A Piece of Furniture

I’m so used to it, I don’t mind at all. Not sure I ever did actually, being a part of the environment, blending in and taken for granted, all leave me feeling comfortable. It’s as though I’m just like a natural rock formation, not one that gets a second look, but one you overlook.

When younger, seeking attention was part of establishing my presence I guess, but as I got older it was no longer necessary. Not having found that ten minutes of fame everyone is said to get in their lifetime. I settled back to watch everyone else practicing their smiles and brushing their hair in anticipation. I was as good as any of them in my day though. I could dance like Travolta, sing like a Bee Gee, albeit in a lower key and God I was handsome. Mustn’t sell myself short, I’m still capable of self deception even today.

I once went to a costume party where apart from the guy dressed as a dirty old man, mine was the only character everyone immediately knew, Don Johnson from Miami Vice. White T with blue stripes, black jacket with sleeves rolled up, and the three O’clock shadow. A very attractive young lady walked into the party and came straight up to me without speaking to anyone else. She was almost wearing a bare midriff top which didn’t quite conceal her breasts. I maintained a calm expression and was mentally reviewing what to say, when she introduced herself  and commented on how cute the two year old son perched on my left hip was. I’ve always wondered how my wife knew just when to go the loo. It proves I had the “something” back then, though I’m quite happy without it now. Turned out the dirty old man was being himself, and if honest I would admit the beard shadow was two days old and aided by mascara, but that’s a part of my life for another time.

Being just a piece of the furniture was driven home a couple of nights ago, the rest of the family in bed, I was watching the tube at around 11:00pm. As all men do, I have my spot, this is where I sit and no one else, at least when I’m home. The couch has a permanent indentation from my rear end which makes lying back comfortably at just the right angle easy. Feet up on the coffee table, remote in hand and cold glass beside me, no worries.

The volume must have been very low; because it was at this point the unannounced visitor arrived. I saw him from the corner of my eye, he just walked out and sat on the edge of the couch, didn’t even glance my way. He stared down the hall standing on his hind legs, whiskers and nose twitching, front paws in an almost prayer like pose. He stood there for about seven seconds, though it seemed a lot longer. He then turned to look at the TV and walked slowly back to the cushion he had crawled from under, disappearing beneath again.

Bottom line? Even the mice treat me like a piece of the furniture, but I have no problem with that. By the way, our cats name used to be Hunter, not sure what we’ll call him from now on.

December 15, 2009  PS:  Why has no one noticed the girl on the TV scratching the cats ear?

JAWhite                            "Nice Puss" Photo: By JAWhite, I'm sure you can tell.
December 2009
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Christmas Eve and Here I Am

Here it is 3:30 in the afternoon, December the 24th 2009. Why am I sitting here writing yet another story for a blog? It can only be that I feel an obligation to my reader. Mom and Dad are away from home tonight so I know that only leaves you and me my friend. I hope you know how much every word here means to me.

My feet are aching something terrible, it was left up to me to go to the Mall, one more time for the pre-Christmas shopping. This time it was for things to eat tomorrow. Its hot here, 35 degrees c today, that’s no weather for an old man to go out in. No weather to keep fresh seafood cold either, but that was my task. I’ll make garlic prawns which always go down well. In spite of my protests there will be oven action tomorrow, the prawns, or shrimp as you might call them John, need half an hour in a hot place other than my bed.

Cooking is what this story has become about. Earlier this afternoon a knock at the door forced me to my feet and down the hall walking on their sides. The blisters seem to always grow on the bottoms. Somehow I knew who would be there, it’s happened a few times before. The next door neighbour bearing gifts, which are great, and the gesture is appreciated. But... isn’t there often one of those? But, the neighbour works at a vegetable market, he gets to bring home fresh produce by the carton. A handy neighbour to have you might say John, except for one thing. Somehow my wife gave them the impression that we absolutely love fresh Mangoes.

Don’t know how that happened and don’t really care, it’s too hot for inquisitiveness. The bottom line is we have a case of beautiful ripe Mangoes sitting there on the kitchen counter. None of us can stand Mangoes. I’ve experienced food problems before, such as when my nuts were between a rock and a hard place. Food problems seem to be my problems, no one else takes any notice unless there just happens to be nothing to eat.

The first two cases of Mangoes we received from my generous neighbour, eventually found homes with friends around town, this is a hot holiday season, and friends are keeping low with doors shut and air-conditioners on. Mango Christmas is going to be my problem alone.

I took a photo with my new Canon camera John, the one purchased with as much stealth as I could muster. The wife will find out, but I figured that this would be a two month silent treatment infraction, I can live with that. Mangoes are incredibly handsome fruit, as you can see from the almost in focus photo. What the hell do you do with Mangoes?

I thought about the little store around the corner, I’m sure if I approached them they would sell them for me. The fruit shop in the mall has them at $2.98 each, I noticed last time this happened. No good though, the neighbour is sure to recognise his Mangoes when he goes in tonight, as all husbands are doomed to do on Christmas Eve. No I’m going to have to make something. I hope Google has the answer to my problem.

This time I searched the first site Google suggested, bingo, hot day equals Mango Sorbet! Most of the work will be in the refrigerator. Twenty minutes prep time plus some hours in the arctic, my fridge is struggling with the heat but we have another fridge to threaten it with if it goes on strike.

I’ll make the sorbet tonight, just one problem to overcome. None of us can stand Mangoes.

By the way John, the Creeping Bentgrass CDs arrived. Wish I could have found something “Billy Fury” to have sent Moya. Have a good one.

JAWhite
December 2009                                                   Return To Main Page     

Sorbet photo by Sue Ferris (copyright info)
Mango photo by proud Canon owner. 

Christmas Shopping Erotica

I would never have expected to visit a shopping center at this time of the year. For me shopping has always been Gods punishment for those who couldn’t organize others to do the dirty work. I really don’t know why I feel this way about something most people seem to enjoy, perhaps some childhood trauma. Six-year-old boy found in toy store after closing, mother says, “I thought his Dad had him”. Dad says “who?”

We all have to face unpleasant duties at sometime in our life, my time had come. Excuses dismissed as unacceptable, having had no time to prepare I had offered the first that came to mind, I guess sore feet is a pretty lame excuse, pardon the pun. Within 20 minutes we were in the car, the environmentally friendly shopping bags neatly folded on the back seat had no idea of the torture they were in for. Of course her car needed fuel, what else could I expect. This car has the turn signal on the wrong side by the way. I hate driving the Mondeo, on sunny days the wipers going when I switch them on instead of the turn indicator, is rather embarrassing.

I like the summer, the southern hemisphere has its’ pluses as Christmas falls in the middle of “young ladies in less clothes” season. Looking is harmless, as long as the look is disguised as checking out the surroundings, and no further gestures, sounds or comments are made. As we drove into the service station I noticed a black convertible at a nearby pump. I like black cars, being a convertible as well, gave me reason to stare.

Returning to the car from paying the ransom, I felt the wife’s stare before I saw it. Head tilted upward, both eyebrows raised and pursed lips in a straight line, the punctuation mark being the crossed arms, 9 out of 10 for formidable looks. Raised upturned hands and a puzzled expression was my only reply to her nonverbal accusation. I must have done something wrong. “How embarrassing! Could you make it anymore obvious?” I heard that through the closed window, waiting until I’d seated myself, I said, “What?” This was the start of a day long trial of the innocent, based on purely circumstantial evidence.

To my surprise, there evidently was a young lady in shorts and a bikini top seated in the convertible. “I was looking at the car!” don’t know why I couldn’t keep the smile of surprise off my face as I said that; she immediately took that as an admission. My voice two octaves higher than normal didn’t help. The only sound in the car as we pulled into the mall was the wipers signaling another turn.

We got a space only just out of sight of the entrance, oh my aching feet. At least the atmosphere would be warmer in the air-conditioned mall than it had been in the car. My wife and I have been married for 35 years, that kind of longevity only comes from commitment and paying attention to each other. Sometimes we know each other’s needs and wants without having to be asked. There are times however when, something just creeps in below the radar. Apparently the new jeans my wife was wearing did just that.

We had only walked about a quarter mile after entering the building when, one of the million or so women there touched my wife’s arm and said “Congratulations dear.” Thinking someone she knew was going to keep us talking forever; I looked into a shop window at some clothes wondering when it would all end.

The sharp elbow dug into my back ended it soon enough. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she hissed. I had no idea what she meant and said so, wrong wrong wrong. “You don’t even look at me do you?” “What do you mean”, I asked, meekly. With some residual anger and oddly some obvious pride she explained. Her new jeans still had the size sticker attached to the leg. On putting them on that morning she had viewed the front and of course her butt in the mirror as women do, but not the legs. The lady who took her arm was congratulating her on achieving the size 10s she had on. I have no idea what size the women her age normally wear; she always seems okay to me, when I look.

Only three or four steps later she demanded to know why I had been looking into a lingerie store window. I hadn’t really noticed, but I was beginning to wise up, “since you’ve lost weight you’ll need new girl stuff” simple, quick and complimentary I thought. She replied, “Don’t count on it.”

By now the long day was into afternoon, to my horror schools were out. Kids everywhere, loud, little people, since I live in a young area the families there are young as well. The cinema had just finished, Dorothy the Dinosaur or some such was showing. It was like a Grand Prix start, young mothers with baby carriages racing to reach whatever objective was next on their lists. I think each generation is getting better looking than the previous.  Most of these racers looked more like the young ladies who hold the umbrellas than drivers.  I commented to the wife that pushing carriages seemed to keep them fit. I didn't quite miss her reference to my waist as I dodged a baby Bugatti.

Some of those women were headed for the photographers, the ones who always set up in malls during holiday season. They take photos of the kids and babies in cute little settings which always look great, at least to the mom. I like photography; recently I had been talking about a new camera, and had been checking on prices of equipment. Being Christmas the young lady photographer was dressed as a Santa helper; love those little red fur trimmed skirts and the hats as well.

As we passed I noticed she was using a Canon camera, similar to one I had my eye on.  I mumbled to myself, “great tripod’. This day keeps getting longer I thought, as the wife swung around scowling at me.  I added an up-ward inflection in my reply, "What?"  Good thing I didn't mention her fantastic lenses.

JAWhite                                            Photo By: Cutiepie  Flickr Photo                                                                 Return To Main Page

A Place to Eat, On Christmas Eve

People sometimes happen to look at this web page without having had the intention of doing so. Usually they arrive after choosing from Google suggestions, in answer to a question posed for reasons we only have hints of. I’ve seen searches that reach this page, as vague and distantly related as “car rental in San Antonio”. I once wrote a short piece on San Antonio, I was born there, but that was a long time ago, both the story and my birth. To wax a little philosophical, we all search for something, sometime in our lives, corny right? Try asking Google the meaning of life, hope you like Monte Python.

The question posed that brought me to my keyboard today is straight forward, but leaves me wondering. Perhaps I have an overactive imagination gland; seemingly inconsequential things send my mind racing like a mouse on a treadmill. These floods of thought occasionally end in clear conclusions but, not always, the mouse never gets there in the end.

The question put to Google was “places to eat fargo nd christmas eve”. I assume people don’t eat fargo, so I translated this as “Places to eat in Fargo North Dakota on Christmas Eve”. I’m familiar with Fargo to a small extent. I came from a medium/small town of around 100,000 people, and I like the movie of that name. Towns this size can be fantastic places to live, but also a little depressing to visit, been there, done that. By the way, none of the movie was shot in Fargo.

This is where the imagination kicks in. I immediately pictured a lonely traveller trying to get home for Christmas, but trapped in Fargo by the severe snow storms currently crossing America. Safe at home and needing something to do on Christmas day, I began imagining the story behind the question. The dilemma I often face broke into a smile again, as it seems prone to do. How do I turn a potentially heart-warming or even sad story into one with some humour in it, but in less than two thousand words?

I like to write with a tongue in cheek, preferably my own, at least until I find one attached to someone better looking, oh God....anyway. The answer I came up with was not to write the story I wanted at all, but to explore variations. This might offer some funny for the story, or, since its Christmas day a little sadness for me, don’t you think? Back to our cold and lonely traveller.

Father O’Brien un-wrapped the last of the cookies he had brought from the Nativity Catholic Church dinner. Still amused by the coincidence of the name, he smiled, fancy, a church with that name giving a free Christmas Eve dinner for lonely and homeless people. His parish in Sioux Falls couldn’t match that. If only he’d taken the time to eat for himself he thought swallowing the last cookie and sliding into the narrow bus seat. The driver, looking at his watch for the third time in as many minutes shook his head while reaching for the microphone, he didn’t like delays especially when 300 miles from home and on Christmas Eve. “Ladies and gentlemen” he said with no joy in his voice, “the snow storm...” Father O’Brien’s more than ample stomach growled with annoyance, or was it hunger?

Some potential funny there, perhaps. A priest, big waistline, from out of town, a bus driver in the same situation. Now, if those cookies had been made by old Miss Wilfred who firmly believed in cannabis for medical purposes. Where else can I go that’s different? Romance, murder, horror, I’m sure if I tried hard enough they’d all be good for a laugh.

Deadlines only frighten writers who have something to lose, Sara reminded herself as the keyboard stopped clacking. “This is ridiculous” she said aloud, “I’m a food critic for god’s sake’. Her editor would have the column when it was ready, she thought while voicing her true feelings, “bulimic bitch”.  She could feel Henrys presence in the room as she moved toward the window. His absence emphasised by the tiny things he seemed to have left behind..... “Christmas just isn’t the same” he said from the dark corner behind her..... Okay, what do we have here? Romance, perhaps murder, a ghost?, the bulimic bitch could have been (or still be) having an affair with Henry.

Maybe I’m wrong and I don’t need to write funny into everything. It’s just that to me, funny seems more... fun.

There was another Google search on my site today, “something christmassy to laugh at” Why would this person need something Christmassy to laugh at I wondered. To me the question sounds more like a prayer, what could drive a person to offer one to Google?

The joy of the Christmas season had held this family together for many years. Her tears seemed to fall as slowly as snowflakes; the frosted window reflecting her face and the fires warm glow. A loud burp from the room behind her was reminder enough that the men in the Graviano family expected action from the entertainer, not melancholy. She pulled on the huge floppy shoes and adjusted her red rubber nose... Got to be some funny in there somewhere, or maybe, there doesn't have to be after all.

The Nativity Catholic Church is at 1825, 11th Street South, Fargo North Dakota. The Christmas Eve dinner and party for people spending Christmas alone was a success, I hope. The dinner and party was also held at Olivet Lutheran Church on University Drive. Both Google queries mentioned above are true.

JAWhite                                     Photo by me, Canon camera still working
December 2009
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Solo Around the World

Off and on over the last month I’ve been reading the blog written by Jessica Watson, she’s the 16 year old Brisbane Australia girl sailing solo around the world. I’m interested in what she has to say about each day as it passes. Apart from the islands she sails by as she moves forward, how much is there to see? Even the islands can only be described from a distance since she’s doing the trip non-stop, and un-assisted. So far her writing has been interesting and not overly repetitive, you can tell that she’s still excited and looks forward to the adventure of each day.

The round the word solo thing has been done before, as to youngest, I remember reading in the National Geographic Magazine about an American guy, around 16 years old like Jessica, who did it quite a few years ago. His boat was called Dove, a small sailboat like Jessica’s. Being about the same age then, I was fascinated. I might be wrong but I don’t think he did it totally un-assisted,  and he did stop along the way. In fact he took four years and got married while out there. Then there was Jesse Martin, another Australian who did the tour in 1999 he was around 18 and did it the un-assisted non-stop way.

Overall there are around 250 people who have done the trip, some doing it harder than others, some using shortcuts like the Panama Canal. Short cuts don’t diminish the effort a great deal, or do they. The fact that only a relatively few have done it at all means something, and don’t tell me “too much time on their hands”.

It’s a little different now compared to say 15 years ago. Satellite navigation improvements, vastly better communications, and of course writing a blog at sea requires a computer with wireless internet. Jessica is in daily contact, I’m sure no one would weigh that against her endeavours. Self imposed her prison like environment may be; a quite night at home it’s not.

Seeing the world is something we would all like to accomplish in our lives, from a cruise ship would be fine, it would be relaxing if you could avoid bad weather and children. But non-stop, with no help, alone, small boat, sounds to me like all the fun will start at the end of the trip. To put a perspective on the exercise, the number of people who have been into space now sits at around 450. That’s if you follow the Karman Line measurement, i.e. Space starts at 62.1 miles or 100 kilometres, straight up. The early astronauts did it un-assisted to the same extent as Jessica, but they only spent a few days and were only a few kilometres from dry land.

                                                              
                                                                                                              Photo by NASA
I admire Jessica Watson because at 16, she has know-how, a clear objective, determination, and spirit. It’s not just because she’s young, alone and a girl. I’m sure I could do it, but I get seasick and don’t like fish.

Jessica Watsons Blog                                   Sailboat Photo by Javier Gonzalez 

JAWhite                                               Return to Main Page
December 2009

House Husbandry

A Guide for the Efficient Man

Having recently retired from Business life, I’ve become one of those men who see the little woman off each morning. She goes to work; I prepare for the days duties as house husband. I’m not in the least embarrassed by my circumstance; on the contrary, I look upon my current “job” as just that, work which I’m fully equipped to excel at. Having been told of the volume and difficulty of house work for years, I was fully prepared to face each day’s tasks as I would any challenge.

Photo: Courtesy Matthew J. Parsons

I’ve previously explained my position on time management, and approached my new responsibilities with that mindset. A good manager will always develop efficient procedures and implementation processes in the work place. The procedure is the key. In this case it was simple, identify the need, and develop a process for fulfilment, implementation and follow-up.

Having gained experience in building businesses from the ground up, I was fully aware that many times, well intentioned managers try to re-invent the wheel as it were. Housework has been around long enough for some efficiency to have been established. I knew of course that I could bring new ways of looking at the job which would improve those efficiencies. The first step is to establish the needs which took no time at all. The kitchen was in need of some attention, the bedrooms and baths seemed to have somewhat different problems, halls, windows, floors. Having learned early in life that a list is imperative for efficiency, I wrote them all down. Mastering those things on my list would need to be achieved one step at a time.

Research was required to confirm existing methods of accomplishing the objectives. I was able to locate a volume of procedures, from a usually reliable source, which had been written to instruct young people in exactly the tasks I was investigating. Although I would certainly know more about it than an inexperienced young person, reading basic information would be a starting point. “Little Lessons for Little Housekeepers” written by one Emily Huntington of New York. The information supplied by the editor in the preface indicated that Miss Huntington was an expert in these matters; in fact he alludes to further writing by Miss Huntington relating to sewing, politeness and something called “Little Nursery Maids”. I could not see a need for the additional skills so restricted myself the housekeeping research.

On turning pages to locate the contents I noticed how inexpensive books were in the 1870s, several mentioned by the editor were under $2.00. I was pleased to see that the Little Housekeeper sold for $5.00, an expensive author is usually a good one, at least until the post Christmas clearances start. My copy originated from the United States Library of Congress. Whom was it that said, “neither a borrower nor a lender be...”?

Miss Huntington uses a system in her teaching; her lessons are in question and answer form. My system of teaching might differ to hers; nevertheless any system is better than none, example. It was only yesterday I watched a BBC documentary about Windsor Castle. As part of the proceedings leading to the State Visit by the President of France, the castle staffs were reminded in detail of the procedures they were to follow in ensuring all went as the Queen expected. I must send a note to the Queens Housekeeper; I noticed one step in the packing of the Queens luggage which could do with some examination.

Miss Huntington’s Rules for Housekeeping; she first addresses the washing of dishes. What is the first thing little children should learn about housekeeping?

Answer: To wash dishes.

What three things are necessary in order to wash dishes properly? Answer: Well-scraped dishes, hot suds, and proper towels.
 
Don’t forget she is addressing “little children” should you be taking notes you might use bullet form notation.
 
How do you collect dishes?

Answer: Collect the silver in a pitcher of hot water, throw the cold water from the glasses, rinse the cups, and scrape each plate separately, and place in a pile.

How do you make hot suds?

Answer: Put a piece of soap on a fork, and stir it briskly in the water.          Photo Courtesy: Petria Follett    


What are proper towels?

Answer: Clean, dry towels. We must use the fine towels for the glasses and silver; the course towels for the plates and other dishes.

In what order do you wash dishes?

Answer: First the glasses, then the silver, the pitchers, cups, saucers, plates, and other dishes.

How should we rinse dishes?

Answer: In clear, hot water.

Miss Huntington is an expert and apparently it’s been done this way for over a hundred years.

She now addresses the Dining Room, Care of the Dining-Room: When is a dining-room in perfect order?
Answer: When it is well swept and dusted, the furniture in its place, and the blinds closed.

I didn’t even think about the blinds. Miss Huntington seems to be thorough, procedures should be exact leaving no room for error.  Oh my God, the next page has diagrams. I might go have a nap now; this job could be a little more complicated than I thought.

 

JAWhite

November 2009                     Read another Househusband story?

Source:

Little Lessons for little Housekeepers, Huntington, Emily. Publisher: A.D.F. Randolph and company, New York 1879.  This and other books may be viewed at The Internet Archive. Terms and Copyright applicable may be read at: http://www.archive.org/about/terms.php

For More on Emily Huntington

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Women and Punctuation,

A brief venture through punctuation, into my love of women.  Photos will have to wait for another time.

Her words hit me as hard as an exclamation mark.

Her sentence didn’t end in a question mark, it ended unfinished with a lonely comma,

Each of her words were punctuated as though with threats.

Her words ostracised me, as they would an apostrophe, simply because of its shape.

She removed the comma allowing her words to flow freely and unobstructed by fixed meaning.

Walking slowly through her thoughts her words explained themselves without pausing for breath or change in direction.

She spoke three words as one, which brushed my heart gentle as her hand mine.

Moving with determination the word I longed to hear came to rest against a period at the end of the sentence. From her lips I hope, you, will always be preceded by, love.

Romantic drivel? perhaps, but I do love to speak thusly. Now to really get me in trouble if women should sneak a look into this page.

A Definition:

Women’s Liberation n. a movement for the removal of apostrophe’s based upon the assumption that because of their shape, men are superior to women. Also called women’s punctuation lib. The comma is also under question by member’s of this movement.

That was my Wikipedia moment.

JAWhite                                                    Return To Main Page.
February 2010

Who’s Knocking?

My father in law was an old fashion Scotsman. His word was law, having a family of seven children there had to be order and discipline in his home, and he certainly demanded it. I guess you could say his household revolved around him and his way of doing things. The wife, as you would expect under the circumstances was the typical obedient housewife... at least in his presence.

How the arrangement came to be is unknown, but Ewan the Father in law and Maggie his wife had separate bedrooms, I believe snoring had something to do with it. She ran things the way he wanted and was happy to do so. Sure she had her moments, after all, people who are always right would rub even a loving wife the wrong way at times. But she knew she would win by gentle persuasion and patience, as she proved in the end.

Photo: Courtesy Grant Ritchie

His sons grew up and left home as soon as old enough, the strict atmosphere at home being too much for their spirits to bear. Both went to sea on merchant ships as many Scottish boys did. I suspect from what I’ve heard over the years, that the older two boys were the typical Scottish young men we hear about. The ones who like to drink and are quick to jump in when a fight is eminent. And of course they followed the Hibernian Football Club, Hibs for short, this family were Hibbies through and through, their team even won the Scottish Cup, in 1902.

The girls were reasonably good, but did their share of sneaking out of the house when his guard was down. He always treated them well, just a little strictly, no make-up, no going out with boys. He once managed to get my future wife tickets to see a group who were playing in Edinburgh, The Beatles, she said she enjoyed them, he certainly enjoyed being able to get the tickets.

Soon after we were married my wife and I went to Scotland and stayed in Ewan’s house, or as he called it “the Hoose”. I thoroughly enjoyed my stay and even came to admire Ewan for his laughter and his Scotch whiskey. He was fairly free with both, for a Scotsman that is. While there I saw some examples of his discipline, but of course the children were grown by then with only the last girl still in residence. Being the last child at home and a girl to boot she didn’t seem to have any problems managing him.

As he grew older Ewan spent more and more time in his upstairs bedroom, he had the place arranged just to his liking. His books were lined up in their place, the TV in easy reach. He even kept his tools, those he might possibly need for minor repairs, in a drawer there. Now Maggie liked spending her free time, what there was of it, downstairs. The TV, her favourite show being Miss Marple, the kitchen, and of course, the fireplace were there, the latter important since this was Scotland.

Ewan, like me, an efficient man, had developed a system of expressing his wishes, so Maggie could understand without his actually having to ask anything. He simply banged his cane on the bedroom floor and Maggie would know, depending on the time of day, what he wanted. 10:00 am, Morning tea, 1:00 Lunch, life was easy. She knew every knock on the floor like the back of her hand, there were newspaper knocks, has the mail come knocks, who’s on the phone knocks. The entire family and possibly the neighbours knew of this upstairs downstairs arrangement, it seemed to work since Maggie was willing to play her part.

This was the daily routine for the years of their marriage, until Ewan passed away. He had always said he wanted to be buried in Mount Vernon cemetery; many of his family were buried there. That cemetery had been opened in 1895 and being in Edinburgh, a very old and crowded city, was filled to capacity long before Ewan’s demise. It was by pure coincidence that shortly before Ewan’s death the church found a small place where a few graves would be allowed but only if there were two burials per plot, husband and wife plots, whoever went first, went in first.

Ewan was buried several years before Maggie had need of the plot. It was at her funeral that the irony of the situation struck home to the family. The priest must have been surprised indeed, when in the middle of the graveside service, family members started hiding smiles and giggling behind their hands and missals. It wasn’t until one of the more disreputable sons voiced what everyone was thinking that full blown laughter rang out. In a loud voice he shouted “Who’s on top now Ewan?”

Maggie was always the life of the party; she was always laughing and had a joke for every occasion. I’m sure she enjoyed the joke that day; after all it was hers.

The photo by Grant Ritchie was taken in Lawnmarket Street near the Castle, if you visit the stores web site; check out the kilt measuring guide.

JAWhite                                                 Return To Main Page
November 2009

Tick Tock

I’ve been noticing for some time, but didn’t really pay much attention, until I retired. When a guy retires he gets a little more time for himself, it’s not like women make out, you know... “He’s always in my way; he’s always asking what are you doing?” We retired guys have a lot to accomplish and stay busy doing just that. I simply have a little more time to give her the attention she was always asking about.

I used to get home from work and just wanted to sit down and unwind. Perhaps have a beer and catch up on the sport scores or watch the news. Usually just as I was sitting down, she would need to tell me about her day. Running into one of her friends in the shopping center had allowed them to catch up on all the things that had been happening in their lives. Of course I didn’t need to run into these people myself; I got all the news from my wife. Nothing the kids did escaped my notice the wife kept track of everything and made sure I was up to date. I would listen attentively as her day unfolded, asking intelligent questions now and then. The news on TV could wait until latter, there was always the 10:00 pm. I was usually deep into the book I would be reading by that time, but still. Making me a part of her day was important to her so obviously it was to me as well.

As the children got older she found some time on her hands so got a part time job. This was great, extra money could always be used, Heineken isn't cheap. She found her job not long before I had to take early retirement.   She would prefer to be retired, now that I am, but still has that job.  If I were physically able I would be out there as well, but that wasn’t to be so we each do what we can.

On arriving home she likes to put her feet up and relax which is understandable, her job can be hard on her. She only gets to watch the 6 o’clock news as her early mornings send her to bed by 10:00.  After dinner she reads or watches a favourite program, I guess it rounds out her day and prepares her for the next.

These days I get to hear the news while I’m making the beds, the TV can be seen from the kitchen so I can watch the football while doing the dishes or getting dinner ready. Beer made me fat so I gave that up and now seem too busy to miss it. Don’t get me wrong, I still have a little time for myself. I can use the internet to pay the bills and while on the computer I check my e-mail and such. You ever notice how some people don’t reply to mails for hours even a whole day sometimes? I guess they just don’t know how to manage their time efficiently.

I’ve been noticing recently, that my wife reads, and watches TV a lot; I just didn’t really pay attention, until I retired. It seems that every time I try to tell her something that happened during the day, she’s in the middle of an important part of a movie or must finish this chapter. I know she likes to relax when she gets home from work, but it would only take a few minutes to keep her up to date.

The weekends don’t seem to give her much of a break either, the lawns need mowed, cars washed, the usual suburban weekends. Doesn’t look like I’ll ever get time to talk with her.

Time is what it’s all about. Some people just don’t seem to have enough to give someone else a little. Look at that, dust on the computer case; I’ll get to it tomorrow, sometime.

Photo: Courtesy PDPhoto.org                                Return To Main Page

The Chain Blog Challenge

Today is the first time I’ve seen one. A chain blog challenge where each participant writes in less than 500 words her, or in my case his, inspired response to a photo selected by a previous blogger. I think the idea is that readers will do what I just did, visit each of the blogs from previous challenges, a great idea and rewarding. There are a lot of very good blogs out there we might not otherwise find. Having not written anything worthwhile for some time, I wouldn’t expect a positive reaction to my contribution, but that’s normal. The photo  did not come with a credit to the artist, I hope somewhere along the chain, the skill necessary to make the image will be recognised. My small contribution is short, more a caption to envoke emotion, certainly less than 500 words including this preamble.

"Why is mom crying dad?"  "She’s trying to use my camera son, must see something worth snapping."

Follow the Golden Blog Road.

From Wanderlust, to Random Ramblings, to Menopausal Mumma and more.  Have a good trip.

JAWhite                                           Return To Main Page
March 2010

Between a Rock and a Hard Place

The situation developed quicker than even I, the eternal pessimist could have anticipated. It started with an innocuous theft; the small bags of peanuts were there to be consumed weren’t they? Putting a few in my pocket for later wouldn’t hurt anyone, except me as it turned out.

Those bags eventually found their way into an empty jar in the pantry, I certainly wouldn’t steal something and then throw it away, redundant effort that. Pantries are great places for hiding product selection errors, the bag of popcorn left untouched for years after the discovery of microwave popping is only one example, why pan pop when you can nuke a bag and have a disposable container to eat from? I’m not sure when the jar of peanuts was first added to, one day I noticed that it was full, the wife must have bought some more. Occasionally I would grab a small hand full to chomp on while waiting for something more substantial, but watching my expanding waist kept that to a minor occurrence. Really apart from that, the nuts seemed to just be there as though that were their place in life.                      Photo Courtesy: Jeff Doolittle Flickr Photo

I do remember the next nut arrival; I had been shopping with the wife and saw a clearance trolley with packets of “healthy” peanuts nearing expiration date. They were almost giving them away, what could I do but add them to our trolley; you never know when you might have a party. On putting the groceries away I found I had to locate a larger jar, the nut situation was getting out of hand. The last straw arrived only a few days ago, when friends came over, they brought potato chips, drinks and peanuts.

Perhaps peanuts have gone out of fashion; they taste great but do get stuck in between your teeth. The larger jar was full and overflow sat in a Tupperware container next to it. The time had come to do something about this. I had been retired for a couple of years and had started doing most of the cooking; don’t tell the wife I said that. Simple, I would make something from the peanuts, easy as. With the internet available I hadn’t bothered with cookbooks for quite some time. Google peanut recipes, no problem, Six million results, great.

Ever try finding something to eat? Something everyone in the family will like? Something that’s “easy” for you to cook, and clean up after? Not great. George Washington Carver, I remember that name from school, he found a zillion uses for peanuts. No matter how hard I looked, he had nothing for me, peanut soup? Indonesian Satay, I had tried a sample in a supermarket once, it was good, no... Too many ingredients. Peanut butter cookies, yes I like them, but wait, I have peanuts but there’s that jar of peanut butter on the next shelf, doesn’t made sense.

I like to look around when I Google, I check out the result offerings on more than the first page, but how many OOOOO’s do you click before giving up? Deciding that this was a job for Superwoman, I e-mailed my Mom, with copies to my sisters just in case. Mom was twenty when she had me, that makes her an experienced cook, among other things. It happened that Mom was staying with one of my sisters this week, she and sis must have talked and decided that stupid son and brother needed help. The reply was blunt, no hello, how are you? Nothing, just a copy of a home page from a Google result. I had a look, yep, it was the very first result I had seen from the “Peanut Recipe” search I had done, but hadn’t looked at.

Okay, Google knows all, next time I won’t second guess it and look further than it’s highly considered and in order of significance suggestions. The proof is in the pudding, I would take a look at the info my sister had recommended. Sounded great, Cooking With Peanuts, how more applicable could you get. Hold on! The copy of the site page my sister sent didn’t have working links so I read the text first. Now that’s a real first. It begins with promises of relieve for those in my pitiful position,”Peanuts are one of the most versatile foodstuffs on earth.” “If you’re looking for ideas on different ways to use peanuts....” Then the show stopper... “Got a great peanut recipe? Let us know and you can Get Famous Fast!"

If I give them my recipe they will send me 1kg of delicious dry roasted Peanut Van peanuts. Oh my aching head. The clincher follows; STOP PRESS! We’ve been swamped with great recipes! Don’t send anymore for now.

I have only two choices, I can get up the nerve and look at the Peanut Van site for something to use my peanuts for, or, I can take my peanuts for a walk, its garbage night. I think my nuts are caught between a rock and a hard place.

JAWhite                                                     Return To Main Page
October 2009

Some quotes from The Peanut Van web site http://peanutvan.com.au/recipes.htm you don’t think they’ll get upset do you?
No products were injured in the writing of this true story.

Teachers Pet, I wish...

I seldom watch entertainment news programs. You know the ones, ET, The Insider, E! Then of course the general gossip segments on other shows. People like being involved in the lives of the “Rich and Famous”, if only from an observational point of view. Ask a Psychologist why, I’m just here to comment on something I saw on one....

Photo Courtesy: Fernando Audibert, Stock_xchng.com

One of the people around the table on “The Insider“ held up a magazine entitled Artillery, a magazine about art, based in Los.Angeles. The cover story for this issue, about photography, featured young girls whose mothers enter them in those “Little Miss-whatever contests”. Packed with images of girls the “mature” side of three, dressed, made-up, and posed to look, I guess, like their mothers hope they will at 18 years. I was amazed that one of the mothers though it necessary to inform the reporter, thongs were not allowed in the swimsuit section of the contest. Swimsuits, paraded by little girls, what are they thinking? Being a father with no daughters I can say with confidence “no girl of mine will ever go out looking like that” be she 3, 13 or 30. Let me get off the soap box now and tell you why I started writing this. The Insider story reminded me of something that happened many years ago.

I was about 11 maybe 12 when Miss. Shaw became my science teacher. She was in her mid 20’s; to her youthful male students she was a kind of, well, angel. Tall, slim, blond hair, short for those days, she was the inspiration that made puberty worth the effort. When she had her back to the window and the sun streamed in she was wrapped in golden... Young enough for her enthusiasm for teaching to still inspire her students, she would talk about many things during the class. The subject still got taught but we learned other things as well. Some teachers make kids sit in the same seat for every lesson, Miss Shaw didn’t, and I can’t remember anyone ever being late for her class. Those who got to the front seats first could feel the envy drilling through their backs, but they didn’t care. Even the girls liked her; she had a way of making them feel important, part of some special “girl” club. She was a good teacher and she had that "something" the other teaches didn’t.

That day Miss Shaw had brought a photo album to class with her, it wasn’t until later I learned why she had asked only the girls up to her desk to have a look. She did it on purpose, the girls looked at us guys with distain and giggles, they were in the know, and we weren’t. But Miss Shaw did not forget her biggest fans. She shared with the whole class at last, but kept some of the photos at the back of the album closed.

You see, Miss Shaw was a grown up “Little Miss.” having been brought up in the beauty pageant religion. From a young age she had travelled with her mother from city to city following the circuit. The album contained her childhood memories. From toddler to, as it turned out, school teacher age, she had walked the stage. There were photos of her collection of trophies, her ribbons and tiaras. Formal dresses, theme costumes, and of course, the swimsuit competitions. Best of all were the photos from last weekend’s contest, Miss Shaw was still active. Being in Northern Alabama, Miss Shaw had chosen a cotton boll as her theme costume. The large round papier-mâché ball with green leaves around the neck, and fluffy white cotton balls glued on was fine, but looked a little awkward; the best part was her long legs extending from the bottom of the papier-mâché.

I guess the contest circuit hadn’t done too much damage to Miss Shaw over the years. She seemed to enjoy participating and said she would continue for a while longer, of course in the “Big Miss.” section. She turned out to be engaged to some lucky guy, sad isn’t it? Could her pastime be considered the same as a kid spending his/her weekends playing a sport? Don’t know, I suppose it’s all about participating in life, at least the mothers got involved, hopefully not for their personal satisfaction. Miss Shaw gained pride and self respect plus all those memories. I’m still not sure I approve of the whole pageant thing, but then they don’t need or want my approval.                                                

                                                                                                                                             Photo Courtesy: John Burke, Flickr.com

The photos at the back of the album? One of the girls later told me, they were some of Miss Shaws more revealing costumes. The images that thought created only made her seem more intriguing, until.

It seemed longer, but class was only a few minutes old when Miss Shaw was interrupted, the caretaker brought in a heavy 44 gallon drum on a trolley. With enthusiasm she announced that today we would have the pleasure of dissecting frogs. As she opened the drum and the incredible smell permeated the room, we quickly forgot beauty contests and went for the scalpels. After all we were there to learn. For some reason Miss Shaw lost a little of her charm that day, with a smile she reached into the formaldehyde and pulled out a very substantial Rana Catesbiana, after all, she was there to teach.

JAWhite

Sept. 2009                                                             Returm to Main Page

A Blog, Within a Blog, Within a Blog...

“While searching for an image, to enhance a story on the verge of completion, I came across a piece of writing which struck me as poignant, well written and intensely intriguing. Three things people like me, readers, can’t resist. The one short paragraph drew me into a train of thought which I had not been in a mood to pursue, but nevertheless felt compelled to. Reading that short post took less than a minute, but the complex emotion it imparted, left me open mouthed in amazement for several hours afterward. I knew immediately why this particular vignette had such an impact on me; it could have been written, if not by me, then at least about, one possible outcome should my present circumstance continue.”

The paragraph above is a quote from a novel I may one day write, the paragraph may be fiction but some of its content and the rest of this is fact. Not finding the image I was after, I started reading. Becoming engrossed in investigating the writing I had found, I followed the writer through several years of her life until losing the trail. It developed into something larger than one person’s personal diary; in fact I have notes which may one day lead me into that novel I once had ambitions of writing.

I want to share this literary find with you not because of its initial impact on me, or because of the way the story ends, since the ending is something I may write one day. I want to share the writing, which is a little story itself.

It begins as a blog, that’s all, just a few paragraphs every day or so on the web host, Blogspot. Considering myself something of a detective, I worked both forward and back from the post I had found. Having suspicions as to its “reality” I checked everything I could. All I saw gave me the impression that this was a real person writing about real life. The writer had friends, a child, and family. The emotions expressed by the writer flow up and down the proverbial roller coaster. The references to friends by name or pseudonym, the links provided and the dates from them tied into the blog post dates. This was someone just like you or I, writing just as I am now. The post I had found was written in early 2002.

Blogspot was only a couple of years old way back then, the logo looks decidedly 1960’s, where that came from we’ll probably never know. You do realise that everything you write to the internet is forever, don’t you? Anyway, the post on that blog from early 2002 is out there, it just happened that I came across it.

Writing a personal diary over a period of time gives readers not just your story, but a glimpse into your thinking. If the time frame is long enough, the way you think also changes, and becomes evident to readers. Many biographies are written from diaries. If the writer is not well known, only the words that are written can be taken as facts, no other information comes to hand to remedy incorrect interpretations. I won’t place the conclusions I came to about the blog post here, they’re based on additional words I’ve read by the author. Let’s just accept the impression the writer leaves with us from this “snapshot” of her life. I have made many attempts to contact the writer to discuss/comment her writing.  The URL, links, people and e-mail addresses I found, are no longer available or have changed completely. I won't give you the URL or pseudonym used, and without being able to credit the author for her work I can only say, anonymous, perhaps that’s the by-line many of us will one day have.

The screen shot with identifying items blacked out.  Perhaps I should have called this story, “I won’t be posting here anymore.”

JAWhite                                             Return To Main Page
November 2015

An Alaskan comes to visit

It looked as though an Indian summer was in the making, getting cooler but still short sleeve weather. School had started back recently enough for my interest in what had happened during the day to still be on my mind while walking home. We only lived a few blocks from the High School, it was my first year there having graduated elementary with somewhat dubious results. I wasn’t in any hurry until I spotted the strange car in our driveway.
Sunset, Alaska    Photo: Bryan Mulder

I stopped watching my shoes shuffle as I walked, and put my brain in gear. I’d never seen that car before and certainly not the man sitting in the front seat. From a short distance the visible head and shoulders were not familiar; I didn’t know anyone with a beard. It was then I noticed the license plate, Alaska. That immediately set the mind racing. My father, being a preacher knew a lot of people from all over the place but I’d never heard him mention Alaska. On seeing me approach the man got out and asked if I lived here and if my father was in fact a preacher as the name on our mail box implied. I confirmed those facts and offered to get Dad whom it transpired wasn’t home nor was Mom. I didn’t think to ask questions, being shy and naturally stupid, so when he drove off saying he might be back later, I had a limited amount of information to give my parents when they arrived home. Dad hadn’t any idea who this fellow might be so when he in fact did return around five o’clock, Dad went outside to speak with him.

Some people are gifted with things like good looks or a mind for complex maths, this man was gifted with something everyone loves, he was a great story teller. Dad had discovered something of his purpose in coming to our house. Having grown older as people do, he had become a migratory being, as most don’t. Not itinerant, since he had a home in Anchorage, but one who lived in Alaska in the warmer weather and moved south when it grew colder. He enjoyed moving around, simply going wherever he wanted, staying wherever he was, as God saw fit to provide. He would often drive around the town he was in as the day wore on looking for somewhere to stay the night. Often in a park or roadside, his old station wagon making an acceptable hotel, his nights were spent reading by flashlight with his thoughts and the radio to entertain him. Sometimes wanting company and a home cooked meal he would, as he had that particular day, search for a minister’s house, having found success with that strategy before. Dad invited him to dinner and offered a bed for the night, mine. Accepting the meal, he declined the bed not wanting to displace me, saying his car would be fine if he could park under our carport. I can’t remember what was for dinner that night, but I do remember two things; I got to stay up late, the younger kids were sent to bed around nine when visitors were there talking. And I got to listen to stories about a place far from anywhere I had been, or imagined going.

Now, our visitor was not a large man who would demand attention in a group, just of average build. What drew my focus was his unkempt beard, dark but with more than a splash of grey, it hung half way to his belt. Dressed in a plaid long sleeve flannelette shirt and brown corduroy trousers he looked right out of some movie made exactly about the places he would describe to us, the Pacific North West. Yes, he looked just like a stereotype lumber jack, but without the build necessary for that occupation. As a young man he had moved from somewhere flat, like Wyoming or Oklahoma to Alaska, he said he just wanted to try something different. He had worked in many jobs, cook, cleaner, handyman, construction, anything he could do he did. He had stories about the places he had been, people he had met and stories about their stories. This one’s great grandfather had come to Alaska in the gold rush another’s father to work on the pipeline. Someone lost all his toes to frostbite during one particularly cold winter when his truck broke down a hundred miles from his destination. He didn’t seem to want to talk much about his personal experiences, but even when talking about someone else’s it was as if he had personally been there and experienced the incident himself. He told us of the landscape, the mountains and rivers, the summers and winters always answering our questions with an “I remember…” story, which added a third dimension to what could have been a simple answer. He had seen the Northern Lights, had lived in places that only a seaplane or boat could visit, and met characters like those we only read about. To a 13 year old boy who was more inclined to imaginative adventures than the study of math or science this guy was a hero of the first class. Even though much of his talk was about interesting things that happened to other people, he had been there to hear their stories, that fact alone made him interesting.

The next day was a Saturday so I was home when he left; while I watched him pack up his car he asked me if I didn’t have a sport to go play. I told him I had trouble playing sport because of problems with my feet to which he replied something along the lines of “watching just isn’t the same is it?” I’d like to tell you his reply inspired me to always do as much as I could, but all it did was make me wonder what it would be like, to do the things I knew I couldn’t. Before leaving he offered dad money for his hospitality, dad said no of course. Thinking about it later we came to the conclusion that he wasn’t particularly poor, his things were of good quality, just a little old. Perhaps he simply enjoyed doing what he did. He left on his way to Florida by way of Texas; he told us his visit to our home in Alabama was just a pit stop,

In later years I would try, and sometimes succeed at doing things I thought I couldn’t, not because of what he said, but because I had always wondered what it would be like to do them. Sitting in a plane at the Sea-Tac airport once, I noticed the Air Alaska plane next to mine, I wondered at the time what had happened to that man, for the life of me I can’t remember his name, but will never forget his visit.

Sydney
Sept.2009                                                              Return to Main Page.

Guitar Silhouette Image

Looking for images of a guitar in silhouette? After being asked for just such images I’m placing a few here for your use. Some guitar alone, some being used by a man image. Both electric and classic will be added over time. If you wish to use one of my images for a publication in print or on the internet just let me know how and where and I can provide a high resolution copy without a “image by” tag. JAWhite at this e-mail address: placespeople89@gmail.com be sure and include your contact details as well as the proposed use. Some uses may attract a small charge, modifications and custom designs can be discussed.  The image number is in the file properties.  All images are copyright JAWhite 2010

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Not Quite Woodstock...

Cleaning out one of those cluttered places we all seem to have somewhere in our homes, I came across a piece of my past which I had completely forgotten about. Like much of “the old days”, we remember flashes of the times we enjoyed and hopefully less often the times we didn’t. This proverbial blast from the past was one of those in between memories, neither particularly pleasant nor unpleasant. I guess that’s why I didn’t remember it until reminded; our minds collect clutter faster than a seldom used drawer.

I came across an event ticket for the Fairlight Music Festival, the type of ticket you hang around your neck on a cord. Woodstock had only been the year before and in spite of living in the U.S. being 17  at the time, I didn’t even waste my breath broaching the subject with my parents. I had to be content with watching the amazing sights on the evening news, besides, it was safer that way. This opportunity was going to be different; I didn’t ask, I just went.

Photo Courtesy: Steven Davies  www.picturewales.com

Looking for images of guitars in silhouette?  Click, There are some here!

Way back in 1971 I was still new to Sydney and trying to find my place in the social scene at my local High School. It doesn’t matter where in the world you are, High School social ‘clicks’ are the same. I was taking it slowly, not completely tying myself to any one group of people; I guess I just wanted to be friends with everyone. That’s a noble objective but in teenage school society, not acceptable. You can’t sit on the fence, it has to boil down to us and them doesn’t it?

It was April, over the coming Easter holidays some of my friends would be going away with their parents so I acted quickly. After approaching several people I discovered that for some reason the parents of the girls I knew were not happy with their daughters going away for 3 days with a couple of guys. Stranger still, the guys I asked were faced with similar problems, parents must have had something against Rock Music Festivals, Woodstock did have a few problems they might have heard about. Near to abandoning my quest I got lucky. Scott was a nice guy; he and I didn’t hang out much but we knew each other well enough to talk, I wasn’t even sure of his music preferences.

Within two hours of having asked him Scott and I were on the road. I had left it a little late but we would make it if the Yellow Canary could get us there. The small country town of Mittagong was the site for the Festival; it was only about three hours drive from Sydney, plus vehicular down time. The Canary was my first car, a very bright yellow Mini, you’ve seen them in English movies, the small brick shaped car. They were built to last and since I did all the repairs myself I was almost confident we would make it. I can’t remember how well financed we were but after some discussion at the first service station, we put in a little less than a full tank of petrol, that would have to do, Minis got good mileage. Second stop, the grocery for potato chips, soft drinks and a few beers, it was only going to be three days.

We arrived at the farm property where the happening was to be held, around 1:00 pm Saturday. The owner Mr. Henderson and his family had the place for generations, it was named Fairlight. The 200 wooded acres offered plenty of room for the expected six to ten thousand people, with some secluded spots for the exciting things we hoped would go on. Scott and I had a look at the gathering and decided on a hillside with a good view of the stage as well as the crowd.

Scott turned out to be like me, a little on the cautious side. We stayed away from the large group of Bikies camping on the opposite hillside, and planted ourselves near but not too close to the path leading to the Port-a-Loos, and in sight of the water truck. Overall it was a good vantage point, practical, relatively safe but right on the edge of where things were going to happen. This was a first for both of us, taking a step out of the known, secure environment we knew at home and getting involved with things that were going on in our generations “experimental” exploits. Of course we didn’t know then, that there really is nothing new in the world, this had all been done before just in different ways.

We had a good time that weekend; we saw some of the things we had hoped to see. There were some girls taking clothes off, some drugs being passed around, and the usual drunks. We spent a lot of time observing people, commenting to each other regarding each particular person’s choice of external presentation, or lack thereof. Scott had chosen an afro as his current hair wear. We were just being shallow I guess, comes with the age. The music was great after it got underway and went on far into the nights. For the novelty of it all, the trip was worth the effort. At the end of it all, Scott and I didn’t become close friends, we continued as we had before, but with a shared experience and that was enough for us.

The music was something perhaps half the people came for, the rest were there for the excitement of doing something “Now” to use a term from that time, or just for something to do on a long weekend. I think most of us knew we were going to be one of the few to be able to say “I was there”. No one else in my school would be able to say that. We felt being there would somehow set us apart or make us different to others; perhaps not our intention but it did. A lot of interesting things happened that long weekend, I might write about them one day, maybe after I hear some music from those days and get nostalgic again, or have a few too many.

I’ve met others who were there very rarely, when I have it wasn’t as though we had been at Woodstock, Fairlight was not a pivotal point in history just a local festival with limited attendance and some bad weather. Having said that, we were there and it was, in a small way a part of music history. The bands that played Fairlight are gone now; the bikies who created the expected distractions are probably on age pensions. I found out this week that Phil Cullen, the man who did the lighting for the festival is still doing lighting for shows. The Henderson family who owned the property fell on hard times, I hear the land was resumed by the government when Aboriginal artefacts were discovered there. Phil told me that the old Sydney tram used for a band and crew space during the festival is still there, overgrown with trees. Sometimes the past is worth remembering; often it’s just the past.          Rusty, Courtesy: Joe Balynas, Flickr Photo

JAWhite                                           Return To Main Page
October 2009