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The Path Not Taken

In recent weeks, Rocky and I have spent our mornings exploring the stretch of St Kilda beach that starts at the grassy park in front of the white painted  lighthouse beside the Elwood Marina and ends at the outcrop of porous sand- coloured rocks which mark the boundary, the transition, from St Kilda to the […]

The meaning of hair

The meaning of hair

Rocky has had a haircut and on this cold morning, straining on the leash as we walk on the sand in the semi-darkness, he is a dog transformed. Rather than the mutt he was before, he is now a dog of breeding. At least in the sense that he clearly comes from a middle-class home. […]

Rocky Marciano and the pickled onion incident

Along the path beside the newly green grass– revived by a few days of reasonable rain– that stretches down to the lighthouse, the grass on which the local council wants to built a skate park,  before dawn, the sky suffused with the soft white light of a full moon, there in the distance, perhaps 100 metres […]

Family symphonies

Rocky has taken to barking whenever I raise my voice. Not just barking. He gallops towards me and as he does so, the bark is  really a growl and bark combination, almost musical in its effect, which to me, sounds like a plea– if not an order– for me to calm down. If by the time […]

About this blog

Just another Crikey Blogs weblog

Life in an Australian Shtetl

Unlike me, Rocky is Australian born and bred. It may well be that his ancestors first came to Australia long ago but I cannot be sure how long ago that might be. He was born in an outer suburb of Melbourne, somewhere not far from Bulleen where he was found in a pet shop by […]

A Rocky by any other name

By Evie Gawenda   My daughter wonders whether in this new life, I have grown more eccentric. She also wonders whether I am just getting old. I fear she might be right on both counts.    I am well known amongst my friends and family for giving everyone a nickname. I am a nickname expert […]

Kevin Rudd and the mystery of flying.

The morning is  cold and dark, so dark that on the beach, the water of the bay looks like an undulating sheet of black tin. Rocky however is as eager as ever to pursue the ball he has found and which I have thrown perhaps twenty metres into the darkness. I can just make him out, his […]

Henry Miller and the end of logical positivism

One consequence of living in a house without children is that Rocky has been condemned to sleep alone.  Pluto and Lolly, the two Jack Russells who lived with us through the years when every minute of my day was accounted for in the diary page that my assistant put on my desk  each night before she […]

Gawenda my father

This Rocky and Gawenda  serial–for that’s how I have come to regard it– which has a beginning but as far as I know, has no middle or end,  is written with no readers in mind. After 40 years in journalism, that is a relief and  a liberation. My children, however, remind me that I have a […]

Long pants, Elvis and the dogs of childhood

 In the life I now lead, Rocky’s place looms large, larger by far than the place occupied by any of the dogs of my childhood. He wakes with me in the early morning and prepares for our walk, even as I do, our separate rituals connected by our common purpose. Our days, even when those […]