John Audet

Thoughts on the Way

Archive for the category “Folklore”

22 May 2013
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Ariah Park

Ariah Park

 

 

“Old is old. There is no getting ‘round it.”

She viewed herself in the bathroom mirror.

“Maybe these lights are too bright or maybe a touch more make-up, no, old is old.”

Wendy-Ann Hogstead had the same job for 30 years. A good, well paid position with Helmsley, Helmsley & Helmsley a very large firm of corporate accountants in Sydney. For the last ten years she had been in charge of Acquisitions and Mergers. Most accountants would give their back teeth for such a job but Wendy-Ann found it uninspiring. It was dreary to the point that she felt brain dead. Her life was boring and stagnating. Married twice, both had been disasters. She was a well groomed, slender woman with a good bone and facial structure. She spoke well; she walked well and had excellent taste. She was an attractive 55 year old middle-aged woman. Rarely did she need to wear much make up.

She had a Friday morning ritual; before work she met up with her friend Jeannie for coffee at Koffee Kulture. You know the one. It’s on Willoughby road across from the church that serves meals to the homeless and I think that they are sometimes able to organise a few beds for them. It was a miserable morning cold, drizzly and bleak. It was the sort of morning that if you didn’t have to go to work, there would be no reason to get out of bed. No latté this morning, a long flat black! Jeannie was also single and about the same age with perhaps a few more bumps than would be considered desirable but she wore well designed clothes that made up for that slight indiscretion.

“Why is it so difficult?” commented Jeanie.

“It never used to be like this. Why 20 years ago there was more spice. And men look at the crop of losers!”

“Good looking men that were not afraid to spend a few dollars to take a woman out have faded from the landscape.”

Wendy-Ann gave a ridiculing half-laugh.

“Not like the cheap skates that we’ve both met lately.” Maintaining the smirk on her face.

“They even expect, mind you, for you to pay half the bill when they take you out. The nerve.”

Jeanie was getting a little frustrated.

Wendy-Ann continued.

“I just want to meet a decent, good looking bloke. He doesn’t have to be rich, just a good job where I don’t have to look at the prices when I go to the supermarket or wear last year’s fashions. Where we can take an overseas holiday once or twice a year and live in a decent house in a good area. Surely they still exist!”

“And for good sake looks after himself and keeps his weight under control.”

Was Jeannie’s contribution; obviously considering her own body to be perfectly natural and attractive.

The women’s get together ended on the usual negative note. Jeannie took the 257 to Chatswood. Wendy-Ann took the next bus that went to the city and those maddening crowds. But she didn’t go to the office instead she went to Forbes Tavern. Today she needed to think.

“Bit early Wendy-Ann?”

All good barmen know their regulars by name.

“Never too early to sort things out, but I will start with a black coffee.”

Responsibly, she rang the office to say she was not coming in and began to ponder on the life she was living.

By lunch time and a bottle of good South Australian Sauvignon Blanc, at least at $47 a bottle it should be, she had made her decision. That included the time to shoo away the bar vermin who believe that a woman by herself in a bar is fair game.

Wendy-Ann Hogstead arranged her long service leave, rented out her flat and by the following Saturday she was driving over the Blue Mountains towards Mudgee. She was going bush. Though she was not exactly sure where. Her plan, if you can call it that was to stay in country hotels and hope to meet a few locals and find more meaning to her life.

Ariah Park is a nice old town, a village really out the back of New South Wales. I think it is classified as part of the rich Riverina district. It has an ageing hotel, a brick two-storey affair but I cannot tell you what it is like inside because I have never been inside. The publican only opens up when he feels like it. So you have to be lucky to be passing by when he decides to open which is not very often. Obviously a man of independent means. The locals I am told go to the bowling club after five for a drink but there is only a serving back and tables and chairs set up for drinking, very unsociable if you want to get around and talk to other people. The main street where everything is boasts of the usual Diggers Memorial, dedicated to the soldiers to whom we owe our way of life to. Most of the shops are empty and rundown but there is the White Rose café. What small town is without one? But sadly the era of Greek immigrants owning them is long gone. There is a sort off collectables store that opens on Fridays and Sundays. An op shop/museum and some sort of shop selling mostly  food although the Post Office sells bread all $4.50 a loaf that’s the same bread I can buy from a supermarket at  $1.50 and there is a bit of a Produce come Hardware store. But the town is activity minded and boasts a swimming pool, tennis and netball complex, a large football oval with stands and facilities and of course a nine hole sand golf course.

It was on her 2cnd day of looking around the town that Wendy-Ann thought to try the advertised special of the day at the White Rose café; a roast beef roll with chips and gravy for $6.50.

“Come to try out the special, luv? It’s pretty good.” He was half way through his so that made him an authority.

“Same for you, dear?” A female voice rang out from somewhere out the back.

“Yes, please.”

“Take a seat, I’ll be right out.”

There was one table and 3 chairs or she could go outside and sit in the car and eat it.

“Do you mind if I join you?” was the timid request.

“Course not, Luv. My names Malcolm but everybody just calls me Mal. What’s yours?”

“Wendy-Ann.”

“I reckon ‘round here Wendy mint be the go.” She was taken back. A man in his early sixties, bald not shaved like middle-aged men do to hide their lack of the symbol of virility. He was quite a bit shorter, maybe 3or4 inches, than she was and a decent size gut that hung over the top of the belt on his shorts. Dressed rather poorly, by her standards. His hat, which was resting on one of the chairs, was grubby and out of shape. Even though she would not have been seen dead with the likes of Mal elsewhere else he was pleasant in his manner and they got into conversation together which couldn’t be helped sitting at the same café table.

“What do you do for a living, Mal?”

“I buy and sell old farm equipment to antique businesses in Melbourne and Sydney.”

“Is that regular work.”

Mal laughed.

“It is when I can get it. But I only have to worry about myself so it doesn’t matter too much.”

“You don’t have a family?”

“I went to Vietnam and stepped on a mine which affected the lower part of my body, so I decided that it would be unfair to get married when I couldn’t do the right thing and sire children. So I have remained celebrant and a bachelor.”

Wendy-Ann was intrigued by Mal’s down to earth honesty.

“If you like our town well enough and figured on staying I reckon someone like you would go well in the collectables business around here.”

“It’s a thought, maybe.”

She couldn’t get it out of her mind, what a good idea and if Mal was prepared to help her….”

What with Wendy’s accountancy background and Mal’s flair for the unusual The Teapot Shop was born. Selling old, collectable, tea pots preferably with family history attached and related tea making accessories, after all the area had been first settled by the English and Irish. So there was bound to be a good supply of stock. Mal arranged for Wendy to rent a vacant shop in the main street which had a small one bedroom flat attached to it. To help her get started he spoke to the owner who gave her the first six months’ rent free.

“It’s good for the town.”

This was with the proviso that she stayed at least 2 years and gave it a fair go.

Things started off fine but when things slowed down with fewer tourists during the winter months, she developed a cash flow problem. She was unable to continue buying stock. Mal as usual was full of good suggestions.

“What about extending your range to collectable silver spoons? A lot of country women collect silver tea spoons particularly when they have been given as trophies from the different Bowls clubs. It will give you a local trade rather than just relying on the tourists.”

And so an intimate relationship grew between two unlikely people; Wendy the sophisticated big city lady and Mal the plump, short, old, basic country bloke.

Jeannie came up for the October long week-end.

 Over coffee on the Monday morning before Jeannie went back to Sydney she felt the need to talk to her friend…

“Wendy-Ann I’m only telling you this because you are my best friend…. but how could you get involved with such a man?”

“Because…”

Jeannie interrupted.

“He’s such a looser. He’s got nothing>”

“Mal takes care of me.”

“How? He’s got no money or property not even a steady job.”

“Whatever he lacks I have.”

“Well what about your physical needs? His injuries have stopped that for 40 years.”

There was a nasty snicker in her tone.

“Oh Jeannie,” a big smile came over Wendy’s face.

“Don’t you see I’m 56 this year I don’t have any needs. It was only that I didn’t have anyone to share my life with that I thought I did. I’ve come to realise that I don’t need those material things that I thought I wanted but what I needed was a strong, sensitive person that I could care for.”

Jeannie shook her head in disbelief. What a waste!

It’s funny how things turn out sometimes.

John Audet

Posted in A Traveller's Tales, Australian Bush stories, Australian short stories, Australian stories, Change, Committment, Courage, Folklore, Outback, Recollections and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
15 May 2013

The Young Sapling

The Young Sapling

 

The young sapling often under unfavourable influences is persuaded from the old ways and is caught somewhere between the old and the new. He rarely seems to grow stronger but becomes caught in a maze of two cultures. Taking on the worst that each has to offer. Their personalities doing the rest.

I met Raymond and his friends on one of my daily walks. He was sitting with a group of other locals in the park in Babinda. After the usual greetings we settled into conversation. It was a fine, fresh, autumn day. The bracing air and glorious sunshine not over emphatic or bright but subtle with purple tawny hues in the western sky and faint, sweet, sentiments of other times. I joined the group and sat on one of the concrete benches made for picnickers under the shade of the tin roof. We talked about the people and their ways and it took me back in time. It seemed to me as if I were again on the flat dry lands and not on the lush tropical coast of north Queensland. My host treated me with respect as to my age. Though in most western eyes he has no manners or social etiquette but the type of courtesy that he showed towards me needs no formal rules because it has been deeply set in him since boyhood.

“Yes, Australia is a good country to go walkabout. We can go north in winter and experience a pleasant warm climate and the land is big enough to go south in the summer and thus enjoy beautiful weather all year round. Roaming from sunrise to sunset East and West, North and South and with no authority to restrict us.”

“We’ze nomadic, for sure, but a fella still only stays within a certain circle of where ‘e goes. With plenty of space. But ‘is ‘ome still holds on to ‘im.”

“Our way has become difficult on the coast. It has become a hard place to survive.”

“They is getting fewer places to ‘ave a social drink with ya mob unless ya pay a lot of money sitting in a pub.”

“But it’s O.K. ‘ere, ‘ere is good, mostly we can get wood and water and a place for a tent in the free rest areas.”

“When the bloody coppers don’t move us on.” I don’t know the interjectors name.

After about an hour or so of banter I bid my farewells. The effects of the beer consumption were beginning to show and the group were about to start on wine from the cheapest wine cask that money can buy. In this company it’s all about quantity not quality. The group continued drinking throughout the night and were constantly being joined by new arrivals and the party got louder and more boisterous. At 7am the next morning I was out for my morning constitution walking with my dog who had also made some great new friends and there was Raymond and what was left of his friends. They were in the same place having drunk themselves sober. They were drinking cheap white wine, like an aristocrat slowly sipping and savouring the taste not like a tradie drinking a schooner. They were very subdued. There were a couple of swags on the ground.

“Morning Bro.”

I came over.

“Big night?”

“Don’t rightly know but we’re goin’ to court today. Annie been breaking ‘er parole and that there AVO and done cut me eye open when she ‘it me and the neighbours complained.”

“Good Luck”

They were back in the same spot later that day.

“What happened?”

Annie spoke.

“The bloody judge reckons I should leave ‘im. So I says, and what do I do with no man nor nothin’? So she shoves another six months onto me probation period and tells me that if it ‘appens again, I’m goin’ to jail. Mind-be time to go walkabout up there in the Territory. They don’t mind us normal people up there.”

It was obvious that the group were hostile to what they considered an injustice and fuelled with a fresh supply of grog it was no place for me and my little Scottish mate to be hanging around.

Although getting drunk is most often regulated or limited by his means it shows in his looks, his health and in his whole demeanour the negative results of long continued intemperance. Living in the open air and eating junk food continuously not taking much exercise and not doing much of anything very few live to a hearty old age. As he very much prefers beer to spirits it may be the reason when accessed in such large quantities as frequently as he does why he lives as long as he does. It may be that the weaklings all died at an early age. This I cannot deny or that those who survive are simply so resilient that beer cannot kill them. It seems to be an accepted fact that the man who takes the lesser attributes of two different cultures is not welcomed in either and is somewhat resented. But this person would much prefer having to deal with a lynch mob than by a court. If he is to be devoured he would understand it better to be eaten by those of his own kind than to be crushed into the dirt by those who do not identify with him.

John Audet

Posted in A Traveller's Tales, Australian Bush stories, Australian short stories, Australian stories, Folklore, Outback, Recollections, The Bushman and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a Comment
08 May 2013

The Incident at Bushy Parker

The Incident at Bushy Parker

Bushy Parker has got a nice wide creek running alongside it with beautiful clear water; no debris and no pollution. At some point someone has tied a strong rope to one of the larger branches of a sturdy River tree. If you are young enough to shimmy along the branch you can arrest the rope and pull it on to the shore. Then from a short run-off swing as far out as ten metres before letting go and letting the rope swing back for the next person to catch whilst you grab your ankles and bomb splash into the warm, crystal clear, effervescent pool before being embraced by the pureness of mother water. But if on the other hand you are not so young then you will have to spend some time looking for and finding a fallen tree branch. You will need one long enough to coax the rope towards the shore by which time and effort you may have tired of the whole episode and found something less taxing to do. But to those who persevere and take an even shorter run than the young do and manage to propel themselves out ten metres the rewards are much greater. Bigger bomb, bigger splash, go deeper and plenty of wows from the lookers-on. It may have something to do with weight and size not skill.

Paul is one of those characters left over from the hippie generation that is locked in a time warp. His blonde hair is long on the sides and back of his head but he has gone bald on top; a bit of a chrome dome really. He wears the colourful, loose garb of a bygone time. He carries a bit of weight mostly around his gut and uses a lot of “cool man” when he agrees with you or cannot think of anything constructive to say which is quite often. He spends most of his time travelling from place to place and generally being cool. Paul was down beside the creek near the old walking bridge one afternoon last March. There had been a lot of rain so the water levels were up. It was there that he met old Fergie. They had a lot in common seemingly of the same generation but Paul thought Fergie looked considerably older than he did. After a while Fergie said.

“I’ve taught 54 people how to swim in this here creek, since my wife died. Some of them in this very spot when the waters up and the current is pretty strong”

“No one drowned?” Was an attempt to be funny.

He was silent for a moment.

“No mate, and with none of that fancy training gear like them there softies got in them coaching places. You swim?”

“Yeah man if I ain’t swimmin’ in H2O I‘m fishin’ in it.”

“You don’t work or noffin’do you?”

“Three to four months a year at the sugar mill in Tully man. Just enough to keep me cool with petrol and food for the rest of the time.”

“Life is too short to be tied down by them corporate jobs.”

Fergie was lost in a moment of silence.

“You should go out to where the rope swing is first thing in the morning. The water is still and refreshing as the morning sun breaks through them their trees and shines on the water. Everything a man could want.”

A couple of mornings later Paul took Fergie’s advice. About 6:30 found him stark naked bathing in the Crystal jewel of the creek. He was in Nirvana. Then he detected the regular, rapid noise of footsteps pounding along the path and coming his way. A jogger! There was no time to get back to the shore to get his towel. Panic set in. Maybe the runner would just keep on going. His best bet was to stay where he was. Within moments a very fit and good-looking woman appeared and was jogging right towards his oasis. She stopped by the rope swing pulled off her running shoes and then the rest of her running clothes. Paul couldn’t draw his eyes away like he had become a pillar of salt. She then proceeded into the water without saying a word. Paul submerged his head for a while, embarrassed. She had a light swim and cool down then got out of the water re-dressed including shoes and continued on her morning run. Over the next week he went back to that spot several times but she was never there. The next time Paul saw her was in the Woolworths supermarket in Mission Beach. He was pushing this trolley down the third aisle and there she was also pushing a trolley towards him she smiled in recognition.

“Hello.”

Paul was too smitten to do or say anything but his blood pressure rose. Everywhere he went over the next few months he kept seeing her in shops, parks, in the street. He would always get a wave or a smile or a simple “Hello” but he was always too afraid to do anything about it. In the end out of sheer frustration and confusion he decided to go back to the creek at Bushy Parker. The water was lower now so he sat there on the rocks for a while. In due course Fergie came ambling along with his fishing rod.

“Paul howyagoin’? It’s taken you a while to get back.”

“You expecting me? I never make plans I come and go as I please.”

“That so?”

“I saw this real cool chick at the pond last time and I keep seeing her everywhere I go, man, but I’m always too bashful to approach her like I cannot get her out of my mind. Do you know who she is, man?”

“Maybe it’s her memory you’re carrying everywhere ‘cause you never made it happen when you had the chance and now your mind sees her everywhere.”

Paul told me he went back to the pond where the rope swing was to sit for a while but it wasn’t the same. The rope had rotted away and an old dilapidated pontoon badly in need of repair was in its place with a worn out sign “No Bombing or Diving.” And on the old River tree, a hand carved Memorial which read “To my beloved wife Connie who drowned here March 11, 1976 Jess Ferguson.”

John Audet

Posted in A Traveller's Tales, Australian Bush stories, Australian short stories, Australian stories, Fables, Folklore, mysticism, Outback, Recollections, The Bushman, Thoughts and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a Comment
01 May 2013

The Corner

The Corner

 

He sits in the corner of the bar. Always in the same place. It’s his spot. Nowhere else feels comfortable. Everyone who frequents the hotel knows that this is his place. Every day at happy hour the bar staff makes sure that “his” spot is not occupied. Not that any of the locals need to be reminded but occasionally someone from out of town may think the corner is available and sit on the corner stool. No sooner have they rested their weary posteriors than Helen has politely asked them to move along the bar. The Corner is reserved for her most regular customer who holds a mortgage on the spot between 5 and 7 when he arrives for his customary half-price XXXX Gold. It’s always six stubbies unless of course somebody wishes to join him and shout him a drink or two. And when he has had enough he lays the stubby holder sideways on the bar to let the barmaid know her job is done. Overweight, bordering on fat and not very tall he fills out the corner. He knows everyone and during the course of his evening he will have varying lengths and depths of conversation with everyone; usually centred on politics and who were the 30% that put Julia in. And all the while he sits in his corner not moving for anyone. I doubt if the Queen of England came in he would get off his barstool. Nothing changes very much in the world of the man with regular habits that’s why they have them. Their environment is safe. They know where they are, what they are doing and when.

A few weeks back a couple of young acquaintances of mine decided to play a practical joke on him. In league with Helen, of course, they arrived at the pub 30 min before happy hour. With their girlfriends in tow they commandeered the corner and a couple of extra bar stools. Then set themselves up with a bottle of red wine, a bottle of white in a bucket of ice, naturally and ordered hot bar snacks from the kitchen and resolved themselves to having a jolly good time. At the allotted hour in walks the common land owner of the corner only to be confronted by four young people in the middle of having a very serious social encounter that looked like it could go on for quite some time. Stunned and not knowing what to do he found another place at the bar to sit. He could feel the eyes of the other patrons on him. His beer forthcoming he complained that it was flat even though the cap had been taken off in front of him. Hardly able to contain herself, Helen gave him another one, compliments of the house. Grumble, grumble, grumble all the time leering at the trespassers. Then he moved to another spot and grunted only basic acknowledgements as people spoke to him. Then he moved again and again. The whole atmosphere of the bar changed transforming itself into a strange kind of sympathetic morbidness.  Conversations lulled as people sat around feeling uneasy as he constantly changed stools, stood up, moved and fidgeted. The mood became so tense that the party in the corner seemed to be having trouble keeping up their charade even though the wine was taking its effect and their voices had steadily grown louder. The Corner Man, without his corner, had lost his identity and after four attempts left four half-drunk beers on the bar and went home. He did not come to the pub the next day which caused some concern for alarm. But he did on the Thursday and there was his beloved corner waiting for him. He sat down and instantaneously there appeared his ice cold XXXX Gold in a brand new stubby holder waiting enticingly for him on the bar. And as he usually did he put his hand to his wallet to place his money on the bar so that the barmaid could take what she needed as she went along. “No thanks luv those young people from the other night thought it was a mean trick that they played on you, so they shouted you your usual six stubbies to say sorry.”

“Buggers, now they’ve upset my drinking finances.”

John Audet

Posted in A Traveller's Tales, Australian Bush stories, Australian short stories, Australian stories, Change, Fables, Folklore, Outback, The Bushman, Thoughts and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a Comment
26 Apr 2013

Daybreak in Paradise

Daybreak in Paradise

 

Thick, colourless morning mist slowly rose over the valley turning it to ghostly grey and leaving behind the darkness that was night.

Vague, abstract shapes of the day-world began to appear creating moment by moment a difference to the entire shadow of the yet to be perceived.

The aspect of blackness turned to greyness and then to distinctive shapes and recognition but the colours lagged behind missing yet, their agent of creative distinctiveness and depth.

I sat there mesmerised and intrigued by the constant changes and evolving patterns.

The haze was lifted in due course by the Sun’s morning heat to reveal the patterns and profoundness of the individual hues set within the green paddocks.

And the outline of black trees now turned to frosty white and ash along with the rough-barked, soil-coloured hardwoods.

All being displayed against an emerging backdrop of rolling hills ‘till it revealed the peaceful pale blue skies of the breaking day.

Dom, covered with his fly proof coat, stands there gently grazing in the far meadow living in a world where beautiful mornings are common place and a matter of fact.

Tall, 17 hands, he moves about taking his breakfast slowly and appreciatedly.

Not knowing that he is part of an Angel’s canvas where no more could be added to perfection than what he is doing now.

Unconcerned that three skilled workers, one of whom has travelled over 20,000 kms to perform  this task, were putting together a barn and stables that is to be the envy of the district for its quality and craftsmanship.

Planked with magnificent Tiger wood where every grain forms part of a living mosaic.

The craftsmen scribed around every natural bend and post so that each piece fits perfectly into the next.

Yet no man’s effort can impress or emulate and be accepted as an improvement, but it can be merely hoped, that by appreciation to blend in with what nature has already provided.

And no matter how much we may admire what is indeed a beautiful sight, Dom, of course, will be blissfully unaware that he is a part of this living work of art.

John Audet

Posted in A Traveller's Tales, Australian Bush stories, Australian Poems, Australian short stories, Australian stories, Change, Folklore, Immortality, Meditation, mysticism, Outback, Recollections, Spiitual Awareness, The Bushman, Thoughts and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a Comment
24 Apr 2013

The Matrons Ball

The Matrons Ball

 

You get Driver Reviver stops all over the country. These are places where different community groups serve free coffee, tea and cordial and a small packet of sweet biscuits, if you are that way inclined. They are usually tiny buildings built in rest centres and are aimed at encouraging drivers who are making long journeys to pull over for a few minutes and take a break before driver fatigue sets in. But because they are manned by volunteers, 24 hours a day, they only exist during public holidays and sometimes for part of the school holidays. This depends, of course, on how big a pool of volunteers is available. This is when the bulk of our amateur drivers are on the roads and when driving is at its most dangerous.

I pulled up at one such Reviver Centre on the Bruce Highway up near Mackay. The place did not seem to have too much activity.  From what I could work out the town consisted of a pub/motel and a convenience store and not many people.  A number of which spent a lot of time in the pub.

I was sitting on one of those hard wooden benches in the park under the shade of a large fig tree. I think it was one of those Moreton Bay ones that someone had brought in and planted as a seedling. Minding my own business, enjoying the warmth and gentle, southerly breeze my eyes just naturally closed. I started to reminisce about another time and place not dissimilar to this one.

There was a young fellow from the district who had a real love of history. So much so that he had pursued his interest to the point of going to university and getting himself a couple of degrees. He managed to secure himself a job in Rocky (Rockhampton) at the University there and within a relatively short time he built a reputation as the local history expert. He spent a lot of his free time speaking to the long-term farming families and residents about the stories that had been passed down through the generations. And it seems that such was his knowledge that that he could tell you the happenings and who was involved of every pioneering family around Yaamba. The Royal Oak was the centre of most this activity. One of four pubs that existed at one time which I guess attests as to why it is the only one surviving, now. If you need to know anything about the Yaamba district this was the man to see and the hotel was the place to go.

Mary Bellacanta was a local girl who was not particularly good looking but with good childbearing hips she was the sort of wife material that farmers find attractive and she was in the right age group for a potential husband to be courting her. But it seemed she only had eyes for the quietly spoken and somewhat introverted red-headed Hamish Younger who was also of Yaamba pioneering stock. Mary could trace her family back to 1858 around Yamba. It was a well-accepted fact in the district that the farming aristocracy acquaint and socialise with each other. And the best place to do it was at the annual Matrons Ball. This being the foremost event of the social season and held, naturally, in the back of The Royal Oak. But this important event was by invitation only. Those that were considered to be suitable for attendance were chosen by a committee made up of mature well-fed ladies from the old established farming families, the country aristocracy. Mary’s aunt, Mrs Taylor-Ashford, was the Secretary and Hamish’s mother sat on the committee. Mary was very keen to go and hopefully get another chance to get a step closer to Hamish Younger asking her out. It wasn’t considered, after all, a real date if a girl wasn’t taken to dinner in Rocky. A meal at the pub just didn’t do it.

Now as it turns out with the Bicentennial celebrations going on that year, the State government was keen to compile a more detailed account of local events and the people who pioneered the land. Naturally they contacted our local history guru who was very willing to oblige. So they sent a questionnaire of the types of information they would like to know before they came for a formal fact-finding visit. He and Mary had been school friends and had remained pals even after he had come back from Uni. So it was quite a normal thing for him to involve her in the projects that directly involved the district.

Lisa Taylor, third generation, of Yaamba Taylors was unable to further her education to become a school teacher so her father sent her south to obtain her qualifications. That was in 1902. Lisa returned to Yaamba just a few years before the outbreak of the Great War with her son James and no husband who had died a few years earlier of consumption. Not an uncommon thing in those times. It seems that she had met Jim Bellacanta, an Italian immigrant, whilst studying, they married and Lisa graduated from teachers college in Melbourne. Jim’s darkish Mediterranean complexion would have accounted for James’s olive skin though he is said have had a flattish face unlike the sharpish nose and cheeks of the southern Italian. Like anywhere not everyone who comes from the same region has exactly the same features. About a year after returning to Yaamba Lisa remarried and did rather well for herself financially but she did not have any other children. James kept his father’s name and a dynasty from his many children has extended throughout the district. So the story goes.

Early colonial records are often vague. Which of course is why a local-knowledge person was so important; to put the real personalities into the cold facts of history. After the meeting with the officials the two friends got together. Mary was absolutely flabbergasted.

“We can leave things the way they are and not create a disturbance.”

“No, we will stick with tradition.”

“And Hamish?”

On the night of the ball after the debutantes had been presented.  The Ladies of the committee had ordained, according to custom, that all the available spinsters attending should have a part of their pioneering dynasty read to the assembled gathering.  And that his being the celebration of the bicentennial year of European settlement to be read out by their chaperon for the evening.

When it came to Mary’s turn Mary’s chaperon and  well-known historian stood up proud and began his oratory. He began, naturally enough, with Chips Taylor getting his grant of land in 1858. Then he came to the story of Lisa, Mary’s great-grandmother.

“In 1902 Mervyn Taylor suspecting his daughter Lisa to be pregnant to his half caste aboriginal foreman Wooli.” A big sigh came over the room. “Decided that this was for no good and would not only lower the family standing in the community but would be the ruination of Lisa’s life. So he had her sent to Melbourne to have the child and leave it with the nuns to bring up. But Lisa had kept the child and the following year, though there is no record of this, she married Jim Bellicanta, an Italian migrant and a good, kindly provider. At the time, this made it easier to explain why Lisa had not returned after the one year of teachers college that they did in those days. Jim Bellicanta died 3 years later of consumption. A few years later Lisa returned home with James Bellecanta, her son. This story has not been told before tonight. Things have been left to the inevitable presumption that James‘s father was born Italian. James was in fact a quarter caste aboriginal and all the born Bellacanta’s in this district have indigenous blood. And in this year of celebrating our unitedness in assimilation and multi-culturism how proud Mary is of her ties with both the indigenous and immigrant peoples that make up our society and heritage.”

A deadly silence as shock-waves radiated throughout the room. Mrs Younger turned plain-flour white. Mrs Taylor-Ashford’s large frame had a definite sway to it as if she were going to faint. Then slowly a polite handclap from the official party. And the MC introduced the next spinster. Nothing was said. No conversations ensued. Just a few polite nods of the head as Mary made eye contact with people as they walked by.

“I guess that’s torn it”. She spoke quietly.

Then the main event of the evening.

“The available Bachelors may now ask the Spinster of their choice to join them in the Matrons Waltz”

Mary’s heart sank with disappointment her golden opportunity was gone. Then a gentle tap on the shoulder.

“May I have the pleasure”?

She turned to face the most handsome man in the room and before she could collect herself she was waltzing, no gliding through the air, to the recorded music of The Blue Danube. She barely heard the words he said amongst her sheer joy and ecstasy.

“………Change your name to Younger……”

And the nod of “Yes,Yes,Yes”

That was a while ago and times have changed, I am told, but I still go to see Mary and Hamish a couple of times a year just to keep my records up to date.

John Audet

Posted in A Traveller's Tales, Australian Bush stories, Australian short stories, Australian stories, Change, Courage, Folklore, Leadership, Outback, Recollections, The Bushman, Thoughts and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a Comment
19 Apr 2013

Follow the Thought

Follow the Thought

 

Follow the thought, young man

And give it kindling

And the flames will rise and get brighter

With time the more you feed the flames

The more intense you will feel its heat

It will warm you and give you light and

Direction on a cold night.

 

But if you think too much

About your comfort now

You may forget to replenish your stores

And the night will become cold and dark

Once more

And you will not be able to find

The source to keep you warm in the barren darkness.

 

I am old now and my store of kindling is low

And I need to rest more in preparation for

The time when the earth will reclaim my body.

But the embers of my experiences,

Though not darting and exciting, give me

Comfort because when the embers die

All my kindling will be used.

John Audet

Posted in 'Till the end, A Traveller's Tales, Australian Poems, Australian stories, Change, Courage, Folklore, Leadership, Management, Recollections, Spiitual Awareness, Thoughts and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a Comment
17 Apr 2013

Bad Luck or Foolhardiness?

Bad Luck or Foolhardiness?

Mendooran is one of those typical small towns where the locals will make it out to be bigger, population wise, than it actually is. That is, outsiders usually only count people, not dogs, horses, cows and chickens living in the town area. It’s dry area in this part of the bush. If you turn off the Golden Highway at Dunedoo and once through town take a right turn to Coonabarabran its about 40 km on. Not that close or on the road to anywhere really. There has been some attempt, though no one seems to be exactly sure when, to make it a town of murals. Some buildings seemed to have them others don’t; sort off a half-hearted attempt. Most of the shop-fronts are closed in fact other than the pub, second-hand place and the butcher there doesn’t seem to be much else. Though I have been told by one of the locals that the fishing is good, when there is water in the river. The pub has plenty of character and is very much in the old style but with a sour faced, grumpy, female publican it is not difficult to understand why the locals do not support the different events that the pub puts on. Like the free Saturday night entertainment brought in from Dubbo attracted one local, two campers and the entertainer’s wife and three children. The drinks are cheap and so is the food I guess when country people spend their entertainment dollar they like to feel welcome and important.

I met Roland and Yeti in Mendooran when I stopped there overnight on my way back from Gilgandra. They are an older couple who sleep in the back of their car on an air mattress; but do put a protective cover over the top of the car at night. This allows them to sleep with the car windows open and not get wet on the remote chance that it rained. It was the beginning of summer and in the New South Wales bush that means temperatures in the mid-to late 30s and dry. There were little pools of water in the Castlereagh. The river, during times of high rainfall, has been known to overflow the high ten metre banks and flood most of the town area, though not this year. Rowland told me they were both in their mid-70’s and were on their way to South Australia to see his brother, then on to Wagga Wagga for more relatives and in about three weeks home to Queensland. They really enjoyed the travel, single pot cooking, no television, fresh air and meeting new people and neither one could understand why a road traveller would want all the fancy luxuries of air-conditioning, TV’s, washing machines, etc. and the enormous petrol bill of towing around a big rig. Yeti volunteered “It’s the woman who needs all the comforts”.

We all got on very well maybe it’s because we enjoyed no frills camping and would sooner be in touch with nature than what’s going on in “Neighbours or Days of our lives”. After dinner that night Yeti began to tell me the story of their former next-door neighbours.

“Bill and Irene are a nice enough couple, probably about ten years younger than us, but they always have to be one better than everyone else. So when they decided to become Grey-Nomads naturally they had to have the best, so they sold their house, had a big fancy new caravan built that had everything imaginable that you could possibly have in a home then, of course, they had to buy a brand new powerful V6 four wheel drive to pull it. Their other car which they traded-in was only 2 years old. They had some idea that they were going to spend a lot of time off-road.”

“But they loaded it the wrong way and had all the heavy appliances built-in down the back of the van” interjected Roland. “And then couldn’t see the point in trying to evenly distribute the weight of their heavier things by storing them over the axles in the middle of the van. The whole weight thing was wrong but they wouldn’t be told. Well, within half a day of leaving home they crashed it; jack-knifed the caravan and wrote both the car and the caravan off. Fortunately for them neither of them was hurt.”

“So what did they do if they had already sold their house?”

Roland continued whilst Yeti put the kettle on.

“They stayed in a motel because they had nowhere to go to. They were not eligible for extended roadside assistance because they were not far enough from home so they had to bear the whole cost. Their credit cards got a real beating whilst they waited for the insurance”.

“That would have taken a while”. I added.

“It took a couple of months then there were the motel bills, eating out almost every night and a hire car to get around in. Once they got the insurance which obviously was not as much as they had paid for the caravan and the car in the first place they had to repay the money that they had borrowed on their credit cards. But instead of using most of the money to make sure that they had a home to come back to; they then went out and bought another new 4×4 and a new every-facilities caravan”.

“So how did they go this time”?

“Well, you did say no milk or sugar”? Yeti was pouring the tea.

“Just a small slice of that lemon, thanks Yeti”.

“Biscuit”?

“No, thanks”.

“Well” continued Yeti.

“Everything went fine for a few months when Irene, who was driving at the time, had the incredible misfortune to lose control of the caravan on the Stuart Highway, near Alice Springs, and wrote off the car and the caravan for a second time. She swerved to miss hitting a kangaroo and over-corrected on the power steering. The caravan crossed the other side of the road and hit an oncoming road-train. They were lucky they were not both killed. But this time, being in a much more remote and isolated area, help was not so accessible. The towing bill was horrendous. Bill was more seriously injured than Irene and he had to be airlifted to Adelaide, whereas she spent time in Alice Springs Hospital.”

“The poor things.”

“Irene was discharged ten days later but then had to stay in a motel in Alice to try and sort out and salvage what possessions that she could. Naturally they had not accounted for this sort of expense you can just imagine the high cost of things in places like Alice Springs. It didn’t take long to exhaust the credit cards. Then it became a matter of borrowing from family and eventually friends. Once she had sorted things out as best she was able she then had to fly to Adelaide and Bill, who was still in hospital, which also meant staying in a motel until he was able to travel. Once again when he was discharged they had to borrow more money for their airfares back to Brisbane and to have what processions they had left sent there.”

“All this on top off the trauma of the accident.” Put in Roland.

I shuck my head in sympathy.

Yeti continued.

“Once they were back in Brisbane they rented a small place once more with the assistance of friends. By the time the insurance for their vehicles came through they owed so much money around the place that it all went into paying back their debts of the last few months. They have been left with nothing and now rent a small fibro house in Brisbane and live off their pension money.

This whole experience totally conditioned Yeti’s opinions that at such an age as retirement when you are physically not capable of starting your working life again that under no circumstances should one sell their home. Which brings me to the point; if it means selling the security of your old age for the sake of having a bigger, fancier more comfortable rig is this a mature choice?

This story is a true one told from Yeti’s point of view and she makes a valid point. So many people who have led stable, responsible and secure lives in suburbia feel that they want to take that last fling at the romance of the road but they want to do it in the comfort they are used to rather than the adventure that it can be and few see the practicality of their decision.

John Audet

Posted in A Traveller's Tales, Australian Bush stories, Australian short stories, Australian stories, Folklore, Management, Outback, Recollections, The Bushman, Thoughts and tagged , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a Comment
09 Apr 2013

Do You Know?

Do you know?

 

He was a venerable old man with a martial and open bearing. He had a long beard, snow white, as was his hair which fell down to his shoulders. He had renounced wealth and position. His great age and mature stature not withstanding his wise demeanour, he still looked full of vigour. This was reflected, by what seemed to his students, in boundless energy and dedication to his tasks which most of his students found hard to keep up with.

It was after one of his formidable lectures, that a senior student approached him.

“Do you know, master, what everything agrees upon?”

“How can I possibly know?”

“Do you know, master, what you do not know?”

“How can I know?”

“Then does nothing know anything?”

“How could I know that? Nevertheless, I want to try and say something. How can I know that what I say I know is not actually what I don’t know? Likewise, how can I know that what I think I don’t know, is not really what I do know?”

He continued.

“If Mary is the most beautiful woman in the world why do fish swim away and dogs bark at her? So who really knows beauty? As I see it the ways of right and wrong are completely interwoven. If I am human then it could be that I think that Mary is beautiful and if I am a Tiger I may see a tasty meal and if I am a goat I couldn’t care less.”

“Master, if you do not know the difference between that which is good and that which is harmful, does this mean that the perfect man is also without such knowledge?”

“The perfect man is pure spirit! Neither death nor life concern him, nor is he interested in what others perceive is good or bad.”

John Audet

Posted in A Traveller's Tales, Australian short stories, Australian stories, Fables, Folklore, Immortality, Meditation, mysticism, Recollections, Spiitual Awareness, Thoughts and tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a Comment
03 Apr 2013

A Little Story

A Little Story

I was camped at Apple Tree Creek up in Central Queensland, at the end of the rainy season. I had already decided to stay only one night, with so much rain this year the mosquitoes are breeding quicker than rabbits on a golf course and have grown to the size of sparrows. The enterprising Tess from Childers has recently gotten herself council permission to set up a portable coffee trailer, where she also sells hot pies and sausage rolls, and is running a very lucrative business selling lunch to the council workers and horrible coffee to the passing tourists. It was here that I met a very depressed and lonely American. Tall and probably in his late fifties, he claimed to have Red Indian parentage, and he dressed as such. But he did have to shave and maybe its ignorance on my part but I have never seen in life or in photographs one who did. He was recounting the different skills of the North American plains tribes to the people that were gathered around the coffee trailer. After a while he took a break from his cultural instructions and armed with a cup of coffee came and sat beside me. Puffed up with his own sense of self importance, he was after all a self-proclaimed expert and the centre of attention; he asked whether I knew any worth-while stories.

“I do know one”.

And I continued.

“Three years ago, this friend of mine, lost his mother to cancer. That was in the August. It was not such a big blow to him because he and his mother were not very close in fact he had not seen her for years. This was after losing his best friend in the June of that year to pancreatic cancer. Then in the September his ex-wife died from lung cancer. So with three deaths in such a short span of time he was feeling very sorry for himself and very vulnerable. Strange how sometimes when someone is taken away from you how your feelings intensify for them and you tend to forget the less pleasant things about them. He was finding little joy in life and was getting more and more caught up with his own self-importance and even started to let his mind embellish the facts of his circumstances even to the point of blowing up the smallest connection to the point where it became all-consuming and his stories were getting very creative with the truth. It was Easter week-end and his daughter called and asked him whether he would like to join her for coffee on the Saturday afternoon. Which he was very pleased to do because like everyone else in his life he did not keep in close contact with her. She felt sorry for him even though he had chosen his own solo path to follow. Then she told him how every day she misses her Mum and the amount of times she has picked up the ‘phone to call her to check on certain ingredients for one of her recipes only to realise that her Mum is no longer here. But she still had her wise, old father and when he is gone she will miss his council but she will be ever grateful for the benefits of having such an ordinary family life that, she believed, made her a good Mum. She was appreciating her children for what they are; not for what she would like them to be. My friend tells me that he sat there for a few minutes in silence musing over what his daughter had said, and then drank the most wonderful cup of coffee he has ever tasted”.

The American rolled his eyes, sighed and slowly rotated his head from side to side and walked away.

John Audet

Posted in A Traveller's Tales, Australian Bush stories, Australian short stories, Australian stories, Committment, Folklore, Immortality, Outback, Recollections, Spiitual Awareness, The Bushman, Thoughts and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a Comment

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