KIDS AT THE ROCK’N’ROLL HALL OF FAME INDUCTION CEREMONY, IN 2018

HEART AND SOUL

The rocker and his wife are fighting poverty with the JBJ Soul Kitchen, which is serving up hope and housing support to those in need.

by Steve MacKenzie The Big Issue UK

When you’re a rock’n’roll legend, selling out stadiums with countless anthems to your name, what do you do next? Jon Bon Jovi and his wife Dorothea Hurley co-founded the JBJ Soul Kitchen. There are no prices on the menu, instead they use a pay-it-forward model that means customers who can afford to pay more cover the cost of others who are struggling to make ends meet.

The kitchen is just one of many projects from Jon Bon Jovi’s Soul Foundation, which has provided affordable housing to thousands of people across the US since 2006.

“One night I was looking out a hotel window in Philadelphia and I saw a guy sleeping on a grate. And I said: ‘That’s not what our forefathers were thinking when they created this America that they dreamed of,’” Bon Jovi recalls.

“And I thought, I know the issue – homelessness. Doesn’t matter if you’re Black, white, young, old, Republican, Democrat. I don’t need a scientist to find the cure, and I can make a difference. It hit me like a lightning bolt.”

Since that day the kitchen has grown into a bigger part of his life with the help, guidance and hard work of Dorothea and experts in the field.

“Home brings the ability to exhale,” he says. “Having a roof over your head is the greatest relief. I can’t imagine not having sanctuary to be warm in the cold and comforted in the rain.

“You’ve got to put a roof over someone’s head and then you’ve got to give them the ability to provide so they can keep it over their head. You can’t just give the man a home and go, good luck. Because next month there’s a lighting bill coming.

“These people have gone to great lengths to get back on their feet, to achieve this level of success where they could get that roof over their head. None of this was given to any of them; they worked for it.”

The three JBJ Kitchens have become beating hearts in New Jersey communities, connecting people with services to support their housing and health needs – all while keeping them well fed.

The Big Issue: Apart from the food, what are the key ingredients in the JBJ Soul Kitchen?

Dorothea Hurley: We say the most important ingredient is love. Dignity and respect grow out of that. We treat everyone who comes through our doors the same. When you give a person the opportunity, they are happy to help and feel part

JON AND DOROTHEA IN THE KITCHEN

of something bigger than themselves. When we are able to sit across the table from someone, we break down the barriers between us. If we are treating all with respect, we are correct in expecting that in return.

Where did the idea originally come from?

We were inspired by community restaurants that allow people to pay what they can. We are different in our approach as we ask our in-need diners to help around the restaurant and not pay anything. While they are volunteering we are getting to know them and creating relationships to help them find resources in our community.

Who comes to eat at the restaurant?

We serve a mix of people, many who are working but are underemployed, some unemployed, seniors on fixed incomes, some struggling with mental health issues. We also serve those who want to contribute to their community. They are going out to eat anyway, and they know that their donation is being used by someone in the restaurant that night.

What are the problems in New Jersey that mean there are people who can’t afford food?

That is a much bigger issue than I could answer here, but basically, the real cost of living is many times higher than what would be considered “living in poverty”.

What role does the JBJ Soul Kitchen play in the local community?

We are that place that people come to feel part of something, to connect with each other and us. Imagine if you spent all day walking around not speaking to anyone and having most people walk across the street to avoid you. It is nice to walk into a beautiful restaurant and have people genuinely care about you, and what is more heart-warming than a delicious meal?

Michelle Pereira

illustration by

The Gift of Love

Melina Marchetta’s daughter was almost two when she came into her life. Their journey to adoption was built on love, community and a pinch of salt.

by Melina Marchetta

Melina Marchetta is an internationally bestselling and award-winning author. Her books range from beloved young adult fiction and fantasy through to contemporary and crime fiction, and works for younger readers. She lives in Sydney.

T

here are so many narrators to the story of my daughter’s life and how she came to live with me. I never try to assume or challenge how her birth parents feel, because their story isn’t mine to tell, and it would be an insult to them if I tried. Recently, on her 10th birthday, I posted on my Instagram to family and friends. “To the glorious Miss B, the true love of my life. Happy Birthday my darling. When I think back to why it took so long to start such an amazing journey, I know it’s because our hearts were waiting for each other.”

And it was a long wait.

When I decided on permanent foster care, I was over 40. It wasn’t that I forgot to have children or was too busy or ambitious to find the time. It wasn’t that I was fussy or searching for the perfect man. I could continue the list forever regarding society’s views on why someone doesn’t have a child. Or who deserves to. Wanting a child wasn’t a biological clock cliché or a desperate need to be a mother. Deep down, it was this feeling that I wanted to raise a child. That I was meant to.

It started like this. I chose a foster care organisation, went to the first information night, wrote an eight-page life story, attended a course that ran over two weekends and a couple of nights, got finger-printed at the police station (three times in total over five years) to ensure I didn’t have any convictions, and ultimately welcomed two humourless social workers into my home to pick apart my life with bureaucratic zeal.

I should have seen the first session as an omen for the awfulness of that experience when I served one of them tea with salt, rather than sugar. It went downhill from there. What should have been 20 hours of questions over six to eight weeks, dragged on for most of that year. Sometimes they’d disappear for months.

There were confronting questions. Whether or not I felt that I had failed as a woman not giving birth naturally. It was brutal, and asked by young caseworkers who only knew how to read questions compiled by an invisible supervisor. By the end of the year, they called it quits on me first. Apart from the grief of it, I was furious with myself for not trusting my judgement. I had wanted to withdraw the application for months because they didn’t feel right to me, but I didn’t. From that moment on, I have not let anything get in the way of gut instinct.

Could I begin this journey again? And how old would I be by the time the process ended? Would that be held against

my application? Regardless, I sent a letter to three foster organisations, outlining exactly what had happened, as well as my eight-page life story. If they read the material and still wanted to speak to me, I was ready.

I was on the Hawkesbury River working on a project when one of them, Barnardos, contacted me. I spent an hour on the phone, standing out in the rain overlooking the most gorgeous body of water. By the end of the conversation the hope started up again. I was the type of foster parent they were looking for.

No salt in the tea this time around for the two women who came to interview me. One in her late twenties, the other in her sixties. They were warm and funny, and we chatted over weeks. I got to speak about life, and I got to ask them questions about their lives. It felt unscripted and organic. There was continuity and a deep respect for carers. In August that year they went to panel with my application, and it was approved. I was told it could take anywhere between two weeks and two years to find a match. It ended up being two months. I was in Coles when I saw my caseworker’s name come up on my phone. I didn’t answer it, because I knew in my heart that this was it. I didn’t want to find out about a child coming to live with me while I was in the frozen food aisle.

I met my daughter a couple of weeks before her second birthday. It was in a park where we blew bubbles. She thinks she remembers the day, but I know it’s because of the photograph. It was a three-week transition, sometimes at her foster parents’ home, other times at mine. I knew bits and pieces along the way. She had never lived with her birth parents, but they were in her life. She had been fortunate enough to be with the same foster family since birth. That sort of continuity was so important.

The difficulty of foster care doesn’t end when a child comes into your life. In fact, that’s the hardest time. Because now I loved this child deeply, rather than the idea of her. And there were so many people involved in our lives: the foster care organisation who came to visit us every month, the Department of Family and Community Services, the Family Court, solicitors, barristers, and ultimately the Supreme Court. More than anything, there was B’s birth family. I’m always aware of the fact that my joy has come from someone else’s sadness, regardless of circumstances.

Five years after B came to live with me, her adoption came through. It’s an open adoption, which means she sees her birth family a set number of times a year. Her birth parents aren’t together, so we see them separately. Although it’s not the case with many foster care adoptions, I have a warm relationship with both B’s mother and father, and his girlfriend. I had a very profound connection with B’s paternal grandmother, who, sadly, died this year. With foster care adoption, the mantra that must ring through your head is “in

the best interest of the child”. Transparency is important, but so is the reassurance for B that the life and the world I’ve built for us won’t be taken away from her.

Everyone seems to have an opinion about foster care and adoption in this country. Much of it has to do with the heinous Stolen Generation policy, or babies being taken from their unwed mothers in the 60s and 70s. At times I believe it’s a broken system, but one we managed to get through. At other times, I’ve listened to people in the media say that nothing beats the love between a mother and the child she births. I’d have to challenge that. Nothing beats it, but something equals it. Because I feel a deep love at my heart’s core for this child. I truly believe we were meant to be. I didn’t have to give birth to her, I didn’t have to breastfeed her. I didn’t have to carry her for nine months. Did I love her from the moment I met her? I don’t know because I was too overwhelmed to measure love on that day. But I know she was the child I was meant to raise.

Earlier this year she told me that one of the girls from school told a group of random kids at soccer that she was adopted. I know that B doesn’t worry about the adoption part. We always say that she was in her birth mum’s tummy, and in my heart. But I could tell she didn’t like the fact that someone chose to speak about it. My first reaction was irritation towards B’s friend. But ultimately, we knew what B would say the next time.

That it’s her story to tell.

I’m always aware of the fact that my joy has come from someone else’s sadness…

The Big Picture

Lottie Hedley

series by

On Frozen Pond

Outdoor curling requires the perfect conditions to hold a bonspiel. Lottie Hedley captured the pompoms and ceremony of a tournament in New Zealand.

by Chris Kennett

@chriskennett

Chris Kennett is a Melbourne-based TV writer and script editor with experience in screen, stage, radio and print.

Curling is this summer’s hottest coldest sport. Amid high drama in Beijing, the Australian team recorded the country’s first-ever Olympic curling win, igniting our curly passions and guaranteeing our instant armchair expertise. But just across the ditch, the bonspiel life is a time-honoured tradition.

A bonspiel, for those not glued to the Winter Olympics, is a curling tournament and these days very few are held outdoors due to the inconsistency and unpredictability of the necessary conditions. But one place where a 19kg rock may, from time to time, still be hurled across a frozen body of water in convivial company is the Maniototo Plain in Central Otago, on New Zealand’s South Island.

Photographer Lottie Hedley was there to capture one such moment, when the elements aligned in the town of Naseby (pop 123), creating perfect conditions for their first outdoor “bowls on ice” tournament since 1931.

A call went out across New Zealand. Any curling teams wanting a chance to play old-school would have to drop everything and get to Central Otago in little more than a day. Around 300 curlers did just that, filling every bed, couch and chair of the little town with “2000 feet above worry level” cheerfully painted on its welcome sign.

“There were plenty of people that I met there who had either had to fake excuses for work, or their work knew they had this lifelong connection where they lived to curling,” says Hedley, who’d jumped on the last flight from Auckland to Dunedin to make the tournament

Hedley’s images offer a tantalising taste of the bonspiel in progress, a swirl of bright woollen tam o’shanters and pompom-festooned stones atop the shimmering ice sheets of the Centennial Ponds. The brooms and arcane rules of the event – as enforced by curling’s Brother M’Lord – only add to the Quidditch feel. But is there a real sense of competition here, or just an excuse to sip whisky in knitted hats? It’s both, says Hedley.

“They all want to win, but it’s got this lovely aspect where there’s no swearing, and the comments are all really upbeat. Kind of like you’re almost complimenting everyone’s shot, even if there’s some good sarcasm.

“When you play a shot that the skipper down the end thinks is worthy of a break, you take your partner for a drink – whether it’s a water or a hot tea or a whisky, you take your opposite with you. It feels a bit like tennis, a bit like lawn bowls, and then way cheekier and more colourful at the same time. But they’re definitely all out to win, don’t get me wrong!”

Having returned to the ice several times in the years since, Hedley has been warmly embraced by the quirky community she documents. “I’ve been pulled in as an extra when there’s a team member missing. They’ll be like, ‘Lottie, surely you’ve got enough shots, come and do some curling’ and I’m like, ‘My L4-L5 needs surgery, my chiropractor is gonna have a fit.’” She laughs.

“But I’ve always done it and thoroughly enjoyed it.”

COOK KAREN MUNROE MAKES SURE THE CURLERS ARE WELL FED COLE STANTON TRAVELLED SIX HOURS FOR THE TOURNAMENT

TEAMMATES SWEEP THEIR STONES DOWN THE COURSE

SWEEPING REDUCES THE FRICTON OF THE STONES RUMBLING OVER THE ICE STONES ARE MADE FROM SPECIAL GRANITE SOURCED FROM AILSA CRAIG, SCOTLAND 18 FEB 2022