The Heartbreak Of Men ---And "So Beautiful" ---Pete Murray
Without Prejudice
We women tend to think that Men, don't get heartbroken in love like we do.
We are wrong.
I have spoken to many men, my Brothers, ex lovers, male friends, even the Pastor from Church.Ken.
Men may not cry, weep, rend their clothes the way their female counterparts do. But they feel heartbreak just as sorrowfully and profoundly as Women do, and anyone that tells you any different is talking through their hat.
How many of us women have not driven past an old boyfriends place under the influence of some Mateus Rose, Passionfruit Pop, Peach Cooler or other cheap alcohol feeling supercharged and wanting to have XRay goggles that can see inside, wanting to throw bricks through the window ?
Well, I haven't, but I do know many women that have. Not the brick part, anyway.
We cry, we drain our friends good natures, we talk incessantly of what has happened to us. Playing victim. We drown our sorrow in tubs of ice-cream, chocolate preferred.
I have known Men commit suicide over heartbreak.
One Man I met many moons ago. He was a neighbour of mine in Buckley Strret, Noble Park. My daughter and I had fallen in love with his parents house which was for sale. We took a walk past it and checked out the front yard. It was a tiny house in Buckley Street, in the style of a California Bungalow. The front yard was a bit of a mess and needed work but the whole thing looked like it had " Potential "
The day was hot and we meandered back home to grab a cool drink. The boys, her two sons, were happy playing so we wandered back to the house. It was situated right opposite St Anthonys, Catholic Church, in Buckey Street, Noble Park, the shadow of the tall Cross falling across the front brick verandah and small brick fence of the small house.
It was obviously built just after World War Two, when houses were small and backyards were big.
We hesitated to knock on the door as the For Sale said Auction in a few days time. We wondered whether it was a Deceased Estate as the whole place seemed to have an empty desolate air. I decided to knock anyway, just on spec, as the house was just too sweet to resist. It looked exactly the type of
house I wanted. Mine was weatherboard, hot in Summer and cold in Winter.
The House I had bought for a measly $155,000 in 2002. The lady that sold it to my Irish Fiancé and I was eccentric. Her parents had owned the house on the Corner of Buckley and Rich Streets. She had let it fall into disrepair. The Real Estate Agent, Greg, also a family friend, told us the woman, aged in her 40's, would only sell if she liked us.
Many had viewed it and many couples had been turned away.
My Fiancé acted winsome and quiet (an unusual state for him) and somehow his winning and subtle charming ways worked on the Greek Daughter-Owner, and within days she had made the decision to
sell to us. I think his Dublin accent helped as did his fit young soccer hardened calves. She mentioned his calves more than once and drew uncomfortably close to him, more than he desired. But he was brave and endured her too close ministrations for the sake of gaining the house for me.
.
We were overjoyed to get the house at a great price.
I won't bore you with a long story but we had previously bought a weatherboard house together in Eva Street, Clayton. I picked it out when I was working at John Sands in Clayton. The greeting card company. I took an hour for lunch, one day, instead of the usual half hour, met the agent at the house on a bitterly cold day in July and put in an offer.
We then broke up after buying Eva Street and sold it at what we thought was a great profit.
It turned out, it wasn't.
We ended up back together after some time apart and re bought.
Once again he was on the outer. He drank for Australia and despite trying everything, he said, the drink was a big, big issue.
I felt angry towards all men at that stage. That feeling lasted a long time.
I knocked again at the front door of the California Bungalow as I thought I heard a noise inside. My daughter, Yvette had stayed out on the street in the heat and looked decidedly uncomfortable. For a rebel child she can be extremely shy whereas I as a child was the shy one but as an Adult am the opposite.
Suddenly the door opened as I was about to give up and leave. A man stood there and smiled. He was about 45, medium height, carried a little extra weight and a stubby of Victoria Bitter in one hand. He had no bother at inviting us in on what was a Sunday and not a viewing day. He took us on a tour of the house pointing out all its features. The kitchen had been an add on in the way I remember kitchens from my childhood.
Almost an afterthought of a room with a lower ceiling and floor to the rest of the house. There was still a Kookaburra Oven in its cream enamel, three flying ducks on the wall, covered in a thick layer of dust. The kitchen was my dream kitchen with full shelves of Bakelite and tin canisters, green frosted sliding doors on the kitchen units, hanging anodised lids to aluminium saucepans. Retro, vintage, collectables.
The man, John showed us the decent sized bedrooms, said he had grown up there and sadly his Father had passed away there, just a few months before. His Father had tried his best to keep up with the care of the house but illness and strong independence had caused the heavy dust that had settled over everything. John himself lived in Dingley but a recent breakup with his wife had caused him to live in the old house.
He showed us the out buildings including the decent sized garage. Huge garage with timber squeaking doors that jammed ever so slightly as he opened them to the street. We took that as our signal to leave and thanked him for his time and courtesy. He waggled his now nearly empty stubby of beer at us in a waving gesture of goodbye.
A few days later the Auction was cancelled. We wondered why. It seemed so abrupt. Just a big red notice across the For Sale sign. Auction Cancelled. We had never seen an Auction cancelled before.
Greg, the Real Estate Agent, called in a few days later.
John had hung himself in the garage two days after we had seen him. Greg had found him.
Greg, being an Agent for Johns parents house as well as mine, had gone there to meet with John. Finding no answer at the front door he had crossed to the garage and peered into the darkness of the gap between the timber doors. At first he couldn't believe what he was seeing and tugged at the doors as they caught at the bottom.
John's body was suspended from one of the rusted R.J. Metal beams. A kitchen chair on its side lay near his bare feet. There was blood on his mouth and under his nose.
Yvette and I were aghast. Shocked, distraught.
Greg said John never got over her, his wife. He loved her and she didn't want him anymore.
We couldn't believe we had just met him, how pleasant he was, how obliging.
The house finally was auctioned a year later. They knocked that lovely old California Bungalow down and built three spanking new units. The desolated front yard never had to be cleaned up. Every single blade of grass, every weed, every broken brick and the cracked concrete slabs were all covered in bluestone patterned paving. Shiny and gleaming in the sun, it covered up the sad past, the heartbreak of the man that had lived there.
But we knew it was still there, buried under tonnes of dark coloured concrete, the heartbreak was still there and we crossed ourselves when we walked past it or crossed the road and walked the church side instead. The Church side was always sunny and warm,
Or, so it seemed.
And the other was always in shadow.
We women tend to think that Men, don't get heartbroken in love like we do.
We are wrong.
I have spoken to many men, my Brothers, ex lovers, male friends, even the Pastor from Church.Ken.
Men may not cry, weep, rend their clothes the way their female counterparts do. But they feel heartbreak just as sorrowfully and profoundly as Women do, and anyone that tells you any different is talking through their hat.
How many of us women have not driven past an old boyfriends place under the influence of some Mateus Rose, Passionfruit Pop, Peach Cooler or other cheap alcohol feeling supercharged and wanting to have XRay goggles that can see inside, wanting to throw bricks through the window ?
Well, I haven't, but I do know many women that have. Not the brick part, anyway.
We cry, we drain our friends good natures, we talk incessantly of what has happened to us. Playing victim. We drown our sorrow in tubs of ice-cream, chocolate preferred.
I have known Men commit suicide over heartbreak.
One Man I met many moons ago. He was a neighbour of mine in Buckley Strret, Noble Park. My daughter and I had fallen in love with his parents house which was for sale. We took a walk past it and checked out the front yard. It was a tiny house in Buckley Street, in the style of a California Bungalow. The front yard was a bit of a mess and needed work but the whole thing looked like it had " Potential "
The day was hot and we meandered back home to grab a cool drink. The boys, her two sons, were happy playing so we wandered back to the house. It was situated right opposite St Anthonys, Catholic Church, in Buckey Street, Noble Park, the shadow of the tall Cross falling across the front brick verandah and small brick fence of the small house.
It was obviously built just after World War Two, when houses were small and backyards were big.
We hesitated to knock on the door as the For Sale said Auction in a few days time. We wondered whether it was a Deceased Estate as the whole place seemed to have an empty desolate air. I decided to knock anyway, just on spec, as the house was just too sweet to resist. It looked exactly the type of
house I wanted. Mine was weatherboard, hot in Summer and cold in Winter.
The House I had bought for a measly $155,000 in 2002. The lady that sold it to my Irish Fiancé and I was eccentric. Her parents had owned the house on the Corner of Buckley and Rich Streets. She had let it fall into disrepair. The Real Estate Agent, Greg, also a family friend, told us the woman, aged in her 40's, would only sell if she liked us.
Many had viewed it and many couples had been turned away.
My Fiancé acted winsome and quiet (an unusual state for him) and somehow his winning and subtle charming ways worked on the Greek Daughter-Owner, and within days she had made the decision to
sell to us. I think his Dublin accent helped as did his fit young soccer hardened calves. She mentioned his calves more than once and drew uncomfortably close to him, more than he desired. But he was brave and endured her too close ministrations for the sake of gaining the house for me.
.
We were overjoyed to get the house at a great price.
I won't bore you with a long story but we had previously bought a weatherboard house together in Eva Street, Clayton. I picked it out when I was working at John Sands in Clayton. The greeting card company. I took an hour for lunch, one day, instead of the usual half hour, met the agent at the house on a bitterly cold day in July and put in an offer.
We then broke up after buying Eva Street and sold it at what we thought was a great profit.
It turned out, it wasn't.
We ended up back together after some time apart and re bought.
Once again he was on the outer. He drank for Australia and despite trying everything, he said, the drink was a big, big issue.
I felt angry towards all men at that stage. That feeling lasted a long time.
I knocked again at the front door of the California Bungalow as I thought I heard a noise inside. My daughter, Yvette had stayed out on the street in the heat and looked decidedly uncomfortable. For a rebel child she can be extremely shy whereas I as a child was the shy one but as an Adult am the opposite.
Suddenly the door opened as I was about to give up and leave. A man stood there and smiled. He was about 45, medium height, carried a little extra weight and a stubby of Victoria Bitter in one hand. He had no bother at inviting us in on what was a Sunday and not a viewing day. He took us on a tour of the house pointing out all its features. The kitchen had been an add on in the way I remember kitchens from my childhood.
Almost an afterthought of a room with a lower ceiling and floor to the rest of the house. There was still a Kookaburra Oven in its cream enamel, three flying ducks on the wall, covered in a thick layer of dust. The kitchen was my dream kitchen with full shelves of Bakelite and tin canisters, green frosted sliding doors on the kitchen units, hanging anodised lids to aluminium saucepans. Retro, vintage, collectables.
The man, John showed us the decent sized bedrooms, said he had grown up there and sadly his Father had passed away there, just a few months before. His Father had tried his best to keep up with the care of the house but illness and strong independence had caused the heavy dust that had settled over everything. John himself lived in Dingley but a recent breakup with his wife had caused him to live in the old house.
He showed us the out buildings including the decent sized garage. Huge garage with timber squeaking doors that jammed ever so slightly as he opened them to the street. We took that as our signal to leave and thanked him for his time and courtesy. He waggled his now nearly empty stubby of beer at us in a waving gesture of goodbye.
A few days later the Auction was cancelled. We wondered why. It seemed so abrupt. Just a big red notice across the For Sale sign. Auction Cancelled. We had never seen an Auction cancelled before.
Greg, the Real Estate Agent, called in a few days later.
John had hung himself in the garage two days after we had seen him. Greg had found him.
Greg, being an Agent for Johns parents house as well as mine, had gone there to meet with John. Finding no answer at the front door he had crossed to the garage and peered into the darkness of the gap between the timber doors. At first he couldn't believe what he was seeing and tugged at the doors as they caught at the bottom.
John's body was suspended from one of the rusted R.J. Metal beams. A kitchen chair on its side lay near his bare feet. There was blood on his mouth and under his nose.
Yvette and I were aghast. Shocked, distraught.
Greg said John never got over her, his wife. He loved her and she didn't want him anymore.
We couldn't believe we had just met him, how pleasant he was, how obliging.
The house finally was auctioned a year later. They knocked that lovely old California Bungalow down and built three spanking new units. The desolated front yard never had to be cleaned up. Every single blade of grass, every weed, every broken brick and the cracked concrete slabs were all covered in bluestone patterned paving. Shiny and gleaming in the sun, it covered up the sad past, the heartbreak of the man that had lived there.
But we knew it was still there, buried under tonnes of dark coloured concrete, the heartbreak was still there and we crossed ourselves when we walked past it or crossed the road and walked the church side instead. The Church side was always sunny and warm,
Or, so it seemed.
And the other was always in shadow.
