KerrieJean.com

Never before have I seen things in kerriejean.com so emotional, so revved up, even fraught.

But, God help us, this week we’re up a notch!

I’m a country girl. I’m used to being at the mercy of nature  - and rugged, individualistic men.

But something unprecedented is happening.

I’m waking in fright  – bolt upright in my ‘Sex In The City’ promotional jammies at 3am – going over and over the infinite configurations about what must happen (and what must NOT) to have the Socceroos ‘progress’. So they can get knocked out in the next round after SBS get its money back. 

‘Germany WILL progress to the next round.’ Cr: Zhang Erning: flickr

The underlying trauma?  

It’s taking me right back to a stinking hot HSC examination cell at Leeton High School, 1974. I’m the Riverina’s nerviest candidate for Level 3 Mathematics.

I’m in Group D, running on Hec’s traditional maths test fortifier, (a) one egg flip with (b) two eggs. And throwing everything I’ve got at the (c) multiple choice questions. A lot (a,b,c & d) has to happen if I’m to get ONE right.

BUT, it ain’t and I won’t.

My Beautiful Mind is a rice medley with pineapple and corn.

Eight minutes in, my dream of being the first in the Ross family to count to 10 without hesitating, has come to down to this: 

Nowt x Nowt x Nowt = Bugger All.

So, to what has to happen for the Socceroos to keep their traditional slot on SBS - smiling on the team bus before matches.

Quite a bit…….

**Yugoslavia has to be re-united so Serbia no longer exists.

**There has to be a military coup in Ghana and the freedom loving Black Stars have to be imprisoned in South Africa and unable to play.

**The Euro Zone has to finally collapse in spectacular fashion, leaving the German players without legal tender to get into stadia.

**The Rev Kev has to urgently bring forward talks to unite New Zealand and Australia – with a resulting new Pacific powerhouse World Cup team, The Allrightwhiteeroos.

So, that’s what has to happen…..

And because I’m (sigh) a country girl who NEVER gives up hope – for soaking rains, for a date, for the Coleambally Rice Mill to re-open, for gay rice farmers to be given the right to marry and share water rights – I’m hanging in for an Allrightwhiteroos triumphant debut.

And I know, I just know I’ll get a date – centred on a Lazy Susan with a glorious plate of  72 golden king prawn cutlets whizzing around. BEFORE World Cup Brazilia, 2014.

Ed’s note: A lot had to happen for the Leeton-Whitton Crows to beat the visiting Coolamon Grasshoppers at the magnificent Irrigation Specialists Oval, yesterday. Unfortunately, nothing much happened at all. Grasshoppers (14:14:98), Crows (4:8:32).

Hec’s summing up – in line with his Golden Rule:  ’NEVER put s**** on your own team…….

 ’A terrific exhibition of exacting discipline under great pressure - four quarters, exactly one goal per quarter. You don’t often see that!’

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So….it’s all optimism in here…..’would you like to ride in my beautiful balloon…..?’

A big Thank You to the new posters who’ve come into kerriejean.com recently. Hec’s also suitably impressed. ‘You’re on a roll, KJ, ya really are…’

Love to hear about your latest World Cup preps/strategies…..and anything else that – for you – is passing for a life…….*Oh yes, and reports of PTSD-driven HSC attempts would be wonderful.

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.

To live a double life is to be propelled into dark places way out of your usual personal TomTom range…….

(cr: Gabby DC: flickr)

How do I know?

Because I did.

I’d like to say it all started innocently, but that would be a lie.

On a day even more appalling than others, Sister Mary McKillya – of St Joseph’s Convent and Prison Farm, Leeton – made terrible accusations about my relationship with The Father, Son and Holy Spirit.

Specifically, that I had weak ties with the best trio that (sort of) ever lived.

Sister Mary McKillya informed me that I was now on a Holy Trinity Disciplinary Programme. 

Daily - at 4pm - I was to collect eggs from Leeton’s most productive chookyard which was in the grounds of the nearby Presbytery. 

After collecting the eggs in a big enamel bucket (provided as part of my programme) I was to cross the road, knock on the convent kitchen door and hand over the eggs to Sister Egg Contact.

*Suspecting there were adult concepts involved I dared not ask why nuns could not – in pairs, if need be - harvest their own eggs.

That afternoon, I told Gwennie her daughter was an Egg Runner. 

Without hestitation, in a threatening tone which I had never heard before, or since, she said:

I WANT SOME AND I’LL PAY.

And so it was that Egg Pimp Gwennie put a false bottom in the enamel bucket.  

For a while, I was happy. I collected the eggs. I hid four and I handed over the rest to Sister Egg Contact. Sometimes, Sister Egg Contact would give me rainbow cake and lemonade. And talk about how Sister Mary McKillya was pleased with my progress on the Trinity Discipline Programme:

She is turning into a fine Egg Collector and is earning trust…..

Thank you Sister Egg Contact……

…..All the while thinking: 

You dare come near that bucket, and I swear to God I won’t be able to guarantee your personal safety…..swear to God I WON’T!!!

Every Friday, Gwennie paid up.

But she was changing. And not in a nice way. She was high, drowning in the compliments she got about cakes made with the contraband Super Eggs.

I’d take a vow of celibacy if it meant all my eggs could be like that……..

And then one day:

I want more KJ, I WANT MORE!

Soon, I was reporting to Sister Egg Contact that I wasn’t masquerading as a vet BUT the chooks didn’t look at all well – in fact, half dead -  AND hardly any were laying.

By then, I had so much cash I was laundering it in Griffith - buying dozens and dozens of boob tubes which I knew I’d never get to wear.

Gwennie, who had been so loved for her modest nature, turned obnoxious. She spent her days pushing sponges:

Look at this,  will you please just take a look at THIS!!!

So, how did it all end?

If I don’t say so myself, very well thank you.

One day, Sister Egg Contact announced that the St Vincent de Paul society wanted to resume the chookyard site for charitable purposes. I was to be re-assigned to altar cleaning duties.

And Gwennie?

She went back to being nice.

But not before she’d made it very clear around town that she thought the nuns use of child labour, disgraceful.

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*So, there you have it – I’m out, out, OUT and proud of it. I hope Gwennie feels the same way – I really, really do…..

Have you ever lived (or ARE living ) a double life? Would love to know all about it. Anyone who tells you it can’t  sometimes be fun is really having themselves on, don’t you think?

Perhaps you have just have fond memories of a chookyard from long ago…..

And, as usual, the poetry, the prose and the peccadillos that ARE  the stanzas of your life (did I really write that?) are eagerly awaited…….

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.

*This is my Anzac Day Story, 2009. Circumstances haven’t changed for Hec so I’ve put it up for another viewing….with some  of the comments.

*As usual, a new story up tomorrow.

May I introduce you to handsome RAAF Navigator (Serviceman no 412859) Hec Ross of Leeton? (on right).

I carry this pic on my person and turn it over when I get nervy. You see on the back of the photo Navigator Hec is doing his coordinates, working out where the bloody hell he and his bomber mates are. So, when I get frazzled I think:

If Hec could keep his mind on the job in woeful circumstances I surely can work my piddly problems out.

So here’s to Hec who could NEVER guts the thought of marching on April 25th.

I’ve got a little box with a few Hec ‘war things’ in it.

A letter from the Air Department (Jan 21st, 1949) tells Hec that his service medals have arrived.  One, for just being there (War Medal) and the other, for just being in the Pacific (The Pacific Star). I’ve also got bits and pieces off his uniform: beautiful studs, nifty stripes (not too many mind!) and a mother-of-pearl heart with a bird on it.

I know next to nought about Hec’s War.

He didn’t talk about it but occasionally, after drinks had been taken, he’d have a little sing about it.

Now, the starting of the *Vultee is a most peculiar art…….off you go Hec….finally working up to a big finish….

Early in the morning when the dew is on the grass, you will see the Vultee men all sitting on their arse……

(*Vultee Vengeance dive bomber)

Other snippets:

**** Hec ran a war time book on the Melbourne Cup. In a gesture of unbridled patriotism, he and his pilot took a dive bomber up to get good radio reception for the race. It is acknowledged that his promotional opportunities were strictly limited after this episode.

**** Because of something which happened in The War, Hec was deaf in one ear. But Gwennie, always a great supporter of equal opportunities, made sure he NEVER felt disabled:

YOU CAN HEAR ME WHEN YOU WANT TO. YES YOU CAN HEC, YES YOU CAN!!!

**** Hec drank a fair bit of beer before The War – and he quickly resumed his normal routine after it.

**** Did the War make Hec nervy? I think so. He got himself SO worked up – particularly during the footy season, Lent and whenever anyone dared mention Billy or Sonia McMahon.

Forgot to tell you. While Hec didn’t march, he did take it upon himself to run the best Anzac Day two-up school in the Riverina…..

Always a pleasure to hear from you….

*This is Leeton’s War Monument (cr: Mattinbgn) which has been noted by contributors to this post.

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 ‘website’ space – not necessary!

People enjoy – are even naturally drawn to – Open Spaces.

Even taking, taking, TAKING their pleasures as if a constitutional right – sweating themselves stupid in the never-ending battle for just above average body weights, walking designer huskies fouling inner city courtyards, pushing their mental and physical limits via extreme Tai-Chi……

BUT DOES ANYONE STOP TO THINK WHERE NATURE’S LEISURE CENTRES COME FROM?

This is the story of the lush sports fields of St Francis De Sale College, corner of Pine and Maiden Avenues, Leeton (motto ‘Virtue et Constantia’/ ‘Courage and Perseverance’).

In the late 1960’s, these showpieces were a pathetic sun baked paddock. And, for The Sports Field Dreamers, it came with a huge logistical problem: ROCKS. From pebble to boulder proportions. Igneous. Sedimentary. Metamorphic…..

(Leeton’s Sports Fields Of Dreams: circa 1969 cr: cenz: flickr)

But that didn’t stop Sister Mary McKillya and Big Marist Brother Where Art Thou?

Quite the opposite.

The removal of 809,876,590 tonnes of rock, to be known thereafter as ‘Emu Parade’, would be the centrepiece of  all curricula and disciplinary protocols.

From 1969-1972, like hundreds of other Muscular Young  Riverina Christians, I toiled in the Paddock Of Boulders.

In 108-degree heat, Children Of The Boulders, with hunched backs and gnarled hands, battled with rocks more than twice their bodyweights.  Colossal rockpiles sprung up only to disappear overnight.  What happened to them no-one knew.  

Across the Paddock Of Boulders, there could be heard massed singing:

Consider yourself, well cooked,

Consider yourself,  part of The Family……

…..Plaintive young voices always ignored by passing motorists who desperately wanted sports fields but – God forgive them - didn’t give a damn about who got maimed and ‘melanomaed’ in pursuit of them.

The ghastliest of The Ghastly Years for The Children Of The Boulders was 1972.

Sister Mary McKillya and Big Marist Brother Where Are Ya? were nearing death and feared they’d never see the (and may I say, very handsome) Bishop of  the Wagga Wagga Archdiocese, Francis Carroll, bless their Sports Fields Of Dreams.

History records that in 1972, there were 789  disciplinary ‘Emu Parade’ actions following well-targeted surveillance campaigns ending in dawn raids. These included:

* Detection and seizure of tampons – banned because of their penetrative nature.

* Detection of kohl on eyelids – banned because Cleopatra was a tart.

*Detection and seizure of personal diaries -  banned because ‘ If you want to write to someone, write to God…..’

And so it was that St Francis de Sale College got its Sports Fields Of Dreams.

I gaze upon them when I’m home – enroute to the famed Golden Apple Supermarket to pick up a couple of bottles of local Spumante.

Cheers…….

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So, here’s to you…….how ya doin’?  At season’s change….

Can’t tell you how much this Melanoma Kid loves the first whiff of something – anything – other than summer. Feel better. Less loopy.

As usual, I await news from your patch…….perhaps you’ve even got a favourite Open Space which Australia should know about.

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

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.