KerrieJean.com

According to breathless media reports our Snowfields have morphed into wonderlands of epic proportions…..

Apparently, compliments of the big freeze, the Snow’s so fairy flossy fluffy even Doctor Zhivago would be impressed.

Rubbish!

I’ve been to The Snow once and I will not be going again even if I win a Winter Wonderland extravaganza simply by filling in a coupon on the back of my bran packet.

….Not even a luxurious Snow Package consisting of 115 nights/ 114 days/ 98 gold carat skis/ 456 chair lift rides/ all the gluhwein and schnitzels I can ingest without causing permanent intestinal damage - would do it.

The Winter of 1972 saw to that.

[Hallucination:  Cr: State Library & Archive Florida: flickr]

Dateline: Falls Creek, Victorian Snowfields.

There they are….

A group of Catholic students who’ve been deprived of Snow because God willed they’d be born and bred far, far away from the mountains.

Somewhere flat and blistering hot with lots of blowflies and other air borne pests.

But the nuns and priests of this flat and hot land decreed that every young sinner would experience God’s Mysterious Pure Snow Plan before they turned 16.

And so it was that I was disgorged from The Snow Courtesy Bus - immediately finding myself bang in the middle of the universe’s biggest Splice icecream.

I was [quite frankly] taken aback……

Because I had seen sophisticated antics called ‘Apres Snow’ on television I’d dressed appropriately……

…… Just in case The Snow Courtesty Bus broke down and I found myself stranded in an ‘Apres Snow’ facility where the exotic ski instructors were all called ‘Heinz’ or ‘Arnotz’ or ‘Kelloz’.

That involved a pair of mustard suede shoes with four inch heels. 

Soon, the young folk from the flat and dry land were discovering The Snow…….

Mainly just picking it up and looking at it closely……

Tetering off  to have a look at God’s Deeper Snow, I suddenly found myself  in a fast developing a ‘quicksnow’ situation.

Those four inch heels were sinking deeper and deeper.

I was soooooo, sooooooo freezing I’ve just made myself a warming bowl of instant oats so I can somehow get to the end of this story.

I screamed.

And a couple of kind giggling Catholic girls from the dry land appeared and yanked me out.

Then left.

But one of my shoes [I suppose still with a four inch heel]  remained down the Snowy Hole……..

………I could not pull it out because it was lodged in the permafrost strata of the world’s biggest Splice.

I was stumbling in God’s Unforgiving Snow trying to find the Snow Courtesy Bus.

With only one shoe on…..

A strange calm flooded through my pathetic being.

Hallucinations included:

* ’Heinz’ the ski instructor kissing my frost bitten foot.

*2000 lime Splices lined up around my bedroom wall.

 *Winning  Australia six gold medals in the bobsled events at the Winter Olympics.

Just when all hope was lost, the Snow Courtesy Bus appeared through my frozen eyelashes.

Everyone was standing around talking and laughing and sipping hot drinks from big mugs.

I stumbled into the throng.

And straight away got the distinct impression I had just achieved the humiliating status of God’s Unforgiving Snow Excursion Incident. 

[*To tell you the truth the mini skirt probably didn't improve my survival prospects either]

*****If you liked/hated this story you’ll probably like/hate this one as well – ANOTHER ghastly moment of  teenage humiliation:

http://www.kerriejean.com.au/2009/06/roxy-horror-show/

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

Oh dear……don’t we do some silly, silly things?

I bet lots of you just love The Snow…..why, why, why?

Needless to say I didn’t get around to my skiing class on that fateful trip to The Snow but I don’t think I would have enjoyed it, I really don’t.

Would love to hear from you…….

Throw caution to the wind, look down that slope and whoooosh………..do it by:

Just clicking on the ‘comment’ thingo and following 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.

Is one just not enough?

Have just returned from my daily unconstitutional with this alarming observation…..

Multiple births are not only de rigueur: they’re the norm…..

And from the number of dual carriageway prams on my main street [being jogged along by 45 kilo 45-year-olds in Olympic cycling team lycra] conception by traditional means, is over.

[........Do you take this man, woman, indeterminate to have and to hold and from this day forth, promise to embark on all the IVF treatments it takes to have at least two children in one go...?]

It wasn’t always like this…..

I am the product of sex and when I was growing up in Leeton, Murray-Darling Basin, the Pacific Rim in the 1960’s, there were many, many children from similar backgrounds.

And everyone knew the couples who ‘could not have children’ because even though they’d been married for more than nine months, they didn’t have any.

People were deeply compassionate towards couples who ‘could not have children’.

And working out just whose fault it was, was very important.

[Cr: Oregon State University Archives: flickr]

….It’s him/it’s a blockage/it’s her/it’s a twisted something/it’s both/it’s a blockage and a twisted something/ it’s God’s will/ there’s no blockage or twisted something……..

No one dared ask the couple who ‘could not have children’ what the problem was…..

That’d be rude……

I liked the couples who ‘could not have children’.

They were always snazzily turned out and could afford to go on P&O Cruises to exotic places on the Pacific Rim.

They were very dignified and even pinched each others’ bums in public.

In restrospect, I wonder how many of them could have children but didn’t want any.

……Perhaps with the prevailing mood, best to let the talk of blockages and twisted things go unchecked.

And for those couples who did want kids but found the quest elusive and did not have access to technologies to change the situation, good on you…..

You moved well through my town……

And try as they will, the Fecundity Police could never catch ya!

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

Those of us of a certain age all remember those special couples I speak of, don’t we?

Perhaps you were even part of one of them……

Would love to hear from you…..on this or any other front…….

It’s free, it’s easy……how about you throw caution to the wind – and DO it now by:

Just clicking on the ‘comment’ thingo and following 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.

The Shroud of Turin, the Eureka Flag, the canopy from the last Spitfire ever made [saw it on the Antiques Roadshow], the Leeton Redlegs jumper worn by the greatest Australian Rules player the Riverina ever produced, Des Lyons…..

Priceless artefacts?

Most certainly.

However, I too have something very superdooper.

My curatorial notes say:

‘On KJ’s alluring bed there is a huge bespoke spread consisting of several hundred squares of winter fabric.

The fabrics are a magnificent pastiche of obscenely bright wools, foxy flannels, titillating tweeds………

….The superb spread consists of offcuts from the hundreds of superb outfits the country artist, Mrs ’Goucho’ Gwennie Ross, made for her five daughters over a period of some 15 years.’

['The quilt dreamer': cr: George Eastman House: flickr]

I’ll let you into a little secret….

I never have dreams or, for that matter, nightmares, in winter……..

No point.

They’d be superfluous for as I snuggle down, the hopes, fears [and dare I mention, occasional sinful behaviour?] of five Catholic girls literally weighs heavily on me…….

****The purple velvet  squares were Merrilee’s outrageous *gauchos. 

So taken was a studious Leeton High School pupil by the outlandish gauchos, he proposed somewhere between the canary yellow wool squares [poncho] and the lime flannel squares [micro mini with pom pom hem].

****The fluoro flannel squares were Julie’s 43-inch-wide flared pants with matching cape. So intrigued was a Leeton High School romantic he spent long days perched on our fence hoping to catch a glimpse of the ’fox in fluoro’. 

When our fox moved into the soft green garbardine squares [modest pinafore with detachable collar] our fence sitter quickly moved on. 

****The restrained mauve wool squares were Kaye’s Catholic Ball gown. It’s a wonder she survived the night so tight and high was its ‘Vatican inspired close-fitting, high-necked’ feature.

But, by the time she’d moved into the hot tangerine twill squares, things had changed. Her impending marriage had given her much needed breathing space and new found zest.

****The sizzling pink merino squares were Frank’s tilt at sophistication, *gouchos with matching bolero.

However, after turning up at a school dance where everyone, on her arrival, shout Ole! Ole!, she quickly moved into the sombre tweed squares. 

Despite this, Gwennie’s obsession with *gouchos went up a notch: ‘It’s all tweed and gouchos now. Ole!’

****The bright red and blue squares were my hotpants overlayed with a full split skirt….. 

A sensational ensemble which never really got off the ground.

When I arrived at the school formal, a nun with a big red, angry [square] face rushed out of the throng with needle and thread and proceeded to sew up the front of my skirt.

By the time I’d catapulted myself  into the vermillion and hot mustard squares, I was out of the Catholic school system – and back into hotpants.

And very pleased.

So, thank you Gwennie.

Seamstress to the starlets…….

And like all great artists…..controversial, single-minded in vision – and, quite frankly, sometimes very strange……

* I have no idea why Gwennie was such a fan of the gaucho.  

But I do know this….

Pleas along the lines of: ‘Look Gwennie it’s a school dance, not a shoot out,’ always fell on deaf ears.’ 

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

So, let’s mark the not inconsiderable achievements of our mothers……

I’m not one but I sure as hell am thankful that I’ve got one – and just didn’t turn up out of the blue.

And here’s to all the old style seamstresses – craftswomen of the highest order – even if they did push their singular visions a little too hard on occasions.

There’s a whole hidden history of  ’at home couture’ in Australia – if you’ve got personal experience, please report in…….

Easy to do…….

Just by clicking on the ‘comment’ thingo and following 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.

I spent a fair few Saturdays hanging around outside St Joseph’s Basilica – Leeton, NSW – waiting for brides to fall out of gleaming Holdens and Fords…….

I was not alone.

And weddings of ‘particular interest’ attracted crowds of onlookers, all women and girls.

‘Of particular interest’ could mean many things….

Heavily pregnant brides always pulled big numbers.

Very dramatic. 

A mix of emotions among  the onlookers: ‘There but by the grace of God go I’,  ‘She’ll go into labour during the bridal waltz’,  ‘There must be at least 56 yards of satin in that dress.  Sad really……darn sad.’

In my town, it was said that snub noses were caused by pregnant brides corsetting themselves in too tightly for the big day.

I saw nothing to make me believe otherwise.

‘Of particular interest’ could also mean the marriage of  a local netball, kangaroo shooting or footy celebrity.

If two celebrities were marrying each other – eg a  beautiful netball champion and a drop dead gorgeous Australian Rules footballer – it could hardly get any better…

Except if…..

Both sets of parents were flashy types who’d made squillons out of gravel or demountable homes……..

And it was a known fact that they’d  got the wedding partys’ imported dresses from a boutique on the Gold Coast.

And the reception wasn’t going to be at the RSL because …….well, just BECAUSE…….

Yes, it was all quite unbelievable……..

Until everyone turned up for ‘a squiz’ .

General non-invitees consensus:  Unflattering dress, unflattering makeup, unflattering foundation and eyeshadow, unflattering shoes, unflattering hairdo, unflattering flowers, unflattering veil, unflattering earrings…….quite nice gloves [bought locally].

You can criticise brides but laugh at them?

NEVER.

I think some of  The Chaser boys are family men…..

How would they feel if I’d turned up outside their wedding – and laughed at their brides?

I don’t think they’d like it.

Fullstop.

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

Anzac Day Story

If ever there was the evidence I am no longer a reasonably alluring little babe, this is it……..

I am old enough to have been at Anzac Day marches where there was a big contingent of Gallipoli veterans.

In my hometown – the irrigated, salinity ridden settlement of Leeton, NSW – Anzac Days provided welcome opportunities for bored and belligerent youngsters to go up the main street and explore notions of patriotism and pomp.

The five Ross girls were no exception.

On the Anzac Days of my childhood – in the late sixties/early seventies – flashy townsfolk who could afford to party or go water skiing at a Murrumbidgee River beach called Turkey Flat, did.  

Subsequently, the number of veterans amassing near the Memorial Holden Dealership then marching down Pine Avenue, far surpassed the entertainment-deprived onlookers.

So great were the veteran numbers that even in a small town they were able to march under their own banners – Rats of Tobruk,  Pit Bulls of Passchendael, Grass Spiders of Gallipoli, Killer Whales of Kokoda……..

It was surprising to discover that Barry the Butcher or Pat the Plumber were – in other lives - killer whales or pit bull terriers.

These were the times too that every town with a modicum of self-respect supported more bands than those amassed for the final scenes of  ’Brassed Off’.

It was also surprising to find out that Jack [who I always saw 'jackhammering' the local footpaths] was very multi-skilled.

There he was with a very serious, if not pained, look on his face  – blowing bagpipes but mostly concerned about a kilt malfunction.

There are two Leeton Anzac Day incidents I remember well.

The first involved my ‘middle’ sister.

Five sisters went up to Pine Avenue that Anzac Day.

Only four returned.

Julie went missing in action. 

Hec and Gwennie were besides themselves…….

As the hours went by - and the military police were about to called – in walked Private Julie.

She’d had a lovely day – eating cream cakes and drinking lime cordial – with a kindly woman who, so the gossip went, ran a house of ill repute.  

The second is this.

While I was marvelling at how ‘Jack the Jackhammerer’ could hold it all together, an old veteran ‘went down’ – just near the big War Memorial, near the Leeton Post Office.

He was in big trouble.

From the crowd, a lady was running.

‘I’m a nurse, I’m a nurse!’

[Australian Field Nurse:  Cr: Aus War Memorial, Canberra: flickr]

I could not see our fallen veteran…….

But I could see our field nurse.

A small women, it was as if she was bouncing up and down on our fallen veteran’s chest.

Suddenly, she stood bolt upright, punched her fist in the air and yelled:

‘He’s back, he’s back!’

I knew that our field nurse had done something very special.

*Click ‘ere for a past Anzac Day post about Hec:

http://www.kerriejean.com.au/2009/04/just-a-little-anzac-day-note/

Your Anzac Day memories? Share them with everybody:

Just by clicking on the ‘comment’ thingo and following 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.

By KJ’s Extra Special Election Blogger, Chadwick:

7.30 pm Sat:

This is tragic.

Electoral officers closed their doors on hundreds of beautiful women who attempted to explain their lateness at the poll.

An Electoral Officer said delays at hairdressers was not a legitimate reason for failure to vote under the Electoral Act.

This factor could explain the sudden tip in favour of ‘O’ for Orifice, ‘O’ for O’Farrell party.

‘Not since Marilyn stood on that air vent have we had such a heroine,’ said a Kristina Koo supporter.

She demanded a Royal Commission into the denial of Constitutional rights to latecoming females voters.

‘Perhaps there is a conspiracy in the hairdressing industry,’ she said.

A massive Something in the Hair rally is planned in Belmore Park.

By KJ’s extra special election blogger,  Chadwick:

7 pm: The late Something in the Hair Factor has yet to be considered.

It may not be not known for days.

Some female voters were caught up in a gigantic bottleneck at the salon for so long that they had to lodge postal votes.

The Kristina Kut is the latest craze.

The Julia Jell is not in much demand thanks to the Kristina Kraze.

For some Labor traditionalists bobby pins are back!

Did we see a Dorothy Parker bob at Lakemba?

On the male side, we have noticed a Big Fella Cut at Auburn.

Expect hairdressers to appear on Monday TV.

They know it all, and they are not bound by the confessional.

More soon. 

By KJ’s extra special election blogger,  Chadwick:

As the polls open under a dark and ominous foreboding Sydney sky I wish to make it known that I am confidently predicting a landslide for NSW Labor.
The hidden factor is Kristina’s secret weapon : Something in the Hair.

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

I fell in love with Liz when I read (many wrinkles back) that she’d been born with a double set of eyelashes.

Could not believe [was not even willing to entertain the idea] that a gal whom God had already bestowed uber natural gifts – had deemed a double set of eyelashes (lower and upper) wouldn’t go astray……..

[cr: SMU Central Libraries: flickr]

I loved you as a martian may look into Mr Tony Abman’s eyes – and think: who bore you? from what planet doth thou hail? And is thou garb of lycra a gift from the Gods?

Gee Liz, you - like no other - set the moisturising beauty bar sooooo darn high……

I worried about you.

……So smokin’ hot, I feared you’d self-combust, ending up as a mysterious ash ring on the Hollywood Walk Of Fame.

And where did that waist come from?

The prelude to not so much an hour glass but  – I am from a fruit growing district - a ripe, cling peach bursting forth early in the season.

Liz Taylor, you made Grace Kelly look like the girl next door.

And mere mortals?

Somewhere between Morticia and Lurch – on a good day.

Do report in:

Just by clicking on the ‘comment’ thingo and following 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.

Loyal readers are well aware that my romantic history is best described as a romp through terrain both sublime – and ridiculous.

I’m proud of it……

Over the decades I’ve supped and danced and frolicked and done crosswords…….and fought and had perverse dealings with…..well, quite a few men.

However, there’s one category of Man of which I have little intimate knowledge  -  something I’ve decided to remedy as a matter of urgency in the interests of a well rounded Mid- Romantic-Career.

My next target group?

That of the historically significant but largely forgotton Self Made Men…….

Glory Days: Self Made Men [Cr: Swedish National Heritage Board: flickr]

Decades ago – when my love trajectory was still firmly on the launch pad – Self Made Men were much admired.

It was as if they had not emerged via the time tested means of sexual embrace.

Being Self Made, they just popped on Leeton’s main street…..

But the process of becoming a fully formed Self-Made Man was complex – and not always pretty……

For Self Made Men saw opportunites where mere mortals did not.

Self Made Men made big money in commodities like sewage, gravel and stone fruit stones.

They said they were ‘gunna buy up half of Wagga’ with the profits – and they did.

Self Made Men were often [dare I say it?] on the plain or short side.

But that didn’t matter.

Their wives were always ‘the best sorts’ in town: resplendent in tropical jumpsuits purchased in Sydney enroute to the P &O passenger terminal.

…….Tales circulated about Self-Made Men and their wives and obnoxious offspring sailing to exotic locales in the South Pacific…..

…..Arriving back in Leeton with never before seen five-metre high decorative village totems, glorious muumuus and 25.4 gallon bottles of duty free Tia Maria.

Not that Self-Made Men didn’t have a social conscience.

Quite the opposite.

They sponsored…….

….New goals posts, new goal posts unveiling ceremony barbeques, cardiac arrest gizmos, cardiac arrest gizmo acquisition barbeques……

It was good to know that Self-Made Men never forgot where they came from – themselves.

So…..I’m looking for a Self-Made Man.

A Self-Made Man who’d feel privileged to sponsor me……

HOWEVER, if you’re a Self-Made Man who’s managed to make an unmitigated mess of yourself, please do not apply…..

…………………………….

So, how are we all. Just quietly, my search for a viable Self-Made Man has really put a spring in my step.

Isn’t it always the same?

….You feel a little jaded – and then, zippity do da, a new project emerges!

I’d be very interested to know whether you have experiences of Self-Made Men…….even voting for Mark Latham counts!

…Or – even better – maybe you’re the real deal yourself……oh boy……

As per usual, I’d like [very much] to hear news from your fertile [or hopelessly barren] patch…..

Do it by:

Just clicking on the ‘comment’ thingo and following 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.