KerrieJean.com

History shows that when I make mistakes, they’re on the big side and quickly realised….

In 1974, I made a beauty, setting off a chain of events which saw me fleeing Wagga Wagga with my self esteem lower than the annual rainfall of Hay and Jerilderie combined, my maturity index dramatically downgraded – life prospects dumped on the desolate Newell Highway somewhere between Wagga Wagga and Leeton. 

Wagga Wagga IF You’re Happy. (cr: Kercam21: flickr)

It’s early March 35 years ago……

Hec’s manoeuvring the Kingswood Wagga Waggawards. Just the two of us. In keeping with the tradition that Gwennie handles ALL the day-to-day  domestic joys and challenges but when it comes to the crucial stuff, Hec is called on to marshall life-long skills acquired as an RAAF navigator in The Pacific.

‘So, where EXACTLY are we headed, KJ?’

‘To the Riverina College of Advanced Education where I’ll be be doing Social Science. I’m going to be a Geography teacher…..!’

‘Good-o. Just remember we’re only up the road. It’s good you got the scholarship but still, don’t go around with the arse out of ya pants. Ring up if ya run into trouble….’

One hour later – the paperwork completed - Hec gives his trademark ‘I’m secretly choked up’ quick nod, nod, nod  – with simultaneous mouth twitches - and is gone.

Accommodation is a room with twin beds. Nothing wrong with that. Dick and Laura Van Dyke had a similar arrangement and I spent hundreds of waking hours in my formative years dreaming of their groovy boudoir…..

So, the twin beds present no immediate problem but the smell does: a potent potpourri of fried lamb chops, scalded milk and (to be brutally honest) that lingering scent left in the wake of intimate activity.

Suddenly, room mate Trish appears. She’s been queen of this small realm of the senses for two years and is dead keen to impress.

Skipping over to the outer reaches of  her kingdom, Trish shows me what I’ll need to prosper:  a trans fat capable electric grill, toaster, jug, a roll of greasy greaseproof paper, two dozen cans of  sweet corn (goes with everything), six catering packs of powdered milk (they nick the fresh stuff out of the communal fridge), a three quarters empty bottle of Barcardi, six large bottles of coke and enough dried spaghetti to feed Griffith for a week.

Trish tells me that in-room cooking with appliances fuelled by accelerants has recently been banned…..something which the vocal bunsen burner set will NEVER come to terms with.

Trish’s bright disposition goes up a peg when she switches to things personal. Stuffing  my ‘I Love Leeton’ T-shirts and cottontails into my plywood bedside drawers and carefully arranging toothpaste, cotton buds and sanitary products on top, I discover she’s ‘nearly engaged’.

He’s in the RAAF at Forest Hill. He coulda been a fighter pilot but his true passion is working in supplies.

‘He’s just great. By the way, A TIP. The army guys at Kapooka will try to buy ya more drinks et cetera. Hold out for airforce, know what I mean…?’

As the hours progress, I sit on my bed while free orientation (accelerant) propelled barbecues light up the night sky. In my head, MISTAKE is on an escalating loop. At 2pm:  ’Could this be a MISTAKE?’. Four PM:  ’ I think I MAY have made a little MISTAKE.’ At 6pm: This is a MISTAKE and if I’m not MISTAKEN, it’s major.’  8pm: ‘This is a MISTAKE and God and Hec and Gwennie will hate me for it and so they should…..’

My tortuous thoughts are  interrupted when Trish appears with her dashing airman. Soon, they’re pashing like Sergeant Storeman will surely be shot down in a dogfight, tomorrow. When the noise level approaches that of an F1-11 on take off, I go outside and avail myself to a free sausage sandwich and an impromptu rendition of ‘Country Road’ by the pony-tailed president of the campus Folk Club.

Next morning, ‘Catastrophic Mistake’  is replaced by ‘ Let’s keep calm and see what Social Science actually IS….’

In a stinking hot room, the lecturer presents himself in shorts, long socks and sandals. His astounding facial hair precludes any eye contact. He’s as animated as Leeton Council outdoor staff on a 42-degree Monday. Mr Academia is doing statistical formulations with his squeaking chalk. And I have an epiphany:

I am getting out of here……

Three weeks later – after the paperwork is completed – Hec and me are silent in the Kingswood pointed Leetonwards. The Wagga Wagga balls up has been harrowing for everyone. I have not so much dropped as SPUN out.

At the pinprick on the map that is Galore, Hec speaks……

‘No doubt about it KJ you’ve buggered it up. No point sittin’ there feeling sorry for yaself. Not everyone gets the chance you did, ya know. If it helps, Gwennie’s missed you. Things’ll come good KJ, things’ll come good…..’

And I swear – for the very first time in my life- I saw tears in Hecs’ eyes.

*So, I still feel sad when I think about events at Galore. But, Hec was right and things did eventually work out better on the tertiary education front. The spotlight on my capacity for BIG mistakes/quickly realised (you’ll be pleased to know) didn’t diminish in other critical life arenas and I’ll fill you in on some of these doozies at a later date.
As usual, please report in – tales of dropping out, spinning out or even sickening reports of spectacular success are all welcome. Anything else is valid? You bet ya bippy!  Admittedly it’s your life but believe you me, I’ll continue to do everything in my power to get a piece of it!

All posters take a deep breath…..and just click on the ‘comment’ thingo and follow the simple instructions. The place to write your gems is at the bottom of the last published comment. *A little bit of counsel for people new to this caper. Your email (just called ‘mail’ in this case) address does NOT come up on site. And just ignore the URL thingo – just ignore it.

What to make of it…?

I go into Julia’s MySchool site – and the news is substantially not good: Leeton High School is substantially in the red or pink, substantially below  – or just below  -  substantially similar schools for book learnin’.

*In a journalistic capacity, I’ll be ringing one of the substantially similar but better performing institutions, Bethel Christian School in Albany, WA, later today. I’m anxious to put this one to the principal: is sea air conducive to better brain functioning? 

(cr: lumaxaet: flickr)

Nonetheless, I’m sad about the fortunes of my old alumni.

Things were better when I was there in ‘73, ‘74……….

Messy and better for a very simple reason.

Because EVERYONE was there……

I lobbed at Leeton High in 1973. St Francis College only went up to Year 10 so in a  (then) still relatively recent trend Catholic teenagers having a go at the HSC, struck a blow for non-sectarianism.

Traditional ‘Leeton Highers’ were surprised to discover Catholics didn’t carry emergency stocks of Communion. Quite the opposite. Some of the best tongue kissers in the Riverina were suddenly on site. Praise The Lord!

In 1973, Leeton High Year 11 was an exciting place to be because (it’s true!) everyone was there……

….Nerds with acne consuming their faces and confidence like wildfire, up ‘emselves types whose fathers held important possies at the Rice Growers’ or banks, smart but shy girls from strict families, fast-talkin’ razor sharp ne’er-do-wells, loners from troubled families, Mensa candidates, definite Mensa non-starters, goers from troubled families, goers from posh families… seething teenage Riverina humanity writ large.

And in 1973, the teachers at Leeton High were also an interesting bunch.

Of special interest, those who’d got scholarships to go to Teachers’ College and, three years later, frantically pulled apart envelopes and prompty collapsed. On coming to, re-confirmation of a harsh reality. Yes, it WAS  ‘that Letona tinned fruit place’.

They turned up – looking sad, if not clinically depressed – with small sedans fitted with snow ski or surfboard racks.

In rural Australia in the seventies, another ‘introduced’ species consisted of adventurous young Americans, part of the solution to solve the deperate teachers’ shortage. They were enjoying living on prairies at Wamoon and stunning pupils of Australian history with great backgrounders on the Cuban Missile Crisis.

And generally confounding female students with Nebraskan or Idaho drawls pushed into real Levis.     

So, at Leeton High, there were good teachers and yes, a smattering of time servers amassing retirement fortunes… spending decades whingeing about heat and hicks, obsessing about an exciting future playing bowls in a place ON THE COAST (with easy access to Australia’s best hernia surgeons).

But the good teachers were very good.  Many grew to like Leeton. They were playing to its strengths - gradually replacing ski and surfboard racks with kangaroo shooters’ spotlights and discovering the thrills of exteme water skiing at Turkey Flat. They were working hard in the classroom and (as the word was always around town) throwing wild parties that were challenging the formidable reputations of those hosted by nurses.

So, can Julia’s spreadsheets tell me anything about what’s happening at Leeton High now.

Lots……

Enrolment at Leeton High is right down –  to a measly 495. However, over at Catholic Secondary Headquarters, St Francis De Sales College (which now does Year 11 and 12, boarding included) business is booming with a whooping 709 students.

Either Leeton has the highest ‘convert to Catholism’ rate in the Western world or (just like everywhere else) the new breed of cross-class-hyper-vigilant- manic- education-obsessive parents has decided they don’t like it ‘messy’ – they like it neat. 

And even if that means their kids going to a school where they’re not eligible to partake of  the sacred tenet of the faith that is the stated basis of the educative project, Holy Communion, that’s fine and groovy.

Meanwhile, at Leeton High a declining some students will continue to do well.

It’s messier than ever…….

* Check out Julia’s old High School. Click ‘ere  http://www.myschool.edu.au/ and then type in Unley High School. Will its Principal be getting a ‘can do better’ call from the Minister?

* So, it’d be lovely to hear from you. Where is that messy Leeton High class of  ’73 or for that matter,  ’74, ‘75, ‘76, ‘77….?

Another thing: Nit-picking expected! One thing I know – every time I do a story on education there’s a certain type who just loves going over it – ah, error watch. Go to it!

Everybody else, just report in (with typos) on what’s happening on your patch.

All posters take a deep breath…..and just click on the ‘comment’ thingo and follow the simple instructions. The place to write your gems is at the bottom of the last published comment. *A little bit of counsel for people new to this caper. Your email (just called ‘mail’ in this case) address does NOT come up on site. And just ignore the URL thingo – just ignore it.

*Australia Day baring down on us all. Here’s what I wrote last year: STILL valid except my flag used to just cover my bum. 2010? Fat chance!

http://www.kerriejean.com.au/2009/01/does-my-bum-look-big-in-this-flag/#more-1984

****************************************************************************

*Latest story.

Last night I dreamed I went to ‘Overdale’ again……

 

(cr: Kurt Cheistensen: flickr)

It is 1972.

While the nation grooves along to ‘It’s Time’, the nuns at St Francis College are hand picking twelve 15-year-old girls who it is deemed will benefit from a two-day retreat at the crucifix-adapted homestead ‘Overdale’ near Wagga. 

The twelve? Nine girls who like boys very much and aren’t afraid to show it.  Two who show an interest in and it is hoped soon will grow to LOVE a nun’s lifestyle and….me. 

I have been identified as Passive Resistant. Ghandi in a hitched up uniform. Hangin’ around school wavin’ a big mascara wand and a six pack of lippie:

‘Don’t come near me Sister. Swear ta God,  if ya do you’ll end up lookin’ like you should be sellin’ fairy floss at the Leeton Show….’

The ‘Overdale’ retreat rules are simple.  No talking. Minimal eating*.  In a brazen act, Gwennie has made a false cardboard bottom in my case. I’ve got enough fruit tingles* to survive 30 Lents back-to-back. 

All day, I walk around the grounds of  ’Overdale’ CONTEMPLATING how great it’s gonna be next year - when I get to Leeton High.

It’s time for freedom,
It’s time for moving, It’s time to begin,
Yes It’s time It’s time Australia,
It’s time for moving, It’s time for proving,
Yes It’s time…. 

*Retreat SWAT nun suddenly appears. Code Red. A SONGSTRESS!

SWAT sister’s yanking me from the chook yard by the ear, other hand firmly across my mouth. Then her face (Jesus would say: NOT ugly just different) close in to mine. Mouth is opening and closing like the Gogeldrie Weir floodgates, mouthing: YOU. THINK. YOU’RE. SMART. DON’T. YOU……?

I mouth back: NO0000000000NOooooooNO0000000000000000.

Penalty: Four hours in the ‘Overdale’ kitchen with the retreat catering team.

Three nuns – combined age 307 -  not ugly just different, especially when they’re mouthing:  ZUU-KIII-NI. 

That night, after a silent tea of what’s in John Ford movies called ‘grits’  there’s a special retreat treat - the priest in charge of youth for the Wagga Wagga Diocese is TALKING to us.

In he comes: Bleached hair, a bundle of Billings (’mucus watch’) Family Planning Within The Sacrament Of Marriage pamphlets and the biggest smirk this side of Grong Grong (very hard to mouth,  you try it….).

This is what he said:

 So girls if you get married and you’ve already had dirty, sinful sex what are you going to make your wedding night special:  PICK UP THE PHONE, RING ROOM SERVICE AND ORDER ICECREAM…?

* I have ordered room service icecream in hotels, pensions and dachas throughout the world and found the results fulfilling.

W eventually get out of ‘ Overdale’ and resume talking. Sharon has thought long and hard about how to be the first girl in Leeton to get her bum around a pair of Levis, Cathie’s determined she HAS crossed the line into heavy petting (beat that!) and Frances now knows for sure that God IS calling her….to a rice farm at Murrumi?, the Novitiate at Wagga?, The Rural Bank? Best just to let the School Certificate results sort it out, that what Mum says…….

So what of Father Cornetto, Father Vincent Kieran Kiss?

Well, he ingratiated himself around Melbourne social circles. Hit the big time when he was summonsed to Venice (1990) to officiate at the wedding of Miss Primrose ‘Pitty Pat’ Dunlop and Qantas steward Prince Lorenzo Montesini, also Count Of The Phanaar, Baron Alexandroff.  No go.  The Prince ran off with the best man.

Father Cornetto is also no stranger to jail. His first stint was for embezzlement. The second? Abusing teenage boys.

Goodnight.

So…..over to you. What’s the scene in your patch? Perhaps you’re thinking of Taking A Vow of Silence – and boring everyone s******** with the ins and outs thereof.  Anyway – all report backs are (goes without sayin’) valid and welcome. Congratulations and thanks to our recent new posters. Always a joyous occasion when someone takes a deep breath and honours us with a comment.

*BARLOWE  PI: LOVE ME OR LEETON!

(cr: Dave-F: flickr)

One of THE  palookas of The Murrumbigee Irrigation Area Without Water, Barlowe PI, is still workin’ the hardest beat in Australia – Ardlethan, Moombooldool, Ariah Park, Mirrool, all the way down to Griffith and Leeton.

Mister Barlowe aint the sorta guy to muck with but we all got our faults. (Excuse me, why I slip into somethun’ a little more comfortable….?)

‘Love Me Or Leeton’ all this week in our comments section.

All posters take a deep breath…..and just click on the ‘comment’ thingo and follow the simple instructions. The place to write your gems is at the bottom of the last published comment. *A little bit of counsel for people new to this caper. Your email (just called ‘mail’ in this case) address does NOT come up on site. And just ignore the URL thingo – just ignore it.

The youngest of my five-terrific-girls, KJ, has appraised you of the situation: I am no longer around on a day-to-day (or any other) basis but that doesn’t mean this man can’t have a say when the need arises. And it bloody well has! Little KJ, a keen astral traveller, keeps me across societal developments, and she reports that all  kids – so that includes your bloody kids - are now totally out of control.  BUT, if you’re prepared to give this man’s Self-Distancing-Disciplinary-Technique (SDDT) a burl, the dawn-to-dusk shit fights at your place will settle down. Guaranteed.

SDDT In Action! (credit: Flickr, furryscaly)

First up - to get your kids to really sit up and take notice – you have to  distance yourself from yourself. Thus, when this man was forced into disciplinary mode, be became (through a simple trick of language realignment) just……. A MAN.*

* Most common examples of SDDT in action at our place:

A MAN can’t guts any more of this…..

Do you hear what A MAN is saying…….?

You’re all giving A MAN the shits….

What’s A MAN supposed to make of this…..? (more…)

You know about growth spurts. Before going to sleep, your vital stats were (for example) age, 7, height, two-and-a-half feet, weight, 4 stone. But on awakening, great distress. Your revised vital stats? Age 7, height, two-and-three-quarters feet, weight 4 stone 8lbs. All very kooky, all potentially devastating.

BUT back then, tight-knit caring communities appointed growth spurt monitors. In my case, Betty from just up the road would just happen to rock up with much bigger, smellier Dunlop Volleys and a frayed selection of more appropriately sized outer garments. And Betty knew her job was to calm me down. Once, when I told her I was surely, surely headed for the back blocks of Idaho on a college basketball scholarship, she said: No way KJ – that’s just being right up yasself. It’s just a little growth spurt…..

Not so, with the potentially devastating syndrome that is the age spurt……. (more…)

ABC Television airs the beautifully realised The Prime Minister Is Missing on Thursday, Oct 23rd. I’ve had a preview but I won’t go on too much and wreck your viewing pleasure. Enough to say that the doco concludes that Harold Holt was going through a very, very nerve-racking period of his Prime Ministership and was chockas with perscription calmatives when he plunged into the surf off Cheviot Beach on Dec 17th, 1967. Read: Harold was not in a position to make sound decisions about whether a swim in tsunami-like conditions, was a good idea.

Click this if you want the official guff: The Prime Minister Is Missing.

Without a doubt though, the most sensational thing about The Prime Minister Is Missing (and still is) is the stroke-of-genius casting of Normie Rowe as Harold Holt. It is a non-speaking, non-singing role – mainly shots of a very nervy Harold/Normie in the backseat of the big, black Fairlane Com Car 001. (more…)