KerrieJean.com

Last night, I dreamt I was back in Mrs R’s winter parlour.

So good it was I awoke this morning with that tell tale residue of contentment on my pillow - Dribble, Dribble, Dribble……

The scene, the Dribble Driver?

Five girls and Mrs Ross, Leeton’s answer to Mrs Bennet only without the pride, without the prejudice.

In the parlour, Mrs Ross (in modest sleep attire) is propped up in her purple lounge chair (with faux gold legs) just to the side of the colossal fireplace. 

(Cr: KayVee.INC: flickr)

She’s busy.

Between doing running repairs on the pink, blue and yellow plastic rollers dotting her skull, she’s on high fire alert. 

NO need to remind her the Riverina has the most dangerous (read ‘driest’) domestic fossil fuels in Australia.

No need at all. For during the harsh winters, Mrs R is known as Leeton’s niftiest one-officer domestic fire fighting unit.

Come late May, Captain Mrs R is putting the finishing touches on her parlour fire plan:  one enamel water bucket (full),  one poker, one huge square of already burnt out carpet overlayed on the ‘good stuff’ and one old rubber soled slipper.

Come early June, the fireplace is in full swing. No one hears the television as blocks of  rare red river gum explode, propelling showers of big cinders (Grade: ’Catastrophic’) straight over the grate.

Captain Mrs R’s five girls do not react. They’re  in various states of  petulant teenager repose – their fire resistant flannelette pyjamas covered by jaunty fire attractant poly vinyl dressing gowns .

Ugly exemplars of ‘Every Girl For Herself’.

So, it’s Captain Mrs R who’s (again) putting herself on the line for her hysterical ne’r-do-wells who (all of a sudden) are yelling and swearing and pushing each other into the parlour spot fires.

And our Captain faces hard decisions that no one should ever have to make. Like: 

* Should the ONE rubber-soled slipper be used NOW on the spot fire threatening the HMV TV?  (rosewood cabinet, sourced in Perth, transported to the parlour long before the Nullabor was sealed….)

*Should the ONE bucket of water be used NOW on the Riverina’s most foul tempered pet, Bindi Boo Major, who (as usual) had been basking flat out (Portugese chicken style)  far too close to the furnace?  He’s taking the worst cinder hits. Gone ballistic.

And most worrying of all……

*Should our adrenaline-driven Captain be concerned about what she THINKS is the terrible smell of melting plastic on her person? Could it be that a cinder has lodged in a roller and is doing its foul and dangerous work?

This is a potentiality that CANNOT be contemplated……

So, while her brood continues to humiliate itself with selfish, anti-cinder-defeating bleatings –  ’Am I on fire?’, ‘Am I on fire?’,  ’Am I on fire?’  ’Git away’, ‘GIT AWAY’! – Captain Mrs R commands:

‘Get these rollers out of my hair, get them out. NOW!!.’

It is as if time stops.

And then, the n’er-do-wells start acting like the tight firefighting unit Captain Mrs R had always prayed for.

Knowing that what they’re about to do will hurt their Captain – but knowing that it has to be done – has imbued a sense of purpose, even maturity.

Within eight seconds, there’s a pile of plastic rollers on the fire floor. 

And with eyes still bulging with pain, the Captain goes to work like never before.

Within three crucial minutes, Leeton’s most lusted after television has been saved (slipper work), all spot fires have been extinguished (slipper and bucket work), a singed Bindi Boo Major is back to his usual foul self and only one of the fire attractant dressing gowns has been rendered no longer fit for personal use (duster bag material).

The fire Captain assumes her possie.

And we are warm against the freezing temperatures that are the hallmark of the Murrumbigee Irrigation Area, NSW.

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

Isn’t it a shame that people don’t have raging open parlour fires anymore?

Apparently, the last bastion is Launceston. But, I seem to remember reading that authorities want to stop the fun because of air quality or somesuch. One thing I can tell you. When Captain Mrs R finally succumbed to the power and mystery of THE oil burner (her nerves finally went) things just weren’t as cosy.

So, love to hear about your winter domestic firefighting activities…..or perhaps you had (or have) other equally powerful family rituals that made (make) you feel loved and cosseted…….

And, as we all know, it’s a ‘free-for-all’ in here – a heady mix of the personal, the political - and sometimes,  just meaningless tilts towards gross stupidity. Bravo! 

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

Could this be the best ever obit for a (non-Riverina) Bachelor…….?

‘It is not known whether Max Whitehead was ever besieged by couples seeking to have him sire their children – the experience of Charles Atlas – but Max Whitehead, the original model for Chesty Bond, was known to have a ‘quick sidestep’.

Blessed with a glorious physique, he also excelled at using it, as a surf lifesaver, rugby league player and wrestler…

Like Chesty Bond of the cartoon world, he rescued damsels in distress…..

Max Riddington, a one-time captain and president of the Manly Surf Life Saving Club, said Whitehead never married because of his sidestep (evasive action). ”He had some lovely ladies but he felt that sort of life was not for him,” Riddington said.’

*Please, please click ‘ere for the full Max Whitehead tribute or you might not understand my piece which (just quietly) I spent quite a bit of time on….. 

http://www.smh.com.au/national/obituaries/chesty-bond-was-a-gentle-giant-20100502-u1an.html

Now, back to me………

Mister Chesty Bond!

What a guy! What a bod! What demeanour! And how’s that ‘quick sidestep’? Sure wish I was a good 30 years older……

Thing is though, let’s not get too carried away. For the reality is there were other trailblazing Bachelor Chesty Bonders in Leeton when I still Miss No Chesty Nothin’.

(Leeton’s Bachelor Chesty Bonders’ Convention 1967: Cr: Magic Liwanag: flickr)

Thing is, they’ve never had their due – until now.

Sadly (at best) the Riverina Bachelor Chesty Bonders were barely tolerated: allowed, even encouraged, to buy tickets in family hamper raffles but denied the booty if their numbers came up.  At worst, Bachelor Chesty Bonders were treated cruelly, ostracised:

[Wazza to Wife Barb] ’There’s no waaay, no waaaay Rod’s comin’ to the barbie….NO WAAAY….. 

I’m NOT gunna sit there watchin’ you hangin’ off his every word AND humiliatin’ me mates by (you Barb) givin’ him the best T-Bone.  No waay, NO WAAAY!’

*Ed’s note: Please be aware that the demographic in kerriejean’s spotlight today is heterosexual Bachelor Chesty Bonders.

By age 18, the other single Leeton Chesty Bonders were all gone. Flushed parents told anyone who’d listen how well Neil was doing at Art School in Melbourne. Having a ball in digs shared with Qantas stewards called Justin or Tim.

The truth?

Neil would never be home again, not even for Christmas. He was (with good reason) scared for his very life if he ever dared re-embrace his hometown. 

Meanwhile – despite Wazza’s misgivings -  our other Bachelor Chesty Bonders had NO intention of being run out Leeton.

Quite the opposite.

These bons vivants aimed to – and did – provide superb community service.

Because – despite Wazza’s misgivings – there were married women sporting the most powerful combo of characteristics known to humankind: audacity and desperation. 

For them, the Bachelor Chesty Bonders – whose primal appetites were  dramatically juxtaposed by their civilized taste in jazzy sports jackets and spectacularly striped ties - were Godsends. 

Some well-known Bachelor Chesty Bonders even assumed the rarified status of ‘Dancing Partner’.

AND the wondrous thing?

Wazza could raise all Hell all day every day if he felt so inclined, BUT there was a question he would never EVER dare ask:  Namely:

Has my Pantswoman Barb fallen for Pantsman Rod? (Rod in the brightly coloured moccasins….)

*Ed’s note. For kerriejean, journalistic ethics have always been far more than glossy pamphlets. 

So, in the interests of full disclosure, she’s compelled to point out that Hec was the Riverina’s Bachelor Of The Decade six times!  He was in his mid-thirties when a bright little sexpot called Gwennie brought his illustrious bachelor career to a screaming halt.

Very, very late for ‘the times’…

And kerriejean is anxious to impart that Hec was NEVER anybody’s dancing partner. When Gwennie came bursting through his heart he accepted that the world (as he knew and loved it) would come crashing down. BUT, he was to regain it (and more!) when human rights groups put an end to the draconian six o’clock pub closing rules.

In the meantime:

‘Ladies and gentlemen of the beautiful Riverina take your partners for the Al Grassby Quick (Side) Step! ’

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

*As in the bloggers’ lot throughout the world, I await news……..

Particularly interested in hearing from contemporary Pantsmen and Pantswomen who want to pay tribute to those who chose the lifestyle when it wasn’t easy at all.  Things may be great for YOU but that doesn’t mean the pioneering Pantsmen and Pantswomen shouldn’t be acknowledged.

And – as usual - I’d love report backs from the nooks and crannies that constitute your lives. Thanks to the new posters who’ve come in here of late. Appreciated? SURE!   

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

God help me…….. 

Another series of the risible MasterChef.  AND don’t even try laying the ‘you just don’t get it’ one on me…..

Call me self-obsessed, call me shallow, call me Peri-Demi-Semi Menopausal – call me anything you like but waiting around for four hours to see whether Amanda’s double crusted stingray tentacle stayed on the bed of triple dandelion infused cous cous – or fell off – is not my idea of even a passably pleasant night.

I like (no demand) that my culinary experiences are exciting, memorable……

It’s a family tradition going back to the sixties: a tradition underpinned by passion and natural yearnings to show love by saying unforgivable things around a huge laminex table groaning with iceberg lettuce, pesticide-enhanced tomatoes and the crowning glory – a four foot stack of devon. 

And make NO mistake, this was a family always looking for the next big thing.  

(The Next Big Thing! Cr: langleyo: flickr)

So when the ground breaking ’Red Steer’ Restaurant opened in Wagga Wagga, Hec and Gwennie, and their five partly grain fed girls, were among the first through the two colossal horns framing its imposing teak stained plywood door.

Inside, a clever use of space: tables and chairs placed at seven-inch intervals.

The spectacular backdrop?

A state-of-the-art 150 foot long stainless steel grill appliance capable of  shooting  flames to ceiling height. Framing it, a massive glass ‘open’ counter filled with six tonnes of crushed ice and 19 tonnes of prime Riverina beast.   

After being seated by the ‘Red Steers” smiling young staffers (dressed in impeccable fire resistant overalls), gourmand Hec came into his own.

‘Magnificent, bloody MAGNIFICENT. IT’S called a self-cook flame grill kids - which means……..

…….I get to pick what we’re havin’ and I get to cook it….’

Before (by then) a very flushed Gwennie even has a chance to say: ‘Be careful, we all love you on payday,’ Hec’s gone…….

……Only to emerge 30 seconds later from the slaughterhouse cum kitchen, sporting a (big) regulation chef’s hat and full white apron which is (unfortunately) a bit small.  Which mean the ties are straining at his bum. 

But, in the scheme of things, that’s nothing. 

Because other families trying to celebrate shotgun engagements or cancer all-clears are shocked to see our personal chef demonstrating Samurai-like two handed knife skills while lurching towards the beast cabinet.

Hec’s repeatedly waving an abattoir grade knife high in the air, bringing it down hard on an industrial size sharpening stone.

The noise – the overall effect - is blood curdling but thankfully no-one has to endure it for long.

Because within 40 seconds,  the ‘Red Steer’s’ most audacious self-cook-flame-griller has thrown seven (’one each’), eight pound T-bones at the furnace. 

Then bravely, even petulantly - with just one small spatula at his disposal – Hec’s desperately trying to control the (a) sudden surge in fire activity (b) white hot globules of  fat coming straight at him and (c) clear and present dangers threatening his dignity. 

The ‘Red Steer’ is suddenly quiet:

Has THIS Master Chef, this man of passion and nerves of steel, finally gone TOO FAR?

Thrilled to report - a resounding NO.

*We returned to the ‘Red Steer’ on several occasions during the next few years. It was always good. But while no-one dared say it the magic of that very first visit could NEVER be recaptured.

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

So, so where to now…..? You’re very welcome to come in here and tell me that ‘MasterChef’ is brilliant – because anyone who knows me will assure you I’m pretty broadminded…….and one of the things I hold dear about kerriejean.com is its role as a forum for the free exchange of opinions/ideas – however whacky.

And do I need to say it? It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy when folks just report in on what’s happening in their lives. Trust me, the very first mistake you’d make would be to think: ‘Why the hell would I do that?’ So…..go on.

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

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…….

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

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.