Alison Jones - The Jones Family Food Roster: How Community, Faith and Family Helped One Woman Embrace Life in the Face of Cancer

Published by Nero,

an imprint of Schwartz Publishing Pty Ltd

Level 1, 221 Drummond Street

Carlton VIC 3053, Australia

www.blackincbooks.com

Copyright Alison Jones 2019

Alison Jones asserts her right to be known as the author of this work.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior consent of the publishers.

9781760640941 (paperback)

9781743820919 (ebook)

Cover design by Saso Creative

Text design and typesetting by Akiko Chan

TO MY CHILDREN,

Daniel, Benji, Josh, Jacob and Leah,
with my love forever

AUTHORS NOTE: Pseudonyms have been used occasionally in this book and other minor details altered where necessary to protect the identity and privacy of people mentioned. While every effort has been made to recall past events accurately, the memories contained within this book are my own and may differ from those of others.

T his is me, before.

After work, I collect my five children from school and drive them home to our house in Caulfield. As they natter about the lunchtime footy game, pass me a sugary pikelet made in Food Technology and nag me about a late excursion notice, I wrack my brain to think what to make for dinner.

The problem of this evenings meal has prodded at my consciousness, periodically, throughout my work day. What can I have on the table in less than two hours? Not lasagne, we had that last night. I mentally cycle through the six recipes I prepare day in, day out, week in, week out, month in, month out. I think I have some frozen beef mince; it will have to be spaghetti bolognese. Again.

Back home I drop the car keys on the kitchen table and start dicing and sauting some onions. When I smell their sweetness, I turn off the burner and grab my keys to take my third son, Josh, to his drum lesson.

Drop-off accomplished, I return home, crush some garlic, give the onions another quick stir and then drive Jacob, my fourth son, to soccer training.

On the way there I have a moment of panic. Jacob, did you see me turn off the stove?

He nods his head but the fear niggles at me as I collect two of Jacobs friends and drop them all at soccer. Returning home, I rush through the front door, my heart racing. Phew the kitchen is not in flames.

I chop capsicum, grate carrot, slice leek, shred zucchini and place the frozen mince on the stove. Then I dash outside to bring the washing off the line and check my watch.

Leah, hurry up. We need to leave for swimming. Leah is my fifth child and only daughter.

I cant find my goggles! she yells from her room.

Forget the goggles. Well be late. Lets go.

I drop Leah and a friends child at their swimming lesson, and then its home again to finish making dinner.

It doesnt matter what I make, though. The four boys will be hungry again in less than two hours. Their regular evening mantra is: Im starving, Mum! What can I eat?

Despite all the kids activities the sports training, music lessons and swimming classes I expect those of us who are at home to sit down and eat together. My husband, Ian, is never home this early. His job as the financial controller of a company is demanding and he doesnt make it home until later in the evening. But I value the chance for the rest of us to share a meal. Often its rushed, and theres usually at least one child missing, but I treasure this time as a family. We turn the television off and chat about the disappointments and achievements of the day.

Its 2008 and my life is in a constant state of purposeful pandemonium. I ricochet between cooking meals, helping the kids with homework, and driving them to and from their extracurricular activities. Sometimes Im in the car for almost three hours of an afternoon.

There is always at least one task, often several, requiring my immediate attention. My brain is continually on high alert. I am involved with the Parents Association and help organise events that raise funds for the school community.

Tonight, after dinner, I race to a meeting to discuss marketing and publicity ideas for several upcoming functions.

I get home at midnight, scan my emails, and then crawl into bed at 1.00 a.m. The alarm is set for 5.40.

The next morning, Im with my trainer at the gym by six, sweating on the treadmill. Im determined to be healthy enough to care for my children. Always.

Ian has already left for work when I arrive home just after seven.

I wake the children, make their breakfasts, prepare lunches and all six of us are out of the house by 8.00 a.m. After dropping the children at school, I drive to work.

This pace is crazy, but for me it is normal. The year is vanishing like a sandcastle swallowed by the rising tide.

And normal is about to vanish with it.

A s the Spirit of Tasmania slowly pulls away from Station Pier, the buildings shrink to the size of Lego blocks. The salty smell of a summer evening surrounds me, and all around us the lights of Melbourne shimmer. The holidays have begun at last. Ive been waiting months for this. Finally, my life is not dominated by a clock. No after-school activities, no rosters, no meetings, no schedule. And the seven of us are all together. Ians arm is around me as we lean over the rail with the kids beside us. Daniel, sixteen, is next to me, then Benji, fifteen and Josh, thirteen. The two youngest, eleven-year-old Jacob and nine-year-old Leah, bend over the barrier to see how far they can stretch down the side of the boat. The ferry accelerates and the Melbourne skyline disappears behind us.

In the morning the ferry docks in Devonport. We retrieve our car, drive to Launceston airport, then catch a sixteen-seat plane to Flinders Island. We get off the plane in a paddock, locate our hire car and spend a week exploring: fishing, hiking, and climbing trees, then swimming and playing cricket on isolated beaches where the sea is sparkling turquoise, the rainforest reaches to the sand and the hazy purple hills surround us.

On our return to Launceston we drive the winding road to Cradle Mountain. On our first day there we stroll around Dove Lake, which is surrounded by unspoilt rainforest. The sun reflects off the water, forming abstract patterns on the twisted trunks of ancient trees. Moss trails several metres from the branches and trembles in the breeze. At times the track leads away from the lake, into the sombre depths of the rainforest. Silence closes in around us. The wind starts to gust and the trees answer with a rumbling creak. We gaze at the lakes shiny inkiness. Im with my family in this pure environment. Can life get any better?

The next afternoon we discover a disused track, the Pencil Pine Walk. A sign cautions hikers to take care. The only markings for the trail are brightly coloured pieces of plastic tied around branches. Because the day is long, the weather is balmy and we have plenty of water, we decide to embark on a real adventure. We meander through luscious rainforest and struggle over clumps of spiky button grass. All around us is the sharp scent of eucalypts. The track is undulating and unpredictable as we scan for the vivid wedges of plastic, the reassurance we are not lost. We clamber up steep rocks and then have to lower ourselves almost immediately into narrow gullies. In the late afternoon, a light rain begins to fall and the glossy leaves turn a dazzling lemon when the sun shines.