Time travel is the bee's knees...
Jan 27, 2024 by Nina Herschlikowitz Gabelko
I got to travel back and forth today, and it’s wonderful—most especially since for an hour or so I got to be in my early 30s again. (I might have more energy now than I did then, but that’s not part of the story.) The four Gabelkos lived in Frankston, Melbourne, OZ from 1973 to 1975—when my kiddies were respectively 9 and 10 years old on arrival. It was sort of a Rod Serling experience because everything looked the same as at home, yet it was very different. When I taught there, lo that half century ago, I quickly learned to find out what things meant in context and not to assume anything.
I had just turned 30-ish and my dear friend Marg’s son was in the process of matriculating from high school and was in the process of applying to medical school. We lost Marg 21 years ago and no one can fill her place in the hearts of all who knew her. She was “my” school nurse at the technical school (a non-academic secondary school, replaced by comprehensive high schools decades ago). I haven’t been back, but Aussies are more mobile than most Americans, so it was only a bit of a surprise today when Marg’s son telephoned me this afternoon from SFO. What was a bit astounding was that he and his wife were there because they were on their way home from one of their twins' wedding in Mexico City. The twin is engaged to another woman from Mexico. Since the twins are now 34, the wedding was no surprise. But Mexico City would not have been my first, or even tenth, guess.
Marg’s son, who had been to visit Berkeley shortly before we lost Tony, called me to check in. The conversation provided an excellent opportunity to go back and forth over the 50-year span. We picked up the conversation about how much fun he’d been as a high school kid with Maxie, the best dog in the world, and we travelled all the way through today, with him saying that as soon as he was blessed with grandchildren, he just might retire.
I recalled every stupid joke I’d made, and we both remembered everything from our respective youths—even that my corner on Gould St., Frankston was where the sign in the book “On the Beach” stood, saying “There is still time, brother.” I lamented that none of what was there then survived to the gentrified, very “up market” community now well known as almost a local version of something like Beverly Hills. Except the area has remained green and even the fancy new residents have remained friendly. But half a century was no bar to recalling the names of all who had lived on my block (which isn’t “block” in Oz, it’s “street” because block is parcel of land) and whose kids my kids made strong friendships with.
Frankly, it was easier to travel back to those golden times than it was to schlepp myself back to today and my 80-year-old self. No kidding, it was a piece of cake to recall close to all of my students and our adventures together. Unfortunately, I immediately recalled the number of days that Tony yelled at me; because when one bad boy in my class had pulled a large hunting knife on a second boy, I had yanked the knife out of boy one’s hand and told both lads that they were acting too stupid and insisted that they sit down and behave properly. Well, of course they did just that. Who doesn’t obey his teacher? Somehow, Tony didn’t find it amusing.
But Tony did laugh his head off when I told him that, only a few days later, one of those bad boys—as I was reading him the riot act—thought that "impudent" and "impotent" were the same word. You should have heard the lad screaming that it wasn’t true. After I made him look up the word, he did agree that it might, maybe, sort of, be true.
He never looked me in the face again.
I had just turned 30-ish and my dear friend Marg’s son was in the process of matriculating from high school and was in the process of applying to medical school. We lost Marg 21 years ago and no one can fill her place in the hearts of all who knew her. She was “my” school nurse at the technical school (a non-academic secondary school, replaced by comprehensive high schools decades ago). I haven’t been back, but Aussies are more mobile than most Americans, so it was only a bit of a surprise today when Marg’s son telephoned me this afternoon from SFO. What was a bit astounding was that he and his wife were there because they were on their way home from one of their twins' wedding in Mexico City. The twin is engaged to another woman from Mexico. Since the twins are now 34, the wedding was no surprise. But Mexico City would not have been my first, or even tenth, guess.Marg’s son, who had been to visit Berkeley shortly before we lost Tony, called me to check in. The conversation provided an excellent opportunity to go back and forth over the 50-year span. We picked up the conversation about how much fun he’d been as a high school kid with Maxie, the best dog in the world, and we travelled all the way through today, with him saying that as soon as he was blessed with grandchildren, he just might retire.
I recalled every stupid joke I’d made, and we both remembered everything from our respective youths—even that my corner on Gould St., Frankston was where the sign in the book “On the Beach” stood, saying “There is still time, brother.” I lamented that none of what was there then survived to the gentrified, very “up market” community now well known as almost a local version of something like Beverly Hills. Except the area has remained green and even the fancy new residents have remained friendly. But half a century was no bar to recalling the names of all who had lived on my block (which isn’t “block” in Oz, it’s “street” because block is parcel of land) and whose kids my kids made strong friendships with.
Frankly, it was easier to travel back to those golden times than it was to schlepp myself back to today and my 80-year-old self. No kidding, it was a piece of cake to recall close to all of my students and our adventures together. Unfortunately, I immediately recalled the number of days that Tony yelled at me; because when one bad boy in my class had pulled a large hunting knife on a second boy, I had yanked the knife out of boy one’s hand and told both lads that they were acting too stupid and insisted that they sit down and behave properly. Well, of course they did just that. Who doesn’t obey his teacher? Somehow, Tony didn’t find it amusing.
But Tony did laugh his head off when I told him that, only a few days later, one of those bad boys—as I was reading him the riot act—thought that "impudent" and "impotent" were the same word. You should have heard the lad screaming that it wasn’t true. After I made him look up the word, he did agree that it might, maybe, sort of, be true.
He never looked me in the face again.
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